

Blood Moon Rising

It's About Time

Copyright © 2017 Into the Past by S. K. Gregory

All Rights Reserved

Into the Past

By S. K. Gregory

The bar was dimly lit, and crowded. I felt a wave of apprehension wash over me. Was I doing the right thing? I'd been searching for two years and in that time, the only lead I had was this bar and a name. Loni.

A few of the patrons were staring at me now.

Move your ass, Thea.

I headed for the bar, trying to appear calm and confident, but inside I was about to burst with anticipation. This was it. I could feel it. I was finally going to find out who I was. Who my parents were. That was if Loni was willing to talk.

The woman behind the bar was tall, almost six feet. She could be anywhere from 35 – 45, it was hard to tell. She had blonde hair which was tied back in a ponytail and brown eyes. I could see well defined muscles under the sleeves of her Guns and Roses t-shirt. She knew how to handle herself.

"What can I get you?" she asked.

"Uh, I'm looking for someone. Loni? I was told that he worked here."

"What do you want with Loni?" the woman asked.

"He has information that I need."

The woman gave me the once over, then wiped a wet rag across the bar, before answering. "Loni isn't here. Who told you about him?"

"It's a long story. When will he be back?"

"Could be a while," she said. Why was she being so cagey?

I took a seat on a bar stool. "Guess I'll have that drink then."

The woman didn't look too happy as she poured me a rum and coke. Maybe she was Loni's wife or girlfriend and she thought I was seeing him. I could explain my situation, but I really didn't want to get into it with a total stranger.

I nursed my drink, watching the door for everyone who came in. Hours passed. The bar started to empty out and I considered heading back to the motel and trying again tomorrow. I knew I wouldn't sleep though. How could I?

The woman appeared, to take my glass.

"Is Loni coming in tonight?" I asked.

She sighed. "Look, if you are here to cause trouble..."

I raised my hands. "No, I swear. I just need to speak to him. I was told that he could help me find someone."

"Who?"

"My mother. Well, both my parents, actually."

She took my glass, set up a two shot glasses and filled them with whiskey. She pushed one towards me. I was going to refuse, but instead I knocked it back.

"Who are your parents?" she asked.

"I really should speak to Loni."

"You are." She tossed her own drink back.

"Oh. I just assumed...why couldn't you have told me earlier?"

"Because I don't know you. Now what do you want. No, actually let's start with your name."

"My name is Thea Jones. Jones is my adopted name. I was told that you could help me find my birth parents."

"Told by who?"

"Lennox."

Loni swore under her breath. "That old fart. Thought he was dead."

"Apparently not. Can you help me?"

"I don't know. What are their names?"

"That's the problem. I don't know."

"Then how am I supposed to help you?"

"Look, I don't believe in all that psychic crap. Lennox really was a last resort. But he told me things, things he couldn't have known about."

"And he pointed you in my direction?" Loni said.

"He wrote your name and the name of the bar on a piece of paper. Said you would have the answers."

She waited for me to go on.

"Twenty years ago, I was found in a broom closet at a mall. It wasn't until two years ago that my adoptive parents told me what happened. The newspapers said that a man and woman were chased through the mall. There was a fight and people were killed. The man and woman escaped and were never found. From the CCTV, the police discovered that the woman hid me in the closet before the fighting started. The footage was destroyed before I could see it. I think they were my parents and they hid me to prevent me from being killed."

Hearing it out loud sounded a bit crazy. Loni poured herself another drink and knocked it back.

"I can't help you." She headed down the bar and I followed.

"Yes, you can. Please, I just want to know who they were."

"Trust me, you don't. Now drop it."

I reached out and grabbed her arm. As I did, the bar around me changed. The big screen TV on the wall and the pool table vanished. The booths were replaced with wooden tables and the men sat around them changed too. Several men wore Stetsons and I could hear piano music playing.

Loni gave me a shove and suddenly I was back in the real bar.

"What the hell was that?" I asked, feeling dizzy.

"Nothing," Loni snapped. "You're drunk. Leave, now."

"No. You can't just..." I didn't get to finish as she manhandled me out the door.

I stood in the parking lot, dazed from what happened. She must have slipped something into my drink. That was the only rational explanation.

Returning to my motel room, I finally admitted to myself that I was never going to find them. It had been a long shot from the beginning. I always said that if I couldn't find anything concrete, I would let it go. That was a year ago. It was time to stop.

I unzipped my overnight bag and removed the manila folder from inside. It contained all the information I'd collected. Most of it was newspaper clippings about the mall. One of them showed a grainy picture of my mother. The only one in existence, as far as I knew. It was impossible to distinguish any facial features. All I could tell was that she had long hair and liked leather when it came to clothing. She seemed like a real badass. Nothing like me.

I was a college drop out. I had barely $300 left to my name and this little mission of mine had caused friction between me and my adoptive parents. They were good people, don't get me wrong, I had a happy childhood. But ever since they told me the truth, I could think of nothing else other than finding out who my parents were.

Over the past couple of years, I had entertained many fantasies over who they were. Secret agents. Long lost royalty. Stupid, outlandish ideas, but the truth was they were criminals. Nothing more than that. Hell, for all I knew they might not have even been my parents. They could have kidnapped me and killed my real parents.

I shoved the folder into the trash can in the corner of the room. I was done.

I was lying on my back, staring up at a beautiful cloudless sky. A woman's face appeared in my line of sight. Her face appeared blurred, but I could see long blonde hair and I could hear her voice.

"There she is. My beautiful girl," she said softly.

Try as I may, I couldn't bring her face into focus.

"Mama's here, Althea."

My eyes snapped open. I was still in the motel room. The dream had seemed so real, almost like a memory, but that was impossible. I was six months old when I was found.

I tried to shake the dream as I packed my stuff to leave.

As I headed for the freeway, I had to pass the bar. Against my better judgement, I stopped outside.

Loni was behind the bar again. She didn't look happy to see me.

"Just stopped by to tell you I'm leaving. You're lucky I don't call the cops on you for drugging me."

"I didn't drug you," she snapped.

"Whatever. I didn't expect you to admit to it. Thanks for all your help," I said sarcastically.

Loni sighed. "I get why you want to find them, but trust me, you're better off without them."

"Are they still alive?"

She shook her head. "No."

"You're lying."

"I thought you were leaving."

She walked off down the bar. I was going to leave, but as she reached the end of the bar, she vanished. She didn't turn right, she just disappeared into thin air.

"What the hell is going on?" I whispered.

The bar was mostly empty, no one else seemed to have noticed her disappearance.

Am I losing my mind?

I hopped the bar for a closer look. Approaching the spot where she vanished, I reached out, gasping when my hand disappeared. Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward and found myself standing, once more, in the old-fashioned bar. It looked like the old West.

A woman in a red dress glanced my way and I quickly ducked down behind the bar.

Where the hell am I?

I could hear Loni talking somewhere nearby. I chanced a look over the bar. She was talking with an old woman at a table a few feet away.

"She's asking all sorts of questions," Loni said.

"I told you this would happen," the old woman said.

"I know," Loni muttered. She didn't sound happy. What was she hiding?

"There was another murder."

"Fuck, not again. He's toying with me. Trying to draw me out."

"You need to finish him for good. No distractions. Get rid of the girl."

I froze. They were talking about murder. Was she going to kill me for asking a few questions?

"Who are you?"

I looked up to find a man standing over me. He had a handlebar mustache and he was wearing round glasses.

"I, um..." I got to my feet.

Loni spotted me. I turned to run and ended up back in the future. Or the present. Whatever. I was too confused to worry about tenses.

A few seconds later, Loni appeared beside me. She grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into my flesh.

"You shouldn't have done that," she hissed.

I pulled away from her. "Just tell me what is going on."

I expected her to hit me or tell me to get out, but instead she led me to a table and poured us a shot each. I gulped it back.

"It's a tear in the fabric of time," Loni said.

"Like a doorway to the past? In the middle of a bar? Do your staff know they'll need danger money?"

"Only certain people can pass through the door. People who have lived in both lifetimes."

"So...you're from the past?"

"Yes. I'm 150 years old."

"Really? What skin cream are you using, because it's worth it."

"I don't age like normal people. Back there, I was in my twenties. Something happened and I was granted longevity. It's too hard to explain everything. All you need to know is that this has to be kept secret."

"My mother? Did she have anything to do with this?"

Loni nodded. "Yes."

"My father too? Is he alive?"

"No, he's gone. But yes, they were trying to keep you safe. They went into hiding just before you were born and when they were discovered, your mother did the only thing she could think of. She hid you and hoped that you would be found and given a good home."

"Is she dead?" I whispered.

"She's...gone too. There really is nothing here for you."

"I guess not," I said. I felt a lump in my throat. I really thought I would find them.

My head was spinning. I put my hands on the table to steady myself.

"I don't feel so good. Are there side effects to going through?"

"No. You'll be fine."

My body felt heavy and I felt as though I would pass out. A thought occurred to me.

"Wait, you said only people who lived in both times could go through. Why could I?"

"I don't suppose it will matter. You'll forget everything soon enough. You were conceived in the past. So technically you were alive in both times."

Her face swam in front of me as I struggled to stay upright.

"It will be okay, Althea."

"Wait, are you..."

Everything went dark.

Loni watched as two of her bar staff carried the girl out of the bar. They would leave her in her car until she came to. She wouldn't remember a thing after the tonic Loni had slipped her. She hated to do it, but she seemed like a decent kid. She had a future somewhere that wasn't here and it was better that she forgot all about this place.

"Another satisfied customer, Loni?" Harold said. He was one of her regulars, a southern gentleman with a love of whiskey. He took a seat opposite her.

"Guess she drank something that didn't agree with her," Loni said.

"I overheard some of what she was saying. It seems that the poor girl was just looking for a mother."

"There are no mothers here," Loni said.

He smiled, filling a pipe with tobacco.

"If you smoke that in my bar, you'll get thrown out."

"Oh, I know all of your rules Loni. Like how you listen to everyone's life story, but never share your own."

"Nothing to share."

"No? I highly doubt that."

Loni sighed. "Maybe I'll tell you sometime. But I warn you, it's a long story."

"I like long stories."

He poured her a drink from the bottle. She considered it. He would never believe half of what she told him. Maybe one day she would tell it, but not today. She had a bar to run.

S. K. Gregory is from Northern Ireland. A fantasy/horror writer, she has several book series' available including the Daemon Persuasion series through Mockingbird Lane Press. She created Blood Moon Rising in 2015 as a way to promote indie authors and help them to showcase their work. She offers book reviews and promotions through her website.

www.storyteller-skgregory.weebly.com

Copyright © 2017 The Glades by Kat Gracey

All Rights Reserved

The Glades

By Kat Gracey

One

Tim unloaded the last of the boxes from the back of his truck. It was early morning, but it was already hot. He had one more delivery after this one and then he could kick back with a cold one.

Al, the owner of the store, came out for the last box.

"Sign here," Tim said. Al took the clipboard from him and scribbled a signature. They didn't bother with pleasantries, not anymore. Al had made it more than clear what he thought of Tim and if it wasn't for the fact that he was the only guy in town who did deliveries, he wouldn't deal with him at all.

If Tim had the money, he would put this town in his rearview mirror. Alas, he was barely scraping by as it was.

As he was climbing back into the truck, he saw something move up the street. Shielding his eyes against the sun, he could just make out a young woman standing in the road. She had long dark hair and was wearing a dress with a gold and blue jacket over it. Those were the colors of the local high school.

Tim felt a pit in his stomach. It can't be...

He took a step towards her. Then another.

She walked toward him, her gait unsteady. She seemed confused, unsure of her surroundings. The sun disappeared behind a cloud and he could see her clearly.

"Peyton?" he said.

"Mr. Randall?" she said. She looked uninjured, although there were dirt stains on her clothes and shoes.

"This isn't possible," Tim whispered. Peyton had disappeared two years ago. Everyone thought she was dead, yet here she stood, wearing the same clothes that she disappeared in.

"Where's Tucker?" she asked.

Tim heard shocked gasps behind him. A crowd had gathered and further down the street he saw Eve Messer, Peyton's mother, break into a run.

"Peyton!" she screamed. She grabbed the girl in a tight hug, sobbing loudly.

Al stood a few feet away. He met Tim's gaze then quickly looked away. Tim felt anger flare. Two years of treating him like a leper and she wasn't even dead. But where the hell had she been?

The Sheriff's station was quiet now that the deputies had chased everyone off. Peyton sat in the waiting area with Eve. Tim hovered awkwardly near the door. He didn't know if he should stay or go.

"Mom, I told you, I don't know what happened," Peyton said.

Two years. Tim thought. I gave up on him. My own son...

Peyton looked over. "Mr. Randall? Where is Tucker?"

"He's in prison," Tim said.

"What? Prison? Why?" she said, her dark eyes wide.

Tim couldn't form the words, but Eve had no trouble.

"For murder. We thought he killed you," she told her daughter.

"Obviously he didn't," Tim snapped.

Eve got to her feet. "She vanished and he comes back ranting about ghosts. What the hell were we supposed to think?"

"You made me doubt my own son. He hates my guts," Tim snarled.

"Folks, calm down," Sheriff Rodgers said. He ushered Peyton and Eve into his office.

Tim fought the urge to punch the wall. Of course, he had been on Tucker's side when it first happened. He was a good kid, but when he couldn't even come up with a coherent story for what happened and with no sign of Peyton, Tim started to question him. Maybe it had been an accident or she fell somewhere up in the glades and he was too scared to say. Tucker lost it, cursing him up and down. He stormed out of the house and was arrested later that day. Tim went to the courthouse every day, but Tucker wouldn't even look at him. They found a scrap of fabric, part of Peyton's dress with some blood on it.

Tucker insisted that she caught it on a branch and scraped her leg. The prosecutor used it to get a guilty verdict.

Peyton stared at the wall behind Sheriff Rodgers as she tried to digest everything that had happened.

"Two years?" she said faintly.

"Can you remember anything? Where you were held? Who took you?" Sheriff Rodgers said.

"No," she whispered.

"Try to think, Peyton. I know this is hard, but even the slightest..."

"No!" she snapped. "You're lying. It hasn't been two years, it was only last night."

She watched the Sheriff and her mom exchange a glance.

"Sweetie," her mom said.

"No!" she pushed her away and got to her feet. "This is crazy. Where is Tucker? I want to speak to Tucker."

"Randall. The warden wants to see you," the guard barked. Tucker got to his feet and followed him to the warden's office. He wondered what he wanted. Was it about the fight last week? He didn't start it, but if someone had named him then he was in trouble.

Damn it. I'm supposed to be keeping my nose clean.

He wanted to get out of here someday and part of it was proving that he could be a model prisoner. It wasn't easy when everyone was looking to fight at the slightest provocation.

Warden Castor was a whale of a man, wedged in behind his desk. He motioned for Tucker to take a seat opposite him.

"Randall. We've had a call from your lawyer. It seems there has been a break in your case."

"What do you mean?"

"It appears that the young lady you were accused of murdering has turned up."

Tucker swallowed over the lump in his throat. "They found a body?"

"No, quite the contrary. It appears she is alive."

"What?" Peyton was alive? All this time... Where the hell had she been? He remembered the lights from that night. The mist, and then... she was just gone.

He barely heard what the Warden was saying to him. One word stood out though.

"...home?"

"Yes, you could be going home soon."

A feeling of dread washed over him as he recalled that night. Up on the hill, the fog, the voices...

I can't go back there.

Tim waited by the living room window, jumping at every movement. He wanted to go outside, but he wasn't sure how Tucker was going to react to coming home, so he thought it best to wait inside.

Two years of his life down the drain. College and everything that went with it, all gone. Well he wasn't going to waste his life. Tim would get him a job somewhere, get him back on his feet and then maybe they could look at college or maybe some night classes. He didn't deserve to stay in this town, not with all the prying eyes. He wasn't the only one watching from the window. Mrs. O'Brien's curtain was twitching. That old bat would take any reason to gossip.

A car pulled up and Tim drew a sharp breath. Tucker.

He rushed to the front door, then forced himself to slow down, stay calm. Opening the door, he stepped out onto the porch. Tucker looked painfully thin. His face was pale and eyes sunken. Tim struggled to see the happy kid he once was.

Sheriff Rodgers led him up the path.

"Tim," Rodgers said. Tim nodded at him, eyes never leaving Tucker.

"Uh...your room, it's just how you left it...I," Tim stuttered. Tucker shoved past him and headed upstairs. He heard the door slam a minute later.

"Not going to be an easy transition," Rodgers said.

"No kidding."

Peyton stared at the pictures that were tacked to her wall. Most of them were of her and Tucker, or Laurel and Emma, her best friends. There was a thick layer of dust on them now. Her whole room smelled musty.

She lowered herself onto the bed, as she tried to recall what happened that night. It was Tucker's idea to go up there. The Glades, as they were known, were a group of hills overlooking the town. Most of it was scrubland. There were paths twisted through them where you could go hiking. Peyton wasn't a fan of hiking or nature for that matter, but Tucker said he had something planned. He was so excited that she couldn't say no.

It was pitch black, but Tucker had brought a flashlight with him. He gave her his jacket because it was cold. She remembered snagging her dress on a branch and when she tried to get free, she scratched her leg badly. Her hand went out to her leg and she was shocked to see the scratch was there. If she had been gone for two years then the scratch would have long since healed. Right?

The rest was hazy after that. She remembered the mist and Tucker letting go of her hand. Then it was morning.

She got up and began to pace back and forth. This whole thing was crazy. If she really was gone for two years then someone would have had to have fed her and kept her somewhere. Maybe it wasn't the same cut on her leg. Maybe she cut it again trying to escape her captors.

A thought occurred to her, a memory. She grabbed Tucker's jacket which was hanging on her desk chair, and searched the pockets. In them she found a slightly wilted flower. The same one Tucker gave her on the way up to the Glades. If it had been two years then the flower would be dust by now.

She couldn't sit in her room any longer. She needed answers.

Tucker felt like he was in a dream. How could this be real? He was home, finally free. Except he wasn't free, was he?

No matter how much time passed, people would still look at him like he was a murderer. It didn't matter that Peyton was back, that she was alive. People would still treat him like a leper. They already thought he was a lunatic. Hell, he thought he was a lunatic. What he saw that night, what he heard...how could he be anything else?

When that mist rolled in out of nowhere, that's when he heard the voices. Taunting, luring him, calling his name. He let go of Peyton's hand and that's when he saw the lights darting through the mist. Then the shrieking started. It wasn't human, it was otherworldly. It had to be ghosts or demons, or something like that. It was all he could think of to explain it.

When the mist disappeared, Peyton was gone too. Disorientated, he had staggered home. It wasn't until later that he noticed the tiny scratches all over his arms and face. It could have been branches, but somehow, he didn't think so.

As freaked out as he was, part of him wanted to go back up there. To see what was up there. There was no way he could go up there at night, but now, during the day, maybe he could take a quick look around. If he heard or saw anything though, he was running.

Tim busied himself tidying the house, not that it needed it. He didn't have much in the way of stuff. Apart from the occasional plate that needed washed, there wasn't much to do.

Tucker hadn't come out of his room yet. Tim had made him a sandwich, but he didn't have the nerve to knock on his door, so he left it on the kitchen table, hoping that sooner or later Tucker would come down to eat.

When he heard him on the stairs, Tim held his breath. But Tucker didn't come into the kitchen, instead he heard the front door slam shut.

"Tucker!" Tim called. He rushed to the door to see him heading into town.

"Where are you going?" he yelled.

"Out!" was the reply.

Peyton moved along the path, searching for anything that looked familiar, but it all looked the same. She wasn't even sure how far up they had come.

There was nothing out here except vegetation. Nowhere that she could have been held.

When she heard footsteps behind her, she spun around so fast that she almost fell over.

"Easy," Tucker said. Then he realized who she was. "Peyton."

"Oh my God, Tucker. What the hell happened?" She tried to hug him, but he took a step back.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Why are you sorry? It wasn't your fault the whole town turned against me."

"I can't believe they put you in jail."

"Prison. It's a lot different from jail, trust me."

"You know my grandmother used to tell me a story when I was little. She said that fairies lived up here and that they would steal children if they wandered off the path."

"Is that what you think took you? A fairy?" Tucker said. It sounded ludicrous, but any more so than ghosts?

"Something happened that night," she said.

"I missed you," he said. This time he let Peyton hug him. She couldn't believe they had lost so much time. She had missed out on the end of her senior year, college, parties. Who knows what else. Maybe she and Tucker could have been engaged by now. She pulled away from him, feeling anger build inside her.

"Why me?" she yelled. "Why did you take me?"

Tucker took hold of her arm. "Calm down, Peyton."

"No! It's not fair. They ruined both our lives and for what?"

"I don't know why," Tucker said.

She yanked her arm free, moved to the edge of the hillside and screamed, "Show yourself! I want answers! Show yourself now!"

Tucker took a step towards her and that's when he noticed the mist seeping in around them.

"Oh God, not again," he whispered.

Peyton saw it too. The voices started and she remembered that night. She remembered the tiny clawed hands grabbing for her, the screeching and the dark little cave they put her in.

"No! Tucker don't let them take me again," she cried.

The mist seemed to surround her, like it was reaching for her. Tucker pulled her back from the edge.

"Run, Peyton. Run now."

She took off down the hill, then stopped and looked back at him. "Keep going. Don't look back," he said.

Terrified, she did as he asked. When she reached the bottom of the hill though she did look back again. The mist, and Tucker were gone.

Kat Gracey lives in the UK. She writes about her two favorite supernatural creatures – witches and werewolves. Her latest book, Rising Storm, is out now. When she isn't writing, she co-runs a Facebook group to help indie authors get reviews.

www.witchesandwerewolves.co.uk

Copyright © 2017 A Rumble in the Sky by Donald Armfield

All Rights Reserved

A Rumble in the Sky

By Donald Armfield

"Mom, I wish you were here. Why did you have to leave so soon?"

The clouds passed over Glensfold Cemetery, dusting the sky with gathering fog. A thunderous sound echoed overhead. Brandon pulled himself up from his knees and kissed the top of his mother's stone. He turned to walk away with his head hanging low, looking over his shoulder one last time and said, "I'll be back tomorrow, Mom."

Brandon walked home like a lost soul. Dragging his feet along the pavement and kicking loose litter that lay along the sidewalk. His home life was unsatisfying and lonely. Most of his relatives lived miles away and never came to visit anymore. Scared away by his father's drunken rage and abusive language to everyone that were close to them, before the accident. Brandon held a slight animosity towards his relatives with a lingering thought, "Why didn't they take me with them? My father doesn't care about me anymore."

