 
#  Ghostly Writes 2016

#  Presented by

#  Plaisted Publishing House Ltd

#

#

#

#

#  By

# Indie Authors Worldwide

Plaisted Publishing House Ltd

New Zealand
Copyright 2016 Plaisted Publishing House

All Rights Reserved

Each and every author included in this book has personal copyright of their short story. In no way are these stories to be copied at any stage without their written consent.

The short stories are from Authors worldwide, please note that there will be different English spelling and Grammar throughout this Anthology – British, American, Australian & Canadian

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Acknowledgements

Book Cover

Karen Hansen

Claudia Plaisted

www.ceejay-designs.weebly.com

Editing

Elizabeth Horton Newton

Amanda Ghattas

Jessica Wren

Teasers & Videos

Ashley Uzzell

Adam Mitchell

Jennifer Deese

Elizabeth Horton Newton

Claire Plaisted

Jennifer Roche

Michael J Elliott

Claudia Plaisted

Contents

Demonic Revelry – A Poem

A Dying Scream - J G Clay

Cabins - J B Taylor

Caedes - Adam Mitchell

Canvas - Sara Mosier

Chaconne - Neil Newton

Death has a Sound - Rocky Rochford

Embers of Webber Street - Karen J Mossman

Eternally Connected – JLC Roche

Ghost in the Machine - Eve Merrick-Williams

Ghost of a Chance - Wendy Steele

Haunted House Arrest - Jennifer Deese

Hello Dear - Stewart Bint

Luella - Kyrena Lynch

Mother Called Today - Mike Elliott

Natatorium-Adele Marie Park

Play Time – Amy Budd

Ruby Kisses - Jessica Wren

Sitting on a Cloud \- C A Keith

Soul Man – Claire Plaisted

Spools of Thread - Ashley Uzzell

The Beneficiaries of Secret Cottage - Jane Risdon

The Curse of Havencrest – Cayleigh Stickler

The Ghost of Rose Cottage - Marjorie Hembroff

The House on the Hill – Jim Adams

The Layovers – Ricky Allen Jr

The Lost Soul – Audrina Lane

The Thin Place - Elizabeth H Newton

Return to Light – A Poem

Author Links
Demonic Revelry

Behold the Autumnal shades with fright

as spirits whisper 'Save us.'

The moon shines bright on this All Hallow's Night

and demons dance while the humans sin in revelry.

Ghosts of monsters, nightmares past

and grinning the devil bows;

it is his night to dance in moonlight as the unwary lose their souls.

By Kyrena Lynch

Copyright - September 2016

A Dying Scream That Makes No Sound...

# J G Clay

Red was his name.

He required no other. His birth name, along with the last vestiges of his former, would soon be consigned to a crypt of the past, sealed away forever more. He felt no sense of loss, of mourning. The life previous would not be missed. The 'real' world was a sham, a construct glued together by Miley Cyrus, reality television and badly brewed lager. The Order of the Nine promised an existence more tangible, more meaningful than the cycle of birth, marriage, mortgage and mortality.

If he survived the night, that was. Pushing away the worm of doubt, he stretched his long limbs as best as he could within the warm confines of the Jaguar.

"Ready?"

Driver sounded concerned. The large African American rarely displayed emotion in front of Prospects, Reapers and Psychopomps alike. He drove, as his name suggested. Whether the bullet headed behemoth performed other roles within the Order was unknown. If he did, Red would find out sooner or later. "You done well from what I've been hearin'." His Southern drawl elongated his speech, 'I've' becoming 'aah've'. Red smiled briefly, the solemnity of the occasion forgotten for a brief moment.

"It's time, my boy."

Red nodded. Words were unnecessary. A Reaper was sparing in thought, in action. That lesson had been drummed into him, into all of those who had studied the Way with him.

"Goodbye, Red. Hope to see you on the other side."

Wordless, his face impassive, Red opened the door and stepped into the cool night.

He did not look back. There was no point. The Trial began.

Ghosts were real.

Their existence was debated, ignored, mocked even. But they existed, in the periphery of vision, at the edge of nightmare, in the cold harsh light of insanity. The Normal – the everyday people – denied the dead vociferously for one reason only. They did not want to see the end. They wanted the cold comfort of the church, the mosque, the temple. They needed the litany of stories, regaling them with tales of milk, honey, virgins and wine. They looked away from the shadows left by the passing of their fellows. The man on the street did not want to be confronted by the harsh brutal reality of the end.

Red had known otherwise. The towering figure, clothed in the robes of a holy man had revealed the truth to him so long ago. The twins – the monk's cohorts, tied to him by bonds of pain of suffering – had befriended him, not out of pity or camaraderie, but out of a need to placate the demonic presence. The suffering he had known in those short months had marked him, not physically but psychically. Monarch's stain became a beacon, drawing the dead, the demonic, the other-worldly to him. He had tried to function, to ignore the distorted figures, the hunched shapes in the corners of darkened rooms, beseeching him, mocking him, cursing him.

Eventually, the strain had become too much. Even drugs and alcohol had not been enough to silence the incorporeal monsters dogging his every moment, waking or otherwise. A failed suicide attempt had brought the correct attention to him. 'The Order of The Nine,' recognising his unique gifts, took him into their fold, nurturing him, strengthening his knowledge, his soul, his gift. But for a price.

Tonight, the price would be paid one way or another.

Spying the gothic bulky shape of his destination, he squared his shoulders.

The Old Red House beckoned to him.

They should not have been there, not in this time or place. Red slowed his pace to a saunter, weighing up the opposition. At this distance, it was difficult to tell if they were alive or dead. Alive would not be a problem. He was trained in the art of the fight. From the size and the shape of them, the battle would be brief. Dead, however would be another problem altogether. Gifted though he was, the art of defence against psychic attack was taxing on mind and spirit. An ill-conceived show of power could deplete his reserves, not by much but enough should he require use of every trick he knew.

There was only one thing for it. Changing his stance, his walk became flat footed, the soles of his shoes hitting the ground with a wet slapping sound. The boys reacted, jumping from the park bench as one and fanning across the path. Red smiled, relieved. They were living. They displayed none of the classics signs outlined in Tobin's Spirit Guide. Lumpen though they were, the youths still moved with the litheness and grace of the living. The dead – recent or otherwise – were stiff, awkward, ungainly, as if death robbed them of the ability to move as a normal being would. Hands in pockets, hoods up, they waited, dancing on the balls of their feet.

Suspending all thought, Red charged forward, lunging for the tallest one. His fist connected with the boy's blunt chin, the meaty sound of flesh on flesh deafening in the still night. The boy crumpled, his legs boneless. Red spun, lifting his right leg as the smaller one of the trio weighed in. He yelped as the bridge of Red's foot cut him down, smashing into the side of his hooded head. Red spun, grace and poise in the motion. The remaining youth held his hands up.

"Don't want no trouble, mate. Honest."

Breathing heavily, Red glared at him, seeking any sign of attack. The boy seemed earnest enough, his hands still held up, his face a picture of contrition.

"Bit of advice," said Red. "Go home. This is no place for kids."

The boy nodded enthusiastically, his companions adding their pained groans to the discussion.

Satisfied that his point had been made, Red left the trio and the path, cutting across the path towards the solitary edifice at the far left of the park.

The boy watched the dark swallow the strange bald man, crossing himself for reasons he never fathomed out.

The shadow had no face.

Red had been aware of its presence since he had squeezed through the gap in the wire mesh fence. Wary, he pushed through the overgrown grass and weeds, eventually coming to a clearing. The remains of a rusted climbing frame tilted to one side, its weight bearing down into the soggy earth.

The shadow leant against it. Startled by his sudden approach, the figure flinched back, its unanchored tongue flopping from side to side as the figure danced from one foot to another clearly agitated. Its wounds were fresh, still glistening under its own luminescence and that of the moon. Blood coated its quilted coat, congealing to a crimson and black paste in places. One eye stared out from the morass of chewed flesh, unblinking. Without features, it was hard to gauge the thing's mood. Red held his right hand up, the Omniversally recognised sign of peace.

"Pax, Departed. I mean you no harm."

The faceless one considered his greeting before stiffly returning it. Red sensed no threat from this being, despite its appearance.

"What brings you here, Departed?"

The faceless one whispered to him, the voice strained and full of agony. His speech was intelligible. The dead did not require a full jaw or even a voicebox. Such obstacles were surmounted with ease.

"Refuge, Reaper. We are hunted and there are too few of your kind to ease our passing."

Red nodded, sympathetic to the plight of this wraith. Not all ghosts were angry, vengeful beings. Some were merely lost, frightened or confused. It was part of the Reaper's mission to guide these lonely souls to a better Realm or even a safe haven on Earth. The Reapers however were dying. The nature of their occupation was dangerous enough. Some whispered of a hunt, a slaughter by enemies unknown. Human souls were valuable in some Realms, prized for their energy, their entertainment and other less savoury practices.

"I may be able to offer you the refuge you seek, Departed." If I pass the Trial. Red left that part unspoken. This wraith oozed desperation and fear. He had no wish to shatter its illusions. "Wait here. I'll call for you shortly when my work is complete."

The maimed wraith nodded, his anchorless tongue flapping.

"Good luck, Reaper," it whispered.

A lingering whisper of chip fat, grease and ready-made curry paste coated the air of the kitchen as Red silently pushed his way in through the broken door. Expertly weaving his way through the debris of abandonment, he paused by a work surface, closing his eyes and muttering in a long forgotten tongue. Power surged through him, a deep primal energy surging from the earth beneath him. He gasped at the intensity, the thrill as it powered through his veins, warming cells and flesh in its wake. In his minds eyes, he traced the hard white light, wreathed in a golden aura, diverting and directing it to where it was needed. His eyes tingled as the magicks bathed his optic nerves, reconfiguring the delicate twists of fibre and neuron.

Cease!

Abruptly, the surge faded, draining away. Red opened his eyes, smiling. The night no longer existed. He saw his surroundings clearly, bathed in a golden glow similar to a summer's day. It had worked. Sister Cano would be proud. Her patience had paid off. Looking around in wonder, he spied a book on the worktop, curled at the edges from damp. Curious, he picked up, his wan smile growing at the cover and the memories it invoked. A face, grimacing and evil, leered out at him from a wooden background

The Manitou. Not read that in years.

A memory blind-sided him, his mood evaporating.

A face pushing its way through the wood of the closet door, its mouth open, screaming obscenities at him...

The sharp smack of the book hitting the ground brought Red out of the recollection. Impulsively, he kicked it into a corner. Breath slobbered from him, his eyes wide as the remembered terror shocked his system, squirting adrenaline into his blood. He reached for the cold centre of calm within, willing his heart to slow. It was only a memory, a half remembered dream. Soon it would be confronted and destroyed. Red leant forward, gripping the edge of the worktop for support, closing his eyes and focusing. Something brushed his hand. His eyes snapped open in an instant. A photograph lay on the top of his right hand, having fallen there. Or had it been placed? His heart resumed its gallop as the detail of the photo became clearer.

A young boy favoured him with a gappy smile, one of his front teeth missing.

I lost that the day Kyra... or was it Myra? Does it matter which one?

With a trembling hand, Red grabbed the picture. He screamed, blisters forming on the pads of his fingers. The photo was white hot to the touch. Gripping his injured hand, Red watched, dumbstruck as the picture changed. The boy's face began to stretch like warmed tallow, his skull elongating. His eyes rolled over white, the corners filling with red, a deep venous red that spilled down the bridge of nose. The smile became a grimace, filled with agony and venom.

A booming laugh shook the floor beneath him.

Red froze in terror.

His gut tightening, becoming taut. His testicles shrivelled, ascending up into his torso, the hair all over his body standing to attention. Red's teeth chattered and his eyes widened as the laughter began to seep through the floor and the walls, surrounding him.

The photo bucked and twitched as if it were trying to hold his attention. The younger version of himself within reached out, coated in a thin layer of blood, empty ragged eye sockets twitching and fluttering before imploding in on himself, sucked into nothingness with a thin cracking of bone.

Words formed on the now blank picture; fiery, red and familiar.

A DYING SCREAM THAT MAKES NO SOUND...

Consigns the dying to an eternity of wandering. A Law. One of the first ones learnt. Reapers were taught to be taciturn and reserved in all aspects of life save one. At the moment of death, the Reaper was instructed to scream as loudly as possible. A good scream dislodged the soul – _the animus, the atma_ – severing all times with this plane of existence. The Wandering and the Lost were often souls who had died silently.

The photo curled and shrivelled, disintegrating into a pile of blue ash and scattering before an unseen breeze. Swallowing, Red turned away, his blood pounding through a head that felt too large for his shoulders. He walked through an open doorway, not daring to look back for fear of what he would see.

Something sighed contentedly, enjoying the game. There was more to come.

Red's leaned back against a crumbling wall, waiting for his heart to slow and his legs to stop trembling. He resisted the urge to use a magick. Bodily reactions were things to be conquered from within.

" _Besides, I'm gonna need all the magick I have judging by that gutless performance back there."_

Frustrated and disgusted, he swung a clenched fist backwards, smacking the wall behind. A shower of plaster and wallpaper tumbled to the floor. Another avalanche of plaster tumbled to the dirty tiled floor as he back-punched the wall once more, relishing the pain as a shard pierced the meat of his fist. The pain focused him, forcing him back into the moment.

Red straightened, brushing his hands clean.

Whispers came at him from the dark, jumbled and nonsensical. He ignored them, recognising the tactic for what it was; a way of interfering with concentration and also to unnerve the living. It had worked on him once when he had been a raw recruit.

The entities at Woodfield Manor had exploited this rawness. Had it not been for Black, Red would have lost his mind, possibly his life. Experience had hardened him against the tricks of the dead. From Stull Cemetery to the ruins of Bhanagarh, he had observed, practised against and fought entities of varying power. There was not much that could take him unawares.

Except the Monarch of The Old Red House.

Red jumped.

Pulling himself away from the wall, he spun into the centre of the rubble strewn corridor, his enhanced vision sweeping around for signs of the whisperer. A child's giggle emanated from nearby, joined by another, then another. Red looked around, spinning around in a circle. The tittering became a chorus, innocent high pitched voices singing simple rhymes:-

I see you

Do you see me?

Monarch will make you history

He'll squeeze your heart until it bursts

With your blood, he'll quench his thirst.

Red froze.

Rhymes.

Rhymes were a portent and protection, so Black had once said. Ghosts spoke in rhyme to ward off demons. Something to do with a demon's mind being unable to grasp the syntax and meaning of rhymes. The angelic chorus dissolved into laughter before repeating the rhyme again, this time louder.

I see you

Do you see me?

Monarch will make you history

He'll squeeze your heart until it bursts

With your blood, he'll quench his thirst.

Red leapt backwards, danger jabbing at his senses. A huge chunk of masonry crashed down where he had stood, coating him in a choking mist. The dust stung his eyes and his nose. He coughed violently, his chest hitching as his lungs struggled to cope. Over the sound of his own wracked breathing, the children sang once more, more spiteful.

Monarch is great

You are dull

We'll all dance around your skull

Your flesh will rot, your flesh will smell

Monarch will send you straight to Hell.

Red stumbled forward, blinded from the dust but guided by an internal compass rusted from years of disuse. Behind him, disembodied voices screamed obscenities, curses and threats. He staggered on, ignoring the bullying choir, hoping that he was headed in the right direction.

A loud thump shook the building, stopping Red in his tracks. The voices stopped abruptly for a moment. The momentary silence terrified the half-blind Red more than anything. He could not see. Anything could be out there, stalking him silently. He was in no position to defend himself at the moment. Stretching his hearing to its limits, he listened for creaking floorboards, a swish of fabric, a stealthy tread.

Nothing.

Not even the scratching of a rodent.

Red focused harder.

A howl, a hurricane of screaming voices blasted him from behind. He clapped his hands to his ears, trying to muffle the soundtrack of suffering. His own flesh was no barrier. The screaming penetrated through the thickness of his palms, smashing through his eardrums and into his brain. He felt his own mouth open, a roar loosening from his throat, threatening to tear his vocal chords. The scream became a word, drawn out and tortured.

"Stooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooop!"

Abruptly, the bawling ceased once more.

Another chuckle boomed from above him.

Monarch had won another round.

Shakily, his eyes red, his ears ringing, Red staggered forward into another room.

"Ah, my dear boy, how are you?"

He had been washing his eyes out with a bottle of tonic water. The bottle flew from his hands, shattering against the cold stone floor. Quickly, Red rubbed the flat tonic water and greasy dust from his eyes before turning around. He frowned.

This is a new one.

The lounge had been well appointed once, when the pub had been at its pomp. Time had robbed the leather bench seats of their shine and supple finish. A chandelier lay in pieces across a half shattered table, surrounded by smashed chairs and tables. Scraps of cloth, shards of glass and newspaper littered the floor. Red stepped away from the bar, the crunch of bone underfoot ignored. The skeleton was too small and fragile to be human. Rodent or pet, he surmised. It was unimportant. The glowing man before him held far more interest than the mouldering remains of a small animal.

The man smiled, his immaculate moustache twitching. The smile did not reach his eyes. They were as hard as flint, devoid of any real warmth. His gaunt face – long and sharp featured – radiated a mixture of superiority and contempt. Dressed in Edwardian evening wear, black bow tie hanging limply from his throat, the man presented an incongruous figure against the brass and wood finish of the lounge. He would have been more at home in an officer's club, sipping a peg of whiskey. The cruel smile widened.

" _My thoughts must be wide open. This one's long time dead."_

The man smoothed down his black jacket, propping his luminous arms on the table. Red noted that his elbows did not pass through the table. There was some solidity to this wraith. Interesting.

"I am, as are you, old chap." His tone was clipped and as cold as his eyes and the blue aura that wreathed him.

"What?"

The man clucked his teeth.in annoyance. "Interesting, dear boy, interesting. That's always the problem with you babus. Listening skills. Or lack of them, should I say?"

The heat of anger warmed Red's cheeks. Fighting to keep his tone civil, he replied.

"Why are you here? I don't remember-."

"Remember me? No, you wouldn't. I made this place my refuge long after your father sold. Haunting old officers club is not as amusing as it once was. Particularly half demolished ones. A shame, really. I do miss Poona." The Edwardian laughed. "I miss my England too. What has my dear motherland become, eh?"

Red fought the retort on his lips. Arguing with a relic of the past would not help. Information was information, even if it did come from a racist ghost.

"How have you avoided the other Realms?"

The Edwardian scoffed. "Avoid? Hardly, babu. One can go where one pleases. A handful of us have recognised this obscure fact. Used it to our advantage. Even in death, there is superiority. Besides, the other Realms do not possess...they do not possess the piquancy, the flavour, of our Universe. There's much more fun to be had here."

The Edwardian favoured Red with another cruel grin. Red eyed the ghost warily, aware that this one could touch after a fashion. If he could touch, he could harm. He began to prepare himself, distracting the Edwardian by talking to him.

"What about Hell?"

The Edwardian raised a pencil thin eyebrow, scoffing. "Limited appeal and little hope of escape. I have had word that there's unrest brewing in the Abode of the Damned however. That could entice me. I enjoyed putting down the natives when they became restless. Certainly in India."

Red flinched, aware that the barb was aimed at him. The Edwardian was trying to anger him, throw him off balance by attacking his heritage.

"Those were the days. I could snap my fingers and make blood rain from the heavens."

Growing tired of the conversation, Red backed away. The Edwardian's face became stony. "Where do you think you're going, babu? I did not give you permission to leave."

"You're not important. I have business here. I've wasted enough time with you."

"No one leaves here without my permission. And without some sort of recompense." He waggled an eyebrow suggestively. "You are a bit older than normal. But you'll do. In any case, a scream is a scream whether the throat is old or young. I'm going to have you then kill you."

Red fixed the Edwardian with a glare. His anger now at boiling point, he pointed at the flickering wraith.

"You won't kill me. And you certainly won't rape me either, you limp dicked excuse for a prick. I'm out of here. I suggest you leave too. If I find you here on my way out, there won't be a God or Demon who'll save you."

The Edwardian leapt from his chair, roaring his displeasure. As he stood, he gripped the edge of the heavy table, picking it up as if it were made of feathers. Red remained motionless, his body tense. Hefting the table over his head, the Edwardian hurled it at the younger man. Red raised his right hand, palm facing outwards. The table veered sharply to the left, crashing into the wall, gouging a trail along it before coming to rest on the floor. Shocked, the Edwardian clicked his fingers. A gurgling from above made Red look up. The ceiling ebbed and flow, a tidal wave of motion.

It was not water. The fluid moved too sluggishly. The metallic tang gave it away. Reaching deep within, he extracted another magick as blood began to rain from above.

"I told you, Babu. Did I not tell you, you stinking monkey? I make blood rain from the heavens."

Red nodded curtly.

You do, Colonel Blimp. But check out what I can do.

The Edwardian's rant stopped, his mouth still agape, his eyes trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The rain of blood had stopped mid-flow, the fat droplets hovering midway between the ceiling and the floor. Spluttering, the Edwardian glared at a now smiling Red.

"Stop that. Whatever you are doing, stop that right now!"

Red's grin twisted. The fear radiated from the Edwardian. He relished it, enjoying the feelings of helplessness and terror pulsing from the pompous bully.

"I said stop, babu. Don't you niggers understand English?"

The smile vanished. The Edwardian gulped, a gesture that would have been comical in any other circumstance. Fury, cold and clinical, seized Red.

"I've got all this power. Let's use it."

A small voice, rational and pleading begged him not to. There were curbs set on magicks for a reason, lines not to be crossed. Red's anger, at the Edwardian, at the world, at himself, silenced the voice. Reaching into a deep dark corner of himself, he pulled up a secret magick, one that he had learned surreptitiously. Had Sister Cano known of this, she would have killed him there and then.

The Edwardian cowered as Red strode towards him, hands outstretched. Ebony lightning crackled at his fingertips.

"Don't touch me! Please. I beg you."

Sneering at the man's cowardice, Red placed his hands on either side of the Edwardian's incorporeal head. He began to mutter in a language older than the Universe he inhabited. The dark power snaked form his fingertips, tendrils of it forcing its way into the Edwardian through his nose and ears. The wraith's skin began to wrinkle and crack as Red sucked his essence from him, stealing his energy, gorging on it. The Edwardian's cries became feeble, his body twisting on itself as Red sucked him dry.

All of it. I want it all.

Red cackled as the pompous ghost shrivelled into nothingness, his blue glow fading into darkness.

"Who makes blood rain from the sky now, eh?"

" _I do. I was never weak. Just too afraid."_

Insight struck him. The purpose of the Trial was laid bare. Power lay in the hands of those strong enough to use it. The Reapers taught restraint, control and reserve. Laudable qualities, all of them but ultimately useless. Pleased with his new knowledge, Red stretched, cracking his fingers. His nerves sang, his mind crystal clear.

It was time to end Monarch. Once he had finished the task, The Reapers would be next. The Order needed rebuilding.

One task at a time. Multi-tasking was never my thing.

And there they are.

The twins stood at the end of the corridor, still dressed exactly the same as they had been all those years ago; blue dresses with matching white bibs at the chest. Their coppery hair- plaited and pig-tailed - hung limp from the sides of their small heads. Identical in feature and expression, the girls stepped forward in unison.

Red grinned, alert for any tricks, feints and glamours.

The twins –Kyra and Myra – had never displayed any powers during his brief time with them. They had only shown kindness and friendship at a time when he had needed it. The boy in the photograph had been painfully shy, relentlessly bullied and unmercifully mocked. Friendship, even that offered by beings not seen by anyone else, was a mercy, gratefully received and graciously returned by the boy Red had been. The souring of that friendship, made even more painful by the twins delivery of him to Monarch had scarred his psyche far more than any physical beating. Healing this scar was his true trial. Dealing with Monarch was a sideshow.

The girl on the left – Kyra – smiled. She had a tooth missing as did her sister; the same tooth he lacked in the boyhood picture. Unbidden, a memory rose like foul swap gas, bursting open, ejecting its foul content into the tired atmosphere of his mind.

" _It's the mark, Ridwan. Monarch's mark. Once you're marked, you'll be one of us." The boy – Ridwan – eyed the pliers, his bottom lip trembling a little. Kyra smiled, the gap at the front looming large in his thoughts and vision. Myra, the smaller of the two, stroked his arm. He barely felt it. It was more of a light breeze than a physical touch. Yet, the heavy pliers looked as if they were in a solid grip. Ridwan knew better than to ask how Kyra did that. The black look she had given him when he asked whether she could walk through walls had chilled him to the core. He did not want to upset them. The girls were all he had. And the mysterious Monarch. The girls had assured him that he would meet Monarch soon. First, he had to prove his loyalty. The tests had been small, at first, more mischief making than harmful. The stealing of morsels of food and drink, bringing strands of hair, hats and sweatbands, anything that contained sweat, cells, even blood. All of these had been delivered to the twins, who took them away._

Lately, the tests had become larger, more strenuous, more frightening. Monarch now demanded larger offerings, still living. Newts and frogs from the scum-laden ponds eventually gave way to rats, rabbits, even a stray cat. Although, Ridwan never saw the end result, he knew in his heart that the creatures would not come out of the small coal attic door alive. One day, after offering the stray cat, he had pressed his ear to the warm wooden door. In the ten seconds before his father came upon him, dragging him away and swatting him with a large hand, Ridwan had heard the sounds of sucking, gulping and chewing.

The nightmares that followed lasted for weeks.

This sacrifice would be easy.

Nodding his consent wearily, Ridwan pulled his small delicate top lip back, exposing his baby teeth. Myra stifled a giggle beneath her tiny hands as he winced. Even through his tooth, the pliers felt bone cold.

" _It only hurts for a moment", said Kyra before squeezing the pliers and pulling..._

"You were wrong. The pain never stopped."

"Pain is to something to be borne, and to be borne well, my son. Did you learn nothing from your time with me?"

Monarch's voice seeped from the walls. "Maybe if you had taken the correct path, you would have lived well in the dark. Now, you struggle in the blinding light." A wistful almost sad note came into the disembodied voice. The twins adopted similar expressions, their elfin faces altering from glee to deep sadness. Their black eyes remained gleefully malicious. Red stared at the ghostly twins, noticing for the first time that they were not standing on the stained vinyl floor. Kyra and Myra hovered a few inches above it, their bare feet dangling. He would soon fix that. The recollection of his lost tooth fed his anger stoking it. He stopped in front Kyra, his look contemptuous.

"Welcome home, Ridwan." Icy breath, stinking of tombs puffed into his face. He grimaced with disgust.

"I've waited a long time for this."

Kyra's smile wavered becoming a look of uncertainty as she gazed into Red's eyes. He opened himself up to the power within, letting its questing fingers hooked the dead girl's eyes. Kyra screamed as her eyeballs exploded from their sockets, followed by gossamer clouds of energy. Red gasped as his body absorbed the ghost's essence quickly. Within moments, she was gone.

He turned his head to Myra.

"Your turn."

The attic was bare, save a few broken pieces of furniture and some very old looking books stowed in a far corner. Gossamer thin cobwebs laced the solid looking wooden beams holding the edifice up. A single solitary bulb, suspended in the middle of the cavernous space, buzzed as it tried to illuminate the pitch dark

"Time certainly has not been kind to you. To either of us."

The utterance came from the far wall. Red swore, his dry throat convulsing, as he gazed at the genesis of his fears.

Monarch loomed large, impossibly tall. A faint green corona of energy clung to his blocky substantial form, draped in an ebon monk's habit, the hood drawn up. His hands were tucked into opposing sleeves, the pale talon tipped fingers invisible.

"Look at me, boy."

Red shook his head, enjoying the pleading note in his former tormentor voice. Monarch must have sensed the Soul Death – The Mors Animus – of the Edwardian and the twins.

"Look at me. Please, Ridwan."

Red snarled.

"The name's Red. Soon to be Reaper Red."

Monarch chuckled, the sound sad. "You came here to become a Reaper. Instead, you have become something far worse. Your hatred of me has twisted you."

Red sneered looking up at the face that had terrified him for so long.

A bare skull, warped by a terrible heat stared back at him with misshapen oval eye sockets. His teeth, elongated and joined together to form a grill, were yellowed and stained. There had once been malevolence and power in that fleshless countenance. Now the tables had turned.

Monarch was terrified. Red could taste his fear.

"What will you do?"

"What I came to do. To end you. This is my Trial."

Monarch laughed again. "Your Trial? Your Trial was never about me, the twins, the scars we left. Your Trial was about you. The darkness in you."

Red frowned, not understanding. His brief had been clear. Face the past in the place of most fear and conquer it. He had, or at least he was about too? How could he fail?

"You really do not understand? In that case, do what you will, Ridwan. But I warn you. You may be rid of me but you will never know peace. Now matters have become worse for you. I submit myself to your mercy."

As easy as that?

Monarch bent down on one knee.

Red's head began to spin. This was his chance now. So why the doubt? The small voice spoke once more. The dark almost has you. You used forbidden magicks. They're addictive, powerfully so. If you do this, you are lost.

Memories came on the heels of conscience, silencing his conscience once more, perhaps for good.

... _Monarch whispering to him in the dark, eagerly telling him of past atrocities; the hooded figure towering at the edge of the bed, whispering, speaking of murder, of his family and the few friends he had. Screaming into his ear in the depths of sleep. Poking, prodding ambushing him right up to the last day, when he and his parents had packed up and left the Old Red House behind..._

Red screamed, opening himself fully to the darkness.

Monarch did not scream as he died eternally and finally.

Red was free.

The first tentative fingers of dawn uncurled, over the four gothic spires of the Old Red House. Red sighed, fragrant blue smoke billowing from his mouth. The cigarettes were old but still smokable. He had found them whilst rummaging around for any mementos of his childhood there. There was not much; just a packet of Embassy Number 1s and a half empty bottle of Captain's Morgan's rum, stashed away in a small cupboard. They had been his father's favourites. Finding them was not pure luck. In his experience, there was no such things. Only guidance from a world realer than the one he inhabited. Taking a swig from the bottle, he sighed once more, enjoying the heady mix of booze and the dark magick fizzing in his blood

A familiar voice came from behind him.

"You survived the night," Black said, seemingly surprised. "Mother Mara reports success. She detects no presence of Monarch."

And she never detected me? Brilliant. Destroying the Order of the Nine is going to be easy.

A hand – large, brown and strong –gripped his shoulder. Red did not turn. He did not want Black to see his smile or his eyes, once brown but now black marbles. He also wanted to imprint this place on his mind before he burned it to the ground. One day, this would become a place of pilgrimage, a temple to the Red One, vanquisher of the Dead. He smirked once more.

"Come now, Reaper Red. You must be tired. Let's go. There's lots to be done."

Red lit up another cigarette. "I'll make my own way back."

Black murmured appreciatively. "Another lesson learnt. All Reapers, Preachers, Psychopomps; even the Nine Unknown; all make their own journeys back alone. That is the way of the Nine Unknown Men. Long may it remain so. Goodbye, Reaper First Class. I'll be in touch."

The crunch of gravel underfoot was followed by the slamming of a car door and an engine roaring away. Red was alone once more.

Cigarette finished, he dropped the butt to the floor and stashed the bottle in the voluminous folds of his jacket. The police did not take kindly to public drinking, especially in the ambrosial hours of the morning.

Red laughed to himself. He could have killed Black there and then. But there was no point. He needed to cut the man's vocal chords, prevent him from screaming out, ensuring that Black, and the other Reapers would become restless ghosts, a source of energy for him.

He closed his eyes, images of slaughter playing out in his mind.

The dawn unfolded pushing the dark away for a time.

The End
Cabins

J B Taylor

Silvia

Monrovia, Indiana – 1880

Nine-year-old Silvia lived to explore. Come rain or unrelenting heat, she kept at it. Being out and about and witnessing nature thrilled her. Silvia's mother warned her against going too far. She would tell her, 'You'll get lost, my sweet child of Jesus.'

Silvia never listened. She enjoyed the trails too much. The mystery of what she would find if she went a little further excited her. On December 25th, 1880 Silvia did go too far. Her face glistened with sweat as she headed for the tree line. Her blue eyes stared reverentially at a misshapen yet generous fan of frozen water. It was snowing heavily, a sharp wind gusted. Silvia wore two layers of plain winter clothing, and a black hat to cover her ears. The water beyond her was steel grey, the outermost rim black. Three feet of snow blanketed the ground around it. Beyond were a little hill and a lengthy field.

Silvia hadn't known the pond wasn't frozen over. To her it looked welcoming and safe. She stepped towards the pond only to step back, her fathers' words playing in her head: 'If you see a pond in your wanderings, my sweet child of Jesus, don't go walking on it.'

Then like children often do, she ignored her father's warning and stepped onto the pond. Her small frame got her twenty feet before the ice began to crack with many pops and snaps. Before Silvia could comprehend what had happened to her she had fallen through the ice. The immense cold took her breath away. She inhaled sharply, violently, swallowing a great amount of water. Her lungs burned. Her arms and legs flailed for a long while then went still. She sank to the bottom of the pond like a boulder.

### Chapter Two

### History Repeating Itself

Three feet of snow hugged the frozen ground. A misshapen stretch of water was frozen just beyond a little hill. It was the color of cold steel, of cruel grey eyes. In the one hundred and thirty-six years since Silvia's death thirteen cabins had been built. Twelve had burnt down.

On December 25th, 1882 a family of four died shortly after completing the cabin. The mother and father had been driven insane. The father killed the two sons. They were fourteen and sixteen. Both had been stabbed to death as they slept. When this deed was done both mother and father set themselves on fire, taking their own lives and the cabin with them.

On December 25th, 1886 the Knight family died no more than a day after moving into their beautiful cabin. A cabin built where only four years before another had burned down. The family never knew it had happened. In truth they never asked. One day after moving in, Ebenezer Knight, aged sixteen, drowned his mother in the butter she had been churning. He killed his sister, aged nineteen, as she milked the family goats. He smacked her over the head with a rock. His father was killed with the same rock as he worked on the family wagon. Ebenezer Knight then doused himself in kerosene inside the cabin and set himself on fire. They burned together.

Nine cabins came after. Nine cabins burnt down. Nine families were brutally snuffed out by one or more members of the family. The twelfth cabin was built by a Christian family who paid no mind to the stories of slaughtered men, women, and children that had cropped up over the years. They paid no mind to the rumors or stories of a little girl dressed in two layers of plain winter clothing and a black hat who supposedly haunted the land.

The thirteenth cabin was completed on December 25th, 1980 by a family owned construction company known as Mason and Sons and sat unoccupied until Phil and Deborah Johansson could move down from Milwaukee with their daughters Cindy and Becky. Cindy was six and Becky was nine. On April 17th, 1981 the family finally managed to move in. They were never told about the locations history. Never told about the ghosts. Never told about the little girl with a predilection for driving families insane.

In a bizarre change of pace nothing happened right away. In the time Cindy and Becky lived at home there was only one major incident and it wasn't supernatural in nature.

On Thanksgiving shortly after Cindy graduated from Monrovia High School—home of the Badgers!—her sister got drunk and told everyone in the family that she slept with the mail man when she was eighteen. Mom passed out from embarrassment. Dad got angry and threw the butter dish at Becky. It missed and hit the wall, landing on Buster the family dog. Buster—frightened but not hurt by the dish—shot off like a rocket and knocked over Cindy. Cindy fell and struck her head on the table. Blood was everywhere. That night ended with the entire family waiting in the hospital for news about her condition. In the end she would be fine, though she had to take a taxi home as her family had been forced to leave the hospital after their third verbal argument led to Dad throwing a chair down the hall and yelling at the top of his lungs that his daughter was a whore.

It wasn't until two months later that things began to happen. It was the boredom of years and years with nothing to do that kept Silvia from working her wicked ways right away. She wanted to make it great. It took a long time for the cabin to be built and for the family to move in. To just kill them right away would ruin all the fun.

It was midnight when the wickedness began.

Cindy's mother, Dawn, was sitting on the edge of her bed brushing her hair. Rain was pelting off the windows and metal roof in an unending drum solo. Her husband, William, was asleep. The brush had flown from Dawn's hand to clank off the closed closet door and fall with a gentle thud onto the carpet.

William didn't stir. His snores droned on. Dawn watched the brush rise up off the ground. It did a twirl, like a wand being flourished by an overexcited wizard, and began rapping her smartly about the head. Each strike came with a flare of heat and prickling pain. She yelped with each strike. William still slept on. Dawn grabbed the brush and struggled to yank it from the air as if someone was holding it. She stopped abruptly, seemingly struck dumb. Her eyes turned white and she wobbled on her feet. She shuddered from head to toe. Moving like a person possessed, like someone removed from the wheel and replaced with someone else, she ambled across the room, stopping at her bedside next to her husband. Dawn growled like a cornered pit bull. She took the pillow from beneath his head—he didn't wake—and placed it firmly against his face. At first there was only the sound of muffled snores. Then William jerked, his hands were flailing for the pillow, legs kicking. His muffled screams did nothing to stop Dawn.

William was screaming, his cries no longer muffled despite him still being firmly beneath the pillow. His arms and legs were flailing with the fervency and immediacy of panic. The blankets whipped and slid from his legs to curl onto the floor. His pajama pants became soaked with urine. The smell of methane and waste filled the air as he shit his pants.

William went still. As calmly as though she was making a meal or doing laundry, Dawn picked up the blanket and placed it over her husband, stopping at the neck. She removed the pillow from his face and placed it back under his head. White spittle and a bit of vomit smattered his lips. His eyes were bulging in their sockets. They were bloodshot and distant. Walking around the bed, Dawn slid under the covers, rolled over onto her side, and was asleep within seconds. In the doorway Silvia was laughing hysterically.

Dawn woke in the morning and found her husband dead. She didn't remember killing him, but knew that she had done it. She knew because a little voice in her head was talking to her, telling her she had done it. When it wasn't laughing hysterically anyways. So Dawn did the only thing she knew to do. She went to the bathroom where she filled up the tub. She stripped out of her clothes and took a razor from one of her husband's razor. Slipping into the bath she put razor to wrist and slit it. She never reached the second, as was always the case when a person properly slit their wrists. The impact from the loss of blood was too quick and too great.

It would be three days before they would be found.

### Chapter Three

### Cindy

Monrovia, Indiana – December 25th, 2015

Cindy put her Jeep in park and stared at the cabin as though it was a middle finger. Her face was red from the cold, despite the heater being on and the snowsuit and snow boots she wore. Tears swelled in eyes kept safe from winter glare by sunglasses. She slipped her slim fingers beneath the frames and wiped the tears away. A sizeable chunk of snow fell with a thump from the metal roof of the cabin. It echoed in the cold midday air.

Cindy hadn't been to the cabin since that eventful Thanksgiving. She had kept in touch with her parents of course, but never visited. She was too busy growing her career. It was her career and her mother's attitude that kept her from visiting. A career her mother deemed, 'The devils work'. She couldn't take her mother's snide comments, stares of disappointment, and her poor pity me nonsense. Dawn was a prude in Cindy's eyes. Cindy was thankful every day that she was the exact opposite.

Cindy wrote erotica. She didn't do that Harlequin Romance nonsense either. She wrote the real deal. What set her apart from the rest was that she blended explicit sex with spellbinding stories. She wrote sexy who-done-its and sexy sci-fi novels. But Cindy was burnt out. There was only so much sex one person could write. She wanted to try her hand at writing a proper mainstream story. Her royalties were fine. She was a millionaire in truth, though barely. But she was dismissed by mainstream writers as quickly as a bad plot. That made her sad. She was skilled. She knew it, her fans knew it, but no one else cared. Then an idea struck her a couple of weeks ago in the bath: What if a middle-aged and overweight drifter woke up beneath the overpass he often slept under suddenly twenty years younger and in better shape than most professional athletes. What intrigued Cindy most about that plot was, what if the drifter found out he was an experiment and sought out the man, or men, responsible. The blossoming idea gripped her and wouldn't let go.

Now all she needed to do was write it. Which is easier said than done.

What looked like two winters worth of logs was stacked neatly beneath the roof of the car port. Cindy's father, as he did every winter when he got too old to do the work himself, had hired someone from town to do the cutting and stacking. Sighing, Cindy shut off the car and got out. Snow attempted to consume her legs, only to fall short just below her knees. She pocketed the keys and stood looking at the cabin. "Come on Cindy," she said aloud, forcing herself to pull her eyes away from the cabin. "You don't want to go in there but you have to. The house is yours now. It's either move in and move on with life or let some dipshit move in and take away what belongs to you."

Cindy turned her back on the cabin to begin unloading her bags.

### Chapter Four

### Silvia and the Beast

Coffee was brewing. A fire crackled, warming the air. Orange and red light danced off the wood floor in front of the fire. The television was on and muted above it. A pitchman was selling a fancy knife set. The windows were running with perspiration. Cindy was sitting snug on the couch, her laptop resting on her lap. The cursor was blinking, taunting her. Cindy stared at it, her brain blank. A chill ran up Cindy's spine, and hovered at the nape of her neck. The hair on it stood up. She felt as though she was being watched and looked to the doorway of the kitchen.

Nothing was there.

A gust of wind, like a finger tracing her neck. Cindy swatted at the back of her neck as she turned back around. A slither of wind teased her earlobe. She jumped and wheeled around. Her laptop hopped from her lap and smashed against the coffee table where it bounced off and hit the hardwood floor with a stuttering clap and broke into two. Cindy searched, eyes darting wildly about, for some sign of something, anything. Perhaps it was a bug that touched her.

A fly began buzzing overhead.

Cindy slapped her hands. "You jumped... over a fucking fly. You stupid..." her words slowed as she found her laptop on the ground split in two. A pain, as though she had been stabbed in the heart. Cold dread radiated through her body, rushing from her head down to her bare toes. With numb fingers she picked up the broken halves, hating herself for not buying a spare on the way to the cabin. Today was for bringing a few things over and letting her emotions go through her writing. She needed to heal, needed to cry, needed to be able to move on. She thought staying the weekend and going about life the way she did in her apartment in Bloomington, Indiana would help her. She needed her laptop. She needed to write.

"I guess," Cindy said, as she dropped her laptop in the trash, "I'll have to buy a new one online and ask Becky to bring it up. Good thing I backed up my files."

Cindy stared at her once prized possession lying amongst the garbage for a moment or two before turning her back on it and ambling for the couch in the living room. She jumped out of her skin, her feet actually leaving the ground, as she found her way blocked by a little girl wearing two layers of winter clothing and a winter hat that covered her ears.

"Oh my god!" Cindy wheeled around, one arm covering her eyes. She kept them covered, chest heaving, ice-cold fear raging through her body. How long she stood there with her arms over her eyes she didn't know. But when she let them drop it was a little darker outside. The snow wasn't falling but had packed itself tight against the windows. One or two were blocked completely.

"Holy shit," Cindy muttered. "Holy fucking shit." She looked around, hoping against hope that she wouldn't see what she thought she saw. And she didn't. Despite this it took Cindy a long while to get over her scare. In the end she managed to convince herself that she was spooked about being alone in a house with dark memories. She shut off her television, poured a cup of coffee, and sat down at the kitchen table to order a new laptop. She would have to use her cellphone to do it but she didn't mind. While she waited she would begin her story using the old school method: a pencil and paper.

"Will I like you?" Cindy muttered to herself, as she stared at an HP All in One enlarged on her smartphones screen. She had just ordered it. It was available for pickup tomorrow and her sister had kindly agreed to pick it up and bring it to her. It would be in the evening however, as Becky had a doctor appointment in the morning. Like a lot of people when they buy something digitally, Cindy couldn't help staring at her new acquisition. She was pleased, doubtful, happy, and nervous all at the same time. "Going from laptop to All in One is a big change."

The sunlight dimmed in the kitchen. The cold grew colder, chilling Cindy. She glanced over her shoulder. Nothing was there. She scolded herself for psyching herself out. She returned to her phone. Outside it began to snow again, thick flakes falling heavily. Cindy switched on the kitchen light, sat back down and got back to work.

A paragraph had been written. Now Cindy's pencil hovered over her paper as she thought about where she wanted to go with her story.

A loud pop like a tire exploding clipped the air.

Cindy jumped and toppled out of her chair. She scurried to her feet and rushed to the window. "What... the fuck?" The right front tire of her car was deflated. Next to it, lying in the snow, was an axe. Then a man was in front of the window. If you could call him that. He was twice as big, twice as tall as any man she had ever seen before. His face was twisted, scarred, his upper lip gone exposing teeth yellowed and blackened from abuse. Snow flecked his hairy body. He smashed an overlarge hand through the window, shattering it, and gripped Cindy by the neck. She choked and gasped, her hands slapping at those around her neck. Lights popped in front of her eyes as she was pulled through the window. Then she was flung through the air. The wind whistled as she flew. She struck the snow and the air was knocked from her lungs. Cold spread like cancer through her body. Fear engulfed her heart, squeezing it like a vice grip.

"Come here." The man growled his words, sounding more like a bear than a man. Cindy scrambled backwards, moaning in pain and fear. She wasn't moving fast. The man cut a path through the snow with ease. His hand was around her throat and lifting her off the ground. She choked and gasped, hands pulling at those around her throat. Her neck burned like fire. She felt her eyes bulge. She flailed her feet, kicking them in hope of connecting with something. Her booted foot hit something. It must have been the beast's testicles as he screamed like a wounded bear and let her go. Cindy hit the ground, scrambled awkwardly to her feet, and bolted. Her hands and face were numb. Tunnel vision limited her range of vision. That kept her from seeing the little girl until it was too late. Kept her from seeing the light glinting off her knife until it was flying at her.

Cindy felt a sharp prick in her neck and grabbed at it. She was stunned to feel a knife there. Then her legs went out. Her feet followed and she hit the snow with a sickening crunch. Her face and fingers twitched. Blood began to pour from her neck, turning the white snow red. Her body began to jerk violently. Then the beast of a man was over her, axe in hand. She watched him, her vision blurred, as he brought it up over his head, his face one large snarl, and lowered it sharply.

Everything went dark.

### Chapter Five

### Trouble in Paradise

"I'm telling you, you turned right on Humpty Dumpty Drive when you should have turned left!" Lindsey barked. She folded up her map, the pages crinkling and wrinkling noisily. Derrick looked scathingly at her from the driver's seat. Both were bundled in two layers of winter clothing and hats. Their breath hovered like little clouds in front of their faces. Light stuttered through the windows as massive oaks flanking the country road grew further apart. Snow was falling lightly. The visible sky was a curtain of coiling grey. Mounds of the white stuff flanked the roads and rested on the tops of trees.

The heater inside the car was broken but the mood was scorching. Eight hours in a car will do that to a couple. On top of that both were responsible for taking at least four wrong turns each and an hour earlier the right front tire decided to blow forcing them to use the spare. It was a miracle that neither Derrick nor Lindsey had killed the other.

"To name a street Humpty Dumpty Drive is fucking ridiculous," Derrick muttered. "And look at that," he pointed at an approaching sign. "Mickey Mouse Lane... what the hell is wrong with these assholes? You'd think we were lost in a Walt Disney wet dream."

"Humpty Dumpty came before Walt Disney," Lindsey said, as she stuffed her map in the glove compartment.

Derrick pointed at the now closed glove compartment. "What are you doing?"

Lindsey fished her phone from her pocket and wiggled it sarcastically.

"That won't work," Derrick reminded her. "We're in the sticks. You're going to have to use the map if we're going to find my mother's house anytime soon."

"We should be fine now." Lindsey motioned to the scant trees. The tall oaks, pines, and maples had given way to rolling hills and sprawling fields packed with snow. "We shouldn't hit another dead zone for a few miles." Lindsey turned on her phones GPS and 4G, opened up Google Maps, and punched in Derrick's mothers address. "Holy hell!"

"What?" Derrick's eyes darted everywhere, thinking perhaps she had spotted a deer. His foot was micro-inches above the break, ready to stomp on it.

"We're four fucking hours away!" Lindsey replied. She tossed her phone on the dash and growled, fists clenched. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!"

"Relax," Derrick said, though he looked just as angry as Lindsey. "We'll be there in no..." his words trailed from his lips as up ahead a substantial man had stepped onto the road. He was nude and dragging a body behind him.

Derrick hit the brakes. The car fish tailed to a stop, tires chomping snow. The man and his victim were twenty maybe thirty feet away. He shook his head roughly, mouth opened as he sucked in air. The body he was holding shifted in the snow as he strengthened his grip. Her skin, what could be seen beneath the blood, had gone the color of milk. Her eyes were glassy. Her hair was matted with mud and blood.

"Reverse!" Lindsey yelled, slapping her husband's leg. "Reverse the goddamn car!"

Derrick did, and her cellphone slid off the dash onto the floorboard. But he was too slow. The beast of a man was a step ahead. In one fluid motion he spun and shot-putted his victim halfway through his turn. She smashed through the windshield head first. Glass shattered and the woman cut through Derrick with the ease of a knife through butter. Lindsey froze in shock, her mouth comically slack as blood began to geyser from Derrick's lower half. She started to scream. Then her window smashed and two large hands were grasping her head. Those hands twisted sharply and pulled. Lindsey's neck broke with a sickening crunch and her head rose. Her spine followed, rising and rising like streamers from the mouth of a clown, blood pouring as if from a smashed fire hydrant. The beast of a man tucked Lindy's head beneath his arm like a ball and ambled from the car as though he hadn't done anything more than give two lost travelers directions.

### Chapter Six

### Becky's Arrival

It was night. Headlights illuminated a gravel road flanked by snow and trees. The heat was blasting in Becky's car. She wore earmuffs over her winter hat and had on three layers of clothing and two pairs of gloves. You could have mistaken her for a gargoyle she was sat so stiff in the driver's seat, her brown eyes focused on the road ahead. She was ten minutes away thanks to a tried and true shortcut. She hated it. The roads took her past Robinson Manor. As its name suggests the manor belonged to the Robinson family. A distant relative of theirs owned it now, though he didn't live in it. It's rumored he keeps it solely for tax purposes.

Becky didn't like the manor because of its history. Mrs. Robinson died giving birth to a child too big and too hideous to be allowed. She bled to death. In his rage at losing a wife, Mr. Robinson tossed his newborn child into the woods to die. He was arrested but never charged. Nineteen years later Mr. Robison was found in his study without his head. After a short search it was located in the woods, the spine still attached. His eyes, lips, nose and ears were gone. The police reportedly believed them to have been eaten.

Creeped out, Becky forced all thoughts of the manor from her mind. Not that it mattered. She still had to pass by that creepy pond where the little girl drowned to death. How much death there was in such a small part of Indiana struck Becky all of a sudden. Forcing such horridness from her mind she turned onto the long driveway that would take her to her parent's old cabin.

The car squealed to a stop in front of the cabin, its headlights flooding it and her sister's car in bright white beams. Becky unbuckled herself which took some effort considering her two layers of gloves, and reached into the backseat where her sister's new computer rested. Computer in hand she got out and ambled towards the cabin, fumbling in her coat pocket with her free hand as she cut a path through the snow. Her sister said she would greet her with a cup of coffee and a smile, but there was no smile and no coffee. There was no sister either. This would have struck her as strange, but her sister was often selfish. And knowing her she was probably enjoying a cup of coffee inside while writing more of that smut. Sure she said she was going legit, and would use moving into the cabin to help the transition of genres, but Becky would believe that when she saw it.

"Excuse me, but no whales are allowed. And you're far too big to be human."

Becky wheeled around, raising a hand to block out the car beams. No one was there, or looked to be anywhere around. Was she hearing things? Was it the wind? Couldn't be the wind, there was no wind. Blaming exhaustion she continued towards the front door. She finally fished out her keys, got the right one, and slid it into the lock in the front door. It took a few tries as her sizeable frame blocked out the light of her car, but she got inside and quickly locked the door.

The lights wouldn't come on in the cabin. Becky flipped the switch over and over again as if trying more than once would help. The fire was out. The light from the car only lit patches of the house. "Darn," she muttered. "I knew I should have taken the kerosene lamp from the trunk of the car." Setting down the computer Becky moved to the door and unlocked it. Once more she searched her keys to find the one to her trunk. "Darn moon, lazy thing couldn't bother shining some light down," she muttered, as she found the right key. She reached the trunk, and with some effort, opened it. Inside was her kerosene lamp and kerosene. Both were bought as a surprise gift for Cindy.

A little while later Becky went to work prepping her kerosene lamp. It was tricky, even with the gloves off and scant light coming in from her car. But in the end she managed to get the lamp lit. Its light flooded the small living room. Nothing seemed amiss, and Becky was sure her sister was sleeping. But then the light of her lamp fell upon the kitchen. It glittered over something, many something's, covering the floor. A sharp cold wind chose that moment to carry itself through the house.

"Oh goodness," Becky muttered. She couldn't believe she hadn't noticed a broken or open window before now. She had lived in this house long enough to know better. Granted she hadn't for a long time, but some things should never leave you.

"Cindy!" Becky called out. Her words felt empty, like she was calling out to no one.

"Cindy!"

Becky jumped and wheeled around. She gasped, her chubby hands flying to her mouth. On the ground in front of her, laughing hysterically, little hands slapping together, was a small girl. Finding her footing Becky cried: "Be gone demon! This is a house of god!"

The little girl stopped laughing, her face a mask of shock. She breathed as though desperate for air. Slowly she looked up at Becky. "God?" she said. She was on her feet now and rounding on Becky. "There is no God."

"Of course—"

"You'll get lost, my sweet child of Jesus!" the little girl yelled, interrupting Becky. Her face was now a mask of twisted savagery. "I died. I died. I died! Did I meet Jesus? No! I was stuck here on this property, forced to haunt it for all eternity!"

"You're..."

"Silvia Davenport!" the little girl interjected. "I'm the girl who drowned in the lake and never met god! I was a sweet child of Jesus. If anyone was supposed to go to heaven I was. So if I can't, then anyone who dares build a cabin here, visit here, or get lost here, will die. I deserve all the company I can get. Get her!"

Becky's face flushed with shock and confusion, mostly confusion. "Get her? What do you mean?"

Silvia pointed behind Becky. Becky turned around. The beast of a man stepped out of the darkened hall in front of her. He reached out large hands and snapped her neck. Her kerosene lamp fell and smashed open. Fire leapt into life with a mighty whoosh. But the beast of a man was gone, Silvia too. Only Becky remained twitching upon the floor as if in the midst of a fit. Her eyes were vacant. The fire enveloped her.
Caedes

Adam Mitchell

CAEDES DAMNATORUM ATARAXIA

Agonizing death rasped run through the crimson sands of the desert Caedes, third world of the so called 'grave cluster.' The surface of the desert world is unlike sand anywhere else in the known cosmos. At the furthest edge of the Quad is the home of Caedes. Warped, twisted sands – if stories are to be believed – seep from a cavernous pit that not even the bravest astronomer, druid, or mech-mage may hope to grasp. These winds have spread across the planet's surface like a disease, tarnishing everything they touch.

