 
Frost and Other Stories

Edited by Michelle Browne

Smashwords Edition

Frost and Other Stories—Copyright 2013, Rights Reserved.

This work is protected by Creative Commons license Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 Canada (CC BY-NC-ND 2.5 CA) 2013. You are free to share and distribute this work in any form as long as it is not modified or stolen.

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End Town—L. K. Hatchett

The Room—Michelle Browne

Santa's Secret Helper—James J. Murray

The Naughty List—Tina Traverse

Frost—Ian Rideout

Christmas, 2067—Michelle Browne

About the Contributors

End Town by L. K. Hatchett

All I can see is his red nose as he bears down on me. His front hooves are cutting into my shoulders, the back hooves digging holes in my legs. The snarl he makes sends lightning through my heart, his steamy breath surrounding my head in the cold.

"Rudolph!" I hear the fat man yell from some distant place.

Yes, the Rudolph.

They say he has a red nose because it lights the way. They are wrong. It's red because he can smell blood, and it lights up when he has found his next victim. Kind of like right now. As I lay on the ground in pain with said reindeer leaning over me, his red nose the only thing in my vision. It begins to glow, and I know he's about to rip my face off. I try to brace myself for what's to come, but how does one brace himself for getting his face ripped off?

"Rudolph!" the fat man yells again.

There is a blur of motion in my periphery. I don't dare turn my head to look. Being face to face with the murderous creature has me frozen solid in fear. Then, the red-nosed reindeer is gone.

It takes me two seconds to realize I still have a face, and two more to realize I'm no longer a target. The blur of motion I saw before becomes a screaming mass of frenzied movement. I turn my head to look, unable to just run.

Rudolph is busy tearing apart some hapless fellow who tried to make a break for it. It might be John, but I can't tell. He's a bloody mess, flesh hanging from bone as Rudolph's teeth make quick work of his victim. The glowing red orb is now shiny with blood. He makes a tearing motion and slings flesh to the side, blood flying through the air to land on my chest and arms. Little wisps of steam rise from the droplets.

That is enough to set me in motion, but I have to be careful about it. The same movement that attracted Rudolph to poor John will set him running right back to me.

I slowly crawl backwards in the snow, like a crab walk in a child's game. Only, this is no game. This is for my life.

The man Rudolph is ripping apart is now gurgling his last breaths, no longer able to scream as the deer wrenches his throat free of his neck. I hear bones snapping.

It's difficult to move this slowly. Every muscle in my body is thrumming with adrenaline. My heart is going to beat out of my chest, I just know it. Maybe I'll die of a heart attack before I have to know what it's like to have my flesh peeled from my bones.

Ever so slowly, I keep crawling. Right hand moving back, left hand...okay, now my right foot, my left foot. Slow crawl backwards, so slow...he won't notice.

"Rudolph!"

My God, if only the damn deer would answer that call. God must hear me, because Rudolph's head snaps up at the sound of his name this time. And then he's gone, leaping into the air and flying in the direction of the call.

It takes me three seconds to scan the area, making sure none of the other eight reindeer notice my position. Screaming fills the air as each deer is busy with his own victim. Some people are running. Others are doing as I'm doing, slowly trying to back out of the carnage zone.

There is blood everywhere and I notice a downhill river of red forming, still too warm and thick to freeze. Someone is playing dead. That's not going to work. They will find anyone doing that, having learned about that little trick years ago. If the body isn't mutilated, they know it may not be dead yet.

I locate the fat man. It isn't hard, his jolly laughter pervading the screams. He is one sick fuck.

Seeing my opportunity, I make a break for it, though I don't get up and run. That would attract everyone's attention. Flipping over on my stomach, I crawl away from City Hall as fast as I can.

There are a couple of kids hiding under a culvert just to my left, a boy and a girl. They see me and then frantically motion me over to them. No one is safe from this massacre, not even the children. But, all kids crave an adult presence when they're scared, and these kids look like they'll die from fright alone. They latch onto me as I wedge myself under the culvert with them. I latch onto them too, doubtful that they know it's because I'm as scared as they are. There's nothing wrong with a little mutual comfort, even if, in the end, it's all futile anyway.

All we can hope is that Santa will be done soon and fly away. That's the way it always ends, when it comes to this. This never should have happened, though. There was a deal in place, but someone made a very fatal mistake, fatal for all of us.

This is End Town, the end of the line, the last stop before the North Pole. You see, everyone else in the world gets presents and jolly laughter. What do we get? Santa is one sick fuck.

When our children sing about watching out, not pouting, and not crying, they're not talking about being good. They're talking about being left alive, for goodness sake. They're talking about flying under the radar of the fat man's killing spree.

In some ways I get it. If I had to climb down that many chimneys, try not to get caught by that many kids, all vying for a look at jolly red-suited me, lug around that heavy sack of toys all night long for the greedy little bastards, and eat that many cookies, I'd be pretty pissed off too.

What Santa feels is outright homicidal, though, and he comes to End Town to vent his frustrations. I don't think it's a curse at all, don't even believe in that shit. I just think it's because we happen to be the last stop before he finally gets home at the end of the night, the last stop and his only chance to take it all out on someone. Maybe if he tried laying off the cookies, he wouldn't be so wound up by the time he got here.

A shrill scream sounds from where I last had a visual of Santa. The bastard has decided to lend a hand in the slaughter himself. I was wondering when he would finally join in. The pattern is the same as it used to be before the deal. He unleashes his reindeer to sweep through the town first, his stomach jiggling like a bowl full of jelly at the terror they reap. He laughs so hard you'd think he'd jiggle himself apart.

Suddenly, a large red-clothed figure is standing before us. The little boy next to me gasps loudly and I clamp my gloved hand over his mouth. Santa's back is to us, and he doesn't turn around at the sound. So far, he has no idea we're here.

He has a skateboard in one hand and a baseball bat in the other, his large sack of toys strapped to his back. I want to yell a warning when I see Mack rush past, but he doesn't make it far as Santa clocks him straight in the teeth with the wheels of the skateboard. When it becomes embedded in the man's skull, Santa lets go of the board and hits the next running target in the back of the head with the baseball bat. He throws that aside and then reaches back into his bag for something else.

He pulls out a teddy bear. Snarling, he rips it in half and throws each half at the two victims. He reaches back again, and this time pulls out an ice skate and a wooden toy train.

Clearly satisfied, he goes after two more people. The ice skate makes quick work of one woman. Santa slowly bludgeons the other one to death with the wooden train.

Santa stomps away, out of our field of view. I breathe again.

Knowing that this wouldn't be happening if we kept up our end of the deal, my mind wonders to earlier in the night at the town hall meeting...

"We didn't get three prostitutes this year," John, the town sheriff, said as soon as everyone was present.

As Mayor, I dropped everything else that was to be discussed. The town depends on John to find three women every year, and he had never let us down before. "What? Come on, you know what happens when he doesn't get three."

"There just aren't enough," John said, his eyes darting away from mine. Mack, a respected member of the community, nodded his head in affirmation.

"You know the deal." My blood felt cold. "How many were you able to get?"

"Two," Eddy, the deputy sheriff, said when John couldn't answer.

"You can't find one more?" Unable to keep the concern from my voice, I put my hands flat on my desk to keep them from trembling.

"If he wouldn't take them away every year, we'd have plenty. The girls are scared. But even if they weren't scared, we'd still only have two," Mack said.

Ah, yes, the harem at the North Pole. When they realized they'd never be able to return home, prostitutes all over town stopped volunteering and changed their professions altogether.

Looking from Mack to Eddy and then John, I asked, "Why are you only telling me this now?"

"I was keeping up hope that one more would come forward," John nearly whispered.

"You idiot. You know there's no such thing as hope during Christmas." I wanted to kill the man, but I knew his fate was decided. All of our fates were decided. Three, tall, long-legged beauties help him beat off his frustrations through his north pole. If he doesn't get that, he unleashes his frustrations in other ways.

As it were, I found myself standing nervously outside of City Hall as fear itself approached. My palms were sweaty as I rubbed my gloved hands together. My mouth was dry.

"Ho! Ho! Ho!" The red habilimented terror sounded as jolly as he usually did.

The red-suited man was soon standing before me, his beady watery eyes on the two prostitutes that volunteered this year.

"Hoe! Hoe! Hoe?" He glared at me and I could see murder forming in those watery depths. Then he looked at the first prostitute. "Hoe!"

Then the other. "Hoe!"

Then to the empty space where a third should have been standing. "Hoe?"

Knowing exactly what was coming, I took off. There is no such thing as being the hero for something like this. He was checking his hit list, checking it twice, and I was number one.

That's when Rudolph was unleashed upon me...

A scream to our left brings me back to the present. The children squirm closer to me as Dasher gnaws on the bloody stub of Steven's arm. Steven owns the gun shop down the street.

Why not just kill the bastard? That's been tried before. The homicidal fuck and his minions are immortal. Every time anyone has tried to shoot the Claus, the asshole would laugh as if he'd just been tickled rather than shot. Even the damn deer laugh. Nukes wouldn't stop their rampage.

The fat man's voice booms through the air. "Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Vixen!"

Dasher jumps into the air and disappears. I make eye contact with Steven. He's alive, but barely.

"Come Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen!"

Several reindeer rush past, all gathering at the sound of Santa's voice.

"Rudolph!"

Yes, Rudolph, answer that fucking call and get the fuck out of here.

And, just like that, they are gone. The kids next to me start crying.

"Go, find your parents," I say. We crawl out of the drain through a river of blood, some of it already starting to freeze at the edges.

I kneel next to Steven and do what I can to stop the bleeding. His arm is completely gone.

"I think," Steven's breath is ragged, "I think that I'm going to try to leave."

"You can't," I remind him. People try to leave all the time. Anyone who tries is met with tragedy. It's a wonder any of us are left, really. The Sawyers died in a plane crash. The Taylors died in a sinking ship. The Edwardos died in a car accident. When the Smiths started walking, they fell through the ice just as they got outside of town.

"Any death is better than this life," Steven says.

He has a point. I'm not sure why I bother myself. Putting my hand on his shoulder, I nod my head grimly.

"Oh, thank goodness. Mayor Weston, you're alive!" Eddy rushes up to me, out of breath and covered in blood, but otherwise unharmed.

I don't dispense with pleasantries. "Make sure we get three prostitutes next year. Do whatever it takes."

"You know they have to be willing."

"I'm not talking about that. I'm saying if you have to put out an ad on the internet or send word to the next town, do it. Surely we can find volunteers who want a turn with Santa from somewhere. The deal is to get him three hoes. The deal doesn't say they have to be residents of End Town."

"I'll do what I can, Mayor Weston."

"No. There's no room for uncertainty. Get it done or come to me as soon as you know you can't." I look down Main Street, at the hollowly staring survivors wondering around aimlessly. Bodies are laying in pools of their own blood, mauled beyond recognition. Several people are writhing in the snow, groaning in agony. I look back at Eddy. "The consequences are on End Town when we fail."

The Room by Michelle Browne

When he wakes up, it is cold. He creaks a little, his back sore, and wonders why he slept at such a strange angle. He blinks and gets to his feet, and immediately slips. Ass over teakettle, the red footie longjohns he slept in skid and slide over the surface of the floor. He staggers to his feet again, hands bracing against the walls.

They're curved, as is the floor; it explains why he was so off-balance at first. He blinks and looks at the walls, then down at the floor. Blinks again. His heart skips and shudders in his chest.

He can see right through it. It's distorted, but it is transparent. He's always had a thing with heights, skirting around the sky-walks and anything involving a glass floor, avoiding elevators when possible. This is worse. Something is wrong, and he's very high up. That's all he knows.

Last night, curled up next to his wife in bed, nothing seemed safer. But now, the angles around him are wrong, and strange. He claws for a grip against the slippery walls, his palms filmed with sweat.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. After a minute, he opens his eyes and glances around, looking everywhere but down. The world has a slight tint to it, a faint touch of green, and everything in front of him is distorted. There are fine silvery supports around him, spaced evenly, and they come to a point beneath his feet. They're outside the walls, though, so he can't feel them. They look painted on, though, not metallic. He wondered about it, but there's a chip on one side, a scratch in the bar, that couldn't exist on a solid metal chunk.

He squints and looks up. The ceiling is curved, too. At the top, a sort of chandelier without lights attached hangs down. He reaches up and can just touch one of the metal rods. It looks to be made of brass, and it's bent in the middle, just like its twin; the two rods face away from each other, and rest around a sort of edge in the ceiling, above which he can see the golden chandelier's attachment. He leans against the wall and reaches up for the metal rod, trying not to slip.

The room shakes, and he falls down on his ass again. This time, he doesn't bother to get up, but he looks through the transparent walls.

The adrenalin has cleared his head a little; the world behind him is dark green, and has a strangely thick, woody look. Without his glasses, it's hard to make out details. He can't really smell anything inside the room, except his own feet and the tang of something primal. To the periphery and in front of him, he sees bright colours—traffic lights, possibly. The world is incredibly distorted, and outsized.

He wonders whether he is dreaming. It seems eminently possible, but the smell of his own sweat and the pounding of his heart argue against it. He presses a hand against the wall again. Glass. It's made of glass. He looks behind himself, then at the traffic lights around him, behind the glass. His heart pounds and he tries to rise to a crouch, but the world is too slippery.

Without warning, a wall of blackness, razor curved scythes, and pink meat swipes at his room.

He screams, and the acrid smell of his own piss fills the room. He crouches on the curved floor again.

From beneath him, rising like a nightmare over the edge of the bed, he sees a pair of vast, glass-green eyes.

"Watch the cat!"

The glass globe, wrenched from the branch, plummets towards the floor.

Santa's Secret Helper by James J. Murray

Martha Morton stomped around the kitchen. She cleared the breakfast dishes, loaded the dishwasher, wiped down the countertop near the sink and snarled to herself, "That lazy bum. I'm sick of him."

She opened a drawer and brought out a small plastic bag of finely-ground powder. She measured a teaspoonful of the light brown mixture and sprinkled it into a coffee mug that was printed with "Hot Stuff" and had pictures of chili peppers circling the outside of the cup lip.

Martha ran tap water until it was hot to the touch, remembered the instructions not to use boiling water, filled the mug three-quarters full, and gently stirred the mixture.

She took a deep breath and thought about her life—a successful schoolteacher for decades, presently retired and devolved into a housewife and servant. Yes, that's what she was, nothing more than a servant. That thought encouraged her to continue the plan.

Martha squared her jaw, clenched a fist and whispered again to the four walls, "No, he's not getting away with this anymore."

She picked up the hot mug, blew over it and walked into the living room. As usual, her husband Jake was reclining in his favorite chair and thoroughly engrossed in a crossword puzzle.

"I made you some tea. Flor says it's a special brew that she'd drink all the time back in Argentina. I had some yesterday at her place, and it's good. Here, try it."

Jake didn't react at first, as if the request needed further thought. He frowned, looked suspiciously at the tea and then at his wife. Without saying a word, he took the cup, set it on the end table next to him, and returned to the crossword puzzle.

As he did so, Martha thought about her visit the day before with Flor. Martha remembered how she had tearfully told Flor how Jake was acting. They were both retired, and Jake had lots of free time too, but all he seemed to do these days was work crossword puzzles, take naps, and read books. Martha did all the housework, the laundry and the cooking. Even mowing the grass had become her responsibility.

"That man is crazy," Flor had said. "You're a good wife. He needs my tonic tea—my yerba mate. I'll fix some for you. If you like it, I'll give you a small bag for Jake."

"Will it give him energy?"

Flor smiled, lifted one shoulder and tilted her head. "It may even make him feel sexy."

Martha drank the tea. It was rich in aroma and warmed her insides. She decided to take some for Jake. After all, Flor seemed to have the energy of two people. The sexy part didn't interest her, but maybe it would help Jake get off his rear and help around the house.

Suddenly, Martha heard Jake say, "Are you deaf?"

"What? Oh, sorry, I was just remembering my visit with Flor."

"Well, you're right. It's tasty." He drained the cup. "How about fixing me another?"

"I'll make you a cup after lunch." Grinning, Martha went off to sort laundry.

Flor's son, Max, walked into the house and gently closed the door behind him. He was tired and needed sleep. Tall, burly and used to getting his way, he turned into a mouse around his mom, who didn't like him staying out all night. This was the second time in a week. He tiptoed toward his room, all the time looking around to make sure his mom wasn't around.

As if by magic, Flor appeared from around the corner near the kitchen, standing rigid, with her legs apart and arms folded. "Again, Max? What do you do all night?" She sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose. "You smell like a brewery, and you're smoking again."

"Ma, please, I'm over 21. I pay rent. I can come and go as I please."

Flor stretched her five-foot frame as tall as she could, pointed an index finger at him and said, "My house, my rules. Now get some sleep. You have class this afternoon. You need to be smart, make good grades. Graduate college before you're 30, for God's sake!"

Max started to protest. Flor held up her hand, then pointed toward his bedroom. Without another word, Max headed down the hall.

That afternoon Martha made another cup of mate tea and Jake gulped it down like he enjoyed it. Martha decided to make the tea a daily ritual.

She called Flor to report that Jake had liked the tea and wanted to know where to buy it. Flor had responded that her special yerba mate was a personal blend and, since there was only a little left in her pantry, she would need the afternoon to prepare the ingredients and make a large supply for Martha. Flor did so, and then called Martha to pick it up.