The accident holds like a video stuck in playback in Brandon's memory bank. Blaming himself for the whole ordeal, that night his mother climbed the stairs into eternal life. Sometimes he would see himself in the driver's seat or as a passenger, beside his mother. Hammering away on the inner-rage, growing on the inside. Imagine a continuous day dream, tugging you back into reality with a yank. Right out of Death's grip.

The left turn out of Purgatory Trails was always a difficult feat. The traffic never seemed to let up. Even edging out did nothing but anger the ones driving by, honking and cussing out their windows. Brandon's mom that day, pulled out with eagerness, almost making the left turn across the two lanes of traffic. A man driving a large pick-up truck plowed the driver-side of her small coupe, dragging her vehicle three yards to an abrupt stop against the curbing of the opposite side of the road.

His mother suffered a punctured lung and a concussion that induced to a coma. Brandon stood by her bedside at the hospital. The doctors finally broke the news to Brandon's dad, saying Miranda would never come out of her coma. After those words Brandon read his father's lips through the windows of his mother's hospital room. "Pull the plug."

Brandon blamed himself because he angered his mother with nagging about a poster he wanted at the store. To the point of throwing a temper-tantrum. His mother stormed out of the house and went for one thing that always soothed her, a walk. She would almost go there every Sunday for a walk through the Purgatory Trails. Although that day she decided to go there to blow off steam. Brandon's relatives told him, not to be so hard on himself. It was her time to pass on. They kept saying, but it went in one ear and out the other.

Brandon's father becoming a raging alcoholic, making matters worse. A bottle of ale for every meal, two during supper in which Brandon had to prepare. If he failed to do so, then an abusive side of his father came out. Days of sorrow Brandon suffered, from the wrath of his father's fist. Sometimes an opened hand smack across the face, a belt across the back, leaving welts that stung for days later. Brandon held anvils on his shoulders, the grief of his mother but also the betray of his father.

Two years of beguiling agony, heartbreak, and melancholy loneliness, hammered away at Brandon's inner-anger. He had a deep longing to release this demon that was building inside him, but at such a young age he could only cry himself to sleep.

A new boy, a little older than Brandon, moved into the house next to his. Brandon saw an anger in his new neighbor, or maybe an animosity type grudge he held against his parents for moving into a new town. They quickly became inseparable.

Brandon's new neighbor, Walden, became a friend to whom he revealed all his emotions too. Walden listened and shared similar feelings, but his being a lot less than what Brandon was going through. Walden dressed like a band member from a rock group. Blue jean jacket with patches of his favorite bands, old beat up chucks with bright colored laces and he sometimes spiked his hair. Walden also owned a pellet gun. Brandon always wanted to hold a gun, ever since watching old western movies with his papa.

Walden and Brandon would go out in to the woods to a small clearing and open fire. Blasting holes into cans, bottles, pieces of old sheet metal and many other items. Walden even got down right gruesome a couple times and offed squirrels. The little scurrying creatures were pierced through the skull almost at point blank. Walden skinned one of the squirrels once and hung its pelt on a tree near the clearing in the woods.

Walden started high school and no longer hung out with Brandon. He fell in love with a girl and devoted all of his time with her. Brandon went by his house a few times, but was turned away. Brandon had no interest in girls at this time, but understood. Walden found an outlet to his sorrow, he found love. That word no longer made sense to Brandon. The love he had blew away with a gust of wind. Like a withered leaf falling from its branch.

The rest of that year dragged, Brandon felt as if the whole world hated him. First his pet rabbit, when he was just seven years old. Then his mother, that he adored so much. Everything he watched his mother do for their family made his heart beat with pure love for her. His father was basically gone, only cared about his bottle of alcohol and what was on the television. And now Walden, the first person he had talked to since his mother's departure to eternal life. While lying on his bed, Brandon whispered the same four words over and over, "Take me with you." Until he broke down into a sob pulling the pillow over his face, he screamed out loud. The muffled scream made the back of his throat burn. He continued to cry nestling the pillow underneath his head and eventually fell asleep.

One night after dinner, Brandon asked his dad why he was drinking so much. His father blew it way out of proportion and started yelling loudly. Brandon curled into a fetal position and absorbed the beating his father dished out. When it came to an end, Brandon lay there whimpering and wished hateful things about his dad. After he heard the refrigerator door close and his father's fall with a grunt into his recliner, Brandon got up and ran up the stairs to his bedroom.

Brandon fell to his knees in front of his windowsill. The ranting under his breath and hateful thoughts continued towards his dad. He opened the window and stuck his head out and asked in a quiet plea, "Why Mom? Please make him stop."

A spiraling cloud hovered along the sky and took shape of a face. Brandon looked closely and saw his mother's eyes and beautiful smile from inside the cloud. A loud thunder clap startled Brandon. A gust of wind blew by him and into his room, scattering loose notebook papers around his room. Brandon looked over his shoulder and watched the papers fly around and fall to the floor. When he turned back to the windowsill and looked up at the cloud it was gone.

The tropical rain storm belted off the cement, parching into the air causing fog to cast through the humid summer night. Brandon sat in his bedroom, just as gloomy as the evening storm. He began picking up the papers from the night before, when the wind scattered them around his room, evenly stacking the papers by his side while on his hand and knees. Brandon came across a piece of parchment with cursive writing scrolled diagonally along the page. "Should He Die?"

Brandon admired the neat penmanship, but knew it was not his. He folded the cursive message and pushed it into his pants pocket. Looked over his shoulder out the window and noticed the rain was starting to let up. He grabbed his small windbreaker and climbed out onto the small roof above the doorstep to his house. Sliding down into the flowerbed below, that hadn't been touched since his mother passed. Brandon had to go see his mom, he felt as though there was an answer to this message and she must know.

The fog continued to evaporate into the sky, as the moonlight guided Brandon the two blocks he walked every day to visit his mother. The gates were already locked up for the night, so Brandon climbed up the small embankment to the left of the gates. The cemetery's wooded area had a small picket fence, running along the unkempt area from the well-kept landscape. Brandon made a simple jump over the fence and he was behind the closed gates. Brandon knew the well-manicured walkways, like the back of his hand. Catching a glimpse of the moonlight glow casting it's reflecting gleam on each stone. His mother's stone stood out amongst most of the others, laid out in parallel lines. A picture of one of her modeling gigs was embedded into the stone. Her glamorous look smiled out to everyone that passed her stone. Brandon got down on his knees, the damp soil moistening the pant legs of his jeans.

"Mom, did you write this?" Brandon held out the piece of paper with the scribbled phrase.

He waited for some kind of sign, like a gust of wind, a thunderclap, anything, but nothing happened. Brandon reminisced in his mind, remembering all the good times. He rocked back and forth hugging his knees and hummed his mother's favorite song. He held the final note with a long hum and began to cry. Three years had passed and he still couldn't let it go.

The rain started to pour out of the sky, again. Brandon pulled the hood of his windbreaker over his head and quickly gave his mother's stone the routine kiss. He turned to run towards the cement pathway, when he slipped on some mud, landing on his hands and knees beside another gravestone next to his mother's. Large lettering spelled out the name MORSE.

Thunder began to grumble through the thick gray clouds and the rain drenching the grounds, with rapidly developing puddles. A blaze of lightning shone over Morse's stone, as if a spotlight operator was sitting on the moon. Brandon jumped up and dried the palm of his hands on the back of his jeans. Taking one last look at Morse's stone, he ran off in the direction of his home.

In the morning Brandon awoke to crashing dishes coming from downstairs. His dad was having another moment, where he couldn't stand the essence of life. Although he dug his world its own grave. Brandon decided to go downstairs and try to reassure his father, that things would get better.

In the kitchen, Brandon pretended hunger was the issue for his early wake up. Trying not to notice the shattered plates, lying across the linoleum floor, Brandon opened the refrigerator and peered inside at the contents. He heard his father yell out, "Why do you still live here?"

Brandon's father grabbed one end of the kitchen table with both hands, locked out his arms and drove the opposite end into the open refrigerator. Brandon's body reacted like a door wedge, jamming his upper torso into the three shelves inside the fridge. Condiment bottles splatted onto the floor and other contents in the fridge spilled out. His father came at him with the anger of a bull, grabbing him by the shirt collar. The brief struggle ripped the seams of the collar, and Brandon fell to the floor. He managed to get up and run for the stairs. His dad slipped on the overturned condiments from the fridge, sprawling out onto the floor. He almost looked helpless like a capsized turtle, but Brandon felt relief. The fall had extinguished the giant.

Brandon slammed his door shut at the top of the stairs and buried his head in his pillows. He let out a vociferous muffled scream into the pillows. He began to lightly sob when he heard the wind, whistling under his slightly open bedroom window. Running over to the window he looked out at the sudden change of weather. A thick dense fog, darkened the skies above, a light rain began to fall. The fog quickly steamed up the glass on the bedroom window. Brandon looked over at the adjacent window, as the letter 'N' took shape. Brandon read the smudged message out loud as it formed.

No More, He is DEAD.

A sudden lightning bolt cracked the side of the house. The whole house shuttered and sent goosebumps up Brandon's spine. The static sensation eased out as the passing echo of the thunder passed through the house. A vibration like a repercussion instrument shook the floors. The lamp on Brandon's bedside flickered and the noise simmered out in the sky. To a hissing rain, bouncing off the roof of the house.

Brandon headed down the stairs, not hearing his father's raging temper. His father should be bashing curse words at the sky, for damaging his property. Instead he saw a transparent gyrational wind funnel, spiraling around his dad. He looked as though he was gasping for air, holding his neck with both hands. Like some kind of rag doll his body was tossed across the living room, slamming into a wall. Hanging inches from the floor against the wall, you could see the fear on the man's face.

A small wind gust ejected the kitchen cutlery set from the wooden block. The knives began hovering in mid-air, forming a circle, pointing directly at Brandon's dad, like a transfixed glare. Before the next blink of fear, the knives penetrated his chest, the force knocked him backwards. Brandon's dad slumped down the wall, leaving a smear of blood in his trail to the floor.

The wind gust made one more trip around the living room, pulling some papers onto the floor. Brandon watched a piece of paper alight above his father's chest, landing on the handles of the knives. Brandon walked over to his dad's corpse and picked up the piece of paper. His father's last expression still held stiff, with only the whites of his eyes showing. Another scribbled message appeared on the paper, it read - He will never hurt you again, I'm here for you.

The rage was still boiling in Brandon's veins. Trying to pool out like blood through a sliced artery. A clear sky stretched above as he walked down the street, the stars winking in his wake. Brandon felt the monster of hate inside him and remembered the Crowe Brothers. The school bullies who spit in his lunch tray, tripped him countless times in the corridors-going as far as saying rude things about his mother's death. He knew their house was on his block. A wrap around porch made out of stone hedging design. A flower garden that screamed ah-choo to a passing allergen and the bright red door at the top of the steps.

Brandon stood by a small tree across the street from the Crowe's residents. Looking up into the brothers' bedroom window. They looked as if they were playing video games, probably laughing out loud with their identical, aggravating laughs. Brandon stood with anger, begging for the storm to tear through the house. As the clouds began to take shape over the rooftop. The windows of a parked car on the curbside moistened from the fog. Brandon read the message again as it was written, but this time while nodding his head. The twins will suffer.

A rolling thunder passed through the clouds. A dense fog developed around the house like some kind of stratosphere. The windows of the house wobbled in their frames, as the thunder became deafening. The streetlights along the whole block blacked out. A lightning bolt jolts through the video game system, passing through the wires to the handheld controllers. The twin's hands smoked at the fingertips and they began to convulse. The static raising the hair on their heads, trickles of urine puddled on the ground around them. You could almost see their exoskeletons light up the bedroom out on the dark street. The implosion of their bodies spread blood and gore splattering against the walls. Dripping its way to the floor, still smoking from the jolt of electricity.

One last thunderclap rumbled in the sky as the clouds departed. The fog settled over the parked car by the curbside before evaporating into thin air. Another smudge scripture spelled out as Brandon read,

I'm here for you.

Later that night, Brandon went to his mother's graveside. He no longer wanted to live. He felt guilty for the death that played out before his eyes. In the moment when he watched them suffer it felt good, but now it turned his stomach. He put his arm on top of the stone and cried into the nook of his arm. He knew his mother was listening to his sorrows, but never felt a reassuring pat on the back before. Brandon picked his head up and turned around. An illuminated glare shone so brightly. At the top of the lighted path Brandon saw his mother, waving him in her direction. Brandon walked into shimmering glare, his last sensation feeling as if a small weight jumped of his shoulders.

One last roll of thunder echoed through the skies. The wind whistled through the cemetery, a wind strong enough to blow the small box cutter of the top of Brandon's mother's grave. The small pool of blood from Brandon's wrist, ripples and begins to spread along the base of the gravestone. Spelling out a short phrase, Together again.

Donald's cryptic mind spurts, fall out of his head and piece together before your eyes. Somewhere within this puzzling labyrinth of words, a story comes along and guides you vividly to a center. Ending with a stain in your memory bank, long after reading.

His recent releases "Frozen Display" and "The Green Tea Heist" are action packed, with reoccurring characters both in their own first published novella. If you're a fan of b-rated horror films and something weird, then look no further.

<https://www.facebook.com/donald.armfield/>

Copyright © 2017 One Eight Nine by K. E. Scowcroft

All Rights Reserved

One Eight Nine

By K. E. Scowcroft

Creeping through the forest, silently moving over the fallen leaves, 138 surveyed the scene in front of him. The large oak trees blocked his sightline for a moment or two, unfazed at this, he could let this one move quite far ahead on the trail without losing track of his target. The scent of this one was strong. Pausing, he let the cool autumn breeze run across his skin, cooling the burning, blistering lesions that covered his body, feeling it ease the pain slightly, that wracked his body.

In the distance, he could hear faint laughter and the sounds of dishes from the other humans far below in the camp. When he was in this location he often watched the humans playing down by the river in their little family groups and his thoughts turned to his home. He was young when he was taken, and in the passing years it was harder and harder to remember his own mother and homeland.

Just then, that familiar pain rocked through his body, beginning at the base of his skull and shooting through every nerve in his body. The gruff familiar voice came through his com system, "138 proceed with your mission."

Snarling, he came back from his memories and reluctantly moved on. He had no idea why they wanted these particular humans; as far as he could make out they were as varied as they could be with little similarities in gender, race or age. They only thing he knew that they had in common and why he targeted them was their scent, which was unique to all his targets. He often wondered what happened to these people after he had shifted them to the facility. All he knew was that the stronger the scent, the more chance he had of having to bring them back alive to the location they were taken from. The lower the scent pattern, the higher the chance he would be bringing back an empty shell devoid of a life force for someone to find. However, there were some occasions when there was nothing remaining to bring back at all and his mission would be over until next time.

Continuing on through the trees, he saw his target and his companion pause by a little stream to fill their containers. He moved closer to await them finishing before he could strike. He surveyed the two in front of him. His target was a tall, lean, muscular built male, in his late teens, possibly early 20's. He didn't know why but they seemed to prefer this kind more than the others. His companion was smaller, with long blond hair pulled and tied back into what looked like a horse's tail, and as it turned, he realized it was of the female variety.

Watching them intently, waiting for a chance to strike, he saw the female pick up a couple of the smaller containers and begin to move off, back into the woods. He sniffed the air and he could smell a similar scent to the target, but only in the smallest amounts so she would not be of interest to the controllers unless there was a shortage of targets. Turning back towards the other target, who was currently standing at the bank watching his companion leave, his voice drifted after her, "Don't mind me, I've got these ones."

She briefly stopped turned and smiled. "Yeah, I know you do," and continued on her way. Seeing his target bend down to arrange the containers into a way he could carry them, 138 knew this was now the perfect time to act. He pressed the button on his wrist and stepped out of the tree line. Feeling the change in the environment and the heat build, he knew he didn't have a lot of time. Moving quickly, he descended towards the male and was almost upon him when he must have sensed something was wrong and looked up. 138 saw all the color drain from the target's face and stumble backwards in an attempt to get away. Not wanting a chase, 138 opened his mouth and let out the call. The target froze immediately on the spot unable to move, a look of sheer terror on his face.

Feeling the wave of charge increasing, pricking his body with thousands of tiny electric shocks, 138 reached the target grabbed him and held him tight as they both disappeared into a bubble of bright blue light.

Operator Seven, satisfied that the target had been acquired, removed his headset and got up from his desk, looking around the dimly lit room at the dozen or so bodies hunched over their consoles, engrossed in scenes playing out on the monitors, muttering and murmuring commands to the field agents.

He arched his back and stretched his limbs before walking past the row of operators towards the door. Reaching the door, he swiped his ID card and then thumbed the button to request release, and waited for the familiar crackling sound to stop and the overseer to respond.

Glancing into the glass, he saw a thin, pale, disheveled, almost inhuman figure looking back at him. Realizing it was his own reflection he wondered exactly how long he had been here at the facility, as all the days and nights seemed to roll into each other. Had it been weeks, months or years? Judging by the way his uniform now hung off him and the fact that he could no longer remember his name before this, it must have been years, he thought.

A low guttural voice snapped him out of his own thoughts.

"Operator seven, state your intention."

Feeling a little irritated that he had to go through this bullshit every time, the script never changed it was always the same answer.

The voice spoke again, "I repeat operator seven what is your intention?"

He knew better than to annoy the overseer as he knew what happened when an operator didn't comply and was not willing to let that happen to him. Pressing the com button down he said, "Mission completed, target 998 acquired, requesting permission to secure 138 and deliver target for processing."

The familiar click of the door latch release and then the same voice, "Proceed operator seven, secure operative 138, deliver target, then report to room 209 for debriefing."

Pausing for a second, for the first time he felt a wave of apprehension sweep over him. The hollow empty voice boomed through the intercom, "Operator Seven proceed with your instruction."

Stepping through the door, and starting the long journey down the brightly lit stark white clinical looking and smelling corridor, thoughts tumbled through his head. Why change it now? What was going on? Never had he known a change in the script and he must have done this hundreds of times before and never once had they changed the debriefing room. Reaching the receiving room, he swiped his ID card and the door swung open, immediately he was struck by the smell that filled the room. Stepping in, almost gagging at the overwhelming stench of burning hair and rotting flesh, he could see the target lying unconscious on the floor and 138 pacing back and forth along the far wall. The sounds coming from 138, he could tell he was in pain, but that wasn't his problem, he just had to secure him and then it was someone else's problem. The quicker he got this done, the quicker he could get onto another target, and he only had two more to go until he could get his count and leave this place behind.

"138 stand still and await commands."

138 turned and looked at him, snarled and began to make a threatening low guttural growling.

"Fuck, 138, I don't have time for this bullshit today."

Removing the control box from his pocket, he pressed the button, sending 138's body into spasm, giving it an extra few moments before he released the button. Feeling satisfied that 138 was now compliant, he said, "138 pickup target 998 and place him on the receptacle, then assume maintenance position."

Snarling, 138 reluctantly did as he was ordered to, dumping the target down with a thump onto the metal slab, then turned and stomped to his own slab and lay down. Seven waited a second until the automated restraints secured both the target and 138. Moving over to 138, the stench grew in strength. Eyes watering, he pulled out a face mask and fixed it over his face in the hope to stifle the smell.

Looking down at the body on the slab, he could see the outbreak of burnt patches of hair, showing fresh weeping lesions and many older ones that bubbled with puss and infection. Feeling irritated that this was going to slow down the harvesting process, and his time moving on to the next and his eventual freedom, he released the brake and began to push 138 out into the corridor and down the hall towards maintenance.

Getting to the door of the maintenance bay, he swiped his card and bumped the door open with the slab. Entering the room, he saw the usual scene of pods on the far wall, all full of sleeping occupants, apart for one. Great, he thought.

All the maintenance crew seemed busy watching machines and one seemed intent on preforming procedures on a fully conscious field agent who was screaming in pain, whilst others looked on. He began to move in the direction of the pod in the hope the eyes of the maintenance crew didn't see the condition of 138, as this would mean even more time wasted in the futile attempt to treat 138's wounds. Also, he didn't want any attention drawn to him by the crew in here, as he always felt uncomfortable in the presence of these creatures. The way they looked at him with their large black eyes, always terrified him.

Drawing level with the operating bay, he put his head down and began to speed up, in the hope of depositing 138 into sleep mode and getting the hell out of there. He was almost at the pod when a figure stepped in front of the slab. Looking up, he saw the tall gangly grey figure looking straight at him. He stopped and waited. The grey figure moved effortlessly, even though its long legs seemed too long and thin to support its huge abdomen and head. It reached the slab and looked down at 138 and then back at Seven. It then moved its head down towards 138's body, evaluating his wounds. Seven wondered how it could get so close due to the stench, without vomiting, and then he remembered that they didn't have noses just two small, almost slits, where their nose should be. The figure looked back at Seven with its large gleaming eyes and Seven could feel that familiar fear rising from the pit of his stomach. He was almost relieved when it turned back to 138, raising its long arm with its long, bony finger outstretched, it moved its hand up 138's body and slid its finger right inside the largest puss filled lesion. 138's back arched and began to convulse while he let out an ear-piercing scream. The figure withdrew its finger and looked at the mixture of blood and puss running down its long finger as if it was mesmerized by it. With its other arm, it pointed towards the operating bay, seven turned to see that all the other members of the maintenance crew were now watching and waiting for 138. Seven turned the bed and began to push 138 towards the bay as quick as he could, eager to get the hell out. As he neared the bay, 138 began to panic and scream and struggle in his restraints, grabbing at his arms with what little movement he could manage. Seven backed away from the trolley as quickly as he could, and hurried out of the room. 138 wasn't his problem now, it was theirs.

Daniel opened his eyes, blinking in the bright light. He tried to sit up, but found he was restrained to a hard metal bed. He turned his head to try and get a better look around at his surroundings, to be able to work out where he was. The walls were all shiny and white, the place had a feel and smell similar to a hospital. He wondered had he fallen and hit his head or had a seizure or something, as his last memory was that he was walking with Heather in the forest collecting water before setting up camp.

Footsteps coming his way, drew his attention towards what he could just make out as a door, as a startled looking man walked in. Coming closer, he could see that he wore a uniform of some kind and assumed he was a nurse or orderly coming to check in on him.