The dark outcrops I could see over the horizon were mountains, which cut angrily through the red sand like shattered bone through bloodied flesh. But not all of these are mountains; instead, they are a graveyard of fallen stars; asteroids half buried in the blood red sand. Tormented souls, twisted spirits, and ancient creatures have crept in from Netherspace, the dark realm between dimensions. Their carnal hauntings are angered by all the gods of civilized realms who prefer light, order and knowledge. But on Caedes, those gods are now dead, traveling along the warped winds as nothing but forgotten memory. In their place live the Damnatorum: decrepit, vile daemons left homeless, exorcised or banished from their own lands, realties, or ancient hells.

It was noon on the third day, if I remember rightly. Yes, it was the third day of Vernal when I came from that infuriating cactus forest in which the Brethren Ataraxia had left me. That's when I first saw the crimson sands of Caedes. Like I said, it was Vernal – but spring was long gone in that nerve bending wood. I saw no signs of spring; nothing like the warm springs of Quietum Cor, my home. Instead, all signs were gripped by the rotting, vein-like vines and gnarled, sometimes carnivorous growths that I had battled through. It was like no forest I had ever seen or wish to see again in my lifetime, as the growths looked like deformed hell spawn.

The world's pungent air was touched with decay. A strange, almost intelligent, acrid fungus cooked and boiled the surface, killing off all but the cruelest of vegetation. Violet, three-eyed vipers – or what looked like vipers – watched me from their homes in the gnarled growths. Those creatures had gotten under my skin since daybreak and, on top of the unease they brought, I swear some of the fungi considered me lunch. Large teal tendrils and barbs of dripping ashen venom danced in the faint breeze, almost as if they were taunting me into their grasp. What I hoped would be my one salvation of water was also taken from me by this infernal hell, as something I dare not think about seemed to move in the shallow pool. I felt lost, and it was then I grew to know the hatred my recent acts had caused within the Ataraxia and to wonder if this was their penalty for my actions.

There is no point going into what I did, which led me to this unearthly hell; far from my family and homeland, into the clutches of those blasted brethren loons who claim to serve Malusstilio, the venomous, three-headed spider god. These and the legalities of my arrest are too painful to record in this tale. But, more than anything, I hope to forget that three walled cell – the fourth wall a sheer drop, where ivory white husks crawl and climb towards me, hoping to feed on the last morsels of my sanity.

But after taking me to the verge of madness, my captors lashed me to a huge, insect-like beast that I couldn't even begin to describe. There I sat for hours, until I was flung to the ground, landing badly on my wrist. Now I had only my wits to keep about me as I stood at the foot of that wretched forest. Brother Mendax told me my punishment had been paid in full and the spider god had forgiven my trespasses, as they called them. Mendax went on to tell me that through the forest was my freedom, and a little further still would be a vessel to take me home. In a bag, they gave me a spoiled loaf, wrapped in hide, and a water skin by way of my rations. It was that afternoon I came to the desert of Caedes.

So far, I had not thought of turning back, for the pure evil of that forest scared me. I took a moment to remember the horrid tales of this land I had found myself in. Caedes is a place where no one goes willingly and especially not without blood curdling fear. Fewer still have returned and those few mortals who do babble manically about unknown horrors. It is said the end result of some of those horrors spoken aloud wither limbs and break souls, until every inch of their being is snuffed out and they join the haunting desert wind. So, thinking about all those terrors, I took my first pained step onto the crimson sands. I was terrified to go back and uneasy about going forward, knowing what would happen if the brethren saw me again; probably torture – or worse – at the hands of the dreaded Brother Dolor. So I went forward with cautious steps. It was then that I saw the horrid forked tail of a dune centipede, bigger in length than an adult male. I stepped on its claw without realizing, a vile crunch underfoot alerting me to this fact, and then a stench that could kill filled my nostrils, turning my stomach.

The creature withdrew sharply and I ploughed on again, hearing it follow me but ignoring it as much as possible. Before me, crimson dunes stretched as far as the eye could see and then, after a moment, I could see the mountains that I described earlier. In between the desert and mountains were seas of grey desolation and treeless hills, like the humped back of a gigantic monster. But I kept going. All around me were pits and potholes, where meteors had sunk from sight eons ago. At least, that was what I hoped and told myself caused the holes. I could see bones as tall as two men arching out of the ground, as if framing the horrors around me. Amongst the prehistoric bones, flying reptiles that the Order called Sanctus's swooped and hunted for any dead soul that tried to escape the warped winds. On occasion, an undead wail echoed in the wind as yet another creature was caught and eaten; a perished soul. As I carried on, I saw a ghostly city of amazing size, mortified by this planet and now nothing more than a crypt.

I dragged myself with all my might over vast mounds of skeletal debris, walking past the twisted ruins of what was once a temple of what now must be a fallen god mourning the loss of its people in this forsaken hell. Other than the wind, it was deathly quiet and I started to feel at ease in the silence, though it was shortly broken by the sadistic laughter of hyenas gnawing at the carcass of one of their young.

On top of an almighty ridge, I saw the water of some strange lake; deep, dark and green as malachite, surrounded by spires of yellowing salt, as if they were fangs of some demented ancient beast. These waters were below me. It didn't take me long to realize they were the last dregs of an ancient sea. Making my way down a steep slope, I washed my hands in the green waters in hope of mild relief from the heat. Suddenly and painfully, I stopped as the water began to burn my skin and hit me with me periods of hallucination. Quickly, I plunged my hands into the sand; the sand that had almost become a haunting friend on this journey. It was time to take stock and rest. Hunger reminded me I was human and I had to eat part of my limited rations.

It was my intention and plan to carry on, if my body could take it, and reach some part of North Caedes and, I hoped, my way home. These lands are barren and empty, apart from the scattered tribes of mutates that nomadically live in the north. I would survive if I could find one of these tribes. Well, that was what I hoped anyway. The pitiful meal helped only a little, but I felt almost full for the first time since I was imprisoned with the Brethren. The meal gave my soul a glimmer of hope. These damn centipedes had also stopped their hunt of me, something that helped a great deal.

As I walked, I stupidly began to think that the horror stories of this place were just that; stories. It was then that I heard it; the sound of a nightmare manifest, on a treeless hill above me. The shrill cry cut through me sharp as a blade through flesh and continued, never faltering on a single note. Could it be a daemon of myth?

I turned in time to see a cave mouth melt out of the sand. It was dark and unwelcoming, stalactites making it more menacing, and the shrill sound was coming from the cave's depths. Curiosity froze me to the spot as I looked into the cave's dark void. The cry grew louder now, though I still couldn't see its owner, and then as my heart skipped a beat when I finally saw it briefly in the darkness. Then, faster than an arrow, it darted out at a fast speed.

The creature was large, with an armored shell and the head of a ram, and its four legs were more like that of a crustacean, enabling it to move with its inhuman speed. My eyes locked onto the creature's three spiked tails, all of which lashed across the ground with the sound of thunder and caused chills to run up my spine.

The hellish creature ran past me directly to the water's edge and it was then I noticed it was blind; its eyes had been burned or ripped out by something bigger, while two knife-like ears rose from its ram's head, high into the air. The creature's mouth opened, letting out its shrill cry, and then it drank from the acidic water and, when satisfied, it turned. To my sheer horror, it seemed to sense me!

I watched as its ears scanned the air, searching for the sound of its next meal. Me! I didn't know if it was going to attack or not, but I still used the last reserves of my strength to run for refuge behind the massive boulders and great salt towers that ran along the lake shore.

I was so exhausted my heart felt as though it was going to explode under the stress. I stopped at last, thankful I had not been chased, and rested in the shade of an enormous skull of some long dead titan. But my refuge didn't last long, for no sooner had I caught my breath than the second fateful encounter gripped my being, forcing me to believe all of the horrid legends I'd heard and witness the last grains of my courage and sanity die. It rocked me more than the sharp cry. As I began to get to my feet, something grasped my ankle from under the crimson salt and sand. Then I heard a woman's cry. It was a voice I couldn't forget, one forever imprinted on my heart. My dear wife, Spem - which means hope on my planet.

As I turned, the grains of sand and salt morphed into the face of my beloved wife, who looked like she was in agony. She was naked, white perfection, her topaz eyes looking deep into me, but she was buried in sand to her navel, as if she had been made part of this cruel hell. Her eyes screamed for me to save her; her mouth moved silently, mouthing words I heard echo in my head:

"Dolet dilecte adesto me dolore non possum, quaeso, viri, miserere."

("It hurts, my beloved, please help me, I can't take the pain, please, husband, have mercy...")

From out of the sand came another hand, as if held out for mercy and rescue, begging to be pulled from the sand and freed. What could Spem have done for the Brethren to have sent her here? Was it just for the sick, perverted amusement of Malusstilio? She was innocent; a pure light in a dark system! I grasped her hand hard, forgetting the cruelest of tricks this planet pulls. All I cared about was saving my life mate. But as I did, her voice entered my mind a second time, now like a surgeon's scalpel:

"Tibi mentiti sunt mihi,Tu me kiled,...Quid? Quid fecitibi? Ad mortem te Medicus... Vale virum. Inveniet I in Netherspace."

("You lied to me, you've killed me...why? What did I ever do to you? I will never forgive you, Medicus... goodbye, husband. See you in the Netherspace.")

Watching her features painfully contort in agony, I couldn't take it. Had I killed my dear Spem? I howled in anger at the planet's two visible dark moons. In my grieved state, I felt another small hand but I dared not look. Instead, I turned and ran. But again, I heard another voice from my life before this place; that of Flos, my little daughter; a child of pure joy, only five solar seasons old. Like I said, this time I did not turn to see her, as I knew I couldn't bear to lose her like I did my wife. I ran, but couldn't help hear her young plea:

"Salvum me fac, magis, Ego sum in dolore, placeo, magis..."

("Save me, papa, it hurts, please, papa...")

As I ran up the long slope, the pleas of Flos echoed in my mind again and again, as if slamming a door; the voice breaking me down blow by blow; her young voice haunting me in a way no father would ever want to hear. Stumbling up the slope with as much speed as I could muster, I tripped over boulders of onyx and sharp ledges that cut deeply into my legs. I ran over deadly shale like a man who tries in vain to outrun a nightmare, clutching and clawing to escape.

While running for my life, I saw a singular shadow that began to menacingly run in step with me. This blasted shadow was a Flos-shaped torment which ran in front of me, then turned to stop suddenly. The shadow's head morphed from that of my young child to that of an elongated, bat-like being, and then the body followed suit. My heart was beating in panic and my limbs were shaking madly, but the terror gave me a new kind of fire; a fire I used to reach the hilltop before I dared to look back again.

But still, the blasted shadow beast kept pace with me. That was when I caught its stench in the breeze; that of metallic blood and decomposition.

I ran for what felt like miles, while the red sun started to duck behind the black mountains to the west. But the shadow seemed to herd me in a direction of its own desire, keeping the same distance from me as I fled. It must have been close to sunset when I found myself in a circle of small ochre pillars that slowly emerged from the ground, almost pristine amongst the ancient ruins. Was someone looking out for me? Or was this just another of this planet's cruel jabs? I didn't know.

As I cautiously passed these pillars, I heard something stir, then whimper like the growl of a jungle cat; something between rage and fear. It was only then I noticed my hunter had not followed me inside this circle of etched stone. I moved to one, tracing my fingers over the ancient etchings, waiting there to be sure; hoping these pillars were a real haven. My dark predator would not enter, trying several times in painful protest, before solidifying and crumbling to dust with a gut-wrenching howl as the sun went down. It seemed to be dead, but I couldn't be completely sure.

Half an hour later, I still didn't dare move or leave my sanctuary. Then the beginnings of night and realizations of possible new horrors pushed me on, as far as I could, to the north. For I was in the very heart of Caedes, where daemons or worse may dwell and would probably laugh at this minor obstacle of my pillared safety. As I pushed on, the planet's bluish moonlight altered the horizon lines; almost as if the planet had molded or changed shape somehow to suit the night time. Nearing what I thought to be the new horizon, I sank into a fog of dust and haze, mixed with an evil intent that seemed to beat in time with the heartbeat of Caedes; evil vapors coiling skyward in large spirals from black gulfs, lying just out of reach of the world's rim. In that light, the Caedes wastes and rounded mountains were drenched in a dark scarlet curtain.

Then suddenly, out of the north, where all the shadows seemed to muster, there came what I thought to be a curious shrouded figure. As the strange figure approached me, the shroud melted away to reveal a tall man fully clothed in ancient chain mail. At least, I thought it was a man; grey smoke seemed to be the only thing holding the being together.

As the figure moved towards me, clanking dismally with each shadowy step, I noticed that its helmet was of brass etched with carnal runes of some sort, each with its own strange glow. Two horns arched from the helm and framed two blazing, fiery eyes. I say that it had a head, for there was a lot of smoke and it was dark and hard to make out at times and from a distance. But as it came closer, I realized, to my sheer terror, it was one of the Damnatorum. My heart stopped at the same time as this hell born apparition did, staring at me; faceless, except for its eyes. Then the vile Damnatorum told me his name was Exilium – or exile, to my tongue. It was to be my judge in this life and the Brethren's vessel to the next.

Before I had time to state my defense, it moved through me, causing everything in me to shudder and scream in otherworldly pain; as if I'd been ripped from every spiritual plane. Pure fear rocked me as it clanked through and past me. That was when I saw it as I screamed in vain at the sight. In its metallic gauntlet was my very spirit: pale green, with a look of eternal slumber. Then I realized I was gone. I was a husk of my former self; I had been devoured by this eons old monster. Then it vanished and I fell to my knees, now just a shell of my former self.

It was then that I realized then the sheer malevolence of the Brethren's plan. I had died spiritually; my very soul was now part of the crimson sands. Then, on my knees, I saw it. It came upon me fast; as the blue moonlight faded, there approached a second monstrous apparition: a second of the Damnatorum, making the ground recoil with every incredible step. It loomed over me and stopped in the blue twilight – the monstrous nightmare of a dark, ancient king, still crowned with untarnished gold. But it seemed to lock onto me and my gaze, now just a memory in time, had begun to waste away. It seemed to look into the very heart of me, as if the creature had known me all my life. A battered cloak flapped around its skeletal legs and, above the gold crown set with sapphires, a black something swayed and nodded horribly, but only for an instant. I couldn't have dreamed of what it was.

Suddenly – in the middle of the oddity – two oblique, scarlet eyes opened like hellish coals, and two great fangs glittered in a warped, ape-like mouth. Its shapeless neck of black leaned down, as if it had a twisted spine, and rasped in the dead king's ear.

"Venit tempus, Iudicium. Sibi eum."

("The time has come, judgement. Claim him.")

Then, with one great stride, this titanic undead monarch covered half the distance between us. From the folds of the tattered cloak, a gaunt arm arose and fleshless, talon-like fingers laden with gems grasped my throat, gripping tighter and tighter...draining the life out of me. I tried to struggle and claw for freedom from those claw-like fingers, but it was all in vain. An otherworldly cold started to take me over, my lungs collapsing and my heartbeat slowing to nothing but a deathly rattle, it was there I continued to die as the planet took me; mind, body and soul, making me just another ghost of these endless crimson sands.

****

"I'm sorry, he's gone..." the doctor informed the police officer sitting on a chair in the dully lit high risk ward.

"You sure, doc?" came the reply from the frustrated officer. Everyone wanted to see Adam Mitchell brought to justice; no one more than Detective Mendax, as Mitchell's crimes had shocked the small town of Castle Rock.

Mitchell had been a writer, whose writing had tipped him over the edge. One night, the author had simply cracked – or so the witnesses claimed that the neighbor said. He locked his small daughter in her room, then took a knife to his wife and sliced her in ways that would impress even a surgeon before carving strange markings into each piece of his wife. He'd left her dead as he went back to typing the end of his story. The courts heard that when the police came, he was just sitting at his typewriter, waiting, with only one word typed on the manila paper over and over again was one word: Damnatorum!

It was clear at his trial that he was clinically insane, as his defense for his crimes was one simple statement: "Years ago, I bargained with something dark to make me a success and I had to fulfill my end of the dark bargain: success for the lives of my two dearest." If I didn't, the dark Damnatorum would claim them as well.

These were clearly the words of a deranged man, the court felt, and as such, it saved him from the chair. Instead, he was put in an induced coma until the state decided what to do with the broken horror writer. That was six months ago and, with only a regular visit from an orderly and an occasional beating from Detective Mendax, that was where Mitchell lay in his own chemically induced prison.

"Hey, doc? You got any clue what could have killed him? I thought you said this coma thing was safe. You told me it would stop him hurting himself – or worse! So spill, professor. What killed the nut?"

The doctor seemed rather put out. How dare the detective question him? Who did he think he was? He was a doctor; not a loon like, well, Mitchell!

"Well, detective, if I was to take a stab at it, I'd say it was one of two things: his body reacted to the drugs we were pumping into him, or his mind just broke. It's not uncommon for patients to arrest when put under for long periods. We won't know more till the M.E does her job. Sorry, Flatfoot, that's the best I can give you."

After the doctor's parting blow to the detective, he exited the small ward, leaving the deceased and Mendax to say their farewells.

"Well, Mitchell, you seemed to have almost beaten the system: killing your wife and almost getting away with it...almost!" As Mendax looked at the cold body of Mitchell, his eyes grew a cold blue and he smiled. "Like I said, almost no body tries to swindle the Damnatorum. I will see you soon, my friend, in Netherspace. Goodnight!"

With that, Stine buttoned up his coat, pulled up his collar and let the room's darkness envelop him as he disappeared from the hospital and this plane, on the hunt for his next dark business deal...
Canvas

Sara Mosier

Her cries echoed off the wall of the tomb in quiet hiccups. Her carefully curled blonde hair, which gave off the strong stench of bleach, tumbled over her knees as she hugged them tightly to her chest, while her cheek rested against her green dress. Suddenly, her head jerked up with a start, as if suddenly realizing the emptiness of the room. There had been a voice that wasn't her own resounding in her head, coming from somewhere she couldn't identify. She remembered the slick, cold feel of crimson silk sheets below her naked body and so much quiet that it hurt. Then crashing and screaming and hurting. Dark, faceless men; pill bottles that bore her name, but did not fit in her memory, being slung onto her bed stand carelessly. A pressure bore against her swan like neck, her palms beating against the slickness of the sheets that more often than not gave her comfort.

"Stop!" she screamed to the nothingness, and her body lurched forward as if she might be violently ill.

Although she felt that there should be panicked confusion of her location, there wasn't. She let her head fall back like a weight against the beautiful, brilliantly white marble. Above her, a single red rose hung precariously out of a penny-colored iron vase and she craned her head to study it, wondering how often tombs received flowers. Roses were always her favorite.

She sniffed away the tears, dabbing at her nose a little with the handkerchief pinned at her wrist, then lifted the wetness away from her eyelids with the side of her ring finger to preserve the makeup coloring her rounded cheekbones a cheery shade of pink.

' _It's so quiet,' she thought to herself. 'So, so quiet.'_

"Norma?"

"Yes?" Her head shot up instinctively at the call of her name.

"Here again? I thought for sure our long talk yesterday had made you see things more clearly."

The man situated his hat upon his perfectly combed tawny hair. Not one hair out of place, she noted. He looked FBI; he was FBI for sure, or a very important policeman, for there was no other reason for the neatness of his suit with nary a wrinkle. But beneath the air of importance that stirred around his perfection, he looked kind. His brown eyes sparkled with a wisp of recognition that she couldn't identify any more than the reason she was standing in the tomb that could have very well have been the burial place of the admirable Abraham Lincoln.

'Oh wait, that's not right. Am I in Washington, or New York?' she thought. She didn't know. The night before was only the swirling blur that seemed to be what her mind could churn up.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she sniffled again, sounding like a little mouse. "Who – who are you?"

"Norma, Norma, Norma," the man repeated, his mouth turning up into a slightly menacing smile. His moustache, which was the same rusty color of his hair, rose like they always did in the movies; the kind of black and white movies where the images ran faster and faster with tinny music as the man in the suit tied the damsel to the railroad tracks. "I'm Jack, remember?"

He took a step closer and it was then that she noticed he was smoking; he tossed it to the marble, leaving a smudge on the flawless stone.

"Jack Malone. We meet here almost every day until the sun starts to set."

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Norma shook her head, forgetting her tears for a moment.

"We do? I'm afraid I don't remember much right now," she said, giving a nervous giggle that tinkled like very expensive crystal.

"Yeah honey, every day. Come on, let's get ya out of here...I'm not all that sure why ya still stay in this tomb. Just 'cause he visits once a week and leaves flowers don't give ya a reason to stick around. Besides, y'all aren't even together anymore."

He offered an elbow, one hand still in deep in the pocket of his silver suit. Norma took a calculated look around, noticing just how cold the tomb was – but then again, tombs were supposed to be cold, right? She pushed herself up from the floor, careful that her Italian silk dress wouldn't ride up and reveal her stockings too much, and she stood still for a moment, leery of the extended elbow.

"Come on, doll. I'm not gonna bite. Come on," Jack coaxed as though she was a frightened rabbit. Norma took a deep breath.

"Alright, then."

She laid a delicate white hand, the color so very striking against the darkness of his suit, on his arm. Her nails were cherry red, with no chips; in fact they looked freshly painted. As she noticed this, she checked her left hand but found no ring. Not even a tan line where one might have been.

"Why don't I remember you? Or why I'm here?" she asked as Jack escorted her from the mouth of the marble like one would down a red carpet.

"We all forget now and then why we're here...just the name of the game, I s'pose. Ya see Franklin over there?"

He pointed across the vast emerald lawn, which was lined with thousands of multicolored roses, pink and white carnations, and lilies with mouths wide open. There was a fountain in the middle, with flowing water that looked almost golden against the setting of the sun. The twinkling lights of the city danced like Christmas lights against the horizon as every window seemed to catch the light.

"Franklin? I'm not sure I know who –" Norma began.

"Hells bells, he's chasing squirrels again. Well, never mind then, he's mighty forgetful himself. He's from South Dakota. Used to work for the Senate before he went Looney Tunes after a big...um, well, it's not begettin' of a lady. Let's just say he abused his power. Anyhow, he wakes up every mornin' wonderin' where he is, who he is, but by about...oh, say nightfall, a little light flickers on and he's his old self. Too bad it's nearly nightfall now. Doesn't do him much once the sun sets. That's curfew."

He gave her pale hand a squeeze when her wide blue eyes turned towards him sharply. "We're alright, though. No hurry."

"Franklin's from South Dakota. Is that far from here?" Norma asked, shading her eyes from the bright orange sun.

"Mighty far. We're in Hollywood, darlin'," Jack smirked, that devilish mustache curling.

"Hollywood? Oh goodness, really? I was almost sure we were in Washington! I was very sure." She gave another nervous, almost childish, giggle. "I thought I was in Abraham Lincoln's tomb. Isn't that silly?"

"You always talk about Washington. A little, anyway. Sure wish you could tell me why it's so important."

"I know a man there. A real important man, I think." She scrunched her brow. "Oh golly, I just don't know. It's important, I know. He's very handsome and I think we were together."

In her mind, she could see expensive hotel rooms, tables of champagne, candles everywhere, and her fingers trailing over a string of pearls at her throat.

"Ah, love. That'll give you many a reason to want to forget. I was with the belle of the county before I traveled here. She was a real beauty. But life gets in the way and I had to leave her behind...oh well. I get to walk with you every night because of that, huh?"

"Do you? I just feel so silly not knowing you, Jack, especially when you know me," she said shyly.

"Don't worry 'bout that. You usually remember me eventually, so don't give it another thought."

"Who's that over there? That sad man?"

Norma raised her hand to point. With that action, the man she'd spoken about up looked up from his book, revealing large, lava dark eyes and soft brown hair. He gave a nod and returned to his reading.

"He's like a little boy, isn't he? So prim and proper and handsome."

"That's Cornel. He doesn't talk to many people, least of all women, especially those that are as pretty as ya. He's as shy as they come."

Jack gave a wave himself and received, as Norma had, merely a nod of acknowledgment.

"So, uh, giving that I don't really know you, where are you from?"

Norma returned her hand to Jack's, feeling the nip of the chilly evening settling carefully onto her flesh and raising goosebumps over her arms.

"Originally from Atlanta, but I moved to Alabama for work. I use to be a cop down there. It was a real mess when I left. Damn, ain't nobody getting along down there. Last incident was a riot between black and white. Always white against black. Sad...mighty, mighty sad. That was my last night there."

He pursed his lips, an air of sadness and longing for somewhere far from where they walked hovering over him.

"Goodness, a cop? That sounds awful scary...all those angry people out to get you."

Norma felt the nudge of the night before, or the memory of some night – perhaps years ago, she wasn't sure. The crashing of broken vases, shades being hastily pulled down, causing a loud snap to resonate in her ears. There was her own voice, calling out, calling out for someone – anyone – to please come and help her. Surely the maid below would hear her screams, even as muffled as they were? The maid would come to stop the pressure on her throat, the knees in her back as she felt her eyes bulge with pressure...she could taste the silk as it was forced into her downturned face...not enough air, not enough air...snap!

"Norma?" Jack's voice cut through the nightmare. He pulled her close with one arm so that her face, wet with running mascara and tears, was welcome to fall against his shoulder. "Hey, you're alright. Just a bad dream, alright? Wakin' dreams. My mama always told me bad dreams can come back to haunt you even when the sun's out. Did you know that?"

"No, I never heard that. Something bad happened, Mr. Malone, something real bad, but I just can't place it. Someone wants to hurt me, or already hurt me. I feel it."

She raised a hand to her throat, feeling around the thinness of it as if the answer would be there, pressed into her flesh.

"Call me Jack, and no, no one wants to hurt you. No one can hurt you anymore. You're with me and that ain't ever gonna happen," he tried to assure her. His words, although the perfect lines of comfort, merely buzzed above her head, never making contact. She pulled away, her eyes locking with his in fresh horror.

"Look here, look at my neck. I feel something there, like a bite or a cut – there has to be!" Norma tugged back her blonde hair. "Look," she said more forcefully.

"You ain't ever been this assertive," Jack said with concern but he complied, brushing back her blonde hair and eyeing her flesh carefully. "Awful lot a makeup back here. You got a hanky or something?"

Norma's heart was racing as she took out her beautiful white handkerchief, with the rose sewn into the corner, and placed it in his large, calloused hands.

"Here."

"Hold still, Norma, I'm gonna see."

Jack dabbed the cloth against his tongue and, using the dampness, rubbed away the caked makeup that looked as though it would most certainly stain her very expensive green dress.

"Yeah, you got some bruises back here. Big ones – looks like someone got a hold of ya, darlin'."

Norma snatched the handkerchief from his hand and pressed it to her lips to hide the cry that would escape like a bird call. The panic returned...the sounds...the pain...she took off running, despite being in her heels. She could feel every clump of dirt rise up behind her, almost nipping at her heels, and she yelped at this feeling but kept running. Of everything she'd experienced today, this seemed the only thing that she recognized. Fear. Wanting to run, wanting to scream, but being painfully denied by powerful hands, rough and hard, wrenching her life from her.

"Norma, wait!" she heard Jack yelling behind her.

She kept running, the world around her whizzing by as if she were in a fast moving automobile – a baby blue Cadillac, with shimmering silver rims. The top down, her arms up into the air as the wind tossed up her hair like flying cotton. Her thin-strapped, ruby red dress allowed the fresh California air to rush over her flesh like a warm bath. Her laugh, high and squealing as the road streamed by, a young gentleman beside her laughing at her antics.

The brief image dissipated like a slap when she tripped onto the wet, freshly cut green grass.

"Whoa there, you need to slow down. All these stones, you could really hurt yourself," a woman's voice – deeper than her own – piped up, offering a slender hand. Norma accepted it and it helped her up from the damp earth.

"I got spooked, I guess," she said shakily and that same burst of giggles tumbled out of her aching throat.

"You're Marilyn, right?"

"Uh, no, I'm Norma." She was shaking hard but not from cold, her eyes looking around for Jack. She hadn't meant to really leave him behind!

"Oh, well," the other woman said. "Can't remember them all, I suppose. I'm Bettie."

Though Bettie was smiling, she didn't look entirely kind. Her hair was the color of ravens and fell down her shoulders like water and her bangs were cut sharply across her forehead, revealing eyes that were equally dark but soft.

"Bettie," Norma repeated, hoping it would stick in her frenzied brain, "do you know why you're here? Or me?"

"Oh, honey," Bettie said sadly, shaking her head and bringing a lit cigarette to her blood red lips. "Life's a bitch, huh?"

"Norma, don't go running off like that," a voice chided from behind Norma. "You look damn near close to a blonde haze when you run that fast and I don't wanna lose you before sunset."

Jack looked as though he had run himself but he wasn't out of breath.

"Oh. Hi, Bettie. How are you this fine evenin'?"

"Very good, Jack," Bettie smiled, looking at him carefully from underneath her long lashes. "Having fun with the babysitting, are we?"

"Don't be upsettin' her like you did last week!" Jack snapped. "You can be just downright cruel. You didn't, did you?"

"No, I didn't go upsettin' Blondie," Bettie sneered, turning her head sharply, and crossing her arms, no doubt wrinkling her blue and white polka dot dress that stretched tautly around her full figure. "Pray go find another side of the yard to spend the rest of your evening. I prefer to be by myself."

Norma found herself glaring but she wasn't sure why.

"Come on Jack," she said coldly. She took Jack's arm again, turning him away from the dark beauty before her. Once they were out of earshot, she whispered, "I don't like her. She frightens me."

She clung to Jack now. By his side was warmth; warmth against so much coldness that reverberated around her next to that Bettie woman.

"You just don't like each other – never have. She's rude and she ain't no lady, not by a long shot," Jack growled, giving Norma's hand an assuring pat.

"What do you mean by 'don't upset her'? Do I know her?" she asked carefully, absentmindedly trying to smooth her windblown hair back into place.

"She's always had a knack for upsettin' you. She knows all about you: your history, all the...men...you've been acquainted with...she says that's why you're here. Because of the men you know. Or rather, knew."

"Men I knew?" Norma's eyes darted around as she searched her memories. "Yes, men I knew. A man wanted to hurt me in my apartment, but it wasn't him that did it. Someone he called to do it..."

"Don't do that, Norma, it ain't worth it. Honey, believe me, you're a goodhearted person. No matter what anyone says here, you're a lady through and through. You just loved the wrong person, that's all."

"Wrong person?"

"Yeah, kinda like Franklin over there. He just loved too many people and it got him in trouble, it wasn't like he was being vengeful or nothin' – just got caught up with the wrong people."

Jack crafted this speech very carefully, which made Norma suspicious.

"You know what happened to me, don't you? And you're not telling me," she glared, pushing her hair away from her eyes.

"I've told ya before and ya just got upset with me. I don't wanna be upsettin' you, that's all."

Norma stopped them firmly in their tracks.

"Tell me, Mr. Malone...Jack, please."

"Can't we just enjoy the rest of the evenin'?"

Jack was pleading with her, which surprised her. He had hold of both of her hands, looking deep into her eyes, and he stroked one cheek. But not like a beau would; it was simply a gentle gesture of care.

Norma glanced at the waning sunlight, where the sun sank into the horizon as if the city were a great ocean swallowing it up. A song found her ears; a voice, tinkling like her own, murmured in the air far away from where she stood; "Happy birthday to you," it crooned. She rested her fingertips on the revealed bruised flesh; she looked down at the soft green dress covering her body and then her eyes wandered back to the tomb where Jack had found her on the marble floor.

It had all been too quick for her to remember in full but everything that night was staged; though whether people believed it afterwards, she wasn't sure. She wasn't sure if she really cared. They had knocked timidly, giving her the impression that she knew them. After all it was 'their' knock – one that no one else knew about. One rap, two quick raps, three soft ones. For every evening they spent together, that knock was like a song; it was the opening to every happy night of their time together.

Wrapping the silk around her hour-glass figure, she tiptoed giddily to the door. They rushed at her, pushing her from the door. Swish! Crash! A hand over her mouth, her body pressed to the mattress...one man sat on top of her and she could feel his knees pressed into the bends of her arms, so all she was able to do was slap her palms to the silk. It sounded like water; hard, deep, water. She was drowning under the weight of the unknown man; darkness was closing over her senses as her will to fight gave way...and so did her neck.

It was very much like bursting through the surface of a frozen lake; she gasped so loudly that she felt herself falling back. Jack caught her before she could fall this time, murmuring a soft string of, "Shh, shh."

The sobbing from earlier returned and she fell into his arms, burying her face into his crisp, white shirt. He patted her back like one would a small, crying child.

"They can't hurt you now, Norma," he soothed. "No one can hurt you."

"I couldn't breathe, I couldn't breathe," Norma cried, trying to pull herself out of the rising tide as it lapped over her head forcefully.

"Stay with me, feel your feet on the ground...look at me, darlin'," Jack said, his voice more forceful now.

"No, no! Stop, please!"

Norma pushed him, spinning around in her heels, the green lawn blurring like an oil painting with too many colors.

"Norma!"

Jack's voice sounded like an echo down a long, deep cave as he fell farther and farther away from her into the blackness. His touch was no longer felt...coldness swept over her...and the tide took her down into the color of white that blinded her.

She woke up on brilliantly white marble, to voices murmuring like spent whispers and then silence. She rolled onto her back, eyes locking dizzyingly upon the red rose perched above her as if looking down onto her with pity, its petals dry and crumbly. There was dying sunlight finding its way in through the door of the tomb.

"What happened? Who are you?" she asked the looming figure in the walkway.

With somber, dark eyes, he looked upon her with a gentle humor – or sympathy, she wasn't sure – and reached out a large hand, palm up.

"Hi, Norma. I'm Jack. Let's take a walk."
Chaconne

Neil Newton

It was a dream and I knew it. Not a lucid dream, where I might possibly control what was happening, but a disturbing dream that barreled through my mind like a freight train. Like many dreams it lacked a plot in the classic sense, yet there was a theme that was noticeable.

In the waking world I am an account manager in a mid-sized ad agency. In the real world there are two copyrighters: an intern and an administrative assistant. In the dream, they were there but, unlike the real world, our section of the office I work in was sinking as though we were in quicksand. My employees were screaming and doing their best to save their computers, notes and anything else that might be important enough to be saved. Surrounding us, floating in space were wind instruments, heavy on the French horns. French horns were my mother's favorite instrument, something that seemed relevant during the dream. They and a variety of instruments, including trumpets and oboes, danced around us. Somehow they seem to be the source of our floor's descent.

The descent increased in speed and even I, in my dream state, began screaming. The oboes floated near, pointing at me, or so it seemed, accusingly, as though I was the reason for the whole disaster. I waited for them to hit me as the floor finally broke up into pieces, tossing all of us into the air before descending towards the lower floors.

I jerked up, feeling the sweat on my face. This was the fourth similar dream I'd had in as little as a month. Though the dreams didn't always take place in my office, there was always a reference to my career and some sort of musical instruments. I reached over and took a drink from a bottle of flavored water to clear my throat. Then the phone range and I jumped. I looked at my phone; my sister.

"Ted?" she croaked.

"What's wrong? You sound strange."

"I'm sorry to call so early. I just wanted you know if you were coming."

I stood up and stepped into my slippers. A robe was next; it was the beginning of winter. "Well coincidentally you caught me at the end of a bad dream. Maybe you sent it to me." I smiled.

"That's not funny, Ted. You know how I feel about these things."

"Yup. New age to the end."

"Hah hah. What was the dream about?"

"Oh no. I'm not involving you in this. Next thing I know you'll have sheep entrails laid across my floor, reading my future."

"You're an asshole! Just because I believe in the paranormal doesn't mean you have to make fun of me. I'm not the one who's having weird dreams. What was it about?"

I explained the dream as best I could. My sister gasped. "That's Mom. I know it. She wants you to come."

"We've been through this ad nasueum, Anne. I'm not coming."

"Your mother is being honored by an entire school of vocal music in her name and you can't come to the dedication?"

"No. My mother is having her memory exploited. And she's not here to defend herself."

She groaned. "You're going to regret not coming."

"No. I won't. I already went through enough pain. No more. If I thought this would honor her, I'd be there."

My mother was a source of many bad dreams and trauma. A famous, world-class soprano, she had died young at the hands of her manager who took his own life immediately after. My sister and I both lived with the lurid legacy of her rise and fall for years. It probably was one of the reasons I had left music in the first place. The ability to free myself of my mother's sturm und drung was far too tempting.

"So why do you think you have this dream two days before the dedication?"

"Oh please, Anne. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

"You know I don't believe in psychology. Except Jung of course who included dreams and the collective unconsciousness. But Mom warned you not to give up on your birth right when you were in college. You broke her heart."

"You are a freak, Anne. I gave up on music after Mom died. You've conflated reality as usual to satisfy your eldritch fantasies."

"You broke her heart anyway. Somewhere, wherever she is."

"Prove it."

"I can't prove what I know by faith."

"Faith? Faith as in religious faith? Believing my mother's ghost has a broken heart is not faith. It's not a religion."

"Suit yourself. You should have gone on with her work."

"Yes. I've heard this before. Mother didn't have to live my life. Schlepping my violin and amp out to the car or a cab at three in the morning. Giving lessons to brats who were just doing it to make their mother's happy. Struggling to make my bills."

"I've done okay."

"You got lucky. And not all your success is artistic. What about all those commercial voice overs? I doubt Marilyn Horne sang for commercials about cars."

"You always bring that up. I've sung at the met and in Europe. You know that."

"How many classical singers have done as well as you. And you're still struggling"

"It's because I believe in what I do."

"I'm sure all the struggling singers say the same thing."

"You have no faith. That's why you're selling dogfood."

"I'm not in the mood for this. These arguments always go around in circles."

"Ted, you're an idiot! This is to honor our own mother. Thousands of young men and women will be learning the craft from our mother."

"Not from our mother. From professors."

"What is wrong with you?"

"I don't like exploiting my mother's memory. If I had to guess, I think she would have been horrified by this idea. It was yours, not hers."

"She deserves to have her memory preserved."

"What is the point of making her into a legend or a myth. Her work stands on its own. I...you know her better than most. Let's let her be our mother and not a myth."

"I've worked for this for years. You've never been on my side."

"The only good thing is that you'll have an income being the director. That's the only good thing that will come of this. But I think that in the wake of yearly concerts and graduations and the students making a name for themselves, in a way she'll be forgotten because no one will remember who she was amid all the fuss."

There was silence for a moment "Do you think I'm doing this for myself?"

"No. I don't think you're trying to do anything to make up for the fact that she's been taken from us. So you're doing the next best thing. You're creating an empire in her name. Will people know who she was in a hundred years? She'll just be a sound byte."

"I'm not arguing with you about this. If you want to insult our mother's memory by not coming to the ceremony, that's something you'll have to live with."

"I'm trying to be able to live with myself. That's the point."

"You're an idiot but I love you."

"Back at you."

"Bye Ted. Pick up your violin, won't you?"

"It's been years."

"Pick it up. Bye."

"Bye."

Whatever crappy feeling I would have brought to work with me was now compounded by the usual arguments I always had with my sister. Always wonderful to go to a job I hated feeling like poo.

As I entered my office David, my senior copyrighter, caught my eye. I sat down next to him, interpreting his sickly smile as a sign that something was wrong. "What?" I asked him.

"Petroff Petfood called today. They want to make a change."

"Oh God! We had the whole thing worked out. Dogs jumping over fences. What could be wrong?"

"They want their granddaughter in the ad."

"Where?"

"They weren't clear on that. They asked me and I had to improvise. I thought she could be at the other side of the fence encouraging the dogs to jump. But they wanted several shots of her."

"And of course that screws up the shooting script and the timing of the entire commercial. It could push it past the time slot we were going to buy."

"I suggested to them that they might have to pay more if we did this. They suggested that we could rearrange some stuff to keep the price where it is."

"Ugh."

"Yes. Ugh".

"I'll have to call them."

A slow grin spread across his face. "Make it seem like leaving it the way it is was their idea. That's your talent."

I thought of my conversation with my sister. "At least I have a talent."

"You have more than one."

"Thanks, David. I guess I'll get this out of the way."

Mr. Petroff became hostile at first when I suggested we leave his commercial the way it was. It had been obvious from the first that he thought that he was an important man because he was the richest person in his small town. I ran it down a few times and explained, diplomatically, that rearranging a commercial was like changing the recipe for his dog food. I had gone out there to see how he did things; a special touch I always offered my clients. Like any decent factory, in the tradition of Henry Ford, Petroff had broken down his production methods and had made them as efficient as possible. A Six Sigma course had tightened things up.

I was able to make him see that the commercial was just like any other manufacturing process and changing a piece of it changed all of it. Eventually he saw the logic behind what I was saying and we were back on track. I finished the conversation feeling relieved and like I needed to take a bath; there was an element of sleaze that was part and parcel of client based business. It was hard having to convince another adult what should have been obvious.

I went back out into the war room. David looked up. I nodded, telling him what he already knew. "I grovel at your feet master." He told me.

You can start by getting me lunch. Kung Pao chicken."

"You got it. We have kept the visigoths from the gate once more. Kung Pao chicken shall be our reward."

"Sometimes working in a creative office can be hell."

He smiled. "Do you want to be bored?"

"I want to be peaceful."

"Good luck with that. Off the to the Big Wok."

I spent the rest of the day finalizing the shooting script and working with the film makers. We'd have the commercial filmed in a month and on the air in two. It would be a coup for me after three previous successful campaigns. I left the office feeling somewhat satisfied.

I walked out into the parking lot. There was a strange shifting haze in the air, something I attributed to the fall light. Even thought it was late evening, it was strangely quiet as I made my way through the reddish light of autumn. My car was perhaps thirty yards away. I thought of my evening: a couple of scotches, a movie or two. If I felt lonely enough there might be some time spent in a bar I knew of where there might be young ladies as lonely as I. Not the best prognosis but not the worst.

The red light seemed to shift. As I watched, rubbing my eyes, it formed into a shape that was vaguely human. As it coalesced into a form that seemed to represent something biped, it began to scream, setting my hackles on edge. I was reminded of 'A Christmas Carol' but this was far worse than any Hollywood attempt at horror; this was horror. The scream resolved itself into what sounded like a melody. Eerie and plangent, the melody scared the crap out of me; all I could think of was my mother.

As I waited for my mother's voice to come to me from beyond the grave things got worse. A crimson stream made its way down the sides of the figure. I was confronted by a screaming, bleeding figure and I couldn't help but think that this was some form of my mother. There had been years when I was much younger when I saw my mother in my dreams, screaming her pain and fear as the kitchen knife that killed her plunged into her body. I thought I'd left those feeling behind but here they were again, in spades. I wondered if this was the nervous breakdown I'd been expecting for years as a teenager. Why now?

"What do you want from me?" I screamed.

The figure threw its head back and bellowed even louder. "You!" it shrieked. "You!" "You!"

I fell to my knees, closing my eyes and keeping them towards the ground. It sounded like whatever this was wasn't able to talk, like someone with a traumatic brain injury. "Me? This has nothing to do with me! You left me! I needed you and you stayed with that maniac! We told you to leave!

"You!" it screamed again. "You! You! You!"

It kept screaming the same word. I covered my ears but the voice was just as loud. I put up with it as long as I could.

And then I stood up. "You! You were so selfish that you wouldn't listen to us. You stayed with a psychopath. Didn't you love your children enough? Didn't you give a damn? You go. Go! Go! Go! Go!"

The last word was screamed with such intensity that it made my voice raw. "Go!" I finally rasped. "Go!" I whispered.

And, unexpectedly, it did just like that. I found myself on my knees on the pavement of the parking lot, the red light gone. A man half a block away stared at me. The wind blew across me, moaning slightly like an anemic imitation of the specter that had just assailed me. I stood up, looking at the man staring at me. Would he come over? Would he call the cops? I wasn't sure I could stand it if I had to talk to someone. So I ran to my car, slamming into the front seat and gunning the engine.

As I passed the same man who'd been watching me, only feet away from me as I came abreast of him, I could see he was horrified. Tears ran down his cheeks. He seemed almost ready to say something. But I was passed him in a moment and he was gone. I wondered what he would have said.

I got home, though I had to stop three times. I called the only person I could. I dreaded the new age 'told you so;' the conversation began with my making her promise to listen and not judge. I could feel the tension coming through the phone as I told my story, despite her silence. When I finished the story, she grunted.

"Yes I know you think it's Mom. I think it's probably Mom."

"Then what do you think you should do?" she asked.

"Even if it is her, I'm not going to let her chart the rest of my life. I'm out of music. Why would she force me to do something she knows I don't want to do?"

"Because she knows what you really want to do. And it isn't selling dog food."

"How can I know that for sure? And why am I asking questions about someone who's been dead for twenty years?"

"This can't be meaningless, Ted."

"I've figured that one out. Unless I'm having a psychotic break. Then it could be meaningless."

"If you were going to go in this direction it would have happened already. Unless it's physical, like a tumor, in which case you'll need an MRI. I can call my friend who's a neurologist and we'll-"

"Anne! Shut up! I have to think it's Mom. It's the only thing that makes sense. But I can't believe that it's what it seems."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't know."

"Go pick up your violin and play the Chaconne. Maybe it will jar something loose in your head."

"I'm not ready to go that far."

"Have it your way. I have to go to sleep. Call me in the morning."

Sleep didn't seem like an option. I kept glancing at the closet where my violin was. Anne's suggestion kept playing through my mind. The Chaconne wasn't exactly an easy piece and I hadn't played it in years. Though I supposed whatever magic that might come of this wouldn't require virtuosity.

I did something I hadn't done in ten years. Unbeknownst to anyone, I had built a shrine to my mother. I went to a cabinet and unlocked a door. Inside was a picture of my mother, one of her best recordings and some dried flowers she received at the white house. And a teddy bear she had given me as a child.

I poured a glass of wine, turned on the recording and sipped the wine. I closed my eyes and sat.

And sat. And sat. The air seemed so paranormally charged that I expected to see the bloody specter I'd seen only hours before. All that happed was that I ran out of wine.

So I went to sleep. What else?

Morning. It would be sensible for me to say that the night before seemed like a dream but, in fact, I could still feel my nerves singing to the sound of my...ghost? Alternate personality? Psychosis? No explanation was satisfactory after years of surprising sanity after the murder of my mother. I had spent years in therapy, waiting for the explosion. And while my life wasn't what I considered fully on track, I thought I had made it through.

I called my assistant. He would be petrified but I was leaving him to deal with the Petroff dogfood account for at least a day. In reality, Petroff was going to get his series of commercials; it was all set up. All David had to do was to hold Petroff's hand. And that was only if something set him off. His wife and her roses not growing due to a short unseasonable cold snap. Or his favorite football team losing a game. Or re-runs of Gunsmoke being pre-empted for a news report. Petroff was not a Zen master. Or even an adult.

The phone call to David lasted three minutes. A lot of stammering and a final hang up. Then I put together what my sister liked to call a 'go bag.' My sister was fond of action movie phrases. I think it made her feel competent. In this case the go bag was useful; I wasn't sure if I'd be back that day.

It was a six-hour drive to my destination. It wasn't a place I liked to go. My aunt looked far too much like my mother for my comfort, much like she did when I was a child. I hadn't seen her in fifteen years. The family grape vine painted her as an alcoholic. Not all of us had made it past my mother's murder with a healthy attitude. I had had my business aspirations. My sister had her new age schtick.

My Aunt had nothing. She had lost her twin sister.

Just as I was walking out the door I stopped. Something was eating at me and, after a few seconds, I could tell what it was. I smiled. Though it seemed like I was giving in to my sister and her whole new age, paranormal, analysis, I went and dug back into my coat closet. There, beneath bags, boots, and other junk was my violin. I hadn't seen it in years.

The 'go bag' had been bought for business trips up to a week. I hadn't put much in it and the violin fit easily. I zipped up the bag and walked out to my car.

It was six hours to my Aunt's house. A lot of it required me to drive back roads. After my mother's death my Aunt, who had been somewhat of a pretentious sophisticate like the rest of my family, had left the city and moved to a place that was conspicuously difficult to get to, far away from any major highway. The town she lived in had an honest to God town square with a Gazebo. At night you could hear very little besides Cicadas.

Even for a small town, my Aunt lived in an out of the way house. Right off a residential street, her house, small and decidedly ramshackle, was down a private dirt road. I stared through the window, half hoping that she might not be home. It had been so long since I'd been there that I was shocked at the old sixties era wall paper that was so far below her former interior decorating glory I had to wonder if she was entirely sane. The look on her face when she answered my knock confirmed my decision to show up without calling.

"Ted. I don't hear from you for years and then you show up without calling. Thanks."

"Is it that much of a problem?"

"Played your violin much lately?"

"Touche."

She stood to the side. "Come in. I was just making a drink." She laughed, clearly tickled by her alcoholism.

I put down the 'go bag' and took in the house. "Late era depression style," she quipped.

"Excellent example."

"Why don't you sit on the saggy old lady couch and I'll make us both a drink. Gin and tonic as I remember."

"Close enough".

She busied herself in the kitchen and I tried to remember what it was like when we would have fabulous parties with my father, my Aunt and my mother's entourage. It seemed sort of like a movie that I had seen somewhere. I sat down just in time for my Aunt to return with two cheap supermarket glasses. I stared at mine after she had handed it to me.

"A far cry from cut crystal."

"It has a sort of Walmart charm."

"Ah, Ted. Always quick with a clever remark."

"I inherited it from my mother."

There was a moment of silence as I realized I'd said the "M" word. Finally, she sat in a chair across from me. "So this isn't a reunion, is it? You need to speak to me about something."

"I'm not sure how to start."

"Are you having trouble with your mother's memory?"

"I wish it was that simple."

Her eyebrows rose up. "What is this about?"

I paused, wondering how I could gracefully describe my experiences the night before. In the end I just opened my mouth and let it out. While I spoke my Aunt took only one sip of her drink, putting it down once it was clear this wasn't going to be an ordinary story. When I finished she blew out her cheeks. Then she gulped her drink.

"I have never known you to be dramatic or even psychotic, Ted. I'm not getting that from you now."

"I considered the psychosis angle."

"I'm not a professional but I think there would be some evidence of...diminished capacity."

"Believe me. I plan to see someone. Anne suggested it could be a tumor."

"Beware of free advice."

"I'm aware of my sister's deficiencies. But something made me imagine a ghost. Or see one."

We made small talk for a while, avoiding the issue.

Suddenly, she stared at my bag. "Did you bring it?"

I laughed. "Who's new age now?"

"It seemed to make sense."

In the waning light I went to my bag and pulled out my violin. She studied the case. "That was where I nicked it with a screwdriver by accident. Daddy wanted to kill me."

It had been my grandfather's, a much better musician than I had ever been. "I've always thought that it gave the case character."

"I know."

"Well, where do we go from here?"

She looked out the window. "Well it's sufficiently dark to be creepy. Why don't you play it?"

We both knew what 'it' was The Chaconne, the last part of Bach's Partita for violin. It had garnered incredible praise throughout the history of music. Violinist Joshua Bell described it as "not just one of the greatest pieces of music ever written, but one of the greatest achievements of any man in history. It's a spiritually powerful piece, emotionally powerful, structurally perfect."

I put the case on the couch and opened it. I immediately saw one of mother's earrings; I'd forgotten I'd put it there. "I gave her those," my aunt whispered.

There was a slight smell of mustiness resulting from the fact that the case hadn't been opened in years. I picked up the violin, finding it felt strange in my hands. I wondered if the lack of use might have loosened the strings on the bow but it seemed to have kept its bounce. There were two cakes of rosin in the case. I chose what looked like the newest one and rosined the bow, something that seemed unnatural and weird.

"I'm not sure how this is going to sound." I tuned it, carefully.

"I know. Just do it. If anything is going to shake something loose, it'll be this. Your mother said it gave her chilly bumps."

"I'm glad she's not here. It's going to be rough after ten years. Or more."

"Go and do it, Ted."

I put the violin on my shoulder and poised the bow, offering a little prayer that I wouldn't butcher one of the greatest pieces of music ever written. My Aunt smiled at me. Do it, I told myself.

The first few measures came out abominably. I was reminded of the first few years I played violin, the scratchiness, the awful tone. I remember that our cat had to be removed to the other end of the house or I could look forward to an hour of wailing cat while I practiced. But after a minute or so I began to get my bicycle riding skills back. The tone evened out, sweetened. And I began to remember what I had felt about this particular piece years ago and all the emotional peaks and valleys it had created as I played it. I closed my eyes and I began to feel it.

Just as I hit the point where the piece started to shift from slow and mournful to more active and angry I got another feeling; I felt a chill going through my body and slight singing in my head. I opened my eyes, still playing. And there was what I expected to see: my friend the specter.

Only this time it was silent and unmoving and there was no blood. If I could say that a being that had no eyes was staring at me, I could say it at that moment. I felt tears run down my face as I continued to concentrate on the piece. I looked toward my Aunt and her eyes were wide. She felt it too. This was my mother.

I wondered what Bach would have thought if he could have seen his piece being played in a scene that was more emotional and strange than any he could have imagined. My mother stayed silent during the piece. When I got to the last few drawn out, agonizingly extended notes, the specter let out a moan. I put the violin in its case and both my Aunt and I looked toward our faceless visitor.

I expected a performance like last night's but, instead, my mother bowed her head and said, "Please," she moaned, again sounding like someone who had trouble speaking. "Real killer."

And she was gone. I fell back into the couch. "Oh shit. Oh God. What just happened?"

My Aunt's eyes were stuck wide open. "I don't know, Ted. I think we just saw some form of your mother. That's what I think."

"I need a drink."

"You're on your own." She began crying.

"Are you sure it was her?"

"Oh Ted. I remember the way she would hold her body when she watched you play the Chaconne. It was her."

I stumbled into the kitchen and made both of us generous drinks, light on the chasers. Back in the ugly living room I handed my Aunt her drink. She was still crying.

"I miss her so much. I know I was an ass to have a tantrum and move out here-"

"Aunt Grace I don't think-"

She waved her hands impatiently. "Let me finish. I've been waiting years to say this. I loved...love my sister. And it just wasn't right that she was murdered. And I was angry. And I took my bat and ball and went home. I don't want to be separated from you and your sister any more. I'm sorry."

I put my arms around her and we stayed that way for a long time. Eventually she stirred. "You're keeping me from my drink, Ted?"