Max had one ear squeezed into the small space between the door jam and his almost-closed bedroom door. He was too wired to sleep and needed to make his mixture so that he could deliver it to the buyer before evening. He heard his mom talking on the phone. She rattled around the kitchen, banged pans, and opened and closed kitchen cabinets. Finally, she left through the front door. Her car started up, moved down the driveway, and the engine sounds faded as it headed down the street.

He smiled, nodded to himself, and took the brick of cocaine that he had bought the night before out of his backpack. It was good stuff, had cost him a bundle, but he could cut it with sugar, starch and some of his mom's tea blend to stretch it and make a good profit.

He'd watched his mom make her special tea before. It was a blend of dried holly leaves, the kind from Argentina that had lots of caffeine in them, and crushed holly berries. That was her secret. The dried holly berries, when crushed, made the taste a bit bolder.

Max went into the kitchen, cut the coke brick with powders from the pantry, and started to put the brownish mixture into small plastic bags. Suddenly, he heard a car come up the driveway. He looked out the window and saw that it was his mom.

He panicked, pushed the few small packs he'd made into his backpack, stuffed the remaining mixture into a large freezer bag, and hid that behind some cans of soup in the pantry. He swung the backpack over his shoulder and rushed to his room.

Flor opened the front door while holding a shopping bag full of dried holly berries that a friend had been saving for her. She shed her coat, put her purse down on the couch, went straight to the kitchen, and pulled out a large mortar and pestle from a cabinet.

After placing a handful of the dried berries into the ceramic bowl and using a vigorous twisting motion with the pestle to crush them, she transferred the now fine powder into a larger bowl and set that aside.

Next, she went to the pantry, took out the box of dried holly leaves that her cousin in Argentina had sent the previous month and measured a generous portion into the mortar. As before, vigorous twisting motions with the pestle to crush the leaves resulted in uniform minute granules.

She added the ground leaves to the berry powder, mixed the powders together until well blended, and repeated the crushing and blending process several times until a large bowl of yerba mate tea resulted.

"Now to package this up," Flor said aloud. "I'll have enough for Martha and still have plenty left over for me."

Moving into the pantry to get a box of large freezer bags, she spotted something behind some cans. Looking closer, she pushed the cans aside and found a large freezer bag full of a previous blend of her herbal tea mixture.

"That's strange. I don't remember having this left from last time," she whispered, then smiled at her forgetfulness and added, "such an odd spot. It's a wonder I even found it. I must be getting senile."

Flor frowned and tried to remember when she had last made a batch of mate tea. It had been months ago. She thought the mixture would be good for a long while but wondered if it had lost some potency from sitting on the shelf so long.

Deciding to mix this batch into the new one rather than waste the old by throwing it out, Flor rationalized that if some potency in the previous batch was lost, it wouldn't be much, and not even noticeable after mixing it with the fresh one.

When everything was mixed well, she bagged the entire blend of new and old into eight one-gallon freezer bags, placed six of them on one shelf in the pantry, and kept two bags out for her friend Martha.

She went to the phone and called Martha. "I have your tea ready anytime you want to stop by."

"Now, Flor, are you sure you have enough to share?"

"Oh, I had plenty of ingredients, and then I found some more tea in the pantry that I had forgotten about. So I've got lots to share, and more if you need it."

Martha promised to come by later that afternoon.

Early the next morning Max came home, opened the front door, walked into the house and listened for sounds that would tell him his mom was awake. Hearing nothing, he gently closed the door, tiptoed into the kitchen, opened the pantry door and looked at the shelf holding the cans of soup.

Something was wrong. The cans were placed differently than the day before. After a long night of partying, he decided that he was imagining things, shrugged and reached behind the soup cans, but came up empty-handed. Reaching further back, his fingers moved to the left and then to the right—nothing. He rubbed his chin. His hands were shaky and damp with sweat. He searched the pantry in a frenzy and, as his eye glanced over some freezer bags of powder, he froze.

"Oh, my God. The bags multiplied overnight." He looked up to the ceiling and called out, "Thank you, God." Frowning at the thought, Max rubbed his head and said aloud, "No, that's not possible. But where did these bags come from? And where's my stuff?"

Realizing that he was shouting, he put a finger to his lips and touched his other hand to his chest. He felt his heart pounding and thought of what could have happened to his stash.

A horrible thought popped into his mind. "Mom!" he shouted, and touched his finger to his lips again and whispered, "Oh, Mom, what did you do?"

He backed out of the pantry, slowly shut the door and zombie-walked to his room. In a daze, Max shut the bedroom door behind him, backed against the door, slumped to the floor and folded his hands over his head. He shook his head and tried to figure out what had happened.

Hearing the front door open, he listened closely. It was his mom. He remained on the floor, his muscles refusing to move, but then slowly stood and, as if in slow motion, opened the door and walked down the hall. His mom was in the living room reading a magazine.

Flor looked up when he entered the room, tossed down the magazine, and said, "I didn't hear you come in last night. Were you out late again?"

"Not very." The words came out more like a squeak. His mom looked puzzled. Max cleared his throat and smiled. After forcing a grin, he said, "I see you made a new batch of your special tea, a big one this time."

"Well, I had a nice shipment of holly leaves I'd never used, and my friend had a bunch of dried berries. Then I found some in the pantry from a previous batch, so I added that into the mixture, and before I knew it, I had enough for several bags."

Max rubbed his head and slowly closed his eyes. "You found some old mix in the pantry? Some that you didn't remember you had?"

"What a surprise that was. I didn't realize that I had plenty enough already to share with Martha."

"You made some for Martha?" Max seemed to choke on the words.

"Well, I had already made the fresh batch, so I just added the old to the new. Now I'll have enough to give as Christmas gifts."

"Christmas gifts?" There was that squeaky voice again. "Your new tea mix as Christmas gifts?"

"Sure, why not? Everyone who's tried it likes it."

"But, Mom..."

"Shush! I have so much now, and with Christmas only three weeks away, I thought, 'Why bake? Just give tea in a nice holiday basket.' Isn't that a great idea?"

"I'm not so sure about that, Mom. Maybe not everyone will like the tea. And there's some old stuff in it."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Maybe I should throw it out. You could make a totally fresh batch."

"Nonsense! Besides, I don't have any leaves left. It'll be fine." She got up to go to the kitchen, but stopped and patted him on the cheek. "Don't worry, I'll save some for you."

Max thought about all his mom's friends. He tried to calculate how much cocaine would be in the mix, realized that it was too much. She would kill him if she knew. He willed himself to keep quiet and decided that he needed to think. He said, "I have to go study now, Mom. See you later." He retreated to his room, closed the door and found the small stash of coke that he kept for personal use.

Martha stopped by to visit with Flor a few days later and was telling her how wonderful her tea was. Jake had been drinking two cups a day for the last week, and that he was like a changed person. "His mood is, I don't know how to describe it, but definitely less sullen. He even put up the Christmas tree without me asking and sang Christmas carols the whole time."

Flor smiled and nodded as she pointed at Martha. "My best batch yet."

"And not only that, Flor, but Jake's agreed to be the Santa Claus at the Lion's Club Christmas Party tomorrow night. Before giving him your tea, he was thinking of quitting the club altogether."

"That's wonderful," Flor said. "The leaves I'm getting from my cousin seem to be stronger lately. Maybe I should market that tea." She spread a hand high across the air. "I could call it 'Flor's Fabulous Fix'. How does that sound?"

"Ambitious, but I can't argue with the results. It has to be the tea that's made Jake human again."

The afternoon of the Lion's Club party, Jake had two extra cups of Flor's tea and asked Martha to brew a thermos full so that he could sip some during the party.

Since the Santa costume was bulky, Martha drove them to the party. She was in a great mood, mostly because Jake was so attentive and cheerful himself. She had never seen him looking forward to any holiday as much as Christmas this year. If only their kids lived closer, they could see the wonderful changes in their father.

Max, however, was worried about Jake's temperament after he'd overheard his mom talking to Martha the day before. He wondered how much mate tea Jake was drinking, thought that Jake might overdose, and decided to follow them to the Santa gig to see for himself how Jake was acting.

At the party, Martha watched as Jake made the rounds of the room, glad-handing everyone he knew. She didn't notice that Max had slipped into the reception hall behind some other guests and had planted himself behind an artificial shrub in the corner.

Max watched Jake from behind the plant and saw Jake's good mood escalate. Jake seemed to be short of breath as well.

Martha watched Jake, noticing that his hands shook when not clasping on to someone else's. Maybe the costume was getting too hot for him. She felt the thermos heavy in her purse, but decided that water might be a better choice.

She went to the bar, asked for a tall glass of ice water, and brought it over to Jake. "Are you thirsty? Maybe you should drink something."

He looked at the glass and then at her with eyes that twinkled. "Great idea. How about some of that tea? Where's the thermos?"

"I have it right here, but maybe water—"

"No, I want some tea. Give me a big swig, that's all I need."

Martha brought out the thermos and handed it to him. With a shaky hand, he unscrewed the top, tilted it up to his mouth, and took a large gulp. He wheezed a little, as if he'd swallowed wrong, coughed, sputtered some, but then recovered. Jake took another large swallow, screwed the top back crooked on the thermos, handed it to Martha and said, "Ho, Ho, Ho—Santa's ready to roll!"

"What? Jake, are you okay?"

Sweeping Martha into his arms, Jake gave her a big wet kiss and said, "Never better, Babe." He gave her a swift pat on the butt before heading over to the Christmas tree.

Max took in the scene and slumped to the floor behind the plant. "Overheated body, thirsty, crazy mood—I'm screwed. He's going to overdose for sure," Max mumbled to himself.

Jake arrived at the Christmas tree and bent down to grab a present, but stumbled and fell into the tree. It twirled, and he landed face up on top of the fallen tree.

Gasps filled the room. Martha screamed and ran to him. Max scampered over, but stopped halfway to Jake and hid behind a group of people.

Martha looked down to see Jake's smiling face. "Oops," he said. "Santa went down the wrong chimney."

"Jake, are you all right? Is anything broken?"

He moved his legs and arms. He stood, tilted sideways momentarily, and then bent over and vomited all over the Christmas tree.

"And now nausea and vomiting," Max mumbled. "Next, it'll be lights out." He touched a finger to his lips when a woman turned to him with a puzzled look.

"I think you've had too much caffeine," Martha said to Jake.

"No, Babe, it's just too hot in here. I need to shed some of these clothes." He kicked off his boots, and then started to unzip the Santa suit.

"But, Jake," Martha whispered. "You don't have anything on under that suit."

He slipped off the Santa costume like one would peel a banana. The pants snagged on his hips and refused to move down further.

"Jake, stop. You're making a fool of yourself," Martha shouted.

A man rushed up, identified himself as an off-duty policeman, and asked if she was Jake's wife. "Does your husband have a medical condition?"

"Yes, I'm his wife, but I don't know of any medical problem that would cause this." She looked at the thermos. "Maybe too much tea?"

Someone in the crowd shouted, "Is he on drugs?"

Martha looked around the room and then at the cop. "Drugs? Jake won't even take aspirin!"

"It kind of looks like an overdose of something to me," the cop said and called out to the crowd, "Someone call 911." He turned back to Martha and frowned. "What's in the thermos, lady?"

Jake weaved back and forth, coughed some, and then said, "My special tea, and I need another hit." The Santa pants slid down one hip, but Jake didn't seem to notice.

The cop grabbed the thermos out of Martha's hands, unscrewed the cap and took a deep whiff. "Smells like tea, but with an undertone. What's in it?"

"Only what my friend, Flor, made. It gives Jake energy and makes him happy." She wrinkled her nose. "It's really only tea. Flor gets it imported from Argentina." Martha looked at the thermos and furrowed her brow with uncertainty. "At least that's what she told me."

Jake staggered over, grabbed the thermos out of the cop's hands and took a big swig. As he leaned back, the Santa suit slid all the way down to his ankles. Jake didn't seem to notice and walked right out of the costume that lay on the floor.

He stood in all his glory and said, "Ho, Ho, Ho. Santa's got a present for everyone."

The cop looked from Jake to Martha and asked, "Does he have a drug habit? Is your friend his dealer, and you gave him too much?"

Martha opened her mouth to speak, but just then Jake clutched his chest, keeled over, fell back into the Christmas tree and had a cardiac arrest on the spot.

"I'll need to know everything about Flor and her 'tea'," the cop said as he rushed to Jake.

A little girl watching the scene in her father's arms yelled, "She killed Santa Claus!"

The Naughty List by Tina Traverse

For centuries, I've watched my husband Kris stress himself out, working with the elves to get all the presents ready for all the boys and girls around the world who weren't on his naughty list.

Kris will pop Tums like candy to treat the persistent heart burn, drinks ginger ale by the gallon to ease the gas bubble sitting in his stomach, and drives his elves to near rebellion. I've begged him to retire before he drops dead with a heart attack from the stress and the endless sweets the children left for him, but he's stubborn. Kris is so dedicated to those little ones that it borders on obsessive.

I'm patient with Kris. I stay out of his way and put up with the endless lonely nights. After all, it's temporary. By January, all the madness settles down, and I usually have my partner back with me again. At least, that's how it's supposed to work.

During the first few centuries of our marriage, the routine would be the same. He would run around like a madman to prepare for Christmas, and then in January, we resume our normal lives. I would put Kris on a diet and get him back into shape, and we would take a month to relax on vacation somewhere.

With each passing decade, the world became more complicated and technology more advanced. With the advent of high tech came kids demanding more elaborate and expensive gifts. Greed had consumed these young minds, taking the joy out of Christmas. This new era has given my normally healthy husband an ulcer, high blood pressure, and high cholesterol.

I was pulling my hair out with frustration and drinking myself into oblivion when my best friend, Trudy Frost, gave me some fabulous advice.

"I hear ya, Frigg, I hate this time of year. Jack works all winter long and is never home. I got tired of being a neglected housewife, so I decided to do something about it."

"What did you do?"

"I became involved with the Passions Club. I've never been so happy and fulfilled."

"What is the Passions Club?"

"It's a secret club started by Scarlet Valentine five years ago. She divorced Q after she caught him cheating on her with the Tooth Fairy. She got together all the neglected wives and girlfriends and trained them to keep the out of town men some company."

"You're not referring to..." I leaned in closer, because I didn't want to say the word out loud. "Prostitutes?"

I see Trudy barely suppressing a giggle. "Not exactly. We're escorts. We accompany men to their social functions and get paid. Sometimes it leads to sex, sometimes it doesn't. If it does, it's extra."

I stared at Trudy in awe. Yes, she has a wild side, but not that wild. "Have you had sex with these men?"

"A few. But only if there was a mutual attraction and desire. I'm mostly just an escort. So, how about it? Would you like to join?"

"Trudy, I can't cheat on Kris. We've been together for thousands of years. I love him too much to even think about doing something so absurd."

"Seriously, think about it. You said yourself how sick you are of feeling lonely and neglected. It's not cheating because you can state from the very start in your contract with Passions that you aren't available for sex, leaving you just an escort."

"I don't know. It's risque. What about if the man does want to have sex and forces me?"

"All escorts have a bodyguard that shadows the girls, and you have a necklace with a tracer and panic button on it to press if you get into trouble. So, will you think about it? You need this, Frigg."

It was all I could think about over the next few days. I turned the pros and cons over in my mind all day. I would reach for the phone to call Trudy and accept, then think better of it and push it out of my mind. One part of me rejected the idea, saying that I had too much to lose, while another part said I had nothing to lose. That side reasoned that I wouldn't be putting any harm to my marriage, only bringing benefit to myself. I would be getting out of the house, meeting new people, and earning my own money.

It was not like Kris would notice I was gone. He has been spending day and night in his workshop. I only saw him when he mumbled goodnight to me, gave me a chaste kiss, and passed out. I needed more. Once upon a time, Kris was an amazing lover, fulfilling my every need. Now that need was no longer being met, the burning ache between my thighs gnawed at me, driving me to near madness.

I couldn't take it anymore. I needed a test. I would try to seduce my husband and if he could make me scream his name in ecstasy, I would not join Passions.

I set the scene. Flowers, candles and soft music filled the room. I wore a red and white silk bustier, lacy panties, and red stiletto heels. When he opened the door, I was ready. "Hello, gorgeous. How was your day?" I said breathlessly.

Kris didn't seem to notice me laid across the bed with a chocolate-covered strawberry suggestively placed between my breasts.

He grunted "Awful," before heading for the shower. I waited patiently, giving Kris a second chance, but when he flopped on the bed and went to sleep without a second glance, I decided it was time for a change.

My first date was at the Enchanted ballroom, where I was to have dinner and go dancing with the CEO of an international financial intuition. Laurence Grinch greeted me with a dazzling smile and a rose.

"You look enchanting, Frigg! A lovely vision."

"Thank you, Laurence. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Putting his hand on the small of my back, he guided me to our table. "I took the liberty of ordering our dinner and drinks. I don't like wasting time. Besides, the quicker I get you on that dance floor, the better."

I felt a little annoyed that he would assume what I wanted before even meeting me, but when I saw my favourite food on the table, I was a little impressed. "How did you know that this is my favourite dish?"

"Scarlet told me that her new girl was a fan of wild boar. I couldn't resist. She tells me that it has been a long time since you tasted your native delicacies."

I inhaled the rich scent of the boar and smiled. "Yes, it has been ages. It's divine."

I'm glad you like it. The chef is originally from your homeland."

"Sweden? I didn't know that."