Daniel tried to raise his head to get a better look at the approaching figure, when he came into view he asked, "Excuse me can you tell me where I am?"

The figure glanced over towards him, muttering to himself and moved up to the top end of his bed looking down into his face, the man said, "Fuck you're awake, fucking brilliant just what I fucking need!"

Beginning to feel the panic rising deep from inside him, as this was not the usual response of hospital staff, he knew he was in trouble. The man began to move the bed towards the door. Daniel's panic peaked again. He looked up at the emotionless face and began to ask, "Where am I? What am I doing here? Where are you taking me?" Whilst desperately trying to free himself from the restraints holding him down.

The man didn't reply, he just looked straight ahead and continued on his journey out the door, into a corridor. Daniel could hear a sound drifting up the corridor, it sounded like a half scream, half growl, growing increasingly louder as they progressed down the hall. Whatever was causing it to make that noise, Daniel sure as hell didn't want to meet them. The screaming noise peaked as they drew level with a glass panel door. Daniel managed to get a glimpse of large grey figures that looked distorted and out of proportion through the frosted glass. Continuing down the hall he began to realize that they were putting distance between the screaming noises, that now seemed to be coming in waves more than a continual long sound.

Lifting his head once more, he tried to see where he was being taken, looking for signs on the walls to indicate a rough location of where he was, but there was nothing.

"Please can you tell me what's happening? Can you tell me where I am?" He half begged and half cried to the figure above him.

Pushing a door open with the trolley, the solemn figure looked at him and half smiled and uttered, "Nowhere, you're nowhere, this place doesn't exist."

Daniel felt a short moment of relief, if he was nowhere, then maybe, just maybe, this was a dream and he was still in the forest unconscious, and his mind was playing tricks on him.

As the door swung shut behind him, Daniel could hear a strange clicking sound, a familiar bleeping of monitoring equipment that he had heard countless of times when he visited his grandfather in hospital. Lifting his head to get a better view of the room around him, Daniel saw the tall, almost arachnoid looking grey creatures in front of him, moving around they seemed to be inspecting medical equipment. Shaking his head in disbelief, he thought this couldn't be real, it must be a nightmare as things like this didn't exist.

The bed began to move forward again and he slowly entered what looked like an operating theatre. One of the creatures approached him, placing a cold, almost wet, bony hand on his forehead. It pushed his head down to the bed with ease, as a large piece of equipment began to descend from above him. Thrashing and arching his back in desperation, in a vain hope to get away from his inevitable fate as the creature began its work.

138 lay on the table quivering uncontrollably, pain wracked his body worse than ever before. The maintenance crew had gleefully taken their time operating on and debriding his infected wounds, then finally cauterizing them. He now longed for his sleep stasis program more than ever. They were now moving onto their next agent while one creature programmed his machine. He felt a burst of relief when he saw the machine read that he was being put into indefinite sleep, rather than his usual 3 days. At least he could rest now and didn't have to worry for a long-time about acquiring targets and the pain caused by traveling backwards and forwards to the human world and the base.

Stepping inside the pod, he welcomed sleep and the peace and the promise it would bring of dreaming of a happier time. Hearing the familiar sounds of the forest, 138 opened his eyes and he could see the long grass swaying in the breeze, he could see the birds swooping and diving chasing the late summer insects getting there fill before the long winter ahead. His attention was drawn to the sounds of chatting and running water down through the tree line.

Turning, his feet automatically knew where to go, and he knew it wouldn't be long until he came across the sight of his mother and father preparing the evening meal and his brothers and sister playing down by the river. He set off into a run, he knew this was only a dream sequence but he was happy in the knowledge he would get to spend longer here than ever before. As he got closer, he began to see flashes of bright yellow and white light pulsating all around him. Confused a little as this never happened before, he didn't care, he just wanted to hold his mother and father once again and feel safe in their arms as he had done as a young cub. Each step closer to his calling family became harder and harder as if he was walking through quicksand, and he found it harder and harder to catch his breath. Each step, a sharp pain burst through his lungs but he still pressed on, he was almost there only a few steps more to go and he would be able to put his arms around his mother. The blackness began to creep in dot by dot, until most of his vision was consumed in black and the only thing he could see was his mother and then the darkness consumed him as he took his last breath.

Seven stood outside room 209 trying to find the courage to press the com button, changes in the script were never a good sign. Even though he had never had a change inflicted on him in the past, he had known others who had and they had disappeared from the program never to be seen again. He needed to get this over and done with as quick as possible whatever the outcome, just to put himself out of his misery. He jabbed at the key pad and awaited a response. No crackling came through and no voice came through, but the door just slid open, startling him.

He could not see anything inside the room but darkness, he hoped by stepping inside an automated light would come on, as happened when the base had to go into stealth mode to avoid detection and to conserve energy. Stepping inside, no light came on and he wondered if he was alone in the darkness as the door slid shut trapping him inside.

A dim light came on, illuminating a metal chair a short distance before him, a voice boomed all around him, "Walk forward 189 and sit in the chair."

Slightly confused, he began to stutter, "Erm I'm not 189, I'm operator Seven."

Seven heard movement behind him, and tried to turn but saw nothing but darkness. "Walk forward 189 and sit in the chair to await further instruction."

Hesitantly, Seven moved forward and each step forward began to illuminate the room a little. Reaching the chair, he sat down wondering what the hell was going on and what was going to happen now as he knew this was not a good sign for him. A small whirling mechanical sound began to come closer and closer from above him, and as he looked up he could see something that looked like a large box moving down towards him. Suddenly the chair restraints shot out of their housing and fixed him in place, as the box came to rest on his shoulders. A panel slid open on the box, the lights went up all around him so he could see the room around him.

Terrified, he was surrounded by creatures he had never seen before, creatures that looked more horrific than the greys he feared. One of the creatures moved forward towards him so he could see it in all its terrifying glory. The creature was huge, almost double a human's height and its skin gleamed greenish and brown in the light. Even though it looked almost human in shape, its skin was covered in what looked like snake skin and its black eyes filled Seven with dread.

The creature's thin lips parted and even though they didn't move a voice filled the air. "189 you will ready yourself for assignment." As he began to press buttons on the control panel.

Panic rose in Seven, half screaming, tears streamed down Seven's face as he began to struggle.

"I'm not 189, I'm operator Seven, I'm operator Seven, I've only got two more targets to go before I get my freedom."

A smile began to rise on the creature's faces and they began to laugh. The creature finished tapping in commands on the panel and turned towards him. As a large needle pierced his skull, implanting the control chip and com system directly into his brain and visual cortex it said, "You're getting your freedom early Operator Seven, you're now 189."

Daniel awoke at a desk with a console in front of him, confused he looked around the dimly lit room and saw a dozen or so other people hunched over screens like his. His screen blinked into life showing what appeared to be an inner-city terrain on a weekend night, music from several nightclubs blared the beat through the night air. A voice came in his ear making him jump.

"Welcome Operator 13, proceed as directed with mission 001, field agent 189 is awaiting your commands."

Instinctively he somehow knew what to do, looking at the information on the side of the screen he could see the profile of his target, looking back on the visual he saw the nightclub door swing open and he immediately recognized his target. Murmuring into his microphone he said, "189, target 001 is now exiting the building on your left follow at a safe distance and acquire."

K. E. Scowcroft is a mum of three and currently lives in Derbyshire, UK. From a young age, she has had a passion for the spoken and written word and takes delight in combining words, whether it be fact, fiction or fable. She is currently working on her first full length novel which will be available soon.

 https://www.facebook.com/KE-Scowcroft-847976061969677/

Copyright © 2017 Reaper's Folly by Nikki Landis

All Rights Reserved

Reaper's Folly

By Nikki Landis

1

The sickle stood tall and proud in the Reaper's right hand, the sharp polished metal gleaming in the late afternoon sunshine, as the golden rays bounced off the curved blade. Humming with low vibrations, the scythe was its own entity, reaching out into the harvest of souls as it searched for the one marked by Death.

The Reaper was silent as his eyes grazed the surface of the human world. Each time he ventured forth, his keen senses roamed the earth until he picked up the whereabouts of his intended prey. Part of the lure, the fun, the chase...was the hunt.

A low chuckle rumbled from his bony chest as he saw the human soul walking quickly along the sidewalk, his nervous and agitated movement, proof of his sinister intentions. The man wasn't a junkie like others before him and he didn't have a house full of hungry mouths to feed. He wasn't desperate. Not in the traditional sense.

Mike. That was his name. So normal. So insignificant.

The soul was ruthless as he burst into the building of Centennial Bank, waving his gun in the air. Frightened patrons and employees sought to evade the sudden threat of danger and death. He aimed his weapon and shot two patrons, one in the leg and the other in the shoulder. Blood spurted from the wounds as the room erupted in horrified screams and shouts of surprise.

"Money. Now. All that you have and don't try to do anything stupid or I'll shoot every last one you." He primed the gun and made sure the slim girl saw how close it was to her forehead.

A female bank teller shoved money inside the large bags, stuffing them as full as she could. This wasn't her day to die, she thought, her mind frantic. She should have told her boyfriend that she didn't need more time. She would marry him. All she needed to do was fill these bags as fast as she could.

Mike paced in anger. This was taking too long.

In the distance, he could hear the sirens. Closer. Louder. More insistent.

A death toll. For some strange reason he heard the sound of clanging bells...

"Hurry up!" Mike yelled, waving the gun around as people ducked and prayed, their heads bowed, staying low and out of his way.

The Reaper maintained his presence in the fade, ever watchful, always vigilant. His soul would come. Soon. The Marked never resisted.

Impatient and cornered, Mike knew he had little time to make his fast exit and leave alive. He pulled the trigger on the gun and didn't wait to see the devastation as the bullet entered the teller's chest and blew out her back. The shotgun was brutal in its carnage. She fell to the ground, the whites of her eyes somehow foggy in the artificial light. Her soul left her body as blood pooled on the floor, spreading out fast and soaking into the carpet.

This was not the right soul. Not the one who was chosen.

The Reaper snarled as bright white light engulfed her frame and an Angel, one of the Heralds, took her hand and disappeared. She was led to Heaven to await her judgment before the throne. At the gates, her fate would be decided, but it was no longer of importance to the Reaper.

Mike fled the scene, shooting several more individuals. He killed two, not caring how many died in the wake of his greed. Considering himself far enough away, after driving into a darker and poorer area of the city, he stopped to count the mounds of cash he held in his trembling hands. Adrenaline coursed through his frame. Mike couldn't believe he got away with a bank robbery.

Sirens filled the air, but he wasn't worried. No one would find him here. Fools.

The Reaper listened to the demons and malevolent, as they snarled and snapped next to him, gnashing their teeth. Wailing and low consistent keening filled the air. They moaned with effort, hating the power that held them back from their intended target.

The Reaper.

He held the shadows in place. It wasn't time. Not yet.

The sirens doubled back. Closer. The police were coming. Mike wasn't free yet.

Humans were creatures of fickle faith. The Reaper wondered deep down if they didn't like to be scared and truly at the mercy of fate. An interesting thought. His sharp, keen eyes surveyed the police cruisers and helicopters overhead. He peered into the interior of the car, his merciless frame more than seven feet tall and hidden by the fade.

No one ever saw him until the moment was right.

By then it was too late.

Red and blue lights flashed. The night beckoned justice. Vengeance. Retribution.

The Reaper's cruel grin spread across his face, his bony jaw split wide in a macabre display of teeth. He walked into the darkness and yanked on the driver's side door, grabbing the collar of Mike's dirty t-shirt. The smell of alcohol and sweat drifted from the soiled material.

His eyes widened when he saw the red eyes and merciless grin of the Reaper. Screaming, he fought against the grip, not realizing his final minutes were upon him. Marked and chosen, Mike would not escape his fate.

The Reaper watched him scream and shoved his body to the ground. Landing at his feet, the man crouched on his knees and begged, asking for mercy. His shout of fright at noticing the sharp bone sent a shiver of delight down the Reaper's spine. A loud, deep, sardonic laugh filled the air. There would be no mercy. No forgiveness.

The scent of urine filled the air. In the end, even the bravest learned to fear.

The blade of the sickle gleamed in the streetlights as it sang through the air. Mike caught the brief glimmer of polished metal seconds before he felt the slash across his throat. His hands rose and pushed against his flesh, desperate to squash the flow of blood that poured steadily from his neck. Warmth cascaded down the front of his body, his shirt soaked, and dripping onto the hard concrete. His life ended as brutally as he deserved. None would mourn him.

Eyes frozen open in terror, his spirit fled the body that held it captive for thirty-two human years. Mike's soul stood next to his body, looking down in horror. The Reaper smiled and stepped back into the fade. His work was complete.

Now for the shadows.

Mike dared to glance in every direction, looking for a place to run or hide. The dark shadows of the demons and malevolent began to surround him. At first the only sound was a low rumble as the earth began to shake and tremble. Fissures and a crack opened up, as hot bursts of steam rose above the surface. Below, the fires of Hell burned hot and roared in their intensity.

The shadows descended upon Mike's soul, tugging and yanking, clutching and grabbing, pulling him toward the Underworld. He screamed and yelled, fighting as they dug in their claws and scraped across his exposed flesh. There would be no leniency.

He still had a form, even if he was only a soul now.

His former body lay as a sheet was draped over him. The policeman stood and called in the death. No one cared he was gone. They were happy, relieved a killer was no longer on the loose.

The Reaper watched as the soul, now harvested, fought his captors. A deep chuckle filled the air as the shadows pulled him down into the deep dark caverns of the Underworld where he would be owned. Forever.

His objective complete, the Reaper disappeared, moving to his next victim. Not all souls were dragged directly into Hell. Only those who were special. He quite liked the many he kept trapped inside his bony form. Time to move on.

The harvest was never over.

2

Black sludge clung to the walls of the cavern, mixing with the ebony slime that oozed and poured from every crack and crevice. Shadows lingered in and around the ramparts as demons of every shape and size slithered from the roof and across the floor. They were drawn to him, his power, and the raw brutal strength that radiated from his body. In this form, the Reaper was deadly and carnal; his appetite for blood, suffering, and death compelling him forward.

The legions smelled it on him; the recently cultivated souls, the spirits of those who had met their final doom. The Reaper smiled, his skeletal form grim and horrifying, but those that surrounded him were drawn, like moths to a deadly flame, and they could not resist reaching out and trying to capture some of the residual energy the souls left behind.

The Reaper roared, sending them scurrying in all directions, but not for long. They never scattered for more than an hour or two before they were back, begging for the pleasure to torment and sink their teeth and claws into the tortured spirits.

For the Reaper had only one job and objective. He collected souls. His scythe, sharp and stained with the blood of millions, was aided by the Darkness. Heavy with the burden of death and suffering, the weapon could only be wielded by one strong enough to carry such a burden.

Reapers.

He walked through the living wall of fire that separated the cavern from his dark lord's chambers. Only the highest ranking among the Darkness's armies were capable of passing through the barrier. He smiled wickedly, giddy with the news he came to offer.

As he approached the dark throne, he knelt on one knee. "I completed the mission master. The Angel is dead."

A sardonic laugh echoed throughout the chamber, so vile and evil that even the Reaper could not prevent the shiver that traveled along his bony spine.

"Excellent. It's time." He let his crimson gaze roam over the Reaper, his dark lips drawn back into a cruel sneer. "The next phase of the plan is ready."

The Reaper raised his head and stood, his eyes locked on his dark master. "I have already anticipated your desires, my lord. The malevolent have been unleashed."

A rumbling shook the walls as the displeasure of the Darkness, the one who ruled the Underworld, filled the cavernous chamber. "I give the orders, not you, Reaper."

The Reaper bowed his head, knowing he would have to show his obedience but secretly smiling inside. The Darkness was too slow to act. Without the malevolent joining in the fight and to alarm the Angelic armies, his plans would be for naught. Revenge was a foul taste in his mouth and he relished it, savored it, and cultivated the hatred brewing and churning inside his tarnished soul.

"As you wish. Shall I call off the soldiers?"

The Darkness laughed, his aura pulsing with an ebony shroud of true evil as crimson flames licked their way around his taut body and towering frame. His wings spread out, the width of a small house, as he jumped to the floor and landed with a thud, his talons scraping across the hardened volcanic rock.

Before the Reaper could react, the Darkness grabbed him by the neck and hauled him from his feet into the air. Dangling, at his master's mercy, he was forced to look into his empty, emotionless eyes. A dark swirling mass of shadows, weaving in and out – the mirror image of captured souls and walls of blue flame – burned inside his omniscient being.

The shadows darted from the eyes, screeching as they sailed through the air, and flying into the Reaper through every open crevice of his skeleton. They burned like acid, writhing and searching, seeking the truth of his motivations; once the depth of his revenge and hatred was revealed, they pulsed, exploding from his bones and nearly cracking his frame into pieces in the process.

The Reaper cried out in agony and slipped to the floor as the shadows returned to their master. The Darkness vibrated with the consumed energy and thoughts, desires and needs, and true purpose of the deceptive Reaper. The dark lord began to laugh, louder and more sinister, as he looked down at the pitiful creature that served him.

"Keep your plan. It serves my purpose."

The Reaper nodded, trying to stand with what little energy the shadows had not consumed. He was drained but dare not let any thoughts enter his head. Anything he envisioned now, so close to the dark lord, would be siphoned before he could react. No, he must bide his time. He won, despite his deception, and he was secretly pleased. The Darkness was allowing his plans.

All the better.

The Reaper made his way toward the wall of living flame, ready to quit the chamber of the darkest fallen angel and his master in haste. Even more menacing than Lucifer, none other held the power to make him quake in fear. He was stopped by the voice of the Darkness, filled with promise.

"Fail and I will destroy you."

The Reaper nodded and passed through the flame as a thousand knives struck his body all at once. Pain seared him in every cell of his bones. His weakness had claimed his memory. Passing through the barrier to meet with his master meant giving up a portion of his power and the souls he had gathered. Ripped from his bony frame, they squealed in agony, pulled through the fire, and yanked into the lair of the Darkness.

Screams echoed from the chamber as they were hunted and consumed, shred with razor sharp teeth and forever plundered for their spiritual energy. They would feed the dark lord many millennia. Their auras, their pain, their suffering; their very essence would gather and grow until the Darkness fed again. Over and over, for all eternity.

Such was the fate of those who did not believe.

Humans were foolish.

3

The Death Dealer's laugh rang out in the narrow space above his head. His master, the Darkness, had disclosed the plans of the foolish Reaper. A new soul, a powerful soul, was soon to be theirs. One such as this had not been heard of for decades. This level of energy could sustain him and his Lord for a long time. Centuries.

He laughed again, delighted with visions of chaos and pain, dismemberment and torture, blood spilling and all manner of carnage. The shadows scurried along the walls around him like insects, up and down, left to right, their twisted and grotesque forms dripping black sludge across the cavern walls like some demonic snail. The Death Dealer lifted his head and inhaled, a sardonic grin spreading across his face. He loved the scent of death.

Rotting flesh, bones, blood. His favorite things.

Under his throne, a mighty volcanic river of blood, sweat, tears, and lava constantly flowed, a trickle of bodies carelessly tossed in whenever it needed replenished. Flames crawled up the walls, licking their way up to the sides of the dais, interweaving with the oozing black slime always present. The fires of Hell burned hot, hundreds of degrees that would singe and blacken human souls.

Souls in torment met their fate in the chamber of the death dealer or the Darkness. There was no escape. No hope of redemption. No chance to beg, borrow, steal, cheat, kill, or deceive in order to obtain release. Once the fate of a human was handed over, their soul became the property of the Dark Lord. Their lives were forfeit. Their souls indebted in eternal servitude.

And the Darkness always collected his debts.

Foolish humans, their refusal to acknowledge the truth of good and evil, of Heaven and Hell, had fueled his lust for more power and inflamed his desire to deceive as many of these arrogant souls as possible. How easily they succumbed to lies, driven by their selfish greed.

A Reaper entered his chamber, groveling at death's feet. He bowed low. "I have brought gifts."

"Rise. Show me these tokens of your loyalty."

The Reaper, and others like him, owed their allegiance not only to the Darkness but also to his first in command, the Death Dealer. The Reaper would never dare to enter without souls to offer. He could be crushed and destroyed, thrown into the lake of eternal fire, which flowed below the throne of Death. This was the only place held with the same demand of honor and allegiance as the chamber of the Darkness. The Death Dealer, none other than Death himself, was the ultimate harvester of souls.

Death rose as he heard the wails and suffering of the spirits.

The Reaper opened his long, black trench coat and plucked several from his bony skeleton, gritting his teeth as sharp pains pierced his bones. He flung the souls out into the chamber, all five, as they darted back and forth, their frightened cries filling the cavernous chamber.

Human souls were made of flesh in the Underworld, not given the reprieve of incorporeal form. In Hell, they would reap what they had sowed in life, eternal torment their punishment, but a hundred times worse if they were directly coveted by the Death Dealer or the dark lord.

There was no escape.

The Death Dealer began to laugh, his eyes glowing crimson as he joined the hunt. The first soul was snatched from where he stood, unable to move from fright. No matter, the Death Dealer bit off his head, blood spurting in a wide arc, crunching and grinding his bones into dust. Death finished him off in two bites, watching as his spirit fled into one of the passages. He would enjoy that one again soon.

The second and third souls were side by side, hiding behind a rock. He picked them up, one up in each hand, and slammed their skulls into one another, smashing them into bits of mangled flesh, and devoured them at his leisure. The fourth soul had run, screaming in terror, into the lake of fire and was now burning. Such a waste. Death broke her in half and swallowed whole the remainder not scorched by the boiling lava.

The fifth soul was more cunning. He crept along, avoiding the movements of the Death Dealer with a practiced eye. This one would be fun. Death played the game, letting him believe he was making progress. He caught up to the man seconds before he slipped from the chamber.

"Foolish human, you have made me work for your sustenance and so I shall enjoy killing you slowly."

He snatched the man by the arms and ripped them from his body, stuffing each one into his mouth and sucking the flesh from the bones before he ground them beneath his razor-sharp teeth. The man howled and screeched in agony as Death ripped off both legs below the knee next. The man flopped onto the ebony soil stained by the blood of hundreds of thousands of souls and volcanic rock, writhing and trembling with shock. Death smiled, the corners of his lips lifting into a cruel and calculating grin. Before the man could blink the Death Dealer had slit his stomach open and was feasting on his entrails. The crimson flow of metallic blood filled the chamber, drawing shadows, demons, and malevolent to the enticing scent.