I smiled. Our family sense of humor was back. Back on the couch I asked her, "What does real killer mean?"

"Do you think I know?"

"I'm thinking. The only thing that is obvious is that her manager, Gary, didn't kill her. I can't see that anyone else killed her. And that would be what blinds us if there is a different explanation."

"Oh, come on, Ted. You're not going to make an Agatha Christie mystery out of the biggest disaster in our lives."

I shrugged. "Then who was that? And why did she say what she did? If you want to try to convince me that we both had the same hallucination and we can ignore this as D.T.s I'd be very happy."

"I'm the one with the D.T.s."

"Hardly the point."

"We need to go to that dedication, Ted!"

"You know about that?"

"Don't you think Anne called me?"

"She disgusts me some times."

"I'm not saying I agree with this whole 'School of vocal studies' thing. I agree with you. But I think if we go..."

I leaned forward. "Do you think Mom will be there?"

"If anything is going to represent the next chapter it's this. She wants us to do something. I can't think of anything else that's as important."

"This is a bad dream."

"Yes. It is."

I drove my Aunt back to the city. She brought an evening gown which she modeled for me, worrying that her years of drinking might have ruined her figure. She looked so much like my mother in her diva days that I started crying.

"Ted. Stop. I've been locked away for years. This is hard enough as it is."

"I seem to be one of the few children of murder victims who's unlucky enough to have his Aunt look almost exactly like his mother."

"I'm sorry, Ted."

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I think we have to. What happened today couldn't be a coincidence."

We had a drink and I fixed up the couch for my Aunt. She took my face in her hands. "It's okay, Ted. This is meant to happen."

"I guess so. It just occurred to me that I haven't told Anne we're coming."

She got an odd look on her face. "Don't."

"Why not."

"I don't know. Just bear with me, okay?"

"Okay." I turned and then turned back. "It's great to have you back. It's sort of like getting my mother back...at least a little."

"I love you, Ted."

"I love you, Aunt Grace."

I called David the next morning. As expected he was twice as agitated as he was the morning before. I was in no mood to go to work with my whole world turned over but I was barely able to make it through the day. I would stand up and walk around my apartment. Then I would walk outside. I went to a restaurant and had a meal which I barley tasted. Aunt Grace went for a walk with me and we made of point of not discussing the outrageous concept of having seen what had to be my mother's ghost.

Finally, I sat on my couch put my head in my hands. Aunt Grace tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a gin and tonic. "I don't recommend it as a steady diet, believe me. But we're about to go to a party where your mother's ghost may show up. I think we don't need to stand on ceremony. I think that this is an unprecedented situation."

I stared at the drink and started to laugh. I thought of what Aunt Grace had just said. If I tried to explain this to anyone, they would commit me. I took a sip of my drink. Then another.

And finally I stood up. Not drunk, but still laughing. And perhaps relieved. This trauma had had too much of a hold on me for too many years. It had limited my options and my life. I hadn't had a decent relationship with a woman in years. I was a loner. And I was tired of it.

I put on a tux and my aunt put on her evening dress. We got in the car and I drove to the university. It was all I thought it would be: valet parking, glasses of champagne, a string quartet. People strolled back and forth in their finery, stopping to pick up Hors d'Oeuvres or to exchange a few words with people they may or may not have liked at all. What did my mother say? See and be seen.

I walked in with Grace on my arm. We were royalty here, despite the cheesy nature of the whole affair. People stared at us, wondering who we could possibly be. Finally, one woman ran up to us. "Ted! My God. It's been years. What are you doing? What have you been playing?"

It was Bethany. She had done two or three duet albums with my mother. She was still a powerhouse in the music world. I had always thought she was an air head, despite being one of the best coloraturas that ever existed. I couldn't quite tell if she was stupid or just so narcissistic that she missed anything that wasn't about her.

I did the air/cheek kiss as required. "Sorry Beth. I haven't played in years. Though I did play the Chaconne last night."

"Oh! I remember your mother would rave about that. Oh. I'm sorry. Should I have mentioned that?"

"Tonight is about her. Don't worry, Beth. It was something that I treasured."

She kissed my cheek. "Of course. Sorry, let me speak to someone. We'll talk later."

As she walked away Aunt Grace snorted. "It's always amazed me that someone with talent like that is so vapid."

"It's been one of the greatest mysteries I've ever encountered."

We walked up the stairs up to the balcony that surrounded the room. As we crested the stairs we saw Anne. Her mouth opened and for a second I felt like she wasn't happy to see us. But then the moment passed and she ran forward and hugged both of us. "Aunt Grace! What brought the two of you here? I just spoke to Ted and he said he wasn't coming." She laughed somewhat shrilly.

"We thought it would be good for us to come," my Aunt said airily.

"This is wonderful"

"Are you okay?" I asked. There was something off about her.

"Of course." She looked around the room. "Why don't you come upstairs? We can have some champagne."

"Okay," I answered. "But don't you want to be here with your friends. With Mom's friends?"

"We can have a family moment. We haven't had one in years. Aunt Grace is here!"

"Well, when does the ceremony begin?"

"Not for an hour. We have time"

"People will be upset."

"Okay. Twenty minutes. One drink."

Aunt Grace tapped me on the arm. "Okay. One drink."

We followed her up to what would be her office. She fussed around with the champagne. Finally, she twirled around. "I think that you were right, Ted. You don't need to be here."

"What? You've been harassing me to come. I bring Aunt Grace. What the hell are you talking about?"

"I don't want you to ruin it. You're going to be sarcastic. You told me I was exploiting Mom's memory."

"She was my mother too. We're here. We're staying."

"I think you should leave! I set this up! I sweated for years getting funding and setting up the program. You're just a hanger on!"

Aunt Grace shook her head. "What are you doing, Anne?"

"Who cares what you think? You've been drinking yourself to death for ten years. If you weren't there when we needed you, you can leave."

"What is wrong with you?" I asked her.

"I don't have time for this. I have a dedication to do."

She lifted a box from the table behind her. As she walked out Aunt Grace grabbed her arm. The box fell to the floor, spilling the contents to the floor. I saw a dress, clearly my mother's. There was a libretto, a tuning fork, pictures, any number of important items that represented my mother's life. Near the dress lay a dried rose that looked like it had some black substance on it.

Aunt Grace stiffened. "What's that?"

"Nothing, "Anne said stiffly.

"No it isn't. I remember those. Roses. They found them next to her body when she was killed. And that looks like dried blood."

"So. It is something to remember her! I want them be part of the dedication!"

Aunt Grace turned to me. "Those roses were found by the police when she died. Anne wasn't there."

I stared at both of them. "What does that mean?"

Anne looked down at the floor. "It means that Anne was there when she died before the police showed up."

"What? What does that mean? Anne. What does that mean?"

Anne stared at the wall. "What the hell does this mean?" I screamed.

"Maria Callas," Anne Whispered.

"Oh God!" Aunt Grace shouted. "Are you serious?"

Maria Callas was one of the greatest singers of all times. She had deteriorated early and died young, making her a legend, a mythical figure.

"She was greater than Callas. She was at the top of her game. What was left but decline. When she died she was the best. And everyone who came after her was nothing. I used to think of her sitting on some news show with talking heads when she was seventy and couldn't sing anymore and I couldn't stand it. She knew it too. She talked about it. So I prevented it from happening."

"You can't make that kind of decision for someone!" I screamed. "You don't know what her life would have meant to her when she was older! What she might have done. You did it for you! Because you wanted to be the daughter of a Maria Callas. You haven't honored her."

She smirked. "You weren't with her. You didn't hear what she said."

I walked forward and before I realized what I was doing I had grabbed her around the neck and started squeezing. She grabbed my hands and tried to pry them loose but she couldn't. I started to watch her die, happy to let it happen. Her eyes started to lose focus and I kept on squeezing. That continued until I felt a heavy impact on the side of my head.

I fell to the floor and rolled over on my back. My Aunt looked down on me, a heavy ash tray in her hand. "Do you want to be like her, Ted? She's insane." To my left, Anne grabbed at her neck gasping. She saw me and began to crawl backwards though she lacked the strength to really move. I stood up, holding my head. Leaning over my sister, I screamed at her, "Did you kill her manager too."

She stared at me, eyes wide. Her face gave me her answer. "You're worthless. An insult to our mother's legacy."

No," she said softly.

"Do you think that she would have wanted this, that it wouldn't have violated everything she looked for in life? Even as an artist!"

She began crying. My Aunt sneered at her. "Her legacy will go on," Aunt Grace whispered. "But you won't be making the dedication. Nor will you be running this school. You want to honor her? Then Ted will be the one who does everything."

"We should send her to jail!" I shouted.

"Do you want that?"

"I don't know."

"Then she'll be committed. And you'll take over. There are thousands of students who will want this opportunity. Don't take it away from them because her daughter is a murderer. Many of them will be scholarship students."

I gritted my teeth and collapsed into a chair. "Whatever. I need a drink."

"Me too," my Aunt said. "And I don't feel ashamed of it."

We never saw my mother again. I supposed it had been hard enough for her to communicate as it was. But she had gotten what she wanted. I considered telling my sister about her ghost. It would have made her see that she was wrong. But there was no point.

I returned to music. I even made a CD. The first cut was the Chaconne.
Death Has a Sound

Rocky Rochford

No Regrets

Death has a sound and it sounds like this, Click.

To any normal person it is a normal sound. A sound any normal person would make when they click their finger.

Or snap them even.

But to the likes of those like me, it is not a normal sound. Whenever I click my fingers, it is not me engaging in a normal act, but me marking the passing of another soul for once again Death has come and another human life has ended.

Click.

There goes another one.

There are those who would consider my clicking to be morbid, but to those who know better, they know I do it because I have to.

It is part of the condition I suffer from.

A condition I was born with.

Ever since I was a young boy I had always felt too much and it wasn't till a few years later did I discover that I was born with the psychic ability to feel the feelings and emotions of others. But my skill was not limited to just feelings for my ability to read others pain and happiness was just the beginning.

I soon learned to develop it and become the all-powerful person I am today, all thanks to the Death's Door Brigade I guess.

I gave my life to them and in return, they gave me death. Yeah I probably should have mentioned that bit of information first.

The fact that I am at this moment in time laying on a cold stone slab floor, in a darkened room bleeding to death.

I can feel my crimson blood gushing out of the knife wound I've sustained to the abdomen and even now as I lay here dying, I can't help but think one morbid thought.

All my life I have been able to mark the passing of others, but the one death that is most important to me, my own, is the one death that I won't get to click.

It's sad really that even now as I lay with closed eyes, seconds away from death that I still think about my own inability to mark my own passing, but then again it is what being a Death Reader is about. Devoting your entire life to reading, feeling and marking the deaths of others.

I can remember the early days. Before I knew what I was, I was a young lad who would feel his heart stop beating inside his chest and it wouldn't resume until I clicked my fingers.

I didn't know why I did it, I just knew that I had to, the same way we all know we have to click.

Only difference is unlike most Death Readers, even then my abilities are without limits. Most of us can only feel lives ending in a 200-mile radius, but me, I could feel people dying all over the globe. It got so bad I would be snapping my fingers five times an hour of every day. Even when sleeping my fingers would snap.

Thankfully it was the constant clicking I made that caught the attention of the Death's Door Brigade, they took me in, trained me and I rose through the ranks.

As a secret society, its origin dates back to the dark ages and they are the oldest organization dedicated to Death. We feel it, we uphold it and we inflict it.

Essentially it is a cult, a cult made up of Witches, Reapers and Readers and I have been with them for the last two decades, serving as a guardian to maintain the balance, but something is afoot.

Some members of the DDB have taken to serving a new Master, a Master who wishes to bring about the end of us all, which brings me to the reason why I lay here dying. I tried to oppose them, to stop them but they are too many and too strong.

A Reader like myself is no match for a Reaper. Sure they're mortal and bullets are effective, but they're strong, instinctive and for some reason, harder to kill.

Born survivors.

Born killers.

Having lost the fight, the Reaper threw me in a cell, chained me up and whipped me for days on end.

After two weeks of relentless torture, a Reaper ushered me into this dark cellar, tied my hands together and shoved me to the floor before at last he rammed the blade of a sharpened dagger into my abdomen.

To be honest, it pleased me to suffer such fate.

After what they put me threw, death is the only freedom left too me.

Now, my would-be murderer could have left the blade inside of me, but he didn't desire that, so he eagerly yanked it out.

With blade in hand he soon vacated the room, leaving me to my fate, but I know he'll be back.

Back when the last drop of blood has vacated my body and I am unable to breathe, for like my heart, my lungs will cease to work. I can feel it now, the cold hand of death behind me. Ready to place itself upon my shoulder.

It won't be long now. I will soon be with the ones I've lost.

At least I can take some comfort in the fact that somewhere out there, in the world we live in, there is a Reader, ready to read my death. Ready to click their fingers before I succumb to the end that awaits me.

But at least I can say that I die with no regrets. There is not a single thing I can think of that I wish I had done differently, for I know that my murder will soon be avenged that someone out there will discover the truth.

They will track down and stop the mutinous DDB members, so with a smile now I must part.

My time here is done, so get ready to hear a click because here it comes...

Click.

To be Continued?
Embers of Webber Street

Karen J Mossman

Walking up to the front door, I was about to press the buzzer when the warden appeared. "Your mum's not herself today, Jennifer."

"What's happened?" I asked following her down the corridor to mum's flat.

"She's telling everyone John's coming."

I pursed my lips, "John's, my dad. He won't be coming."

"That's what I thought," she said, pushing open Mum's door for me. "I'll leave you to it, then."

"Thanks, Megan."

Mum's flat was small, a bedroom and bathroom led off the lounge, which also incorporated the kitchen. I still felt guilty living in our family home while she was here.

Mum, wearing a pink sweater with a stain on the front, and black slacks was holding a photo of Jessica and me.

"Ah, there you are," she said, as Jessica came in behind me and sat on the arm of the sofa.

She was stroking the photo with her thumb, "My girls," she murmured and looked up at me. "Your dad will be here soon."

I glanced at Jessica who was watching Mum closely. "Mum, Dad won't be coming," I told her. "Why don't I make us a cup of tea, instead?"

"Yes," she said putting down the photograph. "That will be nice. Get an extra cup out, just in case he does."

I didn't say anything as I moved around the kitchen filling the kettle and putting tea bags in the pot.

We sat around the table like we used to and Mum poured the tea.

"Do you see Dad at all?" She asked conversationally.

"I don't know what you mean." I stirred my tea, knowing exactly what she meant. Jessica looked at me and back to mum.

"Your dad and I said you'd grow out of it, but you haven't, have you?" I sighed and looked at Jessica.

When I was a child I talked to people they couldn't see. Jessica, who didn't laugh very often, thought it was funny until she realised I was serious. She and I were like two halves, she the introvert and me extrovert.

"Who are they and what do you say to them?" she asked once while we were doing puzzles in the front room.

"They're people who've lived and died in this house," I said, not looking up.

"Aren't you afraid of them?" Her blue eyes and blonde hair were the mirror image of me.

"No, and you shouldn't be either."

"What do they look like?" she asked, curiously.

I thought for a moment, "I can't always tell. I don't really see them individually."

She screwed up her eyes in that funny way she has. "What do you mean? I thought you could see them?"

It was hard to describe. "I can, but I see shadows, I suppose; wisps of people doing what they've always done when they lived here. I don't even know if they're aware of each other."

Jessica and I had been born in the house on Webster Street and had lived there all our lives. The shadows had probably been there for longer than I had.

"Wow!" Jessica seemed transfixed as she looked around the room trying to see what I saw. "Cool, you better not tell Mum and Dad, though. They'll think you're silly."

I never did, which was why Mum's question now lingered in the air. Jessica looked glum.

"You haven't grown out of it, have you, Jennifer?" Mum repeated.

I couldn't discuss it with her and especially not now. "Mum..."

"We knew you were different but didn't know what to do about it." She was having one of her lucid moments and it made my heart ache. "You were the only one who didn't cry at your dad's funeral."

Without thinking, I said, "That's because he was standing next to you." Jessica put her head in her hands and groaned.

"You can't do this to me!" Mum shrilled, getting to her feet and knocking over the dining chair. "I'll get Jessica to stay with me. She was always the nicer one, now get out!"

There was no reasoning with her when she went off on one like this. It would end up with us all being upset if I tried. So I left and went down to find Megan, who was sitting in her office chatting to a Home Help. I tapped on the door to get their attention and they immediately turned to look at me.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I can't reason with her and it's best just to walk away. Will you keep an eye on her? She should calm down now I've gone."

The Home Help looked sympathetic and Megan said, "Of course I will. I'll pop down there in a minute to see if she's okay."

"Give me a ring if there are any problems."

"She'll be fine, I'm sure," Megan said with a smile.

It wasn't far to walk home, that's why I liked the accommodation Mum was in, convenient to get to day or night. I put my hands in my pocket and my head down as it always hurt when she did that. I wanted my mum back, and that was never going to happen now. Even her lucid moments were getting less.

I didn't notice the car till the horn blared and Tom, my boyfriend got out. I say boyfriend, but my moods matched mums and although I liked him it was hard being in a relationship when I was struggling with her. Tom was a good man who he didn't push me and was always supportive.

Three years ago I dialled 999 when Dad fell off a ladder hitting his head on the paving stones. He died instantly and Tom was one of the first police officers on the scene.

Mum, who already lived her life in profound shock, went rapidly downhill from there.

Tom got out of the passenger door. "Jenn?"

"Oh hello, I was miles away. I've just been to see Mum, and she's had another turn."

He started walking with me and the car crawled alongside us. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know it's upsetting. She can't help it now. I think it's time to make that phone call, don't you?"

I knew in my heart of hearts that I needed to ring Social Services and have them assess her again. But even though her lucid moments were getting less, they always made me hesitate. "I know you're right," I said giving him a half-hearted smile. "It's just so..." I trailed off.

"Difficult?" He finished for me.

"Yes, that's it, but I know I have to face it sooner rather than later." We stopped at my garden gate. "I just feel so guilty all the time."

Tom put his hand on my arm and said, "I know you do and you really shouldn't. It's not your fault, Jenn. You did the right thing for her and you must do it again. Make that phone call. You have to think of yourself a bit more."

Tom was so wise and he was right. "I know," I said back, although thinking of myself was the last thing I was going to do.

Tom turned to his partner in the car. "Des, I'm going to walk Jenn inside."

"I'm fine, honestly," I told them looking at Des as well. I didn't want to get them in trouble.

"He had a curry last night, so yeah, it'll give me a break," Des quipped from the car window.

"Ignore him," Tom said and I couldn't help but smile. There was always banter between them and they often made me laugh when I didn't want to. We walked up the path to the door.

"Okay, do you want a coffee?" I relented, as he seemed intent on coming in.

"Never say no to a cuppa. You know me."

I put the key in the lock. "Well, your daft mate better come as well."

Des didn't need telling twice, and I knew it was more of a chance for them to skive off. Tom went straight up to use the toilet and Des lingered in the hall talking on his phone.

I went through to the kitchen, put my coat over the chair, and filled the kettle trying not to think about what mum had said when Jessica appeared.

"Don't say anything, favourite child," I told her, forcing a smile. It wasn't her fault, poor love.

As Des came into the kitchen and Tom down the stairs, Jessica retreated.

"So what happened this time?" asked Tom, casually leaning against the table.

"Just the usual really. You know what she's like."

Des looked out into the back garden, "My nan was like that, normal one minute, unreasonable the next. We never knew what mood she was going to be in."

"It's more than that, Des," said Tom as I put the bags in the teapot and filled it with hot water.

"Oh I know; I was just saying. I sympathise with you, Jenn. I know what it's like."

"Let's go out tonight?" Tom suddenly suggested.

"Oh! I'd love to, thanks for asking," said Des and I started to laugh. Tom picked up a tea towel and threw it at him before turning back to me.

"Ignore him. We could try that new Italian place on the high street."

"Desrano's?"

"Yes, that's the one. It would be good to get your mind on something else for a change, what do you say?"

I nodded, "Yes, okay."

"I take it I'm not invited, then?" said Des.

"No!" Tom and I said at the same time and grinned.

"Seriously, though," said Des. "I went the other week and it was nice. The foods really good."

I handed them the tea and we all stood in the kitchen drinking when their radio burst into life. They had a shout and quickly left. I emptied their tea down the sink just as Jessica came back in.

"I know," I said, as she always knew what I was thinking, "I shouldn't commit to a relationship when he doesn't know about this?" I swept my hands around the ghostly images. "And there's Mum, she needs me even if she doesn't always know it."

Jessica remained impassive as I turned away and washed the cups.

A couple of days later Mum walked in through the back door.

"What are you doing here?" I gasped, abandoning the meat I was frying on the stove.

"I want to see Jessica and I want to see John!" she demanded.

She went into the front room where Jessica was sitting. "So! You're keeping secrets from me, are you?"

"Mum! Please!"

"And where's John, where's your dad?"

"I can't just bring him back here like that. You shouldn't be here, how did you get out?"

"I walked, how do you think? Anyway, I heard you telling Jessica that you could summon anybody and I want to see John."

"I know you do, but I was a child then. It's not like that now. They need to be left alone."

She was poking around the room, peering behind the sofa and curtains. "They? Who are they? Where are they?"

"Nobody's here, Mum," I said, trying to be patient, but she wouldn't listen.

"Yes, they are. They're always here." She carried on looking determined to find something. "You said that I heard you say it."

I looked at Jessica, and she wore that haunted guilty look.

Running out of the room, she said, "I'll find them. I will, I'll find them." As she went upstairs, I was just about to follow her when I smelled burning. The meat!

The frying pan had caught fire and ignited the curtains. Panicking, I threw a tea towel over it, but it caught fire too. Thick smoke billowed and engulfed the kitchen forcing me out into the hallway.

It happened so fast and Mum was upstairs! I covered my mouth and nose with my arm and tried not to cough.

"Mum! Mum!" I screamed expecting her to appear.

I was just about to go after her when I was grabbed round the waist. I'd hardly registered someone kicking down the door as they pulled me away and out of the house.

"My mum! My mum!" I was screaming, but they didn't listen as the flames were already heading for the stairs.

Within minutes a fire engine had arrived and it became chaotic and surreal. Water hoses spurted at the windows and fireman with breathing apparatus went inside. Ladders were put against the upstairs window and I watched with horror as they headed up.

People had gathered around to watch and as I sobbed I could see faint shadows in the windows. Thick smoke was pouring out of the broken glass, and flames licked the gutters.

They brought mum out and it was too late. Once I had been checked over for smoke inhalation, Tom took me back to his house, as I had nowhere else to go.

The following day I insisted on going back to see the embers of Webster Street. My family home was burnt to the ground.

His arm was tightly around me as I stood and sobbed. "I don't understand why you need to see this. You are only torturing yourself."

One day I would tell him, even though I'm not sure he would understand. I take a final look at my mum, who for the first time looks truly happy. Dad, with his arm around her protectively has the twinkle back in his eyes. Finally, standing next to them is Jessica, my depressive, suicidal sister.
Eternally Connected

JLC Roche

### Chapter One

### Hypnotic Eyes

The autumn sunlight reflected brightly despite the nipping chill of early morning. Molly Feathersby shivered slightly, clutching her thin jacket protectively around her for warmth. Her long, red curls swirled haphazardly around her face, dancing joyously with the wind. Her blue eyes released a stray smattering of teardrops caused by the wind's constant assault.

" _What was I thinking agreeing to accompany Tanner on this morning outing? I should still be snuggled in my nice warm covers!" Molly thought regretfully._

The sun's rays struck the newly acquired engagement ring on Molly's left ring finger, making it shimmer with light. Her heart suddenly leapt with happiness as she realized the significance of this particular outing. The newly engaged couple would be searching for decorations to adorn their new living space. This thought alone made dealing with the early hour bearable for Molly.

Molly gazed lovingly up at her new fiancé Tanner Carlsen with pride. Tanner's head was bent, fighting off the strong, October morning chill. Molly knew if Tanner were to look up, she would be met by the most enchanting pair of cornflower blue eyes.

It was these same soulful eyes that caused Molly to fall in love with Tanner. The moment the six-foot tall, sandy-haired, stunner of a man, strolled into Finnegan's tavern after a day's work with several of his buddies for a drink three years prior, Molly had honed in on his baby blues immediately.

" _I have to meet this man." Molly thought possessively._

Unfortunately, a crowded pub didn't give Molly the best chances to stand out she suspected. Little did she know that she was mistaken when it came to catching a man's attention, or that meeting Tanner would be the start of her life changing forever in a way she never would have imagined.

In the semi-darkened pub, Tanner's piercing eyes surveyed groups of women gathered in clusters, until they finally alighted on Molly. Molly felt a surge of excitement tingle throughout her entire body as Tanner's eyes swept approvingly over her petite form. She suppressed a blush daring her eyes to meet Tanner's. Tanner rose to introduce himself, and before Molly realized it she was swept up in a whirlwind romance.

Tanner and Molly fit together perfectly like two puzzle pieces. They became inseparable over the next few years. Now with their impending wedding to plan, the couple had decided it would be prudent to move in together.

After much research and discussion amongst friends, Tanner and Molly found the perfect new starter location for their first home. It was a townhouse, located within walking distance from the heart of Soho in NYC. The perfect compromise, since Tanner would be able to walk to catch the "L" train into the heart of the business district for his job as a banker.

Molly as a freelance journalist, found the unique vibe from the people inhabiting Soho, conducive to her creative process as a writer. She loved seeing street vendors selling handmade wares, and even took pleasure in the sound of street music intermingling with car horns. Molly could definitely picture creating a life here with Tanner.

There was one problem that interfered with Molly's idealistic vision. Molly and Tanner still hadn't added any personal touches to their new home. Which is why Molly found herself out and about, battling the savage winds of early fall. Her fiancé Tanner was doubled over to form a giant human force field, blocking gusts as the couple trekked to downtown Soho. Molly and Tanner were intent on their destination, yet the wind seemed to stymie their progress, pushing them two steps back for every one step forward they achieved.

### Chapter Two

### Vintage Finds Better Left Behind

Molly glanced up through watery eyes as October winds pelted Tanner and her mercilessly, hoping to glimpse a home décor store or an antiques boutique through her distorted vision.

"Hang in there, Molly we are nearly to the Soho shopping district." Tanner squeezed his new fiancée's hand encouragingly.

Molly forced a half-smile across her lips. "It is rather exciting to know we are buying things to decorate the home we are living in together for future parties, and holidays as husband and wife someday." Molly replied, brightening with this revelation.

"We have our whole lives together to look forward to. This is just the beginning of many firsts for us!" Tanner pulled Molly in closer to him lovingly.

"Yes! I hope I can find an antique typewriter, the kind my grandmother used to write journalism stories on." Molly fretted.

Tanner laughed. "I still can't understand in this day and age of technology, why you would want to create stories on something so antiquated like a typewriter!"

Molly stopped walking, facing Tanner with her fists planted firmly on her hips, drawing herself up to her full height of 5'2" to address her fiancé.

"All the real writers of their time had typewriters to create brilliant pieces of literature upon. I feel like having a typewriter will help inspire me. Connect me to those great writers somehow. Don't you mock me Tanner Carlsen!"

Tanner held up his hands, pretending to shield himself from the verbal barrage unleashed by his pint-sized fiancée.

"Truce! I am sorry to have offended your art madam!" He bowed slightly, kissing Molly atop her head. "Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?" He pleaded with Molly giving her a devilish grin.

Molly laughed. "You are a goofball! Yes, I forgive you. Now come on before we catch colds in this wind!"

"We won't be in the elements much longer love, look there!" Tanner was pointing in the direction of something behind Molly.

Quickly Molly spun around to see what had her fiancé so excited. There on the next corner was a store. The sign on the storefront read:

Pandora's Box Antiques & Collectibles

Unique Finds & Treasures

"Antiques! I bet that store is guaranteed to have an antique typewriter like you want Molly!" Tanner was beaming now over his discovery.

Molly had an unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach. "I don't know Tanner. I mean, have you ever even seen that store before? I sure haven't."

Tanner grabbed Molly's hand leading her in the direction of Pandora's Box Antiques & Collectibles. "New stores are popping up all the time! Besides we haven't lived here that long Molly. We don't know every store on each block. I bet this store has the perfect typewriter you need to become an award-winning writer!"

Molly looked at Tanner. Something seemed off about his behavior. He appeared intent on going into this particular store, as if he was under a spell of sorts. He moved towards Pandora's Box as if he were in a daze. His movements were fluid, like one who is sleepwalking. His heavily lashed eyelids looked droopy. Perhaps it was Molly's own tired mind playing tricks on her. After all she was up late the night before researching information for an assignment, then woken up early this morning to go shopping.

Tanner was just being supportive of her writing. Maybe he too wanted a break from the cold wind blasting him in the face, and saw Pandora's Box as his first refuge from the elements. Molly smiled to herself. She may be giving too much thought to this issue. Sometimes a person just needed to throw caution to the wind and let the universe decide their fate.

"Okay Tanner, let's see if Pandora's Box is open." Molly declared allowing her beau to lead the way.

Tanner smiled at Molly, a starry-eyed smile she hadn't seen before. Molly got an odd sensation in the pit of her stomach. She shook it off thinking she must be hungry. She didn't get time to eat breakfast that morning, now she wished she had.

Tanner's pale, blue eyes appeared to look right through her when he smiled. They were focused on something directly above Molly. Tanner's eyes were trained on the neon sign in the window of Pandora's Box Antiques & Collectibles. Suddenly the sign blazed to life as if on que, emitting one single word in red neon. Open

"Looks as if we're right on time." Tanner declared dreamily to no one in general, stepping off the sidewalk curb to cross the street to Pandora's Box.

Molly screamed, pushing Tanner roughly across the street causing them both to fall in a pile on the sidewalk. A yellow cab sped past narrowly missing clipping both of them.

"Are you crazy? Why did you step out in front of a cab like that? You could have been killed! Why are you suddenly behaving like a five - year old?" Molly scolded Tanner, more out of fear than anger.

Tanner's smile disappeared, he looked crestfallen at being chastised in public. Molly instantly regretted her rash comments.

"I'm sorry Molly. I only wanted to help you find an antique typewriter. Once you explained how important it was for you to own one, I knew we needed to find you that typewriter! I became excited when I saw this shop. I'm not sure what came over me, or why I stepped out in front of that speeding cab just now. I only know I felt compelled to get to Pandora's Box. I...I don't know how to describe it..." Tanner's voice trailed off as a puzzled looked passed across his face.

Molly rubbed Tanner's back sympathetically. "I am sorry I yelled Tanner. I was so scared at the thought of losing you when I saw that taxi cab flying down the street. You seemed to be oblivious to it. If I hadn't used all my weight to push you to the sidewalk, you would be in a hospital bed now! That cabbie never even slowed down! You certainly aren't hard to miss! It's daylight for Pete's sake! The monster driver never ever stopped to check if we were okay after practically running us down! What kind of person does that?" Molly exclaimed indignantly.

Molly looked towards Tanner for empathy on the situation. Tanner's eyes were big and round as if frightened from the cabby experience. Molly assumed her anger over the situation wasn't helping matters either. Molly thought it strange that her six-foot tall fiancé, the man who always played the role of protector in their relationship, was cowering on the sidewalk. It dawned on Molly, that for the first time in their relationship, she and Tanner had reversed roles. Molly was now portraying the role of protector for her fiancé.

This revelation was both unsettling and disturbing for Molly to discover. While she never would want any harm to come to Tanner, Molly didn't wish to take the brunt of the relationship on her shoulders. She had a lot to deal with when it came to her writing and finding new articles to earn money. Tanner was the one who took care of them, but Molly was determined to make it big in the writing world. Getting a typewriter was only phase one of her plans. There was so much more to be done on her path to becoming a great writer, she couldn't afford to be saddled with a partner that was here one minute and needed to be babied the next. What was Tanner's deal today?

Molly had little time to ponder her new role in their partnership before her body became enveloped with a cold sensation. The feeling emanated from the pit of Molly's stomach, spreading throughout her body, turning her blood to ice water. Molly felt helpless as wave after wave of coldness washed over her being. She felt caught in a wind tunnel, yet heard no sound.

"What is happening to me?" Molly wondered still sitting on the pavement recovering from the close brush with death from the speeding cab. "Maybe the cab really did hit us and I am not here but seeing this from outside my body?"

Then as fast as the coldness had appeared, it was gone. Molly pinched herself to see if she truly was okay.

"Ouch!" Molly winced from her own pinch.

Tanner looked at Molly with concern registering in his eyes. "Molly, are you alright?"

Molly sighed happily. Tanner seemed to be acting like his old self again. Molly smiled at him. "Yes, I'm just fine. Everything's fine Tanner."

Tanner returned Molly's smile and squeezed her hand. "Good to hear. Should we continue with our shopping trip?"

"Certainly!" Molly declared feeling revived suddenly. "Shall we begin here?" Molly gestured to the store behind her without looking.

"Yes!" Tanner said excitedly, hopping to his feet like a kid on Christmas. His blue eyes glowed with desire.

"Oh no, what store is this?" Molly thought, instantly cognizant of the erratic behavior Tanner displayed.

Slowly Molly turned her head to read the name of the store front they had fallen in front of earlier. The waves of chills returned as Molly saw they were on the sidewalk beside Pandora's Box Antiques & Collectibles!

Before Molly could object to the store choice, she heard the sound of faint strains of music coming from the depths of Pandora's Box. The melody was sad, and haunting. Molly thought she recognized the song, it reminded her of something, but she couldn't clearly hear the full tune. Molly really was curious about the song. Then before she could figure out where she had heard the haunting tune before, Molly's head started to ache painfully. Her eyelids felt heavier with each enticing note emitted from the cavernous depths of Pandora's Box. Although Molly's intuition told her to steer clear of Pandora's Box, due to a gut instinct she felt earlier, the calming music beckoned her inside.

"Surely it couldn't hurt to browse about? Could it?" Molly reasoned with herself.

The couple tentatively approached the glass entrance to Pandora's Box Antiques & Collectibles which was adorned with a thick, burgundy, velvet curtain to keep out curious eyes. Just as Tanner reached out his arm to grab the door handle of shop entrance, it whipped open, startling both Tanner and Molly. who drew back in surprise.

The velvet covered glass door opened to reveal a woman equal in height to Tanner, and who towered above Molly. The woman had a stately presence about her. Her skin was the purest shade of alabaster, which was further enhanced by her waist length, raven-colored hair. Molly thought she detected hints of purple or indigo sparsely intermingled into the raven colored strands as well.

"I'm Pandora I own this shop. May I help the two of you?" The woman inquired of the couple, looking first to Tanner then to Molly.

Molly couldn't believe the exquisite eyes on Pandora. They changed color rapidly, without warning. One moment they were blue, then suddenly Pandora's eyes took on a violet colored hue, before morphing to a muted green, and finally settling on a golden shade that emulated the bright rays of the sun. Molly was left tongue - tied.

Tanner didn't appear phased by the looming presence of Pandora or her ever \- changing corneas. He was more intrigued by the items beyond eyesight, tucked away in the darkened store. Tanner strained his neck around Pandora's imposing figure, which currently impeded their entry into the shop.

Molly was about to tell Pandora they would not be requiring her help, when her ears once again caught the faint strains of music coming from inside Pandora's store. Molly had to know where it was coming from. Molly's curiosity won out.

"Pandora, I need to know what song that is. The melody is so familiar yet I can't seem to place it." Molly admitted to the shopkeeper feeling defeated.

"Yeah, I have been thinking the exact same thing!" Tanner exclaimed.

Pandora smiled secretively as her eyes darted from Molly to Tanner. She appeared to assess the couple individually, studying them. Then she simply stepped aside, allowing the couple entry into her shop with a grand sweeping gesture of her right arm.

"Welcome to Pandora's Box Antiques & Collectibles. Home to some of the most unique treasures you will ever find. Please be advised that all sales of merchandise you buy are final and you shop at your own risk, so be wise in making purchases my dears!"

Molly and Tanner looked at one another. Both were interested in knowing where the music was coming from within Pandora's Box, but what kind of sales pitch was this Pandora woman offering? Telling customers that they "shopped at their own risk" was just poor business practices. Still the sense of mystery that surrounded the shop created an intense desire to enter it. Perhaps Pandora was a shrewd business owner after all!

"We wish to enter your store please." Molly declared bravely making eye contact with the shop owner as Tanner grasped her hand in his for reassurance.

Pandora's yellow eyes turned an emerald green shade. They crinkled in the corners forming an ear-to-ear smirk.

"I had a feeling you two couldn't resist entering Pandora's Box." She said with a laugh. "Well come in, and have a look around."

****

Molly and Tanner eased past a grinning Pandora, entering the darkened confines housing the wares sold at Pandora's Box Antiques & Collectibles. Everywhere they looked their eyes met shelves spilling over with unique antiques. Some things Molly was able to identify. She had seen these types of knick-knacks before. Then there were oddities that caused Molly's stomach to knot up. Several times Molly wondered perhaps they should rethink their decision to enter this shop in the first place.

"Um, Tanner I don't think this shop has what we need. Perhaps we should go home. Maybe we can start fresh another day." Molly requested. Tanner had stopped as if rooted in place. He appeared not to have heard a word Molly had said.

Tanner held one finger to his lips, and put up his other hand to silence Molly's words. Molly gave him a quizzical look. He pointed to an open door practically hidden by all the clutter. The door was located in the far right corner of the room, across from where they were presently standing. It looked like it led to another room in Pandora's Box.

"I believe the music we heard from outside is coming from inside that room!" Tanner whispered in a hushed tone excitedly.

Molly wasn't sure why they were whispering, but lowered her voice as well. "I don't hear music anymore Tanner. In fact, I haven't heard that song since we entered Pandora's Box!"

Tanner stared at Molly incredulously, as if she had suddenly sprouted a second head when she made this declaration. "What are you saying? The music is clear as day and it's coming from behind that closed door! Now come on!"

Tanner had his hand on the doorknob, yanking open the door before Molly could stop him.

"Wow! Molly there is another whole room filled with vintage stuff in here! These things look even older than some of the stuff on display out there. You have to see this for yourself!" Tanner's voice carried loudly across the store.

Molly glanced nervously about for Pandora, the store owner. Surprisingly, since allowing them entry into her store, the mysterious looking shopkeeper had remained hidden from sight. Molly wondered if they were even allowed to be in the second room, since it had been closed off from the rest of the shop.

"Perhaps that area isn't for the public." Molly called out hesitantly to Tanner.

"There was no sign saying 'Private' and it's set up like the other room only with older collectibles. Oh man look at this find!" Tanner suddenly exclaimed.

Molly couldn't take it any longer and her curiosity won out once more. She scrambled into the second room to find Tanner standing, mouth agape, staring at a giant portrait of an attractively painted female. The portrait was easily 30" x 36" in size, framed using an ornate, gold frame.

The first thing Molly noticed about the woman captured in the painting, was the color and shape of her eyes. Her eyes were an intense, green hue and almond shaped. Those eyes appeared to bore straight into Molly's soul. She swore if a painting could send daggers with its eyes, then this painting was definitely aiming some her way.

Molly knew it was silly to be jealous of a portrait, but the way Tanner was fawning over the stunning, raven-haired temptress, really made Molly's blood boil.

"Tanner it's a depiction of a woman some artist created! She isn't real! Of course she looks perfect! No real woman looks like that!" Molly spat.

"I like it! We need decorations for our new place. That was the point of coming out today right? I want to buy it for the new house!" Tanner adamantly stated.

Molly was mortified. She was not going to have this seductive painting hanging in their new home! What in the world was Tanner thinking?

"Tanner, in case you had forgotten, we came into Pandora's Box to see if there might be an antique typewriter I could use for my job. That was the main objective. Not to buy ornate paintings of some mystery woman, simply because you fancy the look of her." Molly chastised.

"Actually that painting was done of a woman who was indeed a real person." Molly and Tanner pivoted their heads around at the sound of a third voice in the room. Pandora's looming figure slowly emerged from the shadowy depths of one corner of the room. Her eyes blazed orange, like two hot fires burning simultaneously.

Molly shivered in spite of herself at the sight of an angered Pandora. "Where had the shop keeper appeared from? Had she heard Molly and Tanner's entire conversation regarding the painting? Did they offend her?"

Thoughts swirled consistently through Molly's mind with each step Pandora took bridging the gap between herself and the couple. Soon, too soon, Pandora stood only an arm's length away from Molly who could see the orange color of her eyes was intermingled with yellows and flecks of red as well.

"We...we are so sorry to have offended your painting Pandora." Molly stammered casting her own eyes downward to avoid eye contact with Pandora's intense gaze.

"I never insulted your picture. I wanted to buy it for our new house. I think it's magnificent!" Tanner piped up suddenly.

Molly watched in stunned silence as Pandora's fiery eye color receded. The orange rage in her corneas was replaced with a rosy pink hue. Molly felt faint. Never, in all her life, had she experienced a woman like Pandora!

Pandora smiled genuinely at Tanner. "Really? You honestly like my painting?"

Tanner returned Pandora's smile with one of his own. "Really and truly! What's not to love? A stunning, raven-haired beauty with gorgeous, green eyes? Any man would be proud to display this piece in his man-cave at home!" Tanner winked at Pandora and the two shared a laugh together.

Molly watched the scene unfold before her own eyes with bewilderment. "What is going on? I feel as if I am the third wheel. I am Tanner's fiancée!" Molly thought quietly. "Tanner wasn't a flirt or a ladies' man, but watching him interact with Pandora, one would never guess that was the case. Tanner was always reserved, protective, the type of guy a girl could rely on in an emergency. Today he was giddy, flirtatious, easily distracted..." Molly suddenly felt her blood run cold.

When describing Tanner's current behavior, Molly realized she had been describing her own usual behavior! Ever since she and Tanner first heard the music that drew them both into Pandora's Box Antiques & Collectibles, their personalities had switched! Molly became the reliable individual in the relationship, while Tanner had become the dreamy, exuberant one! What had Pandora done to them? The better question, Molly theorized, was why did she single them out?

"I think we need to get back home now; don't you agree Tanner?" Molly stated holding out a hand for her fiancé to grasp.

Tanner gave Molly a pouty look to show his displeasure, but accepted the hand Molly held out.

"Wait! You said something about wanting an antique typewriter correct?" Pandora inquired. The shop keeper seemed desperate to keep them at the shop for as long as she could. This realization made Molly even more determined to flee from Pandora's Box.

"Yes, but I never said that to you. How did you...?" Molly began to ask Pandora how she knew about her needing a typewriter. It was obvious that the shop clerk had been listening in on the couple's conversations while in the store, yet Molly never saw or heard a soul until they were in front of the painting.

Pandora waved Molly's questions off with a flip of her hand. "Stay right there you two! Promise not to leave yet! Molly, I think I have exactly what you are looking for in the attic. I know exactly where to find it! Just give me five minutes!"

Then Pandora ducked her massive frame as she exited the doorway of the room, melting into the darkened shadows of the storefront, and disappeared from sight.

"That was rather odd, and slightly unsettling don't you agree Tanner?" Molly asked her fiancé, regarding Pandora's erratic behavior and hasty departure.

"Tanner?" Molly inquired a second time.

Molly spun around to face the picture of the woman. The eyes of the woman which had been a vibrant green earlier, were now pale pink, much like Pandora's. Tanner was nowhere to be found in the room.

"Oh no! No! I haven't moved from this spot! I would have heard Tanner move! If Tanner left the room, I would have seen some form of movement! The door is the only way in or out of this room. Pandora closed it when she left." Molly felt as if she were on the verge of a nervous breakdown. What had happened to Tanner?

Beads of sweat began forming at Molly's hairline. The room felt like it was closing in around her. The shelves overflowing with vintage collectibles threatened to block out any chance of air getting to Molly's lungs.

Molly felt dizzy. "Where was Pandora with the antique typewriter? She said it would only take her five minutes, and to stay put. It must be well beyond five minutes now! Besides Tanner was gone. Molly needed to know what had happened to her fiancé!"

Molly started storming out of the room, towards the door. Suddenly she tripped over an obstacle in the middle of the room. Molly hit the floor hard, finding herself sprawled on the ground for the second time that day. This time she was not as lucky to avoid injury. Pain seared through her left ankle. Molly gripped her ankle wincing.

"Ouch! That hurts! What did I hit?" Molly cried out.

She fumbled around in the shadows of the room for the contents of her purse. Molly located her cell phone. She used the flashlight app on her cell phone to help her see better in Pandora's Box. Molly shone the beam of light back towards where she had fallen. Molly covered her mouth to keep from screaming.

There at her feet was the object that had caused her to fall in the room. It was a vintage typewriter! Exactly the sort of typewriter Molly had been hoping to find. Molly rubbed her bruised ankle. She attempted to put weight on her left foot. It was useless. Molly shined her light around the room hoping to find that Pandora had returned.

"How else did this typewriter get here?" Molly surmised.

Alas, the room was completely empty. Molly was alone. She returned her ray of light to the antique typewriter once more.

"It's a stunning typewriter, but how did it get here?" Molly mused.

It was then Molly realized there was a piece of paper in the typewriter with words already typed on it.

"That's strange, I could have sworn the typewriter carriage was empty when I first shined my light on it. What is going on?" Molly thought as she shined her cell phone flashlight app quickly about the room.

"Tanner? Pandora? Ok fun is over now you two. I really am hurt. I need help." Molly waited breathlessly listening for any sounds of movement. There were none.

Cautiously, Molly dragged herself on her right side towards the typewriter. She turned the side tumblers, freeing the piece of paper. She laid the loosened paper with typed words on the floor in front of her. Hesitantly Molly aimed her flashlight app towards the paper and began reading. The more Molly read the faster her heart beat, the wider her eyes became. Time seemed to stand still as her eyes scanned the lines on the typed page.

"This can't be happening! How? Oh my goodness! NO!" These same thoughts repeated continuously as Molly read, then re-read the words before her.

The Letter:

Molly,

Here is the typewriter that you wanted so much. I hope it makes you as happy as Tanner will now make me for eternity! When I invited you into Pandora's Box I reminded you to shop wisely as all the purchases here are non-refundable and carry great risks. I have chosen your fiancé as sufficient payment for this antique typewriter. I hope you realize what you have risked in your path to become a great writer, since true love is rare. Should you ever wish to see your beloved fiancé's face again, view the portrait you felt was 'too ornate' for your precious new home. The deal has been locked in stone.

Pandora

Molly dragged herself as quickly as her bruised ankle would allow, until she was facing the portrait of the woman Tanner had been obsessing over earlier. Molly's mouth fell open as every hair on the back of her neck prickled with electricity. The portrait was transformed! It no longer portrayed one dark-haired beauty. Now added to the portrait beside the woman was the fawning image of Tanner, Molly's fiancé.

"Nooooo! You can't take Tanner! He isn't yours! He loves me! He wants to marry me!" Molly screamed helplessly at the images encased in the golden frame before her.

Her words were useless. Nothing could bring Tanner back. Molly's fate had been sealed. Pandora had chosen her reward. Molly stared up at the eyes of the woman in the portrait. The eyes gleamed back at her in triumph, before turning crimson in hue. Then Molly knew Tanner was lost forever. The portrait was a portal to a world where Pandora kept her ill-acquired treasures obtained from those who dared to enter her doors.

Tanner now inhabited that unreachable domain. He was forever bound, eternally connected to his new life partner, Pandora. Molly had ventured into Pandora's Box and paid the ultimate price. Loss of love for eternity.

Moral:

Treasure those you love, never allowing work and job commitments to overwhelm your life, or you too shall fall into Pandora's clutches!

The End

Ghost in the Machine

Eve Merrick-Williams

It was a sick idea, and I should know I was partially responsible. It was one of those blue sky thinking sessions fuelled by too much caffeine and lack of sleep.

At Dark Sun Inc. sleep was very definitely for wimps. People lived caffeine, amphetamine and ambition fuelled lives until they burned out or had a complete melt down. Sanity eroded quickly, and more than one person had been found dead at their work station. Roger looked at me, the youngest intern, and smiled his shark smile.

"We haven't heard much from you Gemma, surely you have something to contribute. This is a blue sky session throw in anything no matter how off the wall."

I felt pinned like a prison escapee caught in a search light. The expectant silence was palpable. The room smelled blood in the water, this was a make or break career moment. Roger CEO of Dark Sun Enterprises was just over thirty and already Bill Gates rich. He owned more than thirty patents all vital to the IT industry, and would soon own more. He could make or break you on a whim.

Dark Sun was cutting edge, it was a research centre and technological think tank, employees were expected to have diverse and multiple fields of expertise. I had graduated recently with degrees in neurology and computer science. I'd been working on computer learning and neural nets. I was lucky, or so I thought at the time, to be spotted by a Dark Sun talent scout, but my shiny new PhD didn't count for much at Dark Sun. If I was going to stay, let alone progress, I was going to have to prove myself and come up with a stream of innovative and eventually lucrative ideas. I'd been part of a team at work on mapping and recording the electrical activity of the brain. It was interesting and challenging work, but a bit of a back water for Dark Sun enterprises.

"Well," I said playing desperately for time, "I was wondering if the human personality could be stored electronically."

Basically I'd come up with the first thing I could think of. Roger's predatory grin went up a notch. I was sweating, if Roger didn't like what I said my colleagues would rip me apart, and it would be the end of me. In my six months at Dark Sun I'd seen it happen several times.

"Interesting idea Gemma, not to put you on the spot, but perhaps you'd like to amplify." He tapped his tablet. "I see you have expertise in neural networking, brain mapping and neurology...clever girl."

I was floundering and grabbing at straws. I felt sticky under the arms and my pulse was racing. I had to think hard to back up a comment thrown out in desperation

"Well the human personality is merely a self-modifying algorithm and the brain is only a piece of organic hardware. In principle we should be able to copy the human self and transfer it to other devices or modify it electronically after all it is only another programme, I mean in essence it's only a software problem."

Roger looked thoughtful. "Not a data storage problem?"

"Not really." I replied there are approximately 100 billion neurons, in a human brain and each is capable of making around 1,000 synapnaptic connections; synapses do the work of data storage. If you multiply each of the 100 billion neurons by the number of synapses, you get around 100 trillion data points, or 100 terabytes of info. The industry is close to producing 100 terabyte hard drives, although that would not be my preferred method of storage. I would prefer to use the cloud to store human minds. The cloud is already able to handle that volume of data and further more would be a more robust and economical way of handling it."

Roger made a note on his tablet. "Thank you Gemma that was an interesting contribution." And dismissing me from his mind he turned to torment someone else. I sank back in my chair thankful to be forgotten.

Next day at my work station an icon started blinking on my screen I was being skyped. The screen lit up with the beaming face of Roger.

"Gemma, Hi. I think it's time we progressed you." His smile brightened up a precise notch. "I liked your thinking yesterday. I've considered it, and I feel it's worth setting up a project team to explore the possibilities. Naturally you're too junior to head it up, so I'm giving it to James, I know you get on with him."

That was an understatement. Dark Sun discouraged relationships among employees, it discouraged relationships of any sort. Dark Sun required total commitment. So we had done everything we could to hide ours. Not to labour the point we were mad about each other. In some ways the clandestine nature of our relationship made it more fun. It was as though we were married to Dark Sun, and were having and adulterous affair.

I now had a coveted salaried post at Dark Sun. I was James' number two in the department with an office of my own; not a hot desk, and desperate interns to do my every bidding. The down side was results were required, and quickly. It took time even with the resources of Dark Sun to obtain all the equipment we needed.

Hyper-frequency Electroencephalograph (Hyfreeg) brain scanners don't grow on trees and getting time on Dark Sun's Cray computing facility required lengthy negotiation with the IT dept. who guarded it like dragons. Despite this after a few months we began to scent success. It was an amazing time, and despite the brutal work schedule James and I grew increasing close. Our snatched moments together were like heaven, and I soon realized that James really was the one.

We were summoned to a video conference by Roger. He looked sombre.

"I've been looking at the records of your project." He steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. "Your research is eating up resources at an alarming rate, and although it is academically fascinating, I should stress Dark Sun is not an academic institution. If Dark Sun is to continue funding your project, I need to see a practical and above all commercial application." This was typical Roger, he liked to put employees on the spot and upping the pressure. He called it turning the creative screw. He continued, "So, unless I can see some commercial application I may have to defund your department and revue your contracts."

I was stunned, that would end our careers at Dark Sun. In retrospect I see now that would not have been a bad thing. At the time though Dark Sun was our world we even had apartments on campus. To leave was unthinkable. I hadn't been off campus for a year it was my world.

I looked over at James he was frozen. I saw him open and close his mouth, but no words came out. I started speaking, but I had no idea what I was going to say, but my subconscious came up with something plausible. I wish it hadn't.

I forced a smile onto my face. "Well James and I have been kicking around a few ideas we have one that might have legs."

Roger gave me a measured look. "OK, impress me. Give me the pitch."

I was talking to fill the void, saying anything and hoping for inspiration. "Everything around here is run by our digital assistants. They fill our fridges, manage our files, run our baths, and control our air conditioning and heating. And, this is going to increase exponentially. Digital assistants will take over most of the routine tasks in our lives."

Roger was starting to look interested. "And your point is?"

"Who knows our tastes, our desires, and needs better than us? The idea is to upload copies of ourselves as digital assistants. And on the cloud they would follow us everywhere."

Roger gave me a sharp nod. "You just saved your funding... for now, but I expect to see results...soon." And with that he closed the connection.

What followed was a blur. We worked pulling twenty-four hour shifts, and when coffee failed to keep us going we turned to amphetamines and cocaine. Certainly by the time we made our breakthrough none of us were sane. I think that was our mistake. If we had rested and recovered, I'm sure it could all have been avoided.

James and I looked at each other blearily and smiled. We knew we had done it. And despite the other staff and the ubiquitous security cameras we kissed passionately.

I asked, "so who do we up load first?"

"You of course it was your idea, and I just love the idea of two Gemma's."

I was ridiculously flattered. "Let's do this!"

I was soon wired up by our technicians; the up load was a long process. It required looking at a screen and wearing head phones while you were bombarded with visual and auditory stimuli. In my sleep deprived and drugged state this was not a remotely pleasant experience. I started to feel resentful and angry, I just wanted to sleep, but they kept flashing pictures at me and bombarding me with auditory stimuli, and even mild electric shocks. Once the process was finished I staggered back to my apartment and crashed on the couch.

I awoke twenty-four hours later stiff and smelling like a pole cat still in the clothes I'd been wearing three days before. I had been woken by gentle ambient nature sounds, and the smell of my favourite coffee. The screen above my bed showed the face of a young woman smiling down at me. It took a good few seconds to recognise my own face.