"Chef Swansson is one of the reasons I come to Snowden North. I've travelled the world, and she is the best chef I've tasted. "

"May I ask what the other reason is?"

"No, not at all. Passions is also the best escort service I've experienced."

I grinned at my handsome dinner companion. "So you like escort services, then? I figure a handsome and charming man like you would have women falling at your feet."

"You're right. I do have many women I can rely on to be on my arm, but I find that a reputable escort company offers better benefits. Professional and efficient. It's the only place that I can find girls that suit my tastes and are worthy of my time, because I can pick and choose."

"May I ask why you chose me? I'm new, and I figured you would prefer a girl you had experience with."

"I chose you because you were by far the most beautiful. I saw a warmth in your eyes that spoke of compassion, with a little spark of wildness underneath, itching to get out. You intrigued me, and I wanted to know more about you."

I blushed deeply at his compliment. It had been a long time since I'd heard someone flatter me. Laurence reached over and caressed my cheek. "You look more radiant when you're modest. Though I don't understand why you're blushing. Don't you hear that on a daily basis?"

"No, I don't. I don't get out very often, and haven't heard a man flatter me in a long time."

"That is a crime. Shall we dance?"

I took his outstretched hand, my heart skipping a beat. Laurence glided me across the dance floor. He was an elegant dancer, guiding my two left feet in time to the music with the grace of a professional. Laurence's hazel eyes never left mine, and I turned crimson.

"You will have to give me notes on the things I did to make you blush so furiously."

"Why?"

"I need to know for the next time we meet. I will take it as a challenge to see how many times I can get you to glow."

Laurence held my hand a little tighter as his limo pulled up to the Passion offices. Reaching into his pocket, he hands me a white envelope.

"What's this?"

"Payment for giving me such a wonderful evening. You exceeded my expectations."

"I thought you already prepaid Scarlet for this evening."

"I did. That is a bonus. Just don't tell Scarlet. She frowns on bonuses."

I discreetly put the envelope in my purse and reach for the door handle. "Thank you for a magical evening, Laurence. I look forward to the next time."

"As do I. Good night, Frigg."

"Good night, Laurence."

Before I could open the door, Laurence pulled me into a passionate kiss. I didn't struggle against it; instead, I found myself melting into him. He ran his fingers through my hair, gliding them over the waves, tickling my spine. I shivered involuntarily.

"Cold or excited?" Laurence whispered against my lips.

"Excited," I breathed, unable to murmur another word. It was all too much. Too much time had passed since a man had made me feel the thrill of a kiss, a touch. Regretfully, Laurence released me.

"Now, I must go. In three months I'm scheduled to return to Snowden North. Until then, Goddess of Love."

As I stepped out into the crisp winter air and walked to Scarlet's home on shaky legs, a once familiar feeling washed over me. Laurence had unearthed a powerful lust. I couldn't wait for our next meeting.

Scarlet was pleased with how well I adjusted to the escort lifestyle, and soon I had my own list of regular clients. The list was small right now, but it ranged from the owner of a major U.S. pharmaceutical company to an Egyptian prince. Each date was exciting, ending with me going home with some serious coin. I have gotten so busy that I was out three to four times a week, and still Kris didn't notice I was gone. He had moved out of our bedroom and slept in the room next to the workshop. As much as I enjoyed being on the arm of some of the wealthiest, influential, and handsome men in the world, I still felt lonely, and the lust that Laurence had sparked still burned inside of me. None of my clientele wanted sex as part of the evening. The most that I ever got from any of them was a kiss and some heavy petting, but nothing more. Many nights I had to go home and relieve that burning ache myself.

Christmas was drawing closer, and Kris disappeared from daily life completely with last minute preparations. I was doing my usual best to help out, mailing out all Kris's replies to the children, baking and taking care of the reindeer. I was polishing Rudolph's red nose when Trudy came bounding up the walk.

"Do I have the Christmas present for you!"

I took the note that Trudy thrust at me and grinned like a silly school girl. "It's Laurence. Why would he want to see me on Christmas Eve? I thought he wasn't due in Snowden until New Year's."

"According to Scarlet, Laurence is back in town early because he had some business that had to be done before the New Year. So, where are you going to meet him?"

The elation of meeting Laurence dissipated. "I can't meet him on Christmas Eve. Kris needs me. I gotta call Laurence and see if he can reschedule."

"That's the thing, Frigg. Laurence is only going to be in town one night before flying back to Washington for Christmas with his family. If you don't meet with him on Christmas Eve, Lord knows when you see him again. But there are other dates."

"Those other men are terrific, but no one compares to Laurence."

"Wow, he really got under your skin, didn't he? Geez, how did he manage to do that? You only had one date."

"Well, he was my first one. Wasn't it you that said you never forget your first one?"

"That's true, but I've never seen you excited over one client before. I know he was your first, but it wasn't like you slept with him. Did you?"

I cringed. "Oh Gods, no! You know that I didn't. Why would I lie?"

Trudy snickered. "Relax. I believe you. Laurence never requested sex anyway. I'm just curious. I never seen you get this way since the day you met Kris."

My heart felt heavy at the memory of the first time I met my husband. It was so long ago, but I vividly remembered the details. I remember seeing a striking young man with flowing ebony hair sitting next to my father at our dining table when I returned from the market. My father had introduced us and declared that Kris Odin was to be my husband. Despite being the best-looking man I had ever seen, with piercing blue eyes, gladiator build and dazzling smile, I didn't want to marry a man I just met.

I couldn't go against my father, and I obeyed his wishes. I married Kris under a full moon. Marrying Kris meant that I had to move to his homeland, a cold and desolate land. It took me years to adjust to the cold. I missed the warmth and lush surroundings of my home. I missed my family and resented the fact that Kris forbade me from using my magic. After seeing the lust I brought out in other men, Kris kept me inside our home, taking me out periodically until the men became immune to my beauty. The one thing I did enjoy was watching my husband's rarely seen whimsical passion come about during the Solstice, when he would spend night and day fashioning the gifts he would bring to the children of the world in one magical night. It was the one night I could use my magic, and I was happy to help him.

I grew to love Kris and we raised some beautiful children, and I guess I had a lot to be grateful for, despite our problems. I just wished to could see past them.

"Hey, sleepy head, snap out of it!"

The snapping of Trudy's fingers brought me out my revere. "What is it?"

"I said, are you going to call Laurence?"

"I don't know."

Trudy sighed before turning away. "If I were you, I would. Kris is caught up in his duty. You were a legend in your own right. Don't let Kris take that away from you anymore."

I placed the last gift into Kris's velvet sack and tied it tight. I inspect the reindeer one last time, stroking their soft fur and kissing them on the head, wishing them a safe journey. Kris burst through the door and climbed aboard his shining sleigh. "Everything ready?"

"Yes, all ready."

"One last inspection, and we've got to go."

"Have a safe journey, Kris." I leaned in to kiss him but met air. He was gone into the night, leaving behind the faint sound of jingle bells.

I pushed my rejection aside and rushed to get ready for my date with Laurence. He was meeting me here at home, and I was making him a home-cooked meal.

"You look very festive this evening. Red is your colour."

A wolf whistle escaped Laurence's lips as I twirled around and give him a 360 view of my A-line dress. He whisked me into his arms and waltzed me around the room. I giggled, feeling giddy, the stresses of the past evening's events forgotten.

"I like the sound of your laughter. You sound so carefree, like a school girl."

"I'm happy, thanks to you. I missed you."

"I missed you too. You are all I've been thinking about since we met."

"Does it make me sound crazy that we missed each other? After all, this is our only second date in three months."

"That may be, Frigg, but I sensed a great attraction from the start. It's not out of the question when two people share chemistry. It happens naturally."

Laurence drew me to him, pressing his lips to mine in a passionate kiss. His hands roamed by body, awakening every fibre of my being with desire. A desire to feel like a woman again. My hands slid under his shirt, caressing the smooth muscles of his stomach and chest. Laurence grasped my hands and pushed me gently away.

"Why did you do that? I thought you were enjoying it."

Laurence ran his hands through his lush brown hair. "I was enjoying it. A little too much, I'm afraid. I didn't mean to go that far."

"You didn't go too far. I want you to go farther. I want..."

"Say it, Frigg."

I hesitated. Laurence's gaze burned me as he waited patiently for me to say the words. Did I truly want to make love with a man who wasn't my husband? Laurence hadn't requested sex when he made arrangements with Scarlet for my company. I'd been very lucky to not have a client that requested sex so far, but I knew I wouldn't avoid it as long as I stayed an escort.

Unless, he got it somewhere else. A twinge of jealousy crept into my heart at the thought of Laurence making love with another. I knew it was crazy. Laurence and I had no attachments. We barely knew each other, and our relationship was strictly business. He could fuck any girl he wanted, when he wanted.

Then why did my mind want to block out the possibility? I had to face the truth. I wanted him badly, and to get him, I knew all I had to do was ask.

"I want you to make love to me."

Laurence swept me into his arms and held me close. "There is nothing I want more, but I haven't made a formal request with Scarlet. It wouldn't be fair to you."

"Does this have to be a business arrangement, Laurence? Last time I checked, making love was not something one scheduled."

"It is with the business you're in. I'm a client, and you need notice when I request sex, so you are prepared and know what is expected. We are unaware of each other's needs."

"That is something we can find out together. Don't make this a business deal. Make this as it supposed to be."

Dread of another rejection churned inside of me as the long moments of silence hung between us. I started to pull away. Then Laurence scooped me up and carried me to my bedroom.

The chiming of the church bells roused me from sleep. My eyes fluttered open to a surprise lying on the pillow next to me: a gold-wrapped box and a card.

Merry Christmas, Frigg. Thank you for a magical evening. I'll keep the memory with me until our next meeting. I'll call you. In the meantime, here is a token of my affection.

L.

I carefully unwrapped the box and gasped at the stunning diamond bracelet. "Do you need help putting that on?"

Kris's voice startled me. My husband stood in the doorway, coffee cup in hand, grimacing. I pulled the sheets around me. "Kris, I didn't see you there! How was your night?"

"Don't try to cover your infidelity with small talk, Frigg. I may be stupid, but I'm not blind. Tell me, how was he? Did this gigolo fulfil all of your needs?"

I wanted to pull the covers over my head to hide my shame, but hiding wasn't going to solve my problem. My husband knew that I cheated on him.

"I could be tactful and say that is was a one-night-stand and will never happen again, but that would be a lie. Yes, Laurence did fulfil every need. Something you haven't been able to do in a long time."

"That's still no reason to go running off like some whore! You know that Christmas preparations consume me. I can't find time to breathe, let alone tend to your insecurities and selfish needs."

That comment was like a dagger through my heart. I no longer felt shame, only anger. "Selfish needs? Is wanting to make love with my husband a selfish thing?" I didn't give Kris a chance to answer as I continued with my tirade. "I had been devoted to you for centuries. Stood by your side, and done whatever you needed me to do, without complaint. I raised our family alone, while you devoted yourself to the children of the world."

"You never raised our children alone. I was there for them every moment. The only time I couldn't was during the Christmas preparations."

This argument was starting to go around in tired circles. We could go around all day tossing excuses and insults, but the result would still be the same. "We need to stop, Kris, and find a solution to a problem that has been going on for too long."

"The only solution is to correct a wrong I made centuries ago when I saved your father's life and he gave me you to thank me. I'm going to let you go."

"What? How could you let me go after all this time? I thought you loved me."

"Frigg, I thought I did love you. I have spent years trying to convince myself that I could see past your beauty and sexual allure and fall in love with the person, but I don't. If I truly loved you, I wouldn't have let it go this far. I would fight for you."

Tears welled up in my eyes. "If you don't love me, then what did you feel for me all this time?"

"What every man feels for you: lust. The ability to rouse lust in every man who sees you is your power and your curse. You will always have a man at your side, but he will never truly love you."

That statement was like a punch in the gut. Did Kris think so little of me that he believed that no one could love me?

"Where do we go from here?"

"I have made arrangements with Trudy for you to stay with her until you can find your own place. I will give you until the end of the day to pack your things and leave."

I couldn't respond, I was numb. My husband had told me that for over two thousand years, he never loved me. I was nothing to him but a token of appreciation and a lust object.

"Good-bye, Frigg, and thank you for your sacrifice and devotion. Your magic is responsible for millions of children believing in miracles. Take that with you when you go."

I numbed the pain of my failed marriage with endless meaningless dates and sex with the men on my list. Soon my list grew as word spread about the magical, mind-blowing experience I provided for my clients. I was earning money hand over fist, and Scarlet reaped the benefits of my popularity. I alienated some of the girls, including Trudy, for stealing their clients from underneath their noses.

I had pissed off Trudy so much that she kicked me out of her house, forcing me to move in with Scarlet.

I didn't care. I was carefree and reckless, and enjoyed the attention. Soon, I decided that working for someone else wasn't enough. I wanted my own company. That is why I didn't hesitate when Scarlet approached me one evening after coming home after a date.

"Frigg, before you go to bed, could you come into my office please?"

"Of course. Is everything okay?"

"Yes, everything is fine. I just wanted to discuss a proposition with you. As you know, I'm retiring in a couple of months and moving to St. Lucia to help my son with his new business. I need someone to take over Passions."

"You want me to take over? Why?"

"You have proven to me this past year what a good head you have for business. You have tripled the clientele and increased profit margins considerably. The girls may be jealous of your client list, but thanks to you, they receive much higher salaries."

"There has to be more of a reason than bringing in more profit."

"Yes, there is. You embody the important skills to maintain this business. Gracious under pressure, and you use tact when dealing with the jealous of the other girls. Because you can anticipate and exceed all your client's needs, you have attracted higher-class clientele. I saw your business sense in action when I went away and had you take over. I could go on, but I think I demonstrated my point."

Trudy quit being an escort to work on her marriage with Jack, but we managed to repair our friendship. It was tough learning how to run an escort service full-time, but with Scarlet's initial help, I learned the ropes quick enough.

I missed Laurence and contacted him. I wanted to see if he would be returning to Snowden soon. I phoned him on his cell phone, but was surprised when the voice of a giggling woman answered.

"Hello?"

"Ah, yes, may I speak to Laurence please?"

"Larry, stop that! Pardon?"

"May I speak to Laurence please?"

There was a beat of silence before she responded. "Who's this?"

"I'm Frigg, a friend of Laurence's. Who are you?"

"I'm Linda, his wife."

The world began to spin and I felt nauseous. I abruptly hung up the phone. The man whom I thought I had a connection with, who promised me that he felt the same, was a married man. I reached for the bottle of Chardonnay that Scarlet left in her fridge and poured a glass and settled in to finish some paperwork.

I tossed and turned all night, unable to drift off to sleep until the crack of dawn. I didn't know what time it was when I awoke, but I nearly fell out of my bed when I saw Laurence's steel-grey eyes staring back at me.

"Jesus, Laurence, you frightened the shit out of me! Why are you here, shouldn't you be home with Linda?"

"I'm sorry you had to find out this way about her. I didn't mean to keep this from you."

"Keep what? The fact that you're a low-down, dirty liar? That you're a man-whore who thinks nothing about paying women to fuck him, while his wife is at home, clueless?"

"Linda is not clueless. She knows I pay women to keep me company and is fine with it."

"What? How can she be fine with her husband screwing around on her?"

"I don't screw around on Linda. I never slept with an escort before you. I only hire escorts for the purpose to keep me company while I'm away from Linda."

"Why can't your wife go with you?"

"Linda suffers from MS and is confined to our bed. I try to spend as much time with her, but I have to frequently travel for my job. I love Linda, and that's why I never requested sex with the escort."

"If that was the case, then why did you fuck me?"

Laurence reached for my hands, but I jerked them away. "It was not something that I planned. You were only supposed to be a date like the others, nothing more. When I saw you enter the restaurant, my heart stopped. I couldn't catch my breath. Your picture didn't compare."

"That reaction wasn't real, it was just my curse. I'm a goddess, remember?"

"I know of your legend, Frigg, but it was not your magic. I felt it was more than that. I felt it in my gut that I was meant to be with you."

"You're a liar. There's no way you can feel that we're meant to be when you're not available! Laurence, you just said you love your wife."

"I do love Linda, and I'm in love with you. Nothing has to change, only our status. It will go from professional to personal. I want us to be together like any couple."

"Laurence, that's crazy. We can never be a couple, and as of right now, I'm terminating our professional relationship."

"Why can't be a couple?"

"You're a married man who is very sick!"

"That doesn't mean that I can't love you and want us to make love over and over again."

"That's appalling. How could you do that Linda?"

"Linda is the one that has been pushing me to find a surrogate lover for some time now."

"Surrogate lover? Why would your wife want you to seek out another woman to fuck?"

"Linda is a kind and compassionate woman who understands that I have needs that she can no longer fulfil. She was the one who picked you out of Scarlet's book. Linda knew you were the one. "

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I was being used as a sexual surrogate. Laurence was claiming that he loved me, but this was just a twisted version of a love triangle, used to relieve Laurence's pent-up lust. Made me wonder if he do the same if the tables were turned.

"I don't want to be a part of this twisted relationship. Please leave." I pressed the diamond bracelet into his hand and turned to go to the bathroom. Laurence pulled me to him instead, pressed his mouth to mine. His kiss was desperate. He gripped my arms and threw me onto the bed, tore my nightshirt off me, leaving exposed to his hungry stare.

"Goddamn it, Frigg, you are so fucking beautiful. I want to be buried deep inside of you."

