 
13 TALES TO GIVE YOU NIGHT TERRORS

A Night Terrors Novel

Edited by Troy H. Gardner & Joshua Winning
"Crashing Mirrors" and "The Housesitter" Copyright © 2015 by Elliot Arthur Cross.

"Black Holes" Copyright © 2015 by Erin Callahan.

"Back Home" and "Search History" Copyright © 2015 by Jonathan Hatfull.

"It's Different When You Have Your Own" Copyright © 2015 by Rosie Fletcher.

"Ad Infinitum", "One and Done" and "Store Macabre" Copyright © 2015 by Scott Clark.

"Clown" Copyright © 2015 by Tom Rimer.

"Blackened Fireworks" and "Waiting for the Wolf" Copyright © 2015 by Troy H. Gardner.

"Gone for Good" Copyright © 2015 by Vinny Negron.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means—by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise—without prior written permission.

Book layout by Troy H. Gardner.

Cover design by Alastair Parr.

Skeleton with veil and white roses © Danilo Sanino | Dreamstime.com.

Smashwords eBook ISBN: 9781311970442

First eBook edition October 2015

Official site

nightterrorsbooks.com

Twitter

twitter.com/NightTerrorsYA
CONTENTS

Introduction

1. Crashing Mirrors

2. Ad Infinitum

3. Black Holes

4. Clown

5. Back Home

6. Waiting For The Wolf

7. Store Macabre

8. Search History

9. Gone For Good

10. One And Done

11. Blackened Fireworks

12. It's Different When You Have Your Own

13. The Housesitter

Author and Editor Bios

Camp Carnage Sample
INTRODUCTION

GOOD evening, new friend.

As a collector of the strange, the grisly and the bizarre, I'd like to welcome you to the inaugural volume of 13 Tales to Give You Night Terrors. Contained in this book are dark stories from around the globe—America, England, Scotland—that have delighted and terrified me.

Just as a child draws with a broken crayon or a werewolf howls at the moon, collecting is in my blood. I'm crippled by the need to capture and hold on to something. To seek out like items, categorize and arrange them. I do not seek out rare coins or mutated butterflies. Rather, I collect the kinds of stories that would give even the hardiest of souls night terrors.

What are night terrors? For some, they are the furry spider sneaking into your room at midnight to scurry along your forearm. For others, it's the enveloping darkness of branches snapping in your backyard when you let your dog out for a piss. Night terrors can be old Steve Reeves movies.

The short stories in this volume contain a myriad of horrors real and imagined:

An amnesiac girl searching for the horror she's always run from.

A store manager determined to deliver a unique parcel.

A boy with a giant clown problem.

And many more.

Dear reader, I bid you, dim the lights, pull the blanket up to your chin, keep the cat or dog close and the flashlight even closer. Turn the electronic page and delve deep into my collection of terror tales.

Sleep well,

Amicus Sundown
1. CRASHING MIRRORS

Elliot Arthur Cross, United States

CAMERON'S chocolate brown eyes crossed. It was past eleven at night and he'd been staring at his history textbook for nearly an hour while he listened to This Is My Roommate. He slammed the book shut, pulled out his earbuds, and trotted downstairs for a snack before bed.

His mom sat in the dark living room watching a late-night talk show with an awkward comedian commanding the stage.

"Cam, honey?"

He stopped in his tracks. "Uh, what's up?"

"I'm getting tired waiting for your brother to get home. Can you text him and tell him he's way past curfew?"

Cam scratched his nose. "What do you mean? Mac's studying in his room. Math test tomorrow."

"I didn't see him come in."

"He came in, like, a half hour ago."

"Huh. Thanks. I'll check on him before I go to bed."

"Okay." Cam hurried into the kitchen, grabbed a handful of trail mix, and headed back. "Night, Mom."

"Good night, honey."

Cam went upstairs, loudly slammed his door shut, and then snuck into his brother's room. He turned the light on, shucked out of his T-shirt and into one of Mac's shirts, tousled his hair, and found Mac's math book on the desk. He brought it over to the bed, opened it to some random page, and started doodling in the margins.

He'll owe me for this one. Unless he knocks up Shelley tonight.

A few minutes later someone knocked on the door.

"It's open," Cam said. His mom entered and gave him a quick once-over.

"What's up?"

"Nothing, dear. Just heading to bed. Don't stay up studying too long. You should be in bed by the time your dad gets home. I hate his new shift schedule."

"Big test tomorrow," Cam said.

Mac's getting his nut off and I have to pretend to learn math. Real fair.

"You'll do fine. Good night, Mac."

"Night, Mom."

Cam watched his mom leave before closing Mac's math book and sneaking out and into the bathroom. As he brushed his teeth, the bathroom door opened and Mac entered.

"How'd it go?" Cam asked his brother's mirror reflection around a foamy, minty mouthful.

"Balls are navy blue. Shelley still won't put out." Mac stood beside him and started brushing his own teeth. Their arms caught the same rhythm in seconds.

"Give me a crack at her. You owe me. Mom thinks you were home on time."

"Fine. Then I get to be you on a date with Brandon. Guaranteed to get my nut off with him."

"He is easy." Cam elbowed his brother. He couldn't believe how lucky they were. Having a twin gave him twice the clothes, twice the people to screw, twice the life.

"Deal."

"Deal."

They spit in unison and left the bathroom.

● ● ●

"HEY," Shelley said, sitting beside Cam at lunch.

Am I Mac yet? Nope, haven't switched. Don't come on to her.

Cam smiled at the gorgeous blonde. Good thing Brandon didn't go to their school. It would be impossible to juggle their boyfriend and girlfriend in the same building.

"How's it going, Shell?"

"So good. The student council just struck a deal with the fall carnival commission. We're going to get a percentage of ticket sales from all students we send in."

"Great. Bran and I will be there will bells on." Or you and I will be there while you finally spread your legs. And Mac will get a BJ from my BF. Life is great. Too bad we're not triplets.

Mac took a seat next to Shelley. They snuck a kiss before any of the faculty could swoop in and break them up.

"How's it going, babe?" Shelley asked.

"Great. Really looking forward to my math test next period."

"Really? I thought you hated math."

"Think I'll do okay at it." Mac shared a look with Cam.

"I should take a piss before class," Cam said. He left the table and made his way into the boys' room. It was empty and he stepped inside the handicapped stall.

Cam stripped his shirt off and stepped out of his jeans. A few seconds later the stall door opened and Mac entered. He stripped and they swapped clothes. Cam noticed they'd both worn identical maroon briefs without coordinating. As always.

Two perfect bodies, one kickass mind.

"Is Shelley dumb or are we just that good?" Cam asked.

"Little of both. Brandon's a freaking genius and he still hasn't figured it out."

"Or he's a kinky bastard."

"I kind of like that idea."

Once they were dressed again, Cam hurried out of the restroom and took Mac's seat next to Shelley.

"Miss me, babe?"

"Every second." She leaned in and gave him a peck on the lips. He preferred Brandon but her cherry lips were a close second.

A part of him hoped Brandon would wise up to their game. It was fun tricking people, but wouldn't it be nice to find a—he shuddered at the thought—soulmate with brain enough to see the minute differences between the two? Someone worthy who he could really get close to.

Mac came back from the bathroom and ate the rest of Cam's lunch.

A flock of football assholes strode by. The quarterback slapped Cam on the back.

"Hey, fags, do you suck each other off every night, or just weekends?"

Cam and Mac immediately replied, "Only when your mom's busy."

The jock's buddies laughed and he stormed off.

Two perfect bodies. One kickass mind.

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, and Cam carried Mac's bag to his math class. He sat in the front row and raised his hand when his brother's name was called during roll. The teacher didn't give him a second glance before passing out quizzes.

● ● ●

BRANDON brought a box of wine and Shelley wore her skimpiest dress. The twins' parents were out of the house and Mac blasted electronica. Before long, the four teens were alternating between gulping red wine and making out. The twins made sure to dress identically so they could switch back and forth whenever they wanted.

The lights were low, the couch groaning as Cam's tongue ran across Brandon's. He tugged gently on his bottom lip and played with his boyfriend's hair. A few feet away, his mirror image grinded against Shelley.

Cam pulled away and said, "Should we get chips in the other room, Mac?" Brandon was an easy score, Shelley would be a well-earned feather in his cap.

"Not yet. No one's hungry," Mac said, momentarily pulling away from his girlfriend.

"Maybe someone is hungry," Cam insisted.

"Nope."

"Shelley? Brandon?"

"Nope," she said.

"You're all I need," Brandon said, pulling Cam back into a kiss.

Stupid freaking romantic awesome guy.

"We should get to the carnival at some point," Shelley said. "I have to collect the class funds."

"No time like the present," Cam said.

"How much does the funhouse cost?" Brandon asked.

"My treat, cutie," Cam told him, pulling him off the couch.

"They're so adorable," Shelley whispered to Mac. "Are we that perfect together, too?"

"Sure. You want to join them in the funhouse?"

"Okay."

Cam winked at Mac as he wondered which of them would be paired up during the walk through the dark, sexy maze.

● ● ●

CAM drove the four of them out to the carnival. It looked exactly the same as it did when they were kids. Food vendors peddling sticky greasy treats. The cacophony of music, carnival games and the crowds of kids from school and parents herding children. Flashing lights and dancing shadows.

Shelley collected funds from the ticket takers for the junior class while Brandon bought chili dogs for the group. The twins wandered off and bought cups of Post Nap Funks from one of the shadier seniors, who hung out all night by a clown doing close-up magic tricks. The four of them reconvened to stuff their faces with carnie food and booze on a sticky bench.

The twins scarfed down their chili dogs and then deftly switched positions as they entered the funhouse. Cam threw his arm around Shelley's shoulder and watched Mac grab hold of Brandon's hand.

"This is going to be great, babe," Cam told Shelley. "If you're scared, just squeeze tight."

"What should I squeeze?" she asked.

Cam smirked and placed her hand on his crotch. "Right here."

Shelley squealed and yanked her hand away.

"Yeah," Mac told Brandon. "So if you're scared, just start rubbing right here."

"No problem."