The spirit wailed in agony as it left the man's torn flesh and sailed away to be hunted and consumed another day. Death was sated.

"A worthy offering." Blood dripped from his mouth and chin, puddling onto his lap as he resumed his spot on the throne. "I will hear you. Why have you come before me, Reaper?" He knew the Reaper would disclose the information he had gathered about the powerful soul, the one the Darkness had foretold was coming.

The Reaper smiled, his bony grin full of teeth. "There is something you should know."

4

The malevolent gathered in the presence of the Reaper, bowing to their master. As he paced, the Reaper swept his dark cloak aside, walking the length of his chamber deep in the Underworld. Shadows scurried out of his way, darting passed his legs in an effort to avoid his unpredictable temper.

No flames adorned his rooms as the Death Dealer and the Darkness were wont to prefer, being part living flame, and loved to have nearby. He preferred the low flickering flames of a fire in a hearth, his long years of roaming the earth had become accustomed to inns that boasted an old luxury feel he readily enjoyed. His lifestyle was extravagant when he chose to take on his earthly form, for only a few ever recognized him for the true evil being he had become.

Reapers were souls. Lost souls. Enslaved souls. Spirits that had been cast straight to Hell upon death and sent directly before the Darkness. Those who were skilled in life, whose assets could serve the dark lord were given an option. Rise as his minion or end up like the countless others devoured for sustenance.

The Reaper had chosen wisely. He barely remembered his name or his past now. On occasion he would have brief flashes of memory, as visions of his life came back to haunt him. He had been a selfish bastard in life, it was no different now. Few emotions but rage, lust, desire, deceit, and vengeance mattered to him.

He was the embodiment of true evil.

As all Reapers were.

With one exception. The Reaper knew the soul coveted by the Darkness and his closest companion, Death. There was a connection to this soul that would allow him to possibly escape his fate but it was tricky. The dark lord knew nothing of his ability to traverse across time and revisit the moment of his death. The horrific details had stuck with him, so strong and full of hate that upon the Reaper's death, the memory of his revenge was so striking and deeply ingrained that the Darkness let him keep those memories. The only ones he was allowed to revisit. Part torture and part necessity, they enabled him to stay the course and complete his quest. Hundreds of years he lay in wait for the opportunity to exact his revenge.

He was so close.

The Reaper stopped in front of his soldiers and raised his hands wide. "We have been unleashed."

Red eyes lifted as one as a mighty roar echoed in the chamber.

Vengeance was near.

The Reaper waited until every noise had silenced. His voice boomed throughout the sudden eerie silence. "Go!" As the malevolent disappeared, their mission their only objective, the Reaper decided to revisit the site of his death once more in the hopes that he would be able to finalize his deceptive plans.

He relished in the thought that he could fool the dark lord. So smart was he, so cunning, that he had not revealed a single memory of his travels when the Darkness invaded his mind. Thinking of his power and the ability to fool one as omniscient as the dark lord, he smiled with puffed up pride. It never occurred to him to be wary or watchful. He was so certain of his success that he failed to notice the lesser demons that had hidden in the far corners of his chamber.

Drawn to the oblong mirror that stood on the far wall, the Reaper moved forward, focusing on the glass as it began to shimmer. With an authoritative command, he spoke the date and location of his desire. The sixteenth century, Spain, the Spanish Inquisition. His mind began to blur, his body to quake, as the room lost focus and slowly became the lower dungeons and filthy cells of a cathedral.

The Reaper stepped through, disguised by the thin veil of the fade, walking down the long haunting corridor of his past. He preferred the fade, which cloaked him from the piercing eyes of the Inquisitors. The smell of mildew and stagnant water filled his nostrils, accompanied by the acrid scent of burning tallow. The candles flickered in rotting iron sconces, anchored to the walls sporadically, every ten feet, providing sparse circles of yellow light before the cold empty darkness swallowed the body whole again.

He was searching for someone specific. His ears listened to the sounds of torture, of screaming, of agony; all around him the unfortunate and unlucky were being persecuted and subjected to horrors that still haunted him, hundreds of years later.

The first cell he passed consisted of three Inquisitors, watching as a man was beaten and questioned, the blood of his wounds staining their already crimson robes. The next few cells contained men hanging by either their thumbs or their wrists, left to dangle until their tormentors returned. Above, iron cages held bodies in various stages of death and decay. Their flesh was left to rot on their bones, picked apart by birds and vermin. The practice of gibbeting was common in these days. He passed more cells, his eyes focusing in the low light until he came to the cell he sought.

The most common punishment was the rack. Variations of this popular form of torture included round drums with spikes set below a persons' abdomen in which the turning of the pulleys would result in gutting and exposing the entrails while the limbs were stretched and pulled to the point of popping and breaking. A gruesome end and one in which he was familiar.

Slipping through the open door, the Reaper walked in with purpose, hoping, just once, that he could escape the fade and stop the inquisition in front of him. Screams tore through the throat of the one tied to the rack, her loud wails of agony piercing his chest and rattling every square inch of his bony frame.

Rushing forward, the Reaper fell to his knees, watching in horror and anguish as the one he loved was ripped limb from limb, her beautiful body obliterated as the spikes turned and churned beneath her naked torso, grinding into the soft flesh of her porcelain skin, tearing into the ligaments and sinew, the muscle and vessels, until her spine was shriveled and ripped apart.

Screaming...

Horrible gut wrenching screaming...

He couldn't decipher her cries from his own.

Blood dripped consistently like a faucet with the tap on low, pooling beneath her once lovely frame, and gathering into a wide and ever growing crimson puddle that stained and darkened his soul.

He was never able to save her.

His own death by similar means, carried out swiftly after his human and foolish intervention all those years ago, barely registered in his mind. His own life was forfeit. He cared not. It was only her, his love, his wife, the one he worshipped and adored.

Until she was taken.

The past was the past. No magic existed to catapult him back in the flesh, for he possessed none to begin with. The Reaper was nothing but a bony frame, a shell of the man she once loved, a pathetic and enslaved soul whose years of afterlife were spent in eternal servitude to the dark lord.

The Reaper's head fell back, his own cries of loss and anger surpassing her own. Revenge. The foul bitter taste consumed his soul. He wanted to unleash the fury of the malevolent upon these men but they were no more. None of them lived to carry out the sentence of punishment and death. The Spanish Inquisition ended hundreds of years ago, a blink in the eye of eternal time.

All but one. Just one left to blame.

One remained who was responsible for her delivery into the hands of the Inquisitors.

And the Reaper would soon confront him.
5

The Reaper returned with reluctance to his own time, reminding himself of the carefully laid plans that would ensure his vengeance. For the one he owed his revenge was no simple individual. No, it was the very one he was enslaved to, the very one who owned his mangled and bitter soul. The one who forced his death upon the rack, twisting his entrails until they were ripped from his flesh, dying a long and miserable death, knowing only hours earlier he had watched the death of his beloved.

The dark lord had used and manipulated him when he was alive. Searching for answers in troubling times, when the Inquisition was punishing almost everyone around him, when lies and fear ruled the day, he sought a way to survive for his wife and himself. He was deceived by demons who promised him endless life and freedom from the flesh. He believed so easily, consulting his runes and looking for answers.

A selfish and lustful man, he was easily targeted. The Reaper wanted wealth, power, protection from the Inquisitors, and to keep his wife safe. Their practices were soon made public by the servants in their home, who used the runes as a way to keep themselves out of trouble. Both the Reaper and his wife were seized, their lives torn apart, literally, as each met their final doom, but not before he was made to watch her suffer first.

He knew now that it had been orchestrated from the beginning. The dark lord coveted his soul, wanted him to serve in the Underworld, and pushed the Reaper to act out viciously once Consuela was taken. His brutal suffering, his pain and hatred, his horrific death, all gave the Darkness what he wanted. A powerful soul that would be used and manipulated, beholden for as long as his contract endured. A Reaper that was bloodthirsty for the souls that were marked by Death and would obtain them brutality without mercy.

Signed in his own blood and entrails, his hands shaking with rage and vengeance at the moment of his death on the rack, the Reaper gave over to the bitterness and hatred that welled up inside him, and signed the contract. One soul. Delivered and sealed. Bound to his master.

How long never mattered.

Anything was better than the reality of his human life.

Until the Reaper finally realized the truth. The loss of his wife, his suffering, his torment; all lie with the dark lord. It never occurred to the foolish Reaper that he was responsible for any of his current situation. Refusing to acknowledge his own part that played in a much larger and deadlier game, he sought to deceive his master.

The Reaper had already played the dark lord and Death against one another, providing conflicting information about the exact whereabouts of the powerful soul the Darkness coveted. This soul was protected, heavily guarded by Angels and not easy to obtain. The Reaper had been charged with exposing the soul in order for the Darkness to claim her.

But the Reaper never had any intention of following that plan through.

He wanted to deal the dark lord and his armies a difficult blow. He may be unable to defeat the Darkness but he could certainly piss him off to the point of no return. If the Reaper could inflict enough rage and betrayal, then perhaps the dark lord would no longer wish to hold him to the contract. He could be released.

Free.

And maybe just maybe, he could find and return to Consuela.

The Reaper met the malevolent at the designated location, his eyes scanning the trees for the female soul and the Angels that guarded her. Behind him the malevolent were restless, detecting the shift of power in the air. Where the Darkness lingered, oppressive and heavy, the demons thrived. When the light and golden power of the Angels arrived, they forced back the malevolent, causing the demons to increase in anger, hatred, and vile intentions.

The Reaper smiled, knowing he would allow the slaughter of the malevolent and the escape of the powerful soul. As the Angels appeared he stepped back into the fade and let the army rush forward. In only minutes the hundreds of malevolent had been destroyed. A massacre. Not one survived.

A calculating smile curved his lips as the Reaper watched the Angels help the female soul escape.

Good. Now for the next part of his plan...

The Reaper returned to the dark lord at his summons, unable to refuse. He did not bow when he arrived, showing no allegiance or respect. The Reaper's one last act of defiance, he would not bend his knee. Not to the one who killed Consuela. Not to the one who deceived him at the moment of his death. Not to the one who sent the demons that tore his family apart.

The dark lord trembled in fury. "You have deceived me."

The Reaper made no defense. There was none.

"Your punishment will seal your doom." His long black claws extended into the air as he bellowed throughout the ebony Underworld, calling for every malevolent to come to his aid. The rocky cavern shook beneath the onslaught of hundreds of demons all running at their master's call. Once they filled the room one simple phrase informed the Reaper of his demise. "Devour him."

The breath that he might have held with actual lungs was released.

The Reaper accepted his fate, after all, it was entirely his doing.

The malevolent converged at once, diving onto his bony frame and knocking him with a loud crack against the volcanic rock of the chamber. He was pinned to the ground, hundreds if not thousands of demons reaching toward his fallen body.

Hands.

So many hands.

He was disoriented, his past life flashing before his eyes. Consuela.

The Reaper was being torn apart.

Cracking...

Pulling...

Breaking...

Each and every single bone was being slowly yanked apart, limb by limb, piece by piece, splintering into nothing.

And still the fingers of the malevolent yanked and dug at the solid bone and sinew and tendons that held his frame together. He felt every claw, every hand, and every finger as they slashed and scratched at his body.

Popping...

Snapping...

Fracturing...

His jaw gave way first, the bottom set of teeth dislocating from his mouth as his cry of agony permeated the deepest darkest cavern of the Underworld. Erupting from his throat the sound of suffering filled the air, thick and dense, as those who scrambled around his frame began to chatter excitedly. Only true pain gave them such delightful sustenance.

Twisting...

Wrenching...

Contorting...

His ribs broke apart next, one by one, splintering and breaking apart in little pieces, snapping into the air as the hands kept pulling and twisting at his bones. His legs and arms were pulled from his body. His skull was smashed, the hands never ending in their torment.

His spine began to disintegrate as each vertebra was sliced into with razor sharp claws, tearing and ripping at the connective material and tissue, until eventually, he was nothing but matter. Little pieces and parts remained but no whole. No body. No bony frame.

Each tiny cell was destroyed.

Nothing of him was left.

6

The Darkness laughed, his deep sinister voice echoing throughout the four walls, surrounded by intense heat and the scorching flames of the Underworld, nestled next to the lake of eternal fire.

"You see, foolish Reaper, your folly has not rewarded you."

The Reaper closed his eyes, not caring which words tumbled from his master's lips. Nothing mattered now. He was finally going to obtain release. His torment, his agony was finally over.

As the last of his strength oozed from his weary frame, he pictured the face of his greatest love. Her arms held wide open, she welcomed him into the Isle of the Dead, where he could live out his final days at her side. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he felt his body relax.

No amount of torture mattered now.

Let them rip him limb from limb. Let his essence fill the room.

He was free...

A brief flash of light danced across the Reaper's vision as he floated in the air, his dark cloak billowing around his skeletal frame. The breeze danced across his face and for the first time he felt it's sensual and soft touch. Across the lake, waiting with a bright smile on her lips, was his love. The closer he got, the more he could feel her warmth, her passion, her love.

And then he suddenly stopped, hanging and dangling above her, desperate to move his body, to flail his arms, to reach with his fingers and touch her skin. Her scent wafted on the breeze, as exotic as he remembered – female and sunshine, lavender and lemon. He remembered how she tasted. The sweetness of her lips as they kissed. The tight wet plunge of his body inside hers. The softness of her skin next to his, the feel of her body wrapped in his limbs.

Crying out in agony he watched with horror as he began to move slowly backward, only inches from his goal. So close. She was so very close. One of his fingers could just make contact with her own but they slipped apart, unable to grasp ahold of one another.

His body floated away, farther and farther, until he was forced to open his eyes with the knowledge that he never really left at all. The dark lord stood above him, smiling down with a confident and cruel grin that confirmed his worst fears.

"So foolish," he spoke again, his tone laced with humor.

The Reaper's eyes roamed over the room, tortured with the knowledge of his fate. "My folly was believing you would ever let my soul go free."

The Darkness smirked. "No, your folly was choosing my side from the beginning."

It was then that the Reaper yelled, his own stupidity so blatant, so real, and so horrifying he could not believe how he did not see before now. He was gutted with the truth, with his own refusal to understand from the moment of his death. His own choice robbed him from his love. His own selfish desires. His refusal to care about the consequences of his agreement.

The day he joined his master, the day he died, he promised only one thing in return for his power as a Reaper. There was only one demand. One requirement.

His soul.

For all eternity.

The day he agreed was the day he lost his beloved forever.

And now, for the first time, his suffering was truly about to begin.

"Tomorrow, we start again."

The biting and sadistic laugh of Death filled his senses, the foul breath lingering by his ear and across his broken spine as he wailed in agony, over and over, until his voice was hoarse and could no longer make a sound.

True horror gripped his foolish brain.

Death was only the beginning...

Nikki Landis is the award-winning author of over a dozen novels, mostly in the romance genre. She grew up sneaking her mother's romance novels intrigued with the characters, the stories, and the historical settings from authors that have greatly influenced her writing like Johanna Lindsey, Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, and Bertrice Small. Check out her books on her website:

https://nikkilandisauthor.wordpress.com/

Copyright © 2017 Creationists Nightmare by Mark Nye

All Rights Reserved

Creationists Nightmare

By

Mark Nye

In the beginning there was nothing. No shining stars of eternal light. No inhabited planets, brimming with multitudes of differing life. Nothing. Just an empty black void, devoid of anything we would call life.

Through this faceless void, something swam in the dark. Solan. A single celestial being. The one true eternal.

Solan drifted through the empty space. At first, he was content enough to float by himself. But as the passage of time became a relevancy to him, he found himself longing for something, someone to distract him from the monotony of the negative space.

He tried conjuring creatures to converse with, but every time they coalesced on his palm they would either choke in the fumes given off by his celestial body or their physical manifestations would collapse in upon themselves and become a small puddle of gloop in his hand.

After an immemorial amount of time, Solan knew what he must do. The newly festering pain of loneliness drove him into drastic action.

Twisting his appendages through the void, Solan retrieved every ounce of his aura and retracted it back within. Every failed conjugation, all the far-flung exclamations of newborn anger. He drew every molecule of his being back into the fold and focused it all inwards.

Solan's body shook with the monumental effort, but he was determined and desperate. Atoms and cells, molecules and minutiae.... every single part of his body, being, and soul vibrated at the same frequency. He let out a silent scream of agony as his body warped and imploded upon itself.

Solan's raw celestial power thumped through his body. His torso twisted and popped, invertebrate bones rippled and collapsed. Celestial organs squirmed and withered under the onslaught. His whole body shimmered with gold, blue and purple light, internal cellular fireworks firing off in every direction.

With a final gasp and a gigantic shove, Solan forced every molecule of his body to invert and smash into one another in the center of his reduced being. A single tear slithered down his glowing face.

A rush of newly formed air surrounded the remnants of his body, the flickering lights stilled and dimmed and then he exploded. Not a small explosion, but a big bang.

Celestial atoms flew in every direction, flung far and wide by Solan's sacrifice. After all of his failed experiments, Solan had hit upon the idea that from death came life.

For the first time, the void teemed with new life. New auras and energies flowed through the dark. Small specks of light lit up the empty.

Solan's sacrificial gesture created three new universes.

Laniakea, the mother-verse. This became home to the Sol system and the Milky Way, home of humanity.

Pilikia, the unknown.

Fetispheria, the putri-verse. This became home to the Sic system and the cosmic cesspool, home of the putri-kind.

Each universe ran parallel to the others, side by side in the same space and time. And presiding over each universe was one of the Three Suns. Born of Solan's detonation, each of the suns was a sentient part left from the explosion, a child of Solan. They sat in space, watching over their given universe. The three sons of Solan all burnt as one in the voids.

The Three Suns could communicate with each other, only once in a cycle. When all the planets of each universe aligned perfectly with one another, whisper channels would open to allow the passage of thoughts between the brothers three. They would share stories of their civilizations collapses and their charges accomplishments. Except Pilikia, he was always silent whilst the others compared and competed for who had the better universe.

In time, Fetispheria grew jealous of Laniakea's universe. Humanity had proven its worth and grown immeasurably confident in all matters whilst the putri-kind had just started to evolve. Mankind stretched their arms and reached for the stars, attempting to find other life, yet the putri-kind couldn't even build rudimentary houses.

The putri-kind, whilst aggressive, strong and deviant, lacked any imagination when it came to the question of evolution. They found something that worked and stuck with it. After the last alignment, once the window had closed, Fetispheria took matters into his own hands.

He landed on Mirth, the putri-verses version of Earth, and begun with his plan. He took the most deviant and depraved putri-kind and soaked them in vats filled with his own piss, blood and semen. They entered as putri-kind and came out as Decayed, Fetispheria's personal army of the damned. Some came out with extra claws and appendages, others exited with more specialist uses in mind.

Soon Fetispheria had colored Mirth in his own image. He had his lieutenants whipping the rest of the putri-kind into shape. The old and infirm got thrown into the Sickle-Cycle and ground into meat for the Shreds and Reekers that prowled the planet. Tainted beasts that were hand crafted by Fetispheria in his Pidrap Dome. His monumental castle situated at the northern most point of the planet.

Fetispheria sat upon his throne of writhing, screaming flesh and seethed at the thought of his brother's domain. His hands wrung together and he ground his teeth as Laniakea's smug grin floated across his vision. He balled a fist and struck the arm of his chair, eliciting high pitched screams and wails from the cancerous family that made up that part of his throne.

Everything was coming together just in time for the alignment. His lieutenants had a veritable army on hand to wreck and ruin. The specialists were ready for deployment and he was proud of how they turned out. Each one was sicker than the last and they were ready to destroy humanity's hope. Shreds and Reekers floated and scuttled around the continents, waiting for the call to war. All was ready.

As the alignment neared, doubts slunk through the quagmire of his mind. Fetispheria knew the whisper would only be open for an hour. If he was not able to breach the channel, and expand the parameters from thought to flesh, he would not get his army through. He needed to at least get the specialists through then he could play the long game. Each piece moved into place, three more planets and the whisper would open.

A smile teased the edges of Fetispheria's black maw, as he withdrew a small crusty skin pouch from inside the folds of his ragged flesh cloak. He tugged the artery drawstring open and emptied onto his hand four dark purple marbles. They were his crowning glory, his greatest creation. The four Nox-orbs hummed in his palm, the purple squirmed inside as he moved them around with his gore encrusted fingernail. If nothing else got through the channel, he would at least make sure these got through the void.

He had no worry about the specialists; he knew they would make their way over the threshold, of that he was sure. The army, however, was loud and boisterous and full of literally fucking idiots. They would only get through if the specialists took care of the watchers of the whisper.

But the Nox-orbs were a different matter. There had been no way to test them before the alignment. Fetispheria was not sure if they would pass through the channel silently or if they would explode on contact with the whisper interface. But, he did not care. If they got through, then he would not need his army. If they got through, then come the next alignment, he could stroll through the channel himself. The walls between the universes would crumble and he would be master of two realms. Fuck his stupid, quiet brother and fuck humanity's watcher. They would all fall beneath his feet and bow down, or die.

He felt the fabric of putri-verse warp and pulse above the Pidrap Dome; he could see the stars bending to make way for the whisper. The time would soon be upon them, two planets left to go. Fetispheria rose from his throne to a chorus of relieved whimpers and strode the length of the hall. He reached a pair of bone encrusted doors, each one stood twenty feet tall and comprised of an awful amalgamation of bone, muscle and sinew. He flung the heavy bone doors wide open and walked onto his balcony.

Below, in the courtyard, he could see his hordes training hard. A warm rush of pride swelled up as he watched the Decayed fight and tumble. Several fell to the better trained. He watched one of the cleansers dragging a broken corpse from the training ground and head for the Sickle-Cycle. Fetispheria believed in survival of the sickest. Part of his Decayed's training included squaring off against the rest of your training squad until only one was left. That way he was guaranteed to have the worst of the worst fighting for him, and he knew they would do anything to win.

But Fetispheria was a cautious Sun, and he had instilled a countermeasure in his Nox-orbs, one that would help him determine the future. He rested his hands on the yellowing bone balcony and waited.

He did not have to wait long before he sensed movement in the shadows off to the left of the balcony. Keeping stone still, he tilted his head as if he was watching something interesting transpire in the grounds below, and focused his peripheral vision on the shifting darkness. He could see the lighter shade of grey in the shadows. Fetispheria's cloak billowed as he swept it aside and thrust his hand into the shade.