I let his hands roam my body, his mouth kiss and nip every inch of my flesh without protest. I allowed him to thrust into me before I used my magic to reverse the spell, turning his lust into disgust. Laurence pulled away from me with a jerk and ran into the bathroom to vomit.

"What in fuck did you do to me?"

"You were taking something from me that I didn't want you to have. So, I took away all the desire you had for me. When you now look at me, all you'll see is a hag, and the very thought of fucking me makes you sick."

"That's impossible. Nothing could ever make me look at you with disgust. You are too stunning."

"Turn around, look at me, and tell me that again."

Laurence slowly rose from the floor and turned around. "You are beau...oh god! Fucking horrendous." He threw up all over my floor before running naked out the door.

Passions is booming and I'm enjoying my new life. My children were hurt when Kris and I divorced and did not speak to me a time for cheating on their father. Once the dust settled and they realized that their father didn't really love me, they forgave me. My daughter even gave me an idea to make Passions even better.

She pointed out that Passions only catered to straight men and I was missing out on huge other markets. I disbanded Passions, renovated the mansion, and included two new divisions catering to all tastes. I renamed the business The Naughty List.

Frost by Ian Rideout

The snowflakes came down softly. Neville set his fishing rod down to adjust his scarf, wrapping it ever tighter around his face. His eyes drifted upward for a moment to watch the snowflakes as they drifted down from the thick, grey sky.

A tug on his fishing line jolted him out of his daydream, returning him to the present moment. Finally, another catch! With all the enthusiasm of a young boy, he spun the handle around faster and faster. The rod bent downward, straining against his hands. He sat up straighter, gripping the rod tighter. The more his catch pulled, the more determined he was not to let it get away.

It was an endurance test. A challenge. Every catch was. Finally, it burst through the hole in the ice, flopping around. He gripped it, laid it against a rock, and bludgeoned it in the head with a stick, over and over, until it stopped flapping.

It was a big one, all right. Possibly the largest fish he'd caught all day. Behind his patterned scarf, his lips cracked into a wide grin.

The grey sky was noticeably darker now, and the coldness was biting at him ever harder. He wanted to get inside before it got too dark, and this seemed like a good enough fish to end the day on. He gathered up his supplies and prize winnings, and finally got up from his spot at the large, icy lake, where he'd left a deep depression in the ground. He moaned against the stiffness in his bones, cursing. He should've remember to take a break here and there, to not sit in one spot for so long. But, as often was the case, he'd been too engrossed to think of anything else.

He paced back and forth until his old, stiff muscles eased. Re-gathering his supplies, he began the slow trudge through the thick layer of whiteness that covered everything for miles around, fighting against his ever-pressing bladder. No way was he going to relieve himself out here in the chill, if he could help it. The weather was not expected to relent anytime soon. If anything, it was expected to worsen. Neville did not mind that much. He was so used to the cold, he noticed it less and less with every passing year. That was still no reason to needlessly expose his sensitive area to the cold, if he could help it.

The first thing he did when arriving in the comfort of his humble cabin was to rush to the washroom. Feeling much better, he took the time to admire his catches. This would prove a few good meals' worth. And good thing, too. One look at the dark outside and thickening downfall of snow, and it might be some time before he'd be able to return to his favourite fishing spot.

He gathered logs from his basement and started a fire in his fireplace. He gutted the fish he'd caught today, put the others in frozen storage, and prepared himself supper while waiting for the fire to grow. Fires out in his backyard pit were often preferable. Nothing beat having a fire with the fresh, open air around you. But then, nothing beat the comfort of his living room either.

He drifted back to the oft-visited place inside his mind, between the warmth of the fire and the warmth of his cooked fish. He tolerated the cold more than most, but he loved warmth as much as any human being.

After all the fish was digesting inside his stomach, he dropped the plate and cutlery in the sink and returned to the fire, turning off all the lights. Night and fallen outside and taken the final rays of sun with it, leaving the vibrant, crackling fire as the only source of light. He huddled closer to the fire and lay down on his smooth carpet floor. The world around him dissolved into nothingness. The serenity was so powerful, he felt sleep overcoming him. He awoke later, once the fire had died away to a bed of coals.

He stumbled around in the dark, and nearly tripped before finding the light. He squinted, shielding his eyes against it. He yawned, groggy. It was still early into the night, he reckoned, and all he could think about was going back to sleep.

Before he did, his eyes once again fell on the computer at his desk. A present from his son. Thomas had shown him a new feature called e-mail, taught him the basics, and encouraged him to use it. But Neville had not used the computer much at all since Thomas had bought it for him. Thomas, and even Neville himself wished it could've caught on more. But it hadn't.

Tonight, however, Neville was interested, if only briefly. He booted up the computer. It took him a moment to remember how to work the e-mail system. Thomas had told him it was primitive and dated. To Neville, it was the most novel and futuristic thing on the place. One more thing to make him feel old.

He scanned through his (few) messages in the hopes of having one from Thomas. Nothing. Thomas appeared to have sent him none for a long time now. Neville heaved a sigh and his heart felt a little heavier, but Neville could hardly blame the boy. No less than he could blame himself.

He did have a message from someone else, though. He clicked it open:

My love, I am coming to you. For many long years, I have waited anxiously for this day. The wait is nearing its end, and soon we will be together. For now, we must both be patient, and a little longer we must wait.

That was all it said. Neville snorted. What was this? Some lovesick loser looking for a date? Whoever the poor chump was, he or she couldn't have made a worse choice in sending this to him, of all people. Bah. What a sap.

The message appeared to have no sender. Strange. The whole thing was strange.

Neville deleted the message from his inbox and shut off the computer. That was enough e-mail for one day. He slipped into his pyjamas and crawled into bed, still chuckling.

He slept flawlessly that night, until the sound of the howling wind and creaking wooden boards woke him up. Wasn't a pleasant awakening, but he'd gotten enough sleep that he felt well-rested anyway.

He changed into his day clothes and peeked outside. The snowfall had gone from the gentleness of yesterday to a much thicker downfall. Yup, there definitely wasn't going to be any ice fishing today. Even if he could brave the cold and the thick snow, the lake was probably too frozen over now to be able to carve a hole into.

He shuddered as another round of howling wind threw itself against the cabin. That was the one thing that did bother him about living up here; the awful sound of the wind. The mournful sound rattled against the boards, threatening to blow his house away with him in it.

His eyes fell on his safe. Every time he looked at it, he kept thinking that he should move it somewhere else where it wasn't so out in the open. Maybe down in the basement would be a better spot for it. It probably wouldn't matter, seeing as he so seldom had company, let alone someone who'd actually try and break into it. But moving it would help him feel better. Not today, though. He wasn't in the mood right now to lug a heavy safe all the way downstairs and risk injuring himself. He waved it off.

He went on with his day, doing the best he could to put it out of his mind. He was most definitely going to be having another fire tonight, so he went to his basement to chop some firewood from the logs he had in storage. Once he had enough for a good long fire, he went upstairs and lay down on the couch, exhausted from all the effort.

Things were idle for the rest of the day. Just the way he liked it. He made good headway on his crossword puzzle book. When he got sick of that, he prepared himself another meal of fish. It was too late to be called lunch, but too early to be supper.

Fish took up much of his diet these days. It was food he could acquire without having to go into town. He didn't like going down there. He used to get sick of the fish from having it so often. But, like with the cold, he was just so used to it now. It was still daytime, but he started up another fire anyway to enjoy his meal next to the comforting warmth. He let it burn for a while before being inexplicably being drawn back to his computer. He didn't get e-mails that often, and wasn't expecting any new messages. But, in fact, there was one:

The thought of seeing you again fills me with joy. All we must do is wait a few moments more, and we can be together again at last. I am coming.

He slapped his knee and rocked back and forth with laughter. Seriously? Was this any different from the message he'd gotten yesterday? He looked through his inbox to compare the two, only to remember he'd deleted yesterday's message.

Still, there was no sender, which was incredibly odd.

He clicked the 'Reply' button anyway. There he sat at the computer for minutes on end, coming up with the wittiest and snarkiest response he could think of.

Dear whoever you are.

Thank you for the entertainment and laughter you've given to my life. If you're a comedian, I congratulate you, and can tell you that you're well on your way to fame and stardom. If you're looking for the love of your life, then I'm sorry to say that it won't work out between you and I.

So sorry to devastate you this way. Someday you'll meet someone who's right for you.

Or not.

He reread it multiple times with pride, savouring it. When at last he was done reading it over and over, he hit 'Send'. With the apparent lack of a sender from the other end, he wondered if his message would even go through. He really hoped it did. He'd fork out his retirement savings just to see the person's reaction.

It occurred to him after he shut off the computer that perhaps he shouldn't have responded to the e-mail after all. What if it only encouraged more messages his way?

Oh well. If that happened, he could probably think of some equally snide and snarky response to dish out.

He awoke on the morning of the third day. The wind had died down, but not much. It was still uncomfortably loud. He probably wasn't going to go ice fishing today either, but what was really on his mind was wondering if his mystery sender had responded. Instead of later in the day, today he booted up his computer first thing that morning, after a breakfast of fish.

His mystery sender had indeed responded. He anxiously clicked it open:

Neville,

I am overjoyed to hear from you again. That alone has made me very happy.

Until I see you again...

It seemed like there should be a signature there, but there wasn't. Neville sat frozen in his chair, unable to look away. Now things had gone from comical to straight creepy. What did this person mean with 'again'? And his name! How did this person know his name?!

Dear what's your face:

I'm not interested in whatever you want from me, be it your new hot date or whatever slimy, underhanded marketing ploy you have up your sleeve to win favours from me. It won't work. Now leave me be. Or else.

He had no idea what he was going to follow that thread up with, but it seemed like a good, sharp note to end it on. He sent the e-mail away, hoping now that this was the last he'd hear from his secret admirer, yet somehow knowing it wouldn't be.

He shut the computer off. Suddenly he was overcome with the need to escape the house. It was blustering outside and the snow was thick, but the much-needed fresh air would do him good. He went to his bedroom drawers to pull on long underwear, followed by warm clothes, then to his closet to pile on sweatshirt after sweatshirt. He finished the set with his thick, heavy parka, the one who reserved for days like these.

The cold was hard and biting today, attacking him for all sides the moment he stepped outside. He pulled his scarf around tightly, but the icy stinging still hit him hard in the unprotected upper area of his face. Once he forced his aching bones to get walking, however, he was happy he'd done so. Within minutes, his computer and the creepy message were all but forgotten.

On the morning of the fourth day, he awoke to see that the grey sky had gone away to reveal a nice, clear blue. The wind had died away completely, the sun shone brightly, and the snow was melting. Already he was making plans to do more ice fishing.

First, he had to check his e-mail. His better judgment was telling him to forget about it. But then, better judgment and curiosity were two different things.

I see you there alone, and it saddens me. I hope to bring you away from your pain.

That was all it said this time. Immobilized in his chair, he tried to move, but his body refused. All he could do was watch as those few, simple words seemed to lift off the screen and float toward him. His plans for ice fishing were already forgotten.

Was he being watched? When he moved again, it was his head whipping from side to side, as if expecting this person to have shown up out of nowhere and be right behind him. But it was him and him alone in the cabin, and the silence that grew more unnerving by the second.

He lifted himself out of the chair, which creaked a little too loudly. He wandered around the cabin in a daze, looking through windows for any sign of life. Any sign of someone watching him ominously from the distance. He even put on his parka and winter boots and wandered outside, around the perimeter of his cabin.

No sign of life dotted the snowy, tree-covered landscape. He shook his head, muttering to himself derisively for overreacting and being such a ninny. Of course nobody was there. Why would there be? He lived up near the top of a mountain, far away from most other signs of life.

That didn't stop a chill from creeping down his spine; a chill that wasn't from the cold.

He went back, peeling off his boots and his parka. His computer screen still glowed brightly. He sat down in the chair.

I see you there alone, and it saddens me. I hope to bring you away from your pain.

He read it and was terrified all over again. Promptly he deleted the message and shut off his computer, springing out of the chair so quickly it crashed to the floor. He stood until the whirring computer fan slowed to a stop and the vibrant screen display clicked off. Inhaling, he bent down and set the chair back in its place.

His breathing slowed and his heart rate returned to normal. There's no-one watching you, he told himself. This is just some weirdo sending out messages. Still, he had no plans to turn the computer back on anytime soon.

He ate again. This time he desired something other than fish, so he prepared himself a bowl of baked beans and buttered toast to go with it. When his stomach was satiated, he threw his parka and winter boots back on, gathered his fishing gear, and left to go to his spot by the lake. He busied himself in his fishing and spent a long, profitable day at the lake. This time, he did not soon forget about the computer and the mystery messenger behind it.

Day five, and the weather remained pleasant. As pleasant as could be considering where he lived. He sat next to his fireplace with another fire set up, all in an attempt to dull away the constant chill that had been with him since yesterday.

He saw out the corner of his eye the glowing computer screen, despite holding true to his resolve not to turn the miserable contraption back on. Had he not shut it off all the way yesterday? No, he had. He remembered very well. That's what scared him so much.

Rushing forward as if it were a bomb needing to be defused, he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw that his e-mail was opened, and he had yet another message, yet again from no sender. A sane man would have flicked the computer off again without looking at it any further and left it at that. Instead, Neville sat himself down and, his hand shaking, clicked open the message.

You don't have to be alone. We can be together.

Similar enough to some of the messages before, but what scared him this time was his memory that he'd turned the computer off yesterday. Had he? Then why was it back on? Was his memory failing him already?

He shut the computer off, and wouldn't let himself make eye contact with the screen again until he saw it go black. He bent down under his desk and unplugged the machine, and only then did he feel better.

He went about with the rest of his day. He sat by the fireplace, he did crossword and Sudoku puzzles, and he even brought out his old harmonica to practice on. No matter what he did, though, he couldn't get himself to relax. And he couldn't seem to do anything about that chill creeping down his spine...

The next day and the screen was on again. Neville spat out his coffee, which dribbled onto the carpet. He'd turned the computer off and unplugged it!

He bent down under the table, but the plug was firmly back in its socket. He was dizzy, light-headed. His hands grasped the desk and he pulled himself back to his feet.

Here we are, one day closer now. Ease of mind will come soon.

Again the words seemed to lift off the screen and imprint themselves into his eyes. Had someone snuck into his house last night and put the plug back in, all so he could wake up to see that message? No, that was absurd. Who in his life knew him who would want to do something like that? No, it couldn't be that. He remembered unplugging that machine. But if it wasn't someone else who plugged it back in. That could only mean he was delusional.

He darted around from room to room, scrambling and knocking things around in his search for duct tape. The floors were scattered with items by the time he found it.

He ripped the cord out of the socket, shutting the screen off in an instant. This time, he taped the cord to the desk leg, spinning the roll around and around until the cord and the plug were completely covered by a thick, silvery mound of tape. He stood up, rested his hand on his guy, and laughed. Let's see that thing turn on now.

He spent the next half-hour cleaning up everything he'd spilling onto the floor, carefully filing everything back to where it belonged. He noted the coffee stains on the carpet, but by the time he got to those, he was so exhausted from picking up everything else, and so scatter-brained, that he couldn't work up the will to do anything other than tell himself he'd get to it later. He went to bed early that night.

The wind picked up and howled again throughout the night, waking him while he tossed and turned, desperately trying to fall back asleep. He continually cycled through sleeping and waking, until at last he awoke one more time and couldn't sleep any longer.

It was still dark out. He didn't want to get out of bed, so he lay there in darkness. He pulled his blanket up over his head to shield his eyes from the sharp glare/glow coming from across the room. It was too jarring, too blinding. He had to shut it off. He flung back his warm covers, exposing himself to the cold air.

When he realized what it was, everything went still. It was the computer screen, opened up to another e-mail. No, it can't be. He looked away, hoping it'd turn off or disappear when he did. He could still see the glow; he buried himself under the blankets to hide from it, hoping that would make it go away. It didn't.

He couldn't bear to look. Not this time. Surely he was going delusional. Minutes that felt like hours dragged on by.

The more he stayed in bed, the more he knew there would be no rest, and willing the screen away wasn't going to make it disappear. He rose from the bed. His legs were jelly.

Much time has since passed. Far too much.

He didn't know what that meant, but he forgot about it anyway when he saw the plug, still away from its socket and taped to the side of the desk. No plug, no power, and yet the screen was still on.

In a single movement, he swept the computer off the table and onto the floor. The monitor cracked as the computer hit the ground and the light went off. All at once, he was relieved. He left it there on the ground, no more in the mood to clean up the mess than he had been to clean up the coffee stains.

He looked outside. A faint glow of blue rested on the horizon, but stretching across the rest of the sky was blackness. It was still early morning, but there was no way he'd be going back to sleep now.

He merely sat on the couch for nearly the entire day, too preoccupied to even consider doing anything else.

On the eighth day, the monitor, despite being smashed, still came on. When he saw it, he screamed. Gripping the handle of a wooden bat, he now moved much slower, holding it with delicacy.

He lifted his hands high above his head and brought the bat down with a crash upon the computer, denting it down the middle and shutting off the monitor for good. Unsatisfied, he swung a second time, and then a third. Sweating, breathing tightly and heavily, he finally let go of the bat. It clattered quietly to the floor.

It still wasn't enough. He went to his basement, gathering logs for his fireplace. Carrying the logs across the floor, he cried out as a sharp pain shot through his foot. He'd stepped on a shard of glass from the broken monitor. The logs fell from his hands and rolled across the floor. He grasped at the wounded foot and collapsed onto the couch to nurse it.