Should have waited to switch.

The dark hallway narrowed and the floor dropped a few inches. Shelley squealed and squeezed Cam's hand. He felt just as startled but he didn't let her see. Creepy violin music shrieked out of hidden speakers.

Shapes in the shadows squiggled against the walls and a wicked laughter erupted through the hidden loudspeakers as they walked further through the funhouse. The floor suddenly rose several inches, throwing off the four teens. Shelley clutched Cam and he pulled her in for a kiss.

"You're awful," she said through a wide grin.

Colored lights burst through the hallway. Shelley took a step away from Cam, her expression falling as she stared at him.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Shelley reached past Cam and pulled Mac away from Brandon.

"Hey!"

Shelley's nostril's flared. She pulled out her cell phone and turned it into a makeshift flashlight.

"What are you doing?" Brandon asked.

"Trying not to freak out," Shelley said. "Before, when you bought food, Mac spilled some chili on his shirt."

Oh shit! Shit shit shit! Threat level damn!

Brandon pulled back and examined Mac's shirt. "There's a chili stain right here."

"And none here," Shelley said, tugging on Cam's shirt. "You assholes switched, didn't you?"

"It was the first time!" the twins protested. "The ultimate compliment!"

"Screw off!" Shelley shoved her phone back in her pocket and ran out of the attraction.

"I hope the two of you are happy sharing your pathetic life together," Brandon said. "Wait up, Shell." He hurried after her, leaving the twins alone in the dark corridor.

"Huh."

"Yeah, huh."

"Could have gone worse," Mac said.

"True."

Air jets blasted their faces.

"Let's go."

Amid the cackling ghouls, fog and strobing lights, they finally reached a bright light at the end of the corridor.

"Next time, we don't share when food's involved," Mac said.

"Or how about you're not a slob next time?" Cam asked. He would make it up to Brandon somehow, after he gave him some time to cool off. Mac was screwed with Shelley.

Cam's left forearm tingled. He reached out and felt it radiating heat.

"What?" Mac asked as he rubbed his right arm.

"It's nothing. Let's get out of here."

The brothers found the well-lit room was the start of a mirror maze.

"Of course," Cam said. His eyes were drawn to the dozens of identical images. Half of them sported the chili stain that had given them away.

"Least the chili dog was good."

"True."

Mac slammed his fist against the funhouse mirror that twisted their images inside and out. The glass cracked like spider webs but stayed in place.

"Why'd you do that?" Cam asked.

"'Cause I'm pissed off."

"Good point."

Cam found his arm floating to his side like it was a magnet. It lifted on its own and bumped into Mac's arm.

"What are you doing?" Mac asked.

"Nothing." Cam yanked his arm free, but found it took more effort than he'd expect. The heat grew and it was like he was cutting through molasses separating his arm from Mac's.

"How do we get out of here?" Mac asked.

"It's a maze set up for kids and old drunks to navigate. Shouldn't be too hard," Cam said. He turned to his side and walked straight into a mirror.

Mac spun Cam around and pointed out a clear path.

"Thanks. I really thought I was going to get Shelley's legs open tonight."

"I'm torn. Would have been nice to have access, but I didn't want to lose that bet," Mac said. As they slowly made their way through their reflections, Mac's arm jumped out and smacked into Cam's.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Static electricity?"

"Don't be an idiot," Cam said. "Mirrors don't generate static."

"Ok. What is it then?"

Cam shoved Mac away with all of his strength but he barely created any distance. "Stop being difficult."

"I'm not doing anything," Mac grunted.

"Sure. Let's get out of here."

"Should we split up?" Mac asked. "To cover more ground?"

"Never," Cam said.

"True, we rock. Let's try this way." Mac started down one walkway, his hands extended to keep from bumping into the mirrored walls.

Cam followed right behind his brother. As they navigated the maze, slowly approaching the thumping carnival music outside, Cam's forearm tingled. He scratched at it but couldn't figure out what was wrong. Once they emerged from the maze into the balmy night, he found red splotches along his arm. He couldn't tell if they were from his scratching or something worse.

"Can we go home now?" Cam asked.

"Our dates?"

"Ditched us and can find their own way back to town."

"True. Bitches. Let's go, bro."

Cam let his brother drive as he fumed, staring at the carnival in the rearview mirror.

"And we paid for their tickets!"

"Don't worry," Mac said. "After Shelley collected for the class trip I took out a tenner."

"What?"

"Why should we have to pay for two tickets? That's racist against twins. You can't tell me you're upset about that?"

"Well yeah, only 'cause I took out ten, too," Cam said.

They shrugged in unison and Cam gave up staring in the mirror. Along the way, he felt his left arm pulling away from his body, like it was being controlled by the steering wheel. He lost control of it and he smacked against Mac's arm so hard they spun into the other lane.

"What the hell!" Mac pulled the car back.

Cam's heart beat wildly but he couldn't keep his eyes off his arm. It was stuck to his brother's.

"I'm not doing it," Cam said.

"Did something spill on you in the funhouse?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Well I didn't swim in glue," Mac said.

"Just get us home." Cam tried leaning away from his brother but their arms wouldn't disconnect.

By the time they reached their house, they were touching from elbow to wrist. Mac parked the car and both boys opened the doors. Cam immediately realized he'd have to climb through the driver's side and follow Mac inside.

"Slow down a sec," Cam said as he climbed past the steering wheel.

"We need some glue remover or something," Mac said.

"Something."

They ran inside, shuffling through the door, and into their bathroom upstairs. They examined their arms in the light and couldn't see anything wrong.

"Here, let me try something," Cam said. He grabbed his forearm with his free hand and pulled, the cords in his biceps straining. Mac followed his lead and tugged on his own arm.

They finally pulled apart with a ripping sound. Tears formed in Cam' eyes and he rubbed at the red flesh. Skin and hair fell to the floor. Cam felt like his body had been set on fire. From the expression on Mac's face, he felt the same.

Cam squirted soap on his hand and rubbed it over his sore forearm.

"You think we got something on us?" Mac asked.

"Probably. I don't know."

Mac stripped off his shirt and kicked out of his jeans. He shucked his briefs and turned the shower on, saying, "I'm not taking any risks."

"Good call."

Mac stepped under the showerhead and grabbed a bar of soap.

Cam scrubbed his arm under the faucet but nothing came away except more skin and hair.

"Maybe Shelley sprayed me with something. Does she carry mace?"

Mac stepped out of the shower and started toweling off. "How would I know?"

"You've been dating for weeks."

"So have you, technically. Get in the shower before the mace or whatever seeps into your pores and leaves you with T-Rex arms."

Cam threw his clothes on the pile of his brother's and stepped toward the shower. As he did, Mac's leg shot out and connected with Cam's. It felt sticky warm as their calves were crushed together.

Both boys bent down and tugged but they couldn't pull apart. Cam could barely process what was happening. He looked into his twin's eyes and recognized the mirrored panic.

Their legs pushed inward even further than was possible. Cam couldn't tell where he stopped and Mac started. Ankle bones crushed and merged, hairy skin wrapping around muscle. As ten toes merged into five, Cam couldn't even tell anything was wrong with the leg they shared.

Cam's mind went frantic. How could he stop it? What was happening to them?

The boys' knees were drawn together and as they tried to pull away, their hands grew sticky and bonded together.

The force pulling them in on each other grew even more aggressive. Cam couldn't even process folding in on Mac. His sweaty body was rocked by a cold shiver even as his tears burned like hot coals sliding down his cheeks.

The frightened buzzing in Cam's mind amplified like sudden feedback.

Fingers clawed at flesh. Cam's or Mac's, neither could distinguish. Frantic screaming, fingers pushing against skulls. Screams. Cam's thoughts blended with Mac's. They fought every agonizing second as they lost the single most important person in their lives.

Someone rapped gently on the bathroom door.

"Honey, you all right in there?" their mother asked.

They were incapable of speech as their vocal cords fused into one.

"He's fine," their father said. "Maybe he wouldn't be like this if he socialized more. That's what happens when you're an only child."

"Too late now to give him a brother or sister," their mom said.

Naked twins became one writhing nude boy on his bathroom floor, crying in the fetal position.
2. AD INFINITUM

Scott Clark, Scotland

I write my story on and on and on and off, ad infinitum. I had a dream the other night about a guy looking for litter in an old pool of inflatable toys and it weirded me out. I think about this when I'm writing but it doesn't really go anywhere because when I was younger I missed some important lessons. That's why I still write about books, so I'm told.

My gran used to worry about the thickness of my glasses and the way I squinted. Said I'd be a spooky kid. Said I was destined to be a nosey parker forever, amen. Said I was going to be one of those people; the ones who dream and watch, on and on, ad infinitum. I dream and I watch, sure. I dream and I watch some very dark things, especially since the new package arrived: the black book.

I type the words and read the pages from sun up 'til sundown, the light leaves me and the room is dark. A cat strolls past under the desk, his patchy fur tickling my bare legs. A screen, a square of pitch perfect light interrupted by tiny ramblings, a window. My fingers, illuminated against the glare of the screen in a silent place, dance across a keyboard and the words lie across the screen: a series of promises and observations and suddenly the room is cooler. But then, I've never written about a book like this before. Never seen pages like this or words so savagely scored into the deep pile of age-old pages.

A breath tickles the inside of my thigh. I blush. Now I'm warm, it's stuffy, the breeze is tailored to me alone. Something could be amiss but the words keep going down as the cat makes another pass.

Behind me the dark is noisy: black like velvet, thick like molasses, insincere and not really here. There's few reasons to be afraid of the dark but silence is one of them. The computer screen disappears for an instant, my eyes bulge, and the vision goes red around the rings, the letters stay but the page is elsewhere. I can't remember what I'm writing as the room goes pitch dark for a second and then the noisy little island of computer-light flashes back in view—but wait.

The flash gets nostalgia dripping into places it hasn't for years. I remember that I'm not even getting paid much to translate this thing, and my name won't appear anywhere for it. I remember I should really change my plaster because the blood is still flowing from where I cut my wrist on the book's ragged brass fringe. I remember the shapes of blood on the book and the warning that followed. The smell of decay.