Clawed fingers wrapped around a tiny throat and with a slight tug, he extracted the grey from the gloom. The shadow twitched and coalesced into the form of a teenage human boy. Barely twice as long as Fetispheria's hand, the boy struggled and kicked against the grip that held him fast around the torso.

Fetispheria smiled as he watched the boy's head follow the giant, gore encrusted hand up the arm and to the owner. A scream ripped through the teen's throat and his struggles lessened, a warm trickle escaped from the bottom of the God's hand.

Lifting the boy above his head, Fetispheria squeezed him slightly to elicit more piss from the whimpering child. Amber liquid flowed down the teens legs and Fetispheria dangled him above his mouth and let the warm fluid coat the insides of his throat. Smacking his lips, the God brought the boy back around to the front of his face.

'Well, my orbs must work.' he said with a smile. 'Are you from Earth boy?'

The teenager stared straight into Fetispheria's eyes, with a whimper he gave a slight nod.

'And what is your name?'

'S-simon.'

'Ah, good, good. And how did you get here?'

Simon shook in the God's grasp, squirming and twisting, trying to escape. Fetispheria tightened his grip until the child's face turned blue, then he loosened his grasp and asked the question again.

'How did you get here boy? It would be easier for you if you told me now. I am not used to being disobeyed.'

'The c-catacomb,' Simon stammered. 'I t-touched a n-necklace.'

'Describe it.'

'Small, silver ch-chain. Purple st-stone in it.'

'Did the stone look like this?' asked Fetispheria, pulling a Nox-orb from within his close.

The boy chewed on his lip and nodded.

'Good. You have done me a service boy,' said the God with a smile that covered his face. 'For that I shall give you a chance to live.'

Fetispheria placed the shivering child on top of the balcony. Simon turned and stared out across the heaving pits, a fresh puddle of piss pooled beneath him.

'For your honesty, I shall give you one chance boy. You can join my ranks and I won't send you to the Sickle-Cycle or you can die here and now and be erased from the void.'

The boy turned back to the God and took in his full form. The gigantic red, leathery wings. Cruel fingers encrusted with blood and flesh. Bloodied teeth the size of his torso. The crown of flesh sat perched precariously above pointed, bat ears.

Straightening himself up, Simon looked Fetispheria in the dead eye and knelt on the balcony. Bowing his head in supplication, he knew it was the only way he could keep living. Dark thoughts of revenge flowed through his mind. Not against this God before him, but against the crypt keeper. It was his fault he had ended up here. It was he who had killed his best friend and left him gutted on the floor of the catacombs. It was the keeper who had thrust the necklace into his palm and sent him here.

Raising his closed fist to in front of his face, Simon opened his palm and the necklace was still there. A brilliant purple light flowed out from between his fingers and pulsed over the balcony. Fetispheria's eyes glimmered with violet light as he plucked the chain from Simons palm.

'Yes. They work.' a malicious chuckle grated through his throat. Opening his other hand, Fetispheria dropped the necklace into it with the other Nox-orbs. The necklace stirred and moved around the dour orbs. Dragging the chain in its wake, the necklace circled the four orbs until it styled on one. The sentient orb pushed against one of the orbs. The two spheres glistened and the air around then shimmered. Pushing together, the Nox-orbs molded into one another. The light pulsed brighter until the orbs became one. Two soul stones of the same designation rejoined.

Fetispheria laughed.

'Boy, you have given me the best news ever. The Nox-orbs work, and not only do they work, they recognize their sister soul even after being apart for however long it took for it to return home. For this I shall make you a prince among the putrid, a demi God to the decayed.' Fetispheria picked Simon up and placed him in the palm of his hand.

'Come boy, you have much training to do and little time to do it in.'

I, Mark Nye, being of sound body and mind do hereby declare that I am 34 years old and a writer of short horror stories. I live in the nearly Scottish town of Corby, which is not in Scotland, with my delectable wife and deranged children.

I have had several sickening shorts published in various anthologies, and a few in the pipeline. I have also recently had my first ever piece of poetry published in a charity anthology, it revolved around a necrophiliac's love.

I am also currently working on compiling a catacomb of curious tales for release in 2018.

Happy hunting

M Nye

https://www.facebook.com/AuthorOfShite/

Copyright © 2017 The Lady in the Window by J. H. Fleming

All Rights Reserved

The Lady in the Window

By J. H. Fleming

It rained the day I first beheld The Manor. That's what the locals called it, The Manor. It was the only one in the small town of Westfield, and had stood there for centuries. Wild tales circulated about it, reaching as far south as Holman, but amid the bustle and brightness of a big city, a mysterious country house hardly seemed worth notice.

When I arrived at the inn and gave my name, the innkeeper looked at me a moment, as if assessing my quality. I was about to ask if there were some problem when he said, "Ah! I've remembered. There's a letter here for you."

"A letter?" I asked as he rummaged around in a drawer. "But no one knew I was coming here. How do I have a letter?" And who would take the time? I moved around so often it was difficult for even me to say where I would be on any given day.

"Here it is," he said, handing it to me.

On the front of the envelope was my name written in a shaky hand. I raised an eyebrow at the innkeeper and asked, "Where did you get this?"

"A gentleman left it for you. Similar build and coloring to you, carrying a case across his back like you are. Several years older, I'd say. He was here about a week ago and left it for you. Said you'd be stopping here soon."

It sounded like another bard. I still couldn't think how anyone could've known when and where I'd be, but there was no denying the letter was addressed to me.

"Thank you," I told the innkeeper, stowing it in my jacket pocket until I was in my room for the night.

Once settled, I pulled it out and broke the seal, revealing a single piece of paper.

Go home, it read. I know the odds are you won't listen to me. I didn't listen, after all. But I have to hope that you will be different. That you will break the cycle. If you won't listen, then keep a close eye on Isabella. She may be the key to the whole thing.

That was all. No signature or explanation. Just a warning and advice. I had seen many strange things in my travels, and a cryptic letter was hardly the strangest of them. But still, it put me on edge. I stored it in my pack and got ready for bed, intending to get a good night's sleep.

The next morning as I made my way up the dirt path that led to The Manor's front gates, I pretended not to notice as the locals watched me from their doorsteps and from beneath their cloaks and hats. Mad, they probably thought me. Touched, some would say. I tipped my hat to an elderly gentleman as I passed, earning a scowl as he shook his head and looked away. I turned my attention to The Manor.

It stood three stories, all dark stone and ivy-covered. The gates were likewise coated in ivy, the hinges creaky from disuse. The yard hadn't been tended to in some time, and it seemed to me the very air exuded a sense of abandonment. I had been to many such places in my life, as had my fellow traveling bards. At least, those looking for stories, like I was.

"Waste of time," the innkeeper had told me the night before when I'd asked about the house. "You'd do better to head over to Innsbrook, or Gentry. No one in these parts has need of a bard, least of all the Lady Isabella."

The lady mentioned in the letter. Whatever was going on with The Manor, my mysterious acquaintance seemed to believe she was at the center of it.

I shifted my lyre as I walked, thinking I should've left it in my rooms. It was a comfort more than anything else. After twenty-four years of playing, I felt naked without it. Not to mention I wasn't too comfortable leaving it unattended, not with so many unfriendly eyes watching me.

A movement above caught my gaze, and I lifted my head. A dark-haired woman stood in one of the upper windows, watching me. The image reminded me of another story I'd chased down, one involving a house haunted by its history, but I didn't think that would be the case here. If the rumors were to be believed, anyway.

I stepped up to the door and took hold of the knocker, rapping loud enough to reach the third floor. From what I could glean, the Lady Isabella had inherited the house and lived alone, shunning even servants. But a moment later, the door opened and a shining young blonde answered the door.

She smiled and asked, "May I help you?"

"I'm looking for a Lady Isabella. Is she available?"

"Speaking. And you are?"

I bowed and said, "Eliott Larae, at your service. I am a traveling bard. Now, before you interrupt to tell me you have no need of a bard, let me explain that I am not seeking your money, but your stories."

"My stories?" she asked, one eyebrow rising.

"Precisely. Or more accurately, the stories of your house. Might I come inside?"

She hesitated a moment, obviously gauging whether or not I posed a threat. Deciding I looked safe, she nodded and opened the door wider. "Please come in, Mr. Larae."

I stepped into the house, pausing a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dimmer light. The front foyer was decorated with old but fashionable pieces. To the right was a sitting room, and to the left a dining room. Straight ahead a staircase hugged the left wall, leading up to the next floor. Beside it the hallway extended further into the house, a window visible at the other end.

"This way, if you please," Lady Isabella said, guiding me into the sitting room. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you." As I sat I pulled my notebook and pen out of my coat pocket and set my lyre down beside me. "Lady Isabella, if you don't mind I'd like to get right to the point. I am a bard looking for stories so that I can create new songs. You may have heard some of my more popular tunes. But my goal now is to write a story about your house."

"My house?" She looked genuinely confused. "But what's so special about my house?"

"You're telling me the rumors aren't true?"

She glanced sidelong at me, finally saying, "What rumors have you heard, Mr. Larae?"

"That your house isn't subject to the laws of time. That a minute spent here could see hours pass in the rest of the world, and vice versa. That if you're not careful, the house will claim you for its own, leaving you forgotten by the outside world."

She laughed. "What tales you tell, Mr. Larae."

I smiled. "Never believed that last one, myself. But is there any truth to the rest? Please don't tell me I've come all this way for naught."

"I'm sorry, but I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. I inherited this house from my late father, God rest his soul. I can't say I've ever noticed anything so fantastical as what you describe."

"I see. Do you have any idea why such rumors are circulating?"

She shook her head. "I wish I could help you, but—" A knock at the door interrupted her and she stood. "Just a moment."

As she left the room, I opened my notebook and began to write. I had so hoped this one would work out, but some leads were dead ends. That was life. As I began to peruse my other notes, trying to decide what to follow up on next, I felt a rush of cold air and heard the rustle of leaves. I ignored it and continued skimming, then heard the distinct sound of the door hitting the wall, as if it had been left open and was blown about by the wind.

"Lady Isabella?" I asked, looking up.

Abruptly I froze, for white sheets now covered all the furniture, and a thick layer of dust hung over everything. I rose, storing my notebook and pen back in my pocket and slinging my lyre over my shoulder. The walk to the front door seemed to take several long minutes. As I suspected, the door stood ajar, left to swing to and fro, as the wind blew in a smattering of leaves. A set of footprints trailed through the dust to the sitting room. My own footprints, but no other.

Cautiously I stepped outside, staring up at the house with renewed interest. Perhaps this trip wasn't a loss after all.

When I gazed up at the third floor, the lady in the window stared back at me, her eyes cool and emotionless.

I walked around the perimeter of the house, my curiosity piqued. The rain had let up, though the sky was still covered with gray clouds. From the outside, the house appeared dark and empty. Ivy covered the back and sides so thickly that surely no one had tended them for many years. My excitement rising, I circled around to the front once more. The door was closed, though I was certain I had left it open. Straightening my jacket, I grabbed the knocker for the second time and tapped lightly.

A commotion of footsteps and something crashing to the floor echoed from inside. A male voice called, "Just a moment!"

I stepped back and looked up once more, but the woman hadn't moved.

The door opened and a middle-aged man of large stature appeared. Gray hair circled his head, bald at the top, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing tanned skin and thick muscles.

"Can I help you, sir?" he asked.

"Perhaps," I said, unable to hide my smile. "My name is Eliott Larae. Am I correct in assuming you're the master of this house?"

His eyes narrowed. "Selling something, are you?"

"Not at all. I am a traveling bard looking for new song material, and I must say I've heard the most fantastic stories about your house. Do you mind if I come in?"

He hesitated, but the moment was interrupted by the appearance of a small girl shouting, "Papa! I have a present for you!"

She froze when she saw me, her blonde curls bouncing beneath her cheeks, and adopted a shy demeanor. In her right hand she held a thin bouquet of white flowers.

"Have you been in your mother's garden again, Izzy?" her father asked.

She shook her head, still watching me.

I knelt to her level, smiling with what I hoped came off as friendliness. "Izzy. That's a pretty name. Is it short for something?"

"Isabella," she said, partly hiding behind her father.

My smile widened. "How old are you?"

She hid further behind her father, who cleared his throat. "If you don't mind, Mr. Larae, I'm not really interested in whatever you're selling. Songs, was it? We have no need of those here. Good day."

He shut the door before I could respond, but it didn't matter. My hopes had been confirmed. I stepped away from the door again, whistling as I glanced up at the window. There she sat, the mysterious woman. What time was she from, and on what age of history did she gaze?

I decided to return to the inn for lunch, where in my notebook I would make my first entries containing first-hand observations. Despite the rain, it was looking to be a beautiful day.

At first, I didn't notice the differences, but as minutes passed they caught my attention again and again. Where before the path had been choked with weeds, now it was mostly clear, resembling a well-ordered stretch of lawn instead of one that had been abandoned.

As I neared the village, the differences were more noticeable. Many of the buildings simply looked newer, as if years had been lifted from them as easily as wiping off dirt. But it was the people who convinced me. When I entered the inn, the innkeeper stood behind the bar, but instead of the elderly gentlemen I remembered, I found a middle-aged man with a sharp eye and booming voice.

"Welcome!" he called. "Be with you in a minute."

There was no doubt in my mind: it was the same man as before. Everything seemed to have a bright sheen over it, as if it had been scrubbed clean of every bit of dust and grime the years had piled on. It might've been easy to pass off the innkeeper as a relative, perhaps a son, but that couldn't begin to explain the rest of it.

No, I was certain my supposition was correct: The Manor had transported me back in time. How such a thing had been accomplished I couldn't begin to guess, and was more the realm of mages than bards. My job wasn't to understand, but to record and entertain.

I almost raced back to The Manor right away, but convinced myself to wait until I had eaten. Magic or no, I had to replenish my energy.

After finishing my meal as quickly as possible, I hurried back outside and took a good look around. I wasn't exactly sure how far back in time I was, but based on the innkeeper alone I guessed it must've been at least twenty years, possibly further.

I roamed the village, listening discreetly to various conversations, but most of the villagers lowered their voices or stopped speaking altogether when I passed by. There was plenty to explore, so I didn't linger long anyway. More to see, more to discover.

I wished I could travel to one of the larger cities. The thought of exploring those places in a younger time... It was almost too tempting to pass up. But the thought of going so far from The Manor made me nervous. The last thing I wanted was to be stuck in the past forever, should something go wrong.

Resigning myself to that, I turned my steps back toward The Manor. This time when I knocked I received no answer. I waited, wondering what age Isabella would be, but the minutes passed and no one answered. Stepping back, I glanced up once more, finding the woman staring down at me like before. Either she was in some fixed point in time, or somehow, she had managed to escape the effects of the house.

When several more minutes passed and I'd knocked repeatedly, I tried the handle and found it unlocked. I pushed the door open, calling, "Hello?" as I entered.

The front foyer had transformed since last I'd been there. The walls and decorations were bright and lively, suggesting a place of light and warmth. I waited for a moment to see if anyone would appear, but all was quiet and still. Then, shifting my lyre on my back, I made my way up the stairs, intending to find the woman in the window.

At the second floor landing I glanced about, but still saw no one. Rooms stretched to the left and right, but unless I wanted to linger, there was no time for exploration. I climbed the remaining stairs to the top floor.

A scratching sound echoed from down the hall. I proceeded cautiously, knowing full well the danger of rushing headlong into a room. The sound came from behind a door to my left, but when I opened it I didn't find the woman, like I'd expected. Instead I found myself in a large, dim room. On the far right was a figure crouched on the floor, scribbling furiously on a sheaf of paper. More paper lay scattered across the floor and pasted to the walls, all covered in black charcoal.

"Hello?" I said.

The figure didn't look up or acknowledge me. Black hair hung down in front of their face, hiding their features. As I moved closer, I saw bare arms and a white dress. A young woman.

"Hello?" I repeated.

This time she looked up at me from between the strands of her hair. "Are you another physician?" she asked.

"A...? Oh, no, I'm a bard. My name is Eliott."

"Did she send you to check on me?"

Her gaze returned to her drawing, her hand moving skillfully over the page.

"Do you mean Isabella?"

She snorted. "If that's what she's calling herself."

I knelt beside her, noticing now that her drawings, every single one of them, was of the woman I'd seen in the window. I picked up one that showed her from behind, sitting in a chair as she gazed out at the landscape below her.

The girl snatched the paper from my hand and resumed her drawing.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Imogene," she said. "Today, anyway. Tomorrow, who knows?"

For a moment I wasn't sure what to say. She had mentioned physicians. Perhaps she had some sort of condition?

"Do you know where Isabella is?" I asked.

"In the house," she answered, not looking up at me. "She's always in the house. The real question is, when?"

"What do you mean? Do you know how to use the house to travel through time?"

She chuckled. "If you can figure out how to do that, you might actually escape. Good luck to you."

I watched her for a moment, dozens of questions burning on my tongue. But finally, I rose, deciding to look for Isabella once more. Before I left, I picked up one of Imogene's drawings and stowed it carefully in my ledger, keeping both safely tucked away in my coat pocket. Imogene didn't seem to notice as I left the room.

I practically flew down the stairs, calling for Isabella as I went. My own voice echoed back to me, hollow and forlorn. There was no sign of any other living soul. When I reached the bottom floor, I hurried back into the sitting room, thinking that perhaps she had returned there and was waiting for me. But it too, was empty. I turned to begin my search through the rest of the house and nearly ran into a man standing behind me.

"I beg your..." I began, but the words died on my tongue. Standing there was myself, thin and unshaven, a wild light in his eyes. He gripped my arms, squeezing hard enough to leave a bruise.

"Help me," he said. "Please, you must help me."

"How...?" I began, but Isabella's voice echoed from another room.

"Mr. Larae? Where have you run off to?"

"Oh gods!" he said, fleeing the room by the opposite door.

A moment later, Isabella appeared in the other doorway. "Oh! There you are. I feared... Are you all right, Mr. Larae? You look pale as snow."

"I'm fine," I managed, but I felt lightheaded. "I think I'll just sit for a moment."

"Let me get you some tea," she said. "You stay right here."

She disappeared through the opposite door as well and I pulled out my ledger, scribbling as fast as I could manage, writing about everything that had taken place since I'd set foot in the house. Questions fought one another in my mind, vying for dominance, so I began to write them down as well.

Upstairs something crashed to the floor, startling me from my musings. "Isabella?" I called, storing my ledger away again as I rose.

She didn't answer, but I couldn't say that surprised me. I followed the sound of the crash back upstairs, where the decorations had once again changed. Near the landing was a broken vase, its flowers and water scattered on the floor with the glass. I stepped around it and climbed to the third floor, hurrying to Imogene's door. But when I tried the knob, the door wouldn't budge.

"Imogene!" I called, knocking. "Open the door!"

Silence.

I banged again, louder this time. "Imogene!"

A cry sounded from somewhere below. I cursed and began my descent again, thinking the house was most definitely playing with me. As I turned a corner I nearly ran into my double again, which startled both of us.

"Gods!" I said, jumping back. "Where did you run off to?"

"Here," he mumbled. "Always here. Soon, you'll be here, too."

"What do you mean? You mean 'here' as in the house? Are you trapped?" He glanced about furtively, as if watching for something. Or someone.

"Careful," he whispered. "She'll hear you."

"Who? Isabella?"

"Shhh!" He put his fingers to his lips, his eyes wide with panic.

"I don't understand what's going on."

"The house steals your time. Sucks it out of you and leaves you to rot."

"The...house?"

"Don't try to save her," he whispered. "I didn't listen, but you still have time! Don't try to save her!"

"Hey! You there!"

I turned at the voice, seeing Isabella's father striding down the hall toward me. When I looked back my double was gone.

"What are you doing in here? Did you break in?"

"No, sir," I said, focusing my attention on him. "Your daughter let me in."

His gaze darkened. "I think it's time you left, Mr. Larae." He gripped my arm firmly and dragged me to the door, shoving me out onto the porch. "If I see your face here again, I'm calling for the authorities," he warned. Then he slammed the door, the sound reverberating through my head, which once more began to swim.

I clutched my head and walked away from the house, glancing up again to find the woman staring out, oblivious to everything. Or perhaps she was aware and simply didn't care.

If my assumptions were correct, I was still in the past. When I had gone to the village for lunch, the time had remained constant. It was the house that was able to move freely through past, present, and future. If I was to return to my own time, I needed to get back inside.

The woman continued to stare impassively, so I grabbed a pebble and threw it as hard as I could. My aim was off, but it hit near enough that I picked up another and tried again. When I finally managed to hit the glass, I waited to see what she would do, but she continued to stare as if nothing had happened.

I clenched my fists and decided I had to head back inside. Somehow, I needed to reach her. I strode back to the door, this time not bothering with knocking. No one hindered me, and I saw no sign of Isabella, her father, or my double. Taking the stairs two at a time, I reached the third floor in seconds and practically flew down the hall. Heat crept up my neck and cheeks, and a wave of dizziness assaulted me once again. I leaned against the wall for support, a faint ringing in my ears, but forced myself to continue inching toward Imogene's room.

At last my ears popped and the nausea passed, but I still felt weak. I kept one hand on the wall as I walked, fearing another episode. I was not one given to fainting fits, but it felt as if I hadn't eaten for more than a day, or as though I'd spent hours in the hot sun. Another side effect of the house?

From the shadows of an open door, a figure leapt into the hall, nearly colliding with me. I jumped back instinctively, my fists rising to defend myself. But it was only my double again. He cackled and fell into the floor, rolling about in a fit of glee.

"Too late!" he cried, over and over. "Too late! Too late!"

I fled back down the stairs, panic rising. What did he mean, too late?

His laughter abruptly ceased and I paused on the stairs, listening.

"Mr. Larae?"

I jumped, lost my footing, and tumbled down the rest of the stairs, catching a glimpse of Isabella just before my head collided with the floor.

When I opened my eyes, I was in a room I didn't recognize. A sheet had been draped over me, and as I started to sit up, my head pounding, I realized I was naked. The room was small, with only the cot I had been placed on, a night stand, and a chair, on which my clothes sat. My lyre had been propped up against it.

Slowly, and with many pauses as I listened for any sound outside my room. I dressed and slung my lyre back over my shoulder. I couldn't figure out why Isabella would have stripped me, but it didn't matter. I had to find the woman and figure out at way back to my own time.