Now that he looked at it, it wasn't actually that bad, nor was it bleeding too heavily. The sharp stab of pain went away. He wiped the blood away with a tissue until the scab hardened.

This time careful to step around the shards of glass, he re-gathered the logs and lit another fire in the fireplace. He gathered each and every piece and flung it into the fire, watching with sadistic joy as all the pieces slowly melted. He kept the fire going for hours upon end until, at last, it was all nothing more than ash.

The ninth day was spent in agonizing discomfort, and not just from the cut in his foot. The computer was gone. For all that, he still expected to see the screen pop up in front of his face, even in ridiculous places like the microwave. When the rational side of his mind told him it wouldn't happen, he wondered if his stalker would show up at his door at any moment. And what would the stalker do? Murder him with a knife?

This continued well into the tenth day, and the eleventh and twelfth too. By the thirteenth, he at last felt the dark cloud above him lifting. He was far from ready to put his worries to rest, but they were less overpowering now. The bright display from his computer did not show itself, and no creepy messages either. He felt a moment of guilt at having destroyed the present his son had gotten him. But he wasn't even considering replacing it. He never wanted to own a computer again.

He decided to do some cleaning to occupy his day today. Although he was usually rather tidy, many of the shelves had accumulated more than their share of dust. After a good chunk of his day had gone by, he sat down and wracked his brains trying to think of what else he could do.

Well... the coffee stains were still on the floor, but the thought of cleaning them still turned him off.

The mail! Yeah, there was something. He hadn't checked his mailbox in an eternity. He dressed up snugly and left his cabin, beginning the long walk down the mountain. He veered off to the side of the road, musing that he really shouldn't be walking in the middle of the road. Traffic up here was such a rarity, however, that he could probably walk up and down this road a hundred times and never find any.

He searched for the mailbox with his number on it. He so seldom came here, he spent a moment trying to remember which one belonged to him. Failing that, he took his key and tested every mailbox starting with #1. Finally, the third-to-last mailbox opened for him.

His mailbox wasn't that full after all; there were only four letters. He wished he could say he was surprised. He flipped through them right there. The first two, he could already tell, were junk mail. No need to even bother with opening them. The third letter had the return address from one 'Darrell Osweld'. It was an old relative of Neville's. Possibly. He stuffed it into his coat pocket, telling himself he'd look at it later. Maybe.

He got to the last letter, bare white and completely unmarked. All at once, his good mood died and he was afraid. He knew what was coming before it did, and he nearly threw the letter into the wind, to be carried off and never seen again.

He opened the letter.

Dear Neville,

The end is near.

It was strange. Grocery-shopping aside, Neville never visited Clovertown for any reason whatsoever. So much that, when he finally did come down with another purpose, he couldn't even navigate the town properly. As far as his brain was concerned, the corner of the town with the grocery store in it was the only part that existed.

Until now. After a lot of aimless wandering, he'd finally found the police station. Now that he thought about it, he had been to see Clovertown's police once, but that was years ago now. He couldn't remember why. It must've been a big deal, whatever it was, if he'd had to go to the police to get it sorted out. But then, if he couldn't remember, it couldn't honestly have been that important. There were a lot of things in his life that weren't as important as they'd once been.

"Can I help you, sir?" the receptionist asked.

He settled back into reality at the sound of her voice, realizing the person ahead of him in line had left. Humbly, he explained himself, including that he'd called the station earlier to book an appointment. With a sickly-sweet smile, she told him to sit down and someone would be with him soon. She conveniently neglected to mention who that someone was.

After sitting impatiently for some time, a tall and rather round, bald man addressed Neville by name.

"Aye, that's me."

"I am Constable Antonio Mendez. Please come with me."

Neville followed the large man through the stately halls of the station until they came to Antonio's office. Antonio invited him in.

"I hear you're having problems with an anonymous letter sender," Antonio said once they'd sat down. "Perhaps you'd care to explain in more detail."

"Oh, I got details for you." Neville told the same story he'd spoken about over the phone, but with all the extra information added. He started from the beginning and set out to cover every event of the thirteen days. Antonio's face was a mask, up until Neville got to the part about the unplugged computer still being on.

"Hold the phone," he interrupted. "How could the computer have been on if it had no power?"

"I don't know. But it did, and it scared me half to death."

Antonio narrowed his eyes. "Does that make sense to you?"

"Listen, I know what I saw. I had that cord completely taped up and away from its socket, and still, my computer was running!"

"You know what you thought you saw. There must surely be a more rational explanation."

Neville hadn't known the man for more than a quarter of an hour and already he disliked him. "I know what I saw. I'm not delusional." I hope.

"Yes, yes. So what did you do with the computer that was running with no power?"

Neville swallowed tightly. "I... uh... smashed it to pieces." Any chance he'd had of being taken seriously must surely be gone now. Antonio would write him off as a nutjob. But Antonio only resumed his blank, stoic look from before and asked him to continue with his story.

By the time Neville finished, he was wondering why he'd ever bothered to come in the first place. Antonio rubbed his chin once.

"Do you have any of these e-mail messages still in your account?"

"I destroyed the computer."

"Yes, you told me that. But your account can be accessed from more than one computer, you do realize. As long as you know your address and password, we can have a look right now."

Antonio flipped open his own computer. Neville gathered around his desk awkwardly. It bothered him that he could not recall what his password, or even his e-mail address was. Antonio was forced to wait while Augustus stood trying to remember, feeling ever more like an idiot as the seconds passed.

When they opened his account, all the e-mails were gone. Yet another chill ran through Neville, on top of him feeling ever more like an idiot. Antonio frowned tightly.

"Did you delete all the messages?"

"Only the first few. I don't know what happened to the others," he stammered. "They should still be there." Neville felt at his jacket pocket. He still had the letter. If it hadn't disappeared without a trace too. Or if the paper was there, but the writing had faded away. He unfolded the paper to see that it was still there.

Dear Neville,

The end is near.

He shivered. Maybe it wasn't such a good thing it was still there.

"I got this in the mail, after all the e-mails I got in my computer," Neville said, handing Antonio the letter. "It was only yesterday, in fact. There was no return address."

Antonio looked at the letter and read the whole thing aloud in his dull, flat voice, making the whole thing seem even creepier.

"I see," he said. "This is rather unsettling, isn't it?"

"Unsettling? Yes, I should think so. Especially coming after a long row of e-mails that said very similar things. I might not have them in my account any more, but believe me, they were there."

Antonio asked Neville some routine questions, such as if Neville knew anyone who might be doing this, and if Neville had any enemies and/or anyone who might wish him harm. Neville, of course, had no clue, and had no helpful information beyond what he'd already said. The meeting ended with Neville giving his contact information, and Antonio announcing in a monotone voice that he'd look into this and see if he or any of his colleagues came up with anything. But Neville had already decided the police would be of no use here, and that he'd wasted his time.

"Don't let me take up any more of your day," he said to Antonio before leaving the police station and making his way back to his cabin through the frosted expanse.

He gripped the warm mug of coffee between his hands. Most days it comforted him.

Most days.

Truth was, he'd felt more comfortable at the police station. He felt nauseous every time he looked at his desk where the computer used to sit. He kept expecting it'd make him feel better to look and see that the computer was no longer there. It didn't. Not even with the knowledge that the computer had been broken down to tiny pieces and burnt to ashes in his fireplace. He'd tried covering the desk with a blanket, but it hadn't helped. Even leaving the cabin and going out to ice fish did little to reassure him.

His mailbox was the other disconcerting thing he couldn't stop thinking about. He knew he should be checking it. If he was getting any more letters, he should be gathering them as evidence for the police (even if he'd concluded they'd be of no help). Every time he'd be about to check his mailbox, he'd break down and couldn't do it.

One night, he awoke to see a strange, vibrant glow, and nearly lost his mind. But light from his bedside lamp was all it was. He sighed, muttering to himself that he must surely be going mad.

The next few days were slow and unremarkable. He was doing another crossword puzzle when the phone rang. He jumped out of his chair.

The second and third rings shuddered through the room; the fourth ring spurred him into action, and his hand was almost on the phone at the fifth ring when something stopped him. By the sixth ring, he knew what that something was, and the seventh ring had him backing away from the phone.

It was his mystery mail sender. It had to be. His breath gathered tightly in his throat for the next three rings, until it died away and he could breathe again. Slowly, he gathered his pencil and crossword book and sat back down on the couch.

The phone rang twice more throughout the day. He thought of unplugging the phone, but didn't, as the phone might well go the same path of the computer and keep ringing even after it was unplugged. He might go insane if that happened.

He thought of destroying the phone, but what good would it do? This person would only find yet another way to contact him, and make Neville destroy each and every last one of his possessions in the process. No, better to wait it out. He was determined to give this person no further satisfaction.

The phone rang again the next morning. This time, he stopped what he was doing, dressed up snugly, and left the house with his fishing gear. He picked a different spot at the other side of the lake to fish at. For once, and probably the only time in his life, he was thankful to the howling wind for drowning out the sound of his phone. Even then, he could swear the sound was still faintly audible from inside the house.

He caught few fish that day, yet stayed outside longer than ever. The cold and his hunger gnawed at him ruthlessly. Until at last, as the sun was setting, he knew he'd have to go back inside. Either he risk hearing his phone ring once again, or else he'd freeze or starve to death out here near the lake. It was a more difficult choice than it should've been.

After storing his fish away, he waiting anxiously for the phone to ring again. When the sky was black and it still hadn't rung, he permitted himself to sleep off the day's events.

The morning after that, the phone still didn't ring. Instead, there was a knock at the door. When the knocking came again, he was scrambling towards his bedroom. As he dove under the bed, the knocking came up a third time. He waited it out, biting his fingernails.

After the fourth knock, something within him changed. Here he was, cowering under his bed like a child hiding from some imaginary monster. He wasn't going to have it any more.

He flung open the door, prepared for the worst.

It was a large man outside, walking away from the cabin door towards his car. He stopped, and turned around when he heard the door open. It was Antonio. All at once, the anger deflated from Neville.

Antonio walked back up to the house. "Ah, there you are. I was about to give up contacting you. I tried phoning you several times, but there was no answer."

"Oh, that was you who kept calling?"

"Mmm-hmmmm," Antonio said.

Neville's face flushed.

"Can I come in?" Antonio asked.

"Yes..."

Flustered, Neville let Antonio in.

"I didn't hear you calling so much because I was away from the house. I was out ice fishing, you see."

"How did you know someone was calling the house if you didn't hear the phone ringing?" Antonio asked with a raised eyebrow. "You said you were out ice fishing."

Neville felt even more like a moron, but Antonio waved it aside. "Doesn't matter. We're here now. But what does matter are these. You might want to sit down first," he cautioned.

Neville sat down. The moment he did, Antonio handed him the letters. Neville took them with great reluctance, and read the first letter.

Dear Neville,

I know you are not as ease, but you do not need to worry. The end is near, and the beginning will come soon after.

An iron hand reached into his stomach and tightly squeezed his insides. He read the next two letters, which both had similar vague and threatening messages.

"We monitored the post office for any incoming letters that had no return addresses or otherwise looked suspicious. And we found these three. Of course, we weren't able to trace who sent these letters, or where they came from, but we're working on it."

Neville stared, transfixed at the letters.

"In the meantime," Antonio continued, "I would like to take you into protective custody. I am concerned about you being here alone while there's someone out there who may wish to harm you. I should have thought to mention this to you before, really, but that's all the more reason to do it now. That first letter you showed us was ominous enough as it was."

Even with the flatness of Antonio's voice and his expression while he said all this, Neville detected a hint of genuine concern.

He hated to leave his cabin behind. But if it would mean being safer...

"Now, I know we discussed this already at the station," Antonio said, "but can you think of any other useful information you give us?"

Neville shook his head. "Nope. Nothing beyond what I've already told you."

"Can you think of anyone else who might know anything? We really don't have any leads at the moment. Any outside help we could attain would be of tremendous value here."

Now that was a trickier question. Neville had been so busy thinking of and worrying about himself, he'd thought little of who else he could ask for help, aside from the police. Though he had assumed that there would be nobody else.

"Think on it, all right?" said Antonio. "In the meantime, would you be ready to leave soon?"

"I guess so. Give me a moment to get my things packed up." Neville forced his bum off the couch and puttered around the house, trying to think of what all he should bring with him. His fishing gear was all he'd miss, but he wouldn't be using it anyway.

He grabbed an old, dusty suitcase from the interior of his old, dusty closet, and packed some bare essentials. Just as he was ready to leave, his eyes fell upon his safe. He stopped to wonder if he should bring any of his valuables with him, but quickly discarded the idea. There was no reason he should be lugging them around with him. He kept them in his safe for a reason, after all.

Whatever. He needed to be going. He was keeping Antonio waiting.

They went on a lonely ride down the mountain, all the way into the heart of Clovertown. It wasn't until they breached the town's borders that an idea crept into Neville's head. He might be clutching at straws.

But maybe, just maybe, there was in fact someone they could go to for help.

The first thing they did was check Neville into a rather poor-quality motel, where he spent the night. The following morning, Neville discussed with Antonio in greater detail the idea of going to visit his son, Thomas. He had a house in Brookton, an even smaller town near Clovertown, where he lived with his wife and daughter. Neville still had no idea what to make of the messages, so it seemed unlikely that Thomas would have any better of an idea. But, as Antonio had said, they had no leads and needed to start somewhere, so Antonio agreed to take Neville out to Brookton.

After a short drive, they reached Brookton. It took them a while to find Thomas' house, as Neville had forgotten how to get there, much to his embarrassment. He was worried he'd forgotten completely.

Eventually, they veered down the right street by chance, and then the area began to look familiar. It was coming back to him now. After a little more navigating, they found Thomas' house situated in a rather poor neighbourhood.

It was the strangest feeling. Here he was, standing in front of a place that was so familiar, yet so strange and foreign. How long ago was he last here? Another thing he couldn't remember. Maybe that was for the better.

Neville knocked on the door, as scared as he'd been with all those messages, but for completely different reasons.

The door opened and there stood Thomas. He was as tall and muscular as Neville remembered. He was clean-shaven; his thick, black hair was close-cropped, almost to the point of being a buzz cut.

Thomas blinked, staring at his father blankly as if he failed to recognize him. Neville winced, preparing for the worst. Instead, Thomas' face broke into a wide grin. He stepped forward and pulled his father into a bear hug, patting him on the back and nearly breaking his spine.

"I was gonna say that you shouldn't have come unannounced, you know," he said gruffly, "but I'm just happy you came by at all." He released his hug and gripped Neville's shoulders just as tightly. "It's good to see you. Dare I ask what brings you here?"

Neville panted, his face beet red from trying to regain his breath.

"You been using that computer I got for you?" Thomas asked.

Neville shifted uncomfortably. "Uh..."

Thankfully, he was spared from having to answer when Thomas noticed Antonio standing there, as impassive as ever.

"Oy, who's this?"

"That's why I'm here," Neville began meekly. "I –"

"My name is Antonio Mendez," he said stiffly. "I'm here with your father on official police business."

"I see." Thomas looked crestfallen. "I shoulda known you didn't come here just to say hi."

"May we come in?" asked Antonio.

Thomas looked like he wanted to shut the door in their faces, but he instead opened it wider, begrudgingly.

Cecilia, Neville's five-year-old granddaughter, stood peering at them when they stepped inside. Neville waved feebly. He hadn't seen her in a long time, and couldn't tell if she recognized him or not. She soon vanished from sight. Neville didn't blame her.

By the time they were all sitting down, Thomas had transformed into a completely different man. Quiet, somber; much more like the man Neville remembered.

Antonio told the story, starting with everything Neville had already relayed to him in his office, and ended with Neville's check-in at the Gates Motel. Antonio told it all in that quiet, neutral tone he was so good at. Neville was used to it already. What troubled him was his son's reaction. Thomas was almost as impassive as Antonio through the whole thing. Neville hoped it was only shock or speechlessness, and not apathy.

"You have the letters?" Thomas asked when Antonio finished.

"Right here." Antonio dug around in his coat pocket and handed them to Thomas. He squinted at the first letter and read it out loud. Which didn't help. He flipped it to the back of the pile and read the second one out loud as well, and then did the same with the third letter.

"Well? What do you make of it?" Antonio asked.

Thomas flung the letters back at Antonio, as though they were contaminated. "I'm sorry. I don't know what to tell you. I have no idea who sent these, or what it means. It does sound ominous."

"What about the handwriting? Does it look familiar at all?" Antonio handed Thomas one of the letters back.

Thomas looked at it once more, though he spoke in a neutral, almost calm voice as he said, "No, I don't recognize it."

Antonio looked at Thomas quizzically, but then replied, "Very well. Is there any other information you can think of that might be helpful?"

Thomas stared numbly, shaking his head.

"I see. Well thank you for your time, then," Antonio said. He stood up, handing Thomas his contact card. "Please keep us informed if you find out anything." He turned to leave.

Neville, not sure what else to do, started to follow him.

"Wait, where are you going?" Thomas asked.

"You father is being kept under protective watch right now. With all these letters and messages, we are concerned he might be in some danger."

"Oh," Thomas said. "I guess that's wise." To Neville, he said, "You could at least stay for supper. Angela will be home from work in a couple hours. She and I could prepare you something. It'd be nice, you know, if you ate with us."