I remember I don't have a cat and haven't since I was six.

I carry on typing, not wanting to stop for a millisecond because I honestly don't want the silence. Tears sting my eyes and a wet patch on my neck tickles cold down the nerves of my spine. I don't have a cat and haven't for years. Again it rubs past my leg, this time harder. I hit the keys as the thing thumps me lightly and I notice for the first time the deadly cold and a smell like mould. Something awful is happening. There are few reasons to be afraid of the dark but silence is one of them because you never know what you might hear.

I locked the door. That much is sure. The windows are shut tight. The room smells like the cigarette burning in real-time off to the right. From the pitch blackness a tiny orange light flickers, its glow trailed off in a thin strand of smoke. I imagine the smoke up in the dark, circling my head, dancing around something awful on the ceiling, something with too many legs and not enough teeth. I panic and write, type viciously and think inconclusively. I dream and I watch.

The door is locked—definitely locked—and the room isn't big at all. Five by five metres, tops. I heard nothing, so no one entered. Besides, this doesn't seem like a no-one. My breath catches in my throat as the silence is barely punctuated by the tap tap tap of the keys. This is all nonsense. There is nothing under the desk. My tongue scrapes across the roof of my mouth like sandpaper, so I go to grab my glass of water while repeatedly typing something with my left hand.

The sound is a blessing. Press your ear to a wall, any wall, then you'll hear the beating of your own heart. Every time. In the dark everything is amplified and the sounds, wishfully, become you. The alternative is too terrifying. The rustle of feet, the beating of a pulse, whispering. Talking is the hardest to forgive. Two people talking has the essence of normality. One person talking aloud in the other room, when there's no one in, now that almost hurts to hear.

The glass is gone. Did I even put it there?

I type something quick and short with my right hand and fumble to the left. Under the noise of the keys something sniffs. It's nothing.

No, not there either. I gasp as the hairy bump comes again, only this time it feels solid, a statement rather than a suggestion. I panic and I whimper, then bite my lip and swear silently. Whatever it is may just leave me alone. Maybe it doesn't know I'm real. Of course, that's bullshit, because I've spent the past hour yawning, typing, and shuffling in my seat. I think I even reached a hand down to stroke it earlier. Actually, come to think, my hand feels sticky and it's too dark to see what colour the mess on the keyboard is.

Who knows how long this thing has been waiting? Waiting to be read. Still, for all my attempts at subtlety, I type mercilessly and will for a long time because I am dreamed and I am watched. My gran used to say I'd stick my nose somewhere I shouldn't have and she was too damn right. The pale pages on the table beside me—I can just see them in the dull light—are spattered with black lines. I reach a hand out to flip the cursed pages.

I just about scream when a grunt comes from my feet. A heavy muffled din like an angry pig in a sack, the sort of noise you pray not to hear in the dark, and its right there in front of me. A slurping noise follows soon, but I block it out with harder tapping, my fingers crushing the little black keys like flies. It's there, as muffled as the grunting but more unsettling. When you've decided you're petrified, your own brain goes one step further and tries to rationalise the terror with images and ideas. Ideas and guesses, condemnations and fuel for the raging fire. But they never help. Something really reeks and I think it's the book. Maybe something came from its pages to be dreamed and watched for the first time in years.

I clench my teeth and wait for it to chew on my toes or lick my foot. I'm prepared for a cold sticky tongue to drag up my hairy leg. I wait, but it never comes, so I summon the courage to dart a hand over to my lamp, while furiously hammering the letters within reach.

Shit. I knock the lamp and it falls noisily to the floorboards, its wire knocking loudly against the leg table like this: tick, tick, tick. A wire must come loose because it flickers on and off erratically. Within seconds I have a beating head and throbbing eyes. Moments of utter blindness are followed by dazzling light. I'm on a bungee cord between Heaven and Hell and it hurts so bad I'd like to stay in Purgatory. From above I must be a pitiful sight, naked and pale shuddering in front of a lamp in a tiny room, a big and blood-drenched volume on the nightstand beside me.

I chance a look at the book and there's a sketch of me, vague and doodled.

A stop-motion shadow scurries over the wall, gargling and grunting as it scampers. There's scratching on the boards behind me, and then something darts between my legs, back under the desk where it makes me sick to think. I decide to sit back in my seat and take a peak under.

Too dark to tell. Too dark to be sure. The table smells like old book and the walls look printed. My clothes reek of mulch and there's writing on my arms. The book has disappeared now, and something rustles its gorged pages somewhere. In the next room a man's voice mutters as the walls ooze venom. Everything is futile now. Yet, with the next pulse of fractured light, I throw the chair back and make for the door, ignoring the signs that I am dreamed and I am watched, ad infinitum.
3. BLACK HOLES

Erin Callahan, United States

"MARISOL? Marisol, can you hear me?"

Marisol didn't realize right away that her eyes were open. Her eyelids fluttered as she inhaled the sterile scent of the hospital. Her pupils shrank and expanded in quick succession, sucking up the room's fluorescent light, struggling to focus on the face in front of her.

Mid-forties. White. Female. Underfed. Overtired.

The face frowned and Marisol heard the stuffy click of a pen.

"Reflexes intact," the face intoned. The scritch-scritch-scritch of note taking grated on Marisol's ears.

Another woman swept toward Marisol and the doctor. Approaching retirement. Also white. Overfed and over-caffeinated. "She's okay?"

"We'll have to monitor her for signs of a concussion," the doctor said. "And I'll send a resident to stitch up that laceration by her eyebrow."

The woman breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Oh, thank god." She leaned toward Marisol with a freshly-bleached smile on her face. "Hello, sweetie. Do you have a wittle headache?"

The hospital's antiseptic tang was replaced by the stench of coffee breath. Marisol's empty stomach turned. "Who the fuck are you? And why are you talking to me like I'm a toddler?"

The woman bristled, her face puckering with shock. At this moment, Marisol realized she knew only three simple facts about herself. My name is Marisol. I'm fifteen years old. I was in a car accident. She blinked away fresh memories of glass shattering into the night.

The woman turned to the doctor. "Are you sure she's okay? She doesn't recognize me and she's acting...odd."

The doctor pursed her lips. "A degree of memory loss is common with mild head trauma. It's rarely permanent, though it can be very disorienting."

The woman leaned toward the gurney again, plastering that toothy smile back on her face and filing Marisol's nose with her godawful breath. "You really don't remember me? Do you remember the accident?"

More glass shattering into jagged pebbles. The squeal of tires. A man's shrill, unearthly scream. "I'm not answering any questions until you tell me who you are."

The woman retained her smile, but the worry-lines deepened on her face. "I'm Lorna. Your social worker."

"Social worker? What am I, some kind of charity case? Where are my parents?"

Lorna's lips, shellacked in cheap drugstore pink, twisted into the corner of her mouth.

No parents. At least, not any that matter.

Marisol's chest tightened and her heart pumped jittery adrenaline through her limbs. The pain dulled by the shock of waking up in a strange place with a mind like Swiss cheese finally blossomed in her skull. Her left temple throbbed, sending a wave of nausea into her parched throat. The gurney felt like a starched coffin, demanding she lie still.

Her vision blurred as she forced her head upward. Pain streaked across the left side of her face, down into her neck, almost knocking the wind out of her lungs. Both Lorna and the sleep-deprived doctor tried to stop her, but she fought them off. She couldn't remember standing up, but suddenly found herself bolting down the hall, shielding her eyes from the florescent lights.

Someone screamed her name, but it wasn't Lorna or the doctor. The sound filled Marisol's throbbing left ear with dread, dredging up more snippets of the accident. The same man whose unearthly shriek had pierced the quiet hum of tires a nanosecond before the car swerved left and tumbled over the guardrail... He was trying to get her attention. She stumbled toward his voice, vaguely aware he'd been driving the car.

"Are you okay? Please tell me you're okay." The man's bloodshot eyes brimmed with desperation. Marisol gazed at the IV pumping clear fluid into his arm and another wave of nausea rolled through her.

The man grabbed her arm, his hands smooth against her dark skin. A pencil-pusher. Late-twenties. High-strung. Allergic to everything.

"Mari," he breathed. "You saw him, right? You must have. I'm not crazy, am I?"

Marisol shook her head in a futile attempt to clear the fog. The high-strung young professional took her gesture as a no and his neatly trimmed nails dug into her skin. She took two steps back, trying to pull away, but he held fast and followed her, groaning and turning ashen as he pushed himself up off the gurney.

"I'm not crazy," he repeated. His pupils dilated, but Marisol couldn't tell if it was from fear, anger, or painkillers. "Tell me you saw him." His voice cracked and he wobbled on his feet, leaning into Marisol for support.

"Saw who?"

"The boy," he croaked. "He came out of nowhere, like he teleported into the middle of the goddamn road. I thought for sure we were going to hit him. But he just...grinned. Then he was gone. Poof."

Marisol didn't remember the boy and she didn't like this young professional's vice grip on her arm. Her eyes lost focus again and she tasted blood on her teeth. Someone screamed for help. It wasn't until two nurses and a doctor were pulling the man away that she realized the call for help had come from her own mouth. His frantic screams and protests filled her ears as her knees gave way and she collapsed in a heap on the linoleum.

● ● ●

SHE spotted him on a Tuesday afternoon, two weeks after the accident, scanning shelves of biographies at the library. Not the high-strung young professional who turned out to be her lawyer, nor the mysterious boy he'd rambled about. At least, Marisol didn't think so.

No, this twenty-something manchild worked at the home.

Patches of her childhood and early teens had returned but Marisol remembered almost nothing about the home aside from brief snapshots. Plastic utensils. Beds with scratchy sheets. Broken crayons. Pills in a cup. And even those hazy fragments surfaced only after her lawyer informed her that she'd lived at the home for almost four years.

"Four years?" she'd asked as she sat dumbfounded in his office. "Why?"

He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie with his right hand. His left arm was still in a sling, propped on top of his desk like a gentle but persistent reminder of the accident. Instead of telling the police he'd swerved to avoid hitting a mysterious boy, he told them a deer had bolted into the road.