As I took my first steps, I felt a sharp pain in right calf, painful enough that I paused and lifted my pant leg to examine it. A cut, blood crusted around it, revealed itself just below my knee. Had the fall caused it? Or... But no, that was silly.

I covered the wound and ventured back into the house, finding no one as I wound my way back to the third floor. This time I met no one, even though my pace had slowed thanks to my injury.

When at last I reached Imogene's room, the door swung open at my touch, hinges creaking loudly. There she sat, the woman I had seen over and over, but had never quite reached. She stared impassively out the window, as still as if she were made of stone.

All of the furniture had been removed, as well as all wall hangings and decorations. Just a bare, gray room with a dusty wooden floor remained. I approached her slowly, unsure what to say to her. I'd convinced myself that finding her would solve everything, that I would be returned to my own time and go on with life, writing my songs and seeking the next adventure. But finding her had solved nothing. I was still lost and confused and had no idea what to do next.

I moved closer, urging myself to say something, anything, and settled for kneeling beside her. Her skin was ashen and scored with fine lines, her dark hair streaked with silver. But her eyes were what unsettled me, for the blank depths revealed nothing but a lifeless shell.

"I see you've found her." I turned at the voice, finding Isabella standing behind me in the doorway. "She's the real reason you came here, isn't she?"

"What's wrong with her?" I asked. "Is she the reason the time continually shifts?"

"Imogene? No. She's not the cause."

I glanced back at the woman, my gorge rising. "You're saying this is Imogene?"

Isabella simply smiled.

The drawings, the time shifts... Had Imogene known this would happen? Had Isabella? Was it the house, or the woman who was to blame?

"Please, explain," I said, turning back to Isabella.

"There's nothing to explain, Mr. Larae. Please, come back downstairs. I'll make you some tea."

Isabella grabbed my arm, pulling me firmly toward the door. I wrenched away and returned to Imogene, half considering lifting her over my shoulder and carrying her out with me. Only I was certain the time would shift again before I even made it down the stairs.

"Come, Mr. Larae, you are distraught," Isabella said, reaching for me again. Two options were clear to me. I could go with Isabella, hoping to find my way to this version of Imogene again and together find a way out... Or I could grab her now and try to escape, hoping that when we emerged from the house it would be to my own time.

I looked down at her, but she still gazed vacantly at the window.

Don't try to save her.

That's what my double had said, but how could I just leave her without even trying? I remembered the fear in my double's voice, the terror when Isabella was mentioned. How long had he wandered the halls, trying to save her and return home while keeping his sanity? How long would I do the same?

"Mr. Larae, please." Isbella moved closer, her tone dripping honey as if she were speaking to an unruly child.

I touched Imogene's hand, feeling it crumble under mine as if she were made of clay. The broken bits fell to the ground as I pulled away, her hand ruined. I couldn't even touch her without her falling to pieces. She was too far gone.

"Oh, now look what you've done," Isabella said. "Please, Mr. Larae, I must insist you come back downstairs." As she moved, I noticed the blood stain on her sleeve, and a flash of silver, as if something were hidden up her sleeve.

I knew then, with absolute certainty, that I would spend the rest of my days in that house, either running from Isabella or staring mindlessly out the window with Imogene. There would be no dashing rescue, no tales of Eliott the hero. Not unless I could find the younger Imogene again and convince her to come with me. And then how long after that until I found my own time once more?

Dizziness swept over me and I nearly fell. Isabella rushed to my side, but I pulled away before she could touch me.

"There's no use fighting it," Isabella said. "It's already begun in you. Just look in a mirror if you don't believe me."

The house steals your time. Sucks it out of you and leaves you to rot.

I looked back at Imogene, whose gaze never wavered from the window.

Suddenly I began to laugh, for it had been in front of me all along. Before I'd even entered the house, Imogene had shown me the way out. All I had to do was take it.

"Lady Isabella, thank you for your hospitality," I said. "I will be leaving now. Do look for news of my next song. I'm sure you'll find it thrilling."

Then I bent over Imogene, kissing her forehead and whispering, "Thank you. And I'm sorry."

Part of her forehead crumbled away at my touch.

Without wasting any more time on words, or giving myself a chance to rethink my decision, I burst through the window, the glass shattering and cutting into my skin as the ground rose up to meet me.

When I woke, I lay in the doorway of The Manor, half in and half out. My head throbbed and my mouth tasted of blood, but I seemed to be fine otherwise. As I stood I caught sight of myself in a mirror, just inside the doorway. I was careful to keep one foot outside as I peered around at it. Instead of the reflection I was used to seeing—a young man in his twenties with dark brown hair—a middle-aged man stared back at me, streaks of silver running through his locks.

For a long moment I simply stared, wondering what, if anything, could be done. Only one thing was certain: I wouldn't fix anything by lingering in The Manor.

I checked on my lyre as I walked away from the house, but miraculously it appeared to be undamaged by my fall. Thank the gods for small favors. As I left, I glanced up at the top floor, seeing the familiar form of Imogene staring out. Next to her was my double, a version of me who had tried to save her, now trapped with her forever. There was no sign of Isabella.

When I arrived at the inn, the innkeeper didn't recognize me, which wasn't surprising. Out of curiosity I asked him what day it was, and was told with no uncertainty that it was Saturday the 25th. Exactly one week before I had arrived in Westfield.

I paid for another night and ordered dinner, then retreated to my room and pulled out my ledger. My pen flew over the page, adding to my notes in minute detail while the memory was still fresh. After my food arrived I ate absently, my mind still consumed with my task.

When I finished, I turned one more page, then wrote a brief message.

Go home. I know the odds are you won't listen to me...

The next morning, I gave my letter to the innkeeper with specific instructions, then adjusted my lyre and headed out into the world. The face looking back at me in the mirror was still foreign to me, and I suspected it would take me a while to get used to him. My knees ached, and the faintest trace of nausea lingered in my stomach, as if The Manor had left me with one final gift.

I hoped the younger me would listen this time, that he would be the one to break the cycle. Not likely, but I could dream. As I walked I began to whistle, the opening strains of a new song racing through my mind.

In far Westfield there is a house

Where time holds no sway...

J..H. Fleming started her first novel in the 9th grade. That novel will never see the light of day, but it sparked something that has resulted in numerous short stories and 8 novels so far. She received a Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing from the University of Central Arkansas, and it's very possible she'll try for a Master's at some point.

She owns roughly 1,200 books and spends her free time befriending dragons, fighting goblins, and learning the craft of the bards. J.H. lives in Northwest Arkansas with three companions: a giant teddy bear, a miniature Cerberus, and a water dragon.

https://www.someplacetobeflying.com/

Copyright © 2017 Maybe, Perhaps, The Other Guy by Roma Gray

All Rights Reserved

Maybe, Perhaps, The Other Guy

By Roma Gray

Claude shifted uncomfortably on the cement bench, watching the blood moon rise in the misty, grey sky. Only a few more minutes until it reached its apex. Tonight could be the night, or it might not be. Either way, Claude had waited through three blood moons now and really needed to move on. He would come back this way again another time.

The cemetery was silent in the cool, October night, save for a few crickets who did not fear the dead. Glancing around the rows of old headstones and crumbling mausoleums to verify he was alone, Claude reached into his jacket and unsnapped the leather safety strap on his gun holster.

Claude had to be ready in case he showed up.

A thick mist crawled its way along the ground, clinging to the ground and the underbrush like molasses. A red sheen had formed on the mist and began to vibrate. A high-pitch hum began, a sound that was half way between a death rattle and that sound fingernails make on chalk boards. Claude winced, the sound put his teeth on edge and penetrated his eardrums like an ice pick. Nonetheless, he did not flee, did not back away, despite the fact that every instinct he possessed told him to do so.

It was starting.

Claude stood up and watched the shadows under the center group of tombstones change. They vibrated and pulsed, then turned black as the ground opened up and sucked in all of the surrounding mist. The painful noise ended, followed by a rush of wind, and then complete silence, as though the hole had swallowed every noise in the vicinity.

Claude held his breath. Would tonight be the night? Would he show up?

The shuffling of feet and a loud grunt alerted him to the approach of another person. Not from behind him or through the graveyard, but from inside the holes that had just formed from the shadows of the graves.

A hand first appeared through the hole and then a head. Claude ducked down low behind a tombstone, making sure the person emerging from the newly formed doorway did not see him. He did not have to get a good look at the person crawling out onto the muddy ground surrounding the graves. He knew each line on the person's face, every speck in his blue eyes and every blonde hair on his head. He dreamed about that face every night—every single, damn night. That in itself was bad enough. But to know that he could not escape that face even when he was awake was pure torment. It waited for him everywhere—in every shiny surface, every mirror, every reflection, every place he went.

Oh, how he hated that face...how he hated that he had been born with that very same face.

Claude's identical twin climbed out of the hole, got to his feet, brushed himself off and then turned around and helped another person out of the hole: a boy about the age of ten or eleven. After that, the two of them helped yet a third person—a decidedly pregnant woman—into the empty graveyard.

Oh, please, not again! Claude mentally cried out to the universe. In the beginning, he cried out to God, but now he no longer believed one existed. After all, how could any God allow such horrors to happen?

None of that now, Claude, he told himself. You have a job to do, so get to it.

Screwing up his courage, Claude stood up and pointed the gun at the threesome.

"Stay right there!" he ordered.

The man whirled around and the boy jumped back. The woman was the last to react; she gasped, placing a protective hand over her large stomach.

Claude momentarily glanced away. The whole thing was obscene.

"Good to see you, friend," said the twin, recovering from the shock as a broad smile spread across his face. He then took a step toward Claude.

"I said, stay there!" ordered Claude once more, and the man stopped.

Not surprisingly, his twin began to laugh and said, "I saw you the last time I came through. I wondered if I would see you when I returned. I imagine you're shocked, frightened even, wondering how another man could be wearing your face. It's easy enough, although I'm not sure you're willing to accept the truth. You see, I am you."

Claude said nothing and stared back at the man blankly.

"It's confusing, I get it," said the twin, folding his arms across his chest, a gesture of confidence. He clearly felt safe and in control.

This idiot has no idea, thought Claude. And it's far too late now for me to educate him. Not that this usually works out anyway...

"How can you be in more than one place at a time, that's what you're thinking, right?" said the twin. "It's easy to understand, but not easy to admit. Quite simply, you're a god."

Claude almost choked. Well, hell, this is different. I've never heard that one before...

"No, seriously," said the man. "You're a god. And so am I."

"Okay..." stumbled Claude, his curiosity getting the better of him. "I'd really love to hear how you reached this amazing conclusion. Please, do tell."

The twin's smile grew broader, and Claude suppressed the urge to bust his nose. Oh, how he hated that smile!

"Well, you're young, you're...what?..thirty-two or thirty-three?" said the man. "The date is 1907 or 1908, right?"

Claude did not react; he had no desire to help this man in any way, shape, or form.

Time drew out, and the man with Claude's face seemed to realize he was not going to receive an answer so he continued. "Well, for me, it's 1990. I bet you wonder how's that possible, don't you?"

The twin took a few steps back and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. The boy also looked amused.

"Recognize me?" said the boy. "I'm you...you when you were ten years old."

The boy and man both snickered, as did the woman. None of them seemed afraid anymore, and the man stepped over to the hole where the three had just emerged and pointed into it.

"That down there, son, is a portal to another dimension," said the twin. "There are different portals around the world, each one opening only on a blood moon, and with each minute that passes it connects to a different parallel world. In some worlds, time moves at a different speed, in some worlds, time passes backwards. But in every single one of those worlds, there is another me...another you...another us! I was born in 1875, but by using the portal I have been able to jump between dimensions, aging forward and back at will."

"Ah!" said Claude, finally catching on. "It's the whole immortality thing...gottcha, gottcha. Thus, you think you're a god! Okay, now I get it."

The man shook his head. "You don't believe me."

This time Claude returned his own mirthless laugh. "No, not at all, it makes a lot of sense now. I appreciate you taking the time to explain that one. I always wondered why...how anyone could..." he said, pointing to the woman, knowing full well that a look of disgust was showing on his face. He could see the offense in the woman's blue eyes. The blue eyes of his nightmares...the blue eyes that followed him in all of his reflections. "But it makes sense now. If you're a god, you have to maintain the purity of the bloodline, right? Like the pharaohs of old who married their sisters or mothers. Except you took it one step further, didn't you? You bred with yourself! Because she's also me—Claude Jenkins, born in1875 in the slums of London—only a female version of me, am I right?"

The expression on the three versions of Claude were priceless. Serious, but resolute, confident in their own sick actions. They believed they were gods, and this was their way of continuing the god bloodline. He had never understood it before now. How could he have not seen it?

Except, of course, they weren't gods, and they weren't right...

"By the way, it's nineteen aught eight," said Claude.

The man blinked twice then asked, "What?"

"Aught eight," continued Claude. "That's what they called it back then, not 1908, you imbecile. Hell, even I remember that and for me it's 2017! I know all about the damn portals, I've used them for years. Tracking down versions of me, people like you, people who breed!"

The man took a step back, fear now returning to his face as his eyes drifted back down to the gun Claude had in his hand. "You've been waiting for me to see...see if I married? You're here to kill me because you've decided we're immoral?"

Claude shook his head while simultaneously pushing down the bile rising up in his stomach. "No. I'm here to kill you because I'm trying to save this world from the monster the two of you have created!"

Without warning, the gun fired, striking the twin in the head. As his brain exploded through the back of his skull, the woman screamed hysterically and the boy tried to run. Claude was quicker than the boy, had learned to be quicker over many, many decades of practice, and in one swift movement he fired again. The bullet penetrated the boy's heart from the back, and the hollow shell tore a massive hole through the front of the chest. The child collapsed to the ground, a few feet from his older self.

The woman was sobbing now, backing up toward the doorway to the other dimensions, trying to escape. "Please, please, don't kill my baby!" She pleaded repeatedly.

"That's not a baby," said Claude, furious with her for creating this situation, and absentmindedly pointing the gun at her face—the face he so hated. "That thing is a monster!"

Claude pulled the trigger, and the woman's body jerked backwards, the face of his nightmares dissolving into a fine, red mist. Her body struck a gravestone, then collapsed into the muddy ground.

Almost immediately, Claude realized his mistake. She had been too far along in the pregnancy; the baby was almost full-term.

The sound of a thousand insects buzzed, shrieking inside of his head, and he screamed from the agonizing pain.

Damn it, fight it, Claude, fight it! He ordered himself as he dropped to his knees. You know what's happening, stop it before it's too late! If you fail, the blood of billions will be on your hands!

Claude opened his eyes and saw that his gun was now in his face, being held in place by his own hand. The nameless thing in the woman's womb had already forced his mind to position the gun, and in just one or two more seconds...

With his free hand, Claude pushed the gun away, slamming the hand with the gun hard against a tombstone, He felt bones crack, but he didn't care. He struck it against the stone repeatedly until the gun dropped to the ground.

"You're not going to beat me, you hear me, you monster," growled Claude as he crawled toward the woman.

Her stomach was moving, jerking from side to side as the thing inside of her tried to claw its way out. This was Claude's last chance, and he knew it. The monster's concentration on him had weakened as it tried to free itself before it suffocated in a dead body. Next to the boy, Claude saw a shovel and moved quickly toward it.

The fabric of the woman's shirt turned red, indicating the monster had breached her stomach. A high-pitched squeal shattered the night air and a clawed fist tore free of the shirt and reached for the sky.

Time was running out...

Claude slammed the sharp, metal point of the shovel into the woman's stomach, blood splattering into the air and an unholy, death howl echoed in Claude's skull. His right hand was broken and of very little use to him, but his left arm was strong, and that combined with the adrenaline in his system, was enough to drive the metal of the shovel into her like a surgical blade. He jerked it out and slammed it into her over and over again until the thing's cries faded. Finally, feeling the controlling tug in his head fade, he walked back over to the gun, retrieved it, and emptied it into the woman's womb.

Just to be safe.

Finally victorious, Claude collapsed to the blood-drenched mud. For a long time, he sat there, tears rolling down his face. The tears turned into deep sobs, as visions of the worlds he hadn't been able to save flooded into his mind. So many versions of himself had done the same thing, bred with each other, and the result were also always the same: A hideous, vile monster. The creature could control minds, force people to do things against their will, all so it could get into power. Sometimes it would become the President of a country or sometimes it declared itself the Emperor of the Earth. It didn't matter the title or the position. The monster's goal was the same.

To bring about the Apocalypse and destroy all of mankind.

It took a lot of work to murder billions of people. Rivers of blood from the tormented ran into the oceans, and smoke from the burning bodies turned the sky black. The sight, the stench, the misery...and when it reached that point there was nothing left to do but leave. These worlds were lost to all. Nothing could stop the beast once it got into power.

With a trembling hand, Claude wiped away the tears on his face. "The beast," he said to himself, the gears in his mind finally putting the pieces together. "The other me...he almost had it right, didn't he? He thought we were gods—but we're not. Instead...instead, maybe, perhaps, we're the other guy..."

Looking down in the black hole of the portal, he saw red waves of energy licking at the sides of the pit like flames.

Like flames...

What had happened to the other guy—to Satan—in the old bible stories? thought Claude to himself. He was cast down into the pit of Hell. The pit of Hell...

And it had indeed been hell for him, in every way imaginable.

"No wonder God doesn't answer my prayers," muttered Claude, transfixed by this new realization. "I mean, why would he? The only question left is, why doesn't he answer the prayers of the people that are killed by my creation...by the Beast? What did they do that they deserved such a fate?"

The portal flickered and vanished, the blood moon finally starting its descent. The midnight hour had passed; it was over.

Slowly, Claude stood up, and walked away from the scene of carnage. He needed to get back to the motel, clean up, get his arm fixed, and get ready for the next blood moon.

He couldn't stay here; there were so many other worlds that he needed to save.

Roma Gray writes what she refers to as "Trick-or-Treat Thrillers", stories with a spooky, creepy, Halloween feel to them.

She currently has five published books: "Gray Shadows Under a Harvest Moon" (short story collection), "The Hunted Tribe: Declaration of War" (novel), "Celebration of Horror" (short story collection), "Jurassic Jackaroo: Jasper's Junction" (novel) and "Haunted House Harbor: Humanity's Hope" (novel). In addition to this, she has approximately 30 published short stories.

Roma lives in a haunted house in Oregon with her black cat, Chihuahua, and parrot.

www.trickortreatthrillers.com

Copyright © 2017 The Last Staff Party (Or Reality Used To Be A Friend of Mine) by Mark Woods

All Rights Reserved

The Last Staff Party (Or Reality Used To Be A Friend of Mine)

By Mark Woods

The staff party had already been going full swing for a good couple of hours when the lights all suddenly went out, along with the music and all the rest of the power. The emergency lighting over all of the fire exits, likewise, flickered for a moment before also proceeding to go out – leaving the room in complete and total darkness.

The only source of illumination now came solely from the moon and stars outside, shining through the windows of the hotel's main function room.

"Anyone got 50p for the meter?" someone joked nervously, their voice barely recognizable in the darkness, from the first sounds of panic that could be heard stirring in their tone.

It didn't matter how brave you were, Mark thought. There was something about the dark that made everyone afraid of it on some kind of instinctive level, even if some people were better at hiding it than others – a left-over response from back when everyone lived in caves and the dark really was something to be feared.

"No need to panic; I'm sure the lights will come back on in a minute," Richard, the General Manager of the hotel said, speaking to the rest of his staff and trying to reassure them all.

Tonight was supposed to have been their staff party – a reward for all the hard work they'd put in over Christmas.

The hotel always held a party for the staff at this time, every year, during the hotel's 'quiet time' that always occurred every January after the busy festive period was finally over for yet another eleven months – even if this January hadn't been particularly quiet compared to previous years. The owners and management had struggled to find a Sunday night when the hotel wasn't full to capacity and so, this year, the annual staff party had come a little later than normal.

And now this...

Suddenly the sound of a massive and tremendous explosion could be heard coming from somewhere outside, as the sky outside was momentarily lit up like daylight by a furious array of angry hues of red, orange, and luminescent green, reminiscent of the Aurelia borealis – the phenomena better known as The Northern Lights.

A second passed, and then every window on that same side of the building as the one the explosion had sounded from, visibly began to shake, as the glass within was suddenly rocked by what felt like 100 mph winds in what could only be described as some kind of after-shock.

For a moment, it felt as if the whole building was being shaken on its foundations as the floor beneath their feet bucked like in some kind of earthquake, almost sending many of them off-balance.

Mark, the hotel's Sous chef, was one of the few to keep his feet – and only then because he had once worked on passenger ferries as a chef many years ago and so was more used to the floor rocking and rolling beneath him than some of his other colleagues.

In the darkness, one of the girls screamed...and then everything was still again as though nothing had even happened.

Ripples across the surface of the window, indicated that the wind outside was still blowing, but for the moment, at least, it appeared to have died down somewhat, as suddenly as it had sprung up.

"What. The. Fuck. Was. That?" The hotel's head chef, David, asked.

Before anyone even had a chance to respond, the windows were assaulted again, but not by winds this time, but by a barrage of dead birds.

There were quite literally hundreds of them, some of them appearing to be still alive, barely, by the flapping of their wings, but the majority already dead – their necks snapped like they had been subjected to some kind of tremendous force prior to them being flung against the glass.

They hit the windows with such power, and such force, that the sound of cracking glass could be audibly heard in the silence, even though none of the windows appeared broken.

More of the girls in the room started to scream, and shriek, at the sight – some of them hysterically – one of them even began sobbing, she was so distressed.

"Oh my God, oh my God, we're all going to die," she could be heard blubbering.

A couple of the other girls pulled her aside and did their best to try and comfort and reassure her – it was difficult to tell who was who in the darkness, Mark thought – though he noted not one of them tried to tell her that everything would be all right.

Until they had a better idea for certain what was happening, no-one in the room wanted to be the first to raise false hope.

Finally, again from outside – from somewhere down the bottom of the hill the hotel sat upon - presumably from somewhere across the nearby Norfolk Broads the way the sound carried, came the sound of an almighty roar like something primordial, something ancient, something prehistoric just been awoken from its timeless slumber.

Once again, the windows visibly shook.

Once again, thankfully, none of them broke.

"Shit on it," somebody whispered, their voice carrying in the silence. Mark thought it might have been one of the Polish or Hungarian housekeepers from upstairs judging from the strange accent, though because he did not have much to do with the housekeeping side of the business, he couldn't be sure. "What the fuck was that?"