Neville wanted badly to accept, and yet he shook his head anyway. "Some other time," he said. He turned and followed Antonio out the door, then stopped and turned back. "Could I see my granddaughter? Just for a moment?"

Thomas nodded. He led Neville to Cecilia's purple and pink bedroom, then left him there. Neville stood at the doorway, unable to rid himself of the feeling that he didn't belong here.

Cecilia lay flat on her stomach, crayons held tightly in her little hands as she drew in the pages of a book.

Neville rapped gently on the side of the open door. Cecilia neither looked up, nor responded in any way. He tapped again. Still no response. "Can I come in?"

Still no response, so he invited himself in. He sat down on the carpet next to her. "What are you drawing?" he asked. Neville was about ready to give up and leave when she finally did speak.

"It's a princess," she answered in a tiny squeak of a voice. Now they were getting somewhere.

"A princess. Does she have a name?"

She kept doodling away and wouldn't look up at him, and he wondered if she was just going to ignore him again. After a delay, she answered, "Yes. Her name is Princess Margo Beatrice Wickerwood the Fourth."

"That's... a very lovely name."

"Thank you. I thought of it myself." She smiled warmly.

He peeked over at her drawing to see a messy mishmash of pastel colours that was barely recognizable as a human being. "That's... a very lovely drawing."

"Thanks." She smiled again.

Next to the 'princess' was a large green blob.

"What's that?" he asked.

"It's the evil dragon who came to kidnap Princess Margo from her castle. But don't worry. Prince Aslo will come and save her. I'll draw him next."

Neville almost replied, 'That's a very lovely dragon', but thought better of it. Instead, he asked, "What's the dragon's name?"

"His name is Neville."

He winced. "That's a...nice name."

"Thanks." Another cute smile.

"Did you come up with that name too?" he tried to ask as innocently as possible.

"Naw. Daddy helped me pick it out."

He winced again. "How did 'Daddy' help you with the name?"

She set the crayons down and put her drawing on hold to recall how Neville the ugly, green dragon had come to be, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. Her face lit up when she remembered.

"Oh, yes! It was yesterday. I was working on the same drawing." She did a very proud gesture with her hands over her masterpiece. "I drew the dragon first. I told Dad what I was going to do; I told him the dragon was going to kidnap Princess Margo, but then Prince Aslo would come and save her.

"Dad asked if the dragon had a name, and I hadn't thought of that before. He told me the dragon should have a scary, ugly name, and told me to pick the first name I could think of. I couldn't think of a name, so he told me to pick a name of someone that made me angry. I thought of some of the bullies at my school, but they're all girls, and I didn't want a girl's name. I decided the dragon was a boy.

"I asked Dad to pick a name of someone that made him angry, and right away he said 'Neville'. I asked him who Neville was, but he told me not to worry about it. But that sounded like a good dragon's name, so I used it for my dragon."

She looked up at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, sweetheart." He put on a fake smile. "Everything's peachy."

Neville shut the door none too gently as he sat down in the passenger seat, doing up his seatbelt. Well, that was a colossal waste of time.

Antonio turned the keys in the ignition and pulled away from the neighbourhood. The majority of the ride passed by in silence. It wasn't until they were back in Clovertown when Neville decided to break the ice.

"So what did you think?"

"Hmm," Antonio said after a pause. "I'm not sure what to think. Your son did seem rather shifty there."

"Yes...yes he did."

"We need more information first."

Neville drummed his fingers together.

"What do you think?" Antonio asked after another pause.

To that, Neville had no answer.

Despite having just checked at the motel, Neville wanted to return home already, but Antonio advised him against it. He could still well be in danger. They really hadn't found out anything, after all. After some persuasion, Antonio convinced Neville to stay in his cheap and sleazy motel room for now. After some persuasion of his own, Neville convinced Antonio to take him back to the cabin first to pick up some more items. Neville had no idea when he'd be returning again, and he hadn't efficiently packed last time.

Antonio agreed. Against more odds, his car made it through the ice and snow and up the mountainside without any accidents along the way.

"Do you need me to come in?"

"It's okay. I won't be long."

Antonio waited quietly in the car while Neville unlocked the door and stepped inside. Neville sat down in his couch, longing to stay there and appreciate the warmth of another fire. He nearly succumbed to the temptation, but Antonio would only wait for him so long.

Despite his rushed packing job last time, he couldn't think of anything else worth bringing. Maybe the real reason he'd come back up here was so he could see the cabin again. Even for the short length of time he'd been away from it, he'd already been starting to miss it.

And now he had to leave again already. He groaned, sheepishly trying to think of a good excuse when Antonio asked why he hadn't brought anything with him. He was about to leave when his safe caught his eye. The safe he kept meaning to move to the basement, but never got around to. He was confident only he knew the combination. But confidence would do him no favours if he were wrong.

He opened the safe, to reassure himself everything was still there. Everything was... except...

No, it couldn't be. He leaned his head closer to the safe and squinted, hoping to notice what might be hidden in plain sight. But it was not hidden in plain sight; it simply wasn't there.

His heart raced as he took off on another frantic run through the house, throwing open drawers and cupboards. He jumped out of his skin when he heard the door knocking. But it was only Antonio.

"What's with all the commotion?" he asked when Neville opened the door. His tight detective's eyes sped around the house, taking in all the mess. "What –"

"It's gone. The necklace."

"What necklace?"

"My wife's. I keep her necklace in my safe." He led Antonio across the house to show him. "In there. That's where I keep all my valuables. The necklace was there too. Now it's gone!"

"I would love to help you look for it," Antonio said, "but I don't have all day. I need to get back to the station." Like a father asking his child, he said, "Are you sure it was in the safe? Can you think of anywhere else you put it?"

"No, it wouldn't be anywhere by this safe. I always keep it there; I never take it out. Could you give me time to look for it? Please? It's my wife's. It's important."

Antonio rubbed his chin. "Very well." He left Neville there and returned to his car. He hadn't said how much time he was willing to give Neville, but Neville fully intended to take as much time as he possibly could. Whatever important business Antonio had at the station, it could wait. It would wait. And Neville would have none of that 'it's just a necklace' bit. This was not just a necklace. Anything but.

He scrambled around the house, flipping over and tearing apart every box or container he could find. The house grew messier and messier as every second passed, and the search grew more and more futile.

He sat down on the couch to take a short break, gasping for breath and sweating madly. Neville had ran out of time, it seemed, for Antonio came knocking on the door, again scaring Neville to death.

Looking at the even bigger mess, he wryly commented, "No sign of the necklace, I see."

Neville slumped his shoulders.

"You'll have other chances to look for it," Antonio said. "But I'm afraid I –"

"I know, I know. You have to get back to the station." Neville sighed, eyeing the pathetic mess that was his cabin.

He heaved himself to his feet. "Okay, let's go," he said glumly. He'd leave the messy, untidy cabin at it was. He'd clean it up some other day, when he had the time for it.

Neville locked the cabin door behind him and, suitcase in hands, he followed behind Antonio and piled his stuff into the car.

It is just a necklace, he told himself. Only the necklace that belonged to his late wife.

As the small car drove down the mountainside, an ugly thought occurred to him.

What if someone had stolen it?

He lay on the hard, flat mattress of the motel bedroom. The dull, creaky fan spun around and around above him. He was pretty sure he could literally see the dust forming thicker and tighter the longer he stared at the walls and ceiling. The fan's spinning motion was soothing, yet he shut it off when the creaking became too much. With the fan off, the room grew insufferably hot. Hot to the point of making him sleepy, yet he wasn't tired enough to actually sleep.

Neville was used to mind-numbing boredom, but this was too much even for him. The room was so sweaty and stuffy, the intense cold outside had grown appealing. He longed for something to do that could help him take his mind off the necklace. Sitting alone in this drab room and watching the fan only made the brooding worse and worse.

He left a note for Antonio or any other officers who might come to check on him, declaring his intent to go for a walk. He wondered if he should phone them to get their permission first, but he didn't want to be told he couldn't leave the motel room, as he suspected. No, a note was good enough.

Tightening his coat around him, he trudged through the snow with no clear direction of where he was headed.

Clovertown was a small town, but you wouldn't know that from wandering through its cramped, maze-like streets, surrounded on all sides by tall buildings that blocked any view to the outside world.

A reprieve finally came in the form of a small park outside the claustrophobic bustle of the downtown. Snow blanketed the swings, monkey bars, and other intricately-designed play equipment. Today, it looked to be nothing more than a desolate wasteland. He brushed the snow off one of the swings and sat down. He rocked back and forth. Gently at first, but he swung higher and higher the longer he stayed. The eight-year-old in him took the challenge to see how high he could go, aiming to beat his record. Every time he cleared it, he aimed to top the next one by swinging even higher.

It soon made him nauseous. He slowed back down to the gentle, idle pace he'd begun with.

The neighbourhood surrounding the park was a lot like his son's neighbourhood. Not the same, but similar; just a tad less poor. While Thomas' neighbourhood was uncomfortably poor and shabby, this one struck the right balance of being neither too rich nor too poor. It was humble and gentle.

Many of the lights from the houses were on, with families enjoying warm dinners. Neville even caught eye of a chubby St. Bernard curled up next to the window, fast asleep.

He'd always liked dogs. He had to ask himself, not for the first time, why he didn't already own one. He enjoyed his solitude. And yet, the companionship of a dog still appealed to him after all these years. He remembered as a child, his family had owned a lot of dogs, and he had loved each and every one of them.

Those days were long gone now. The thought of it filled him with a sadness too vast for words. He tried to think of something else and would up thinking about the necklace again, an even more depressing topic. And he wished he'd never thought of the idea that someone stole the necklace; now it was something he couldn't stop obsessing over. The fact that he had not the slightest idea of who could've stolen the necklace only served to make it that much more infuriating.

He again looked into the warm house where the St. Bernard lay. It stared idly at Neville out in the cold on the swing, stretched, yawned, and then walked away from the window.

In contrast from the house interiors, the streets were as cold and deserted as ever. If you took the houses away, it would be as chilly and barren as his mountaintop. There was only one other figure standing near the park. Nobody else was outside for as far as Neville could see; they all had the good sense to shelter themselves inside their houses and appreciate the warmth.

The lights in the houses reminded Neville it was around suppertime. He didn't look forward to returning to his uncomfortable motel room, but he was getting peckish. Perhaps he could find somewhere to eat. He was not a fan of restaurants, but so long as he remained in town, he might as well try and make the most of it. Pulling his jackets as tightly around him as they'd go without breaking, he left the park behind.

He gave one last glance behind him. The figure was also leaving the park and coming down the dark, icy streets.

Neville followed down the road. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't remember which way to go. He hadn't paid any attention to where he'd been going in the first place and had only found the park by chance. He knew he came from downtown, but that was about it. And even then, he couldn't remember where downtown was. A thin fog had descended, and he couldn't see more than a couple blocks ahead.

Well, he had wanted activity and exercise, and now he was going to get a lot of that while trying to find the motel again. And he was growing hungrier with every step he took. As he looked around the streets, wondering where to go, he saw the figure a third time. It was then that his warning bells began to softly ring.

The figure was a couple blocks down from where he was, barely visible against the wall of fog. He or she walked in a casual manner, as if Neville wasn't there. Except that this person seemed to be tracing his every footstep. The figure was too dark and shadowed to make out.

Neville quickened his pace considerably and sidetracked into an alleyway. He came out into a smaller and even more cramped street, more out of the way than the last one. Was he overreacting? Surely it was nobody who held any interest in Neville, and Neville was being a paranoid old clown for thinking otherwise. But then, Neville felt he was justified in being a paranoid old clown these days.

He walked down the street as quickly as he dared, nearly slipping twice. He pressed forward, but his attention was focused far more on what was behind him than what lay ahead. He was almost at the end of the street, and was only starting to reassure himself he wasn't being chased, when the figure appeared around the corner, chilling Neville's blood. The figure had picked up the pace.

Neville burst into a run, drawing from an adrenaline and energy he hadn't known was in him. Down two more alleyways and another street, into an even stranger, sleazier neighbourhood. He jumped into a nearby thicket of bushes, and waited.

The figure soon appeared, and was heading straight for him. The figure kept coming, and coming. That was all Neville needed to see.

Something about the figure was familiar, but he dared not take the time to question it as he broke into another full-out run. Instinct guided him away from the dark, isolated outskirts and to the light of the city. If this figure would track him down everywhere he went, a crowd might be the only place he could lose his pursuer.

He made it downtown, right where he wanted to be with the cover of the evening traffic. Never had he been so happy to see a crowd in his entire life.

Refusing to look back, he dashed across the street, an angry driver honking behind him. Next thing he knew, he was inside a mall. He ran and shoved his way through crowds of people and up an escalator, finally stopping when he was drained of energy. He sat down in a chair in a food court on the second floor. A window overlooked the streets below.

He sat down, panting, ignoring the many strange looks he was getting from the people around him. There was no sign of the figure. He waited, expecting the figure to appear suddenly down below, but there was nothing. Only clusters of other people that kept walking by. He waited. Still no sign.

Okay, time to reorient himself. He stood up and walked toward the window, only to feel exhaustion and dehydration overcoming him. His vision blacked out, and he put his hand up against the window to stabilize himself. Vaguely, he heard someone asking if he was okay.

"I'm fine. I'm okay," he panted. He waved his hand to indicate whoever it was to leave him alone.

He waited for his dizziness to pass before standing up straight again, his vision clearing. He got right back to work on figuring out what to do next. The area was starting to look familiar now. He couldn't see the motel, but he thought he recognized the street leading towards it. Not far now, but he'd need to brave the outside to get there. He'd feel much safer the moment he was back in his motel room, but he was scared to leave the mall. There was another, more isolated stretch of street before he'd arrive at his destination.

Neville sped down the street, yet things still seemed to take too long. The motel finally arrived in sight, giving Neville the last boost of energy he needed to reach his destination.

Then the figure appeared, between him and the motel, straight down the sidewalk path he was on. Neville skidded, slipped, and crashed into the hard, icy ground. Pain shot through him and he could only moan, but the adrenaline kicked in and spurred him forward one more time. He scrambled to his feet and zigzagged across the street, around the figure. The figure seemed caught off guard, only for a moment, before coming after him again, closer than ever. Neville ran, the figure in the corner of his eye only spurring him forward harder than ever.

The motel doors came up to meet him. He tripped and fell a second time, smashing into the ice. He picked himself up and scrambled through the doors. He sped through the hallway, up the stairs, and through another hallway until he was at his door. He scrambled for his keys, and in an intense panic thought he'd lost them. But he found them, ripping them from his coat pocket and jamming them into the door. He turned the key, then the door, and fell through. He scrambled back up, slammed the door shut and locked it, and then collapsed on the floor in agony.

"Start again," Antonio said. "Who was chasing you?"

Neville could barely get the words out because of how much his body hurt. And when he did, he could only get halfway before letting out frustrated groans of pain. All that running, and falling down on the ice twice, had taken its toll. He was pretty sure he hadn't broken anything, but all his aches and bruises made it feel otherwise.

Neville tried to start again, and had to stop.

"Take your time," Antonio said.

Neville took five deep breaths, recollected his thoughts, and tried again.

"I was at a park near town. On my way back to the motel, I noticed someone following me. I don't know who it was; I didn't get a good look. Only that he...or she, or it, wouldn't stop following me. I couldn't shake the person. I ran back to the motel, and was followed the whole way. The last I saw of the person was near the motel, but then he disappeared once I made it inside."

Neville found the guts to look outside the window, but the figure was still gone. He sat back down.

"As I said, I have no idea who was following me, or why. I can only assume it's the same person who sent me those messages, but even that I can't prove. Just a feeling, you know?"

Antonio rubbed his chin. "What features could you make out? Surely you saw something?"

"Well, the figure wore a jacket, and... wait a minute." Neville stroked his memories. There was something familiar. He'd noticed it before while being chased, but hadn't had any time to think about it. Now he was thinking about it, but the more he thought about it, the more it eluded him.

"Well, I'm going to go talk to the receptionist downstairs," Antonio announced. "She must've seen you come in. I'll find out if she saw anything else. I'll be back soon."

Antonio left Neville to sit on the bed and ponder over what it was about the shadowy figure that seemed to strike a chord. Even though it chilled him, he conjured up an image of the figure in his mind's eye. Try as he might, he could not make out the figure's face, which seemed only to fade further and further away.

Antonio returned.

"I had a chat with the receptionist. She says she saw you come scrambling through 'at warp speed' – her words, not mine – but she saw nobody else outside the motel or anyone that appeared to be following you. She did comment that you got a lot of strange looks from the other people in the lobby." Antonio bore the hint of a wry smile before his face turned stony and serious again. "I questioned a few other people in the lobby too, and I had a quick look outside the motel. I didn't see anyone shifty, nor did anyone else."

"I know what I saw. Someone was chasing me." Neville's heart sank. "But you think I'm delusional, don't you?"

"Delusional or not, someone was responsible for sending you those letters we found from the post office. Something is going on here, one way or another."

Neville shook his head. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't rid himself of the feeling that he was going crazy.

"Would you like to be alone?" Antonio asked quietly.

"Yes please."

"Okay." He reached inside his coat pocket and left his contact card on the table. "For now, I would suggest you stay indoors. But give me a shout if you see this figure again, or if you think of anything else."

The men shared their next few moments in silence before Antonio turned heel and left. He opened the door, stepped out, and shut it behind him.

At the very moment the door clicked shut, a lightbulb inside Neville's head turned on. He knew now what it was that was familiar.