"Your guardian has asked that I not go into detail about that at this point. It would be counterproductive to your, um, treatment."

"Fucking Lorna."

The lawyer cracked a sidelong grin. "Technically, the state is your guardian. But, yes, Lorna is the social worker in charge of your case."

"She can't do that," Marisol argued. "I'm nineteen years old." As disturbed as she'd been to learn that the past four years had been all but obliterated from her brain, she figured she wasn't missing out on much. Those years had been spent with a bunch of loonies and screw-ups.

"Yes, you're an adult. But when you turned eighteen, a judge determined you weren't capable of taking care of yourself. You don't have any relatives capable of caring for you, so the state was appointed as your guardian."

"But I am capable of taking care of myself. I've been at the motel for almost a week. No one there is babysitting me."

"Talking Lorna into that arrangement was no easy feat," the lawyer reminded her. "You could be living in a temporary foster home right now instead of enjoying the comforts of basic cable and scratchy towels."

Marisol glared at him. "Gee. Thanks for doing your job. And don't change the subject. Your Jedi lawyer tricks won't work on me."

He grinned again. "I don't know how, but I missed that attitude of yours. And I've already initiated proceedings to have the guardianship removed, but these things take time, Mari."

"Ugh. This so dumb. And it's not right."

The lawyer sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Mari, it's my job to advocate for what you want. But I will say this. Lorna has been your social worker for a very long time and she cares about you. Really cares. I'm pretty sure she loves you as much as she loves her own kids."

"Then why won't she tell me what I want to know?"

He studied Marisol's face. "Has it occurred to you that she might be protecting you from something you might not want to know? I'm not really a spiritual person, but maybe the accident was a gift. It's given you a blank slate. A chance to start fresh."

She crossed her arms. "Can't really appreciate that if I don't know what I'm starting fresh from, you know?"

"'Kay." He tapped his fingers along the edge of his desk. "That's fine. We'll work on lifting the guardianship and then you can do whatever you want with your file."

Marisol knew it might be months until the court got its ass in gear and just the thought of sitting around, twiddling her thumbs with a memory full of holes made her limbs twitch. But now, in the library, a chance to bypass all the bureaucratic bullshit was standing right in front of her, wearing skinny jeans and a T-shirt that read #vegan.

Over-privileged. Under-experienced. Probably used to wet the bed.

"Hey," she barked at him. "I can't remember your name but I know you."

"Huh?" he shot her a quick glance, like he wasn't sure whether she was really talking to him. Then he did a double take. "Oh. You. Holy shit."

"Yeah," she said, realizing she needed to play it cool. She twirled a strand of her dark hair around her finger. "So, what's up?"

"Um...you know...nothing." He blinked at her as he tried to shove his hands into the tight pockets of his skinny jeans.

"I still don't know your name."

"Oh...right." He tapped his skull. "The accident. It's Brent."

"Brent. I like that. It's crisp. Like the first bite of a granny smith." She took a step forward, hoping he wouldn't shrink away. By some miracle, he stayed put. "It's so weird running into you here. Do you want to get coffee or something?"

He smiled at her, revealing a row of perfectly straight teeth. "Um...I would but, you know, ethics and stuff."

"It's just coffee, man."

"Right." He glanced over his shoulder, like he expected to find someone watching him. "Yeah, I guess. Sure. Why not?"

● ● ●

MARISOL sat on the second-hand couch in Brent's apartment, staring at a poster for some band she'd never heard of. She figured a hand job would be enough to make him crack. If it took a blowie, she'd just have to suck it up.

He flashed those perfectly-straight teeth and handed her a beer as he sat down next to her. "You like IPAs?"

"What? I mean, yeah. Sure. Who doesn't?"

She took a sip from the bottle and had to will her face not to pucker. Screw this. Let's get to it.

She put the beer on the coffee table and nuzzled her face into Brent's neck. To her surprise, he smelled nice, like fresh laundry, and his smooth skin felt warm against her lips. He sighed softly and buried a hand in her hair. She pulled his lips to hers and licked those perfectly straight teeth. He stiffened and pulled away.

"I'm sorry," he said as he shook his head. "I just...I can't. I thought I could, but I can't. It's too weird."

Ugh. "Why? Because I was at the home?"

"No. Well, sorta. You were..."

Maybe she could still salvage this. "I was what? A total psycho? A monster?"

He blinked at her. "No. Jesus, not at all. You were so sweet, like a little kid. That's why this is so weird."

His words made her skin crawl. "A little kid? What, did I play with dolls and jump rope and watch cartoons?"

He shook his head again. "We shouldn't even be having this conversation."

"Dammit, Brent." She got up off the couch and planted herself on the coffee table. If the sneaky-sexy route wouldn't work, maybe the direct one would. "Imagine waking up knowing next to nothing about yourself and finding out you'd spent the last four years living in a loony bin. Only you can't remember anything about the loony bin or why you were there."

"Yeah, that would suck."

She gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to backhand him.

"Yes, Brent. It does suck. I want to move on with my life but I can't until I find out what I'm moving on from. If I you were in my position and I was in yours, I'd help you out," she said, though she knew it was a lie.

Brent raked his hands through his ash blonde hair. "I'm going to get fired for this," he moaned. "I just know it. What do you want to know?"

"You said I was like a little kid. I want details, man."

"It's hard to describe. You were like..." His hand flew to his back pocket. "Wait, I can show you." He pulled out his phone and fiddled around with it while Marisol tapped her sneakers on the floor.

She heard the video before she saw it. A sing-songy little voice so precious it could rot your teeth chanted, "I want juice! I want juice!" When Brent handed her the phone, her stomach caved in on itself. That voice, suitable only for a toddler or a Muppet, was unmistakably coming from her mouth as she playfully pounded her fists on a tabletop.

"What do you want?" someone asked from behind the camera.

"Juice, juice, juice!" the Marisol on the screen shouted.

Someone giggled in the background and an arm appeared on screen, handing her a sippy cup. "Yay, juice!" she shouted.

Everything about the girl on the screen was wrong. Her voice. Her uncombed hair. Her sunshine yellow T-shirt and hot pink Crocs. Her wiggly kindergartener posture. The sight of her squeezed the air out of Marisol's lungs. She flung the phone at Brent and pulled her knees up to her chest.

"Jesus H. Fuck. Is that shit for real?"

He didn't respond, just gawked at her.

"Say something, man. Was I like that all the time?"

"Pretty much. I mean, every once in a while you'd seem like a typical angry teenager. Like, you'd spend half a day stomping around in a quiet room, trying to punch holes in the walls. But all the kids do that. After a while, you'd go right back to...you know...that." He pointed at the phone.

A fat knot of dread tightened in Marisol's ribcage. "I don't feel right." She sucked in deep breaths, but no amount of oxygen seemed like enough. She wanted to run, to hide somewhere deep and dark, to bury herself. "I think I'm having a heart attack or something."

"What? Oh!" Brent sprung up off the couch. "No, I know what to do. It's a panic attack. Lay down on your side." He handed her a pillow. "Squeeze this."

She shoved her face into the pillow and felt the warmth of her own breath on her cheeks. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, on the verge of exploding. Eventually, the pillow took the edge off the world and her heart rate slowly eased back to baseline. She got up and paced across Brent's living room.

"Why was I like that?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know or you won't tell me?"

"Honestly, I don't know. Your therapist told us it was due to some kind of trauma. You know, something bad that happened when you were a kid. But it's not like I have access to your file. File access is strictly need-to-know, you know?"

Marisol whisked back to the couch and reclaimed her perch on the coffee table, her knees almost touching Brent's. "You have to get me that file."

"What? No. Definitely, no. I can't. I would be fired in a millisecond."

"I would do it for you."

"Bullshit you would." He crossed his arms against his scrawny chest. "You should probably go."

Marisol's eyes narrowed. "Would you rather be fired for stealing my file, or fired for filming a resident with your phone and then taking her back to your apartment with the intention of screwing her?"

His nostrils flared. "They can't fire me if there's no proof. I'll just delete the video."

What a dumbass. Marisol flew at him. His hands shot up, blocking her. He was stronger than she thought. She pressed against his arms, almost groaning with the strain. Then, in one swift movement, she dug two fingers into the skin just above his collarbone. Brent yelped and sank into the couch, allowing her to snatch the phone from his pocket.

"I'm taking this hostage."

Brent rubbed his face with his hands. "Jesus. I should've just said no to coffee."

● ● ●

MARISOL tossed and turned in her bed at the motel. The light from the neon sign outside pierced the room's flimsy blinds, illuminating her walls in salmon pink. The incessant buzzing threatened to drive her mad. Something about the afternoon with Brent had put her off. She should've been upset about the video or the fact that Brent had taken her home despite the fact that the last time he'd seen her she'd been toddling around like the world was her own personal romper room. Some people are seriously sick fucks.

But it wasn't the video or Brent's questionable moral compass or even the fact that she'd blackmailed him without a second thought. It was the way she'd taken him down with two fingers slipping beneath his collarbone. Where did I pick that up?

The TV yap-yap-yapped from the corner, the late night host bidding his audience goodnight.

"Screw it," Marisol said. She sprang out of bed, padded to the bathroom, and swallowed two Tylenol PM.

Sleep hit her like a dark wave and pulled her into the motel bed's scratchy sheets. A dream materialized in her mind, trapping her in a smaller body. How old am I? She gazed at her tiny hands, with pink polish flaking off nails bitten down to the quick. Just a rugrat. Maybe five or six.

She was on a bus. Another girl sat next to her and trees flew by outside the window. The bus pulled off the highway onto a dirt road, and a crop of rustic buildings appeared on the horizon.

"Welcome to Camp Fresh Air," a smiley young woman said when Marisol stepped off the bus. "You're going to have so much fun."

Other smiley-faced twenty-somethings herded the kids from the bus into a hall with sky-high ceilings and miles of long tables. Marisol felt miniscule. She skipped over to a table of boys playing cards.

"Go fish," one of the boys said.

"I know that game," Marisol squeaked. "Can I play?"

"No chubby churros allowed," another boy barked. Dick.