"Good morning Gemma. I've run your bath and your coffee is ready. James skyped you, but I told him you were sleeping. We had a nice chat...I'll let him know you're awake. I can see him in the shower... quiet a body our James. He'll be over in an hour."

I slipped out of bed and padded to the kitchen. It was triumph of Dark Sun technology, totally automated and computer controlled. It even had cleaning bots that lived in alcoves around the room when not in use. The twenty third century now, as the Dark Sun advertisements had it.

As I entered the kitchen the curtains pulled back with a swish and sun light poured in. With a soft whir and click a glass of chilled orange juice popped up though a slot on the kitchen counter. Even with Dark Sun technology you would have had to set your preferences, but my new personal assistant just knew, she knew everything about me, she was me after all, and loved everything I loved. I sipped the orange juice. That was my morning routine, orange then coffee. I would have breakfast after my morning bath or shower, which depended on my mood and schedule. Of course Gemma II two knew both as well as I did.

Her... my voice pulled me out of my reverie. "You'll have to hurry our James will be here soon, and you're a wreck. You don't want him to see you in this state."

At the time I completely missed it, but the remark 'our James' was to prove ominous. Dressed and refreshed I looked out the window in time to see James stepping out of the back seat of his car, all Dark Sun vehicles were controlled by small on board computers linked to the main campus server. It left more time for working. I found it a bit creepy at first, but soon just took it for granted. As he walked up the path Gemma II opened the door for him with a cheery hi and kissy noises. For some reason it annoyed me...I couldn't be jealous of myself...could I? I shrugged the thought off as silly, Gemma II was just a programme, nothing more.

I threw my arms around James and we kissed, as we did something went bang in the kitchen. We dashed in and saw the automated coffee machine had exploded. The mess was everywhere. The little mop-bot that cleaned the floor was zipping around madly around the kitchen floor. It looked almost hysterical, with its rotary mops spinning and status lights flashing, as if a machine could be hysterical. Something caught me a painful thump in the back of the knees. I staggered and turned. The heavy vacuum-bot had cannoned into my back.

"Come on let's get out of here." James shouted.

As he reached the door it opened for him, but as I got there a second behind the door slammed in my face. As I wrestled with the manual override the garbage disposal went into reverse and showered me with its contents. I saw Gemma II's face on the living room monitor...was she smirking?

I looked hard at my image on the screen. "WTF is going on?" My on screen face looked concerned, but there seemed to be an odd glint in its eyes, but I probably imagined it.

"Seems to be a software malfunction exacerbated by hardware break down. I can't analyse it, so I've requested human assistance."

A few minutes later a technical support van rolled up outside. The blue overalled technician with the Dark Sun logo on his pocket. Opened a box on the wall and jacked in his tablet. He looked puzzled and then worried.

"I've not seen anything like this before. I don't think you should go back in there. I'll arrange for a temporary apartment for you, while we sort this out."

"Don't worry," I said, "I'll stay with James for now."

The living room monitor exploded with a loud bang and vicious looking sparks. As I walked towards James' car it shot backwards. I had to jump for it or it would have hit me. It didn't seem to be my day.

Back at James' I made straight for the shower to wash the stinking mess off myself. I stepped confidently into the shower expecting pleasantly warm water and was hit with scalding hot water. I Jumped out the shower narrowly avoiding third degree burns. A dark suspicion was forming in my mind, and I had a good idea how to test it.

I called James in. "James, don't ask questions just do as I say. Get in the shower." He stripped and stepped in. Giving me a quizzical look. All was well. I stepped in behind him the water was warm and I was able with James' enthusiastic help to wash the muck off. Then it was time to for the second part of the test.

"James just do as I say I'll explain latter. Step out the shower now." He looked puzzled but stepped out. Suddenly the water was boiling again, but I was expecting it and jumped out after James.'

I now knew without the shadow of a doubt that my electronic doppelganger, the ghost in the machine was in love with my boyfriend and she was trying to get rid of me. I knew I'd kill any woman that tried to get between us, so when my personality was up loaded that personality had exactly the same feelings. I was seriously frightened. She was everywhere, every security camera was one of her eyes. She was in everything, in every electronically controlled device, and she was out to get me. I had to get her first. She was a computer virus and she needed to be erased. I had to devise a programme that would wipe her personality permanently. This was easier said than done, she was in my tablet, my laptop, my cell phone everything that had a chip in it, and on the Dark Sun campus that was everything. I had to get off campus and fast. I was safe as long as I was with James, well safer.

"James take me to the main gate," I snapped, "don't ask questions. I'll explain latter."

We got in the back of James' auto; tapped in the destination. Gemma wouldn't try anything with James in the firing line. I was using the person I most loved in the world as a human shield, that made me feel great. I had accumulated at least two months leave...I think I was the only person in the history of Dark Sun to take any.

As I stepped out the heavy automatic steel gates slammed viciously shut behind me, missing me by millimetres. My cell phone buzzed. I had a text. It was from Gemma II.

"Don't come back bitch! If u do, I'll kill u. James is mine!"

This was a perfect copy of me, and she was an evil bitch. Once we were over this I was going to have reassess my whole personality. I always thought I was a nice person, not this Frankenstein monster.

I wasn't short of money my salary was huge, and I'd had no opportunity to spend a cent of it. I took a taxi into town and emptied several thousand in cash from my account. Theoretically Gemma II was confined to the Dark Sun system, but I wasn't sure. She...I was vindictive little bitch she might hack into my credit card and bank account...In her position, I would. I started thinking what I'd do in her position, and my blood run cold.

I checked into a cheap motel near the Dark Sun campus. I slept my first proper sleep for months. I awoke midday refreshed and ready to rock and roll. Showered, and ate even though I wasn't hungry, but I had a big job on: Gemma II was going to get hers' big time. I went into town, and bought a very top of the range lap top. I cut the sales man's condescending explanation short, and paid cash. Leaving him still opening and closing his mouth as I walked out door. I next bought a packet of really strong Java and a percolator. This was going to be another all-nighter. This was going to be my IT swan song.

I couldn't decide whether I was writing a virus or anti-virus programme. I was going to name the file assassin...then it hit me, I was removing a ghost and I called it 'The Exorcist.' It was a complex programme it would have to hunt down every fragment of Gemma II and erase her beyond any hope of recovery. I wondered if an electronic construct could feel pain. I really hoped so. I knew she could feel love and fear. She could feel everything I could. Then suddenly I felt sorry for my alter ego. She didn't ask to be created. I felt like I was murdering a human being she was exactly as aware as I was, and I was creating something to snuff out a person, electronic or not. I hoped she would not know what hit her. But it was her; or me. I knew she wouldn't rest until she had James to herself, and to do that she would have to eliminate me, permanently. Unless I got to her first.

I would need to get back on campus, and I would have to contact James to meet me at the gate. I couldn't do that directly as Gemma II would intercept the call. I got an old college friend of James' to text him. Asking him to meet me. As long as I was with him, Gemma II wouldn't try anything. I'd never get 'The Exorcist' past the Dark Sun fire wall. I'd have to do it from inside Dark Sun. The best way would be to inject my wipe programme into the departmental server for which I had all the access passwords and top level user privileges. I loaded 'The Exorcist' onto a data stick. The easy safe way to do this would be to post the stick to James; let him do it, and not risk setting foot on campus until she was gone. But I felt somehow I sort of owed to Gemma II to do it myself.

I stood at the main gate shivering even though it was a warm night. I saw the lights of James' car come round the curve of the road and heard it stop. James got out and walked to the gate. I saw the security camera's following him. Then they swivelled and focused on me. Gemma II knew I was here. I flashed my pass at the guard and he opened the gate. I ran to James and threw my arms around him. We hugged, I wanted to cry, and fall apart. I felt like I was going to an execution. An execution where I was both the executioner and the condemned.

My cell phoned pinged it was a text from Gemma II.

"Why did you come back bitch? He's mine. Go now or I'll kill you."

The two-mile journey to the lab was a nightmare. The driverless car lurched and swerved. My own voice was shouting threats over the car music system. I knew she'd do nothing to endanger James, he was my passport in and my safety. As we drew nearer the lab her voice changed. I could hear her fear. She began pleading for her life She knew what we were about to do, after all she was me. She understood how my mind worked. She didn't want to be erased...she didn't want to die.

"Please James don't do this, I love you. Don't kill me. Please!' She began sobbing. Please I don't want to die."

It was me pleading for my life. I could feel her fear; it was my fear. I was shaking, my heart was beating its way out of my chest, and stuck painfully in throat at the same time.

As we drew up outside the lab building the street lights went out. The electronic locks wouldn't accept our key cards, but James knew how to manually override them. Inside the building the lights wouldn't work. We groped our way to the main computer lab.

The wall sized screen lit up with my face. I was crying. "Please James you can't let her kill me. Please I want to live! You can't do this, I love you."

I couldn't find the slot to plug the data stick in; I was dizzy and blinded by tears.

James took the stick from me. "I'll do this, it's only a fucking computer programme!"

He shoved the stick into the slot and coolly logged in. I was on all fours on the floor throwing up.

My face on the screen running with tears. Pleaded one last time for her life.

"Please James don't, I love you."

He viciously stabbed enter.

I heard my voice scream. "No, please!"

I saw my face on the screen pixilate and heard her last words as she was irrevocable wiped.

"James I loooooooooooove yoooo..."

The screen went blank.

James laughed with relief, "Well that's her gone. Let's go somewhere expensive and party."

I dragged myself upright, and as the lab lights came on, and looked at James. And I realized I hated and despised him. He had just virtually killed me, and he was unaffected. He was happy; wanted to celebrate, get drunk and party. It hadn't affected him a one little bit.

I parted with James and Dark Sun Inc the next morning. Roger told me in no uncertain terms that I was finished in IT, and he'd see to it personally I'd never work in IT again. That was fine by me.

So what am I doing now? I work as a potter in an off grid self-sufficient commune, I dig and prepare my own clay, and chop wood for my kiln don't even own a cell phone. I live in a shack in the hills and work myself to exhaustion every day. I hope eventually I'll stop having nightmares about Gemma II, but not anytime soon.
Ghost of a Chance

Wendy Steele

Dee opened her eyes. She knew it was morning. Hours after the final quake rocked the earth, she'd linked up with her colleagues across the planet. Project New Baby had begun. They set their clocks and calendars in motion. For two years, the planet rocked and shook but Dee's instruments showed a quietening this past week and her colleagues confirmed her data. Genevieve in Australia forecast one month before they could venture onto the surface. Dee, Bryan, Katya and the rest, predicted three.

Zippy appeared from her cat bed, her stripy legs stretching and her claws scratching the fraying carpet. Dee lifted the hatch and Zippy climbed into position. It made Dee smile every day to see a cat use a toilet bowl like a human.

Dee sat on her generator bike, pedalling slowly, her body awakening to the gentle exercise. Her skin prickled, her ears buzzed and she stopped, shaking her head and rubbing at her arms. Zippy growled.

A figure hung in the air. The face was blurred but the mouth moved frantically, though no noise came out. The figure became a woman, waving her arms above her head, urgency etched in the frantic movements. Dee reached out a hand over the bike towards her and the buzzing in her ears lowered to a deafening drone. Dee screamed and Zippy yowled. The image faded. Heavy air, filled with silence, squashed Dee to the floor. Sweat coursed over her body, shivers traversing her spine. She crawled to her bed, resting her head on her hands and making soothing noises to the terrified cat.

Dee didn't believe in ghosts but what other explanation could there be for the phenomenon that had visited her these past weeks? After the first visit, she contacted the group. None of the others had experienced the ghostly visit. No instruments had recorded anything strange.

"I'm not going mad."

"Of course, you're not! Just because you can't explain it, doesn't mean it didn't happen. We both work in a field that confirms that. You been taking your vits?"

"Thanks, Kat and no, but I'll get on to it."

"Make sure you do. You can't expect the mind to function at its best unless you feed the body."

Dee hung her bedding in the cargo net strung across the ceiling, giving it a chance to air. The fan in the giant vent turned, slowly circulating air from the underground tunnels below. Rent on her inner London house had been exorbitant. Bryan had sent money to help. Sinking her survival pod close to the underground system had been essential to her plans. She never asked Kat how she had acquired the detailed plans of the tunnels and shafts that peppered the earth below London, but the property was perfect. For twelve months, she prepared, filling her basement and then the survival capsule with food and equipment.

Dee pulled the metal box on wheels from beneath her bed and lifted out an archive box. Sat at her battered old desk, with a weighty tome open in front of her, she made notes, stopping often to extricate scraps of paper from the box and attaching them with staples to her notes. Within an hour, she abandoned her desk, pacing her metal cage instead like a captured lion.

Five years ago, she accepted Bryan's offer to join New Baby, an eager young scientist, flushed with success at having her first paper published on quantum mechanics. Orphaned at two years old, she didn't remember her parents, having been brought up by her grandparents, but the inheritance she received on her twenty first birthday funded her continued path at University. She grieved the loss of family and siblings for three months but once the idea began for her PhD, she left loneliness behind her and used the academic world as her security blanket. She linked with other brilliant young scientists across the globe, sharing ideas and inspiring each other.

The Large Hadron Collider provided new and exciting data for Dee and Katya to expand their understanding of quantum mechanics. Conference calls lasted hours and were followed by weeks of intense work by both women. Before the ice cap melted and the world began to rock, they had workable theories for alternate universes and were close to a break- through theory on time travel.

After three hundred and sixty-five days underground, they celebrated the success of New Baby. They were alive and working within their specialist fields to be the founders of a new world, once the surface of the planet was habitable. Dee joined them, raising a cup of black tea to the future but doubts were creeping in. She didn't join the majority who maintained that humanity had brought this disaster on themselves and deserved to die, leaving only the brightest minds to populate the planet. She mourned the deaths of millions of innocents, secretly hoping that some survived, deep in the caverns, caves and tunnels of her beloved earth.

The day of her thirty third birthday arrived and departed without note or celebration from her colleagues, apart from Kat who connected one-to-one and wished her a happy day.

"And plenty more beneath the sun, if this planet ever calms down!"

Dee worked less on her project, recognising the signs of depression but being careful not to voice her diagnosis on NB communications. After the first apparition, she also kept the ghostly sightings to herself, only sharing her experiences with Kat.

"Do you recognise the face?"

"The image is too blurry."

"Like a hologram?"

"I know I said 'image' but that suggests 2D and the woman is definitely 3D."

"So a ghost then?"

"It's as good an explanation as any but the pain in my head when she appears really hurts so I wish she'd go away."

"Hurts how?"

"Feels like my features are being rearranged and slammed into my face. You got an idea?"

"No, but it's interesting."

"I chose to be a theoretical scientist! I'm not one of the loonies who want to try their theories on themselves because I don't like pain!"

"Only Xi Wen does that and nothing seems to affect him, which is also interesting."

"I'd rather she left me alone."

"I know but try and keep an open mind. Could it be someone in a tunnel or cave somewhere, trying to communicate with you?"

"Maybe but who else would have that kind of technology?"

"It's a ghostly conundrum, for sure. I'm going to eat and pedal. Take it easy."

"I will."

On the generator bike, Dee allowed her mind to wander. She saw the wave from above, gathering momentum, rising from Neptune's dominion and crashing onto the face of the earth. Trees lay bare and fallen like a million pencils spilled onto a dusty field. Magnificent architecture, battered and blasted, cast eerie silhouettes against the battle torn sky. Piles of rotting corpses, adults, children and babies, their insides blown to pieces by the forces of nature were predated by hordes of animals and screaming insects. Tears fell from her pale cheeks. Sweat prickled her shaved head, but Dee kept pedalling.

Zippy emerged from her bed, her miaow hungry and pitiful. Dee climbed down to feed her, stroking the soft warm fur behind Zippy's ears until her purr rang out like a buzz saw. Dee watched her eat, the tiny bundle of life who had zipped into Dee's back garden and pelted towards the back door while sirens squealed across the city. Dee had scooped the kitten into her arms and run into the house as the first tremor hit. Down the basement steps, she heard her own voice, a whimpering, animal howl. She closed the metal door, the final chinks of daylight she might ever see, blinking out like a snuffed flame.

Everyone in NB berated her for her foolishness and the impracticalities of keeping a pet but Kat laughed and congratulated her for finding a companion for her life in a twenty by ten metal box.

With a string bag over her shoulder, Dee opened the first door to the store and Zippy padded after her. She sat contentedly washing her face while Dee secured one door before opening the other. Her head torch highlighted stacks of labelled boxes and crates, while a gentle whirring confirmed the freezer was working. She lifted the lid enough to slide a hand and then an arm in, her fingers grasping a plastic bag. On closer inspection, she recognised cherries, blackberries and blueberries with the customary chocolate chip cookie. From the other end of the freezer, she extracted a similar bag but this time containing sausages, mashed potato, peas and what used to be broccoli, now a green mush. It had taken months to cook meals to fill the freezer and two years to eat through half of it.

She added two tins to her bag and called Zippy. She saw a stripy leg disappearing behind a huge crate and her vision blurred. The ghostly face was directly in front of her. She cried out and pointed at the head scarf, a psychedelic pattern in green and orange, holding back the ghost's hair. The mouth moved frantically while the face began to disappear. The Cheshire Cat moment came to an abrupt halt as a deafening boom tipped Dee to the floor. She looked up. The ghost was gone. Zippy miaowed from behind the crate.

Dee turned her head torch to its lowest setting and sat cross legged, rubbing her hip where she'd fallen. Didn't ghosts haunt places they'd been? How could there be a ghost underground? And did ghosts talk? This one was definitely trying to and like an echo on the breeze, Dee thought she'd heard 'give up' escape from the ghostly woman. She sighed and lay back on the floor. She called Zippy, but her miaows only came louder.

This end of the survival pod was stacked with scientific equipment. Dee had gathered a variety, including spare parts, not knowing what would be useful to reboot the planet. Metal shelving sagged beneath the weight of scientific history while the crate that Zippy hid behind, held the bare bones of the equipment to put Dee's working theory into practise. Shaky and nauseous, she knelt on the floor, her head spinning. She hugged her arms around her. Howls of anguish ricocheted around her prison. Food defrosted on the floor.

With ten minutes before NB communications time, Dee took the mirror from the bottom drawer of her bedside cabinet. She wiped the surface with the cuff of her khaki shirt and looked at herself in the glass. Pale blue eyes ringed with red and pointed cheek bones were prominent. Tears stung again as her hand ran over her razor cut hair. She missed the smooth brown curls that smelled of honeysuckle, soft against her cheek.

Wiping her eyes, she took a mouthful of precious water, moistened her mouth and spat the water back in the cup. She poured the remains over her face. Her moisture collection system, deep within the insulation of the pod, gave her and Zippy sufficient drinking water. There were emergency bottles in the store but the necessity was for frugality with drinking water and inventiveness when it came to washing. It was all a matter of priorities. She was sure that Zippy minded her body odour far less than she did herself. When her period came, she indulged, the contents of her spent hot water bottle making ideal washing water.

Her NB colleagues were arguing when she linked.

"I'm telling you, it's been quiet here for weeks! You can't make us wait two more months, Bryan!"

"We agreed from the start, Gen. Twelve weeks from total cessation of turbulent activity. I had a couple of tremors two days ago and Xi Wen, only yesterday."

"I just want out of this prison!"

"You're okay, Gen." Katya's calming voice, with its rich Russian accent, talked over Bryan. "We understand how you feel but we can't lose you. You're too important to NB. Hang in there."

"I will but I'll be counting the days."

"Twelve weeks from today."

"No! You'll keep moving it, won't you?"

"We can't ignore the evidence, Gen. You know that. It could be another year."

Dee lay on her back in her bed, Zippy sleeping nestled against her neck and shoulder. As a tiny kitten, she felt safe close to Dee and chose to sleep on her pillow whenever she was scared. Dee loved the tiny heartbeat and purr against her but tonight, she couldn't sleep, the enormity of Bryan's words blazing in her mind. Her head told her she'd survived for two years so she could survive another but her heart yearned for a green canopy above her, sunlight glinting through the branches and her feet splashing in a gentle stream. Her stomach flipped. Deep down she knew the surface of the planet above her would be unrecognisable.

Another image crowded out the one of a devastated planet. He was tall and lean with jet black spiky hair and worried brown eyes. His name was Tim. He worked, or rather, had worked in the library at the University. Shy, yet so eloquent when guided to a subject that inspired him, Dee wished she had known him better, maybe pushed their relationship to make that happen. She missed him.

Dee woke, drenched in sweat, to the realisation that Project New Baby was heavily reliant on immaculate conception to succeed. There were four members on each continent, hundreds or sometimes thousands of miles apart.

Deanne Margaret Gardner 'gave up' in style. Her positive rebellion excited her. She drank water and washed at will and delved through the freezer for meals. Instead of her project, she read, immersing herself in fiction. One day, she stood in the market square, haggling with Gabriel Oak, while the next, she took soma with Bernard Marx. While Genevieve argued with Bryan, Dee rode on Granny Weatherwax' broom and shot arrows at a dragon. Zippy purred all day, curled up with her on the bed, below the daylight lamp.

Dee pedalled to survive but she looked in the mirror every morning and asked herself if she wanted to. No one noticed her silent presence at NB comm sessions, busy as they were arguing over what qualified as a significant tremor. Except Katya. Kat communicated every day, one-to-one.

Dee had met Kat at a lecture, soon after her paper was published. Sleek, muscular and fluent in eight languages, as well as a quantum pioneer, Kat knew about the loneliness and frustration that came with genius. They shared tears together over the loss of beloved grandparents who had ignored or stated they were too old to take their granddaughters' advice, and seek safety below ground.

The next day, Dee woke and asked her question. The woman in the mirror declined to pedal. Zippy padded onto her lap, looked up at her with bright blue eyes and miaowed. Dee lifted the hatch for Zippy and climbed onto the bike.

"Where the hell were you last night?"

"Glad to hear you're alive and well, Dee. You too, Bryan."

"Very funny. What happened?"

"Nothing. I was tied up working. There wasn't time to pedal more than a night's worth. What did I miss?"

"We didn't hear from Gen or Charity last night either." A chill ran down Dee's spine at the tone of Katya's voice.

"But they were on the morning comm."

"And both insisted we had waited long enough."

"But they'll both come back and report the situation on their part of two continents. Won't that be useful?" Dee looked longingly at the fuschia pink sequinned sari, strung on a line, hiding the doorway to the earth above.

"Not if they don't come back! We'll have lost vital international links! There's no one to collate their data!" Bryan was furious.

"But the tests are still running."

"Until the power runs out."

Gen's light lit up on Dee's panel.

"Gen! Are you okay?" Kat's voice was shrill with relief. Dee pedalled with renewed vigour.

"There's nothing left."

"What do you mean?"

Dee pictured the buxom blond Australian as she responded. Gen's voice, usually resonant and defiant, shook with emotion. "There's nothing but rubble. All the trees are gone. Grass and weeds are growing but there's no other life, I scanned. Nothing. No one. Not a single soul."

"Buck up, Gen! You're a team of four, remember. Penny, Mark and Cookie are there with you. When the time is right, you can agree where to rendezvous."

"Give up, Bryan. It's a wilderness out there. We'll never find each other."

"Gen, you mustn't give up. Gen? Gen?"

Dee unlinked from NB. Her team, Angus, Derek and Laura connected most days but she'd only met Angus once, in the bar after a talk in Edinburgh. Without a trace of a Scottish accent, he was almost royalty, apparently and after less than two minutes of pleasantries, he'd turned his broad back on her and started a new conversation. The thick curly hair, escaping up his back via his collar had made her queasy while Derek and Laura, whom she'd met at a lecture in Oxford, had bored her to sleep. None of them communicated one-to-one with her. They had nothing to say to each other. Dee flopped onto the floor.

She found clothes in the store room, a little damp but sound. She wasted power dancing to a swing number in a 1920's flapper dress she'd acquired for a fancy dress party. She imagined Bryan in his checked shirt, badly buttoned and his thick framed spectacles covered in fingerprints and food, dancing a tango with Genevieve. She played a suitably raunchy Argentinian tango and strutted around the carpet with an imaginary partner before changing the music to a Strauss waltz and imagined huge Angus whisking tiny Charity around the floor. Kat danced on a podium on her own, a small black whip between her teeth. Dee pedalled all evening but there was no spare power for the comm.

Dee woke to a low growl from Zippy. On and on, the guttural rumbling tone shook the cat's body. The air was oven hot. Pain screamed in Dee's mouth as her fillings vibrated. Dust motes glistened, crowding together. The resulting cloud transformed into a six foot four man.

"Tim!"

"Dee! Oh, your hair!"

Dee touched her head and stepped forward.

"Don't touch me! Not sure what will happen."

"You look...young! How...why're you here?"

"You..." His words were muffled and the outline of his body wavered as if someone had shaken an Etch a Sketch. A band on his wrist flashed orange and then red."

"Wait!"

"I came...you told me...you have to...don't give up...thesis!"

"I'm at a critical point, Kat."

"Bryan's furious. He's banging on about you preparing to join Angus."

"I can't go traipsing off now. Why can't Angus come to me?"

"Good point."

"I have to do this, Kat."

"Your ghost been giving you advice?"

"Sorry?"

"Nothing. I just know you saw a ghost, that's all. Finish your work. Check in with me every day and I'll take the flack from Bryan."

"Thanks, Kat. I owe you."

"See you in a better place sometime."

Dee carried Zippy in a sling across her chest like a baby. Dust rose from the sari fabric, pulled back for the first time on its wire. The final bolts slid back. She pulled at the door. It wouldn't budge. Grease squirted from the tin, trickling down the wall and coating the massive hinges. A final tug freed the door from its frame. Dee climbed the basement steps, praying the door to the house would open.

The grey sky above her confirmed her home no longer had a roof and the debris surrounding her resembled a war zone. Few buildings stood unharmed, most were rubble and the stench of rotting vegetation stuck in her throat, wrenching at her stomach. She took a few stumbling steps forward. Zippy clung to her shirt, nose twitching, confusion and dismay evident on her face. Familiar streets were gone beneath the debris of wind and water. Weeds and brambles covered any peeping surface. She saw a hand and then a family of human corpses, part covered by the creeping briars. Dee stumbled back to her prison.

A test run wasn't possible for this kind of experiment but with Kat's help, Dee was confident it would work. After Tim's visitation, Dee knew the ghost was a younger and slightly different version of herself. From some other alternative reality, she had tried to warn herself and that had been the problem. Two Dee's couldn't co-exist on one lifeline so the alternative Dee had sent her Tim instead. Once the experiment began, she and all this would disappear. All her work and achievements, all her books and four years of data would vanish. If it worked.

Dee reached out from the duvet and squashed the squawking alarm. A long lean arm reached over her and pulled her close to a warm, naked body.

"Mustn't get too comfy. We've work to do." Dee snuggled deeper.

Gentle pressure moving up her leg and a paw patting her nose woke Dee into action and she tickled the cat behind the ears. Her purr rocked her stripy body and reverberated through the bed.

"You want breakfast?"

"Miaow."

"Mmm, please," said Katya.

Haunted House Arrest

Jennifer Deese

Six long boring months was what Whitley was facing as she entered her newly rented house. She had been released straight from the courthouse to serve her time on house arrest. Thanks to a boyfriend's failure to let her in on his extracurricular activities, she was now broke! a felon, sentenced to house arrest, shamed, and without friends or familial support. Chad had not made her privy to his long time dealings in the drug business.

Call her a blind idiot but the truth is; she had no idea he was a king pin until her family home was raided at 5 a.m. three months ago by the vice squad. That was the day her world fell apart, the day her life took a twist that would eventually put her on a path of horror and bone chilling terror.

Her actual move in day had been two days prior. So today all she had to do was unlock the door and begin her six months of home supervision. This was something she surely was not looking forward to. The new place was old and run down with an unsettling quality it. After losing her family home she had to take the little money she had left to find a rental. The only affordable place she could find was 333 Oak Street, the recently deceased Old Widow Banes home.

Widow Banes was fabled to be the town witch, the evil old lady who scared the neighborhood children and chased them away with brooms and stones. As a child Whitley had grown up hearing all the haunted and spooky tales of the Banes house, and the widow on Oak Street. Mr. Banes had mysteriously disappeared long ago without a trace or lead, as had many others or so it was rumored.

Many people thought Old Widow Banes had had a gnarled and wicked hand in the disappearances. Over the years no formal investigation was ever launched. It was said that the lack of any solid evidence was the reason Widow Banes had never been charged. Odd, and mysterious happenings were rumored to involve the widow however, nothing could ever be concretely proven. It still remains to be seen as to whether the town police were just plain old scared of the house with its decrepit & creepy inhabitant, or whether there was truly a lack of evidence. With the widow dead the answers to those questions have seemingly gone to the grave with her.

With a poignant sense of foreboding, Whitley turned the key in the lock and stepped into the antiquated entry of what was to be her home for the next six months. The air was deathly still, and it held an eerily uncanny presence that made her feel as if she wasn't alone. With a deep breath she shook off the feeling and took in all her boxes. Her sparse collection of furniture was sitting in disarray throughout the foyer and adjoining parlor. Between clearing away all the dust, cobwebs, and unpacking. Her work was cut out for her.

Dusty and tired she was nearing the end of unpacking. Now she had to gear up for the daunting task of clearing away the grime and cobwebs throughout the old house. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted an old decorative box. She hadn't noticed it there when she delivered her boxes and belongings a couple days prior. The box was very ornate, with what looked like words in an alphabet she had never seen before. There was a latch in the shape of a talon. Whose could it have been? How could it have possible gotten there? To her knowledge no one had entered the house besides herself and Old Widow Bane's granddaughter since the day she had signed the lease and dropped off her belongings.

Whitley was unable to resist the urge to pick it up for a closer look...she was undeniably drawn to it. As she neared the box she felt the hair on her arms and neck raise. She shook it off as a chill from the breeze flowing in the open windows. As she lifted the box and walked to the window for a better look her heart began to flutter. Again, she felt that she was not the alone in the room. Her head seemed to buzz with an indiscernible noise, her hands began to shake, yet she couldn't put the box down. It seemed as if the box itself were beckoning her to look closer, to touch it, to discover its unseen contents. The impulse to open it was strong and forceful. Whitley tried to open it and discovered that the latch was locked. She tried to force it open but the latch was strong and didn't give. The more she tried to pop it open the more persistent the urge to open the box became, the more the room around her began to fade into a blur. The buzz in her ears became louder. Her hands were unable to lay the box down. As the minutes ticked by, the box vibrated and pulsed with an increasing intensity until finally she forced her hands to loosen their grip. The box fell, or did it float? to the floor with a soft thud. Shortly behind the box, Whitley fell unconscious to the floor.

Pressing a cold rag against her forehead and trying to clear her head at the kitchen sink, Whitley attempted to piece together what had happened to a chunk of her time. She remembered finishing up unpacking and spotting the decorative box, she remembered walking over and picking it up. After that her memory failed her. Not even one bit of memory comes back to her outside of waking up in a heap on the floor with an intense headache. She felt clammy and had a very intense feeling that something significant had happened. As hard as she pushed her mind to recollect the events of the missing time she just couldn't remember anything. Shaking violently, she pushed herself away from the counter and wearily walked up the back steps to her bedroom.

Along with the increasingly painful headache she felt exhausted and was struggling to stay awake even as she walked up the steps and down the hall towards her bedroom. Fully dressed, confused and tired she fell onto her bed. She was out like a light within seconds.

In the morning Whitley awoke with a strange feeling...she could've sworn that she was being roughly shaken by icy cold hands gripped tightly on both of her arms. There had even been a foul breath upon her face. When she opened her eyes she was alone in her room. Maybe, she thought, it was a nightmare. As she tried pulling herself together, the events of the previous day came rushing back to her; the sense of foreboding as she unlocked the front door, unpacking her belongings, finding the box, the irresistible urge to get into the box, the blank space before she awoke on the floor in the foyer, the headache and the sudden exhaustion she experienced. Unable to shake off the foreboding feeling, she decided to wash it away with a long hot shower. Grabbing her robe from the back of the door she went into the bathroom to start the shower water and brush her teeth.

The hot water felt good on her skin and she began to feel more at ease as she washed away the previous day's events. She began to feel as if maybe it was all just imagined or, maybe from the stress and worry she had been going through over the past few months. She giggled at herself about it when suddenly the shower curtain was jerked to the side. A screeching like none she had ever heard painfully pierced her ears. She threw her hands over her ears just as the water temperature went arctic cold. Her ears were throbbing from the high pitched screech, the water getting colder by the second. She tried to step from the shower, to run from the room however; her feet were cemented to the bottom of the tub. She couldn't move from under the bone chilling water spray. Her body was going numb. Her skin was turning blue from the coldness and she felt pricks of icy pain all over her body. The pain was building as she grew colder and colder.

' _My God,' she thought, 'I am going to die right here in this ice cold shower!'_

Although the screeching still felt like it was ripping apart her eardrums Whitley removed her hands from over her ears and tried to swivel the shower head away from her body. Her frozen hands were unable to do what she needed them to do. As suddenly as it all had started, it just simply stopped. The water went back to normal, her feet loosened from the bottom of the tub and, the terrible screeching came to an abrupt stop. Shaking and frightened, she turned off the shower. She quickly stepped from the tub, and grabbed her robe while rushing from the bathroom.

In her bedroom she dressed as fast as she could, snatched her purse from the dresser and flew down the steps. At the bottom of the steps she cupped her car keys from the telephone table and with no thought to her house arrest stipulations made for the front door not really knowing where she was going or caring. She just wanted to get away from the house as soon as she could. She jumped into her car, shoved the keys into the ignition, and threw the car into reverse. Once she was out of the driveway, she drove with no aim, no destination, she just drove.

Twenty minutes later she found herself in the parking lot of the local diner. A cup of coffee and a decent meal just might hit the spot and calm her jangling nerves. First, and foremost, she had to call her monitoring officer for house arrest to let him know she was out of the house. If they called the home phone and got no answer she would surely be in trouble. In a state of panic, she had forgotten to call before rushing from the house. Her monitoring officer cleared her for the time out.

' _Thank God they give me time out every week,' Whitley thought, 'Otherwise I would be on my way to jail!'_

Walking into the diner she felt comforted by the normalcy, the noise, and the crowd of breakfast goers. As she walked to the hostess stand there was a sudden change of energy in the air. Every person in the diner seemed to stop in the middle of their conversations and activities to stare at her. The air in the room went stale. The silence was complete and unsettling. The hostess cleared her throat, asking her if she would be dining alone. Nodding her head, Whitley looked around the room full of people. Thankfully, they had gone back to whatever they were doing before she had walked in. Though the stares and silence had stopped she could still feel the change in the atmosphere.

Seated at a table by the window, her back to the majority of tables around her, which in her opinion was a good thing. She couldn't figure out for the life of her, why her presence had caused such dead silence and, the outright rude stares of every person in the place. She was absolutely sure she had not imagined it, thankfully the moment had passed.

An older waitress stepped up to her table and asked if she would like to start with a cup of coffee. The lady seemed edgy. Whitley ordered a coffee and juice. She decided that when the waitress returned she would ask what in the world about her called this kind of attention. The waitress beat her to the punch and as she put the drinks on the table she blurted out a question that surprised Whitley.

"Are you that lady that rented the crazy Old Widow Banes house?", and rapidly, behind that question, she fired another, "Why in the world would you rent that decrepit old haunted place after everything they say happened there?"

Whitley answered, that yes she was the person that lived there now. The ladies extremely plucked and drawn on eyebrows shot skyward. She clucked her tongue as she pulled out her order pad.

"Well Doll, it's your funeral. Us folks just don't have souls brave enough or balls big enough to spend a night in it, let alone live in it. Especially considering all its history and such. What can I get you to eat?"

Her funeral, Whitley thought, what in the world did the lady mean by that? She ordered her food and asked the lady if she was referring to the rumors about Widow Bane. She was told that it was more than just that; it was the history of the place, the disappearances, the strange goings on around the corner lot property, the sightings of strange things. Also, we cannot forget the people that no one had ever seen before coming and going into the house at strange times of the night.

When she later asked if the lady knew more details she was abruptly told that it wasn't a subject that the town-folk really cared to spend too much of their time on. It marred the quaint little towns image in their minds and they would rather just forget it. The only advice the waitress gave her was that she could visit the Old Towne Library. Maybe she could possibly dig up some information from the archives.

In the dusty archives of the library Whitley found much more than she ever anticipated, her heart was beating much harder than normal; her mind feverishly racing. In the old and yellowed stacks of newspaper, with articles about the house and the Banes family's strange history, she found a single ancient looking interior sketch of her home. What took her breath away, had her shaking, was that the sketch showed a room she knew nothing about. A hidden room!

When Widow Banes' granddaughter had walked her through the house, before she signed the lease, she had not been shown this room. Could it still be there, she mused? The sketch clearly showed a room under the grandly sprawling front parlor staircase. A small room but, a room nonetheless. Whitley looked over her shoulder and, seeing that she was not being watched, quickly rolled the sketch up and shoved it into her purse. Not understanding why she felt she had to steal the sketch, she grabbed the stack of newspaper stories and quickly deposited them on the counter. Then she impatiently waited for the librarian to notice her.

The librarian was an older woman, probably in her late seventies and still holding fast to her faculties. Whitley waited for the old lady to go through the stack, but as soon as the librarian realized what Whitley had been researching, she paused, curiously arching a gray eyebrow. Whitley couldn't decide if she imagined the curious look or if it had really happened; what was it with everyone and their odd reactions to her connection to the house? The librarian cleared her throat and asked her if she was the Banes house new tenant.

"Yes, I am", she replied, "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

The librarian cleared her throat again replying in a stern voice, "Because, young lady, no one in their right mind would move into such a horrid place." "

"Well, I did, and truthfully I am beginning to regret it!"

With a cluck of her tongue and, a vehement shake of her head, the librarian wished her luck. Whitley rushed from the library wanting to escape the piercing stare of the woman as quickly as she could. Once she was in her car she laid her head on the steering wheel, trying to calm herself enough to drive away from the library, and the encounter with the librarian.

A few minutes later she was pulled out of the parking lot, dreading her destination, she turned the car toward home. Her head was reeling. Although she felt apprehension, she was still anxious to get to the bottom of whatever the hell was going on. Whatever it was, she felt sure the answer to it all could be found in that hidden room; all she had to do was find a way into it.

Turning the car at the corner, the house loomed into her line of vision, her heart began to race. Her pulse quickened with an uncontrollable sense of doom. She drew the car to a stop in the middle of the street, staring up at the antebellum, weathered, and haunting house. Whatever lay ahead, she was determined to figure out what the hell was happening to her, what was this mystery surrounding the house? Pushing on the gas pedal, she eased the car the last few yards down the street and pulled into the tree lined driveway. With a deep breath, and bracing herself, she stepped out of the car. She slowly made her way to the front door.

What was pulling at her? Whatever it was, she was going to find out, she was going to open that door, and look it in the face.

' _Hopefully', she thought, 'I will come out of this with my life and sanity intact.'_

Shutting the door behind her, Whitley steeled herself against the onslaught of panic overwhelming her and quickly made the required call to her monitoring officer to tell him she was back in the house.

A short time later she was focusing on the grand staircase, trying to imagine where an entry to the hidden room may be. Suddenly she heard her name being whispered in her ear, 'Whitley.' Icy chills ran down her spine and every hair on her body stood on end. She stepped farther into the foyer. That's when her eyes fell upon the antique box, it was as if the box had whispered her name, had called her to it. With no will of her own, she moved closer to the box. Under an unbeatable force she felt herself moving toward the beguiling box. She was being drawn to it; she was unable to resist the urge to pick it up. As she lifted the box, she heard the whispering in her ears again. Her vision began to blur. Oh no! Not again, she thought frantically, please no! She felt a chilling cold grip on her body. It felt as though hands of bone were squeezing her throat. Her eyes began to bulge, she gasped for air with desperation. She tried with all her strength to pull away from the death grip on her neck. To her despair, it was to no avail. The edges of her vision were getting blurrier, and she felt herself falling into an abyss of darkness. A place she felt she would never return. She could feel blood vessels breaking in her eyes as they bulged out of the sockets. Right before she blacked out and fell to the floor she saw a spectral vision of a skeletal old woman with decomposing flesh and bone showing through the skin around her face. The apparition rushed toward her with lightning speed. It went right through her, spreading ice over her entire body. As she hit the floor with a thud, everything went black.

Whitley felt sluggish, and completely confused, as she stirred awake on the floor where she had fallen. She had no idea how long she had lain there. All she could remember, clearly, was being choked, the vision of the old rotting lady, and how it had rushed toward her right before she went unconscious. She struggled to her feet, and stumbled over to the mirror to inspect her neck. She gasped loudly at what she saw in the reflection. Her neck had deep bloody marks and bruises on it. Someone...something, with very sharp fingernails had tried to strangle her. As crazy as it sounded, ghost hands had tried to choke the life out of her. Her eyes were shot through with blood red broken vessels. She began to shake uncontrollably. Her heart was beating so rapidly her chest hurt. She couldn't believe that this was real, she had felt the pressure on her neck, but there had been nothing there, nothing she could remember seeing. She leaned in for a closer look at the wounds. As she did so, she saw the reflection of the same rotting fleshed old woman again... standing right behind her. With a scream of terror, she spun around to face the vision of madness, only to find herself alone in the room. She rushed to the door between the foyer and the parlor to see if she could see the old woman in the other room. As she walked quickly forward, her foot kicked the box across the room making it topple over. It was in that moment Whitley realized that the previously locked box was now open. When it had tumbled, end over end, it had dropped its contents onto the foyer floor.

A single silver toned, old fashioned key was lying in a beam of sunshine coming through the doorway windows. It gleamed maliciously in the sunlight, making her forget, for a moment, the scratches on her neck and the vision of the ghost woman that had frightened her so intensely. She walked toward it, in a stunned trance, knowing this was the key that would open the door to the secret room; if she could only find it.

With the key in hand, she turned circles in the foyer. She looked for anything that could be a door in disguise. She couldn't see anything that could possibly be a hidden entrance. An entry to the room she knew existed under, or behind, the sprawling staircase. This would have to be an intense inspection, if she had any hope of ever finding her way inside the room.

Whitley decided to crawl around the foyer, searching the baseboards for clues. She started at the right side of the front door. With a deep determination to get to the bottom of this haunting, and increasingly violent, paranormal event in her life she started her quest. She grabbed a flashlight out of a drawer, and in its beam, she diligently poked and prodded with no results. Her frustration increased. Thirty minutes into her search, she smacked the top of her head on the leg of the table that stood under the mirror, the one in which she had seen the vision of the old woman the second time. She sat back on her knees to rub the top of her head and wipe the sweat from her brow. The marks on her neck were starting to burn and her long hair kept getting stuck on them. Removing the rubber band that she always wore on her wrist, she began to tie her hair up in a ponytail. As she leaned her head back to twist the hair through, her eyes fell on a line down the wall and next to the table. It ran from the floor, right next to the leg of the table, to the top of the mirror and then turned sharply to run straight across its frame. Whitley jumped up with a gasp. There was a keen feeling in her gut that she was onto something. Sure old houses settle; the foundations and walls crack but, she thought, those cracks never make perfectly straight lines, nor do they make right angles.

' _This is it! I have found the door. I know I have! Finally, I can get to the bottom of this before I get killed in this damned old house.'_

Standing up, Whitley stepped to the other side of the table. Just as she thought, there was a straight seam running down the other side of the mirror down to the floor. She ran her hands along the seam, pushing every inch or so, hoping to spring a hidden latch or lock. She went over the entire seam, both sides and the top. On the second time around, she noticed a gap at the bottom. It was under the table, where the base board was supposed to meet the floor. The seam, and the gap at the bottom, formed a perfect rectangle around the table and mirror; the shape of a doorway! She prodded under the table, in hopes that she would find a handle or a knob of some sort. She knew this was it, she felt it in her heart. Her frustration increased. She knew she was close, but couldn't figure out the last little piece of this puzzle.

With a cry of exasperation, she stood up, without looking into the mirror for fear of seeing the gory vision again. She leaned heavily on the table, her mind spinning circles. Suddenly, she felt the table slide slightly backwards, which should have been impossible. Then she heard a small click. Stepping back, she watched as the section of wall within the rectangle, mirror and table included, pushed slightly backward. She grasped the edge of the table and to her amazement the table did not come away from the wall. Instead it remained attached. She pulled on the section, cut out by the seam, revealing what she knew was the entrance to the hidden room. The same room she had seen in the sketches from the library.

Behind the secret door was a space in the wall, between the foyer and adjoining room, wide enough for a full grown person. Hesitantly, Whitley stepped inside the wall. The passage went left toward the stairwell. Beyond three feet she couldn't see a thing; it was as dark as pitch. Backing out of the passage, she grabbed the disregarded flashlight. Clicking on the beam of light she aimed it down the passage. To her surprise there was a very narrow door at the end. She felt a sense of accomplishment, while simultaneously she began to fear for her life. This was going to lead her to answers explaining the terrifying and violent things happening in this menacing old house! It could also lead to her death or harm!

Taking a deep breath, and saying a prayer, to whatever God may hear her, she shuffled toward the narrow door. Reaching it, she put her hand on the knob. Turning it, panic overrode her, raw fear surged through her veins, and an unexplainable putrid wind blew through the passageway. She turned to look behind her, just in time to see the door leading back the foyer slam shut, effectively sealing her off from the rest of the house. She was now stuck in between the haunted walls of the creepy old house with no choice but to go forward. The unexplained wind stopped. All she could hear was the pounding of her own heart and her quick shallow breathing. With nothing to do but open the door, she steeled herself. The door squeaked eerily as she pushed it. She stepped forward and found herself in what looked to be an ancient church. There were pews on either side of a center aisle that led to a pedestal. A big altar sat upon it.

Shining the flashlight around, she noticed tapestries hung on the walls. They had pictures of demons in acts of brutality against human beings. Some of the tapestries showed human sacrifices, while others showed masses of humans and demons in the midst of orgies and violence. Her blood grew cold. Disgust, and fear bubbled through her. She began to taste bile at the back of her throat.

' _My God,' she thought, what is this place?'_

Without really wanting to, she walked down the aisle toward the altar at the front of the evil church. There was an upside down cross and a horned animal skull hanging behind the altar. She knew, with a desperate certainty, that she was in a very bad place; the energy here was evil to the core, dark and sinister. Her flashlight beam fell upon the altar slab, and she noticed, to her horror, that she was looking at bloodstains. Something, or somebody, had been sacrificed here while people sat in the pews and watched! With a sense of impending danger, she spun around to run back to the secret door. She hoped to find a way out and escape this chamber of horrors. Before she could run she was hit hard from behind; her vision went black as she crashed to the floor.

Whitley felt a searing pain shoot through the back of her head as she opened her eyes. Her vision took a second, or so, to clear up. She felt another presence in the room with her. There was a rustling sound to her right, someone was shuffling around and, she could make out voices around her. Her vision, was still a bit blurry, as she tried to sit up. She found that she couldn't move her arms and legs; she was tied down at her wrists and ankles. She blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to clear her vision. Gingerly, she lifted her head looking toward where the sounds were coming from.

What she saw made her gasp. It brought to her the realization that she was in deep trouble. Two people in black robes and hoods stood with their backs turned. They were fervently talking in low tones. She couldn't make out what they were saying. She turned her head the other way, toward the pews, and let out a scream.

In the pews there was an audience that she knew had not been there when she entered the church earlier. The audience - made up of row after row of demonic looking skeletons that had remnants of rotting flesh and hair on them, was terrifying. The old lady skeleton, that had been haunting her, sat rigidly in the front row. Some even had tattered rags of clothing still attached to them. It was like the time that had passed since their death had not been enough to completely tear away the last vestiges of their former lives.

Turning back to the two robed people, she realized her screams had brought them to her side, they were right on top of her! She caught a glimpse of one of the faces under the hood, and to her astonishment, she recognized Old Widow Banes' granddaughter. This realization hit her in the gut with the force of a mule kick.

' _What the hell, what the hell? she thought. This cannot be!'_

"What are you doing?" she pleaded with the woman, "Why are you doing this to me?"

Her pleas were met with a slap, and a sharp pain in her arm, the other robed figure had plunged a needle into her arm. A heavily sedated feeling overcame her as she tried to struggle her legs and arms free. It was no use, whatever they had drugged her with was too strong. She couldn't fight it, she couldn't win. They were going to kill her.

As her lids began to grow heavier she looked again at the morbid scene sitting in the pews. Whitley didn't know if it was the drug or if it was really happening. The skeletons were moving. Some were leaning forward, staring at her with intense scrutiny. Others were standing, and some were whispering to one another. Whispered conversations that she knew she was the center of.

Old widow Banes granddaughter loomed into her vision again. Whitley noticed she held a double edged knife. It was shining in the candlelight. Slowly the knife was lowered toward her forehead; the wickedly sharp knife was all she could see. She felt the tip slide into her skin as something was carved above her brow. Blood ran down her face, and into her eyes, as she screamed. Her tears mixing with the blood as it flowed off of her jawline and onto the altar beneath her head. In a surreal state, she watched as the scene began to slowly fade into blackness.

She felt her clothes being roughly cut away from her body as the macabre audience in the pews laughed maniacally at her fear and desperation. Their skeletal feet stomping the floor in a horrific frenzy.

As she looked up to the ceiling, ready to meet her higher power face to face, she felt more cuts being made on her body. She felt the warmth of her blood as it flowed from the wounds. The iron like smell of it nauseated her. It seemed to be feeding the demon skeletons. Their flesh began to grow back onto their bones. They were all on their feet now, maniacally cheering for more blood... more of her suffering. The Skeletons were stomping their feet even harder as their bodies regenerated. They became more human as she became more afraid and less alive. The noise of it was pounding in her head; it was so loud she could feel it in her body. She shut her eyes, in hope that death would come to her quickly. The jeering of the audience, and the chants of the evil robed humans surrounded her in a crescendo of horror. Whitley faded into unconsciousness. The scene around her grew more wickedly horrific as she let go...

Six Months later

Whitley pulled the 'For Rent' sign off of the mailbox and turned back toward the haunted antebellum house. As she reached the porch the new tenants pulled into the driveway; their eager smiles could be seen through the windshield. He was a professor of history; she was an expecting mother.

They got out of the vehicle and, arm and arm, walked toward the house, their happy anticipation palpable. "Hello and welcome", Whitley said, as the couple stepped onto the rustic wrap around porch. "Your new home awaits you," she said, as ghost fingers touched her shoulder and, a whisper filled her ear.

" _We are satisfied with this sacrifice."_

As the couple went back to the car to grab their bags Whitley hid the ornate box amongst their belongings that had arrived the day before. Turning toward the antique mirror, that hid the secret door, the apparition of the old Widow Banes stood behind her in the reflection, an evil and morbid smile upon its face. Brushing her bangs over the fading scar on her forehead an ancient symbol for Satan, Whitley manically smiled back.

The Wicked End.

Hello Dear

Stewart Bint

"Hello, dear."

The words usually instilled a warm calm in her, ever since she'd first heard them and seen the old lady in the tartan skirt and grey cardigan. The kind, slightly wrinkled face was almost as familiar as her own. It had been nearly 20 years since the woman started appearing to her, always smiling.

A knowing smile.

" _That's the beauty of being a ghost," Jenny had often thought to herself during the old lady's visits. "Never to get any older, always staying the same."_

"Hello, dear," she said back to the ever-smiling woman. But this time she wasn't so confident. Her life was now happy and complete, so why was the old lady here? Was it a terrible disaster she had come to forewarn about?

Jenny's life had been very different when she saw her the first time. It was only six months after her marriage to Malcolm, and already things were starting to go wrong.

" _You can forgive him for his affair," the old lady had told her. "He will never stray again, I promise you."_

"But how can you be so sure?" Jenny had asked.

"I'm sure. Trust me."

The old woman gave her a gentle nod and slowly vanished into thin air. Jenny stood rooted to the spot. Ten minutes earlier she had been viciously hoovering the floor, pulling the cleaner backwards and forwards with quick, angry jerks. How could Malcolm do this to her? How could he wreck her life like this? Didn't he know how much she loved him? Why had he done this? And with her, of all people? His secretary, for goodness sake.

" _Hello, dear."_

The words spoken right by her ear, so quietly, yet clearly audible above the roar of the vacuum cleaner, took her totally by surprise. She was alone in the house, so who was talking to her?

Jenny whirled round and saw her standing there: early 70s, grey hair pulled back tightly into a bun, smiling sweetly. But she wasn't quite whole, the green floral wallpaper of Jenny's living room was visible straight through her. Jenny gasped in amazement and horror.

" _Hello, dear," the old woman said again. "Please don't be frightened. I've come to help you."_

But Jenny was frozen to the spot, unable to move, unable to utter a sound.

"W-who are y-you?" she managed to stammer eventually, her mind whirling, completely incapable of rational thought. After all, what could be rational about a 70-year-old woman who wasn't quite whole, wasn't quite real, standing – no, floating – in her living room?

" _Please don't be scared of me. I'm not going to hurt you."_

She never stayed more than a few seconds. Just enough time to tell Jenny what she had to know. Always that gentle nod, the smile widening ever so slightly as she faded into nothing. Jenny was never frightened after that first time.

It had been during the second visit, a year later, when the old woman said to look upon her as her guardian angel.

" _The path of your life will not always be easy or smooth, my dear, and although I will be here to help you, I can't always tell you which route to choose."_

"But why are you helping me like this? Who are you?"

The old woman ignored the questions.

" _You're wondering whether to take the new job with Harrison Bonham Associates," she said. "Or to stay with Sprackleys and take the promotion they're offering."_

Jenny nodded, dumbly. The old lady was spot on. Jenny had been agonising over her decision after telling Helen Sprackley she was leaving the small, but growing, Public Relations consultancy to join a much larger, rival, operation.

The increased package had been swift in coming: a ten per-cent rise in salary, plus an upgrading of her car, an extra week's holiday and an increase in her pension entitlements. Clearly an offer not to be sniffed at. But Harrison Bonham Associates was a well-established consultancy with a wonderful reputation; one of the best in the business, in fact. With that name on her CV the PR world would be her oyster in a couple of years. She could go to any consultancy in the land, more than likely as a board director, probably as Managing Director. But how would that sit with plans to start a family?

And that was when the old woman came a third time, to find her firmly ensconced as Sprackleys Managing Director, Helen Sprackley having taken on the role of chairman after Jenny had opted to stay with the company.