No-one said anything...

From far across the water, the roar came again...

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, suddenly, Richard the manager, spoke up.

"I'm going to go and try and see what's going on," he said, moving towards the fire exit that led out onto the terrace and then from there, down out into the hotel's back garden.

The hotel was a very popular wedding venue and so the back garden was often used for photographs. Thick, bushy conifers and a tall oak tree that was probably older than Methuselah, blocked their view from here across The Norfolk Broads that lay at the bottom of the hill, just across the Yarmouth road, but if you passed beyond the trees you could see all the way across the water to the other side, where the nearby Greenacres Scientific Research Institute was located. If something had gone up and there had been an explosion, the chances were fairly high it might have come from there.

What the roar afterwards, which sounded like it had come from some kind of monster might have been, was less certain, but Richard needed to take a look outside anyway because if something had happened, it was his responsibility to consider whether or not he might have to evacuate the hotel of all its staff and guests for their own personal safety.

"Why you? Why does it always have to be you?" his wife, Victoria asked. "We have a kid now, you shouldn't be risking yourself by going outside. Send someone else, one of the others..." she whispered.

Since having a baby over a year and a half ago, Victoria had returned to her previous job as Duty Manager, but now only worked part-time three days a week rather than full-time. Nonetheless, she still swanned about like she owned the place and had kind of gotten used to getting her own way.

Unfortunately, the one person she couldn't boss around was her husband, Richard – and not just because he was above her, but also because Richard wasn't one to be told what to do by anyone. Including his own wife.

It was a wonder, Mark thought, she hadn't learnt that by now, but then she had been just as stubborn in all the years he had known her and worked here at the hotel and there was a reason why they called her 'Sticky' behind her back. It was because she always walked around with an attitude, and was always strolling about the hotel with a face on like she had a stick rammed up her arse.

"It's my job, Victoria," Richard told her now. "My job. I'm the General Manager, not any of them. It's my responsibility. Besides, someone needs to find out what the fuck is going on. Might as well be me."

"I'll come with you," David said, speaking up.

He and Richard were close and got on fairly well for two people who worked on opposite sides – one in the kitchen, the other front of house – when there was normally tension in most other hotels.

David turned towards Mark, his Sous-chef.

"You stay here," he told him, "and try and help keep everyone calm."

The two of them headed towards the fire exit at the rear of the function room. Pushing down the pull bar, both men prepared to step outside.

P.K, one of the other Deputy Managers, went with them.

"Stay by this door, keep it open," Richard told him. "If anything happens to us out there and it doesn't look like we're going to make it back for any reason, then shut it and get everyone else further back in the hotel – away from the function room and all these windows."

"What do you think you expect to find out there?" P.K asked.

"I don't know, that's the problem," Richard confessed. "But something killed all those birds, and whatever it was that made that roaring sound – it sounded like it was big, and it sounded like it was alive. We're just going down to the back of the garden, beyond the trees, so we can look out across The Broads and see if we can see what might be happening and then we'll be straight back.

"You ready?" he asked, turning towards David.

"Let's do this, and quickly," David said. His own wife, Shelia, was waiting for him back there in the function room and was none too happy either that he was venturing out there into the dark unknown, beyond the confines and safety of the hotel, but he too wasn't one to be told what to do.

As they stepped out into the night, the smell of ozone and rotting eggs drifted in – the local sewage plant was only a few miles away in the other direction, but even when the wind blew the right way, even then, it never smelled like this.

It was a chemical, almost sulphuric smell – like the one you might expect to find in a high school chemistry lab – and this made both men think that whatever it was that might have happened, it seemed even more likely now than before, that the Scientific Institute, Greenacres, must be involved.

There were lots of rumors and stories about the illicit experiments they were always, supposedly, getting up to over there, and were even supposed to have been responsible for the stories of giant spiders going around a couple of summers ago that, in the end, had proven to be unfounded after several weeks of people panicking and locking their doors and windows in a bid to try and keep the supposedly deadly arachnids out. Some people said they had only spread the stories to distract and deflect what they'd really been up to.

What the fuck did they do now? David found himself wondering, as he and Richard approached the end of the garden and the trees that lay beyond at the perimeter of the hotel's property.

They could smell smoke now, and hear the sounds of sirens – Police, Fire, and Ambulance, the whole shebang, rushing down the Yarmouth Road, headed towards the bridge that would take them across The Broads and over to where Greenacres was.

Another siren – an old WWII air raid siren, often used as a flood warning - also began sounding, and a couple of what sounded like fighter planes roared overhead, followed by what sounded suspiciously like an army helicopter.

Neither man could see much from here, but there was still a glow in the sky and as they stood there, trying to see through the thick fog that was starting to emerge off the surface of The Broads, Richard thought he could hear the sound of several other, smaller explosions coming from over in the direction of Greenacres.

"We better get back..." Richard told his friend, but before they could – another massive roar, like the one they'd heard before, suddenly split the air.

Mark watched from the safety of the function room through one of the big picture windows. The glow from earlier had dissipated somewhat and faded, though still there, and it wasn't long before the two men had been swallowed entirely by the darkness, both of the night and cast down by the massive trees at the end of the garden.

A thick, heavy mist had begun to drift up the hill – supposedly coming up from off The Broads – and this wasn't exactly helping keep Richard and David, in sight either.

Sheila, David's wife – not normally known for being overly sympathetic - had gathered all the girls in one corner and was doing her best to comfort and calm them. Sticky was arguing with her, trying to tell her she should have done more to try and stop both their husbands from leaving but Sheila was having none of it.

The rest of the guys, other than P.K who still waited at the fire exit for both men's return, had joined Mark by the windows to try and see what was going on.

"What do you think is out there?" Ross, one of the other chefs asked him.

"How the fuck should I know?" Mark answered back, a stupid question if ever he'd heard one. He had no more idea than anyone else what was going on.

As the sound of the roar they'd all heard earlier came again - splitting the air, but closer now – David and Richard began pelting back up the garden again, emerging from out of the thick, heavy fog, legging it back from whatever it was they'd seen, as fast as their legs could carry them.

"OPEN THE DOOR...OPEN THE DOOR..." Richard was shouting, and then, "NO, CLOSE IT...CLOSE THE DOOR...CLOSE THE FUCKING DOOR..." as he suddenly realized whatever it was that was chasing them, neither man was going to make it back into the function room in time.

"GET EVERYONE OUT," he shouted to P.K, still standing guard. "GET EVERYONE OUT OF THE FUNCTION ROOM AND AWAY FROM THE WINDOWS..."

Richard, the faster of the two, was only a few yards from the fire exit when something came out of the mist and darkness, grabbed him around the waist and pulled him back into the shadows, out of sight of those watching from the function room.

Mark thought he saw a massive tentacle of darkness wrap around his manager just before he was pulled out of sight, but couldn't be sure.

David was still running and had almost made it to the door when something reached down from somewhere high up above, and speared his former Head Chef directly through his chest with what looked like a big, black talon or claw.

David collapsed on the patio, blood pouring from his mouth, reaching out with one hand before he too, was pulled back and swallowed by the darkness of the thick fog that was now getting even closer and starting to surround and enclose the outside of the hotel.

"You heard him," Mark said, doing his best to usher everyone away, back from the windows. "You heard Richard, get back to the main bar – get away from the windows."

He turned to P.K, still standing there gawking at what he'd just witnessed.

"You heard him too, right?" Mark said. "Close and lock that fucking door and let's get everyone out into the rest of the hotel and away from here where there's less windows for those things out there to get through."

Shelia, Mark noted, was still looking at the last place she'd seen her husband; her mouth wide open with shock.

"Come on, Shelia," he said. "You too, we need to get out of here and keep everyone else safe."

Shelia seemed to open her mouth even impossibly wider, and then began to scream.

Victoria – Sticky – was already up and pushing her way outside before P.K could even think of stopping her.

"RICHARDDDD..." she yelled as she brushed past P.K, knocking him aside. "RICHARRRRRDDDDDD...."

She, like Richard, disappeared out into the darkness...

"No wait," Mark called out, too late to stop her from leaving – distracted as he was, doing his best to try and deal with Shelia.

Before he could stop her, Shelia was pushing her own way out of his arms and then suddenly, was also out the door as she too ran off into the night.

Fuck, Mark thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...

He was determined not to let anyone else go running off.

"P.K," he shouted. "For fuck's sake, shut that fucking door...NOW, GODDAMMIT BEFORE ANYONE ELSE GOES OUT THERE!"

Richard's body suddenly flew out of the darkness and smashed into one of the windows with a solid thump – like a slab of meat being slammed down onto a butcher's block.

His head had been smashed, pulverized, and as his body slid down the window and onto the patio outside, bits of what looked like brain and cranial tissue slid down the glass behind it, amidst a mess of blood and gore.

There was a big crack now in the glass and as Mark watched, he swore he saw it starting to widen.

"EVERYONE OUT...EVERYONE OUT AND QUICKLY...THE ROOM'S BEEN COMPROMISED..." he bellowed.

Everyone, having seen and witnessed the same thing he had, all panicked now and fled from the room screaming.

The D.J, Barry, who had been working at the hotel on and off for years, did his best to try and calm them and get them out of the room in an organized fashion, but he was fighting a losing battle, Mark saw.

"I tried my mobile," he told Mark. "There's no signal – nothing. No 3G, no 4G, no 5G – nothing. We can't call for help. We're stuck here..."

"I tried mine too," P.K said, "Over by the door. No signal either."

The phone signal up here sometimes, occasionally, fluctuated, but normally, if you moved around the function room, you could often get a couple of bars in one of the corners– enough to make a quick call at least before you lost connection again.

Mark pulled his own out - one of the latest Banana phones, the B6 XX Plus - but likewise, his was showing no signal, no internet, no Wi-Fi, nothing. It was essentially now, no more than a paperweight or a brick.

As all the staff moved through the restaurant and into the main bar area, Mark kept trying... as did several others he saw...but there was nothing.

There was no point trying the hotel's land-line at Reception because that ran off the main power supply and with no electric...

It was almost like here, trapped in the hotel, they had been cut off from the rest of the world...

Though on the outside he was doing his best to remain calm, on the inside Mark was fighting his own inner panic.

He had no idea what was going on, or what was happening, but someone needed to take charge of the situation he realized, or else all of them were dead and seeing as how, currently, no-one else seemed willing to volunteer...

"Ross, go round the back where the office is and round up some candles," Mark said, addressing his fellow chef. "Martin, you go with him," he said, talking to one of their kitchen porters. "There should be some under Richard's desk, or if not under Sticky's. Grab as many as you can and bring them back here. You..."

Mark pointed to a couple of the Polish / Hungarian/ Eastern European or whatever they were, male housekeepers, currently talking amongst themselves in whatever language it was they spoke, seemingly involved in a heated discussion – no doubt about what they intended to do next.

"Look after them," he indicated the other waitresses, bar and function girls, and fellow female housekeepers, all gathered together and whispering and sobbing in a group in one corner of the dark, shadowy bar area. "Try and keep them calm, or as calm as you can. I don't want anyone else running off – there's safety in numbers and if we all stick together, maybe we can all actually survive this. Whatever this is...

"Barry," Mark turned to the resident D.J. "You're an entertainer – go and entertain them. Try and keep their spirits up, get everyone singing a song or whatever like they did in the blitz, I don't know. Then, when Ross and Martin get back, get everyone a drink. Obviously, we won't be able to use any of the pumps with the power out, so crack open the spirits..."

"Don't you think everyone's already had enough to drink?" Barry asked.

Before all this had started, the party had been going and going strong for a good couple of hours and everyone had been hitting the free drinks hard, not to mention all the pre-drinks people had consumed at home before-hand, before coming out, to help get them in the mood...

"Get them more pissed, they'll be less scared," Mark said, not sure about the logic behind his thinking, but oh well... "Never hear of Dutch courage?"

Mark, himself, had been hitting the vodka and cranberry juice ever since joining the party, after finishing his shift in the kitchen at nine o'clock this evening, coupled with a few strong Black Russians for good measure. He loved Black Russians, but they were a bit sweet and so he had been mixing it up with vodka and cranberry every other drink as well and by now, was starting to feel the after-effects of all the alcohol he'd consumed as it attempted to battle the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"You sure you're okay?" Barry asked him, noting Mark's voice was ever so slightly slurring and he was starting to sway a little from side-to-side where he was attempting to hold himself still.

"I'm fine," Mark reassured him. "I just think I could do with another drink myself after seeing my head chef and manager ripped apart in front of me."

He was less bothered about Sheila and Sticky disappearing off into the night – he had never gotten on particularly well with either of them at the best of times, and had thought both women more than a tad abrasive if he were honest.

Still, nonetheless, he didn't want to think too much about what might have happened to them out there.

"P.K," Mark said, turning to the deputy manager and realistically, the next person in charge above him. "How many residents do we have? You and I need to start going upstairs and knocking door-to-door and letting them know what's happening; get them down here with us so everyone is downstairs in one place."

"Five, I think...no, four," P.K told him. "Mr. Hammond never showed up, e-mailed a cancellation earlier this evening before Reception closed down for the party. They're all up on the second floor..."

"That's a point," Mark suddenly thought. "Where's Richard Scott?"

Richard Scott was the night porter, and though he had popped in to the party briefly earlier, had been supposed to be setting up some tables and chairs in the main bar area for an early wedding reception the next day so they were ready ahead of time.

Since they'd come through to the bar, he was nowhere to be seen and because Mark very rarely had much to do with him normally, working in the kitchen and usually finishing long before Richard Scott came on shift, this was the first time Mark had noted his absence.

"Probably up doing his rounds," P.K said.

As part of Richard Scott's duties, part of his job during the night was doing regular patrols of the hotel to make sure everything was all safe and secure and that no-one was trying to break in, or cause any trouble, anything like that.

"We need to find him as well," Mark said. "Get him down here with us..."

"What about the residents?" P.K asked. "All the door locks are electronic, we're not going to be able to get anybody out."

"They're only electronic from our side," Mark said. "The guests will still be able to open the doors from their side..."

"Of course," P.K mumbled. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking..."

"Well, you need to," Mark snapped back. "I can't do this on my own and I need you to stay with me on this. I know we've both had a drink or two..." – an exaggeration if ever he'd heard one – "but fuck me, if we don't at least try and keep our heads and our wits about us and stay calm, we're going to lose control of this situation we're in and then all of us will be fucked."

Ross and Martin came back with their hands full of candles. Martin was lighting their way with his zippo.

"We found these," Ross said.

"Then light them and pass them around," Mark said. "Me and P.K are headed off upstairs to alert the guests so all of us are all down here in one place when things either go back to normal, or someone comes to rescue us."

They each took a candle and started for the stairs.

Upstairs, Mark and P.K reluctantly split up.

"Rooms 27 and 28 are occupied," P.K said, "and then rooms 40 and 41 on the other side of the hall. It'll be quicker if you take one side and I take the other rather than both of us going together, then we can meet up back here in a few minutes."

"Good plan," Mark said, "but I'm not sure about splitting up."

"Richard Scott's around here somewhere, has to be..." P.K said, reminding him.

"That's unless he's done his usual trick and found an empty room to have a little nap in like he normally does," Mark said, "figuring he can probably get forty winks in while all of us are occupied, partying downstairs."

"Then fuck him," P.K said forcefully. "That guy fucking pisses me off. If he's decided to go AWOL, then that's his problem – our first priority is the guests."

"Back in five, yeah?" Mark said.

P.K nodded, then realized that he probably couldn't be seen in the near total darkness illuminated only by their candles.

"Yell, if you see anything freaky," he said, then headed off, away from Mark, down the hall.

Mark crossed to the other side and began walking down his own corridor, looking for rooms 40 and 41. Unlike P.K, being a chef, Mark was less familiar where all the rooms up here were located, so was more reliant on trying to see the room numbers in the darkness.

Mark hated being up here in the upstairs corridors.

With the hotel's aging and threadbare carpets, it always made him think of that old Kubrick movie walking around up here - The Shining, he thought now – and it was even worse walking around up here in the dark.

At any minute, Mark half-expected to see a couple of twin girls come strolling down the corridor towards him squealing, "Red Rum, Red Rum..." and wielding an axe each between them.

Mark felt a wave of giddiness and had to rest his hand on the wall for a moment.

It felt spongy and soft and for a second, Mark thought his hand was going to sink into it.

As he felt it starting to solidify again, Mark quickly pulled his hand away just in case the wall set around him, trapping him there, his hand stuck in the wall.

What the fuck was that? he wondered. My imagination, just my imagination...

Only...it hadn't felt like his imagination, it had felt real.

He looked up from where he was standing and shone his candle down the hallway.

It stretched off for what looked like an impossible distance, into the darkness, on either side of him.

How far have I come? he wondered.

He held up his candle to a nearby door.

Room 12...

But that was impossible. Room 12 was on the opposite side of the corridor where P.K was currently walking, not here. There was no way he could have gotten turned around and lost his bearings that much – not even in the dark.

He looked again and the room number had changed.

Room 666 it now said.

Impossible - we don't have a room 666, Mark thought.

A wave of dizziness rushed through him again, and this time Mark staggered like he was a kid just coming off a roundabout at the park.

Got to get out of here, got to get back downstairs, Mark thought, suddenly feeling panicky and anxious.

He felt like the walls, and the darkness, were both closing in around him. Like something was moving down the small corridor in the darkness towards him coming to get him, coming to rip him, and maul him, and tear his very soul apart...

Mark turned to flee, back the way he'd come, and then his whole world shifted again and suddenly he was no longer upstairs. He was in the short passageway behind Reception that led to Richard the manager's office, and where he had previously sent Ross and the kitchen porter, Martin, to go get some candles with no idea how it was he had gotten there.

What. The. Actual. Fuck...he thought, and not for the first time.

He fumbled his way in the dark, past the ice machine and towards the door that would, hopefully, lead him back out and around towards the front of the hotel and the main bar again – his candle having been dropped somewhere, no doubt back up in the upstairs hallway.

He found the door, opened the handle, and stepped outside to make his way round to the bar.

Barry met him half-way there.

"I thought you were upstairs?" he said, puzzled. "I got everyone a drink, then heard a noise back here and thought I better investigate to see who it was in case it was that tosser of a night porter of yours, Richard Scott, sleeping behind here and having just woken up. Where's P.K? And where are the other guests?"

"I don't know," Mark confessed. "I must have got all turned around somehow. One minute I was upstairs, the next minute I was back down here – I have no idea how. I don't know where P.K is, but I'm assuming he's still upstairs somewhere - knocking up the guests and letting them know what's going on. As for Richard Scott, I never saw him while I was there so God alone knows where he is either."

"Doesn't matter now, anyway," Barry said.

"What do you mean?" Mark asked.

For the first time, he noticed the whole of the Reception area they were walking into, leading into the main bar, was all lit up as though by floodlights.

Turning towards the big, glass double doors that led outside, around the front of the hotel, Mark saw a great big truck parked outside the front entrance, shining its bright headlights directly into the hotel, its engine still running.

"We've been rescued," Barry said. "That's what I mean – the army are here..."

As he followed Barry back into the main bar area, Mark was greeted by the welcoming sight of soldiers in army uniforms, currently in the process of getting the waitresses, housekeepers and other staff all ready for evacuation. The soldiers were being led by a familiar face that Mark instantly recognized.

"BEN!" Mark shouted out in greeting and the guy, who seemed to be in charge of what was going on and the other soldiers, turned around towards him with a big grin on his face.

"MARK! How the devil are you, man?" the other man said. "Long time, no see, dude. I wondered if you might still be working up here when I got the shout out to head up here, but I thought surely you must have seen sense and left by now..."

Ben and Mark had worked together in the kitchen, back about nine or ten years ago now, back when Ben was still seventeen, still finding his feet and unsure what he wanted to do with his life.

He had been washing up at the time, but had eventually left the hotel to go and do basic training at nearby Swanton Marley so he could enlist and join the army.

Mark and Ben had gotten on pretty well and been fairly close at the time - and Ben had even popped back a few times in the intervening years since then, to stop by and say hi.

Mark knew through a few mutual friends that he and Ben shared, that Ben had served time out in Iraq and the Middle East for a while, and even been stationed there for a bit, and had quickly made his way up the ranks because of his impressive attitude and dedication to his duty.

This was the first time the two of them had seen each other in years.

"Ben, tell me, man – what the sweet hairy fuck is going on?"

"There's been a state of National Emergency called," Ben said. "All up and down the country. We've been given orders to help evacuate the local area and bring as many people as we can find back to the army base at Swanton Marley – but it's weird, so far we've not found many survivors.

"It's like everyone has just disappeared. When I heard your hotel being mentioned, I knew I just had to be the one that came up here and so I volunteered to be the one to lead the way, just in case you might still be working here.

"Looks like I was right," he said with a grin, and then more seriously, "Barry told me what happened with David and Sheila, Richard and Victoria by the way...I'm sorry, man."

"It's okay," Mark said, "Richard was a bit of a dick anyway, but I just wish there could have been something more I could have done to try and save David. But you still haven't answered my question - what the actual fuck is going on?"

"I'll explain in the cab on the way back to barracks," Ben said. He turned towards the people in the bar.

"Now listen up," he said. "We're going to get you out of here in two batches because we can't get you all in one truck, but we are going to get you all out of here, I promise. First group – follow my men out to the truck, quickly and orderly. The rest of you, wait until the other truck is in position and then my men will lead you out there as well – quickly and quietly and also in an orderly fashion.

"Mark," Ben said, turning back to his former friend, "you ride in the front with me and I'll tell everything I know, but it's not much I warn you and even what I can tell you, you're probably not going to believe anyway."

"Wait," Mark said, suddenly remembering P.K. "There's still people upstairs; one of the managers, P.K – you won't remember him, he started here about a year or two after you left – went upstairs to try and rouse the guests and escort them back down here, but he's not come down yet. And the night-porter, Richard Scott – yes, he's still here – he's still up there too, somewhere we think, or else somewhere else in the hotel."

"It's okay," Ben said. "I'll send a couple of my men after them..."

He pointed to a couple of soldiers.

"You and you," he commanded. "We still have a few bodies loose somewhere in the hotel. Take a couple of men with you, go and round them up, then bring them back down here for Evac."

He turned back to Mark.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" he asked. "You ready or what? Let's get you and these others rescued, shall we?"