The first boy glared at him and set his cards on the table. "That's not nice." Then the boy did exactly what Marisol had done to Brent. He dug his fingers right into that dick's collarbone.

"Ow!"

The boy laughed and so did Marisol, though something deep in the pit of her stomach told her she shouldn't have.

"This game is dumb anyway," the boy said. "Come 'ere." He grabbed Marisol's hand. "I want to show you something."

Marisol followed the boy to a row of cubbies, where he pulled out a shoebox. He knelt down on the floor and she followed suit, staying quiet when he put a finger to his lips, though she doubted anyone would have noticed them among the hundreds of kids running amok.

"Don't scream," he whispered before lifting the lid to reveal a menagerie of creepy crawlies.

"Awesome," Marisol breathed. "I like bugs, too. But you gotta be careful with that one." She pointed to a dragonfly with a half-crushed wing buzzing along the bottom of the box. "They're pretty but they bite."

"It can't hurt me if I hurt it first," the boy said. He pinned the dragonfly down with his thumb and plucked one wing off, and then the other. The boy grinned as the maimed dragonfly flailed around the box.

Next, he squeezed a fat Japanese beetle between two fingers. "Wait 'till you see what I do to this one."

The squeal of the hotel phone jolted Marisol from the dream. The scratchy sheets were soaked with sweat and the fast food she'd eaten for dinner churned in her stomach.

Images of tortured bugs danced in her mind. And even uglier things rose to the forefront. A flayed squirrel left to rot under a bunk bed. A chipmunk with a stump for a tail nailed to a tree. Despite the horrors flickering behind her eyes, she forced her mouth to form a socially acceptable greeting.

"Hello?"

"Hello, sweetie! Are you all right? You sound panicked."

Lorna. "You're the one calling me in the middle of the night," she barked.

A few seconds ticked by. "Marisol, it's nine a.m."

She jumped out of bed and yanked the curtain aside, only to be blinded by daylight. "Oh. You're right. Sorry."

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah. Yes, I'm fine. I just overslept." An odd little melody, like a tune hummed by a happy little kid, found its way into her ear.

"Your therapist told me you missed your appointment."

Shit.

"Sorry. I just forgot. Maybe if I was allowed to be in charge of my own life I'd remember that kinda thing."

Lorna sighed into the phone. "Forgetting your appointments isn't helping your case."

"Fine. I'll call her to reschedule. Hey, next time I meet with her, can I look at my file?" The hummed melody intensified. She wanted to swat it away like a fly buzzing too close to her ear, but she couldn't hang up until she had an answer from Lorna. "Hello?"

"Yes, I'm still here. Marisol, I'll be honest, I just don't think that's a good idea at this point. You're still recovering from the accident. I know it must seem like I'm keeping you in the dark, but I can promise you that everything I do is in your best interest, sweetie. I care about you more than you know."

"Ugh. You're killing me with the saccharine bullshit, Lorna." The humming became almost deafening, threatening to swallow the world. "Call me back when you realize I'm just a case and not your kid."

She slammed the receiver down, expecting sweet relief from that humming. But it droned on, forcing her to turn and face the TV. Instead of morning talk shows, Marisol found herself staring at an image of a little boy humming to himself while he carved up a sparrow with a pocket knife. His hands were slicked with deep red blood and dotted with tufts of downy feather. He'd already hacked one wing off and was working on the second. The sparrow's dead black eyes stared at Marisol.

She jammed her finger against the power button but the image never flickered. The boy's lighthearted humming turned her stomach. She gave up on the power button and ripped the plug out of the wall.

The humming ceased and Marisol breathed a sigh of relief. But she didn't have time to dwell on creepy shit that most definitely shouldn't be on TV at 9:00 a.m., when little kids could be flipping through the channels looking for cartoons.

She dug Brent's phone out of her purse, called the home, and asked for Brent.

"Hello?"

"It's me calling from your phone."

"Jesus." Marisol heard him fumbling with the receiver. "You can't call me here. The other staffers might recognize your voice."

"Doubtful. You get my file yet?"

"Working on it. I'll call you tonight. Don't call here again."

● ● ●

SOMETHING'S missing.

Marisol had met up with Brent at an all night diner and spent the last twenty minutes combing through a printout of her file.

"No wonder you were so fucked up," Brent said. "You saw a kid drown."

With sketches of six different foster homes and euphemisms like "urban" and "street-smart," the file fleshed out the drips and drabs of memory that returned after the accident. Like many of the other latchkey and foster kids in the Bronx, she spent nearly every summer at a camp for "underprivileged kids"—whatever that was supposed to mean—in rural New Hampshire. She became friends with a boy her age and, when they were fourteen, he and Marisol snuck away from their counselors, found a canoe, and paddled out to the middle of a deep lake. The boy fell overboard and, after a three-day search, was presumed dead.

According to the file, a year after the accident, Marisol suddenly went catatonic for three weeks. When she finally spoke again, she earned herself a textbook diagnosis of childhood disintegrative disorder. In their notes, countless shrinks and therapists had theorized that she'd regressed back to a time before she knew the boy.

Rather than sadness or self-pity, she was struck by the overwhelming feeling that a massive piece was still missing from the puzzle. The words in her file smirked at her, daring her to dig deeper, to get lost in the great white void between the lines of text.

"I just can't imagine," Brent said as he doused his tofu scramble with hot sauce. "It's so tragic."

"But why did it take me almost a whole year to lose my marbles?" she asked. "If I was going to turn into a full-on nut job, how come it didn't happen right away?"

Brent shrugged. "If there's one thing I've learned from working with crazy kids, it's people can become unhinged in a thousand different ways."

A sapphire sky with a few golden clouds rose to the surface of her mind. The image undulated, as if reflected in water. The scents of sunscreen and mid-summer trees hung in the air. She could hear the gentle lapping of paddles dipping into a lake.

"You got a car, right?" she asked Brent.

He shook his head. "No. No way. New Hampshire is, like, a five-hour drive."

Marisol dug his phone out of her purse and taunted him with it. "I'll buy you a soy latte so you can stay awake."

● ● ●

WHEN they crossed the Vermont border into New Hampshire, the sun was still hiding behind the rolling green hills to the east.

"In one mile, take the exit," the phone's emotionless voice told them.

Marisol was half-asleep, her head resting against the glass of the passenger-side window. As Brent's car glided down the off-ramp, something jolted her awake.

"What?" Brent asked.

"I don't know. I feel weird."

"Does this place look familiar?"

She looked from left to right, gazing at the trees and cracked asphalt. Even the bottom of the off-ramp had the strange air of an abandoned place—a heady mix of serene silence and indefinable dread.

She nodded. "Take a left."

They sped past miles of unmowed grass and decaying signs for Camp Fresh Air. Marisol's heart almost seized up when Brent turned onto the dirt road and the camp came into view. But the once rustic and friendly crop of buildings now looked dilapidated. The vaulted roof of the main lodge had caved in, leaving a few long tables exposed to the elements like the ribs of a rotting corpse. The cabins wore a thick crust of hastily sprayed graffiti tags and the din of buzzing grasshoppers made her head swim. The camp had become suitable only for vandals and teenagers looking for semi-private places to get drunk and hook-up.

Brent parked in the main lot, forcing the two of them to walk past the boarded up buildings. Marisol froze halfway through and doubled over.

"Oh my god," she wheezed. "I don't know if I can do this."

"I don't have any pillows to offer you," Brent said. "But I sure as hell didn't just drive five hours so you could have a panic attack and leave before we even see the lake." He grabbed her hand and dragged her forward, past the bathhouse, until they stood on the beach.

Brent inhaled the fresh air and slipped off his shoes. "It's actually pretty here."

"No, don't!" Marisol shrieked just before he dipped his feet into the water.

"What? Why?"

"I don't know exactly. Just don't."

"'Kay. How about that canoe?"

She didn't know how she could have missed it. Though the rest of the camp had seen better days, a shiny green canoe with a fresh coat of paint lay by one of the dunes, waiting for her. She let Brent help her drag it to the water.

"Just me," she said when he tried to get in. "Maybe you should go back to the car?"

"You're joking, right?"

"Actually, no."

Brent threw up his hands. "You can find your own goddam ride back to New York." He stomped back toward the parking lot, though Marisol had a feeling he'd be waiting for her when she got back to shore. If she got back to shore.

She shoved off and paddled into open water. The sun was nearly up, illuminating a few fluffy clouds in the sky and turning the lake a warm gold. The sight took the edge off her nerves, almost setting her at ease. She smiled and dipped one hand into the cool water as she stared down into the depths of the lake.

That's when the humming started. The same melody she'd heard from the TV in her motel room. The notes thrummed in her veins and her arms sprouted with goosebumps. She couldn't bring herself to look up.

"Hi," said an impish little voice. "You didn't really forget me, did you?"

A boy sat at the opposite end of the canoe, smiling at her. The boy from the TV, except a few years older. The same boy who'd caused her lawyer to flip his car.

"You," she growled.

Buried memories flooded through her. Wingless bugs and birds. Flayed squirrels. Dismembered chipmunks. And then there were stray cats caught in nets, dissected, disemboweled. The camp director's dog howling in pain as the boy shoved a sharpened stick into its eye.

Even at fourteen, Marisol knew what was coming. She'd asked one of the junior counselors about it.

"The world broke him," the older girl had said. "Someday, he's gonna kill someone. And there ain't a damn thing any of us can do about it."

But Marisol had done something. She'd woken the boy up at dawn by tapping softly on the window by his bunk bed. They'd canoed out into the lake, and, under a sapphire blue sky, she smacked him over the head with a paddle. The early-morning sun had glinted off the blood flowing down his face. He'd led out a single cry just before she whacked him again with the paddle, knocking him into the water.

The most disturbing piece of this flood of memories wasn't the horrors she'd witnessed summer after summer, but her own calm and calculated response to what she'd done. She'd paddled back to shore, cried a few crocodile tears, and told a counselor the boy had fallen in.

"We weren't wearing lifejackets," she recalled saying. "He sank so fast. There was nothing I could do."