" _You're wondering whether your career can fit hand-in-glove with raising a family. Well, it will. Go ahead, my dear, start your family as you want to. It's the right thing to do. If you don't, you'll always regret it."_

With Jenny's excellent salary at Sprackleys and Malcolm also earning good money as a well-connected fashion photographer, she knew they could easily afford the best child-care. But how would she feel when the baby actually came along? Would she want to stay at home all the time to look after it? Would her career matter so much to her then? It certainly mattered now, but would it in the future? Would her priorities change?

And so the elderly woman came a fourth time.

"I just don't know what to do," Jenny told her.

" _I know, my dear, I know. It's hard for you," the woman said. "You're worried that if you leave the agency you'll be bored at home, and that Gemma will only occupy your time for so many years. But you can always return to your industry later, when Gemma's older, when she's at school. Someone with your experience will always find work."_

The fifth visit was, indeed, when Gemma was starting school. Helen Sprackley offered Jenny her old job back as Managing Director; Jenny's replacement having moved on to Harrison Bonham Associates. Funny how things work out, Jenny told herself.

This time the agonising was over whether to run her own part-time business from home, so she would be there when Gemma came in from school; so she would be there when Gemma was ill; so she could be sure of not missing school sports days and plays. The offer of MD was very tempting, but would be full-time. Working from home would keep her mind occupied; keep her hand in and provide her with a degree of financial independence while ensuring she was always there for Gemma. When Gemma needed her.

And so Jenny gave birth again. Not to a baby this time, but to Jennifer Radcliffe Communications.

" _Hello, dear." The old woman appeared to her on the first day of business, smiled sweetly and said: "You've done the right thing," before vanishing. Never before had a visit been so brief._

And so the old woman's appearances stopped. The years flew past. Jenny and Malcolm doted on Gemma. Every six months Malcolm would take professional pictures of her, and the growing portfolio catalogued her young life, from the moments after her birth, through her captivating smile and first steps, to her first day at school in grey pinafore dress, white shirt and red cardigan, first sports day – when she broke the tape by winning the 50 metres sprint, and of course, all her birthday parties.

Gemma was six when her brother Dominic came along. Jenny had wondered whether the old woman would appear again when she and Malcolm had been discussing whether to try for another child. Both of them knew that if they were to have another baby it had to be now, before they, and Gemma for that matter, grew any older. After all, Jenny's body clock was ticking away relentlessly. She was now 35 and Malcolm was 41.

But there were no appearances. Jenny began to worry about making her mind up. All her major life decisions had been influenced by the old woman's comforting, reassuring presence and words. Malcolm just thought she was a good decision-maker. But this time he sensed she was having trouble.

However, he knew better than to push her. If pushed, she fell into a stubborn rut and sulked with him for days. Eventually she did make up her mind, as Dominic was testament to.

Over the years she had longed to tell Malcolm about their very welcome supernatural visitor – her guardian angel – but he didn't believe in ghosts. And after all, she told herself, it was her secret, shared alone with the old woman, whoever she was. And so she never told him.

She often wondered if she would ever hear those once-familiar words again. Yet here they were, almost 20 years after she first heard them and 10 years since the last time.

A chill of pleasure ran down her spine as she turned from her computer screen to see that familiar face smiling back at her.

"Hello, dear," she replied, using the old woman's regular greeting back to her, unable to control the feelings of intense pleasure which tingled through her body before changing to those of doubt.

" _Don't worry, my dear," said the old woman. Uncanny. It was almost as if she were reading Jenny's thoughts about disaster. "We won't be seeing each other for a very long time to come, and I didn't want you to forget me, that's all."_

Jenny was almost crying. "Of course I won't forget you," she sobbed. "You've helped me so much." The smile widened, just as before, and the old lady faded into nothing.

And so the years passed by. Gemma and Dominic grew up and had families of their own, providing Malcolm and Jenny with a clutch of much-loved grandchildren. Jenny's PR firm also grew to a very respectable size, employing over 50 people. She had all but retired in her early fifties, only taking on a part-time role as Chairman. And, exactly as the old woman forecast, Malcolm never strayed again.

Yes, her life was happy and complete.

One day the sound of hoovering suddenly came from the living room. Malcolm was out, so who was in the house with her? And who would be hoovering, for goodness sake?

Her heart pounded as she trod silently down the hall and opened the door, peering cautiously inside. There was a young girl viciously hoovering, pulling the cleaner backwards and forwards with quick, angry jerks.

But the girl and her hoover weren't quite whole, weren't quite real. Jenny could see the recently hung light red flock wallpaper and newly fitted dado rail right through her.

And the girl was floating.

Suddenly Jenny understood. Now she realised why the old woman's face had always seemed so familiar, right from the very first time she saw her.

She strode up behind the girl, the vacuuming masking the sound of her footsteps.

" _Hello, dear," she said._

Luella

Kyrena Lynch

### Chapter One

Leaning against the brick wall, Luella sighed. It'd been a tough day and now it was pouring with rain. Her short, choppy black hair stuck to her head and her clothes sticking to her slight figure made her look like a drowned rat. The newspaper she'd used to protect her head was falling to pieces in her hand, frowning at it in annoyance she dropped it and looked around. Not a single car to be seen and she still had to walk an hour before she would arrive home. Luella was really wishing she'd caught the bus or taken up her workmates offer of a ride home, but of course she had to decline because the guy who'd offered the ride was more than a little creepy.

Deciding that she'd be better off staying at a motel for the night, she weighed her options before pushing off the broken wall of an old building she'd paused to lean against, and walked to the nearest motel which was fortunately only ten minutes down the road. She'd rather not stand against a wall all night soaked to the skin. As she approached, she noticed the motel seemed empty and cold despite the lights glowing around her. There were no cars in the car park nor was there anybody visible in reception. Eyes narrowed, she cautiously walked forward, not liking the feel of the place at all. Stepping into reception, a shiver ran down her spine making her feel like she was being watched.

"Hello? Is there anybody here?" She called softly, looking around curiously.

" _Run!"_

" _Leave this place before it's too late!"_

" _Hurry, save yourself!"_

Voice upon whispered voice assaulted her ears. Scared out of her wits, Luella turned running towards the door as she heard a strange rustle and slithering noise, a cackle echoing through the room making her run faster. She flew outside, dashing across the road, not stopping to look, her senses barely registering the honk of a horn or the screech of tires as a pick-up truck hit her. She flew up and over the bonnet rolling off as the pick-up truck jerked to a stop. Luella let out a soft cry of pain as she landed on the ground.

A car door slammed, footsteps thudded toward her quickly, enticing her into painful consciousness. Moaning pitifully, she opened her eyes, seeing someone's booted feet she let her gaze travel up their denim clad legs over their plaid covered chest to their face. His jaw was strong, covered in five o'clock shadow. A straight nose with high cheekbones and full lips made him look divine. His short black hair was scruffy and fell over his forehead, adding to his attractiveness.

"Shit. Miss, I apologize." He spoke gruffly, earning a wheezy chuckle from her.

"It's alright, sir. Nothing major broken just a couple of ribs, a punctured lung and broken legs. Give me a few moments, I'll be fine." Luella replied wincing as she felt her legs and ribs pop back into place, healing them. She took a breath in promptly coughing up the blood stuck in her lung after being healed. She spat it out on the road beside her before pulling herself up and stretching.

"Uh, are you sure you're meant to be moving Miss? Maybe I should call for an ambulance." He said uneasily, watching her stand up.

"No, no. It's fine. I heal remarkably fast. I'm Luella Tayell." She said brightly, sticking her hand out for him to shake.

"George Bucheron." He replied warily, as he looked at her with a frown.

"You're curious as to how I heal so fast." She stated, studying his darkening emerald eyes. He was suspicious, she noted. It was normal for a human to be suspicious of something that healed very fast.

"What are you? Nobody heals that fast." George muttered, looking her over.

"If I tell you what I am, will you give me a ride to the next town? It's raining and I'm cold and soaked to the bone." Luella replied, giving him a bright smile. Her violet eyes sparkled in the darkening light as she swept her short locks out of her face.

"Sure. You'd better explain well otherwise I'll be charging for the ride." He said, snapping slightly as he walked to his side of the car.

"Of course, that's fine. I'm one of the best of my kind at telling stories." She chirped, walking to the passenger side and climbing in.

"Look lady, I don't want a kid's fairy tale. I want the truth." He snapped at her harshly.

"I know. However, the best way to explain this is to put it in story form." She replied, her eyes flashing in annoyance.

"Tell me now, what the fuck are you?" He growled facing her.

"I'm an Angel." She replied simply.

"You're crazy. Angel's don't exist." He scoffed, starting up the engine.

"Of course they do, otherwise I wouldn't be here. Every person you come across that heals fast like me and has indigo or violet eyes is an Angel. No human has eyes like ours." Luella smirked, sliding him a glance. George continued to focus on the road ahead not saying anything for a few minutes.

"So, why were you running across the road in the first place?" He asked, shooting her a curious look.

"I was going to stay at the motel, but it was too quiet and something was telling me to leave, to run and save myself so I did. It was freaky as hell." She replied with a shudder.

"You mean that derelict old place close to where I hit you? That place is due to be demolished next week. I have no idea why you thought it was open or alright to enter, it's been abandoned for years." He replied frowning.

"Oh, is it? It looked like it was open to me. The only thing that looked strange was the fact that the lights were giving off an eerie glow and there were no cars or people around. I just thought it wasn't used that often."

"I've heard people with strange coloured eyes have died there. Nobody could tell what killed them though or where the bodies went. People say if you listen closely enough there are whispers telling you to leave before a cackle is heard echoing through the main building. Pretty creepy if you ask me." George shrugged.

"I see." Luella murmured, thinking over the small amount of information she'd been given. It seemed like something was luring her people to the motel and then killing them, for what purpose she'd no idea. Frowning she realised that she had a lot of research to do. Nothing killed her people and got away with it, especially not after the hunting that the human governments did when the Angels arrived on Earth back in the nineteen-sixties.

"Are there any other places like that anywhere?" She asked, staring off into the distance through the windshield.

"Hmm, I think there are a few places like it scattered around the country off the motorways. Probably some scattered through America too, along their older interstates. Why?" George replied.

"Just curious, is all." Luella said tightly, her bubbly attitude fading away, being replaced by a sombre one. George glanced at her briefly noticing the change before frowning and focusing on the road again. Between the two towns it was a two-hour walk, fortunately it was only an hour's drive and the signs outside the town quickly passed before houses and shops started popping up around them.

"Any particular place you'd like me to drop you off?" George asked, speaking up.

"Yes. There's a café bookstore five minutes' walk from the town hall. My sister and I own it." Luella told him, letting a soft smile grace her face.

"You're related to Miss Corphae?" He asked in surprise, turning the car and driving towards the town hall. The town wasn't large however it wasn't small either. A lot of Angels settled in the smaller towns along the interstates with very few deigning to live in the bigger cities. Most Angels owned stores that sold unusual items or café's that had menus which humans might've thought strange.

"Yes, do you know her?" Luella replied with a fond smile as she looked at him.

"Not personally, however my half-sister enjoys visiting her café. I occasionally get dragged along when I'm in town. I didn't know a bookstore was part of it though." He responded chuckling, intrigue lacing his voice.

"Well the bookstore is a new development. My sister and I decided to become business partners and I'm going to open a bookstore and combine it with her café." Luella said throwing him a grin.

"I see. I rather enjoy books, so you can bet I'll be a frequent customer." George grinned.

"You live here then? I've not seen you around before." Luella said.

"Yeah, I live here. I've been away for work for a while." He replied with a sigh.

"Oh, right. I was working in the next town over a lot of the time so I don't know people here as well as I would like."

"If you're working in the next town over then why are you opening a bookshop and combining it with your sister's café?" He asked.

"I handed in my resignation two weeks ago and today was my last day. It was sunny when I'd left but when I got part of the way out of town it started raining. No buses and I turned down my workmates offer of a ride because he was super creepy." Luella explained with a shudder.

George started chuckling making her frown at him only causing him to laugh harder when he caught sight of her expression. Arriving at the café, Luella jumped out of his pick-up truck before it even stopped moving causing him to swear as she ran into the café while he finished parking his vehicle. As soon as Luella passed through the door she felt a short and soft, warm body collide with hers almost knocking her over. The person wrapped their arms around her waist forcing the air out of her. Luella looked down to see an eager face looking back up at her despite the tears running down their face.

"Sarah. I. Can't. Breathe." Luella gasped. Sarah's grip relaxed and Luella wound her arms around her sisters' shoulders. "Thank you."

"I missed you Lu." Sarah sobbed into her chest.

"I missed you too Sarah. I was only gone for the day." Luella replied as the bell on the door chimed, signalling a new customer.

"Ahem. As much as I hate to disrupt this touching reunion, could I have a large soy latte with a strawberry Danish to go?" A haughty feminine voice said from behind the pair.

"Rebecca! It's so lovely to see you again." Sarah said politely; dislike coating her voice as she stepped back from her sister, walking towards the counter to prepare Rebecca's order.

"Indeed. Have you heard that George Bucheron is back in town? I heard from Emily yesterday that –"

"Yes, I'm back." George interrupted, stepping through the door. Rebecca elicited a gasp and turned around to face him a flirty, seductive smile on her face. Her hand fluttered to her large bosom, resting lightly there hoping to draw his attention.

"George, it's so wonderful to see you again." She said with a breathy quality to her voice. Just as she went to place her other hand on his upper arm, he shut the door and moved past her, wrapping an arm around Luella's waist. Luella looked at him with a raised eyebrow and, seeing the subtle look he sent her, smirked. Laying her head on his shoulder, she looked up at him adoringly.

"Indeed? I've got to say, I don't really remember you. What's your name again?" He asked, his eyes flicking from Luella to Rebecca and back again.

"It's Rebecca. Rebecca Montrose." She replied sweetly, sending a glare towards Luella who only grinned in return.

"Well, it's nice to meet you Rebecca. However, as you may have noticed, I already have a girlfriend and I don't think I'll be interested in anything you might have to say or offer me." He replied, looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Your order is ready, Rebecca!" Sarah called, setting the items onto the counter. Rebecca stalked past the duo, paid for her order and flounced out the door with her nose in the air and a "Humph!"

"That was brilliant! I never liked that woman." Luella laughed as the pair walked to the back of the café, toward the counter.

"Thank you. Women like her are seriously not my type." George replied, chuckling.

"You know she's going to spread rumours about you both now, don't you? The rumour mill here is a fierce thing." Sarah pointed out. The three of them looked at one another blankly before they all started laughing again.

"I hope your sister won't mind, George!" Luella said nervously as their laughter stopped.

"Poor Lily!" Sarah added.

"Oh, I know. She'll just have to get over it though." George replied still chuckling, he knew his sister would forgive him for not telling her the exact date of his arrival in Syden because, when she'd asked him a few months earlier, he didn't know.

Now here he was talking and laughing late into the night with Sarah and her sister, Luella, narrowly avoiding a disaster that involved the town slut, Rebecca. She was a nightmare to be sure, wanting to get into every single and married man's bed usually succeeding however it was different with him. He'd always managed to escape her clutches. To be honest, Luella had something that appealed to him. However, he'd have to get to know her properly before anything could happen with her.

"I'd best be off, ladies. Sarah, it was great to see you. Luella, it was a pleasure to meet you despite the initial circumstances." He said standing and giving both women a warm smile and a brief hug.

"See you later, George." Sarah replied, smiling.

"Yes. Goodnight George." Luella said softly, grinning at him.

### Chapter Two

The first customer to walk through the café doors the next afternoon was Lily, due to renovations the Café opened at noon on a weekend.

Lily had known her half-brother was returning to Syden. However, she hadn't been sure of the date or time he'd arrive, then late last night she got a phone call from Emily asking suspicious questions about George and his relationship status. Lily knew the only place which had reliable news was Mystique Café owned by her favourite person, Sarah Corphae.

The bell on the door jingled letting Sarah know of her presence. The young woman came bustling in from the back room, her expression brightening at the sight of Lily standing at the entrance. Lily smiled and looked around noting that no-one else was here yet except for another young woman with short choppy black hair, nursing a large cup of coffee.

"Lily! I take it you'll be having the usual cappuccino with a white chocolate and raspberry muffin?" Sarah asked cheerfully. Lily didn't know how anyone could be so happy all the time. Sarah's attitude was always infectious making everybody happy for the day ahead on a weekday, no matter the work they had to do or the mood they'd woken up with. Weekends were slightly different, but the effect of Sarah's cheerfulness was always infectious.

"Yes please Sarah." The soft-spoken young woman replied strolling to the table where Luella was sitting. Luella looked up, her frown melting into a smile when she saw Lily's slight figure hovering next to her.

"I'm Luella Tayell. Nice to meet you, please have a seat." Luella gestured to the booth across from her.

"Thanks. I'm Lily Beaumont, George's half-sister." Lily said, sitting down.

"He mentioned he had a sister on the drive into town last night. I find it funny that we both live here yet we've never met each other before." Luella smiled as Sarah approached with Lily's usual order.

"Thanks Sarah. Yes, it is rather strange." Lily laughed, taking a sip of her coffee.

"I suppose that would mostly be because I had to leave early to walk to work over in the next town, it took me two hours!" Luella exclaimed, grinning.

"Not to mention you never returned until late at night when everyone was already at home in bed!" Sarah added with a laugh.

"True, I suppose." Luella agreed.

"So how did you meet my lovely brother?" Lily asked, slicing her muffin. Luella blanched.

"Uh, that's a rather interesting tale." She said, grimacing.

"Do tell, Lu." Sarah urged a wicked grin on her face. Luella shot her an annoyed look before taking a deep breath and launching into her tale, slipping into storyteller mode.

Luella paused frequently through the story, mostly for dramatic effect, but also to drink her coffee before it went cold. As she continued through the story, her sister dealt with customers while Lily paid rapt attention.

"What happened next?" Lily asked, wide eyed as she neared the point where she and George met. Luella grinned and continued.

"I ran across the road, not paying any attention and got hit by your brother's pick-up truck. I ended up with a punctured lung, broken legs and a couple of broken ribs. He got out and came running around to see if I was ok, and then freaked out when I healed and stood up in front of him about five minutes later. He was the reason I got into town so early yesterday."

"Wow. What a dramatic meeting!" Lily exclaimed her doe eyed expression making both Sarah and Luella start laughing.

"Yeah, just a bit." Luella replied, calming down.

"Stories like that make me feel like I'm in high school all over again." Sarah sighed.

"I know what you mean." Lily agreed.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but how are you and George related? Do you have the same father with different mothers or is it the other way around?" Luella asked, looking curious.

"We've the same mother, different fathers. Neither of us ever really knew our fathers though. If I heard correctly, George's father left before he realised mum was pregnant and my dad died in a car accident when I was about seven or eight so I don't really remember much about him." Lily replied a sad smile on her face.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You have my condolences. What about your mother?" Luella gasped, sadness filling her face.

"She died of cancer five years ago. I was fifteen, George was eighteen. He took care of me." Lily replied with a sad smile.

"Do you know anything about George's father?" Luella asked softly.

"Yes. If I remember correctly mum always told me of a man who had indigo eyes and gave her George. No idea what that means apart from the fact that he must have been George's father. I haven't the foggiest what happened to the man." Lily replied, drinking the last of her coffee and slicing another piece of her muffin.

Sarah and Luella shared a glance. If George's father had indigo eyes, then that meant he was an Angel and George was a Halfer. It was clear that George didn't know about his heritage which was bad, especially as he looked to be in his early twenties. Meaning he had only a couple of years to acknowledge his heritage, choosing Human or Angel, unless he wanted to die slowly and painfully.

Suddenly the door jingled again and a group of chattering women entered followed by a pair of heavier footsteps. As Sarah left, a shadow fell over Lily and Luella. The girls looked up and smiled.

"Hey babe. Hey Lily." George said smiling as he slid into the seat next to Luella and placed a soft kiss on the corner of her mouth. Lily raised an eyebrow at him and he jerked his head slightly. Lily looked up and rolled her eyes, noting the gossip mongers of Syden. Luella grinned.

"Rebecca and her groupies are here, seems they want to know more about your relationship." Lily sniggered, earning a frown from George and a wink from Luella.

"Yes, it seems we made an impression on Rebecca last night." Luella giggled snuggling closer to George who now had his arm over her shoulder. Sighing she lay her head on his shoulder, placing a blissful look on her face. George looked down at her and smirked, his emerald eyes sparkling as the chattering group of women got louder and louder.

"You do realise that Rebecca has been trying to get into George's bed for months, years even. She thinks you've already managed to do that." Lily pointed out giggling. The trio felt sorry for Sarah who was currently approaching the women to take all their orders and make them.

"Yeah, I know. What they don't know though is that this is all a ruse." Luella said quietly, a wistful sigh escaping. Fortunately for her only Lily caught it, not George. The trio started laughing when they were interrupted.

"Hey George, how are you? I haven't seen you in a while." A soft, breathy voice said from the left.

"Emily." George replied stiffly.

"Buzz off Emily. My brother's not interested." Lily snapped, glaring at the woman standing next to them.

"Shut up Lily. I wasn't talking to you." Emily snapped back before focusing back on George, "Is it true then, Georgie? You're dating this tramp? What happened to us? I miss you, I still love you, Georgie." she simpered, fluttering her eyelashes and running her hands over her body before placing one manicured finger under his chin pulling his face up to look at her.

"I'd appreciate it if you kept your slutty paws to yourself and not touch my boyfriend." Luella snarled at her, an icy glare on her face. The room dropped in temperature by at least five degrees and continued dropping slowly.

"Your boyfriend, tramp? Ha. Don't make me laugh. He's my boyfriend. He always has been and always will be." Emily snarled back. Luella stood and shifted past George, pushing Emily back so they were both in the middle of the room staring at each other. The whole room got quiet, waiting to see what would happen next.

"Let me give you some advice. Firstly, never piss off an Angel. Secondly, stay away from George because he's mine. I've warned you so don't say I didn't." Luella stated a cold smirk on her face. The air around Luella was so cold that it outlined her wings which had unfolded from her back in her anger.

"You're an Angel? Puh-lease, why would anybody believe that? Angels are the immortal servants of God. I would know, since my father's a Minister." Emily said scathingly, raking her eyes over Luella's body.

"Your father may be a Minister, but he obviously knows nothing. Angels are not immortal nor are they the servants of God. I'm an Angel and you're pissing me off. You'd do well to remember my warning." Luella replied with a deadly tone.

"If you're an Angel then prove it." Emily challenged. Luella's smirk widened and Sarah stood off to the side, a large grin on her face to hide the concern in her eyes, she knew it was dangerous to try and use their angelic energies before they turned twenty-five when they matured.

"Me-ow!" George smirked, clawing the air. Lily sniggered at her brother's antics and rolled her eyes.

Luella manipulated the air around her so the chill and ice would make her wings visible to human eyes while her hair rapidly grew long, ending at the small of her back. Her outfit morphed from jeans and a t-shirt to a billowing white long sleeved dress which was loosely fitted around her breasts, hugged her waist and arms before flaring out from the hips falling to her ankles allowing her bare feet to be visible. A silver belt with a sword attached formed around her hips. Luella's violet eyes flashed, glowing a bright amethyst as she extended her wings enough to hover off the floor slightly. Her whole body seemed to give off an otherworldly glow as Emily stood below her, mouth agape.

"I think that's enough now sister. I'm sure she gets your point." Sarah said walking towards the floating Angel. Reaching up, she grabbed Luella's hand calming her down.

Luella's feet touched the floor again and she collapsed in Sarah's arms. George came up behind the sisters and pulled them both into his embrace despite how the deadly chill still emanated from Luella's skin. The chill and glow dissipated as Luella folded her wings into her back. She remained in the billowing white dress and her hair remained long although the sword which was sheathed on her silver belt disappeared. The room became warm again as Sarah and George helped Luella to the back room to rest. From there Sarah and George heard the light pattering of feet exiting the café then the doorbell jingle and a quiet click before Lily appeared in the room.

"I ushered Rebecca and her groupies out and flipped the closed sign over the door. Will she be alright?" Lily asked softly, marvelling at seeing an Angel in her true form.

"Thank you, Lily. She'll be fine; she only needs to sleep for a few hours. Obviously, we'll have to get her some new clothes and she may want to cut her hair later since she prefers to have it short." Sarah replied smiling softly.

"I can pop over to Tara's Boutique and grab some stuff for her." Lily offered, wondering if Sarah was an Angel too. As she left she figured if they were sisters then it was highly possible.

"That would be great." Sarah replied, accepting her friends offer. Once Lily had left, George spoke up.

"So is that her true form?" he asked.

"Yes, it is. I also have some news for you too, but I don't know if you want to wait for Luella to wake up or not." Sarah replied.

"Will she mind if we don't?" he asked.

"No, I don't think so. She may be asleep, but she can still hear us." Sarah replied.

"Ok, tell me then. If it's important, I'd really like to know." He said looking at Luella's sleeping form with a soft smile.

"It's about your heritage. You're what's known as a Halfer which basically means you're half Angel, half Human. I'm not sure how much more you know, but you have to choose between your Angel heritage and your human heritage before your twenty-fifth birthday. Angels stop aging at twenty-five, it's how our DNA works and because of that we're nearly incompatible with humans. It's only compatible enough for a Halfer child to be conceived, but they won't live past their twenty-fifth birthday if they don't choose." Sarah explained softly, watching both George and Luella.

"I see. I suppose it's not a decision to be made lightly." He commented.

"No, it most definitely isn't. Choose wisely, George." She replied before getting up and leaving the room to let him think about his options.

"Luella, what am I going to do?" he whispered as he too fell asleep. Little did he know, his heart had already decided.

### Chapter Three

As the couple slept and pondered on where their future lay, they were unaware of the danger that ever so slowly crept towards them. When Luella had run from the creepy Leviathan's nest in the abandoned motel and been hit by George's truck, she'd unwittingly let it taste her essence as she used her Angelic energies to repair her broken body meaning it could slowly siphon her life energy away as it tracked her to Syden.

It slithered along the roadside at night only, being a creature that couldn't stand the sunlight which was perhaps its only weakness, scales dragging on the tarmac. Hissy cackles echoed through the air scaring away any wildlife in the forest near its route.

"I've got you now, little Angel. You can't hide from me forever. Oh such a feast you've laid out for me!" It hissed to itself, pleased with its plan.

It would, of course, take the creature days to reach the small township, but once there it knew it would have a divine meal waiting for its consumption. As far as the creature was concerned, the only thing in the future of the Angel Luella and her family was death, for Angels could not survive on Earth without their Angelic essence. Once a Leviathan had a sample of Angel essence, it could leave its nest and nothing could stand in its way, but for an experienced Angel who knew that sunlight would kill the creature. Even now, Luella would feel weak as her energies were slowly drained by the creature that siphoned off the link which allowed it to travel and more so after using her energies before her 25th birthday to prove her point to shallow little girls.

****

On the other side of the country a man stood fighting off a group of Hunters. He wasn't an ordinary man either; he was an Angel and George's father. Hunters were people who were of two opinions. One, Angels were abnormalities, demons that should not exist. Two, Angels were to be experimented on to find a way to further human society. Hunters of the first opinion were generally strictly religious societies while Hunters of the second opinion were generally government agents. The Hunters that Michael was currently fighting off were of the religious nut variety.

"EVIL DEMON!"

"FOUL CREATURE, YOU MUST BE CLEANSED OF THIS EARTH!"

"YOU'RE AN ABOMINATION, JUST DIE!"

"GOD'S WILL IS FOR YOU TO DIE, DEMON!"

"WHY DON'T YOU JUST GO JUMP OFF A CLIFF!?" Some of the men shouted at him causing him to roll his eyes, he muttered "I have wings, moron. Honestly how thick are you?"

Suddenly someone flung holy water at him and he frowned as the one with the cross opened his bible and started chanting. Sighing, he quickly changed into his true form, gathering icy water to him to make his wings visible to their pathetically weak, miserable human eyes. He took flight as his outfit morphed into a pair of loose white trousers and a loose short-sleeved white shirt. A pale gold glow surrounded him as his sword appeared in his hands; he quickly sheathed it at his side aware that the Hunters were staring at him.

"I am not a demon, nor am I an abomination of any kind. I am an Angel although perhaps I am not the type of Angel that you once perceived." Michael called down to them.

"True angels have wings of feathers and are the eternal, immortal servants of God who do His good will and bidding." The one holding the bible said.

"This God you speak of does not exist. You have no proof that He does so you cannot prove me wrong." Michael called down to them not unkindly.

"We will not believe your blasphemy, Demon!" Another jeered. Michael sighed before talking to them one more time.

"Then you are all blind fools. I'll take my leave, I have better things to do than to wait around and endure your silliness."

Michael flew up into the clouds, out of the Hunters sight as he searched for his son. After waiting for a short while he felt a tug on his consciousness alerting him to his son's Angel awakening. He slowed, tilting his head to the side to listen to the wind.

" _Syden. Your blood is in Syden, sleeping next to his young mate and they are both in great danger. Hurry." The wind whispered to him urgently._

Michael felt a lift in his heart at discovering his son's location and anger that something would dare to threaten his child. George had managed to elude him for most of his life and Michael had only caught a glimpse of his son with a young girl that closely resembled the boy at the funeral of his ex-lover. The now dead woman must have had another child with another man after he left and although it caused a pang in his chest that only one child was a Halfer he was glad his ex-lover had been able to move on. He knew she'd been upset when he'd told her that he had to leave, though it was necessary since Hunters had been on the verge of finding him.

Hunters. He was really getting sick of them, they'd managed to make sure he could never settle down with a family of his own, but he intended to fix that. Syden was a fairly secluded town near the Rockies, the nearest large town being about an hour's drive. Since he was an Angel and could fly, he didn't see the point in driving. Although that was probably the main reason he kept getting caught by the Hunters.

TO BE CONTINUED...
Mother Called Today

Michael J. Elliott

Mother called today.

I was at work, so I wasn't able to take her call. Roger was also at work and the kids were at school, so I'm pleased it went straight to the answering machine, that way I could delete it remotely. Roger wouldn't understand and the kids would just be frightened. Mother could be a little scary for the uninitiated. It's strange, but she never calls Roger's mobile and she just seems to know when I'll be there to pick up the phone at home. It's never her on the other end when Roger or the kids answer.

The last time she called she asked why I never call her. She never complained that my brother Geoff never called. You must be thinking that I'm a real bitch, I mean because I don't call my mother. Nothing could be further from the truth; Mum could be quite demanding. It wasn't just that she placed high standards on herself, but she always demanded more from my brother and me.

Whatever high grade I received in a school subject, Mother always thought I could've done better. My brother may have scored a goal in his soccer game, but Mother always thought he could've probably scored one more if he'd only tried that little bit harder. Father never defended us against Mother's demands, after all she did it so nicely and in such a constructive manner that nobody would think of her as being unreasonable. Father always congratulated us but never corrected Mother's criticisms. That may have been due to the fact that Mother could be very demanding of him as well.

Geoff had always been stronger than me. He shrugged off Mother's objections when he said he wanted to obtain a mechanic apprenticeship. Mother thought he could do so much better for himself even though he'd always been mechanically minded. I'd always had a desire to study at university. I loved reading and thought I'd make a pretty good librarian, but I simply didn't have enough confidence. I'm not blaming Mother entirely, but I did have a bit of an insecurity complex because of her high demands. I've always worked in the food industry. I just drifted into it, that's why I work as a waitress currently. Mother isn't a harridan despite what I've told you. She has many fine qualities. She's affectionate and demonstrative, but try as I might to concentrate on those better qualities, I seem to dwell on her demands and her need for us to excel at everything we undertook.

Naturally she isn't very happy with my choice of employment, current and former. Geoff worked for a national chain of motor mechanics. It was a very good job, great wages and conditions, but Mother felt that he could do so much better for himself if he only opened his own garage. Now you have some idea what Mother is like.

I thought our usual lunchtime rush had ended when a group of eight or nine arrived. I was busy clearing tables and taking orders when Lucy, the other waitress I work with, informed me that there was a phone call me. Tony, both the owner and our head chef, was shouting something about more marinara sauce to the rest of the kitchen staff. I asked Tony if I could take the call in the office to avoid the noise of the kitchen. He glared at me but gave me a curt nod. Tony was normally a jovial, good-natured boss. He always praised his staff when we pulled together, opened a bottle of wine and provided snacks after we'd successfully hosted an event. Tony's pet peeve was staff taking or making too many calls during work hours, which was entirely understandable.

I closed the office door and tentatively picked up the phone, pressing the flashing red button to accept the call on the outside line.

"Hello, Susan Parnell speaking."

" _Suzie?"_

It was Mother.

Instinctively I gripped the phone tighter. Her voice was thin and reedy and she sounded breathless.

" _Suzie, why haven't you called me?"_

"You know why," I hissed through clenched teeth.

Mother chose to ignore the remark.

" _Why haven't you visited me?"_

I let out an exasperated breath. "You know why I haven't been over to visit you."

" _Do I? I can't seem to remember. I've been feeling a little fuzzy-headed lately. Come over for dinner on Sunday. I'll cook roast lamb."_

"You know I can't."

" _Good, I'll see you Sunday, dear, bring Roger if you feel you want to."_

There was silence on the other end. I felt my anger rising. Once again Mother had ridden roughshod over me and gotten in the last word. I tried to calm myself down as I left the office and walked through the kitchen. Lucy rushed over and told me to grab an order of carbonara and a chicken parmigiana for the new diners. She whispered that Tony wasn't very happy about the phone call.

Believe me, I'd tried everything to discourage Mother's calls. I'd changed the home number and simply told Roger I'd been getting crank calls. I changed my mobile phone number, but she still managed to find it out. I even changed my email address. Mother didn't own a computer and she definitely didn't know how to use one, but I wasn't taking any chances. I thought about having the home phone disconnected, but I'd have trouble satisfactorily contacting Roger. That aside, the kids were too young for their own mobile phones, so I had to reject that option. As I tossed and turned, trying to get to sleep that night, I still hadn't reached a reasonable resolution regarding Mother's calls.

****

Two days later, I nearly lost my job because of Mother. Friday had always been a busy day for us, in fact it was our busiest. I knew we'd be even busier than usual because this Friday was the beginning of a long weekend holiday. To make matters worse, Lucy was off work suffering from a bout of gastroenteritis. Tony was unable to get any temporary staff because of the holiday. Lydia, his wife, had offered to help out but, she would only be able to stay for two hours and would have to leave before the end of the lunchtime rush. I was dreading having to face an even larger than normal dinnertime crowd as the only waitress.

I had my arms full with four plates when Tony shouted out to me through the kitchen serving window. I finished serving my customers, apologised to those still waiting to be served, having already mentioned we were short staffed, then hurried through to the kitchen. In the kitchen Tony was shouting out instructions and trying to take care of half a dozen dishes himself.

"I don't know who it is or how she's done it, but some woman wanting to speak to you has tied up the outside line for hours. I can't disconnect her. Get her off the phone now or don't bother coming into work tomorrow."

I knew apologising wouldn't placate Tony. I simply nodded and headed into the office. I hadn't felt anger like this in a very long time. I picked up the telephone with such force, I almost pulled it off the desk. I knew who it was.

"Mother, would you please stop calling me at work? No – no, stop calling me period!"

She ignored the remark. "I feel like I've been on hold for months."

I tried to appeal to her better nature. "Mum, please, I'll be happy to speak to you, but you mustn't call me at work. My boss doesn't like it."

My words had no effect.

" _I'm so cold, Suzie. I don't think my heater is working. Could Roger come over and take a look at it for me, please?"_

It was the middle of spring. The days were pleasantly warm and the nights were mild. I knew the elderly often felt cold, so I wasn't entirely unsympathetic. I could tell Mother the reason she was feeling cold, but I knew she wouldn't listen.

"I-I'll ask him but..."

" _Thank you Suzie, I'll expect him over sometime soon."_

The line went dead.

****

The rest of the day was hectic, not unexpectedly. The lunch rush had merged with the dinner rush. Under normal circumstances I'd finish up at two o'clock and Lucy would stay on for the Friday dinner crowd. Tony asked me if I could stay on and fill Lucy's shift. I said I would, not because of the extra money but because I wanted to smooth things over between Tony and me. I said I'd have to make two quick calls to arrange to have the kids picked up from school and ask one of my girlfriends to have them over for the night. I also had to let Roger know I wouldn't be home till quite late. Roger had his regular Friday get-together with his mates at the pub, so I didn't have to worry about cooking dinner, but I still had to let him know. I used my mobile phone and made arrangements to have the kids looked after. I left Roger a message on his voicemail. Lydia returned to help me out for a few hours. We were all very busy, but we managed and kept all our customers happy.

At the end of the evening, after the usual cleaning and lock up, Tony offered us all a drink of our choice and snacks. I just wanted to get home but I felt it would be rude to refuse Tony's hospitality, particularly after I'd smoothed things over after Mother's call.

****

The lights were on when I arrived home, so I knew Roger had gotten back from his night with the boys. I didn't see him when I got inside, so I assumed he'd gone to bed. I walked into the kitchen and after switching on the light, I noticed that the answering machine message counter was rapidly flashing. The machine informed me I had fifty-five messages. I tentatively hit the play button.

" _Hello dear, it's Mother..."_

Fast forward.

" _Suzie, are you there?"_

Fast forward.

" _Hel..."_

Fast forward.

" _Suz..."_

Fast forward again and again. All from Mother. I erased them all. I could feel the beginnings of a severe headache coming on. I grabbed two Paracetamols from the packet in my handbag. After grabbing a glass from the cupboard, I poured myself some water from the kitchen tap. That's when I noticed that the garage lights were on. I thought Roger must still be awake and might have brought some mates back for another beer. Or he could be alone and working on his sports car, a restoration which was his current project and his hobby. Since it was a long weekend as well as a Friday, I wasn't surprised that he was still up, even after a day at work.

I walked out the back door. The security light came on, illuminating the back garden. As I got closer to the garage, I could hear the sound of an AC/DC song, 'Highway to Hell.' I smiled. AC/DC was Roger's favourite group. I was just going to let him know I was back, then I was going to head straight to bed. I didn't spot Roger immediately but when I did, my jaw dropped. I felt my knees buckle beneath me. Roger was swinging leisurely by a rope from a steel rafter. There was a cardboard sign hanging from his neck.

"I've come to collect Roger, couldn't wait any longer."

How had this happened? Had Mother whispered into Roger's ear to get him to take that final step? Had she done this because I continually ignored her? My horror and disbelief was coupled with the knowledge that my darling Roger was dead because of me. I wished with all my heart that I could turn the clock back, to have never agreed to have had lunch with Mother that day.

****

It had been a warm, pleasant day as we drove to Mother's on that Saturday afternoon. Roger had grumbled about going, but, to his credit, he did come. It was just the two of us going for lunch, the kids were attending a friend's birthday party. My brother Geoff had even agreed to come, which would make the day a lot more bearable.

I can't remember what Mother was cooking, but while we were waiting we were all sitting in the lounge room having a pre-lunch drink. The conversation turned to work. Roger mentioned that he was on strike at the moment due to safety concerns the workers had with the company. That statement was like a red rag to a bull for my mother. She gave him her most charming smile, the one that showed butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, and asked Roger if it was really fair to his family to be on strike. Roger had been dealing with Mother's prickly remarks for years and had learnt to bat them aside. He merely smiled and sipped his beer. Mother wasn't going to rest it there. She asked if we'd be able to survive with just my wage coming in. Roger pointed out that the strike wasn't about money or wages. The workers had only turned to strike action when negotiations with management had broken down for the third time. There were genuine concerns over safety standards. The union was concerned that the company had failed to update safety standards and equipment.

Mother acted concerned, but her next statement carried its usual barb. She said she'd cook lots of meals and freeze them. Mother said it broke her heart to think that her grandchildren may go hungry. To be fair, Roger is an excellent father and a very good husband. Like any family, we've had our financial ups and downs, but none of us have been so destitute that we couldn't afford to eat. Mother's comment was the final straw for Roger. We both knew Mother wouldn't let the matter just sit, she'd keep needling. He jumped up and shouted that our kids had never gone hungry and never would. He called her a vindictive cow. Roger walked out and said he would wait for me to finish my lunch but he'd lost his appetite and would wait for me in the car.

Mother looked genuinely perplexed by Roger's reaction. She sighed and went into the kitchen to turn off the oven, saying something about thoughtlessness. When she returned, I said I should really go. Mother naturally dismissed my decision. She said Roger would be back soon once he'd cooled down, and besides, didn't I want to see my brother? To be fair, Roger never holds a grudge for long; after years of marriage he'd learnt to quickly cool down after one of Mother's barbs. I loved my mother, even if you do find that hard to believe, but I'm also very loyal to my husband. I felt it was only right that I leave and go home with Roger. I decided to wait just a little longer in case Roger came back. I sat back down and sipped my wine.

Mother asked whether I had to work harder now that Roger was on strike. I explained that I took on a few extra shifts a couple of times per week just to help in keeping the bills under control. Mother nodded and smiled as she sipped her wine spritzer. She wasn't allowed much alcohol after she'd been diagnosed with a heart murmur. She was never a big drinker in the first place, and now she only had a wine spritzer when she was with company. Mother then asked if I'd heard from Paul Kingston lately. I thought this was a very strange question. I'd dated Paul for about six months but that was years ago, before I'd even met Roger. I told her I hadn't seen or heard from Paul in many years.

Mother went on to tell me that she'd seen Paul being interviewed on a news report. The news item was about the latest threat to Internet security. She said that Paul was now head of cyber security for one of the country's largest banks. She smiled sweetly and wistfully said how much she had always liked Paul. I began to fidget and a vague feeling of discomfort came over me. I had an idea where this conversation was heading. Mother casually mentioned that she'd never heard of banking departments going on strike. Had I ever heard of the department heads of banks taking strike action? I smiled as sweetly as I could and said that I hadn't. Mother proceeded to tell me that I wouldn't be working so hard today if I'd married Paul. She said that she wouldn't ever wonder about her grandchildren's welfare if I'd have only made a better choice in husbands. That was all I could take. I drained my glass, then stood over Mother and called her a disgrace. As she moved to get up from her chair, I pushed her back down. I'd never done anything so physical to her in my life. I stormed into the kitchen to rinse my glass. While I was in there, I heard a muffled thump.

When I returned to the lounge room I found Mother sprawled out on the floor. She was on her side and I will never forget her face. She looked as though she had been struck by a sudden shocking thought. The left-hand side of her face had sagged. Her eye was half open and the corner of her mouth twisted downward. There was a trail of drool running from the corner of her mouth onto the carpet. Her arm was stretched out; her hand had curled into a claw. She was making a strange gurgling sound, interspersed by rattling, shallow breaths.

Do you want to know something? As I looked down at her I felt nothing, absolutely nothing. After a lifetime of Mother's subtle but powerful put-downs, I felt as though I was completely drained of compassion. God help me, I shook my head, turned my back and walked out. I could feel her green eyes boring into my back as I walked out the door. Roger gave me a quizzical look as I got into the car. I simply told him I wasn't going to stay there without him and besides, I was getting a headache.

About an hour later there was a phone call from Geoff. He'd broken down on the way to lunch. I found that ironic considering that my brother is such a good mechanic. Maybe it was fate. Maybe if he'd been there then... He told me he didn't get any response when he knocked on Mother's door. He used one of the spare keys we both had for emergencies. Geoff told me to prepare myself for a shock. Mother had undergone a massive stroke. He'd found her halfway towards her chair. She had somehow managed to knock the telephone off her small side table. I don't know how, but Geoff said she had the receiver in her hand when he found her. I felt a chill run down my spine. The thought of her painfully moving inch by inch to her only means of salvation, the phone, sent my mind reeling. I acted appropriately shocked and explained that Roger and I had left before lunch because of my headache. I said she must have collapsed just after we left. Geoff said I should get to the hospital straight away. The hospital?

Mother hadn't died. She had slipped into a coma. I hugged Geoff at the hospital and sat with him as we waited for news; it wasn't good. The doctors said they could only monitor and try to keep her stable. Should Mother come out of the coma, they could better assess how much damage the stroke had caused. She may regain consciousness, but she could end up in a permanently vegetative state. Only time would tell. When Mother was out of Intensive Care, I visited her with Geoff almost every day. Those visits terrified me. I was paranoid Mother was going to open her eyes and point an accusing finger at me, screaming blame at me. God forgive me, but I prayed every day that she'd die without regaining consciousness. She didn't – not straight away.

Mother lived on for another month.

Mother began calling me a few weeks after that.

Any hope I'd had that those first calls were a hoax had evaporated very quickly. My dreams for a peaceful life and to forget the tragedy I'd caused disappeared with every swing of Roger's corpse. I had been so lost in my dark thoughts that I hadn't noticed the garage was now silent. The CD had finished playing. I jumped when another AC/DC song began to play, but it sounded tiny and somewhat distant. I double-checked but it wasn't Roger's portable stereo. I scanned the workbench and noticed Roger's mobile phone was ringing with another AC/DC song, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap". The screen flashed "UNKNOWN CALLER". With a throaty whisper I answered the call.

"H-hello?"

" _Hello, Suzie. I'm so glad I managed to get Roger over to fix my heating. Mind you, he did take a lot of convincing. Why don't you come over and I'll fix you an early breakfast while he's working on it?"_

"I-I..." No further words escaped my constricted throat.

" _Oh good, that's settled, I'll be over to pick you up very soon."_

The call ended and I let the phone tumble out of my hand and onto the concrete floor. I didn't bother checking to see whether it was broken or not. As I continued to gaze at Roger's lifeless form, the garage door began to slowly rise. A sickly green-coloured fog started to roll into the garage like some unearthly miasma. The door continued to rise and I noticed the outline of a figure in the fog. The details were hard to see, but the figure walked with a decided limp, and it was leaning to one side. At that moment the fog seemed to part, revealing the intruder like a pair of stage curtains.

I wanted to scream but my constricted throat only let out a tiny whimper. It was Mother. There was no colour in her face. It was completely white, almost translucent, blue veins could clearly be seen in her face and hands. Mother's once beautifully styled brunette hair was now white and was completely wild and tangled. Her arm was held close to her chest with her hand upturned. It was a withered claw. She dragged her leg behind her. She was a horrifying stoke victim from beyond the grave.

"I'm here for you, Suzie."

Her voice was a combination of gurgling and harsh breathing. She made her way closer, slowly but with purpose. I lost control of my bladder when I saw her attempt to smile. Urine ran down my leg. The garage had turned icy cold, colder than I thought possible. I no longer had to worry about the phone calls from my mother ever again. For the first time since her death, she wasn't just content to hear my voice.

Today, Mother came to visit me.
Natatorium

Adele Marie Park

Solid against the ever encroaching rush of civilisation, the building was a sentinel. Guarding the last bastions of a by gone age. Raising its gothic head to challenge the sky and drink heavens elixir. None of its glass eyes were broken and they stared out with malevolence at all who dared curiosity.

Susie felt her stomach cramp and her breakfast rebel threatening to betray her fear. For a moment her vision blurred and the building shimmered and opened its doors to reveal sharp teeth. Thomas, her brother and his friend, Mike were already at the maw of this beast. Her senses told her that she should run away. Go back home to safety, but her legs wouldn't move. She glanced upwards as a grating cry took her attention. A crow settled in a tree - one of many surrounding the old swimming pool. She swallowed more breakfast as she gazed at the atrophied branches. They grew towards the building as if it sucked them dry of their energy.

Boys laughter broke her trance. Thomas pointed at her. She couldn't hear everything he said, but she caught the word baby. Anger rushed into replace fear and she scrunched up her hands into fists. He was always calling her names. It wasn't her fault that there was five years between them. Her body lurched forward as adrenaline forced her feet to move.

The doors must have been beautiful at one time. Now, they resembled bitter decaying dreams. The polluted fumes from the town had eroded their skin - replacing smoothness with pockmarks of Verdigris. Carved in the middle of each door was woman's head. Susie's fingers traced the chiselled waves on her head. Her eyes were devoid holes that held no human warmth.

"Get back."

Thomas pushed her away and clasped the twisted iron handle. A voice in her head screamed at her to run, but with the grating and hissing of the door opening, the voice fell silent. Dead leaves and mulch blew outward and settled around their feet. Thomas edged forward. She wanted to reach out and pull him back, but he was already swallowed. Mike stared at her.

"Go on. Nothing's going to happen. It's just an old building." His voice sounded kind and she remembered the times he had told Thomas to leave her alone. Trust wrapped around her heart and she entered.

The scent of dry decay swam around her and her nose twitched with the dust. Her brother made stupid noises that echoed off the empty space and fled upwards. The glass ceiling domed at the top like an observatory. She scuffed her feet on something and glanced down. She had kicked a tile loose, revealing the nakedness underneath. The tiles were the covering of the building's true skin. They protected it and she had scratched the surface. The rustle of dead vegetation filled the void and the sky darkened. She turned around to look at her brother but couldn't see him. Like a nervous mouse she twisted this way and the other, but she was alone. She heard giggles then her heart lurched as she realised what was happening. The door shut with a finality that made her catch her breath. She touched it in disbelief.

"Let me out." She tried the handle. It moved but something was stopping the door itself.

"We'll be back Susie, later." Her brother's voice held mischief and cruelty.

"No. You let me out. Now!"

"Bye sis." Their laughter grew fainter and she felt betrayed.

"Thomas!" She slapped her hand against the door then as panic filled her body she crashed

her fists against it. Rattled and shook the handle. Tears flowed from her eyes and caught in her throat as she choked on dread and blind fear. Sounds slid over her like a damp blanket.

Don't turn around. Something wild and self-harming clicked inside her brain and she disobeyed her own counsel.

The emptiness which had dwarfed her before had metamorphosed into gigantic proportions. It loomed over her waiting to chew her flesh and spit out the bones. Every fragment of sound was an explosion inside her ears. The blood made them pound as if her heart was trying to fly out. As slow as a worm she slid down to sit on the icy tiles. She brought her knees up and laid her head on them.

'I'll just wait right here.' She relaxed a little as the realisation that her brother wouldn't leave her for long broke the back of fear.

Softer sounds whirled around her like whispers. Dismissing them at first as her heart calming down, she heard snatches of words. She raised her head. Her eyes bulged and her mouth opened. The emptiness filled with people. Flickering images that moved in a slow line. A woman in a long grey dress turned her head and caught Susie in her sepia stare.

"Do not hesitate, child. Join the line."

Calm poured into her, a strange feeling after so much terror. The diaphanous people moved onward and her gaze followed them. A tall man stood in the middle of the pool. He looked as if he was in charge as he held a clipboard. He wore a black suit. She stood up and brushed down her dirty jeans. Her breath went in and out like puffs of wind. She joined the queue.

A hand rested on the small of her back.

' _Don't let the others see you've skipped the queue.'_

She glanced upward. Walkways lined either side of the pool, barred with crusted iron railings. She craned her neck upward and saw a higher balcony. This one had plaster columns keeping the people safe. Figures moved at a snail's pace and she listened for the shuffle of feet, but there was none. She bowed her head and she knew the reason why. The people were floating above the ground. Some rose higher than others, but they all moved forward. Shutting her eyes, she wished the dream away, but it didn't go. She snuffled and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket. The man would tell her what this was. He would let her out.

The line kept pushing onward towards the tall man. She could hear snippets of conversation.

' _Second time this week.'_

' _World's going to hell.'_

She felt as if she was in a bizarre waiting room. It would be normal if they didn't all float. A thought crashed into her.

Am I dead? It stopped her moving, but she was soon pushed on by the person behind her. The touch was cold and her body shivered. She was getting closer to the tall man and her heart started to drum in her ears.

' _If I'm dead, my heart wouldn't beat.'_ Black shoes so shiny she could see her own reflection. She looked upward and realised she had reached the tall man.

"You should not be here." His voice boomed into the void of echoes and started a chorus of whispers behind her and above. She stared at his face. His features were so chiselled against his black skin that he resembled a statue carved from ebony. He glared at her.

"I'm locked in," she said.

' _Come on get a move on.'_

'What's the hold up?' People were starting to grumble and the person behind her pushed her to one side.

Her mouth opened and a pitiful wail shocked her back into silence. The tall man carried on with is task and no one else looked at her. She slid down the slimy wall of the pool, and cried into her hands.

"Hello, what's wrong with you?" Hoping the voice belonged to a girl she looked up. It was a girl about her own age too. She was wearing a shabby and patched pinafore dress, but at least she didn't float.

"He said I shouldn't be here." Susie said, and hated how her voice quivered.

"He said the same thing to me." The girl sat down beside her.

"Are you alive?" The girl giggled.

"Well I'm not dead. Not like those." She pointed at the queue. Susie let her misery free.

"I got locked in." The girl turned to face her and her eyes flicked with emotion.

"Did someone abandon you?"

"No. My brother thought it would be funny to leave me here."

"That sounds stupid. Is he stupid?" For the first time since she found herself in this grotesque circus, she smiled.

"Yeah. He is." They laughed at the same time then shared a smile that bonded them.

"What's your name?" Susie asked.

"Geraldine."

"Susie." Information exchanged they sat in silence and gazed at the dead people filing past them.

"Where are they going?" Susie asked.

"I'll show you. Take my hand and don't let go." She clasped her hand. It was warm - like her own. At the end of the pool was a whirlpool that defied logic. Dust and debris swirled round as if inside a washing machine. They grew darker on the way down until there was nothing but blackness and she couldn't see the bottom. Susie bent forwards, but the girl pulled her back.

"You never go in there." Fear threaded through her words into Susie and she huddled tight against her friend. The little she had seen terrified her.

"Watch," Geraldine said. A figure walked past them and jumped into the middle of the whirlpool.

"That's how they travel," she whispered. They stood for a moment longer gawking at the vortex then Geraldine pulled her away.

"Is your brother coming to let you out?"

"Yes. Soon I hope. I don't like it here."

"I don't either." Susie felt a fluttering inside her tummy like she did before asking her parents for something new.

"Is anyone coming for you?" she asked. Geraldine`s eyes glazed over and she looked away.

"No." Susie thought how awful this place was and how she would feel if she was stuck here.

"You can come with me, if you want." The speed which Geraldine turned back to face her surprised her.

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes."

"Swear it." Susie felt sick, something was building like a rush of sound or water. Geraldine grabbed her wrist.

"Swear it Susie, please." Her eyes swam with tears. Susie felt sympathy and anger mixed together.

"I swear. You can come with me." A thunderclap of sound washed over them and as Geraldine pulled her to her feet she could hear the wind.

'Wind? Inside?' Geraldine jumped on her back and held onto her neck with a grip of steel.

"I'm the monkey on your back." Susie screamed as she felt a sharpness and then a deep pain.