They set off immediately, the minute all the others coming with them had been loaded in the back, driving off into the darkness towards what was, at least for now, supposedly and potentially, a safe haven. The local army barracks at Swanton Marley.

If nothing else, Mark thought, at least they would be surrounded by soldiers – that had to be better than being stuck back at the hotel surrounded by gods knew what waited for them outside.

"So," Mark said. "Tell me what you know. What the hell's been going on tonight, and what did you mean when you said, and I quote, 'a state of National Emergency has been called?' What the fuck's been going on? This was supposed to be the night of our staff party, and the next thing any of us know, all Hell is breaking loose outside..."

"There was an accident up at Greenacres," Ben explained. "An explosion, and some kind of fire. They were attempting to conduct some kind of experiment apparently, and something went wrong. Very wrong."

"Fucking Greenacres," Mark cursed half under his breath.

For as long as anyone could remember there had always been all sorts of rumors flying around about the sorts of secret and illicit experiments that were allegedly being carried out up there, but the Institute had never once, in all these years, ever been found culpable of any wrong-doing mainly because no-one could ever come up with any proof to back up their accusations.

It had only been a matter of time, Mark thought, before something up there went wrong and everything all blew up in their faces and now, it looked like, that time was finally here.

"What did they do?" Mark asked Ben now. "Tell me, Ben – what did they fucking do?"

"Just before we left to patrol the local area, including your hotel, and pick up any survivors, a couple of our guys brought this scientist bloke in who worked up there at Greenacres. I wasn't supposed to be listening, but I managed to eavesdrop on some of what he was telling one of my superior officers about what had gone on up there, about what must have happened, and I heard him mentioning something about trying to open something called an Einstein-Rosen bridge. You know what that is?"

Mark shook his head.

"Well apparently, it's like this doorway or gateway between worlds. Greenacres was just one of several labs, all up and down the country, trying to create one and tonight, supposedly, was the night they and several of the other labs, were all going to try and attempt opening one of these doorways, all at the same time, so they could correlate and compare the results. Only something went wrong.

The machines the labs were using must have all malfunctioned somehow, because no sooner had the scientists managed to open up one of these doorways than they found they could not shut them again. Things started coming through, impossible things, things that had no purpose even existing in this world...the kind of things that normally you might only expect to see inhabiting your worst nightmares, and it wasn't long before it quickly became apparent that the scientists had lost control. Which was about when they called in us...the army.

Have you ever heard of the many worlds theory? About how there are all these different versions of our own universe, all existing alongside each other, where each and every single action any of us ever made, every possibility that ever could have happened is all continually played out, separated from our own world, our own dimension, by only the thinnest of margins?

Well, apparently, what Greenacres and all these other labs did tonight was open up the connecting doors between these worlds so that now, all of these different realities have started to cross over into ours. Imagine a world where all the dinosaurs never died out; a world where man did not evolve into the dominant species, well now all these alternate realities have all started to bleed into ours– and that's what's been going on tonight. But it's more than that. Have you experienced anything odd tonight? Like sudden and inexplicable feelings of de ja vu? Sudden waves of sickness, or giddiness, that come out of nowhere and make you feel like you want to spew up all your guts and keep spewing up until all your insides are gone?"

Mark nodded.

"I had something like that happen just before you arrived at the hotel," Mark said. "I was upstairs patrolling the corridors, going to wake up some of our guests so we could inform them what was happening and escort them down to the bar with everyone else when everything just went weird and the next thing I knew, I was back downstairs in the back corridor behind Reception with no idea how I got there."

This time it was Ben's turn to nod.

"Sounds a bit like what this scientist described," he said. "It seems that apparently all these other realties aren't just bleeding into ours, our world is also bleeding into theirs in what he described as some kind of massive 'reality shift'.

"He told my superior officer that he and his colleagues think that all reality as we know it is starting to break down, that the walls that separate each dimension from each other have all started to collapse and that, as far as he and his colleagues know, there might well be no way to stop it. He also said that if humanity was to have even the remotest hope of surviving any of all this, then we are going to need to all band together. That's why me and my men all got sent out to round up any survivors. So that we can be ready for whatever happens once all these so-called 'reality shifts' start settling down and because, as the scientist explained, there's safety in numbers."

"Fuck," Mark said. "Is any of this for real? I mean, it's not a joke, right? It's just...all this, it all sounds so...I don't know, unbelievable?"

"That's one word for it," Ben said. "But if you'd seen half of what me and my men have seen tonight, trust me, you'd know all this is real."

"Oh, I've seen some pretty fucked up stuff tonight myself as well, believe me," Mark said. "I may only have caught a glimpse of what took out David and Richard, but I saw that it was massive and I saw that it was nasty. And upstairs, back at the hotel, I'm pretty sure there was something in the corridors upstairs that was hunting me, up there in the dark..."

"You know," Ben said, "when the government first heard about what Greenacres and the other labs had done, they ordered them all bombed – figuring that if they could just destroy the labs and in the process, all of the machines that had started all this trouble off in the first place, then maybe, just maybe, all the gateways that Greenacres and the other labs had opened up might close and everything might, hopefully, all return back to normal, but look how that idea turned out."

"So what's the plan now?" Mark asked. "Other than to evacuate as many people as possible from the surrounding area and hold them all at Swanton Marley?"

"There's a secret underground bunker under the barracks," Ben said. "A nuclear war shelter, built during the time of the Cold War when Britain, along with America, was under threat of attack by the Russians; still stocked up and fully ready to be used with enough supplies and provisions down there to last a good amount of people five or six years at least. Having lost all contact with the outside world, not long after all this started, from what I understand the current plan – based on the last information and orders my superior officers received – is to gather together as many survivors as we can find and just hunker down, underground, and wait for new orders or failing that, for all of this," he indicated outside the cab, "to settle down and just blow over."

"And what if it doesn't?" Mark asked. "What if it doesn't all just 'blow over'? What if we end up stuck down there, underground, indefinitely?"

"To be honest," Ben said, "I'm not sure they've thought that far ahea...oh, fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!"

He started banging his fits against the steering wheel as he brought the truck to a stop.

"What is it?" Mark asked, unable to see through the cab windscreen what Ben was looking at and for the moment, only seeing darkness.

"Swanton Marley...it's gone..." Ben replied.

He pointed outside the front windscreen.

Now, as Mark's eyes started to adjust to what he was seeing in front of him, he began to see the problem.

Where the road should have been in front of them, there was nothing. Just a void.

In places, it looked as though parts of the road had collapsed, disappeared down a mighty, great chasm that seemed to have opened up in front of them and in other places, there was just...nothing...like the road had simply just disappeared and been swallowed up by the darkness like it was alive, or some kind of sentient being or something...

"We need to turn around," Ben said. "Approach the base from another way, if it's even still there. Reach down between your legs, there should be an army-issue radio down there. We're going to need to let the others coming up behind us know what we're doing, and what lies ahead."

He began to reverse the truck so they could turn around, whilst Mark started fumbling with the radio, trying to find the right frequency upon which to contact the other soldiers coming this way behind them, so he could warn them of the sudden change in their plans.

As he did so, Mark heard a sudden and mighty roar like the one he had earlier, back at the hotel, and as he looked up, spotted something huge, something massive, charging towards them at an almighty pace through the driver's side window...

"LOOK OUT..." Mark barely had time to shout, and then whatever it was that was charging them connected with the truck with a bang, effortlessly flipping the whole thing over.

"HOLD TIGHT..." Ben shouted, as the truck proceeded to roll and Mark had time only to think, to what...?

And then everything went black...

Mark opened his eyes.

For a minute he wasn't sure where he was, but from the pale white walls and the smell of antiseptic in the air, he slowly began to suspect he might just be in a hospital.

What the hell happened? he thought.

The last thing he remembered was the truck. Flipping over. With all of them inside.

There were two guys sitting on opposite sides of him, in hospital seats, dressed all in black and wearing wide-brim fedora hats pulled down over their eyes, having presumably dozed off waiting for him to come to.

His throat was parched and Mark felt like he needed a drink to quench his thirst, but when he went to move his arm to try and see if he reach the buzzer to call the nurses, he was surprised to note that not only was he attached to some kind of drip, but also, at some point while he had been knocked out, someone had handcuffed him to his hospital bed.

What the actual fuck?

The two guys, sitting either side of him, suddenly realizing Mark was finally awake and back in the land of the living, stirred and both sitting up at once, quickly got to their feet.

"You're awake," one of the two men said.

Both men were tall, almost impossibly so and seemed all out of proportion as though they had been stretched - their arms seeming to almost drape upon the floor they looked so long.

And there was something about their eyes, Mark thought...their eyes seemed almost insectile in appearance, although if pushed, he couldn't have said what made him think that.

Hell, if he were being honest, everything about this situation he now found himself in felt wrong, Mark decided.

"How much do you remember?" the second of the two men asked.

"Not much, if I'm honest," Mark confessed. Most of it was all hazy now, like it had all been part of a bad dream, a nightmare. "I remember the party...and then something happened, and there were screams...and then the army turned up...and...why am I in handcuffs?" he finally asked.

"Because you killed them," the first man spoke up again. "You killed them all – all your friends, your work-mates, your colleagues...you took something, some new kind of legal high, some new street drug called Ennui...and then you started hallucinating, went mental and killed everybody.

"We've handcuffed you to the bed," he continued, "because currently you are under arrest for murder."

"No," Mark insisted. "That isn't what happened, none of it. I didn't kill anybody...there was an explosion, up at Greenacres...they did something...opened up some kind of doorway...let something through...I don't remember it all, why don't I remember it all?"

He looked at the two men.

"Because. It. Never. Happened..." the second man said, speaking slowly. "It was all in your head – you took something you shouldn't, you went mental, and then you senselessly slaughtered everybody..."

"No, that's not what happened," Mark continued to insist. "Let me out of here...let me go...let me find Ben; Ben Chadwick – he'll back up what I am saying. He was there – he saw it all, he told me...he told me what was happening. Please, there's been a misunderstanding ...please, just let me go..."

One of the men started leaning over towards Mark, he wasn't sure which one, and then something strange happened. The man's face seemed to just all of a sudden slip away and split open – revealing a mass of tentacles that lay just beneath the clever mask he had been wearing all this time.

"Oh, you're not leaving..." the man said. "You're not going anywhere..."

Mark turned his head to look at the other man, only to see the same thing starting to happen to him as had just happened to his friend.

This time, it was almost as if the other man's features seemed to just melt away, revealing a similar nest of tentacles emerging from the front of what previously had been his face...

"We're not done with you yet..." he said, and likewise began moving towards Mark where he lay, trapped here in his hospital bed.

"No," both men said, now both speaking in unison. "We're not done with you yet, in fact, we're only just getting started...."

Mark closed his eyes and started to thrash around in his hospital bed, trying desperately to try and break free of his cuffs. He remembered what Ben had said earlier about reality shifts and different worlds bleeding into theirs.

When the truck had crashed earlier, there had obviously been one of those so-called 'reality shifts' and that was how he must have ended up here, he thought.

Either that, or all of this tonight, everything he remembered, was all just some kind of bad dream; a nightmare from which he couldn't seem to wake up from no matter how hard he tried.

He thought he liked that idea better...better than the thought that all reality was breaking down and that all of them were doomed.

Or maybe it was all real, he thought, up to a point. Maybe everything he remembered up to when the truck had crashed really had happened and that's where he was now; still stuck in the cab of the truck he had been riding in with Ben; knocked unconscious and dreaming all of this...

Not real, he thought. Just a nightmare, a bad dream, none of this real. I just need to wake up. I just need to wake up...I just need to...WAKE UP!!!!

Mark felt the touch of tentacles on his face, on his skin and began to scream.

WAKE UP!! He thought, screaming inside his own head now as well. WAKE UP, WAKE UP, WAKE UP...PLEASE, FOR GOD'S SAKE, PLEASE JUST LET ME WAKE UP!!!

The tentacles grew closer, coming from both sides now, and as Mark opened his mouth once more to scream, suddenly the unexpected happened...

Reality shifted again ...

Mark Woods is the UK horror author responsible for the recently released novel, The Golem, the short story collection, Fear of the Dark, and the short novella Time of Tides.

His short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies and he was one of the six authors responsible for the alternative vampire novel, Feral Hearts.

His future works include the novel Arachnattack and Killer Cruise, both due out in the next few months as part of JEA's massive project 26. His blog, Miss Muppet Ate My Hamster, can be found at:

http://sparkymarky1973.blogspot.co.uk/

Copyright © 2017 Time Gas by Kitty Kane

All Rights Reserved

Time Gas

By Kitty Kane

Cyril Stone was bored. Sat in his laboratory he couldn't help but think just how thoroughly boring his life actually was. He was approaching his sixty fifth birthday, and still he had to work. No pension for him, oh no, the government had decreed back in 2025 that pensionable age was now going to be seventy-five.

After completing his science degree at university, Cyril had travelled to America and studied with NASA. Of course, this was during the presidency of Donald Trump, and he had been made to flee the country just in time before North Korea teamed up with Syria and Russia and nuked the entire fifty states off the world map. But his time there had given him quite an insight into what was and wasn't known about the universes and quantum physics and mechanics.

After his return, he became a lecturer, teaching basic quantum theory to school kids. He hated damn kids, they had no idea how lucky they were, scientists like himself had worked hard to create the weapons that would finally restore peace, such as it was, to the half-shattered world. No, he didn't like kids and he thanked the states every day that he had never had any of his own. Of course, to have been able to sire offspring he would have had to have had sex, or at least deposited at the sperm bank.

These days every male and female between twenty and sixty were legally required to donate to the databanks of procreation, but Cyril had missed that decree, and gladly so. There were cases nowadays of some poor buggers finding they had sired over a hundred kids, talk about polluting the gene pools. Anyway, Cyril was mercifully alone. Being alone meant he could study continually, and generally he enjoyed quiet reflective study, but now, here he was, bored.

He was preparing for his lecture tomorrow, fourteen and fifteen-year olds were probably his least favorite age group. Old enough to start learning the complexities of molecular make up as structures of the periodic table elements, but still young enough to be a pain in his ass. He was beginning to become bored of his usual demonstrations. Mercury burning hotter than the sun for a second or two was all well and good. Using Co2 to extinguish flames, demonstrating the flammable properties of inert and noble gasses, all has become very boring over the years. No, Cyril wanted something more, something... different.

Having no wife or family to get back to had its benefits, if he wanted to stay holed up in his lab playing with gases then he had nobody to answer to, but the somewhat scary janitor that roamed the school corridors at night, muttering to himself in German. He wasn't German, he just muttered in it. Cyril tended to try to avoid bumping into him if he could.

Deciding to settle in and experiment with new ways to demonstrate the properties of gases, Cyril retrieved his battered old cd player from under the lockers in the lab technician's office. Compact discs were of course defunct now, but having already lost cassettes, Cyril had stashed a cd player and some of his favorite CDs. Mp4's, 5's, 10's, were all well and good but he liked CDs, damn it.

Rooting through his stash, he found his sixties mix album. He loved the music of days gone by. What passed for music now days was mostly infernal racket that made his ears and brain pulsate. He wasn't keen on a pulsating brain. He turned the player on when he got back to the lab and began selecting chemicals from the stores to mix to create the gasses he wished to experiment with.

Once he had a large and somewhat potentially lethal selection of chemicals to play with, he took them to his table and settled down into his chair. His white lab coat hung uselessly on the back of his chair as usual when alone in his lab, and his protective goggles sat upon the top of his head protecting nothing much except his rapidly vanishing hairline. Singing along to Dusty Springfield, he began to mix his chemicals.

Cyril loved mixing chemicals, as a boy he had experimented with dissolving animal carcasses in different acids to see which would dissolve the corpses quickest. He enjoyed the vile smells, the putrefying liquidizing carcasses produced. Of course, those were also gases. Gas was his favorite. Soon gases were what his clever mixing began to produce, but mostly the reactions of the chemicals were repetitive and boring. What he wanted was some real visual stimulation to show the little bastards that inhabited his classes. Smells and bubbles and eruptive foam was one thing, but he knew he could produce more aesthetically pleasing reactions with some slightly stronger chemicals.

Pulling some of the black colored bottles towards him, the death head warning stickers glared at him, but he wasn't put off, not at all. Measuring very carefully, he was soon fully immersed in the delicate but creative task. So immersed was he that he failed to hear the lab door open, so when the janitor barked in a loud pseudo German accept, "Gutenaben!" he physically started so hard he accidentally poured way more hydrochloric acid into his already bubbling and hissing concoction.

"For fucks sake!" he yelled at the janitor, who's mouth dropped wide open at the sight of the normally placid science lecturer's fury. Taken aback, he backed out of the door, at once contrite for having bothered Cyril. Preparing to grab the bell jar with a pair of long tongs, the now weary science master prepared to dispose of his sullied mixture, but as he laid eyes on the jar again he became transfixed by the strange but beautiful chemical reaction happening in front of him. The roiling liquid was changing through the colors of the spectrum before his eyes. But not changing through and remaining one color, it was changing through all the colors repeatedly.

Cyril was becoming semi hypnotized by the beautiful display, the music still played in the background, and against everything Cyril knew and also taught others, he pulled the bell jar to him and took a sniff. Vapor was escaping the top of the bell jar and he wondered if the smells would match the colors. As the song 'In The Year 2525' began to play, Cyril inhaled the vapor hard, his head began to swim in a way he had never experienced before. He could feel and hear his heart beating, his blood running through his veins, he felt his bowels squirm, heat built up under his skin and he thought his head might explode.

Feeling something akin to both agony, and ecstasy, and hearing the words of the song grow louder, Cyril seemed to pass out. But he wasn't passing out, the molecular structure of his body was scrambling, pixilating almost. His cells and atoms and molecules, flesh, blood and bone alike scrambled in the ether but he could still just about hang on to his last thought. His last thought however, had actually been his brain assessing what his ears were hearing right then. Grasping onto that as his only sane thought, the molecules of Cyril Stone flew through space and time, and reassembled themselves in an excruciatingly painful manner. Cyril screamed into the deep void he sank into.

He came back to himself standing once more in his lab, except it wasn't HIS lab exactly. The children seated in front of him for a start, were strange looking. Some had the features of animals upon their faces. He saw a girl with a pig's snout, next to her sat a boy whose skin was tinged blue, in his neck there were 3 slits. Gills, Cyril realized with a start. Why did some kids have fucking gills?

Some strange bubble was floating around the classroom squeezing pens out of itself like some strange pen excreting floating anus. His whiteboard was no longer white, in fact it was no color and every color at once. "What's the date?" he thought to himself.

"The date today is 07. 10. 25, Mr. Stone"

Cyril jumped, not knowing where the robotic voice had come from.

"Who said that?" he said to the class. "Who is messing around? Show yourself right now! Telling preposterous lies about the date!"

"The date today is 07.10.25 Mr. Stone" came the disembodied robotic voice again, but this time Cyril saw the digits light up at various points around the room, and brighten and fade as the voice spoke. Clutching his head in his hands, Cyril felt the strange spinning sensation, as once more the very fiber of his being scattered, as he spun again through time.

This time when the spinning settled, he found himself standing with a woman he did not recognize. She looked a little like a cross between his mother and the aliens from the film Mars Attacks to him, but he was holding her hand tightly as they walked down a corridor. They came to a stop before a huge panel that looked very much like a vending machine. Each window held different body parts, on one side of the panel there were male body parts, on the other side female.

Arms, legs, genitalia, heads, all arrayed in line. The woman creature holding his hand nudged him forward and he heard in his head, not with his ears mind, actually in his head her say, "I want a girl this time, dear. Blonde, about seven, they are nice at about seven. Pay the fee, dear."

Cyril fumbled at his trousers, but the voice in his head angrily asked him what he was doing, and he watched as the she creature pulled out a card that was stamped 'Child Ration Voucher' and he glimpsed the year stamp as 3535! The thing that seemed to be his wife, swiped the card and busied herself selecting body parts from the machine. Slim child-like legs dropped down into a tray, followed by a lithe young torso. A head with a young but pretty face followed. Arms plopped down too, and a blonde bob style wig. Astonished he watched as his wife or whatever typed a string of code into the computerized display, all the parts fell to the bottom of a long glass tube, and his molecules began once more to separate.

As his molecules settled again, he was stunned to find himself sat in what appeared to be a large gelatinous puddle. Then to his horror he realized HE was the gelatinous puddle. His arms and legs were totally immobile, he was attached to a big machine. The feeling in his heart made him want to flee, and suddenly he was fleeing, but not actually him, just his mind. His mind was separate from his body, and he was running through a simulation. The simulation was somewhat like virtual reality games he had experienced before. He realized as he glimpsed the date once more, 7575, he had managed to travel through time. His scientific brain grasped desperately at the date of his own time, and again his body dispersed through time, all the way back to his own time, to his lab, where the song had just finished. He had been gone only minutes, but had traversed thousands of years. He put his head into his hands and cried.

As the relief of returning to his own time wore off, Cyril suddenly realized it was the gas! He had only gone and created time gas! Scrawling the formula, he thought of all the things that he could do as a time traveler. His mind squirmed with thoughts, not very nice thoughts either. Cyril had privately harbored not very nice thoughts for most of his life but rarely acted on them, but now? His heart pounded as he realized what he could do, damn what he already had done but just had not experienced it yet. Grabbing the bell jar with his concoction inside, toughs pounding in his mind and his pants for that matter he almost ran to the history department.

Finding the right room, he grabbed a book on historic murders from the Victorian era, checked the date, and with the date firmly in his mind he spun once more, back this time and he stood in a cobbled street in a smoggy London. He wore a smart suit and a top hat, he carried a bag, a doctor's bag. The bag contained things, sharp things. As he spotted the woman in the shadows, he chuckled to himself, because he already knew her fate, and he knew he would never get found out, could never get found out. No, he thought, I never got caught, I'm going to enjoy this. As he reached the woman, she took his arm and smiled a grime ridden smile at him.

"And what do I call thee, sir?"

"Jack," said Cyril the time traveler, "Call me Jack." And together they disappeared into the shadows.

Kitty Kane aka Becky Brown, hails from the south of England, where she lives surrounded by squirrels. She is also one half of the writing duo Matthew Wolf Kane, and has been published both in collaborations and standalone stories. Kitty is the author of stories that have appeared in Full Moon Slaughter, and Down the Rabbit Hole: Tales of Insanity by JEA Press. She is currently editing her first solo anthology.

https://www.facebook.com/becky.brown.560272