And, at last, the missing piece of the puzzle flashed before her eyes. It wasn't the act of killing that had driven her over the edge, it was something that happened on her fifteenth birthday. A big quinceanera had been out of the question, but her foster mother let a few friends sleep over and the girls gorged themselves on slasher flicks and cookie dough. Around midnight, Marisol got up to pee. The shower curtain had rustled behind her as she washed her hands.

"Don't be lame," she'd said, assuming it was one of her friends trying to scare her.

In the bathroom mirror's reflection, she'd watched as the curtain swished slowly to the side and a pale foot streaked with tar-black mud stepped onto the bath mat. She'd turned and caught just a quick glimpse of the grin on his face before he grabbed her and slammed her head against the wall. When she came to, her foster mother was shaking her. She'd tried to tell her what she'd seen, but couldn't get her bloodied mouth to form words.

"You don't have to be afraid anymore," the boy said, snapping her back to the present. He leaned back and slung one bare foot over the side of the canoe, dipping a toe into the water. "I've forgiven you."

"This isn't real," she whispered to herself.

He laughed. "Did you know this lake used to be a granite quarry? You wouldn't believe how deep it goes."

"No! You're not real," she screamed. Her voice echoed across the water.

"It hasn't been easy," the boy said, "but I've gotten by. I've got quite a collection down there. It's not just stray cats and dogs. Now I've got a few wayward kids and unhappy campers. Even a drunk guy who wandered a little too far from his campsite. But I get lonely because there's no one down there like me. That's why I had to knock the truth back into you."

"I'm not like you."

He grinned. "Are you sure?"

She wanted to run but there was nowhere to go. She was trapped in a canoe with something that was either a very vivid hallucination or a monster she'd helped create.

"I'm not going down there," she said. The boy didn't react, just sat eerily still while he stared at her. She could swear he was still sitting there, motionless, when she felt his hands around her throat, squeezing the life out of her.

She tried to shove him away, but his strength was beyond human. Her muscular arms felt like useless twigs. She thrashed but the boy held fast, tightening his grasp. Her vision blurred as her lungs screamed for air.

Maybe it's better this way. I'm a killer, after all. But she couldn't stand the thought of becoming one of the horrors at the bottom of that lake. She shifted all of her weight to the left. The boy followed, tipping the canoe and sending them both into the water. He wrapped his arms around her neck and shoved her under. Below the lake's sparkling golden surface there was nothing but endless blackness. She could hear dogs howling, cats mewling, birds screeching. And, in the distance, children wailing.

Marisol's nose filled with water and she came up coughing before he shoved her back under.

"Just give up," the boy said.

She threw her elbow as hard as she should, nailing him square in the chest. He grunted and released his grasp. She kicked away from him and felt his strong fingers grazing her ankles. Then there was something else. Something soft brushed against her arm just before a searing pain knocked the wind out of her. A cloud of blood blossomed against the lake's golden surface.

Marisol screamed as an orange tabby missing an ear and a tail tore into her shoulder. Something below snagged her thigh, dug its incisors in and pulled her under.

More barking, mewling, and sobbing filled her ears. She kicked harder. Even as she felt herself sinking, she surged forward. She swam until she wore herself out and the euphoria of oxygen deprivation took hold.

Oh well. I tried.

But she hit the bottom sooner than expected. Instead of muck filled with God only knows, her hands caught fistfuls of sand and pebbles. With all the strength she had left, she pushed off the bottom and sucked in a breath of air. The boy's humming, growing louder by the second, pushed her forward. She could still hear the determined splashing of a canoe paddle as she dragged herself onto the beach, her arm a ragged, bloody mess.

She hacked up strings of mucus, then retched and vomited on the moist sand. Blood from her arm pooled on the beach while the lake's tiny waves hungrily lapped it up. When Marisol rolled over, she saw a sapphire sky with a few golden clouds reflected in water, still as a mirror, and a single, unoccupied canoe floating by the shore. She winced as she hoisted herself up and limped back toward the parking lot.

"Jesus, what happened?" Brent asked when she plunked down in the passenger's seat.

"Just drive, man. And don't ever let me come back here."
4. CLOWN

Tom Rimer, United States

THERE was a clown standing at the end of Randy's bed.

Anyone else, Randy knew, would have been terrified of the sight. In the middle of the night, a seven-foot clown, regardless of how much he was smiling, would scare the crap out of anybody. For Randy, though, the grinning merry-maker positioned just beyond his exposed toes was nothing he hadn't seen before.

Randy had been visited nightly by the clown for the last thirteen years. In the early days, just after his fifth birthday, when he moved out of the bedroom he shared with his older brother, he'd screamed for his parents every time the clown appeared. In each instance, his parents rushed in to him, but they never saw the gawking colossus with the red nose, comically small pinwheel beanie, and painted-on tears. The clown never disappeared as they entered the room. It continued to stand and ponder him, cocking its head like a curious puppy, even after his parents repeatedly explained that they didn't see anything and that he must have been having a very vivid dream. Eventually, Randy gave up trying to tell his family what he was seeing. He simply became used to the clown. It never hurt him, touched him, or spoke. It simply was.

Randy got older, started high school, and eventually spent more time sleeping away from home. And, wherever Randy went, so did the clown. Still standing. Still smiling. Make-up never fading.

Randy remembered a camping trip he'd begrudgingly ventured on to The Berkshires when he was in middle school. It was to be the first night he'd spent away from his parents and (he had hoped) the clown. He'd woken to the crack of thunder and the ripple of the wind against his nylon tent. Fumbling for his flashlight, unable to even see his hands, he knew the clown was there. He waited patiently, and with the next flash of lightning, the grinning clown face was illuminated, white and looming over Randy's sleeping bag. It couldn't stand upright in the two-person pup tent, and was awkwardly bent at the waist. That instance always stuck in Randy's memory because it was the first time Randy realized he'd never be rid of it, no matter where he slept.

Another time, Randy fell asleep in a hospital room, keeping watch on his sickly grandfather. His parents only left the room for a few minutes to get some coffee, but being up past his bedtime, Randy had been unable to keep his eyes open. He'd fallen asleep for just a moment when the beep-beep-beeping of his Gramps' heart monitor shook him awake. Randy lifted his head and, behind the bouquet of "get well" balloons, the massive bulk of the clown loomed. The balloons danced on the invisible breath of the overhead vents and the clown's eyes eventually made contact with Randy's. The clown never looked down at the shriveled old man in the bed; he only stared through the balloons at Randy. Just like he always did. The next morning, Randy's Gramps died.

The clown was even with Randy to ring in the New Year once. He'd tried to stay up with his older brother to watch the ball drop on Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve, long after his parents had stumbled to bed. Though they'd both valiantly fought the urge, the two brothers had passed out not long before the chanting in Times Square started. Randy woke up, post countdown, thanks to some one-hit wonder prancing around on stage in a glittery leotard, and immediately saw the warped, fun-house reflection on the TV screen.

The clown's painted face was lit up in marvelous pinks and greens, yet he didn't blink or seem to even register the celebration happening in front of his foam nose. As always, it pondered Randy, the boy who no longer cried at the sight of him and who for so long, had simply accepted him.

And so, on that night, when Randy was suddenly awakened with a painfully full bladder, he had almost no reaction at finding the clown standing in its usual spot. As Randy swung his legs off the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes, he noticed something was different about the clown. In the thirteen years it had been visiting him, it had never spoken. On that night, though, Randy watched the clown's lips twitch, and its tongue struggle to produce some kind of a sound. There came a quiet crackling, like a snake slowly dragging itself through a pile of sodden leaves, as the clown's lungs expanded for possibly the first time. Randy thought it was trying to say something.

Instead of going to the bathroom, Randy decided to wait. He wasn't just curious what the clown might have to say, but he was, for the first time in a long time, a little bit frightened.

Sure, the clown was nothing new, but Randy had become so used to its presence that he barely registered it any more, seeing him like an old chair or a pile of forgotten mail. That the clown was trying to speak was as startling as it would have been if that chair or the old envelopes had opened their own mouths and had started to talk.

So Randy listened.

The clown's mouth continued to work at producing some kind of a voice, but seemed unable to do so. After a while, the crackling sounds slowly transformed into a low hiss, like an old gas valve had been forced open. Randy tried to read the clown's quivering lips, but could only focus for so long before the sight made his gut go sour. He realized he'd never stared so long and intently at the figure standing at his feet, and doing so forced him to see what he had never before seen.

The clown's painted-on tears were not painted on at all. He was crying. And the expression that Randy had for so long assumed was a smile was actually much closer to a grimace. Its lips, struggling to form words, were split and leaking blood. Its tongue, slithering to life, was nothing more than a rotting stump. Randy remained in bed, a shiver creeping through his body, and pulled his blankets over his feet.

The clown stepped toward the bed.

Randy pulled his feet away from the footboard and sat up.

The clown took another halting step forward.

Randy squeezed himself as far back on the bed as he could, his shoulder blades scrunched against his headboard.

The clown leaned forward and placed a hand on the end of Randy's mattress.

Randy looked at the hand. Where he could see flesh poking through the dirty white glove, he saw peeling skin and oozing sores. It moved closer to him, into the moonlight, and Randy saw the hand was clutching a large butcher knife.

The clown dragged itself over the base-board and Randy felt the bedsprings groan under its weight. Its eyes focused on him and it tried to speak again. As its painted face pulled even with his, Randy smelled the rancid rot of clown breath, and its sounds became more recognizable as sobs. Then, the sobs turned to mournful whispers.

"I-i-i-i–"

The clown was speaking to Randy.

"A-a-a-m-m-m–"

Randy's eyes widened.

"S-s-s-s-o-o-o-r-r-r-y."

The knife pierced Randy's chest. Again and again, it sliced into him. He screamed through a bloody cough as the blade tore at his flesh. He felt the clown's tears splashing on his face and its child-like sobs wracking its immense frame.

Randy squeezed his eyes shut, ready to die, and when he opened them, the clown was gone. For a moment, the fear faded and he tried to breathe. The breaths came raggedly, though, and before long he noticed the bloody knife he held in his hand. The clown tears he'd felt had not been tears at all, but rather, the splattering of Randy's blood; the sobs he'd heard had been his own.