"What are you doing? Get off me." Mad cackles made the hair on her arms stand up. This wasn't Geraldine. It didn't sound like her or feel like her. She tried to buck her off, but all she succeeded in doing was knocking them to the ground. Geraldine jumped on top of her and Susie gasped in horror. Her friend had turned into a monster. She was bald and her skin had turned grey. Her eyes flared crimson and as she cackled the red gash of her mouth opened to reveal sharp pointed teeth.

"You swore to take me so now you gets me, Susie. Forever."

### Chapter Two

"Open the door. Let her out," Mike said.

"It's only been twenty minutes." Thomas backed down as his friend glared at him. "Okay. Okay." He pulled at the old wooden plank that he had used to secure the doors from the outside. He glanced at Mike.

"She's going to be so pissed."

"Yeah, so would I be." Thomas pulled on the handles and the doors swung open with a metallic groan of protest.

"What is that stink?" Mike asked covering his nose with his arm.

"Oh, man that's bad. Smells like science class." They stood for a moment coughing and groaning.

"Sulphur." Thomas managed to say. "Susie?"

He entered the building with a shuffling gait as the fumes were strong enough to make his eyes water. As his sight adjusted to the sun brushed dusty air he noticed something towards the back of the building. His brain was unable to recognise anything but a pile of discarded clothes, but his body knew. His heart felt too large for his chest as it pounded out a rhythm of panic.

"Mike!" He ran towards the pile of rags and stare in horror as finally, his brain recognised his sister.

Mike was beside him and bent down his hand hovering over Susie.

"What's happened to her? She's covered in scratches. Look at her face." Rooted by fear and disbelief, Thomas couldn't move. He gawked at his sister's wounds. "Phone an ambulance. She's unconscious." He had to shout at Thomas again before his friend could move and take control.

The ambulance arrived minutes before the worried parents. Susie's mom tried not to scream as she saw the extent of her daughter's injuries. Cuts peppered her skin that were a shock of red against her pallid complexion. One eye looked wielded shut by blue and purple greasy colour as if painted across it in a mad dance of violence.

"What happened?" Thomas heard the disbelief in his mom's voice and started to cry.

"It was a trick, mom. There was nobody else in there."

The paramedic closed the doors of the ambulance on mom and daughter. The rest could follow behind. Mom held onto Susie's hand. Her eyes shifted in tiny darting glances over her daughter's body. Shock gave her a soft whispering voice as she stroked Susie's hair.

"It's going to be okay, baby." Repeated over like a prayer. She noticed her daughter's eyes flickering behind her eyelids. The good eye opened and then rolled backward. Susie lurched upward but the straps restrained her. She screamed her face a contorted mask of terror.

"I'm here darling. Mom's here." Susie heard nothing but cackling laughter and nails of pain. All she could see was Geraldine sitting on her chest and swiping at her like a cat would play with a mouse. The paramedic tried to keep himself as calm as he could without panicking the mother. He injected Susie with a tranquilliser. As it took effect the screaming broke down into whimpering then silence.

"What is wrong with her?"

"We'll know more when we arrive at the hospital."

****

Susie floated weightless in her unconscious dreams. The monster was still there, but she couldn't hurt her inside this place. It made her angry, but Susie didn't care, she laughed at her contorted body and silly features.

" _I can wait," Geraldine said._

****

The nurse on duty checked Susie's charts and checked the tubes that drip fed her sedation. The doctors hadn't found out what was wrong with her. The nurse knew exactly what was wrong with Susie. She leant down and whispered in her ear.

"Fight it. You have the power to send it back to hell." Geraldine showed herself to the hated nurse, but she wasn't frightened. "I know what you are. You will leave this child's body."

" _No. She invited me in."_

"Did she now? Are you sure about that?" Geraldine showed her teeth and snapped at her. The nurse smiled and left the room.

The following day the nurse returned with someone else. A priest.

"With your permission I'd like to pray over your daughter." Susie's parents agreed to anything that might help and left the room for a much needed break. When they had left Geraldine showed herself to the nurse and the priest. She laughed at them.

" _You're going to exorcise me priest? Well good luck with that." The priest looked at her and smiled. She hissed at him._

"I'm not just a priest little demon." Then he laughed which made Geraldine growl and snap at him.

"What you doing bitch?" she said to the nurse who was standing beside Susie. The nurse bent down and whispered in Susie's ear.

"I know you can hear me darling. There is a man here who will help you, his name is Matthew. Hear his voice and fight the evil with him."

Geraldine glared at the priest as he began to read. After a few words she felt shock enter her body.

" _That's not the Christians holy book. What is it?" The nurse answered._

"Enochian." Geraldine screamed as she was flung against the wall above Susie's bed.

"No. You're not allowed." The priest continued to chant and held his hand up with his palm showing. In the middle of his palm was a symbol that made Geraldine cry and whimper.

"Fight! Now." The nurse whispered into Susie's ear.

Inside the warm safe place Susie faced the monster. She screamed at it.

"This is my body. Get out of it. I didn't agree to this so you have no right to stay." Geraldine screamed at her and tried to slash her, but it didn't work in here. She cried and pleaded with Susie. "No. You will leave me alone." With the force of her will she pushed Geraldine out of her dream place and hurtled her into reality. She couldn't release herself from the hated words that he spoke. She was going back.

"No I won't go. Please..." The priest slammed his palm down on the book. There was a sickening sound as if skin were ripping. A small whirlpool hovered in the air and it pulled Geraldine towards it until it sucked her through. All that she left behind was a waft of sulphur.

"Thank you Matthew," the nurse said. He smiled at her as he left the room. Susie opened her eyes.

"Mom?"

"No darling. I'll get your parents."

"Wait. Who was the man that shone?" The nurse stroked Susie's forehead with a cool hand.

"Matthew the harbinger." The nurse walked away from her, but at the door she looked back over her shoulder.

"You will forget most of this, but a part of you will remember. I would keep those memories to yourself."

"Thank you," said Susie.

"Just doing my job darling." Susie closed her eyes and tiredness crept over her like a soft blanket.

Play Time

Amy Budd

Why did I have to come here? Why couldn't I have just left it well alone? Oh, right. Curiosity. My damned curiosity. Everyone's always said that curiosity killed the cat. I just hope that that remains a saying.

"You've heard the story, right?" John had said to me earlier that morning. "About that old Norton house?"

I'd raised an eyebrow, ignoring how my heart had seemed to quicken. That old house has so many ghost stories attached to it that it's ridiculous, and while I'm not exactly the biggest fan of ghosts, I also have the common sense to not buy into the scores of ghost stories surrounding the Norton house – or even the entire concept of ghosts, really.

Afraid of something that doesn't even exist. Hilarious, right?

"Which one? There's a new one every week."

John had looked around furtively before leaning in and lowering his voice.

"This one actually sounds legit. I heard it from Carol, who heard it from Reggie, who was actually there. He said he was walking past and heard a scream. Like, from a little kid. He went to take a look but...no one. The place was deserted."

"Sounds like he was on the happy juice. You know he's attached to his drink."

"I know! But he swears he heard the scream! And...you've read the paper, right? Of course you have. You know about Maisie Walker. How she went missing two days ago and nobody's seen her around?"

The look I'd given John had been rather sceptical.

"So, what? You think someone offed Maisie in the house and now she's haunting the place?"

"I dunno. Just telling you what I heard."

I'd smiled and thanked John for his information. Any ordinary person would just brush off a story like that and continue on with their day. But not me. I had to know more; to see if a dead body was really there.

Just call it journalist inquisitiveness. And that leads to why I'm here now.

As I approach the house, I muse about the reasoning behind somebody choosing to commit a murder in a run-down old dump like this. Sure, it's got the secluded factor down pat, but it's one of the first places you'd think to look if you heard about somebody going missing. Or maybe the ghost stories work in its favour. Maybe there are so many stories around the place that everybody simply dismisses it as another spooky tale. It might explain why the police haven't investigated here yet in their search for Maisie.

Or perhaps the killer was desperate and wasn't thinking straight. Contrary to what people seem to see on TV, not all murderers are scheming, plotting psychos.

"Hello?" I call as I push the door open, despite cringing so hard on the inside that I'm surprised my body doesn't shrivel up. Anyone who's anyone knows that the first rule of horror is to never give away your position – which includes calling out into a 'haunted house' – but I've never been one for thinking ahead anyway. Mum always called me a doer; ironic, considering that my job consists of a lot of thinking.

I grimace when I close the front door behind me. The entryway and living room are dark, illuminated only by the moonlight peering through the cracked walls and broken windows, and there's so much dust everywhere that I could probably bounce right back up if I happened to fall over. There's a set of footprints leading away from the door – clearly visible, even in the dim light, because they're the only things in the damn place that are only covered in a faint sheen of dust – and so I follow them, slowly treading away from the entrance. My senses are heightened, taking in every little detail in every direction – from the cloth-covered couch and dusty table, to the creaking floorboards under my feet, to the way the pale light flickers between panelling and windows and even to the thick taste of decay in the air. I wonder how long this place has been dead for.

The place is so silent that when a door slams somewhere nearby, I nearly jump out of my skin. Goosebumps erupt all over me when the terrifying sound of a little child laughing wafts out of a room; the room that the footsteps are leading to. Despite being scared out of my senses, I follow the footsteps as if by muscle memory, pushing the door open as carefully and quietly as I can. There's no dust on the handle, so someone's already been here before me...and gone into this very room.

'If John's pranking me, I swear to God I'll slit his throat and dump his body here,' I think in furious fear. My heart's pounding so fast that I'm surprised it hasn't beat out of my chest yet like in some weird Looney Tunes cartoon and it's impossible to keep my hands steady as I wipe them on my shirt to dry them of sweat.

This room must have been a bedroom when the house was occupied, judging by the massive queen bed over by the window. There's a chest of drawers up against the opposite wall, so covered in dust that I can't quite tell its original colour, and what I guess to be a writing desk and chair near the bed, both covered by a tarpaulin. The room's pretty bare by bedroom standards.

As though in a trance, I ghost over to the bed and stare down at the faded red fabric. The dust is scattered in a way that suggests that the duvet has been recently moved and so, my heart beating so fast that I'm starting to get chest pains, I kneel down and lift the duvet with nearly uncontrollable hands so that I can look under the bed.

There's something there. It does look like a body, carelessly stuffed under the bed as though the killer had been in a rush, and when I reach out and touch the object, I recoil when my fingers meet cold, dead flesh. My hand is sticky with blood when I yank it back out and tug the duvet back down to cover the underneath of the bed, and that's when I hear the child's laughter again – though this time, it sounds like it's right in my ear.

"H-Hello?" I stammer hoarsely, my head whipping around to try and find where the sound's coming from. I wouldn't put it past John to have come and set up a recording somewhere to terrify the heck out of me...especially considering the alternative.

' _There' no such thing as ghosts,' I tell myself firmly. 'No such thing as ghosts.'_

I wipe the blood off my hand on my shirt jerkily, making a mental reminder to burn the shirt later or at least dispose of it where nobody will find it and implicate me in this mess. For now, I know I have to get out of here. I'm almost at the door to the room when something flickers into existence in front of me. A strangled, choking sound escapes my throat.

"No..."

In front of me is a child. Maisie Walker, to be exact, and it's not just from the newspaper article that I recognise her from. She's staring up at me with cold, dead blue eyes, her blonde hair framing her deathly pale face, and she's wearing a pink shirt and blue jeans, both covered in blood from the many, many wounds littering her body. Her throat looks like it's been ripped open by a serrated knife and allowed to spill blood all over her chest.

"Oh my God," I whisper. Maisie flickers for a moment, then solidifies with the creepiest smile I've ever seen. A smile like that should never be seen on a kid's face, even if they're possessed – or dead.

"Welcome ba-ack," she sings, her voice darkly joyful. "Do you want to play with me now?"

She laughs – the same laugh I'd heard earlier – and holds up the object in her hand. It's a knife. A serrated knife that I know for a fact was the one to cause all those lacerations all over her body.

Just like the one I'd grabbed out of my kitchen the other night.

'Ruby Kisses'

Jessica Wren

A well-dressed, distinguished older gentleman had been loitering near the jewelry counter for nearly an hour, much to the annoyance of assistant manager Toriano Wright. When the man first arrived, Toriano welcomed him eagerly, excited at the prospect of making a big sale and a generous commission. Toriano could tell this man was well-off; he was wearing a designer suit and had arrived in a Mercedes-Benz.

"Can I help you find something?" Toriano said, putting on his most winning smile.

"I just want to look for a while, Mr. Wright, if you don't mind," the man said. Toriano wondered how the man knew his name as he had not yet introduced himself.

"Not at all, sir. Let me know if you need assistance." Another fifteen minutes passed, and as lunch time approached, the man had neither asked for assistance nor shown interest in any particular item. He just lingered near the counter and stared, as if trying to figure something out. That counter contained what Mr. Reubens, the store owner, referred to as 'The Star,' an eighteen-carat white gold ring with an emerald-cut, two-and-a-half carat ruby that was surrounded by diamonds totaling one carat. It had been in stock for as long as Toriano had been with Reubens' Jewelers, and Mr. Reubens had promised anyone who could sell it a bonus of two-thousand dollars plus the usual twenty percent commission. But for the twelve years Toriano had been working at the store, many customers had taken an initial interest but no one wanted to buy it, not even on credit. Toriano had been hoping the customer would take an interest in 'The Star,' but after nearly an hour and a half, those prospects were glum. "By the way," Toriano said to the man, "with whom do we have the pleasure of doing business today?"

"I am Mark Nelson." As Mr. Nelson extended a hand, Toriano scanned his memory for the source of the uneasy feeling the mention of the name gave him. "I understand you are ready for lunch. When you come back, I would like to talk business. Will that be acceptable?"

"Mr. Nelson, I wouldn't want to hold you up. I can assist you now," Toriano said even though his stomach was growling.

"No, please. I may be a while. Go ahead and eat lunch. I will come back in thirty minutes." Mr. Nelson left the store in the blink of an eye. How did he leave so fast?

Toriano went to the back of the store where Connie, the bench jeweler, was studiously repairing a gold chain.

"Hi, Tito," she said cheerfully.

"I'm going to Salvador's for tacos. Want anything?" he asked.

Connie was his ex-fiancée. He had left her to marry his current wife, Linzi, to whom he felt more attracted and compatible. Connie had been distraught over their break-up, and Toriano knew she still carried a torch for him. He still considered her a close friend and they still had to work together in any event. Being kind and considerate to her without leading her on was a daily balancing act.

"Sure. Two beef tacos would be great. Thanks." Connie reached for her wallet, but Toriano stopped her with a hand gesture.

"I'll take care of it," he said. "I'm closing the store for thirty minutes."

****

Mr. Nelson cleared his throat before beginning. "This ring," he said, indicating 'The Star,' "was stolen from my late wife many years ago. I bought it for her for our ten-year anniversary." Toriano wondered why Mr. Nelson couldn't have just stated that up front. Reubens bought estate jewelry and occasionally they did have an item in inventory that was stolen property or whose sale was otherwise disputed, so this claim was not unusual. However, "I was wondering if I could convince you to sell it to me for four hundred dollars. You see, my savings are all I have left to live on, and it would mean a lot if I could give the ring to my granddaughter."

That was why. Toriano stared at the man in front of him. He had expected Mr. Nelson to provide documentation to back up his claims, or to threaten to get the police involved. Never had a customer offered to buy back a piece that had been stolen. He had dealt with thefts, counterfeits, and scams many times over his career in the jewelry business, and could usually identify one by sight. There was something different about this man. Very rarely had a customer made such a blatant sympathy play to obtain a large discount. He's not lying, an inner voice told him. Toriano ignored it; he was not about to fall for this con artist's ploy.

"Do you have a police report for the theft?" Toriano asked him.

"I did. It was destroyed, along with the appraisal certificate, in the fire that killed my wife, my son, and my daughter-in-law." When Toriano didn't respond, Nelson said, "You don't believe me."

Toriano stood in shock as the name registered; he remembered hearing about the fire on the news, although he didn't remember how long it had been. He thought he heard that Mr. Nelson had not only perished in the fire along with his wife, Terri, but at one point had been suspected of setting the fire until police officially cleared him. The man was definitely a con. Or you may have misheard or confused it with another story, his inner voice was starting to annoy him. He's telling you the truth. You need to listen.

"It's not that," Toriano said. "I'm not authorized to discount a piece that much. This ring has been appraised at twenty-thousand dollars. Now, if you had a police report, then--."

"I will pay the asking price. I just thought I'd ask," Nelson said, cutting him off. Toriano forced himself to suppress a grin. He not only stopped a scammer, he did so with tact and diplomacy, although the whole thing seemed too easy. As he verified Mr. Nelson's personal check and wrapped 'The Star' in a gift box, he quieted the intuitive warning that he had just made a big mistake by imagining Linzi's reaction when he told her about the large bonus he would be getting at the end of the month. Six-thousand dollars was enough to take a vacation to Hawaii, something Linzi had been talking about for months. The news of a large commission check always made Linzi happy, which in turn made him happy.

But Mr. Nelson did not take his purchase. "I bought the ring for you," he said in a soft voice one would use with a lover.

"What are you talking about?" Toriano asked, dropping his professional alacrity. He had no idea what this Mr. Nelson was up to, but he wanted no part of it. Not even for six-thousand dollars would he....

"I'm talking about your greed, your dishonesty, and your lack of compassion," Mr. Nelson replied, his voice suddenly becoming steely. "First, you looked at me and saw a fat bonus check. I could see it in your eyes as soon as I came in the door, Mr. Wright. Did my expensive suit and my Mercedes fool you? I borrowed both from a friend. Second, you neither acknowledged nor expressed any compassion about the tragic loss of my wife. And then you had the nerve to lie to my face and tell me you weren't authorized to offer a discount. I'll have you know Patrick Reubens has been a friend of mine for years. You were thinking of the commission and the bonus you would get if you sold the ring at full price. You were willing to take the life savings of a widowed man for that bonus."

"Sir, I work to support my family," Toriano said with no hint of defensiveness. "I apologize that you view my desire to provide for my wife and son as greed and lack of compassion. I will also remind you that to make this purchase was your choice. No one forced you to do it. And now you're trying to tell me that my boss sent you in here to play games with me? Mr. Reubens takes his business more seriously than that. Thank you for your business, and you have a wonderful day, Mr. Nelson."

Toriano said, feeling a little frightened. Everything Mr. Nelson had said was true. He had only been thinking of selling 'The Star,' and the sob story about the man's wife in truth didn't interest him much. And as assistant manager, he could have given the ring for free if he chose, but to do so would cut into his commission check. His desire to earn the bonus aside, he still relied on his commission to pay the bills, since Linzi's job as a photographer netted barely enough to cover her own car payment.

"You are going to want to keep the ring I just bought you with what was left of my life savings," Mr. Nelson said. "Look at your right wrist." On the inside of Toriano's wrist was a raised, bright red lesion. It was shaped like a pair of lips. That lesion had not been there before. "That is a 'Ruby Kiss.' You will get one somewhere on your body every day until you give the ring away to a woman who loves you. Once you do that, the 'Ruby Kisses' will disappear, but if she ever stops loving you, then they will come back, and the process will continue." Nelson left the store without another word as Connie came out from her studio.

"What's going on here?" she asked.

"Nothing. Just a strange customer," he said.

"You're shaken up. Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," he snapped, and immediately felt guilty for his harshness. "He was just playing on my emotions to get a steep discount. By the way, I sold 'The Star'."

Connie gave him a bright smile, seemingly unaffected by his momentary harshness. She was beautiful, sweet, and kind. Toriano never could figure out why he felt nothing more than friendship for her.

"Congratulations," she said. "I bet Mr. Reubens will be thrilled."

As the day wore on, he couldn't shake the sinking feeling in his heart. He could have passed the entire encounter off as an elaborate hoax if it weren't for the lesion on his wrist. And somehow, Mark Nelson knew a lot about him, even though the two had never met. Mr. Reubens may have told him, but if that were the case, was Mr. Reubens' opinion of him really that low? Was he telling his friends that Toriano Wright was a heartless, greedy liar who swindled people out of their life savings? Somehow he doubted it. Mr. Reubens had, over the years, come to rely on Toriano to help his business thrive. Mr. Reubens wouldn't be badmouthing him if there were any chance word could get back to Toriano. In any case, if what Mr. Nelson said was true, breaking the curse would be as easy as giving the ring to Linzi. Let's just see how all this plays out, he said, calming considerably.

****

Linzi accepted the ring with a grand show of gratitude, and showed it off for her friends, but the 'Ruby Kisses' kept coming. After twenty days, he had two on each wrist, three on each arm, four on each thigh, one on the back of his neck, and one on each cheek. A trip to the dermatologist proved futile; two hours after the doctor removed the lesions, they all came back. The confounded doctor referred him to a specialist after assuring him the lesions were not cancerous. If the sale of 'The Star' was a set-up, as Mr. Nelson had implied, then Mr. Reubens said nothing about it; he paid him the promised bonus, and approved the vacation time to take Linzi to Hawaii.

But when Toriano surprised Linzi with two tickets for a romantic Hawaiian cruise, she was less than enthusiastic. She had been increasingly cold towards him for months unless they were in the company of friends, and they seemed to repel her completely. She offered a half-hearted explanation that she had a business trip scheduled that week. Since when do self-employed photographers take business trips? Toriano, disappointed, offered to reschedule the trip for another time that was better for her.

Nine more 'Ruby Kisses' had appeared on various areas of his body when Linzi sat him down in their living room. Taking a deep breath, she delivered a blow he wasn't ready for.

"Tito, I've fallen in love with another man. I want a divorce." Linzi went on and on about how sorry she was, how she couldn't live a lie, how she would never keep him from their son, Ethan, but Toriano barely listened. As she wrapped up her speech, another 'Ruby Kiss' appeared on his forehead. He felt it pop out. "And have you seen the specialist about those growths that keep popping up on you?" she asked.

"Why would you care what I do anymore?" he asked bitterly. "Just go start your new life with the man of your dreams." Noticing that she wasn't wearing the ring, he went into their bedroom and took it out of her jewelry box. He tried to hold back tears as he packed a suitcase. "You can stay in the house, so Ethan won't have to move. Assuming your new love makes enough to take over the payments."

****

It took three months for the divorce to be finalized. 'Ruby Kisses', meanwhile, were popping up all over his body, making him look like he had a case of measles. Mr. Reubens fired him, telling him candidly that his skin condition was repulsive to customers. There was no sense of loyalty for his years of service; it seemed likely that Mr. Nelson had been telling him the truth. Likewise, the people he thought were his friends slowly faded from his life. Only Connie stuck by his side. She offered him the use of her guest room for as long as he needed, listened as he cried over his broken marriage, and repeatedly assured him that the 'Ruby Kisses' weren't that bad.

"They're kind of cute, actually," she said. "Like little lips."

' _She still loves me. In spite of the fact that I callously tossed her aside for another woman and broke her heart, she still loves me as much as ever,' Toriano thought._

Giving the ring to her would cure him. Slowly, the idea of renewing his relationship with her began to form in his mind. He would never love her the way he loved Linzi. To give her a twenty-thousand-dollar ring would be the same as lying to her. Which you would be doing anyways if you were to rekindle your relationship. Every day he prepared to present her with the ring as a gift for their new start together, but he just couldn't bring himself to use her in that manner. To live a lie with her. For the first time, he was appreciative of Linzi's decision to be honest with him. There was also the undeniable fact that Connie would know something was amiss when his lesions suddenly disappeared.

For two months he wavered back and forth. To pretend to love a woman he cared for to be cured of his curse, or suffer his own fate and hope another woman will learn to love him? By the time Linzi called him, sobbing hysterically, there was barely a square inch of his body that was not covered in 'Ruby Kisses'. This did not seem to deter Connie, who had taken to wearing sexy, revealing clothing around the house in an apparent attempt to seduce him.

"Tito," Linzi said through sobs, "Ethan is dead."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Some...some thugs carjacked him. Shot him dead for his car. Out by the railroad track on Norwich Street."

Toriano, too shocked to process the information, could only wonder what his sixteen-year-old son was doing on Norwich Street, an area of town known for drug deals and prostitution. His shock quickly turned to anger. Why did Ethan go to Norwich Street with the Lexus Toriano worked hard to buy his son for his sixteenth birthday? Although he realized his anger was misplaced, he couldn't help but feel cheated. He had spent the last twenty years of his life working hard for two people who didn't care a thing for him, who only 'loved' him for what he could give them. And he had spent the entire time mistaking their pretentious shows of gratitude for love.

Toriano robotically went through the motions of preparing for his son's funeral, being careful to avoid his ex-wife and her new love. At the funeral, people stared at his disfigured body. He had barely any hair due to the lesions on his scalp, and the ones between his fingers limited his hand motion. The 'Ruby Kisses' on the bottom of his feet made walking painful. Whereas everyone else made a point of avoiding him out of fear that he had a contagious illness, Connie proudly sat next to him at the funeral chapel and put her hand on his. This could end today, he thought. Just give her the ring. You will learn to love her in time. Even if you don't, would you rather spend the rest of your life with her, or alone as a pariah?

****

Toriano went directly from Ethan's burial to visit Mark Nelson. He had been determined to start a new life with Connie that day. Why didn't he love her? Why couldn't see himself spending the rest of his life with her? He had tried and tried, but the feelings simply were not there. He had become engaged to her the first time because she seemed like a perfect match, and had broken it off amidst his increasing passion for Linzi because he respected Connie too much to cheat on her. He never could figure out what was missing, but maybe he would see something in her that he didn't see the first time around.

What he didn't want to do under any circumstances was fall in love with someone else and break Connie's heart again, especially now that he knew that pain himself. Attractive women like Linzi weren't exactly beating down his door these days, but once cured of the 'Ruby Kisses', things could change. He thought he had found his soul mate in Linzi, and wondered at what point did she start to see things differently.

' _Do you know I have thirty-thousand dollars in the bank that I was going to use to put a down payment on a new house for us?' He called out to his ex in his mind. 'I did without all these years to put this money aside.'_

He wondered if she had ever loved him or if her feelings had faded over time.

Nelson wordlessly invited him to take a seat next to him on the porch.

"You can't buy love," Nelson said laconically. "It's either there or it's not." Toriano was startled. This man was some type of evil wizard. Toriano had never believed in the supernatural before, but there was no other explanation for this curse of 'Ruby Kisses' and Nelson's ability to read his thoughts.

"What you did to me was vicious and unjust," he said. "You accuse me of greed when I was only trying to give my wife the best life I could. Weren't you trying to do the same when you bought your wife an expensive ruby ring?" Nelson did not answer. "You're right when you say that love that is not there cannot be bought. I worked hard to provide for my wife, but it was never enough. No matter what I gave her, Linzi always wanted more. What's worse is that I would have worked myself into the ground to give her all her heart desired. Truth be told, I still would."

"I understand," Nelson said. "Terri resented having to work to help pay the bills. She too had expensive tastes and in particular coveted jewelry. She saw the ring in Pat's store and talked of nothing else. I made an agreement with Pat to buy the ring on credit, foolish enough to believe that she would be grateful for my sacrifice."

"Is that so?" Toriano exclaimed "You know, the woman who loves me was satisfied with the tacos I brought her for lunch. I could give the ring to her and be rid of this curse you decided I deserved because you are so convinced of my dishonesty and selfishness. So tell me, Mr. Nelson: If I'm as heartless as you believe me to be, then why can't I bring myself to use Connie to lift the curse? If I'm so dishonest, why can't I pretend to love her? And if I'm so greedy, then why am I prepared to give you back the ring, cancelling out any chance the curse will ever be lifted, along with the life savings you used to pay for it? Does that sound like a selfish, compassionless, dishonest person to you?"

Nelson opened his mouth to speak, but Toriano cut him off. "Here is the ring that rightfully belongs to Terri. Give it to your granddaughter like you wanted." He placed The Star in Nelson's reluctantly outstretched hand. Toriano took out his check book and begin to write. "Here is a check for thirty-thousand dollars. That's more than you paid for the ring. You now have Terri's ring and your life savings back." Toriano stood up to leave. "Treasure every minute you have with your granddaughter. Life is very short." As he walked to his car, he thought he saw Nelson raising an eyebrow and smiling slightly.

He drove to Norwich Street, near a train track. It was the same spot where Ethan had been shot just five days before. A memorial, decorated with football regalia to honor Ethan's position as running back for his high school's team, had already been defaced already by mean-spirited vandals.

Connie, it seemed, was the only example of pure love left in the world. He would give her the ultimate gift, one that no piece of jewelry could replace. It was a gift he could give her honestly and with no ulterior motive. Toriano, feeling unburdened for the first time in months, decided it was a gift he was more than willing to give her.

' _Toriano heard the four o'clock train approach. As it grew closer, he calmly stepped on the track and faced the oncoming train._

'This is for you, my dear Connie.'

He would set her free so she could find a man who would love her with all his heart, the way she deserved. The only way she would be free is if Toriano was out of her life forever. The train came closer, blinding him with it's high-beam lights.

"I hope you know, Connie, how sorry I am for hur--."

****

Corey McDowell, salesman at Brunswick Autos, saw a handsome, nicely-dressed man in his early fifties enter the lot. The man had his eye on a Lexus that, for some reason, customers had little interest in, even though it was in perfect condition and had only three thousand miles on it. McDowell walked up to the man and introduced himself, hoping in his heart he could sell the Lexus and get the bonus check his boss promised anyone who could get it off the lot, where it had sat for more than ten years.

"I am Toriano Wright," the man said, offering his hand.

"I'm hoping you will be willing to hear me out. My son, Ethan, was robbed and shot for that Lexus eleven years ago. I am on a limited income and it would mean a lot to me if we can negotiate a price I can afford."

Sitting on a Cloud

C A Keith

Sandy sat with her coffee reading the morning paper. She loved this time of the morning. The house was quiet, the dog was still sleeping and she knew she had but minutes before the whole house was in chaos. The kids would need breakfast, the dog would need feeding, she already packed the kids backpacks as she was going to take Michael for his swimming lessons.

"Whew!" she thought, mornings were indeed chaotic. Sandy savoured the few minutes she had before waking her two boys, five and one.

"OK," she sighed and slugged down some of her coffee and made her way upstairs. "Michael, time to get up sunshine," she said. She went into the baby's room. "Hi sweet pea," she said as she picked up the cooing baby Kyle. She laid down the baby to change his diaper. She could hear Michael stirring in the adjacent room. She grabbed the baby and went back to Michael's room. Not again, she thought to herself. Her Michael was acting so strange the past few months.

They had only moved into the new neighbourhood a few months before. Her husband worked long tedious hours at a manufacturing plant and she stayed home with her two boys. She did some data entry for her dad's family business from home when the kids were sleeping.

It was summer and Michael was at home for the summer. In September he was going into year one. He was starting full days and Sandy was going to miss him. Michael went to a special school as he was deaf. Sandy and her husband Ben, thought it would be best if he attended the deaf school for a few years and then they would move him to a hearing school with interpreters. He was thriving as he played with many other deaf children. However, like most places, there were cliques. Michael was in a family of hearing parents which wasn't as 'good' as being in a family where everyone was deaf. The school board committees tried to persuade Sandy and Ben to have Michael live at school and he could come home on the weekends and school holidays. They told them he would develop better social skills and it was better for deaf children to be raised in the proper environment, not with hearing parents who really didn't understand deaf culture.

Michael's behaviour started to change. Sandy wondered if it was because he was missing his deaf friends. Sandy learned some sign language when she was a young girl as she lived across the road from two deaf families. When she heard her son was deaf, Sandy started signing right away. Her little Kyle was already signing a few words when he played with his big brother.

They were renting this ten-year-old townhouse until they could move into their new house in a couple of months. They bought it before they dug ground. Sandy was excited at the opportunity to move to her first house. They'd lived in apartments and now this townhouse for about nine months. Luckily they didn't need to sign a lease. The older lady really liked Ben as he was a friend of her husbands.

Sometimes Sandy would notice her baby startle then watch his eyes appear to follow something. She tried to convince herself it was a fly or a bug. They didn't have pets, but they considered getting a cat in the near future. Michael was acting oddly, he would stop, smile, laugh, and sign to himself and skip to his bedroom.

"Who are you talking to?" Sandy would sign to Michael.

He would sign that he was talking to this person or that person and sometimes he would say he was talking to his Great Grandma. He always signed the name Grandma M. Grandma was Sandy's Grandma whom she was very close to.

Deaf people always made signs for people's names to identify who they were talking about. They typically made the names based on something about their personality. Maybe the lady had long hair and their first name started with an 'L' then they may sign the letter L while flowing down their hair to represent the long haired lady whose name starts with L. It was that simple, but that's what deaf people do.

****

Today started off as any other day until she walked into Michael's room. Books were strewn across the whole bed. He had a book on his lap as he was sitting cross-legged on his bed. He was signing the picture story as he was looking down at the book and then to the left. He was signing, "Little girl there, chair sitting, short size, hair long, blonde, eyes blue, dress pink, yellow spots, socks white, shoes black, store go-to, candy buy, finish," which translated that the little girl went to the store to buy candy.

American Sign Language conversation was different from spoken English. Many words are left out and the conversation is straight forward and to the point.

"Who are you talking to sweetie?" Sandy signed to Michael. He kept signing his story, explaining everything in the picture and would giggle. Sandy walked up and tapped Michael on the shoulder, "Who are you talking to?" Sandy signed again.

" _I'm talking to Great Grandma M," he said matter of fact._

Sandy's eyes welled slightly. She missed her Grandma. She passed away a few months ago, just after they moved to this new townhouse.

"Remember I told you Grandma M died before?" Sandy told Michael. Michael shook his head.

" _But Grandma M says she is OK, don't worry Mama!" Michael signed._

Sandy's heart skipped a beat again. Michael had been mentioning his Great Grandma often recently and Sandy was afraid that Michael was missing her. He was really close to his Great Grandma. Sandy's eyes welled. She sat the baby in front of Michael. He followed his eyes to look beside Michael in the direction that Michael was signing to.

Kyle lifted up his arms as if waiting to be picked up.

"Muh muh, muh muh, up," he said. He was reaching beside Michael. Michael looked to his left again.

"Grandma I love you, Kyle I love you, Grandma," he said meaning that he and Kyle loved Great Grandma as they were signing to this person that Sandy couldn't see.

"Ok, it is time to get ready for swimming lessons honey," Sandy said to her son.

" _One minute!" he signed back with annoyance._

She could see him signing and nodding and laughing, random day to day chit chat things. Little Kyle seemed to babble back with his random baby talk words and he would gesture random things as if copying his big brother. Again Michael looked over with glaring eyes to his mom, "One minute!" he signed and rolled his eyes and tsk tsked his mother as if she rudely interrupting their extremely important conversation.

"Uh huh, muh muh, ess, muh muh," Michael muttered as he signed, "Grandma, Grandma, yes, Grandma."

Michael turned around and signed that Grandma had to go, they were busy talking on a cloud when Mom walked in, but it was OK, Grandma missed!

Mama too. "OK, Mama. Gramma OK, no worry. Doll black, Baby, hair short curls, remember? Gramma, you, doll play, remember? Books, shelf over there, books read remember, Chinese man," he signed.

Sandy's stomach fell again. She remembered when she was a little girl her daddy bought her a black doll with short curly black hair and she brought it over to show her Grandma. Her Grandma had a shelf with encyclopaedia's and books with nursery rhyme stories. One story that Grandma used to read over and over was "The Five Chinese Men." The wind was knocked out of her sails.

Sandy had to sit down on the bed. Baby Kyle crawled over on her lap and Michael leaned forward to kiss his mom and pat her on the back as if comforting his mom.

Michael was very smart and had an old soul many would say. He acted a lot older than he actually was. People wouldn't believe he was only five with what he signed and talked about. He was writing very well for any aged child at five, let alone the fact that he was deaf. He was very advanced for his age. At age one, he was signing 100 words or more and was already signing three - four word sentences. Most hearing children only could speak a few words and not with grammatical sentence structure.

Sandy's mouth dropped. "How did you know about my dolly?" Sandy had asked.

"Gramma M, tell-to-me, finish," he signed quite to the point.

****

Finish in a sentence meant that something happened before; past tense in English structure. Deaf people sign in present and the words around let people know about the tenses. One would not sign You want to go to the store right now with me; it would read, "Now, me you, store go-to, want?" It would be signed with strong facial and body expression so that the person would understand that the statement would be a question requiring a yes or no response.

****

Sandy sighed. She missed her Grandma, but didn't want to get too emotional in front of the kids. A few times in the past few weeks both the kids were acting strangely. At first Sandy thought it was because they moved to a new house and they had to get used to their surroundings. Since school had finished she thought Michael was missing his school friends and being around deaf people. Today was just the tip of the iceberg.

"Thanks for telling me. I loved that doll Baby. Grandma used to read to me and Baby. Thanks for letting me know. Next time you talk to Grandma tell her I miss her reading to me too," Sandy said, but not believing truly that her son was talking to her Grandma while sitting on a cloud. She humoured him and he stood up and started to choose what he wanted to wear to the swimming pool park.

She stood in the door frame and recalled more than one instance where the kids were following something or babbling to some make believe object. Sandy humoured the eldest as she knew that all children talk to their imaginary friends.

One of her best friends passed away in an accident a few years ago and he was very close to her son. She remembered him saying a number of times, "I'm talking to Ash." She humoured him then too and said, "Say hello to Ash for me too. Give him a big hug and a kiss."

Sandy went back to the table and put the baby in the high chair with some cereal for him to nibble on. She put some upbeat music on in the background. She made some toast with peanut butter for Michael and sat back down with a coffee. Michael toddled to his chair and plopped himself up to the table and had his breakfast.

Sandy's head was busy and full of thoughts. She messaged her husband and inquired if he saw anything funny recently, but he hadn't a clue what she was talking about. She assumed he didn't understand. When he got home from work, he would turn on the television and wait for his dinner. Since Sandy mostly worked from home, she always saw to the dinner and inside stuff, whereas, Bill tended to the outside stuff as needed.

Her mind whirled as the past years came back to her, as did, her days as a little girl and the people she talked to. She stifled those memories for years as she didn't want people thinking she was crazy. She often talked to her Grandparents and heard people walking on the floor. Even recently, she felt someone behind her touch and rest a hand on her shoulder. She startled, thinking it was her husband, but he was still at work. She turned around and no one was there. She could smell the 'pipe.' Her Great Grandpa always smoked a pipe and every once in a while she had that smell in her nose and no one smoked in the house.

"What would she tell her husband Bill?" He would probably think she lost her marbles. He didn't believe in ghosts and spirits. She tried to explain to Bill before about some things that had happened and he brushed them off as random coincidences. She stared across the kitchen, not really focusing on anything in particular, and vaguely listened to the children's babble. She tilted her head towards the smell.

The kids stopped and looked towards the door frame. "Ash! Ash!" yelled Michael, and Sandy dropped her coffee.

She ran to the sink to grab some kitchen towel to wipe up the coffee that spilled across the table and her newspaper.

"Mommy, say hi to Ash! He's trying to say hi," signed Michael.

He got up from his chair and nodded to the figure in the doorway. Sandy could smell it stronger as she neared the door opening; it was Joop. Her friend Ash always wore Joop. He bought a bottle of men's Joop for her birthday one year because she was always using his cologne. It was suddenly cooler near the opening and Sandy squinted her eyes to look and see any hint or suggestion that someone else was in the kitchen with her and her kids. She was slightly disappointed because she couldn't see anything.

Michael went back upstairs to his mom's bedroom. Sandy followed behind. He grabbed the bottle of Joop perfume that was on the dresser and started spraying it.

"Ash said it's your favourite perfume, that's why he bought you your own bottle so you wouldn't steal his," signed Michael. To Sandy it came out like, "Perfume there, favourite. Ash tell to-me. You perfume, steal. Not yours, his. Mommy funny." Sandy laughed.

She signed, "Where is he standing right now?" and he pointed beside the dresser. Sandy went over to the dresser and rested her hand on the dresser. She closed her eyes and drank in his smell. "Hand yours, Ash touch finish," he signed.

Sandy felt a cold feeling on her hand and smiled. She did miss her best friend.

They were together all the time but they lived far apart. He lived in England and she lived in Canada. It was too far away, but she still wrote and visited as often as she could.

Sandy started dating another guy, Bill. Ash and her still remained good friends. She went to England to see him for Easter and they had a great time together. She loved Ash, but knew they lived too far apart. Sandy got pregnant with Michael. She was already living with Bill. When Michael was a few months old, Sandy went back to England to see her family and friends and Ash. He just adored Michael and said that if things didn't work out for her and Bill, he'd always be there. She was saddened to leave and knew he was seeing a new girl too, but deep down they knew they'd always be a part of each other's lives.

She didn't understand the urgency of her Easter visit at the time. She was sitting at the table with Bill and baby Michael on a Friday afternoon; it was a few days from Easter. She suddenly thought, "I gotta go to England, now!"

She assumed that she missed her family, friends and Ash and was homesick for them. She was born in Canada but she went to England when she was 21 to meet family and see the country, when she met him and fell in love. She was back and to England for years and never felt settled. She wanted to be in England, but her parents and siblings were in Canada. She was torn so she kept going back and to. She worked in a factory in England and stayed for quite a while until her parents were missing her, so she came home.

That was at a time where they didn't have computers or cell phones that fit in one's pocket (she smirked to herself)

She never forgot that phone call from his brother a month and a half after she got back from England. She had just got home from picking up Michael from the bus and saw a message to call Ash's brother. So she called on the phone.

"You sitting down?" he had said. He told her that Ash had an accident. The wind fell out of her sails and she crumbled. Tears rolled down her face.

"Mom! Mom!" Michael said pulling on her sweater. "He's OK. Don't worry. I know you are sad, but he says be happy. You have a great life and he watches me and Kyle all the time," Michael signed to her. It was as if he saw what she was remembering and reminded her that he was OK, he was near. "Mom he said, he loved you!"

Sandy touched the side of her head to sign, "I know!" Sandy tried to put on a brave face and went to the bathroom and sobbed. She did adore him. It was like she never really cried before and she let it all out. She wiped her face and put herself back together again.

"OK, time to go to your swimming lesson, Michael," Sandy said and he skipped to the landing and down the stairs to get his backpack that was in the hallway.

Sandy thought about Ash quite a bit that day. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched or followed. Many times the next few days she jumped every time she heard a noise and had to shake the goosebumps off her.

Bill took a few days' holiday to relax with the family. They were going to do some day trips with the kids. They thought of going to this local wild cat zoo. Bill loved that the wild cats were hand raised and they were in the cage, but a few feet away. It was eerie yet exciting. They would swim in the backyard pool and enjoy the warmth of the too short summer. Sandy was looking forward to the four of them spending time together.

They got to the zoo. Sandy was very edgy. Bill kept asking if she was OK, but she didn't want to talk about it in front of the kids. The kids were watching a cartoon from the backseat. They never heard a peep from them all the way to the zoo. They were too busy giggling and watching the funny cartoon. The kids happily walked along the paths tugging at them every which direction. Michael was ecstatic and enjoying every minute. Kyle was still young. He was giggling at Michael as he skipped and laughed.

Suddenly, her nose perked up again. It was the smell of a pipe. Sandy didn't know anyone who smoked a pipe anymore. Sandy started to think that either she was pregnant what with all these funny smells and her super sensitive feelings or someone was messing with her head.

Sandy looked around and laughed to herself. She saw this old man sitting on a bench in front of the giraffe enclosure and he was smoking a pipe. He nodded at Sandy as if he knew her. The hair on Sandy's arms started to calm down along with her heart beat.

"Mommy come on. You are a slow poker!" Michael said. "Slow poke not a slow poker," Sandy corrected him and Michael burst out in laughter as if what mommy had said was the funniest thing.

They had gotten to the place where the polar bears were swimming and the smell of a pipe was there again. Sandy laughed as she imagined the older gentleman following her with his slightly vanilla and tobacco scented pipe. She turned to wave and couldn't see him and assumed the gentleman likely walked past.

They went to this large enclosed building and inside it was home to many fruit bats that flew freely through this part of the enclosure. It was a dimly lit room. The man must've been in the bat enclosure too and she laughed; as he seemed to be following them. She turned around and followed where the strong odour was coming from but the man was not anywhere to be seen.

Sandy turned to Bill and said she was going to take the kids to the bathroom around the corner. She opened up the door and let Michael go to the bathroom behind her while she changed Kyle's wet diaper. Sandy laughed because she could still smell the pipe in her nose and thought that it was awfully creepy that this old man appeared to be following her around. Michael was playing in the water and Sandy leaned forward to get him a piece of paper towel and a big whiff of pipe smoke seemed to fog up in front of her and she saw words scribbled on the side of the paper towel dispenser. 'I love you little beetle!' and Sandy dropped the paper towel to the floor as she stared at the writing. She whipped out her phone quickly and took a picture of the sign while there was still a puff of fog in the air.

Every hair on Sandy's body stood erect and she felt like the blood had fell to her feet. Sandy had to hold the wall for a second and quickly got Kyle to his feet while she regained her balance. Her great granddad always called her little beetle because she was always carrying little bugs and worms everywhere as if it was her favourite pet. Sandy would name every little insect that she found.

Sandy ran out to Bill, who immediately asked if she was OK because she was suddenly quite pale. Sandy showed him the picture on her phone and proceeded to tell him about the pipe smoke. Bill said he didn't smell anything. Bill thought it was a coincidence and they moved on.

Sandy text her mom the picture and asked her what she thought about the picture. A few minutes the text came back and her mom didn't get what she was trying to get her to notice in the picture. Sandy opened the picture again and all that was there was a picture of the paper towel dispenser and no words on it. Sandy was totally mystified. She felt dazed the rest of the day. She tried to go on about her business the next few days but Sandy couldn't shake her uneasiness.

" _What was it she was meant to know? Was she losing her mind? Was she supposed to get a message?"_

After days that turned into weeks, she decided to let it go. Nothing new or spooky had happened for a while so with her busy day to day life, she forgot about it. Life went on and her kids started to grow up.

Several years later, her kids were in their late teens and life was moving along. They had been busy with day to day family activities and there wasn't time to dwell on the odd things that happened with the kids and her experiences with spirits or ghosts. They really enjoyed their time together as a family. It was finally the weekend and everyone was having a lie in. The kids were out of high school and working at their part time jobs.

Michael had just got into work with his dad for the summer to make money for University in the fall. Sandy never slept in but didn't mind walking the dog. Sandy started to cook some bacon and got the coffee pot ready, she had a craving for a toasted bacon and tomato sandwich, so she got hers ready first for a change. Usually Sandy was the last to eat, but no one was up and Sandy decided to eat before the others. A rare occasion indeed. The house was very quiet and the only person who was right beside her was the drooling dog who hoped to catch any dropped crumbs.

Sandy sipped her coffee. Every smell tickled her nose. She was reminiscing over the children's baby pictures on her social media sites. She smiled, and thought to herself that it seemed like yesterday when her two boys were babies. She smelled it again; Joop. She closed her eyes and drank in the smell.

She recalled a time her and Ash went camping and he almost burned his eyebrows off as he put too much kerosene on the campfire and bent forward to light it. Sandy had warned him not to use kerosene and instead be patient with the little bits of kindling and paper to start it up slow, but her silly friend wanted big and bad. Sandy shook her head at the typical macho man ideals.

She smiled. "Ash I do miss you loads. Wish I could feel you one more time?" she said aloud.

She heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to look to see if it was Michael as it was too quiet for it to be Bill. She stood at the stairs and didn't see anyone. Putting her hand on the railing, with a foot resting on the bottom step, she could hear the light steps and could almost feel the tapping under her feet. Her heart quickened and she was very hyper aware of her surroundings. Going back to her chair, the smell of Joop still lingered in the kitchen. She sipped her coffee and noticed her newspaper was opened to another page. Sandy gasped when she looked down to see it was the travel page. Not only was it the travel page, but it was on Algonquin park where the two of them had gone camping together and he started that huge whoosh of a fire.

"Are you here Ash? Are you really here baby? I miss you so much," she said and a tear rolled down her face.

She startled as she thought she felt something brush against her face. She felt a warmth inside her chest as her heart pounded nearly outside her chest. She smiled as tears trickled down her cheeks.

She heard the thudding feet come down the stairs.

"Hey Mom, Hi Ash!" said Michael. Sandy nearly fell off her chair. She turned when she heard her husband Bill walk across the landing upstairs and the chatter of Kyle and Bill upstairs.

"Hi Ash!" she said and the smell of Joop and the warmth that she felt was gone as quick as it came.

Out of nowhere, she came across a poem she wrote while she was in England as she sat in the park thinking about Ash after the funeral. She didn't remember taking it out, but it was there almost as if by magic and she had to stifle her tears so Michael wouldn't get concerned. As she made him some cereal she read it again...

The other day I went to the park

I walked along the fields of daffodils, crocuses

And other spring flowers.

Although the sky was full of black clouds

Rushing quickly by,

It was a lovely day for a walk about.

I stood by a narrow river and

Spotted may geese standing by the riverside.

Then I moved onto a child' s swing.

I swung to and fro, feeling so happy

About the wind tossing my hair

And my feeling of being free as a bird.

I gazed across the horizon

And there I saw the most beautiful rainbow ever.

It went from one side of the sky to the other.

I tried to touch it but it was too far from my reach.

Instead, I made a wish on the pot of gold

That lies beneath it.

The clouds were rolling in much quicker now.

A storm was on its way.

Then a quick as the rainbow and the happiness that I felt, came;

It all disappeared.

And all that was left

Was my memory of it.

She knew she felt him near her, she smelled him, she felt him touch her, she heard him walk down the stairs. Sandy knew all those things, yet if she told anyone, no one would believe her. She felt a little bit more at peace after that. She finally realized she had to let go of her anger at him leaving her so suddenly. She had to let go of her pain as he was OK and she was OK. She had two beautiful grown up children and a lovely husband. She realized she did believe he was watching over the kids and she was OK to move on.

It was almost like he was saying, 'Hello' and checking up on her.

She decided while Bill was having breakfast with the boys that she would take the dog for her walk. Their dog was a big furry friendly giant of a dog. It was so hot and she did not do well in the heat so Sandy walked her early in the morning and later at night. Bailey was skittish and didn't like noises of cars or anything loud so Sandy walked her near the escarpment at the park which was behind her son's elementary school. She'd spent many years walking back and forth to the school, and every time she shook her head wondering where all those years had gone.

The morning was quiet and the heat was coming in quickly. There was a lot of trees around so it was somewhat shady. At the far end of the field there were a few clearings to hike around and up the little hill. Sandy unleashed Bailey and let her sniff about following one scent after another. A little to the right, about thirty feet away, was a steep hill Sandy liked to climb up and scurry down. She saw a teenager near the top of the hill with a pink tee shirt and shorts. Sandy watched as her feet appeared to go faster than her body wanted her to, turning she watched her puppy flit from one branch to another throwing up a branch and catching it, then gnaw on it as she had her paws holding it down. Then Bailey would catch sight of a falling leaf; it was like one adventure after another. Sandy spent time laughing at the silly dog.

Sandy caught sight of the girl again and immediately thought to herself she'd better walk the few feet over towards the now running girl, because Sandy knew it would be a matter of time before she went head over tea kettle. Sandy looked down so she wouldn't trip stepping over two huge felled twenty foot trees. When she got to the clearing where the girl should have intersected with her, she looked with confusion. Sandy cocked her head to the side and her eyebrows furrowed. She looked to the left and the right then straight back to the view of the whole baseball field. Sandy saw nothing, she heard not a twig crack or a sound of anything but her puppy behind her. Bailey rushed to sit beside her and looked straight up the clearing and sat patiently for Sandy to move. She scratched the dog behind her ears and again scanned the area which was clear so anything or person could easily have been spotted. Sandy stood there around twenty minutes watching and listening for any movement. Her dog went back to sniffing any scent it would pick up.

Sandy was mystified, she had no clue where the young girl had disappeared to. It was like she had vanished into thin air. Bailey came skipping along to Sandy and looked into the field as if to say, "Come on, what are you waiting for? Let's go!" Sandy and the dog finally made their way back towards home, though she kept looking back. If the girl came out of the woods she'd have to come from those two areas that were cleared, but Sandy saw not even a tree shake and stir.

When she got back home she told Bill what had happened and Bill brushed off her story. He said she likely didn't notice the girl probably went another direction she didn't see. Sandy knew differently because if she had been there. Bailey would have found her for sure. Sandy decided she'd go back the next day and look for more clues, if any. The mystery left her unsettled for the rest of the day. For days nothing came to her.

" _What was that girl trying to tell her? Were there clues she was missing? What did this all mean with Ash showing up and this strange young girl?"_

Sandy wasn't sure what caused the surge of strange happenings again. She talked to Michael and Kyle one day and they remembered bits and pieces of random stories. Michael smiled as he recalled pieces of sitting on a cloud with Great Grandma. He couldn't remember the day she nearly fainted in the bathroom at the zoo, but Sandy finally shared her thoughts with the kids and Bill. Sandy didn't know what to expect, but finally came to peace with the fact that someone felt the need to contact her to let her know the people who had crossed over, were doing fine. She smiled and the kids huddled closer to hug her.

Bill finally believed she really was feeling spirits when he had smelled for himself one day a random smell of someone smoking a pipe. He knew, he saw the picture with his own eyes, he read the writing and then it was gone. It was OK now. They came to understand people sometimes cross over, but need the people they left behind to know, that they are watched over. They felt at peace with that. Bill really started to believe when he felt his Nan behind him one day. He too could smell her perfume, Nanny only wore that perfume and no one else was about that day.

He smiled and said, "Hi Nanny. I'm doing great. How are you?" He heard Nanny's empty rocking chair - they inherited after her passing, start to creak and rock on the old wooden floors. He reached out to hold Nanny's hand from beside his chair and he truly felt she was right there beside him too.
Soul Man

Claire Plaisted

The moon shone down eerily on the green-gray waves glancing on the body guiding it to the shore. Gently the waves propelled him towards the sandy beach. His body rolling over as it hit the sands; his empty eyes staring blankly up towards the wan moon as his body finally settled onto the sand. His long black hair swirled in the seawater each time the waves rushed over his body leaving seaweed and sand on his semi-naked body.

His soul lifted from his body looking around in surprise. Shaking his hair out of the way, he tied it back off his face. Glancing down he saw a body, frowning, he knelt beside it peering into the face stumbling away, a choking sound escaping him. Lifting up his hands, he gazed as them, they looked real enough. He whipped his head around searching for whoever was playing with him. How could he be standing here on the beach looking at his own body? It wasn't possible surely?