He jumped to his feet and ran across the floor to fling the door open. He called out to Antonio down the hallway.

"What is it?"

"That figure. There was something about him that was bugging me, but I couldn't place it until now."

"Oh? Do tell."

"Yes, it's the jacket he wore! It's the same jacket Thomas was wearing when we visited him!"

Antonio raised his eyebrows.

They returned to Neville's room. Neville sat down on the end of the bed while Antonio sat down in a chair.

"So you're saying that this figure was wearing your son's jacket? Are you sure it's the same?"

"It looked the same, that's for sure. Do you remember how Thomas was wearing that ugly dark green jacket? The figure was also wearing a dark green jacket."

"That doesn't mean they're the same. It could be two different jackets that look the same."

"It could be, but it might not. Is it really a coincidence that the person who was following me was wearing a jacket that just happened to look the same as the one my son wore yesterday?"

Antonio rubbed his chin. "So you're saying you think it was Thomas who was following you?"

"Unless someone else took Thomas' jacket and wore it while he came after me, but I think it more likely it was Thomas himself."

"Okay, but that leaves us with one big question. Why would Thomas stalk you? What would he be trying to accomplish by doing that?"

As they spoke, Neville was piecing together a theory in his head. It was an ugly and unpleasant theory that did nothing to comfort him.

"I think Thomas might be our mystery e-mail and letter sender," Neville said. "And I think he was the one who stole the necklace from the safe. He knew I owned a computer, because he was the one who got it for me as a present. He also set me up with an e-mail account and showed me how to use it, so he knew about that too. I think he sent those messages because he wanted try and scare me out of the house. That way, he could come and steal the necklace when I wasn't there. He knows I always stay at my house, so he needed me out of there so he could sneak in unnoticed."

There was another 'why' coming, so Neville elaborated, "He may have wanted to sell it. You saw the neighbourhood and the house he lived in. It was poor. He and Angela are poor too. The necklace was a wedding present I got for my wife, a long time ago. She always wore it. Probably the most expensive I ever bought in my life, but that's why I bought it for her. It was to show how much I loved her.

"After..." His voice cracked. "After she...passed...I didn't have the heart to sell it. The money would've done Thomas and I a lot of good. Thomas even wanted me to sell it; he needed the money to care for Cecilia and help pay for her schooling. But I just couldn't bring myself, so I put the necklace away in my safe. The irony is I hardly ever look at the thing these days. It's too painful to look at. And yet, I just can't get rid of it either.

"As for why Thomas may have been stalking me around town, I can't quite say, but it must've been to keep an eye on me, or to keep trying to creep me out to follow up on the messages thing. He knew the name of the motel I'm staying at. We mentioned it to him."

"And now you think your son stole the necklace so he could sell it? Would he have known how to break into your safe?" Antonio leaned forward. "Do you really think he would do something like that?"

"Yes to all of those. If anyone could've broken into the safe, it's him. My safe is another thing he helped me install a few years back. He either memorized the combination, or had it written down somewhere. He darkened the moment we told him why we were here. And to tell the truth, Mister Mendez, my son and I haven't always been on the best of terms with each other."

Antonio sat back up. "I see. Well I guess we should go pay him a visit then. Even if he had the motives and the means to do this, it's still only a theory that doesn't guarantee anything."

"That's all the more reason to find out." He leaned forward and cupped his chin between his hands. "I would hate to think that Thomas did do this. Really, I would. But even you pointed out that he seemed shifty. And notice how his reaction when we told him about the whole thing seemed rather muted?"

"Yes," said Antonio. "I certainly did notice that."

"Well, I guess we'd better get going."

As the sun drew lower in the sky, they entered Brookton and reached Thomas' house. Neville pounded on the door, too angry to be afraid any more. He'd had the whole car ride to stew on this, and had grown more and more convinced with time that his son was guilty, and needed to be busted for it.

Angela answered the door; a woman as small and frail as he husband was large and strong. She frowned slightly. "You're not solicitors, are you?"

"Huh? No, of course not! Angela, it's me, Neville. Remember me?"

"Oh. Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't recognize you," Angela blurted out, clearly flustered. "Please forgive me. Thomas even mentioned you'd been here yesterday while I was at work." She gave a forced, awkward laugh.

Then she noticed Antonio. Much like Thomas had done yesterday, her demeanour darkened and she seemed to grow uneasy, as if sensing this wasn't going to be good.

"My name is Antonio Mendez and I work with the Clovertown police department. Is your husband home? We just need to ask him some questions."

"He's home. Is everything okay?"

"We just need to ask him some questions," Antonio repeated.

"Can we come in?" Neville asked. "It's rather cold out here."

"S-sure," she stuttered.

She opened the door for them.

Thomas appeared from nowhere almost the very second they stepped inside. He did not appear surprised to see them this time, nor did he appear very happy. "Back again, I see?"

Neville was quick to note the tension in his son's voice and the way he arched his shoulders.

"Okay. Hand it over."

"Hand what over?" Thomas asked.

"Neville believes you have his wife's gold necklace," Antonio said calmly.

"In other words, that you stole it," Neville said.

Thomas blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You know what I'm talking about," Neville said. "The necklace she used to wear all the time."

"I thought you had the necklace. You kept it in your safe."

"That's right. Until you stole it."

Thomas went red. "Okay, you have some nerve here. We don't hear from you for months on end. I don't hear from you for months on end. And then, finally, when you do reappear, all you come here to do is accuse me of thievery!"

"I like to think that my accusation has some merit here."

"Get out!" Thomas spat. "You're not welcome here!"

Neville stood his ground. "I'm not leaving until I have that necklace."

"I didn't take the necklace! Why would I steal it?!" He was yelling now.

Angela and Cecilia both watched helplessly from the sidelines.

"Why wouldn't you steal it?! You have everything to gain from selling it and making a fortune off it! You even suggested selling it before! And if you sold it already and can't give it back, the least you could do is admit what you did and cough it up now."

Thomas began to shake. "You're a fool!"

"And you're a liar and a thief!" Neville jabbed him in the chest.

Thomas shoved him back with unexpected force. Neville stumbled back, crashed into a nearby chair, and fell over. Neville got back up, but Thomas shoved him again, harder. Neville fell down on his side, already sore from hitting it on the ice.

Antonio stepped in front of Thomas. "Stop it! That's enough!"

Thomas looked ready to use force on Antonio too, and even tilted his arms backward. Antonio remained where he was, unflinching. After a moment of locking eyes and locking horns, Thomas stepped back and averted his gaze in apparent submission.

Antonio came over and helped Neville to his feet. "Are you okay?"

Neville cried out as brutal pain cut through him, and he soon had to sit down again on the floor. "Just give me a moment," he said to Antonio. "I'll be fine." Though he was doubting that. With all the scrapes and brushes he was accumulating lately, he wondered if he'd ever be able to walk normal again.

Angela and Cecilia stood nearby, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

"Okay," Antonio said to Thomas. "I am going to be taking you to the police station in Clovertown for questioning. I suggest you come peacefully."

"Wait! You're taking Daddy away? Why?!"

He ignored the little girl, and the silence felt heavier. As Antonio led Thomas out of the house, Neville limped behind them, not looking back at either Angela or Cecilia. There was no way he would ever be welcome here again.

Antonio ordered Thomas to sit in the back seat. Neville climbed in the passenger seat. Everyone did up their seatbelts as Antonio started the engine and drove them away from the house. Nobody said a word the entire ride. Just once, Neville glanced back at Thomas, and could see his son's eyes burning with hate.

The harsh winds had died away again, and the winter setting had returned to its former serene beauty. The snowflakes came down; soft, gentle, and soothing. The cold still made its presence felt, but it wasn't unreasonably biting.

A tug on his fishing line brought Neville back to reality. His hands clamped tighter around his line, spinning faster and faster on the handle. He sat up straighter, gripped the rod tighter, and endured in his struggle against the fish until at last it was his.

For all the struggle the fish had put up, it was not very large. Neville feared he might be losing his touch. Oh well. He'd gotten a good haul today already. The sky was darkening and the air was growing chillier. And his hands ached. Taking that as his cue to leave, he gathered his fishing gear and once again left the lake for another day.

He entered the house and got straight to work cooking and preparing the fish for supper. It was so nice to be back home. He'd only been gone a short time and already he'd missed this place dearly. He'd also gathered one good load of groceries from the store down in Clovertown, so it'd be a long time before he had to go back to the town. As of now, he never wanted to see that place again.

He'd gotten a call earlier that day. The abrupt, shrill ring of the phone had frightened him once again. Still, he found the courage to answer it, and discovered that it was the police station calling him. He'd been informed that the cops had grilled Thomas and found no proof that he was guilty, so they let him go. He had, of course, continued to deny having taken the necklace, and his anger and indignation at being accused seemed genuine (according to the police). The news had disheartened Neville, as the necklace was still missing, possibly forever now. He'd done another extensive search for it since coming back, both in and around the cabin, before finally giving up. Truly, it looked to be gone for good.

Neville once again took note of the coffee stains on the carpet he still needed to clean. Once again, he wasn't in the mood, and put it off for another day.

Instead he stood at the sink, gutting one of the fish he'd caught today. He hummed an old tune to himself to help himself not think about it, though he knew that would be an impossible feat. As the innards slid down the drain, he looked out his window. He looked out at the skyline to see the sun settling down peacefully. Its magnificent rays shone on the figure, standing many yards away, staring at Neville through the window. Their eyes locked for a moment. The sun shone at the figure's back, but the figure remained in darkness.

When Neville willed himself to break eye contact, he was running for the phone. Twice the receiver slipped through his sweaty fingers as he tried to grip it. He punched in the number of Antonio's office.

Please answer! Please pick up!

"Constable Antonio Mendez speaking," the voice on the other side answered.

"Antonio! It's me, Neville! Come quick! The stalker's back! He's outside my house right now!"

"What? Are you sure?"

"Yes! Right outside! And that jacket! He was wearing Thomas' jacket!"

"Is it Thomas? Did you see his face?"

"I can't tell. But it was the same jacket. Please, just come quick!"

An agonizing silence on the other end of the phone. Then Antonio replied, "I'll be right there. In the meantime, keep your doors locked. And stay on the phone. I'll put you on with another officer."

The officer told Neville to stay on the line with her, even though there was pathetically little either of them could do until Antonio arrived. When Neville dared himself to look out the windows, the figure had disappeared. Everything around the house was quiet. Even the often windy mountain he lived on had gone still, leaving a dead calm. All it served to do was make his blood run even colder. The officer asked Neville the occasional question, but most of the conversation was silence, her main purpose to seemingly make sure nothing bad happened.

Eventually a sound came, growing louder. The knocking came on his door; it was Antonio, and two other police officers. Neville relayed this to the officer on the phone and politely hung up.

"Oh boy, am I happy to see you guys!" Neville said. Just for a moment, he could swear he saw a small smile from Antonio in return.

"Have you seen the figure at all since we spoke?"

Neville shook his head. "He vanished after I called you."

The officers did a quick looksee around the perimeter of the cabin, but there was nobody in sight. No visible footprints in the snow either.

Back inside, Antonio asked, "Are you sure it was the same figure who chased you through Clovertown?"

"Yes! He was staring right at me through the window!"

"I see. Perhaps you'd like to come back downtown. Given the context of the messages, and everything else, we can't be certain whether or not this person will try and hurt you. You'd be less at risk back in Clovertown."

Before, Neville had agreed to the suggestion to retreat to safety. Things were as nerve-wracking as they'd always been. But he wasn't gonna have it any more.

He shook his head. "And then what? I keep hiding out in motel rooms, always afraid to go outside? No, I've had enough of that. I'm staying here I am."

"I'm not sure that's wise," Antonio said. "There'll be nobody here to protect you if our special someone comes after you."

"Not unless you stay here with me."

Neville speared the last piece of fish on the plate with his fork and downed it in one bite. He eyed the coffee stains again and felt strangely self-conscious, even if the officers appeared not to notice.

"Want some?" he asked, feeling the need to say something.

Antonio looked for Neville to the fish, then shook his head. "No thank you. I've already eaten."

The house creaked loudly as the howling wind assaulted it. Neville flinched as it did so.

"You all right?" Antonio asked.

"I guess so," Neville said. "I keep expecting to look and see that horrible green fleece jacket wherever I turn."

"Your son's jacket, you mean?"

"Yes. Well technically, it used to belong to my wife, Clara. I bought it for her, but it was too large for her. It fit Thomas perfectly, so I gave it to him instead, and it's been his ever since. Nowadays, I wish he'd get rid of it; ironic, considering I never could will myself to sell that necklace. And now it's gone anyways. Maybe for the better." For the better. Yeah, sure. It didn't feel like it was for the better. Even though he'd always kept the necklace in his safe and never looked at it, he'd taken comfort knowing it was there. And now, the longer it was gone, the more he missed it.

"I appreciate this, you know," he said, feeling the need to say something else. "All the help you've given me with this case, I mean."

"It's not a problem," Antonio said. "This is what we do. We help people out."

"What do you reckon this is really about? Whether it's my son or not, this person has some motive, surely." Neville threw up his arms.

"Everyone always has a motive for what they do. It's all about discovering that motive and finding that person out."

"I mean, what does he want from me? Why does he keep tormenting me?"

"I wish I could say."

There was no point worrying about it until happened. In the meantime, Neville tried to go about his usual daily routine despite the officers around, but more and more, he just couldn't concentrate on anything. A time bomb was ticking.

The plan was, they were waiting to see if the stranger was going to come back at all, as sort of a plan to use Neville as bait. But the plan did not seem to be working well. So far, there'd still been no sign whatever of the stranger, and Neville could sense the officers growing impatient.

The time bomb ticked down for hours and hours, still refusing to go off. At last, Antonio said, "I think we should take you back to the station."

"But I don't want to keep running and hiding!"

"You haven't seen anyone else since you called us, have you? We haven't seen anyone either. It's been hours now. Either the person had long gone, or he or she is waiting until nightfall for some specific reason. Whatever the case, I feel mighty uneasy waiting here."

"But that guy, or whoever or whatever he is, is still out here," Neville said. "I just want this to be over."

"So do I, but there's no need to go about this foolishly. I think we're better off if we leave this place."

Neville had to resign himself to the fact that Antonio was probably right, again. Still, he hated giving up like this. It felt like he was letting the enemy win, even if his enemy had probably already been winning the whole time.

Neville dedicated some time to packing up his bags once again. It looked like he'd be spending yet another night in that miserable hotel. Once that was done, they all piled into the police car. Antonio sat in the passenger seat while one of the other officers got in the driver's side. Neville and the third man sat in the back. The guy in front turned the key. The engine chugged and groaned, and then nothing. He turned it again, and again, but it inspired nothing other than loud complaints from the engine.

"Great!" he muttered.

The officers spent a good ten to fifteen minutes trying to fix the engine, but it had inexplicably died. Neville groaned inwardly. No way he was gonna be walking down the mountainside carrying his heavy bag the whole way.

Failing in their attempts to get the engine going again, the officers went into the house to call the station so they could have another car come get them. It'd be far too long a walk down the mountain otherwise. But they had no luck with the phone either, which seemed to have lost connection.

"You don't have any electrical problems or anything, do you?" Antonio asked.

"No, I shouldn't. Remember, I used that same phone to call you guys earlier today."

"Okay, don't worry about it. I think I brought my cell phone with me." Antonio fumbled around in his coat, pulling out a slick and stylish cell phone. It was another 'new' piece of technology that seemed like everyone in the world had grown accustomed to, except for Neville.

Antonio dialed the number and pressed the phone to his ear. Even from the distance where Neville stood, he could hear the sound of the dial tone failing.

"What? Come on." Antonio dialed again and again, only to produce the same result each time. He snapped the phone shut and slid it back into his furry coat pocket. "We're not getting any reception up here."

A tingling formed at the tip of Neville's neck, trickling all the way down his spine and down the backs of his legs.

"It looks like we're walking then," Antonio said, peering down the side of the mountain and at the lights of Clovertown lingering far below. He looked back at Neville's cabin, which seemed to have grown ten times larger and more foreboding. "I really don't like this. We have to get out of here and now."

They found flashlights in the trunk of the car. Those, mercifully, still worked. Down the mountainside the four of them walked. Neville had chosen to leave his bag in the car. He was content enough to retrieve it later. He didn't care about it right now.

Leaving all non-essential gear behind, the four of them took off on the path down the mountainside. The howling wind had since died away and now it was silent, all save for the sound of their bootprints on the snow. The sky grew darker with every minute. Twice a small animal ran by. When they got further down the winding trail, the silence was broken by hooting owls. Neville was pretty sure he preferred the silence.

"Where is the next house?" one of the nameless officers asked over the sound of the owls, as the sky continued to darken. "We should see if we can use their phone."

"That's assuming their phone didn't die out too," Antonio all but whispered.

"I can't quite recall fully, but I think the next house is close." As Neville said it, he thought he could make out the faint outline of a house in the distance. Good thing too. It felt like they'd walked forever and a day already, but the town was still a long way off. The lights from the town were no longer visible behind the trees. Neville had to agree with Antonio; the sooner they escaped here and made it to shelter, the better.

"There. I think that's it over there," Neville said, pointing.

They came up to the house. It looked like the most deserted thing on the face of the planet.

"Do you know the people who lived here?" Antonio asked.

"In a manner of speaking." It was an elderly couple. Neville knew them to the extent he knew everyone else who shared his mountainside; not very well.