As Randy slowly faded away, the sound of circus music danced past his ears and he realized what he'd always known. He and the clown were one and the same. As the life begin to drain from him, he knew he'd finally rid himself of that mocking stare. Randy closed his eyes, and as the darkness began to eat away at his dying brain, he smiled back at the clown that never was.
5. BACK HOME

Jonathan Hatfull, England

I saw her as I closed up the video store. She stood in the pouring rain, about six feet from the bus stop, wearing a sheer white dress. Her long brown hair was soaked flat against her scalp and she was shivering.

"Excuse me," I asked. "Are you alright?"

She turned to face me. I didn't think she had any idea where she was.

"Do you know the way to the sea?" she asked.

I took a step closer, putting my hand in my pocket for my phone.

"The sea? Miss, you're...this is Nottingham. We're a long way from the sea."

"They said they'd take me to look at the water," she told me urgently. "They said that it looked different at night."

I took another step closer and took my hand back out of my pocket.

"Did they take you there?" I asked her, knowing the answer. She nodded, drops of water falling from the tangles in her hair.

"I must have fallen...or fallen asleep..." she turned away from me to look up the road towards town. "The water was very dark," she finished, almost apologetically.

"Right, well...best of luck finding it." I pulled my hood up and turned to head for home when she said my name.

"I've got a message for you, William." When I turned back to face her she was closer. I could smell sea water. If she'd been breathing I would have felt it on my face. "They want you to come home. Immediately."

"I'm not interested," I muttered, but she held up her hand.

"They said... They said 'Tell him it's about Laura.' They said that would get your attention."

It did. I would have asked what it had to do with my sister, but the dripping woman was gone, and I was standing in the rain by myself.

The first time I saw a ghost was in that home she was talking about. My family moved to the countryside after my parents came into some money. Both the new home and the new money were supposed to make them happy. It didn't work, but there were a few weeks during which they pretended. It wasn't exactly a mansion, a two-storey, three-bedroom place, but my mum still managed to find places to hide away while my dad continued his journey into depression that we later found out had started years before. Laura found him in the bathtub one evening near Christmas, the water dark red and his wrists wide open.

If you're thinking that the first ghost I saw was my dad, you'd be wrong. I know, it seems like an obvious one, but an old woman had come to sit at the foot of my bed about two weeks before the big event. Her face was almost impossibly wrinkled, she wore a dark green woollen jumper and she had her grey hair tied back savagely. When I opened my eyes it looked like she was studying me, hand on her chin, wondering what this strange specimen was. I shrank under the covers, and as I pulled the duvet over my head I caught a glimpse of her grinning.

The apparitions grew increasingly frequent after Dad died. I didn't tell my mum, obviously, I just tried to get on with it as best I could. Everyone assumed that my sleeplessness and erratic behaviour was me struggling to cope with what had happened, a hypothesis that was helped by Laura's lashing out at everyone and everything around her, and Mum's sudden free-fall into full-blown alcoholism. I came to realise that the ghosts weren't so bad. They were never aggressive. That curiosity the old woman had showed turned out to be a common trait. A young boy in a school uniform, a man in dark blue overalls, a woman in her nightgown, they all seemed to be stopping by to check me out. By the time I was fifteen and Laura was eighteen, I had learned to cope, and she was gone.

That's when the house started acting up. One night, after I'd performed the nightly routine of making sure Mum didn't pass out with a lit cigarette, I stepped into the garden for a smoke myself. The garden was huge but never used. No one ever went further than the patio. As I looked up from lighting my cigarette, a man stood in front of me. He was dressed in a dark grey suit. His grey hair was flattened onto his scalp. He was staring right at me.

"Are you listening to me?" he asked. From his tone, it was clear there was only one answer, but I was frozen stiff. I'd never heard one speak before. Occasional wailing, or low moaning, but actual speech, speech that was directed at me...that was different. So I stood dumb. "Don't make me repeat myself," he told me.

I nodded. That was all I could do.

"We've been watching you for a while now," he said. "You've seen us, and you know we've been watching you. You've had plenty of time here. It's time for you to do what you're told."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't understand."

"All this...quiet doesn't help us, you see?" he asked. "Your father doing what he did? That was good. That helped. Your sister's rage? Very good. Now, what have we got? Your mother drinking herself to a slow death and your teenage horseshit. It's not enough. So we need you to do what we tell you to do."

I remember suddenly realising I had a lit cigarette in my hand, and looking down to see if it had gone out.

"Look at me!" he shouted, and I felt my teeth rattle with the force of it. "Are you going to do what you're told?"

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Laura. We want her back. Bring her back to us." He smiled, his lips rolling back to reveal a row of nicotine-yellowed teeth. "She brings a bit of life to the old place." His laugh was more of a cough.

"Why would I do that?" I asked. The mention of my sister's name had given me a bit of nerve or anger. "She's gone. Why would I bring her back?"

The lips returned and the smile disappeared.

"Because if you don't, we'll find a way to punish you for it," he said. "I can think of a good one. It wouldn't be difficult."

I'd watched Laura spiral for years. I had no idea whether she was happy or not wherever she was, but wherever she had gone, she'd gone by choice. Love wasn't something that was coherently expressed in our family, but I knew that I cared more about my sister than anyone else. As I felt the combativeness build, I realised that I had no idea what this figure was capable of. As far as I knew, his powers didn't stretch beyond speech and intimidation.

"No."

He nodded and closed his eyes. Behind him, shadows began to appear. In the course of a few seconds, every figure I had seen in that house stood behind him, their backs straight, their eyes closed. When he opened his eyes, so did they. He was grinning again, and so were they. Rows of white eyes and white teeth in the darkness.

"Final answer?" he asked. I nodded. "Right. You stubbed your mum's fag out, didn't you?" I nodded, less sure of myself this time. "No, son. You didn't."

By the time I got to my mother's room, it was engulfed in flames. I tried to get to her, I really did. But I wasn't supposed to.

I went to stay with my godmother, a nice, well-meaning woman who was busy enough to never push me too hard on anything. The apparitions I saw there were nothing like the ones at the old house. They were mostly lost or confused and didn't have time for anyone's problems except their own. I did my best to move on, but I never forgot.

I heard from Laura every now and then, and we met up for a pint if we were ever in the same city. Happiness was something that seemed to always be a few steps away from her. If I saw her in person she did her best to act natural, to ask the right questions, and to answer mine in vague enough terms that I didn't really learn anything. I heard that she'd tried to go the same way as Dad once or twice, but whenever I saw her she stressed that she was moving on, doing better, getting better. When she moved to London, I stayed in Nottingham. I was doing OK.

So getting into my car and driving into the countryside was something that I had to talk myself into. I had no desire to go back to the old place. Laura, though. Laura meant that I didn't have a choice. It looked pretty much the same. We'd paid to have the fire damage fixed out of some vague notion that we might resell it, but something always came up, or we actively avoided it.

I was standing outside the front door when my phone rang. It was Laura's number, but she wasn't the one on the other end of the line.

"Is this William Fitzgerald?" asked a woman whose voice I didn't recognise. There was a slight pause after I confirmed, then an audible deep breath. "I'm calling from the hospital in Lewisham, it's about your sister Laura. I'm afraid that she's hurt herself."

"How bad is it?"

"Mr Fitzgerald, you should really try and get here as soon as possible. I don't think she's going to be here very long."

"I'm leaving now," I told her, and hung up before she could answer. I tried not to think too hard about the lie I'd just told and went inside.

They didn't put on a show. The familiar faces stood along both sides of the corridor, waiting for me to walk past, but they didn't give any sign of seeing me. They just stood there. I moved quickly past them and into the kitchen. There he was, standing by the oven. The man in the suit was nearly translucent; he had become wispy around the edges. Dissipating or not, he managed to grin at me.

"What do you want?" I asked. He pointed up the stairs and was gone. I went cautiously. I took the steps one at a time. The place still smelled of smoke. I'd been back here during the day, but at night, everything was different. There was my old bedroom. There was my mother's room, where she'd... And there was the bathroom, where the light was on.

Laura lay in the bath. Her eyes were open. Her mouth was open. The water was red.

"He said it's easy," she said, turning to face me. "He said it's so easy anyone can do it."

My phone rang. It didn't stop ringing. I sat with my sister for a while. I tried to take her hand once, even though I knew I couldn't. All I touched was dusty old porcelain. I told her I loved her. If she heard it, she didn't let on. Then I went back to my car, fetched the can of petrol, and finished the job that they'd started years ago.

The fire could be seen for miles.

I'm sure Laura's still around somewhere. I just hope she's not with them.
6. WAITING FOR THE WOLF

Troy H. Gardner, United States

HE'S coming for me.

I locked the front door—deadbolted—but it's no comfort. How much safety can a deadbolt really guarantee? The lights are on in every room of my fourth floor apartment, matching the firefly sprinkling of every other home and business in the city at night. I'm sitting at the Formica table in the kitchen with my back to the wall, scanning the two doorways. My right hand's wrapped around the knife so hard it's practically fused to my flesh.

For the first time ever, I'm thankful my Brooklyn apartment is so small. Less space to worry about. I grew up in a two-story farmhouse in Idaho with stairs and a backyard and privacy. That house would have been hell to safeguard but I can manage the apartment.

He's not going to get the jump on me like he did the others.

Lights from the street flash into the kitchen, casting long shadows my way. As they recede, I relax my grip on the knife.

Any minute now.

A man and woman talk in hushed tones on the other side of the kitchen wall. It's just the neighbor's TV. Before I moved to the city, any sounds I heard from the TV came from my parents' viewing habits—westerns and political talk shows. The widow is different. She loves reality shows and sitcoms. I suddenly envy the amnesiac shut-in. The bag boy delivers her food. She's never watched a friend die. She never waits for death to burst through her doors.

Or maybe she does. Maybe that's why she never ventures outside.

I see my life following the shut-in's path. Call in to my professors, tell them I'm sick. They'll fail me eventually. I can take classes online and get a job from home. Endless nights watching the doors. How long until I feel comfortable enough to turn on the TV?