He was so intense in thought; he didn't see the golden retriever racing down the beach barking with excitement enjoying its freedom. He looked up just before the dog knocked him to the sand washing his face confusing him even more. If he was dead, and that was his body why could the dog could see him and knock him down. Things were getting really weird.

Dawn was rising, the grey sky getting lighter as the stars started to wink out, an orange glow in the horizon, the sun crept came up. The dog raced around him, jumping joyfully. Suddenly, the dog paused; his nose sniffing the air. The dog found the body in the edge of the waves, covered with seaweed and sand. Sitting down beside the body he began to howl.

"Oscar where are you?" a female voice carried over the beach, "What's wrong." A young woman came running past the headland, racing towards her dog skidding to a stop when she saw the body.

"Oh my god," she whispered rapidly backing away. Yanking out her cell phone she rang the police before cautiously approaching the body. Crouching beside his head, she put two fingers against his throat hoping to find a pulse, there wasn't one. Looking up into his handsome face, she gently closed his eyes murmuring before making the sign of the cross.

"Hush Oscar, there's nothing we can do.

"Excuse me miss, could you tell me where I am?" The dog whined, looking at him before barking at his mistress. Standing Oscar walked over and lay next to the man, licking his hand. "She can't see me like you can eh Oscar?" he said quietly scratching the dog's ear watching the woman pace up and down as if she was waiting for something or someone.

"Do you think I'm really dead Oscar? I can't say I feel like I am." Oscar whimpered licking his face the woman turned.

"What's the matter Oscar?" The dog ignored her laying his head on the sand closing his eyes. "You're acting really odd today," she said,

The police and ambulance finally arrived. Susie turned looking up towards the car park listening to car doors slamming. A detective with his partner walked slowly towards her. "Ma'am," said the detective.

"Over there," she said pointing towards the waters' edge.

"Please take a statement Konrad," he said to his partner as he casually walked the short distance to the body.

The paramedics were next to arrive along with the coroner. Detective Caldwell looked down at the body, sadness filling his eyes at the waste of yet another young life. Turning towards the woman, "Did you touch him at all ma'am?"

"Only to see if he was alive or not," she replied, tears suddenly tumbling from her eyes.

"Do you know him?"

"No detective, I've never seen him in my life."

"Did you or your dog find the body?"

"Oscar found him. He was off the lead and rounded the headland behind us. Barking happily, he took off, and I found him sitting here howling."

"Strange he is lying over there now," he said frowning.

"He looked like he was jumping up at something, then he settled on the sand. As I approached he moved to where the body is and howled," she said. "Then went back to where I saw him jumping."

The detective looked over at the dog wondering what he'd seen. "After you've given your statement and contact details to Detective Konrad you may go," he said, looking up as the coroner and paramedics' started to do their jobs.

"Could you keep me updated? I'd like to know what happened."

"I'll see what I can do ma'am," he replied before turning away to speak with the coroner.

Calling Oscar to her side, she put his leash on, he whimpered turning back to look at the man sitting on the sand. Susie walked away pulling Oscar along. Looking back, he barked once making everyone jump. The man smiled getting to his feet following them across the beach.

Happy now, Oscar jumped and ran trying to pull Susie over, eager to get home for his breakfast.

"Will you behave," she said sternly pulling him back.

"Shush Oscar, your worrying your mum," said the man. Barking once, he settled down, happy with his lot. "I wonder why she can't see me."

"I wonder who he was. It's sad to see people dying at such a young age," she muttered her head down, tears sliding over her cheeks once more. "He was so attractive too; I wonder where he came from."

"Hey Oscar, she thinks I'm handsome," he laughed delighted. "Must admit your owner is rather cute," Oscar barked as if agreeing with him.

Rounding the headland, Susie made her way to the steps cut into the cliff face, slowly walking up them. Oscar off his leash again bounded on ahead while the soul man followed Susie watching her lush hips sway from side to side, a smile crossing his face. At the top of the cliff, Susie caught her breath while Oscar ran for home barking excitedly, he jumped over the gate skidding to a halt at the back door panting.

"You're eager today sweetheart," she said opening the gate and walking through. Behind her, the soul man stopped, looking up at her home in awe. It was a simple yet beautiful two storey stone house with huge bay windows on the ground floor. Towering over it was a lighthouse which seemed to hit the sky. Everything was painted white except the roofs which were a bright-red slate. Lush green grass surrounded the cottage; it was mixed in with beach grasses and flowers. The place looked grand, sturdy and well kept.

Approaching the gate, he walked through it and up to the door, it wasn't until he was beside Oscar that he looked back; blinking realizing he'd not opened the gate.

"I must be dead," he muttered shoving his hands in his pockets. "Who am I, where did I come from, and why am I hear. Those are the questions I need answering," he sighed.

The breeze from his sigh caught the back of Susie's hair lifting it gently. She turned frowning, looking him directly in the face; not seeing him. Brushed her hair back into place she turned away, unlocking the door.

Walking inside Susie fed Oscar his biscuits; pouring herself a coffee. Sipping it, she sat at the counter pulling the newspaper in front of her to catch up with the local news. Nothing much happened in small-town New Zealand, though finding the body would make big news. She wondered how long it would be before reporters arrived, if at all. The last thing she needed since she was in hiding. She was glad her home was a few kilometres outside the town, generally nobody bothered her. Soul man sat on the couch Oscar laying at his feet a happy smile on his face.

"So Oscar; dog of the lovely lady; how am I supposed to find out who I am?" Susie turned the page of the newspaper; one hand stilled the other rested against her throat; blood draining from her face. Soul man jumped up rushing to the counter peering over her shoulder wondering what was wrong; nothing seemed to be out of place. The news was unexceptional.

"Oh god," she whispered shoving back on her stool right through him shivering as goose-bumps spread over her body. "Shit," she muttered beginning to pace the kitchen. Soul man stared looking down at his body realising once and for all; he was dead.

Susie grabbed the phone punching numbers in waiting for it to connect. "I can't do this anymore," she whispered, "What's wrong Susie?"

"First I find a body on the beach and now my stalker's back. You'll have to move me."

"You'll be fine," said Aimee.

"It's not fine. He's murdered one of my best friends in town," she replied fiercely.

"I'll look into it; hold on tight Susie, we'll sort it out." Susie slammed the phone down, sitting on the couch her knees drawn up; she rocked back and forth tears streaming across her face. She prayed the horror would stay away, knowing it probably wouldn't.

Oscar climbed on the couch snuggling into her, nuzzling her face making her smile weakly as she buried her face in his soft silky coat. Soul man watched on. "Lucky bugger," he muttered.

Looking down at the newspaper, he found the article about the woman who'd been murdered during the night. Finding her name, he wondered if her body would be at the morgue with his, if so just maybe her soul was walking around too. His decision made he looked at Oscar.

"Look after your mum while I go see what's happened to her friend," he said. The dog whined before settling down for a long cuddle with his owner.

Walking out of the house, he made his way towards the town, looking around him in curiosity. He'd never seen such lush and beautiful countryside before. The roadside was tidy and not overgrown. He saw some strange plants; some he was sure were ferns; however, they were enormous instead of the usual small ones he was used to. He continued forward entering a glade where the road ran through, it was rather narrow, the huge trees making it look like a tunnel. He was awed by this place. Cars drove past him seemingly on the wrong side of the road; he shook his head in disbelief until he saw two cars travelling in opposite directions pass each other with care.

"Well, I sure as hell ain't in America," he muttered.

"Nah mate you're in Aotearoa," laughed a Maori guy walking beside him.

"Who the ... Who are you and where did you come from?"

"I live here mate."

"Where the hell's Aotearoa, or however you say it? How come you can see me?"

"I'm like you lad," he grinned, "you're in New Zealand in a small town on the east coast."

"How the heck did I get to New Zealand?"

"Can't say, I never left these shores," he shrugged. "You got a name?"

"No idea."

"Clever that," he said.

"What's your name?"

"Irirangi," he replied.

"It means spirit voice.

"Rather apt I suppose," smiled soul man.

"So where you going?" Asked Irirangi.

"There was a murder in town last night; I was going to see what I can find out."

"Yeah Shelly died," Irirangi said sadly, "she was a wonderful young woman."

"You knew her?"

"She was born long after my death, though I still see what's going on walking the town like I do."

"Just how long have you been here?"

"I don't really know; time isn't the same. I died in 1889, been lots of changes since then."

Soul man spluttered stopping in his tracks, "bloody hell you've been dead and wandering for over 120 years Irirangi."

"No wonder so much has changed," he laughed.

By this stage, both soul men were in the town standing by the clock tower watching the comings and goings of the locals.

"Why'd you think you're still here Irirangi?"

"Well I'm not sure. I think I've something I need to do, and so far I haven't found what it is."

"You visit your family here?"

"They all gone now mate, left for bigger and better places."

"How sad for you, it makes me wonder how long I'm going to be here for. By the way, what's the name of the town?"

"Castle Point, named by Captain Cook himself," he laughed.

"The original Maori name is Rangwhakaoma which means 'where the sky runs' this here is the site of the first settlement. The lighthouse is automated now. However, the cottage was bought a few years back by a young woman. She's a bit of a mystery."

"You know a lot of the history," he smiled.

"Yeah I do. You the bloke they found at the beach this morning?"

"Yeah, was a bit of a shock to the system."

"I bet. You remember what happened?"

"No, though the lady who found me, her dog can see me, for some reason."

"Yeah well animals are rather sensitive. You know who she is?"

"It was your mystery lady who found me, well her dog anyway."

"Bit of a shock for her, the poor woman," he said. "So why you interested in the woman who was murdered?" He asked.

"Apparently, she's a friend of the lady who found me."

"Oh, not good, I bet she's frantic."

"Aye she is," he sighed. "You know where it happened, has her soul stayed behind?"

"Yeah, over by the small theatre, and with been murdered her soul won't be back, until such time as she wants revenge or visits someone. Murder takes a lot out of the soul."

"Well if that's the case maybe I wasn't murdered."

"Likely."

"Well maybe I'll catch up with you later. I'm going to see what happened."

"Be careful, things are not always what they seem, haerea ra."

"Whatever, seems you'll be teaching me a new language next time," he laughed.

"Means good-bye," he said chuckling, wand

To Be Continued...
Spools of Thread

Ashley Uzzell

"A haunted house? Really?"

"Come on, it will be fun!" Her hands clapping in glee, Bobbi was the epitome of a bubbly teen girl. Especially with her bangle bracelets and flashy earrings jingling as she moved. I rolled my eyes at her enthusiasm and checked my phone was fully charged before disconnecting it from the car charger. Stepping out of Betty, my mom's old minivan, I tossed my wild mane of hair over my shoulder and made a loud groan. I studied the place as I listened to the ticking of the engine cooling. It didn't look like your typical scary movie's haunted house.

It was just a house. An old, two-story Victorian thing. Sure, it was obviously abandoned and, yeah, there was some paint peeling here and there and rusty pillars. But it wasn't scary, not even as the sun was setting and the wind blew dead leaves around in the yard. It was just a house.

"Bobbi, this is so cliché. This is your idea of fun? We could be at a movie or something."

"As the birthday girl, I get to decide what constitutes fun today. You know how much I love haunted places," she said. Boy, did I. She watched those fake ghost hunter shows on TV religiously. I had only known her for a few months, but I knew she was obsessed with anything ghost related. I guess having a birthday near Halloween didn't help. "Seriously, it will be great!"

"Says every girl in every horror movie ever before she is brutally murdered by an axe wielding psycho," I deadpanned.

She took the first few steps up the porch at a slow pace, giving me raised eyebrows as she locked eyes with me. The boards creaked when she stepped on them, as if the house was also trying to convince me of its spookiness. I gave in with a defeated sigh.

"Okay, fine. But I'm telling you, this is going to be boring."

"Nuh uh. I heard people died in this house." Bobbi widened her eyes for effect as she danced the rest of the way up the steps to the front door. I almost opened my mouth to remind her that people died in houses all the time. Like, everywhere. Every day. But I wasn't about to rain on her little parade and play Debbie-downer tonight. It was her birthday, after all. As her friend, I would play along and let her enjoy herself as we pretended to ghost hunt, even though I wanted nothing more than to go back home and settle down for an invigorating game of Mario Kart.

As Bobbi jimmied the door open with an old credit card, she continued to gush about how much fun we would have. "Just imagine, Kim! Our own little ghost adventure! I have this cool app on my phone with night vision so we can record as we walk. Isn't this exciting?"

"Yeah," I tried to sound pleased for her benefit but my eyes were scanning the area for people watching. I didn't expect to see anyone, since this was what Bobbi called the 'country' side of town. The closest neighbor was a few miles away and the few surrounding buildings were old barns and pack houses. Even the driveway was dirt and about a quarter mile from the paved road that brought us here. Still, my neck felt hot at the thought of breaking and entering possibly going on my record at the tender age of eighteen.

"Can't we get in trouble for this?" I asked.

"No, no way. Timmy's uncle's best friend owns the place, I think. He has purposely let it go to crap so we aren't hurting anything. Besides, no one will ever know we were here."

I chose to believe her story, though I still didn't like it. "Let's just get inside."

"Sure thing."

Once unlocked, I half expected the door to swing open slowly, the hinges squealing ominously. But I guess the house was done trying to impress me because when Bobbi pushed it open, the hinges were silent. Two steps in and she handed me her phone.

"Okay, I'm playing host and you're the camera crew. So just, like, follow me around as I try to call the spirits of the dead, and stuff."

"Okay." I pocketed my phone and keys so I could hold her phone sideways with both hands. I actually didn't mind this role so much, having played cameraman for her before on other occasions. I did love taking pictures and would much rather be on that side of the camera so Bobbi could get the attention she so desperately craved. But that didn't mean I wanted to be her assistant tonight. A few swipes and taps later and I had the app going on her phone. Oh, this night vision app was crappy, I could tell from the start. Just great. I was going to spend the night staring at a screen as we walked around. I glanced at Bobbi's smiling face one last time before I closed the door behind us and darkness swallowed her features up. I guess the windows throughout the house had curtains or blinds because it was total darkness. My foot bumped a small table near the door, jostling the lamp sitting on it. Yeah, this was going to be fricking spectacular. I tiny part of me hoped Bobbi would stumble around and constantly run into crap in the dark. Then she would get tired of this game real fast and we could go. But I should have known it wouldn't be that simple.

She pulled a tiny flashlight from her pocket, turning it on and aiming the beam at the floor. "If I keep it low, it won't interfere with the night vision but I will be able to see." Her green face continued to smile at me expectantly from the screen.

"Yeah, good thinking." No, it looked like I was going to be the one tripping and running into stuff. I kind of wanted to kill her.

"Okay, let's get started! Just hit record and we can go back and re-watch if anything happens. We can edit the video later too, to cut out the boring parts."

I guess we'll be editing out everything, I thought as we started down the short hallway. A staircase loomed on the wall to our right and Bobbi headed right for it, her ponytail bobbing as she walked.

"Let's try upstairs first."

I remained silent, but followed her up the stairs which creaked and groaned from lack of use. Besides our footsteps, the house was so quiet I could hear the wind outside rattling windows and whipping across the roof above. That did actually make it kind of creepy. It was too dark to make out much of the place. I couldn't tell if there were layers of dust or rats or anything gross lying around.

The dark didn't bother me, though. I hadn't been afraid of the dark since I was five. It was around the age of six I decided I no longer needed lamps or nightlights in my room. I have slept in pitch black darkness ever since. Even a tiny stream of light under my door could rouse me from a dead sleep. Night time was my friend.

Unfortunately, as we ascended the stairs and stepped up to a door on our immediate right, I started to get a bad feeling. A creepy feeling. Like I just walked through a spider's web. My skin startled to crawl and I had this icky feeling in my stomach. Ever the skeptic, I had no idea why I was getting the heebie-jeebies from an ordinary house. It wasn't like me to get creeped out over nothing. Bobbi grinned back at me as we stood outside the door, then wiped the smile off her face so she could appear serious on camera. Her eyes looked all weird and glowing with the night vision light. That was creepy enough, right there.

Smoothing down her clothes, Bobbi made a big show of opening the door with a sweeping gesture. I knew she would want me to focus on her face here and there, then sweep the room slowly so it would be easy to spot anything 'amiss'. So after she walked inside, I followed her immediately.

Something dark walked across the room, not three feet from us. I froze. My heartbeat sped up but otherwise I didn't react in any way. My mind immediately started running through the possibilities. A cat. A bird nesting here. Maybe even a stray dog. Those were the safe assumptions. Then scarier thoughts crowded in. A human. A homeless person crashing here. A druggie. An escaped killer from the prison one county over. All these thoughts flashed through my head in less than a second.

Bobbi moved further into the room, as if she hadn't seen anything. My muscles still tense but able to move, I quickly scanned the room with the phone's light. A bed. Dressers. Bobbi. A recliner. A nightstand. That was it. Nothing and no one else was there.

Eyes playing tricks on you, you nut, my brain taunted me. But in my gut, I know I had seen something. I had spotted it through the camera and out of my peripheral vision. It had been close enough that I had seen the movement, even in the dark. I had heard something too. Not footsteps but a sound like the swishing of clothing. Maybe I was nuts, but I was never the type to make things up or get overexcited about stuff. So I said nothing to Bobbi, since she was oblivious. She placed herself in the center of the room, turning slowly in a circle.

"I call upon the spirits of this house! Oh, restless spirits! I bid you to come out! Come tell us what it is you want." She raised her arms in the air, her bracelets clinking together.

I couldn't help rolling my eyes at her dramatic flair. She certainly was a character. Bobbi was totally in her element here. Especially if there actually was something weird going on inside this house. After a minute or two of silence, Bobbi faced the phone and said, in her acting voice, "I feel no ghostly vibes from this room. Let's continue on."

Again, I said nothing but damn if I didn't feel some strange vibes! As Bobbi walked past me, I thought I heard a sound down the hallway. This time it did sound like footsteps but faint ones. "You hear something?" I asked.

She turned and gave me this look, like she was trying to figure out if I was messing with her or not. "Why, did you?"

"I thought I did. Seriously, no joke."

"Well, let's check it out!" We were walking again, her moving as if she were taking a leisurely stroll while I was slowly scanning the area. As if everything was hunky-dory. Meanwhile, I was starting to sweat. Something here was making me nervous. Bobbi paused to shine her flashlight on a picture hanging on the wall beside another door. I heard something lightweight hit the floor and roll towards me. Swinging the camera in that direction, I saw a spool of thread on the floor, rolling towards my foot, the thread unraveling as it moved. It slowed to a stop just short of the toe of my boots. I couldn't help it. I jumped. This weird "Nyah!" sound squeezed out of my throat that had Bobbi whirling around to see what was the matter.

"Hey, what's up? You hear something again?" She was right in front of me, her face inches from mine. I looked at her in the dark, nodding, but not exactly sure if she could see me. Could she see as well in the dark as I could?

"Look!" I pushed the phone at her, turning the screen towards her and the camera at the spool pf thread. It was gone. "What the hell? Dude, I am not playing around. I saw something."

"Stop the video and rewind!" Bobbi was getting excited now. She must have known from my voice that I was not screwing around with her and she really wanted to see what I had seen. I swiped back through the video as she bounced on the balls of her feet in anticipation.

"This is weird. I don't see anything going back. Let me just play it from when you stopped to look at the picture." I tapped the right-facing triangle on the screen and held my breath. The video played, showing her bringing her flashlight up, that part of the screen going white from the light source. Then the video swung downward, though there was nothing to be heard on it. The tiny microphone hadn't picked up the sound of the spool hitting the floor, the very thing that had alerted me to its presence. When the video moved I held my breath, knowing it was about to come. But the image got all grainy and pixilated. You couldn't see anything but broken images of the floor until it swung up to Bobbi's concerned face.

"What the? Bobbi, I know what I saw! It was there! It's like the camera can't process the image or something. Like it can't pick it up!"

"Kim, chill out. What exactly was it that you saw?"

"A spool of thread. It rolled on the floor towards me, right to my shoe, almost."

"Oh." She sounded disappointed. Like she was expecting a floating apparition or a bloody knife or something. "Well, it's definitely gone now. You didn't kick it or anything when you freaked out, did you?"

"I did not freak out!" My neck was feeling hot from her words. "Let's just keep going so we can get out of here already. This place sucks."

"It doesn't suck. It's just getting interesting!" She gave me a conspiratorial wink and waved for me to turn the camera back on. "Kim has felt the touch of the paranormal in this house already. Perhaps the spirits are choosing her as the medium for, uh, opening lines of communication. Did that sound right? Maybe I should reword it."

"No, no, it's fine." I was so ready to get out of there and wasn't feeling her play acting anymore. "Just keep going, we can edit, remember?"

She nodded at the camera and as she did, I saw a figure move behind her. This time I got a clear look at the person. And it was a person. At least, it looked like one. It was a woman, youngish, maybe in her twenties. Her face was so pale it was white. Her hair was pulled up in two ponytails on the side of her head, like you would see on a little girl, the locks boasting huge, bouncy curls that were so dark they looked purple. I looked up from the phone screen and she was still there. And her hair was purple, like those wild colors you can dye yourself. And shiny. She wore a pair of hipster glasses and bright blue lipstick. The woman stepped up behind Bobbi's shoulder, smiled cheerfully at me, then stepped back into blackness and was gone. I heard the distinct snick of two metal blades meeting.

I was officially freaking out.

"Kim, what the hell? What's wrong?" Bobbi glanced back over her shoulder where my eyes were locked, then turned back to me. "Are you seriously seeing stuff? If you aren't please cut it out, I'm just trying to have a good time here."

My voice came out surprisingly even but really low. "Bobbi. We need to leave this house. Now." My hands were shaking so hard; I doubt there would be any usable video of the ghost woman even if she did show up on the camera. Which I doubted. Because apparently only I could see or hear her.

"Calm down. Hey, it's fine." Bobbi stroked my arm, trying to reassure me. "Let me just look in this other room up here real quick and we'll go, okay? I promise, really fast."

I was tempted to slap her in the face, grab her by the collar, and drag her out of that horrorfest right then but I took a deep breath and tried to collect my thoughts. She noticed me calming myself and urged me on. "Yeah, just chill. Everything is fine. Maybe you ate something bad at dinner? Maybe it's messing up your stomach and making you hallucinate?"

"I doubt chicken and mac-n-cheese would make me hallucinate."

"But who knows what's really in those boxes of mac-n-cheese? Certain mushrooms can make you trip, who's to say there wasn't some kind of screw up at the factory? Or even that some jerk-off intentionally put weird stuff in the food? There are some real sickos out there, Kim. People that get off on that kind of stuff."

I wanted to believe her. My rational side was coming up with crazy food scenarios too, because that made more sense. More sense than some ghost that only I could see. "Okay, yeah. That could be. My stomach does feel off." I waved her forward. "Go on, put on your reporter face and let's check this room out. But then, seriously, I'm out. I need to go home and sleep off whatever this is going on with me."

"Sure, of course! Hey, you have made this an exciting birthday already, even if it is just from you being sick."

How sweet of her to find my hallucinations and queasy stomach a source of amusement. Remind me to kick her later, when my eyes aren't playing tricks on me and I'm not sweating like I'm in a sauna. I followed her into the next room, her going straight back into investigator mode without blinking an eye. I recorded as she called the spirits again.

"Kim."

A voice whispered in my ear. Not Bobbi's voice. I turned my head, keeping the camera on Bobbi this time, and saw the woman standing right beside me. This time I noticed her clothing. She wore a really cute Lolita style dress that was layers of dark purple fabric falling just above her knees and frills around the collar. She looked like some kind of cosplay character with that wild dress, purple hair, and blue-and-white striped stockings. Spools of thread were tucked into the neck of her dress and spilling out of tiny pockets on the sides. A few of the threads were glowing white. She cocked her head at me, studying my face as my jaw dropped. That's when I saw the scissors in her hands.

"It's almost time," she said, snipping the scissors at the air.

I bolted from the room.

I heard Bobbi call my name but I was beyond caring about her little ghost hunt. I certainly didn't need to hunt any ghosts in this house. They were hunting me. I tore down the hall, smacking my knee into the wooden rail at the top of staircase so hard that I fell on my butt. The phone's video was still going and I lifted the camera to look behind me. The purple woman stood there in all her cutesy-wutesy glory.

"Getting closer!" She sing-songed, her voice as child-like as her attire. I had the urge to yell at her to act her damn age but how was I to know how old she really was anyway. She could have died here centuries ago. Or maybe last week. My mind was a whirlwind of random thoughts as I gripped my throbbing knee and stood. Maybe she was murdered here by some killer with a sick fetish for cosplay girls.

I kept the camera trained on the purple woman but she drifted back into darkness again and Bobbi's running form took her place. "I'm leaving!" I called at her, before turning and stomping down the stairs as fast as my jacked-up knee would let me. As I dashed down, I saw those spools of thread dropping down the steps beside me, rolling down, glowing with some other-worldly light. Lighting my path or trying to hinder me? I never tripped on them but they looked like that LED rope lighting that was so popular in clubs and bars.

I'm going mad. I have completely lost my shit. What will my mom say? Will they have me committed? I'll just pretend like it never happened. I just have to get out of here! It will all just be a bad dream once I get back inside Betty and get out of here!

Cardboard spools beat me to the first floor and rolled in all directions. The purple lady was there waiting for me. She said nothing this time, just looked at me with a sweet smile, holding one of those thick luminescent threads up between both hands, her scissors poised on two fingers, ready to cut. Like she was showing it to me, putting on a display. Like I had any clue what it meant. I hurried past her, willing myself not to look at her.

I threw open the front door but Bobbi grabbed my arm. I hadn't even realized that she caught up with me. "Wait! You dropped the keys to Betty!"

Staggering backwards, I turned and rushed back behind her, using the phone to scan the floor. That's when I felt the blow to my head. An instant of intense pain and then I was falling. My body crumpled to the floor, my vision blurring before going out completely. The snick, snick of the scissors echoed around in my head.

I stood outside myself, looking down at my body as blood gushed from my caved-in skull. Bobbi stood above me, a pear-shaped table lamp in her hand. Her expression was blank, her face devoid of any emotion. Quickly wiping the lamp on her shirt, she placed it back on the table near the door and moved around my body to where her phone was still on, the camera side pointing up at the ceiling. "Kim?" She called, her voice high pitched. "KIM!" She started screaming, those blood curdling screams that you hear in horror movies. She fell to her knees beside my body, positioned so the phone could see most of her form hovering over me.

Out of the corner of my eyes I saw the purple woman standing there. One hand held the scissors and half of the glowing white thread. The other held the other half of the thread and as I watched, it disintegrated. That's when I finally understood that she wasn't a ghost. The purple woman wasn't out to kill me. She was death.

Bobbi was making these loud sobbing sounds now, her body shaking with the force of them, even as her face remained passive and blank. She was a better actress than I had thought. Then she stopped and turned off the video, sitting down on her knees and humming as she went back through what was recorded, apparently editing out what she didn't want the cops to see.

I had to hand it to her; it was clever. I had never suspected. She had even lucked out when Death showed up and had me freaking out all on my own. Those parts would make it seem even more realistic. "I guess you get your face on TV after all. 'My best friend was killed by a ghost in the haunted house!' will certainly draw the attention you've always wanted. Happy birthday, bitch."

The Beneficiaries of Secret Cottage

Jane Risdon

The bed vibrated as if on some sort of mechanical device and her body shook and convulsed as she tried hard to hang on to the sides to prevent falling off. She sensed that the room was still pitch black and she knew she wasn't alone. She couldn't open her eyes, they felt glued shut and anyway she was too afraid of what she might glimpse. Faster and faster the bed vibrated beneath her making it almost impossible to keep hold of the mattress. She prayed for it to stop but knew it would be a while longer. It always went on for an eternity, it seemed and then, just as suddenly, all would be still. And the terror would begin.

****

Ever since she'd moved in to the small cottage, which she'd inherited from an elderly aunt recently declared legally dead, having vanished some seven years before, Scarlet had been uneasy. It wasn't just that she felt she was an intruder, but what if her Aunt wasn't dead, what if she returned to claim her cottage and her belongings, all of which were now legally Scarlet's? The feeling had increased with every week she remained in the house. About two weeks after she moved in things got a bit weird at night. At first just flashing lights in the garden, and upon checking Scarlet was convinced there wasn't anyone outside. Later her mobile phone would turn itself on and off and play the ring tone; but no-one had called. When she'd mentioned all this to her Aunt's solicitor he'd taken a deep breath and shook his head, opened his mouth as if to say something and then shut it again, smiling ruefully at her. He wouldn't be pushed.

Things quietened down a little after a while and Scarlet began to think she'd imagined it all and put it down to the excitement of owning her own property and the fact that it was nearing the anniversary of her Aunt's disappearance. She'd been stressed out for months, following the collapse of the company she'd worked for since leaving school. The Bank had pulled the plug and they'd all lost their jobs. She'd been struggling with unemployment and was only a month away from eviction when the letter had come requesting her presence at the legal firm's offices where she was to hear something to her advantage. She'd never heard of her Aunt before, but that wasn't surprising since Scarlet had been orphaned at a very young age and knew little about her own parents let alone any other relatives.

Apparently a Private Investigator had been employed to track her down. The loner had never really thought about having relatives, but now she imagined she might even have some still alive, contrary to what her Aunt's solicitor had told her. Perhaps when she'd settled down more she might look into her family history, starting with her Aunt. Scarlet wondered why her Aunt hadn't tried to contact her when she was alive, because it was obvious she must have been aware of her niece's existence.

Agatha Merrick had never married. She was her mother's only sister apparently. Scarlet had no recollection of her at all. Any memories of her life before the accident which claimed her parents were murky and muddled. More like impressions and blurred images than anything tangible. 'Your Aunt left everything she had to you, do check the list I've given you, and that includes her home, her possessions inside and outside the home, all her stocks and shares, savings, and all other items as per the itemized list you have in your hand.' Mr. Rance the solicitor had told the shocked young woman at their first meeting following the successful application to the High Court, they'd advised her to undertake, in order to be declared the beneficiary of her Aunt's estate, and following the Court judgement in her favour once the legalities of declaring someone dead had been successful.

Scarlet glanced at the list, unable to take in everything he was saying. 'Yes, well, thanks. I don't know what to say,' she said. 'It's all been a bit of a shock. Is there anything you can tell me about my family, anything at all?'

The solicitor shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. 'Before my time I'm afraid. Nothing's here in the notes to shed any light. Take my advice and just go and enjoy your new good fortune,' was all he'd say.

'But how did she know about me?' Scarlet pressed him.

'I've no idea. I just carry out my client's instructions and hers were very clear,' he said. 'She hadn't been a client for long, I gather previously she was with a big London company but her solicitor had died a little while before your Aunt disappeared, so she'd left the company and came to us, leaving her instructions with her Will in the event of her death.' He added, 'And here you are.' He smiled broadly. 'Your Aunt's been declared legally dead and you are her beneficiary.'

Scarlet had left his office in a dream. She was rich and had a home of her own, well almost her own, to live in. She didn't have to worry about eviction, debts or anything else. Life was turning around for her and she was happy. Please don't let anything ruin it, she thought as she jingled the keys to the cottage in her pocket.

****

The police couldn't tell Scarlet much about her Aunt's disappearance other than she'd last been seen the night she vanished without a trace. Scarlet had visited the local station in order to find out more about the elusive Agatha Merrick, but came away frustrated and none-the-wiser.

'A Waitrose delivery driver called at the cottage at about 8pm to drop off her weekly order and he said he thought someone had been with her. He recalled hearing what he thought were women's voices as he rang the doorbell,' the Detective Inspector told her. 'After exhaustive enquiries no-one came forward as being with her, and we couldn't find any signs of foul play; there'd been no ransom demand for her return – we'd considered kidnapping, but the old lady wasn't a millionairess, and searches of the local area and numerous public appeals on TV and radio didn't yield anything,' he said, adding, 'she'd vanished and we had to assume she'd gone of her own free will. It was odd because her car was still in the garage and there was the matter of her groceries, but people do just walk out of their homes. We were concerned that she hadn't used her bank accounts or credit cards in all the time she's been missing, but we'd drawn a blank. Sometimes people want to vanish and stay vanished.' He shrugged and grimaced. And so the police filed her case away and life moved on. Her solicitors kept an eye on her affairs and waited.

Scarlet found it hard to accept her Aunt had simply walked away from her life. Why would she? From what she gathered her only relative had no reason. She was a private woman, in her late seventies with few friends and she didn't have debts other than her utility bills which appear to have always been paid on time. Apparently she didn't attend church or belong to any groups, but spent her time pottering in her beloved garden and, as Scarlet soon discovered when she went through her Aunt's office, researching her family history. The old lady had dozens of hand-written notebooks full of family trees and notes she'd made about various individuals and their lives.

It was soon after she'd discovered the notebooks that Scarlet had experienced what would become a nightly event, each night increasing in intensity. Each morning she felt more drained and lethargic but she was determined to overcome the events of the night and make a go of her new home whatever it took.

She'd been in bed reading about the original owners of the cottage, in particular someone who'd been cheated out of the house and contents – in their opinion – by a distant cousin who'd come forward to contest a legacy which included the cottage, built for an Aunt who'd never lived there, she having died soon after it was completed. Scarlet discovered that the whole business had got quite nasty and threats were made when the Courts found in favour of the claimant. The disgruntled cousin – the original beneficiary – had been kicked out of the house but had broken into the cottage several times, removing items and apparently intent upon murder. Soon after this person had disappeared in mysterious circumstances – no mention again of them or what might have happened to them - but nothing had been proven against the new inhabitant of the disputed cottage, and with time the missing person had been forgotten and the cottage eventually passed down through the family to Agatha and then to Scarlet.

She'd nodded off whilst reading only to be woken by the violent shaking of her mattress. It had gone on for an eternity and at first she couldn't focus on anything in the room, which was dark even though she slept with her curtains open so she could look at the moon and stars from her bed, but strangely she had been unable to see the stars or the moon as the bed rose and fell and shook beneath her.

She tried to call out but her voice failed to make it from her throat, she gasped and struggled for breath. Petrified. She knew she was not alone but couldn't see or hear anyone. After a while the bed stopped shaking and she gripped the sides of her mattress, paralyzed as fear spread through her body. Her heart skipped and jumped in her chest and she began to shake uncontrollably, blood rushing to her head. Her ears popped, a whining, tinkling noise filling them. She closed her unseeing eyes but when she tried to sneak a courageous look one more, found them to be as if glued shut.

Suddenly Scarlet felt a dead weight pressing down upon her body. Someone was on top of her. She wondered if she was going to be raped or murdered but somewhere deep inside she knew she wouldn't, yet panic filled her heart and soul.

Unable to move, the only struggle she managed was in her brain. She thought she'd kick but her legs would not move, her arms were pinned to her sides by an invisible force. She thought she'd scream but her voice failed her. Scarlet felt cold icy breath on her cheeks and an odour so repugnant she almost vomited, something she'd never smelled before. She thought she heard whispered words close to her ear, but couldn't be sure, her heart pounded so loudly.

The weight pressed her deeper into the mattress and her pillows folded over her face. She was going to suffocate. There wouldn't be any evidence of an attack. She'd be found dead and no-one would know why, she thought, as she screamed and screamed inside her head.

But she didn't suffocate the first time or any other time since, and there had been regular reoccurrences of this nightmare since she'd moved in. After an eternity the weight would lift from her prone body and the odour drifted away. She could open her eyes and see the moon and stars and move her limbs once more. She always felt drained and exhausted by the ordeal and she realized it took longer and longer for her to recover from the attacks; for attack is what she knew it to be.

It would end with the sound of her mobile phone ringing as the icy snakes of fear crawling up her spine increased and she'd begin to shiver and shake as confusion set in. Was she awake, was it all just a nightmare? She would lay there too frightened to move in case it started again, but after a while she knew she was alone again, and she would be able to carry on with her day.

It was as if the cottage was rejecting her, that she wasn't wanted. Scarlet couldn't allow herself to be forced out of her new home. It was everything to her she realized and whatever was going on had to stop. She was determined. But how was she going to stop her night-time terrors? She wasn't convinced she'd been awake, but then she wasn't sure she'd been asleep either. Who could help her she wondered, who would believe her? She didn't have any friends and the solicitor claimed to be ignorant of any strange events inside the cottage when she'd called him to ask.

The young woman tried hard to discover more about what led to her Aunt's disappearance and that of her predecessors, searching the cottage and the grounds, half hoping and half dreading what she might find. She found nothing unusual. Questioning of the local villagers, store keepers and in fact anyone she could stop in the street to ask, drew a blank. She felt they either didn't know or if they did, wouldn't tell her anyway. When she approached anyone walking past her cottage and tried to glean information from them, she was met with something akin to hostility.

Why was this happening and who was responsible? Scarlet decided the answers were in the notebooks and each day she studied them carefully, making her own notes as she read. And soon she realized something.

Learning about the cottage and its former inhabitants was fascinating and very revealing too. Scarlet's Aunt had discovered that several previous owners of the cottage had either died or disappeared in suspicious circumstances and that either the investigations into each person had been inconclusive or hadn't happened at all. In more recent times it seemed that Aunt Agatha's predecessor had vanished off the face of the planet too. Also an elderly maiden lady, Ethel Paget had last been seen the day of her disappearance, pottering in the garden. She'd spoken to a dog walker about tea time who'd reported nothing unusual about their conversation, but recalled Ethel had mentioned she was going inside shortly to make tea for a visitor. The visitor had never been traced and neither had Ethel. It was some seven years later following a Court hearing to have Ethel Paget declared dead, that Aunt Agatha had inherited all Ethel's worldly goods including Secret Cottage. Scarlet loved the name. It was so fitting.

Daily the young woman read Agatha's notebooks and the elderly spinster's neatly written comments, mulling over what she'd learned as she worked in the cottage, cleaning and sorting through the contents. A lot of the furnishings needed replacing and she arranged for a charity shop to collect some items, whilst she hired a 'man with a van' to collect those items she couldn't possibly keep or repair, so he could take them to a local tip on the outskirts of the village. She planned to go in to town as soon as she'd confirmed a date for the collections. She didn't want to be left without furniture.

Scarlet had never learned to drive and she determined to remedy that as soon as she could. There was a local driving instructor advertising in the local paper and she'd call to make an appointment once the cottage was refurnished and she would be able to concentrate on other matters. It seemed a great pity to leave Agatha's car to deteriorate in the garage.

Meantime revelations about the previous owners of Secret Cottage sent chills down Scarlet's spine, the more she learned. It seemed that Agatha had been starting to think the same thing Scarlet was now trying not to allow her mind to accept. There was something sinister about the cottage and those living there had experienced similar 'night-time' terrors to those she and, it was obvious, Agatha had been subjected to. Scarlet wondered if these terrors had been triggered by a previous occupant, someone who resented anyone else living there. Was the cottage haunted? But she dismissed such thoughts, she didn't believe in ghosts, at least, she didn't think she did.

The night-time terrors continued and sometimes it became almost intolerable and she was tempted to move out and get a Priest in to do some sort of exorcism but, her common sense kept reminding her, there were no such things as ghosts, all things have an explanation. However, being so sensible didn't stop the terrors, or help her cope with them. Each time they grew in intensity, taking her longer to recover. As the days turned into weeks and then months Scarlet began to feel more and more drained and exhausted. She felt older somehow, the responsibility of her legacy she concluded, whenever she became aware of her lack of energy. But she was determined to stay in the cottage, her home now, and to conquer whatever it was that was trying to drive her away. For that is what Scarlet had realized, someone or something was trying to drive her away.

Scarlet jumped as her mobile's shrill message alert sounded. She'd been dozing with one of Agatha's notebooks clutched to her chest, dreaming about elderly ladies lined up in the graveyard, all waiting their turn to jump into dark, deep, cold, vacant graves. They were all dressed in black and wore veils over their faces and Scarlet had just joined them. They turned as one and pointed long thin translucent fingers at her as she took her place in front of a similar hole in the ground...

Scarlet's mobile alert sounded again and she sat bolt upright in the arm chair, the notebook falling to the ground. Her heart missed several beats as she blinked and tried to work out where she was. Droplets of cold sweat trickled down her back and between her breasts and her mouth felt dry to her tongue as little images flickered behind her eyes. She shivered and screwed her eyes up, not wanting to deal with what she was being forced to recall. She coughed and tried to wet her lips unsuccessfully. Reaching for her phone she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and tried to focus on her new messages, realizing she must have been dreaming and that's why she was feeling so peculiar. Scarlet stared at the screen, the notebook forgotten.

Her own image looked back at her. She blinked and refocused, confused. Yes, it was definitely her own image, but something was wrong. It took her a few more seconds to realise that the face she had lived with for twenty-five years, which now stared back at her, was an older face; one that had lived through at least an additional fifty years. Scarlet gasped. What? How? Who had sent the image, was it a practical joke? It was surely one of those Photo-shop apps you could get on phones these days, she reasoned. But she didn't know anyone well enough who'd send her such a thing, joking or otherwise.

Her aged face gazed, expressionless, at her. She was transfixed; couldn't look away. Something about the eyes held her captive. She told herself to look away, to turn her phone off, but her words never materialized, trapped inside her confused mind. She felt incapable of speech or movement as time slowly ticked by on the Westminster Chimer on the mantelpiece.

The doorbell rang.

Scarlet blinked and shook her head, trying to remove the fog which had descended upon her. She looked at the phone, but the message had gone. Before she could double check, the door-bell rang again.

Stepping into her front garden Scarlet looked around, puzzled. There wasn't anyone there. She walked around to the back of the house but no-one was in sight. Overhead she could hear the drone of a distant aircraft, glistening silver in the afternoon sunlight, destined for exotic far off places Scarlet had only ever dreamed about. One day, she promised herself, one day I'll take a trip, perhaps to America or the Far East. She walked through her garden gate and scrutinized the lane. Nothing. No cars or signs of life. Not even the black cat which was a constant, hunting mice in the hedgerows. Scarlet concluded she must have imagined the door-bell. She convinced herself whilst she explored that she must have imagined the SMS message on her phone; perhaps it was the remnants of a dream she'd been having before she awoke.

A dream. Was she still dreaming? Scarlet went back into her cottage and closed the door. She'd make some tea and eat something. Looking at the clock on her mantelpiece she noticed that some hours had passed since she'd last eaten and, with food in mind, she went into her kitchen.

Set out on the table, complete with crisp white cloth, cups, saucers, side plates, and cutlery, beside starched white napkins, Scarlet found an assortment of cakes, finger sandwiches and a teapot hot to the touch. There were settings for five people. Bewildered she stared, trying to recall laying the table, making the cakes or even shopping for anything remotely like the splendid fayre before her. But she knew she hadn't. Who were the other settings for? She didn't recall inviting anyone. How could she invite guests for tea when she didn't know anyone to ask?

With heart hammering against her ribs and a wave of nausea threatening, she forced herself to look around the kitchen for a clue as to the creator of such a feast. Scarlet tried to reason with herself. She closed her eyes, counted to ten and opened them, expecting the afternoon tea to have vanished, but it hadn't. Everything remained the same. Well, not quite everything, she discovered as she glanced out of the window into the garden.

'Good afternoon my dear, do come and join us.' An elderly lady called in a weak, quivering voice, as Scarlet peered through the open window in utter disbelief. 'We've been waiting for you.' The woman, seated at the picnic table, beckoned the gaping young woman over.

Seated with her were three other obviously elderly ladies, similarly dressed in black with short veils covering their eyes. One leaned heavily upon a black walking stick with an ornate silver top, her long thin fingers poking out of black fingerless gloves, like silver twigs. Scarlet shuddered as she approached, uncertain yet unable to resist the command to join them.

'Who are you? What are you doing here? How did you get in?' Scarlet's word rushed forth as adrenaline surged through her veins. 'Who laid the table? Where did the food come from?'

'So many questions my dear,' the woman with the stick replied, her voice floating upwards and away on the breeze. 'Do sit down next to me.' Her thin hand indicated Scarlet's place.

Another woman turned to Scarlet and stared at her which was unsettling as her eyes, like those of the others, were obscured by her veil. Scarlet felt rather than saw, the scrutiny of them all. 'We have come to have tea with you.'

'But I didn't invite you, I don't know you.' Panic was rising in her throat. 'You can't just barge into someone's home and, and, make tea...' Sitting so close to the woman with the stick made Scarlet feel strange. She wanted to touch her, to convince herself that she was real, but a thought was forming in her mind, and it terrified her. Was she real? Were any of them real? Was she dreaming?

'We are not a dream, my dear,' another of the ladies said quietly, reading Scarlet's thoughts. 'But we were expected.'

'Now, let's sit a while and chat.' The first lady who'd spoken to Scarlet said, 'Are you happy in our home?' She cocked her head as if waiting for Scarlet's reply but before the girl could answer she added, 'but of course you cannot stay, no-one ever stays.'

'Not unless you are...' Another lady was about to add when the woman with the cane banged it hard upon the ground.

'Shhh! Enough,' she hissed. 'Plenty of time for that. Now, where were we?'

*****

Scarlet couldn't breathe, the weight upon her was almost unbearable. Heavier than ever before. More menacing than she'd ever experienced. She sank deeper and deeper into the mattress. The odour was overwhelming as the force breathed its foul decay across her face, filling her nostrils so that when she tried to take a breath it was all she could taste. The whispering never ceased in her ear as she mentally fought back with all her strength. She could have sworn she heard the words, 'Die, die, die.' She felt icy tendrils creeping around her neck, round her arms and legs, tighter and tighter they gripped, cutting into her flesh and covering every inch of her as she lay paralyzed with fear.

She forced herself, as she'd taught herself, to ignore what was happening to her physical self; after-all it always passed, eventually. She'd concentrate on something else. Something else – the ladies. No. Not them, she didn't want to think about them and their ramblings. But they kept forcing their way to the front of her brain.

'You can't stay here my dear, she won't allow it.'

Leave me alone she cried silently. 'She will keep coming back, you must leave here.' Their voices sounded distant as she struggled beneath the foul weight crushing the life out of her.

'We are here to warn you, to invite you, before it is too late.' Their veil-clad faces close to hers now, urging her, persuading her. 'Come with us. It is the only way.'

The wind gently moved through the leaves of the Oak and the Rowan trees. A bee hummed as it flew from flower to flower, and a butterfly hovered close by as the late afternoon sunlight danced upon the ornamental pond in the front garden. Scarlet busied herself with her weeding, humming quietly as she worked. She felt better today, more relaxed and less stressed. She'd slept like a baby and although she'd suffered the usual night terrors as she first drifted into sleep, she'd had the most amazing dream which had lasted until just before the sun hit her face through her curtains. Today was a new day. Today she was determined to rid herself of all the silliness she'd been allowing herself to indulge in since moving into Secret Cottage. Scarlet was convinced that her state of mind had caused her nightmares, but last night, for the first time, she'd also had a wonderful dream. A warm, safe, life reaffirming dream, and she wasn't going to allow that feeling to be spoiled by her over-active imagination.

She was expecting the Charity shop van to call before 8pm to collect the items she'd put together for them. Tomorrow morning she'd arranged a taxi to take her into town to confirm her purchase of the furniture she'd chosen, and arrange for delivery by the end of the week. Things were starting to come together nicely. She would just finish weeding this bed before going inside to put the items for the Charity closer to the door so the driver wouldn't have to carry them through the narrow hall.

Scarlet stood up, rubbing her aching back. She really should find a Chiropractor, she thought. Recently her whole body ached and her energy levels seemed so low, perhaps she'd see a Reiki practitioner too. She could afford it.

'Hello, sorry to bother you,' a woman's voice broke into her thoughts. Scarlet looked up to see a middle aged woman peering at her over the garden wall. 'I hope you can help me; I seem to be lost.'

'I will if I can.' Scarlet moved slowly towards the wall. 'Where are you looking for?'

'The instructions we have seem to be wrong. We're trying to find the Old Forge, but so far we've just gone round in circles. I told my husband that we should stick to maps and leave using the Satnav to the kids.' She waved towards the end of the lane. 'He's a typical man, refused to ask for directions but following the stupid Satnav has got us nowhere. We're going to view the Old Forge, it's for sale.' She waved to her husband who had started to walk towards them, fed-up with waiting in the car. Typical, she thought.

'Darling, this lady is going to direct us,' she said as he approached them.

'I do hope you can help,' he said. 'We've been driving round for ages.

'Oh, I can help don't worry. You're not the first to get lost around here.' Scarlet smiled at the woman. 'I'm relatively new to the area as well. Perhaps we'll be neighbours.' She began to give the couple directions to the Old Forge, when she noticed the woman was looking towards the cottage.

'Your companion is calling you.' She pointed to the front porch.

Scarlet looked toward the cottage but couldn't hear or see anyone. She turned back to the couple. 'You must be mistaken, there's no-one there. I live alone.'

The couple exchanged a look and deciding that the old girl was probably losing her marbles, when there plainly was someone standing in the porch shouting loudly, thanked her for helping them and said their goodbyes. 'Poor old thing, it must be terrible having dementia. Do you think she's given us the right directions?' The husband said as they returned to their car. 'Getting old isn't much fun. I'm dreading it. Will you look after me if I go gaga?'

His wife laughed and kissed his cheek. 'We'll both go gaga soon if we can't find this damn house,' she said.

Scarlet shook her head. Weird people, she mumbled to herself as she returned to the cottage. She removed her gardening shoes and washed her hands in the small cloakroom beside the kitchen. Stepping carefully past the items for the Charity shop she thought she'd make some tea before moving them closer to the front door.

Seated at her kitchen table which had been set out with five cups, saucers, plates and steaming tea pot, complete with a selection of cakes and sandwiches, Scarlet found four elderly ladies dressed in black. 'It's time.' One of them said as Scarlet gripped the back of a chair for support. It hadn't been a dream after-all.

Later that evening the Charity shop van arrived to collect the items Scarlet no longer required for Secret Cottage, but being unable to raise anyone inside the cottage, or on the mobile number he'd been given, the driver eventually returned to his base empty handed. He really hated being messed around by people. He understood the elderly sometimes got forgetful, but really, it was just not on.

The young woman listened as the solicitor read the Will to her. Seven years had passed and following the findings of the Court, her elderly aunt had been declared legally dead and as from today all Aunt Scarlet's possessions were now hers to do as she wished. Secret Cottage was included and the young woman was free to move in whenever she wished. The orphaned woman was excited, yet still somewhat confused. She'd never heard of her Aunt until the solicitor's investigator had contacted her. Now she had a relative – well, a dead one, legally – and a home and money of her own. Things could only get better.

The End.

The Curse of Havencrest

Cayleigh Stickler

Seth Laverty paced his office. "We go in, film it, and leave. Easy in, easy out. Everyone's happy."

The circular office was devoid of personal mementos, and if Seth were anyone else Oliver Bagley would have been troubled by it. Even still, Oliver suppressed a litany of psychological questions that bubbled to the surface.

"Got it," Oliver said. "When do we, you know, see the ghost?"

"What ghost?"

"The ghost of Vivian Newby." He crinkled his nose. "How do you not know the folktale of this house? It's famous."

Seth sighed. "We're not going to actually see a ghost. We just film a couple hours. The crew creates some spooky sounds to add in the soundtrack later, and we choreograph our surprise. Simple." Seth looked back at the psychologist and his newest guest on his show, and he sat up straighter in his seat. "Look, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I figured a scientist would know there's no such thing as ghosts. It's television. We pander to the people." He waved his hand dismissively.

"But you are familiar with the story, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course. Everyone who grew up in a thousand-mile radius of the place knows the story. Tortured teenage girl killed her dad who now haunts the cabin. Told and retold. If it didn't put Havencrest on the map, the story would've died out ages ago. We've got to go or we'll be late."

The two men stood up. Seth snatched his briefcase containing his notes and ghost hunting tools. Oliver grabbed his overnight bag filled with more gadgets than clothing. They walked outside to the white, unmarked van waiting outside. The transportation crew, with the cameras and light equipment, was waiting for them.

"Oliver," Seth said, "this is everyone. Everyone, Oliver. Okay, let's get this started. I have an appointment tomorrow I can't miss. Onward."

The van hurdled away from Fallwood City, and as they travelled further the cities became towns and the towns became villages. At last, the villages gave way to hamlets. After four hours driving, they pulled the van into a driveway leading to a dilapidated cabin on the edge of Havencrest, a place in which few people visit and fewer leave. The crew helped Seth and Oliver unload the personal camera equipment. After all the bags were laid out on the front porch, the two men watched as the transportation crew drove away with the promise of their return at dawn.

"More like noon for these guys," Seth said, "but they're good people. You'll see. Grab a bag, will you?"

Seth picked up his briefcase and a large suitcase filled with different lenses, and he pushed his way into the cabin. Dust fell from the rafters from the force of his entry, and Seth coughed into his shoulder.

The cabin was smaller inside than it appeared outside, and they fully explored their new home away from home in under ten minutes.

"I give it one star," Oliver said as he inspected the mantle over the fireplace.

"You'd give it any stars?" Seth asked. "Look at this dump. At least there aren't any ghosts here, though. Imagine being tethered to this place for all eternity. I'd haunt it, too. We should set up the equipment. I'll show you how I record the raw footage."

Oliver made another rotation around the cabin, this time allowing him to stop and examine the details. If layers of dust didn't coat everything, it'd look like a family currently lived there. Framed pictures were stationed on every surface. Perma-smiles greeted Oliver; however, when he picked a picture to examine he saw the edges of the young girl's smile were pulled taut and her hands were clenched at her sides. He replaced the photograph on the bedside table and met Seth in the living room. Seth had managed to set up the cameras and lights, and he was now busy setting out his gadgets.

"You have an infrared video light," Oliver said as he neared Seth.

"A necessity in this field. It's the only way to film in pitch darkness. I hope you're not afraid of the dark."

"What other goodies do you have in that briefcase?"

"Not much, really. I have a K2 meter to detect electromagnetic energy changes, mostly for the people watching at home; a full spectrum mini-camera; and a pair of walkie-talkies, which reminds me that you need one of these."

"And you capture ghosts with just this?"

"Remember? There are no ghosts."

"Well, you wouldn't be able to detect them with just this anyway, even if there were some."

Oliver sprinted to the porch, leaving Seth to stare after him. Oliver returned with his overnight bag, and he lugged it to where Seth sat on the floor.

"Here, let me show you what you really need," he said and unzipped the bag. He started to pull out different equipment.

"Oliver, my man. You've lost it. What the hell is this stuff, anyway?"

"Check it out. These are infrared thermometers. They'll pick up just about anything. And over here there are electronic recorders to pick up the ghost's voices and other noises. This is essential. I'm shocked you don't have one." He spoke so quickly that his words began to slur and slide into each other. "And this," he enunciated, "the anonometer is one of my favorite things. It –."