"I don't know if they're home right now," he said to Antonio. "Come to think of it, I'm not sure if they still live here."

One of the officers went to the door to knock. Neville looked around at the dark outlines of the trees. The owls could be heard closer than ever. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were there. With his heightened nerves, the wretched things made him more jittery than ever.

Lower down in the trees, he saw the outline of... something. He squinted, then backed up many paces, behind the police officers.

"What is it?" asked one of the officers.

"There! Right there! I saw him!"

The officers shone their lights toward the now-deserted treeline.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! I'm sure! It was the same jacket! I'd recognize that jacket anywhere!"

The two other officers looked around, shining their lights everywhere and calling out to whoever was there, before Antonio shushed them. They fell quiet, shining their lights around at a slower pace. Everyone waited, and listened. The owls had gone quiet.

The gruelling wait came to an end when the figure reappeared and seemed to come flying at Neville. He screamed, pivoted on his heel, and ran in the opposite direction, into the trees. He heard shouts, and the sound of someone running after him. Whether it was the figure, one of the officers, or both, he dared not look back or slow down.

The terrain abruptly shifted downward. He skidded, tripped, and stumbled forward. He was falling; tumbling downward while his world spun into chaos, and then blackness...

Faraway, he heard someone calling out his name. The person called again. He opened his mouth to answer back, but the words were lost in a moan. The voice called out his name twice more, but it was fading.

He opened his eyes, but he could not see. His heart leapt into his throat. Was he blind? Against the blackness, he could see the thin outline of his gloved hand. He was not blind. It was only that the night was pitch black now.

His head throbbed. His muscles were agonizingly stiff, made worse by the miserable, unrelenting cold he now despised.

All he could think about was that he might die out here. Lost and alone; missed by no-one. They'd find his frozen corpse the next day, half-buried in the snow. Maybe he should lie back down, and give in to the darkness. A part of him longed for everything to be over. A part of him had always longed for it.

Or his pursuer might catch up to him before he could freeze. They could be only a few feet apart, and Neville would never know until it was too late. Fear shot through him and his thoughts of suicide were gone. He had to make it through this. He had to live. Against all the pains in his body, he rose to his feet.

He rubbed his sore head. The last thing he remembered was losing control of his legs and plummeting down the side of the mountain, around and around. He must've hit his head and passed out. He could be miles away now from where he'd started. He walked around blindly, slowly, using his outstretched hands to feel for what unseen branches or other objects might be in his way. After a few minutes, he got a feeling of the elevation. If he could climb the hill in the blinding dark, he might be able to bring himself closer to where he'd been before. It was his best chance at finding one of the officers.

No. Climbing the hill in such blinding darkness would be foolhardy at best. He could see so little, he should stay where the ground was relatively flat.

He listened, but he could no longer hear his name being called. He looked and listened in every direction. Nothing. He had no idea of where he was or where to go, so he picked a direction and went with it. He moved slowly. The figure could be anywhere. Even right behind him. But if so, it couldn't be helped. His only chance was to keep moving.

He found a spot where the slope evened out, away from the trees. He was back on the road. He felt a tad more confident now. With the momentary reprieve from the trees, he could even see further ahead, and the blinding darkness was no longer so blinding. He tried to call out, but his vocal chords seemed to have long given up on him.

The road followed on the same elevation in both directions for a distance, then sloped. If he followed the road upward, it might lead him closer to where the house and barn were. It could be his best chance at getting closer to the officers, but even that couldn't be said with much certainty. They could be anywhere now. And so could the figure out there, watching him...

His best chance was to go the opposite direction, down the mountain in the direction of Clovertown. He could find the police station and hole up there, hopefully reuniting with Antonio and the other officers. Assuming nothing bad had happened to them...

He soldiered on down the path. Clovertown was still invisible behind the immense stretch of trees. Further down, and the trees opened out into a clearing to the left. Strangely curious, he stopped to take a look. A drab barn rested at the end of the clearing, as deserted-looking as the house before it. The barn might've held animals at one time, but Neville guessed they were long gone now. It was as if all life on the mountainside had been sucked dry. Everything here in the twilight haze looked dull, repellent, and dead.

At that moment, he knew. Before he looked, he knew. He turned his head, and the figure was there in the trees, opposite the clearing. For a moment, everything seemed to fall into slow motion. Just him and the figure was all there was. The figure came towards him. His adrenaline kicked in once more, and then he was running.

He sped across the clearing to the barn, his panicked mind able only to see the barn and process it as shelter. The barn came up to meet him and he sped through the doorway. He wheeled around and used all the strength in his arms to push the doors shut, and he threw the wooden latch down to seal them shut. He turned around and pressed his back to the doors. His panting was the only noise/sound in the world.

More waiting followed. It seemed like it was all his life had become now. He waited for the figure to come banging or pushing on the frail doors behind him. He waited for something, anything to happen.

Was he dreaming? Hallucinating? Was all this taking place inside his mind? They were questions he might never have the answers to. Questions he didn't want the answers to.

The barn was dark, all save for the skylight at the far end. The moon had come out from behind a cloud, casting a lone ray of light down into the desolate structure. It shone like a beacon amidst the gloom on all sides around it.

He turned his gaze, and the figure was there, standing still and silent in the shadows. Neville could not see the eyes, but knew he was being watched all the same. He screamed again, but the figure did not move. He ran backwards until he slammed against the wall and fell down. Only then did the figure move forward. He tried to will his body back up, to keep running, but he couldn't. It was over. All the days of constant running and his injuries had finally caught up with him.

"STAY AWAY FROM ME!" He finally found his voice, and expended his final piece of energy right there with it. He wheezed, and could do nothing more save to wait for his impending demise. The figure did not relent. It came to him, closer, closer. He pressed himself against the wall, unable to look away.

It came to him, stepped into the moonlight, and stood above him. At last he could see her. It was Clara, his wife. The gold necklace rested around her neck. He spoke her name, fearfully, but she shushed him.

"It's okay," she whispered, and all at once he believed her, all the pain and fear gone. She reached a hand toward his face, to catch the tear that dropped from his face. "It's okay. I'm here now." Everything about her soothed him. But it was her eyes that truly caught him. He looked into her eyes. Her soft, gentle eyes.

The most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Antonio knocked on the house door. He had no idea why. Not only had he confirmed that the former residents of the house no longer dwelled here, but he'd even entered the house and searched through it many times in his search for clues. It was an instinctive reaction to knock when he came to the front door of someone else's house, he supposed.

It was the sixth day he'd been out searching now. Each day had become more hopeless and uneventful than the last, and no progress had been made between the day the officers had started to now. With zero leads, Antonio didn't know how much longer he'd be able to motive the others to keep looking for Neville. He didn't know how much longer he'd be able to motive himself.

The first person they'd gone to, of course, was Thomas. He'd denied any knowledge or involvement in the events of a few days ago. He seemed legitimately surprised to hear what had happened, and was especially upset to learn of his father disappearing without a trace. Inexplicably, Thomas' fleece jacket had been found, returned to the closet in his house. Despite it, Antonio concluded that Thomas was guilty of nothing, and reassured the young man they'd let him know when they turned up with anything. If they turned up with anything, but Antonio chose not to word it like that.

Well, here he was now, alone, on the mountainside at the same place in front of the same house where it had all happened. You wouldn't recognize it was the same place, though. It looked completely different in the daytime, to the point that Antonio was even wondering if it was the same place and same house. But he'd followed the footprints from Neville's cabin all the way down here; multiple times. Provided his senses weren't playing tricks on him, and that the path of footprints hadn't changed, it was indeed the same place.

He shivered and wrapped his arms around his chest. Focus, Antonio. You have a job to do. Well he was focusing now, but he'd long exhausted anything new he could think of to try, and was left to rehash and repeat the same tired actions. He kept following Neville's footprints, walking back and forth and creating more and more footprints of his own. He felt like he was disturbing a crime scene, but he was failing to think of what else to do other than wander around and hope something came to him.

He followed Neville's footprints away from the house and into the dense trees. The footprints led up to a sudden downward slope, and stopped, presumably marking the spot where Neville had lost balance and slipped down the slope. Antonio carefully manoeuvred down the slope, following his own recently-carved set of footprints. He had discovered Neville's footprints again at the bottom of the slope where the elderly man must've gotten back up and kept walking. Antonio followed Neville's trail further down the mountainside, until it veered off into a clearing next to the road. The trail took him further on to an ugly barn with its paint half-peeled off the walls.

And that was where the footprints ended. It was easy to guess that Neville had gone inside, but whatever had happened next was an enigma. Antonio stepped inside the barn for the umpteenth time, dashed of the hope that he'd notice something he hadn't before.

Only this time, he did notice something he hadn't before. He saw a flash of gold, half-buried in the hay. He hurried to dig it up. It was a necklace. The idea came to him that this might be the golden necklace Neville had talked on about. Yes, yes, it had to be.

He studied it. While he had no affinity for jewelry, even he could readily admit it was a lovely piece—diamonds clustered thickly on the gold.

He gripped it until his fingers hurt. What felt like it should be an invaluable clue only frustrated and discouraged him further. He was more confused than ever.

He felt guilty about leaving so soon, but he'd had enough for one day. In spite of his resolve breaking down ever further, he firmly told himself to try again tomorrow, not quite ready to give up yet.

But the next day, as well as the day after, would prove fruitless, and Neville was never heard from again.

Christmas, 2067 by Michelle Browne

When the water collection system broke, it was just cold enough inside that it snowed.

By that time, she'd been wearing the enviro suit so long it was a second skin. There was still plenty of oxygen in her suit, but as little pellets of ice and flecks of snow rained down and pattered against her, she knew the end was coming.

She glanced at her datapad. Right now, it was just flashing up the time. Christmas in a couple of hours. Smiling through cracked lips, she wondered what her family was doing. Lightyears away from her, safe and watching the news, they probably were staring up at the sky, wondering about her. Probably.

She scooted over to a window, holding onto the bars and looking around. The pod was stuck—just barely in orbit. There was probably enough air and water to last her until the ship got here, but the planetoid below her was pretty dead. It would have been so much easier if help was coming from there...

She shook her head. No sense thinking about it. Woulda, shoulda, coulda; this was why hazard pay existed. Her sister had done enough bitching, but there was no unsigning her mining contract. Part of the job, the chance of being marooned like this. She floated along, tried to find the patch kit for the tube.

A roll of red and white hazard tape—it would have to do. The datapad said it was about minus thirty centigrade, with predictions of a temperature drop. Taking a thin white towel and patting away the ice and snow from the area, she fumbled to press the tape over the pipe.

A sudden memory of the smell of real Terran pine trees occurred to her as she looked at the candy-stripe tape. The instagrow tree, a crappy little thing, had been replaced with a real one, just for that year. The family had gotten lucky, had won a real tree in the lottery. Chopping them down was fineable and illegal by then, and they couldn't afford anything other than the instagrows. Only the rich could have real trees. But that one year, they'd gotten lucky. They'd decked it in LED lights, every antique ornament in the house, bits of contraband plastic and tinsel...it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

Shuddering in the cold, she noticed that her breath was fogging inside the suit. Concerned, she tapped the pad. It was getting colder outside, and the moisture collectors inside her suit were acting up again. Good timing.

She sat down on the nook next to a porthole. She couldn't really see anything except the blackness, but the inevitable cold sparkling stars out there. Hopefully, her rescuers would be on the way. Her datapad hadn't lit up, though, which meant there'd been no signal from the main terminal. Help had to come soon, she told herself. The automated distress signal would have gone out. It would still be going out.

The alert light next to the door was red. She smiled, thinking of carols and the lights that would be on the tree. Bioplast poinsettas were always her favorite; she'd play with them until her mother told her to stop, until they fell apart.

She ignored the bodies at the other end of the capsule, behind the wall. Just sleeping, she told herself, avoiding it. Funny, but Xiao had been trying to drag her out for a dinner a couple weeks ago on the station. That was before the scramble for the pods, though. Now he floated, frozen, only metres away.

She'd lost count of the hours. Tapping her fingers on the wall, sleeping, checking on vitals, she could at least count on plenty of emergency rations. Well—could. That tear in the other end of the pod had put a cramp in things.

She forced her mind away from it and thought about snow. A tiny icicle hung above her. She tried to remember real snow, but it had been a long time since she'd shelled out for a day trip to one of the indoor skiing tracks. The kids playing and making snowmen and forts below the slopes squealed distantly as she'd rocketed downwards. Bailing, she'd pulled her mask off, laughing, to kiss—was that Marco? Yes, probably. Had been a long time ago. And a long time since she'd had a rich boyfriend.

Adrenalin coursed through her. She glanced down at the datapad. The oxygen in her suit was—no, was that a three? Really? It wasn't an eight after all, then. Less time than she'd thought. A lot less. Was the pad malfunctioning? The suit? She couldn't feel a leak.

Panic surged through her. The euth tabs were in the health kits, as per standard requirements. She bit her lip and thought about snow, staring out the window of the pod. Any minute now, she told herself, she'd hear someone tapping on the wall. No more brackish moisture collection or carefully draining water from the pod's coolant and fuel system. No more boredom. No more nutrient pellets. She was surprised by what she had gotten used to.

A nap, she told herself. Christmas would be over soon anyway; the day had gotten away from her. And if all went well, she'd wake up to red and green lights, a concerned face leaning over hers. If all the union regulations had been followed, and the signal had been beeping out all this time. It was hard to think. She glanced up at the ice patch and settled back, closing her eyes. As she fell asleep, she thought about snow.

About the Contributors

Michelle Browne

Michelle is a published science fiction author with a love for talking about the end of the world, silver jewellery, nightmares, and chocolate. She's also a "fountain of esoterica" (to quote my 10th grade English teacher) who is fluent in Shakespeare, cussing, and activism. She is also a full-time editor. She came from a smallish town in Southern Alberta and now lives in Calgary with her partner. When not saving the world from hipsters or riding their bear cavalry to work, they can be found on the internet or with friends. Phuquerie happens frequently and often.

Published works include And the Stars Will Sing and The Stolen: Two Short Stories, in the Meaning Wars series, The Loved, The Lost, The Dreaming, a horror anthology of her own work, and The Underlighters, a solo edition of the novel from the anthology.

Blog: www.scifimagpie.blogspot.ca

Amazon link: amazon.com/author/scifimagpie

L. K. Hatchett

"The Return of the Living Dead" scared the pants off of L.K. Hatchett as a child. Scary movies were not her thing for a long time. Then she became an Archaeologist. After excavating two cemeteries, zombies were no longer terrifying. The stuff of nightmares became the stuff of interest.

Also into anything weird and odd, L.K. Hatchett was drawn to B movies, specifically Sci Fi, monsters, and horror. Finding humor in these movies, she began writing her own offbeat imaginings. The absurdity of scary B movies became especially hilarious, and when Michelle Browne had a submission call for insane Christmast stories, her imagination went wild.

L.K. Hatchett writes offbeat gonzo tales that include dung beetles, sharks, vampires, aliens, rabid reindeer, and, yes, zombies. "The Return of the Living Dead" is now one of her favorite movies.

Published works by L.K. Hatchett include "My Past Life as a Dung Beetle" and "End Town." She is currently working on "A Zombie, An Alien, and A Vampire Walk Into A Bar" and "Attack of the Abominable Alien Gopher People."

Blog: http://lkhatchett.blogspot.com/

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00HGW4QVY

James J. Murray

James J. has experience in both drug manufacturing and clinical patient management, and in the world of pharmaceuticals and patient care. Being a pharmacist with an advanced clinical degree, a home infusion pharmacy certification and expertise in intravenous therapy, I established of a string of successful infusion pharmacies that eventually became part of a large national pharmacy provider organization.

His first novel will be published soon, but he currently runs a blog about murder and pharmacology, and keeps busy with traveling, long distance running, snow skiing, and ballroom dancing.

Blog: http://jamesjmurray.wordpress.com

Ian Rideout

Ian is an avid fiction writer who hopes to make it big someday. He has many stories on the go right now, ranging from various short story projects, to his first full-length novel he hopes to release later this year. Aside from writing, he also enjoys books, movies, video games, going for walks, and occasionally he likes to draw too.

He can be contacted at ianrideout@gmail.com, or his blog at ianrideout.blogspot.com. He is happy to chat, and welcomes any feedback.

Blog: http://ianrideout.blogspot.com

Tina Traverse

Tina Traverse fell in love with writing at the age of eight when she wrote her version of the bible story, The Good Samaritan, for a homework assignment. This love grew into a passionate affair and has been ongoing for thirty years; and there are no signs of it waning. Though, she admits, when she was pregnant with her son Christian, the affair cooled. Tina's desire to write came calling once again when she needed to find a way to cope with heartbreaking news. Christian was diagnosed with autism in 2010. Her method of coping was to write a story about his journey called Forever, Christian. Tina likes to joke that a girl can only write about real life for so long without jumping back into the world of make believe. She loves to venture into the world of the supernatural; vampires and witches are her favourite! Tina enjoys all sorts of vampires but admits that she is fascinated with the modern romantic vampire (think Twilight and The Vampire Diaries. She will never give out her address in fear of a mob coming to lynch her). She is currently working on a vampire series based on her first published book, Destiny of The Vampire and has other projects in the works. When Tina is not at the computer creating her exciting, magical worlds, she is kept on her toes by her two sons, Christian and Brandon. Sometimes the author manages to curl up in her favourite chair with a good book.

Website: http://writersonthewharf.wordpress.com/