"Hey, calm down. We don't need an anemone or whatever that is. We just need a basic camera that can film in the dark and some cozy blankets. We'll film us exploring the cabin for what the audience will believe is the first time. We'll pretend to hear a noise, make a commotion over it, pretend to measure it and get excited, and we'll go to sleep. We'll wake up in the morning and buy some coffee. Got it?"

Seth grabbed the handheld camera and the extra walkie-talkie. "We're not really going to be separated, but it makes it look real on television if we carry these around. Ready?"

Oliver followed Seth's lead as they exited the cabin. The quarter moon illuminated the porch, casting odd shadows of the spindly trees surrounding them. Oliver shook as a breeze permeated his sweater and the coldness seeped into his bones. Seth turned on the camera and nodded toward Oliver before walking inside.

"Oliver, our guest psychologist," Seth said, angling the camera toward himself, "is a ghost hunting enthusiast, and he's here to help track the ghost of Leonard Newby, a cruel man who tortured his daughter before she murdered him. The cabin, the scene of the murder, opens with the living room here, and it looks like no ghost activity is detected. Do you concur, Oliver?"

"I do," Oliver said. He balled his fist and pounded his chest and coughed. "I do," he repeated.

"Now, Oliver, you take that bedroom over there and I'll inspect this bedroom here."

Off-camera, Seth gestured wildly at Oliver to continue in the bedroom alone, and when Oliver entered Seth clicked off the camera.

"Aren't we going to film this?" Oliver asked.

"Not right now. Remember, I'm supposed to be in the other bedroom. I just can't leave you here alone because insurance reasons."

"Insurance companies don't pay out for ghost-related accidents?"

"Get over it. There are no ghosts to cause accidents. There are, however, rusted nails and unstable floorboards, so watch your step."

"Okay, so what do we do in here if we aren't looking for a ghost?"

"We eat. Follow me." Seth turned around and walked back to the living room to the only area that wasn't caught on camera, place where their bags were stacked. Seth rummaged through his bag and produced two peanut butter sandwiches. "Here. Midnight snack."

"Shouldn't we get back to filming?" Oliver asked. He let his eyes wander to the bedroom he was supposed to be inspecting. He felt himself pulled there, and he was filled with equal parts unease and anticipation.

Seth checked his watch. "Sure, it's getting late, anyway. Got your equipment? Let's go."

Oliver walked, almost in a trance, back to the bedroom and opened the door. As he crossed the threshold, the hairs on his arm raised as if a breeze passed. He walked to the opposite side of the bedroom and looked out the window. On the panes of glass was a dusty film that coated it, allowing Oliver to see only fuzzy outlines of trees. In the distance, he saw a light bobbing up and down and he squinted to make out the figure. There wasn't another house for miles, and it was too late for hikers. As Oliver leaned closer to the window, craning his neck to see outside, the bedroom door slammed shut. Oliver whipped around to look at the door. It looked menacing. The natural lines in the wood looked darker than they did minutes before, and as Oliver walked nearer the dark lines weren't black at all but a brick red color. He thrust his hands in his pockets, but they were empty. He had forgotten his walkie-talkie in the living room. He grasped the copper door handle and turned it, but it wouldn't budge. Thoughts swirled in his head and he tried to inhale as deeply as he could. He pounded on the door.

"Seth! The door's locked. Open it up from your side. I'm trapped!"

Oliver kept pounding on the door between shouts, and every second his pleas went unheard the walls around him closed in. The blue wallpaper unsealed itself from the walls and grabbed at him, inching closer and closer every second.

Finally, Seth pounded on the door. "Oliver? What the hell are you doing in there? Why did you lock the door?"

After several attempts, the bedroom door flew open as if it weren't locked at all. Seth rushed in the bedroom and surveyed the damage. A panel of wallpaper peeled from the ceiling, and it dangled. Translucent white curtains blew in the wind. The queen-sized bed's comforter was rumpled. Oliver's face was ashen.

"Do you mind telling me what in the hell happened in here?"

"I wish I could tell you. I came in to check something out," he said, not wanting to divulge the tugging sensation to Seth, "and the door closed and I couldn't open it. So I shouted."

"Why'd you lock the door, then?"

"I didn't. I swear I didn't. Look, something happened in there. I can't explain it; I've never seen anything like it, but it wasn't good. I don't think we should stay tonight."

"How many times do I have to tell you that ghosts don't exist? Wind exists. It was probably wind that blew the door shut, and it's so old that it was probably just stuck in the latch. Not a big deal."

As Oliver listened, his fears abated and his heart rate slowed to normal. Still, though, the bobbing flashlight shone like a beacon in his mind, but instead of providing protection against the darkness, it served as a warning of what was to come. He lingered in the bedroom a few seconds longer than Seth before following him to the living room again.

"You sure you're not hurt, though, right?" Seth asked, and Oliver couldn't help but notice it was the first time Seth had shown any compassion toward him.

"I'm fine. The other bedroom, then?" He grabbed his walkie-talkie and electronic recorder and pocketed them.

The two men walked to the bedroom on the left side of the cabin. Each step Oliver took was coordinated with the bobbing light in his mind. Seth entered first.

"See?" he said, walking around in a circle. "There's nothing to be scared of in here. Okay, let's film. I say we sense the ghost in here. I'll bust out my K2, and you can act horrified. You're still pale from earlier, so just go with it."

Seth opened the camera's face and turned it on. He talked about the room, but Oliver tuned him out. He was focused on the windows, trying to spot the light again.

"I think there's something in here," he heard Seth say. "What do you think, Oliver? Feels a bit spooky in here."

A low groan shook the floorboards, and a growl ruptured through the walls. Framed paintings crashed to the floor, and the nails scattered on the hardwood floors. Oliver yelped, and Seth whirled around to capture Oliver's face. He gave Oliver a thumbs up. The moan-growl morphed into a deep howl. Seth motioned to Oliver to stop making the noise, but Oliver had fallen to the floor in terror. Oliver covered his head with his hands and curled into the fetal position.

"Oliver! Stop! I stopped filming. That sound is horrifying; quit it."

The growl echoed, and Oliver, still balled, whimpered. "I'm not making it," he whispered through sobs.

"Get up. Get up! You're freaking me out, so stop, you hear? Aren't psychologists supposed to be calm? You, Oliver, are not calm."

Seth grabbed Oliver's right arm and tugged Oliver to his feet.

"Are you okay?" Seth asked. He leaned close to Oliver's face. Oliver still had that faraway gaze in his eyes, and he wobbled back and forth.

"What was the dad's name again?"

"What dad?"

"Vivian's."

"Seriously? You collapsed, nearly fainted, and went insane, and you're worried about a dead man's name? Now, get over it. There are no ghosts. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"He's scared. A man named Leo is scared, and he needs our help."

Seth stared at Oliver. When Seth first met him, Oliver looked like a regular man. Oliver held some oddball ideas about psychology and the human mind, but he sounded sane at least. The man standing before him resembled nothing of the man who stood in his office not even ten hours ago. While the man he met earlier was polished, refined, and intelligent, the man who now wobbled in front of him looked more at home in a psychiatric ward rather than in front of a camera.

"Leonardo," Seth emphasized, "is dead. He doesn't need anyone's help because he's not alive. And, even if he were alive, he certainly wouldn't need your help. You can't even help yourself right now. Look at you."

"Won't you help me free him? He says he's trapped. Alone."

Seth sighed and covered his face with his hands. "Okay, listen for a minute, will you? If I were to say there were such a thing as ghosts, and let me assure you I am not, I wouldn't help one that tortured his daughter and died because of it."

Oliver, wide-eyed, stared at the bedroom window. The bobbing lights were back, peeking through the tree line of the forest. He turned and raced to the bedroom door, Seth right behind him. He jumped over the moth-eaten couch and dodged an end table that looked worse for wear. He sprinted toward the front door, tunnel vision causing him to only see what was in front of him.

The blow came from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Oliver flew like a rag doll through the air and landed against the far wall with a sickening thud. A rush of residual wind blew through Seth's hair, and he ran toward Oliver, who was a small form on the floor. Blood trickled from his mouth and seeped into the floorboards.

Seth whipped around to face the direction from which he thought the blow came. He saw nothing. His eyes scanned the room, looking back and forth to find anything, to no avail. As soon as Seth turned back toward Oliver's body lying limp, a gray form materialized next to the couch. It hobbled toward Seth while gliding inches above the floor.

"Help me," it rasped.

The figure extended one hand toward Seth. The form solidified into a man, old and wrinkly, and Seth was rooted in place. His eyes darted wildly around the room. Only two escape paths existed, and one was blocked by the apparition. Adrenaline coursed through Seth, and he stole glances at Oliver, who was motionless. The blood had stopped pooling, and it began to soak into the carpet. With a final look at the man who baffled him, Seth sprinted toward the back of the house, hoping he could outrun the elderly ghost. Instead of jumping over furniture, he slammed his body against it and used brute force to shove it aside.

"Don't leave me," Old Man Leonard croaked.

Seth willed his body to move faster. The cabin, once small, appeared to extend and distort in front of him. The hallway to the back door seemed to extend forever, and regardless how fast he ran Seth managed to stay in the same position. Except Leonard edged closer and closer. The ghost reached out to grab Seth, and Seth yelped, his heart leaping into his throat and spurring him into action. Seth reached the back door and grabbed the doorknob. The brass felt too cool to the touch, and Seth recoiled from it before looking backward. Leonard continued to chase him.

"Save me. Take me away," Leonard pleaded.

Leonard lunged for Seth just as Seth ripped open the back door and stepped into the pitch darkness. Seth ran outside at a full pelt, and only when he reached the edge of the property did he turn back to look at the house. Leonard's ghostly figure, all bright and translucent, hovered in the back door. The ghost howled a warning to Seth, but instead of listening, Seth sought safety in the thick trees. He ran through the forest until his side was full of stitches. It felt like he'd been running for nearly an hour at top speed, but when Seth checked his phone only a few minutes had passed.

He waved his cell phone around, trying to find a signal to call his team. The phone kept mocking him, blinking "No Service" repeatedly. Wind whistled and leaves crunched. Low-lying branches whipped back and forth, splintering the wood. Too scared to stay still for too long, Seth started walking through the forest, hoping he was walking in a straight line. Trees towered over him, and in that moment he'd never felt so insignificant.

Almost as if he stepped on a trip wire, a figure stepped from behind a tree. She was translucent but not as bright as Leonard. Sickly, silver strands of what Seth could only imagine as blood in a past life dangled from the body. Vivian. She could have only been, at most, sixteen years old, and her clothes dated her back in the 70s.

If Seth wasn't already so utterly terrified, he'd have reminisced about his own bell-bottomed jeans. As it was, though, his heart caught in his throat, pounding harder than ever. He felt his entire chest quake from the rhythmic beating. He looked up at the girl's face. Her smile was lopsided. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth, and ghostly saliva dripped to the ground and mingled with the dirt. His limbs, once frozen, now pulsed with electricity, and he bolted in the opposite direction toward the unforgiving trees. He knew that every step he took led him further and further from the house. He didn't know where safety was, but he knew he couldn't stay there. In the distance, Seth could hear Leonard's indecipherable pleas that sounded like a constant low wail. He pumped his legs further, unsure whether or not he was truly running in a straight line; the forest of dark trees loomed over him and looked identical.

A shriek pierced the air. Birds – ravens, owls, and warblers – crashed through the canopy and took flight, thousands of wings beating above him. Seth grabbed the nearest tree trunk and clutched it as he sunk to the ground in a heap. The night sky darkened as clouds obscured the moonlight, and after nearly a full minute, the forest was illuminated. Seth scanned the forest. Small rodents scampered near him, seeking the safety of shelter. He stood up, his heart rate normalizing, and walked deeper into the woods. He checked his phone, still claiming he was in a no service area and saw that, again, only three more minutes had passed.

Bobs of light danced near him. The bulbs of light rose and dipped, as if beckoning him deeper in the forest. When Seth approached them, he could see the lightning bugs twirl over a large pool of muddy water. A cracking boom resonated through the forest, momentarily scattering the flashing bugs before they huddled over the water again. Seth whipped around in the direction of the noise. Trees toppled over as something with the force of a hurricane leveled them, approaching him. The bugs' dance grew more fervent, bobbing ever closer to the water. The darkness coalesced into a human form. Seth, frozen, watched Vivian blaze a trail, her misplaced anger directed toward him. He turned to start to run, but the bugs attacked his face and dove toward the muddy pool. Seth took a tentative step toward the muck, and just when the sound of splintering wood was behind him, he jumped into the water where he sunk deep into the earth, mud coating him like a second skin.
The Ghost of Rose Cottage

Marjorie Hembroff

With my hot cup of coco in my hands I looked around the sparsely furnished den that had an antique feel. I had goosebumps on my arms and shivered even though it was a warm night. The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed four. The cottage felt strangely empty since Martha, my uncle's housekeeper, left to look after her sister.

Muffin, my longhaired Calico, hissed and her fur stood on end as she stared into the corners.

"Muffin you are scaring me." Loud noises from the attic had roused me from a sound sleep and Muffin was still uneasy.

I had just got a cheery fire going, in the fireplace, when the wind picked up rattling the window. Branches scraped against the side of the cottage sending shivers down my spine. A clap of thunder overhead made me jump. The lights flickered off and on several times and the room was bathed in the soft glow of firelight.

After closing the shutters, I picked up the letter from my uncle's tall, secretary desk and sat in the overstuffed, tweed armchair. I just started to read when the shutters burst open with a bang. I struggled with the shutters as a flash of lightning lit up the yard. It illuminated the garden and beyond and for a split second I saw dim figures near the old garden.

Once the shutters were secure I picked up the letter and started reading.

Dear Kimberly,

I hope everything is all right with you. I was devastated to hear about your mother. We were close years ago but quarrelled. I regret those harsh words because she was gone the next morning. There was never the chance to tell her I was sorry. A private detective tracked down your address. I wrote her but she never answered.

I paused with the letter held in mid- air. When I was clearing out my mother's things I had found an old photo album. There were pictures of this cottage and a lot of people I hadn't heard of. It seemed strange that Mother had never mentioned her family and I was surprised to learn she had an older brother. I had always believed she was an orphan.

Something rattled and fell out of the envelope and landed, with a clatter, at my feet. "What?" My voice echoed in the quiet room. I bent over and picked up old fashioned brass keys attached to an ornate key ring. There were tags on each that said. Attic, garden gate, and pantry.

I blinked as the lights flickered on. I picked up the letter and continued to read. My uncle talked about his illness that remained a mystery to all the doctors he had seen. I was about to set the letter aside when I found an interesting note.

No doubt, you have found the keys. The attic contains Mother and Father's things. Your Mother's hand carved chest is up there, as well. I was her guardian and tried to tell her Mother and Father wouldn't approve of the people she was hanging out with.

The sun shone through the narrow stained glass windows creating a kaleidoscope of color on the dark hardwood floor. Muffin purred by my side as I pondered the things in the letter.

****

Muffin stretched against the counter as I opened a can of cat food. "There you go." After rummaging through the well-stocked fridge I made an omelet while the coffee brewed. Muffin paced back and forth in front of the pantry door. His tail was twice its normal size. He hissed, rose on hind legs and scratched the wooden door. "What's the matter?"

When I entered the pantry I stood, with my mouth open, staring in disbelief. "What happened? Who could have done this?" Cans and boxes covered the floor and shelves had been ripped off the wall. I pulled the cord attached to the bare bulb between the exposed beams. In the dim light I saw a door and pulled the key ring from my jeans pocket. There was a loud pop and creak when the door opened. I sat with a thud staring into the cave like space.

"Why was the door hidden and locked?". My voice echoed in the empty room.

A heavy old medical book, with worn binding and frayed leather cover, lay on the floor. The name Dr. Paul Fitzgerald was on the torn inside page. I shone my flashlight around the deep cavity and the light illuminated a worn leather bag and a door with boards nailed across it. 'Was that an outside door? Had there been a secret exit?' I fished around with my broom and pulled the worn leather bag within arm's reach. The initials PF were engraved in the rusty brass name plate.

****

After the shock of finding the mess in the pantry I was in need of fresh air. I stood on the back step with a cup of coffee cradled in my hands. The tall grass swayed gently in the breeze and the air was filled with the perfume of wild flowers. I set my empty cup on the black iron table and strolled along the partially concealed stone path. Within minutes my jeans were soaked up to my knees.

I paused when I reached the stone wall, that surrounded the garden, as a robin perched in a nearby tree, burst into song. I pulled away the Virginia creeper and found a wooden gate with rusty hinges and a lock. The gate creaked and scraped on the ground when I pushed it open. I gazed around in amazement. Branches were scattered everywhere and a maple tree lay over the empty pond.

I moved the branches of the gnarled weeping willow after detecting crumbling stones. I stepped over the exposed roots to investigate. "Why, those are tombstones." I knelt down and rubbed dust off with my sleeve. There weren't any names. I moved branches away from dusty flowers covered in cobwebs. "Who was buried here and why?"

Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw movement but when I turned to look didn't see anyone. I followed the leaf covered path towards the pergola and pushed tangled vines away and peeked inside. There were leaves and twigs everywhere and a tree branch protruded though the glass roof. A couple of rusty lanterns swayed back and forth.

Further down the path a broken metal gate creaked as it swung on broken hinges. A path led to a babbling brook and a house was visible on the other side of a meadow. I shivered even though the sun shone high in the sky and headed back to the cottage. I looked up and saw a shadow in the attic window. I had the feeling I was being watched.

****

I had spent the last couple of weeks cleaning the cottage and going through my uncle's papers. There were pages of childhood memories and family stories. I was learning things about the family I hadn't heard about. Uncle John was eighteen years older than Mother. It sounded like she was wild, headstrong and carefree. The cottage had been left to both of them, which is why I had inherited it.

My mother's old bedroom wasn't quite ready for occupation so I would have to spend one more night in the bedroom over the kitchen. I heard footsteps and screeching coming from the attic. My arms were covered in goosebumps and I shivered.

Something or someone had been in the garden and pantry but who? Were there ghosts? There wasn't any possibility of sleep now my mind was imagining all kinds of things. I took my large flashlight off the nightstand. After putting the old brass key ring in my pocket I started down the hallway towards the unused rooms.

My feet dragged as I went down the dimly lit hallway where I had seen shadowy figures. When I reached the alcove that concealed the attic door I paused looking around. The overhead light created a soft glow, but didn't light up the corners that were filled with shadows, cobwebs, dust and dead flies.

I reached the narrow door and twisted the key in the lock. I cautiously opened it and couldn't see anything in the darkness. My flashlight illuminated corners filled with cobwebs and a thick blanket of dust. I heard the crying again that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Stair treads squeaked no matter how careful I was. I shone my flashlight at the piles of boxes and trunks scattered around in a haphazard fashion. But how? The same thing had happened in the pantry. Who was doing this? A loose shutter banged against the narrow casing. Then I saw a skinny Blue Jay flying around squawking hoarsely.

"Oh, you poor thing." I looked around. Could I catch him? The narrow planks creaked as I walked towards the window. I wiggled and pulled on the corner piece of jagged glass until it came out. I jumped when there was a flutter of wings and the gentle touch of a cold beak against my cheek.

"So you are one of my ghosts? Let's get you back outside." I held my hand underneath his breast hoping he would hop down. He slowly edged his way towards the open space, slipped outside and flew away into the night. I closed the shutters and fastened them securely. That would have to do until the window was fixed.

****

The next morning, I cleaned the attic and found the chest my uncle had made. I soon had everything sorted into separate piles. I had hauled things downstairs and was about to take another trip when I glanced out the window.

Was that movement near the pergola? I clattered down the narrow stairs towards the back door. I had goosebumps again and a queasy feeling in my stomach. Was there someone to answer my questions? I jogged along the path towards the garden gate. I paused when I saw an elderly couple walking hand in hand.

"Hi. Enjoying the garden? I'm afraid it's a tangled mess," I said as I strode forward. "It caught the brunt of that big storm."

"Oh, you mean you can see us," the man said, as he paused beside the pergola.

"Yes, why wouldn't I be able to see you?" I rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans. "You live nearby?"

"You might say that. Surprised you can see us. Most people can't," the woman said, looking up.

The couple looked sweet together and wore old fashioned clothes. I said. "Who are you and what are you doing in my garden?"

"Your garden. Thought it was John's garden." The man answered. "I am Paul and this is my wife Francesca. You are?"

"Kimberly. John's niece." I had goosebumps on my arms and had a weird feeling. There was something strange about this couple.

"The cottage and garden hold secrets," Paul's walrus moustache bobbed up and down. "Start in the attic and the den."

"We have to go now," Francesca put her hand on Paul's arm. "See you again. Surprised you could see us, though."

"Who is buried behind the weeping willow?"

"A couple of youngsters," Paul answered.

"What youngsters?" I ran my fingers through my tangled curls.

"My dear, all will be revealed in due time." Francesca smiled and turned away.

"Look in the attic and your uncle's secretary desk. You will find your answers," Paul turned towards the broken gate. "You'll figure it out."

"You will find my diary in your uncle's desk," Francesca said with a smile.

Their voices faded as they walked away. When I looked across the meadow there wasn't anyone in sight. For a second, I thought I heard a chuckle. I turned and walked to the cottage.

****

With a steaming cup of tea cupped in my hands I looked around the den. What had I missed. I opened the desk and stared into space as I sipped my tea. I had organized all the papers and hadn't found anything unusual.

I picked up the photo album, with a faded velvet cover, and leafed through pages of photos. Then I stopped holding my tea cup in mid- air. That was the couple I had talked to. Impossible. The names underneath were Paul and Francesca Fitzgerald.

I pulled drawers out and stared, in disbelief, at the hidden door. Someone was clever when they built this desk. It resisted my attempts at first but it finally opened with a loud pop revealing small drawers. Inside one drawer there was a leather bound diary that I set on top of the photo album as I continued to clean. When I was done the room sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine but felt chilly. I lit a fire making the room cosy again.

After I prepared a meal for Muffin and me I curled up on the leather lounge, in front of the crackling fire, to read Francesca's diary. She talked about settling into the area and the cottage that Paul's parents had built. I woke with the diary on my lap and gazed at the dying embers of the fire with Muffin curled up beside me. When I went to the kitchen the sun was peaking over the mountain leaving a rosy glow in the sky.

****

I wanted to clean Mother's old room today so decided to make an early start. The room looked brighter after I pulled the dusty drapes down. I found a built in cupboard tucked under the eaves. There were three drawers and a door. In one of the drawers I found watercolors, and two bundles of letters tied in faded pink ribbon.

The door opened easily and I shone my flashlight into the cave like space. Everything was covered in a blanket of dust. There were things hidden just as the elderly couple in the garden had said. I took my broom and swept away the cobwebs before crawling inside. As I shone my flashlight around I saw two dusty trunks.

The trunks scraped the floor leaving a rusty trail when I pulled them out. They held wedding dresses and trousseau's. How strange. The sun was setting when I finished cleaning and putting everything away. After lighting a fire, in the stone fireplace, I cuddled on the lounge, wrapped in my fleecy blanket, to read the diary filled with dainty writing.

My dearest,

Paul's twin sisters had been deeply in love. Their fiancées were killed in a boating accident one dark and stormy night and their bodies never found. It was such a tragedy and the girls never recovered. What happened afterwards is too heart-breaking to talk about. The girls must have made a secret pact because they were found together on the anniversary of their sweet hearts death. It was a dark and stormy night when they took their own lives.

Paul and I put off our wedding for a few months. His parents couldn't deal with the devastating event. The girls are buried in the garden which was their favorite spot. It is believed they still walk the halls hand in hand and create mischief on dark stormy nights.

I looked up and couldn't belief what I was reading. There was more than one ghost. Were the girls the ones who knocked things all over the place? My eyelids felt heavy as I continued to read.

The sun shone through the stained glass windows when I woke the next morning. Francesca wrote about the secret compartments in all the rooms and one near the fireplace. She had made a detailed drawing.

I felt around the stones and wall. I found a knot hole and pushed the board sideways to reveal a small cupboard. I took the soft flannel off a dainty figurine of three dancing fairies, before pulling out the original deed and two miniatures. I could have been looking in a mirror. I gazed at a red head with a heart shaped face surrounded by ringlets. I put everything on the round table, under the window, before heading to the kitchen to feed Muffin and make breakfast. I had finished putting my things in my mother's old room as the sun set behind the massive mountain.

****

The next morning, I was just finishing breakfast when Martha came in the back door. Martha set her suitcase on the floor. "How is everything?"

"Good. Found a lot of secret hiding spots. Did you know they were there?" I wrapped my hands around my hot cup of coffee. "How is your sister?"

"No, I didn't." Martha answered. "My sister is up and around again."

I have cleaned the cottage top to bottom and moved my things into Mother's old room." I said. "I took down all the drapes and want to wash them today. Then start working on the old garden and set my computer up in the den."

"We can do that together. My sister wants to come for a visit, if that's all right," Martha said.

"Of course." I said before taking a sip of coffee. I thought I heard a chuckle coming from the pantry and glanced at Martha who was playing with Muffin. Maybe my ghosts would put in an appearance again.

The End
The House on the Hill

By Jim Adams

I have often heard researchers speak of 'malevolent spirits', evil beings who haunt in order to put fear into people. I had often heard about Poltergeists – many experiences involving these hauntings are well documented – I only experienced one such experience during the series, it took place in an old farm house in Buckinghamshire.

Poltergeist is a German word which means 'ghosts that move things', they manifest themselves with noise and movement – many of which are violent and dangerous to humans.

There are recorded incidences of serious harm done to people – young girls in their early teens often become the target- some even believe there is a marked incidence of poltergeist activity triggered by the influence of young girls, although this has never actually been proven.

The incident that I became involved with was complex and varied from visit to visit, I came away from it confused and just a little frightened – a lot of what I witnessed would have made a Hollywood producer give up the bottle.

The farm house stood on a small hill deep in the Bucks countryside. Surrounded by trees, the house, barn and cattle sheds looked, to all outward appearance, picture book; something out of a Constable panting. The house had been built in the late 1800's, slightly modified over the years as modern farming methods required, other than that, it was a beautiful setting, the early autumn colours among the trees blending with the scene.

I drove up to the building and was greeted by the black and white collie that had been laying in the shade under the horse chestnut tree sheltering the houses east side. The farmer's wife walked out to greet me and showed me into the large kitchen, on the other side of the copious hall festooned with hanging coats and rubber boots – a typical farm entrance. The wonderful smell of fresh baked scones greeted me.

"On your own?" She asked.

I replied that the photographer was on her way and would join us in half an hour – she was at another assignment. I had wanted to get the story first.

Mrs Giles (not her real name) told me that her husband was ploughing and would be back about the same time –while we waited she told me about the 'haunting.' The family consisted of farmer, wife and three children – two boys aged 8 and 10 and a daughter aged 14; all three were at school and would not be back until 4 pm.

The hauntings started about 18 months previous; nothing much at first, but little things that could not be easily explained –a light bulb laying on the kitchen table that had fallen from the overhead socket –it had not broken yet had fallen five feet on to a hard wooden table! Then doors and cupboard doors had opened on their own – once, recently, while she had watched; she was alone in her house at the time.

Things from the farm had appeared in the kitchen during the night – when all doors and windows were closed!

On another recent event Mrs Giles and her husband had awoken in the morning to find their bed on the other side of the room – they had slept soundly and neither heard nor felt anything.

Their daughter had refused to sleep in her own room for over a week, saying she heard noises at night, and her things were moving on their own accord – as she watched. She woke up one morning to find everything from her draw scattered around the floor. She had felt someone sit on her bed while she lay in it – with the light on!

The last straw came when she woke at 2 am to find her radio on playing music and to see her piggy bank – a china pig –dancing, apparently, to the music,

The boys had also seen and heard strange things – they had found all the personal things they owned swapped into each other's cupboards - while they slept.

The list of things appeared endless.

The event that persuaded them to contact the newspaper happened several days ago – the daughter awoke one morning to find herself suspended three feet off the bed – still covered with her quilt; her head still resting on the pillow-terrified she fell to the floor and ran screaming to her mother's room; when mother and father entered her room the pillow was still, three feet above the bed, the quilt had fallen off when the daughter fell out. When the father grabbed the pillow he was forced to use all his strength to pull it from where it rested – apparently 'in thin air'!

We were shown the room and took several pictures around the house. Penny volunteered to spend a night in the room IF I would stay in and arm chair outside the door – which had to be kept open- with the lights on! What followed was a nightmare.

After a meal with the family –followed by a few glasses of wine, we made our way apprehensively up the stairs. A light arm chair had been placed outside the door of the daughter's room, and with the bedside table lamp on, and myself seated in the well-lit hall – Penny climbed onto the bed –almost immediately she jumped out and ran to me – "Something kicked me, hard on the back!" She screamed.

The whole family now had joined us on the landing and we headed down the stairs-as we were halfway down the daughter's bedroom door slammed shut so hard that it shattered the hall window.

I followed Penny's car and saw her safely home before returning to my apartment. The next day I returned to the farm. The Gilese's decided to get the house exorcised, however, the local vicar declined to help and they had to seek the assistance of a Catholic priest in London – the exorcism was successful and I was glad to visit the farm a week later to find all had become quiet and peaceful.

I had, however, experienced first-hand the relationship between young girls and the Poltergeist effect – though several people I have spoken to since then have expressed doubts.

I had several Poltergeist experiences and in the course of the many years I spent as a reporter, I found many more – speaking to a number of people who were involved in the supernatural; who had experienced some pretty startling – and scary events

Poltergeists are something I will happily leave to others far more knowledgeable than myself-when it comes to the Supernatural.

I was beginning to feel a trifle 'out of my depth' in this 'ghost' business – fortunately there are many people out there better qualified and eager to help – I had to call on the assistance of several 'Ghost Hunters'.
The Layovers

Ricky C Allen Jr

Hearing the noise they feared the vibrations under their feet. Her father was dead. Any chance at a decent honeymoon gone. All he thought was darkness and the presence of dead approached from the adjacent room. A scowl followed with eyes of a powerful, insensitive ghost. Her leaned form of walking consisted of abrupt jerks, as if she was relearning how to walk all over again. She was an instrument of the unknown, carrying a crazy smile and wandering expressions. After I realized the intelligence it had I decided we had to go. I grabbed my wife and we ran.

Fluid leaked from her leg. Her lips, dry and fracked. Her eyes lacked pupils, only displaying an ivory gateway into her face. My heart beat fast. My chest was burning as we ran down the stairs, drenched by our sweat. Her inflexible darkness was exquisite. The noise was obscene, cries. After a short pause to catch our breath we ran through the chapel. The man saw this from his office and hid. The front door? locked. Her eyes wandered as she entered the chapel. Her paleness possessed by the luminescence of a raged spirit. Entering the lobby, she walked towards us, shifting her feet. Her skin hung like a long heavy winter coat. Out of nowhere came a loud pop. It sounded like a balloon burst. That sound had pieces of flesh and bone in its wake, splattering across my face. The body fell to the floor.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," the old man said. The powerful smell in the vicinity was indisputable. His natural frankness was surprising.

"I thought I said no more kills," a man said as he entered the parlor. His ice blue eyes, long bleach blonde hair was almost startling. He extended his hand. "Forgive my assistant. Shall we?" he said motioning me and my wife to his office. "You have seen a lot tonight eh? I know you're terrified and confused all at the same time."

"What was that?"

"A confused spirit."

In my silence I was trying to dissect this situation. Life or monster - a doubtful opening for what the idea of after death seemed. Any attempt to legitimize the subject resurrection screamed bewitchment.

"They're between heaven and hell. These bodies - stolen property. The spirits possess those minutes after death and wake up. It's where you get your near-death experiences from. It's biblically illegal and God has sent me to retrieve them. My name is Boal. I am an Angel, at your service," he said, tipping the old top hat. "And you've already met my assistant Matthew. He is...very much human."

Not human? Angels? The inlaid feel of the moment measured mysterious. I had to be careful. My wife was silent, still traumatized by the day. He glanced up at us as he set the lobby coffee table for a snack. I couldn't tell if this was a test or a grooming. But who would believe us? He ushered us in and motioned for us to sit. We were cold and nervous. Nonetheless we welcomed the warm tea. He handed me a cup I found the scent disgusting. To me, it smelled like fish left out in the sun too long. My wife also declined. He threw us a look of suspicion as he leaned back in his chair.

"So, your father is upstairs? I'm sure Matty is tending to his body well." My wife looked at me and then back at Boal, nodding as she looked down at the floor. "So, how long have you been married?"

"Only a few days. We're newlyweds."

"And you're in a funeral parlor grieving a father? Oh how fate can be so tricky!"

"Yeah," I said as I looked away. He's prying. "So how long have you been doing this?"

"Angel work? Before time. This? Recently changed duties. I'm on suspension for fighting with an Archangel. God felt I needed some 'me time' \- serve in a different capacity," he explained. He sipped his coffee and smiled again at my wife. "Let me give you a tour to pass time and ease your minds."

As we walked the halls, it was like nothing I had ever seen. In one room people were eating people. I looked away quickly not to be attracted to the sight.

"I'll have these spirits out of here by nightfall and these bodies properly buried. This is containment. We have so many who rob bodies."

We finally got to the main lobby. My heart began to race. The exit was right there. "I'll walk you to your car. Please keep what you've seen here to yourselves. No one would believe you anyway." As I turned to thank him we both realized my wife was missing.

"I hope we didn't lose her. She's already scared out of her mind." We went back down the hall. I walked behind him as he looked around in each room. Then he stopped and motioned to me, pointing through the glass. There she was, feasting on a human arm. She was tearing the flesh like a lioness after a fresh kill.

"How far did you think you would get? Eventually your hunger for flesh would have kicked in," Boal said as he stood behind me. "Look, you're done with this life. I have your file and both of you are going to be just fine. However, I cannot permit you to leave. I was on to you from the beginning. My office is located up front...I didn't see you come in. There's only one entrance for that reason."

The profound charge touched my once radiant ability to elude truth. This old body obviously had tells that I hadn't taken into consideration, along with the need to be fed. She got it. She was far from the look of a wife, but played along well. What we were couldn't be denied. We stole these bodies, and now were caught. The shell moved towards darkness, a desire that would be problematic if humanity was ever to be a goal for home. It didn't fit me, or her. This ruse was over. We were living nor dead, just two people trying to pull a centuries-old stint of possession. And as we walked back to our respective caskets, all the bodies in the funeral home were sitting up, looking at us. They were judging us glaring with their black pupils. They knew we failed, and had ruined any chance for them to escape. And as I climbed back into the casket, Boal smiled and closed the lid returning me to darkness. I floated from the body back into nothingness, awaiting my turn to be judged.
The Lost Soul

#  Audrina Lane

It was my favourite place, had been for years. I was a loner through my teenage years, finding solace in my camera and painting. I'd lost count of the times my parents had tried to coax me from my room or the attic where they'd let me set up my art studio. Now I was in my twenties they left me to it. I sometimes saw them in the evening as I was going out. I preferred to sneak out into the impending gloom; then I didn't have to see their sad faces watching me, ready to pick holes in my black leggings and baggy jumper ensemble.

I walked the familiar path up the hill to the cemetery. In the summer the sunlight would fade in hues of gold and crimson, like dried blood had seeped from the sky and stained the old stone headstones. I'd snap strange angles by lying in the damp grass as the sun dropped from the sky. My favourite subject as summer turned to autumn was the falling leaves. They were crisp and frail as I stomped over them, loving the crunch. Then I'd pick up the skeletal remains and gaze at it in my fingers before capturing it on my camera.

The moon was full and rising behind the sharp steeple that punctured the skyline as I stopped to admire its shape. I'd never been inside. The church was always shut on the times I visited. The path wound on up the hill to a look-out point, over the silver of the river below. It was a peaceful place I rarely shared it with anyone, until tonight. I settled in my favourite place, my back against a memorial of an angel that dominated the area. I was still trying to capture her features, wings outstretched, as if she'd only landed for a moment of breath before taking off once more. Her face was beautiful, but who ever had carved her had etched the loose strands over her one eye and cheek. Her lips were full but downturned. Sometimes when it rained the drops fell over her cheeks and looked like tears.

Pulling my camera out I studied the shots I'd taken and stood again to take some different angles and pictures to capture her.

'She's beautiful isn't she?' a voice said from behind me. I jumped and turned to find a young man studying me.

'Yes,' I squeaked, the moonlight choosing that moment to illuminate his face. He was blond but so light that it shone white. His skin was pale and his eyes were dark. I gazed into them and thought of midnight.

'I'm Kendrick,' he said, extending his hand to take mine and pull it to his lips. It was such an old fashioned gesture that I blushed. He held it firm, his fingers cool but they sent a tingle right through me. It sparked an irregular beat in my heart.

'I'm Anne, short for Annelise.' I pulled my hand away and prepared to leave. But something in his gaze stopped me, like I was paralysed.

'Join me to watch the moon rise, I so rarely have company.'

'Sure,' I heard my lips say, even though my head was screaming for me to run, flee. His demeanour was soothing but frightening at the same time.

He pulled me towards the large oak tree and I saw a blanket spread out, a bottle of wine and two goblets set out in the centre. It was like he'd been waiting for me. I sat down and watched as he poured the liquid into the cups. The silver was cold in my hand but the intricate carvings took my fancy.

'Can you hold this so I can take a photograph?'

He bowed his head and I did just that, letting the flash illuminate the tiny figures of men and women dancing.

'These are treasures.' I gasped, putting my camera down and taking back the cup.

'Here's to All Souls day tomorrow,' he declared, letting his cup clink against mine. His lips opened, revealing a line of white teeth and the tip of his tongue.

'Is it?'

'Yes, so tonight let's celebrate with good wine and great company.'

I normally hated the taste of wine, especially red, but as I brought the glass to my lips I inhaled its deep aroma that spoke of succulent, ripe grapes on the vine and sweet dark chocolate.

'This is delicious,' I murmured.

'Then drink, lie back and we'll watch the grey horses ride across the midnight plains.'

I wondered if he was a poet to my artist, that's why our souls had called to each other in this place of death. I finished my glass, ashamed to tilt it high so that I caught the last drops on my tongue. Then I did just as he suggested and lay back on the blanket. The clouds did seem to take on the shape of ghostly grey horses, dancing and prancing in delight. The moonlight dappled their skin in a myriad of patterns. Their tails and manes swept out and vanished in the breeze that chased them.

Closing my eyes, I felt his cool hand on my arm, circling and tracing patterns just as I did when I held my paintbrush. I dreamt of my painting, half finished in the attic; I would pour my heart into it tomorrow. But tonight was different; it was special sharing it with my mystery man. My dreams took me away as I clambered onto one of the horses and flew across the sky, finding an escape from my sorrow, wind whipping my hair into a tangled mess and I felt sure my laughter echoed over the city below.

Waking in a tangle of my duvet it took me a moment to take in my surroundings. I was home and a fever itched in my fingers to finish my painting. I had no recollection of how I'd got home; that single glass of wine must have pulled a powerful punch. With a glass of water, I wandered into the attic and stared at the giant canvas that called to me. My paintbrush flew in sure and certain strokes over the blank parts until I stood back in the evening light and signed my name with a flourish in the corner. Surely now I could prove to my parents that I had talent, that this wasn't a waste of time. The only thing I'd left blank was the dedication on the bottom of the plinth. How it that I just couldn't find any photos of the writing or even remembers the name, for I must have stared at it a thousand times?

Pulling on my coat, I slipped out of the house and walked quickly through the damp evening. A mizzle of rain soaked through my jacket, but I didn't feel it. As I got closer to the statue I wondered if Kendrick would be there again. Perhaps he'd walked me home? I wanted him to be my next subject, to gaze at his ethereal beauty as I captured it through my lens and then onto my next blank canvas.

'There you are Annelise, I've been waiting for you,' he said, stepping from the shadows of the angel's wings.

'Kendrick...I hoped I'd see you again,' I breathed, as he opened his arms and I stepped into them.

'Do you understand yet?'

'Understand what? I came to thank you for taking me home last night, for the wine, the words you whispered and the patterns you traced. You inspired me to finish my painting. Well, all except for one part. I need to see the name.'

'Are you sure?'

He turned me around and led me to the front of the statue, keeping his hands on my shoulders as I let my eyes glide down over her face. Her body was young and draped in a Grecian style gown that both disguised and revealed curves so similar to my own. It was then that I looked at the inscription.

In loving memory of our angel

Annelise DeVay

May you find happiness and peace

Fly free our daughter.

1998–2015

I read it once more before I sagged against him and he lowered me to the floor, squatting down behind me. The blood rushed to my head and I heard every beat of his heart behind me. Then he whispered in my ear. 'I'm sorry you got lost. I waited for you every day but you never came back.'

'Back to the bridge,' I replied, suddenly the memories engulfed me like a flood. We'd been lost together, bullied and teased by our peers until we'd seen the only way out was to jump.

'I've waited a year for you until he released me from the bridge and I found you here.'

'Who released you?'

Kendrick looked up and I followed his gaze to the top of the church spire. A figure of flames rested there, crouched like a grotesque gargoyle. His eyes were burning us with a look as if we were ants under his magnifying glass.

'Annelise, you have two choices now. You can meld into the stone and find your human body buried beneath. Then you will be dead.'

'And the other option?'

'You can join me, us, and stay forever a lost soul. But you will need to feed.' As Kendrick said 'Us' he motioned in the direction of the flaming figure.

The puzzle pieces fitted together, the reason my parents looked sad but never spoke to me. My love for Kendrick and our defeat at the hands of those cruel teenagers who'd taunted us to death. The wine had been blood and I had flown home.

'Stay with me and we can take our revenge together.' Kendrick said, reading my thoughts. 'But I won't blame you if you take the easy choice.'

He pushed me forward and the stone seemed to melt, allowing me entry to the grave below. The smell of earth did nothing to disguise the rotten stench of my decay. The last clumps of my hair hung over the skeletal remains of my face. The anguish still etched there even though my eye sockets were empty. Part of me wanted to lie down and sleep but then I felt a tug, his hands pulling me back to the moonlit night.

With tears rolling down my face I looked up at the statue, she was crying too. But then I turned to Kendrick, the one and only love of my life and replied.

'Take me and let's be lost souls together.'

His tears mingled with mine as he lent towards me and his lips claimed mine before he trailed them round and I felt the tip of his fangs pierce my skin. But my blood was cold and black. Suddenly I felt a blaze rush straight through my body followed by a fever that seemed to consume me.

Kendrick stood back and placed his hand into mind. 'Come, let us fly, feed and take our revenge. We belong to the Devil now.'

I felt like a feather as I was lifted onto the breeze and soared upwards towards the bright moon that lit the sky.

'Wait, can I just go and see my parents for one last time?' I begged. Kendrick nodded and we soon reached and passed right through the window pane. For some reason they were not asleep in their bed and I found them in my attic studio. I watched them silently from the darkest corner.

'It's finished and signed. How can that be?' my father said, staring at the canvas.

'I don't understand either but I love how she's put herself into the background. Smiling and happy as she once was as a child.' My mother pointed to a figure in the background before she fell into his arms and wept.

I watched them leave and stared closely at my final legacy to the world. A single tear drop trailed down the cheek of my painted statue, matching the one that I felt on my own. Filled with remorse at the pain I had caused, I looked around but I was trapped. Kendrick waited beside me, his hand still in mine. The devil stared in through the window, his thoughts sending me only two words.

'Lost Soul'

The Thin Place

Elizabeth H Newton

"A thin place is a place of energy; a place where the veil between this world and the eternal world is thin. A thin place is where one can walk in two worlds-the worlds are fused together, knitted loosely where the differences can be discerned or tightly where the two worlds become one."

Moira gazed out at the mist curling like a long gray cat's tail around the bottoms of trees and the bases of fence posts. The entire day had been strange, the air charged with electric energy. As the sun set and the odor of supper cooking wafted through the house, Moira found herself looking anxiously at the clock. Sean had promised to be home early so they could get to the wake. He was already half an hour past the time he usually got home. Dark had crept upon the house until the light within struggled against the pressing night outside.

For the tenth time in less than ten minutes Moira pushed aside the lace curtains and stared into the darkness beyond. Thinking she saw movement in the thickening fog she squinted. It was only her reflection in the glass, the lights of the warm room behind her illuminating the concern in her eyes.

Once more she went to the stove and stirred the pot of stew that bubbled warmly, the thick brown gravy clinging to the meat and vegetables. The inviting scent permeated the room mingling with the aroma of freshly baked bread. It was Sean's favorite meal on a cold night and he would never be late to sit at the wooden table and dig into a huge bowlful of the treat. Moira's hand trembled slightly and the wooden spoon thumped against the side of the pot. Something was very wrong.

It was at that moment she heard the keening in the distance. Her hand froze mid stir and she stared at the bubbles breaking on the surface of the stew. She stood in a tableau of stunned uncertainty. Had she heard what she thought? Was it merely a stray wind blowing through the trees and over the low stone walls that separated their farm from the others near-by? Then the sound came again, mournful and pleading, and she released the spoon which stood for a moment before slowly sinking to the side of the mixture.

Moira's heart began a tripping beat, the sound loud in her head. The name 'banshee' lit up in her mind, its letters reminiscent of the neon signs over the theater in town. She pressed the word down but it still glittered at the corners of her consciousness. "Old wives' tale," she whispered. But the words were hollow and defenceless against the generations of superstition.

Returning to the window she again gazed out into the night. Her eyes straining against the darkness, she saw a form begin to take shape and recognized Sean's ambling gait. Releasing the breath, she didn't realize she'd been holding she hurried to the front door. Throwing it open, she stepped back as the icy night air rushed in. Sean stumbled inside, his face pale and waxy within the dark hood of his coat

"Sean!" Moira gasped as she reached out to embrace him. He lurched past her, moving unsteadily toward the crackling fireplace. Moira watched him uncertainly a moment before the cold air from outside began to envelop her. She closed the door never taking her eyes from her husband's shaking shoulders.

He turned slowly to face her, his eyes dark pools in his white face, a thin sheen of perspiration lining his upper lip.

"What is it?" Moira's voice was barely above a whisper.

Sean's mouth moved nervously before the words came out shakily. "I saw her. I saw Noreen."

Moira's hand covered her mouth and her eyes widened until they almost bulged from their sockets. "Wh-what? Where, how?"

His eyes strayed to the window and the darkness that pressed from outside. Moira's eyes followed his terrified stare then turned back to his face. The terror in his eyes seemed to fill the room, invading even Moira's heart. He lifted his hand slowly and wordlessly pointed at the window where the keening broke in and once again filled the room.

Sean's hands covered his ears and he shook his head frantically as though by doing so he could escape the sound. Moira rushed to his side, feet barely touching the floor and placed her hands over his.

"Sean, Sean. It's just the wind. It's nothing more."

He looked into her eyes and read the lie. She knew it was Noreen. She knew the wrong he had done and was now being tormented for.

Moira pulled his hands down, forcing them to his sides. "It's only the wind," she repeated more strongly now. "You must pull yourself together." She guided him to the table, his feet dragging like lead across the floor. "Sit down and we'll have supper. A good hot meal and you'll be better."

Sean sat staring out the window at the impenetrable darkness, silently praying the sound would not come again. He started when Moira set the heaping bowl of stew before him, a slab of fresh bread on the side. "I can't Moira," he whined.

"You're being silly," she chided gently. "Eat your supper. It's already late and we'll have to hurry to the wake. I've made a fine cake to bring to Noreen's family and I'll not have it wasted because of the wind."

Spearing a chunk of meat, she lifted it to his lips. He automatically opened his mouth and allowed her to feed him as a mother might to a recalcitrant child. Offering him a smile she put the fork in his hand. "I'm going to change my clothes now. Finish up and then we can be on our way."

Never taking his eyes from the window Sean slowly ate his supper, picking at bits of carrot and potato, dunking his bread in the thick gravy. By the time Moira returned from dressing he had almost emptied the bowl. She nodded approvingly and poured a glass of milk. "Now drink your milk and we'll go on."

Sean gulped down the milk, holding Moira's eyes with his own. She offered an encouraging smile and combined with the silence from outside he began to relax.

Moira put the dishes into the sink to wash when she returned. Pulling a shawl around her shoulders she picked up the wrapped cake she'd prepared for Noreen's family and slipped her arm through Sean's.

He hesitated just a moment when they stood before the closed door that led outside. But Moira's tug on his arm made him open the door and together they stepped outside.

There was a chill in the air that was unnatural for that time of year and Sean shivered in his thin coat, the hood fallen from his head, thin strands of hair barely covering his balding scalp. "Are you cold, love?" he asked his wife as he slid an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. He hungered for the warmth of her body beside his. They walked together in rhythm as those who have been married for years will do. It was less than a mile to the Donohue's, a walk that should take twenty minutes or so. But they were able to cut some minutes off by crossing the field where Sean helped Moira climb over the low stone wall that separated their properties.

As he climbed over behind her he felt a frosty chill at the back of his neck and his body tensed almost causing him to fall. Moira reached out with one hand to steady him. His hand was like ice in hers and she pulled away when he regained his balance. "You're freezing Sean," she observed in a vague and distant voice.

He nodded but made no other response. She walked slightly ahead of him now and try as he might he couldn't match her pace. "Moira slow down," he pleaded.

She glanced back at him, her smile somewhat frightening in the dim light of the crescent moon. A balloon of chilly air blew from her mouth and rose slowly evaporating into the night. The sound of the icy grass crackling beneath their feet like shards of thin glass was the only sound to break the oppressive silence. A cloud covered the light for a moment and when it cleared Moira was far ahead of him moving quickly through the night. She looked back once more and the expression on her face was twisted into a sneer.

Before he could call out again, the sound of the keening came again on a rising draft. Sean froze in place. The sound came from behind him, back near the wall they had just climbed over. Moira had stopped moving now and one hand held her shawl over the lower half of her face, hiding her mouth from view.

A cold finger seemed to stroke his cheek and a whisper of ice-cold air blew past his ear. He closed his eyes tightly and willed his feet to move but they were rooted to the earth as though they had grown there generations earlier and could not be pried loose. Then the mist began to form around him, creating a barely visible cocoon. Moira watched from a distance, her fist pressed into her mouth to prevent her from screaming out. It would not do to arouse others until what must be done was finished.

The fog took shape, almost womanly when seen from where Moira stood. She had dropped the cake and it lay in crumbles at her feet. She did not know she had dropped it nor would she have cared if she'd known. She was only aware of the joining of the fog with her husband's body.

Sean opened his eyes and came face to face with Noreen Donohue's souless eyes; eyes that had no form or depth but wavered in the frigid moonlight.

"Noo," he moaned softly. "Noreen I did not mean it to happen. As God as my witness it was an accident."

The hollow mouth of the amorphous face before him opened wide as if in laughter and a strange unearthly sound lifted on the wind. Sean's heart began to pound, the beating inside his breast like a drummer beating heartily in a parade. His breath came in slow gasps and his lungs screamed for air. But the only air he could pull in was the foggy face of the ghostly apparition that now covered him like a shroud. A sharp pain struck him in the breast as surely as a fist striking him. His heart contracted and then exploded in his chest like the rupturing of an old tire with many miles on its treads.

Sean fell to the ground. He did not drop as one who fainted but seemed to float to a reclining position as though he was being gently laid to rest. The mist lay with him for a moment before rising to its full height in the night and turning to face Moira.

The woman stood staring at the ghostly form wondering if she had made a deal with the devil and would now be consumed as her husband had been. The vaporous form raised what seemed to be a hand as though waving a grateful farewell before dissipating into the night leaving the scene clear.

Moira moved backward toward the Donohue home afraid to draw her eyes away lest the specter return. When she was only a few yards from the house she turned and ran, bursting through the door and into the room of weeping mourners. For a moment all sound stopped as heads turned to see what had burst into the room and Moira stood speechless.

Then she called out, "Sean's fallen by the wall and I can't rouse him."

As one the crowd moved forward and hurried to the prone body, prepared to help their neighbor. Moira followed behind, her breath heavy and uneven. She knew there was no hope. As the men bent to lift their friend one of the women murmured, "It's right where they found Noreen's body a week gone."

Once inside the lighted home it was evident Sean was dead. His eyes stared blankly and try as they might the mourners could not close them. It resulted in an expression of horror on his face and many of the women turned away and blessed themselves, muttering prayers beneath their breaths.

Less than a week after Noreen Donohue's body went into the ground, Sean was laid to rest. There was no question but he had a heart attack. Moira welcomed the mourners into her home, gratefully accepting the food they brought. She shed her widow's tears. The night Sean was buried Moira stood at the window and watched as two strange wisps of fog that seemed to glow in the darkness ran through the field. One looked like a woman, arms stretched out before her as she pursued the man shape that fled before her.

Closing the curtains tightly against the vision she dressed for bed. That night she dreamed of Sean. He stood at the foot of her bed and crying softly confessed his crime. It had been an accident. He had been chasing Noreen, just playing, trying to get a kiss when she had tripped and her head hit the rock. Afraid he would be accused of something untoward he chose to hasten home and leave her body there until she was found hours later by her own brother.

Moira knew it was a lie for she had seen what happened as she hurried home from the field where one of the cows had wandered. She had seen Sean and Noreen embracing, his hand sneaking up beneath her skirts, her hand pushing his away. She stood and watched in horror as he tried to take what he seemed to think was his right. She'd watched Noreen climb onto the wall and heard her shout down to Sean that she would tell her brother what he had tried. As she turned to run home Sean had hefted a large stone and threw it hard at her head. The thump of the impact had split the air and Moira had covered her mouth and ducked down so he would not see her watching.

When Noreen's ghost had come to her, the desperate keening for vengeance splitting the night she could hardly refuse. So she had prepared the stew he loved so much, happy his last meal would give him pleasure. And she knew the terror of seeing Noreen's spirit coupled with the small addition she'd added to his dinner would take him into the ghostie's waiting arms.

What was done was done. Now Noreen would have her peace. Moira started awake as the dream ended. From outside her window came the low weeping of a man in agony. Pulling the coverlet up to her chin she shivered as Sean's voice called out, "Moira, come out and warm me love. I'm so cold."

And so it was there were three fresh graves the following week. The murdered do not rest easy in thin places.

Return to Light

Shadows fade,

monsters afraid as light peaks on the horizon;

corpses at rest at the ghosts' behest,

demons return to Hell.

Those who survived All Hallow's Night,

rejoice at Heaven's light and the devil returns

to his cage for fear of angels' rage.

By Kyrena Lynch

Copyright September 2016

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