It started when my phone buzzed on the subway after my late class. I had to brush up against a squirrelly-looking woman to fish it out my pants.

My buddy Jay was calling to cancel our weekly poker game. I figured he'd contacted me last because he knew the other guys wouldn't give him any resistance, but I wasn't having any of it.

"Don't be a loser. Why don't you want to chill?" I asked him.

"I'm not up for it tonight." The voice on the phone sounded hollow. I'd never heard Jay like that before. I'd known him for two years, ever since we sat next to each other in one of my first engineering classes. I was a freshman and used to sticking your hand out and making friends like from back home. The city was a different story and most people treated me like an oddity, but Jay had shook my hand and started blabbing. We were instant friends.

"Something happen?"

"I don't know. I guess so."

"Don't be a chick. Just tell me." He was never the type to get worked up easily. The uncertainty in his voice made my skin crawl.

"I ran into Declan in the bar the other night."

"Who?"

"He used to work with me in the college bookstore. He was just sitting there at the bar, drinking alone. There weren't any decent girls around, so I had a few Post Nap Funks with him."

"And?"

"And his cousin died the other day. A severe heart attack. He was only twenty-nine. The weird thing was the cousin's neighbor was shot a few days before in a home invasion or something."

"That's messed up," I said. What else was there to say? Sorry the random cousin of some acquaintance died. If the city wasn't so massive you would never have even crossed paths.

I noticed a young preacher holding a sign proclaiming it the end of days. Would the city swallow him up whole like it had me?

"Declan said his cousin saw the killer leaving. Dude was dressed up like one of those street performers. The costumed ones that kids take pictures with. They're always out there bothering people. Homeless weirdoes."

Never would have happened in Idaho.

"Who was he dressed up as? SpongeBob? Spider-Man?" I tried to lighten the mood, but it was impossible.

"A wolf in a ratty 'I Heart NY' shirt."

"Weird. But who doesn't heart New York? Still no reason why we aren't getting shitfaced playing poker tonight."

The train came to a halt and the doors whooshed open. I hurried through the crowd of strangers. As I emerged on the street above, I found myself looking out for any costumed wolves. I never looked over my shoulder before moving here. What is it about the city that changes you so quickly? The smog? The abundance of people stacked upon each other?

"I left the bar with Declan. We went down to the subway together. It wasn't that crowded, you know, a Tuesday night at eleven. We were waiting for the train, just talking or whatever, and suddenly his mouth drops and he stumbles back. I tried to catch him, but he fell right in front of the train. It made the most sickening sound."

"Damn." I shuddered at the thought of Jay's friend actually dying in front of him, glad I heard about it as I approached my apartment building and not while I was still underground. "What did you do?"

"I turned away. People were screaming. The Wolf was standing there, twenty feet away. I swear its big plastic eyes were staring straight at me. He held one finger up to his lips."

"Shit. What happened?"

"People were running around and I lost track of him. As soon as the cops heard we came from the bar they didn't seem that interested. Anyway, I've been holed up here the last couple days."

"That's no good. Look, I'll bring over a six-pack and keep you company for a while. Not like I had any other plans for the night."

He was quiet for several seconds. I thought we got disconnected and checked my phone. The seconds on the call log ticked up. "Jay?"

"Yeah, sure. See you in a few."

I stuffed the phone back in my pants and hurried upstairs. I tossed some beer in a brown bag and left for Jay's place.

The streets were still alive with hipsters and partiers. A scruffy kid played some song by This Is My Roommate as passers-by tossed spare change in his guitar case. I nodded to a neighbor, a woman whose face I knew but name I didn't. It wasn't a long walk to Jay's apartment. I hoped he had some soda and liquor so I could mix something stronger. Somehow I didn't think three beers apiece would do the trick.

As I reached Jay's building, I glanced up at his third story window out of habit. The lights were on. As I neared the side of the building, something made a crashing sound high above. I looked up just as Jay sailed through the air, plummeting toward the concrete.

A woman screamed. Others pointed. Jay hit the ground with a sickening splat and crunch. I backed away and looked toward the window again. Those looming wolf eyes stared at the carnage below.

Jay must have opened the door for the Wolf, thinking it was me. He can't pull the same trick on me. I'll sit right here until he tries, and then I'll show him. One quick stab to the stomach ought to do it. And then twenty more to be sure.

I crack open my second beer with my left hand and sip the foamy drink. Nothing will take the knife out of my dominant hand. I picture the freak inside the mask. Homeless maniac? A hipster artist hearing voices? A vet with PTSD?

There's a knock on the door. I tense up. The light above the kitchen table flickers.

Who's there?

Death.

Death who?

I leave the safety of the kitchen wall and approach the front door. Through the peephole, I see him clearly waiting on the other side. He's perfectly still. Hands at his side, head tilted just so. The knife is heavy in my hand. I consider throwing open the door and launching myself at him.

I back away from the door. Maybe he'll go away.

How'd he even find me?

It's cold in my apartment but sweat drips down my forehead. I can't take my eyes off the front door. He's unarmed. He can't hurt me. I'm safe.

I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down.

I fall back to the kitchen table. Shaking, I finish my beer. Do I dare crack open another? The lights are on; he already knows I'm home. Maybe he'll go away.

I sit again. Nothing happens. A car horn blares outside. There are sirens in the distance. I risk opening another beer by momentarily setting down the knife. My right hand is sore. I flex it and then crack open the can under the table, muffling it as best as I can.

The bitter taste doesn't help any. I only take one sip before setting it down on the table and holding the knife again.

The city sounds blur together. All I can distinctly hear is my own breathing and the muffled TV next door.

"You'll lose yourself in New York," Dad said.

"What's there to lose? Any sense that cows are worthwhile conversationalists?" I'd joke back. But he was right. The city does swallow you whole. You come in thinking one thing and the next minute, you're a New Yorker and anything goes.

The stillness is nearly as bad as chaos.

Maybe he's gone. Maybe he gave up.

I leave the table and shuffle toward the front door to peer through the peephole. The Wolf hasn't moved an inch. If they could, I'm sure the edges of his costumed lips would twist upward.

I step away from the door. The Wolf will never tire. He'll never leave his station.

I remember my phone. The cops. Help. I silently creep away from the door. Where's my phone?

The bedroom.

My feet carry me through the narrow hallway and into my bedroom. I find the phone on my bed and dial 911. I make my way back to the kitchen table as the operator answers.

"911, what is the nature of your emergency?"

"Uh, yes, there's someone outside my apartment. I think he's dangerous."

I glance back at the door. The deadbolt has moved; the door's no longer locked. He must be inside. The phone fumbles through my fingers and clatters on the floor.

I run toward the door. I have to get out before he leaps out at me. I throw the door wide open.

The Wolf never moved from the spot.

Before I can slam the door shut, he barges forward. I step back and ram the knife into his stomach. It slices through the shirt and furry costume.

He backhands me and I stumble back through my living room. My vision blurs. I shake it away.

The Wolf approaches. The knife is still stuck in his gut. The costume stinks of piss and stale beer. I launch myself at him and yank out the knife. I pull back and slash horizontally at his neck. I feel the blade cut through fur and something thick, like molasses.

The Wolf head falls to the floor and rolls several feet.

My senses feel like they're on fire. My entire body tingles. The Wolf drops to his knees and collapses at my feet.

Shaking, I bend down and pick up the Wolf's head. It's empty.

The furry hands grab my ankles and yank my feet out from under me. I fall on top of the costume. The headless thing crawls over me. It's heavier than it should be. It weighs me down. I try to scream, but the hands are over my mouth. It's stronger than I am.

There's a zipping sound. The costume rolls over, practically crushing me into the floor. But then the furry back envelops me. It wraps around my chest, crushing the air out of my lungs. I feel the legs stretching out across my own like warm glue. The hands reach the Wolf's head and pull it over my own.

My vision becomes his.

It's hot here. My sweat drips, collecting in the furry folds around my lips and chin. It's moist and I'm so thirsty.

I stumble out of the apartment. Through the city.

Hookers and addicts own the streets until the sun rises on the city. The tourists and professionals reclaim the lost territory.

There are others like me in the fringes. Batman. Snoopy. Wonder Woman.

Kids pose with me and parents chuck spare coins my way.

People point. They jeer. Snicker. Laugh. They shouldn't push me too far; they wouldn't like the consequences. There's been a long line from the first people who pushed me too far. Each told someone about me and each had to be dealt with.

It's a precious chain.

Now you know my story and I can't break the chain. That's why I'm coming for you.
7. STORE MACABRE

Scott Clark, Scotland

NO one noticed when the doors clicked shut and the locks flipped in their chambers. The glass doors warbled in their steel fixtures against the harsh wind tearing down the empty high street, and an atmosphere possessed by dusk rapidly drew towards the bitter cold of night.

Past the busy cash desks swarm bug-eyed and ferocious patrons, each waving garments over-head with ritualistic frenzy, cackling in tongues, demanding the attention of sweating workers who do their best in a heat unthinkable. Over discarded items and the litter of a thousand wretches, children rub sticky chocolate across miserable smiles and cry for mothers who sing at them whilst scrabbling at the last filthy dress on the rack.

Feel the heat squeeze salty beads of moisture from greasy pores. Feel the waves of noise bang and clash against, what you might have once called fine hearing. Feel every complaint or roar of vicious laughter race up to join the atmosphere of panic induced by nothing more than this; a store about to tipple into the eye of a storm, no more impeded by harmony.

Back at the door the lights flicker. As the shadows surge forwards and backwards, warded by the failing light, it is almost possible to notice a figure of impossible height. Wreathed in black, whining softly, the figure's stuttering form reaches out a ghastly arm and calls for attention. Its knuckles scrape and crack on the hardened glass. The hollow noise, enough to freeze the blood of any hardened soul, is a glimpse of death's embrace resonating in the knock of this doomed figure. And yet it falls on deaf ears. The figure maintains a vigil.

The chaos of this atmosphere, the clambering and the screaming and the heat, is so great that few notice the developing horrors. Few notice the doors are now locked and a figure beckons from the door, as you have. Even fewer smell the smoke, or taste the bitter salt on the air, and register that something is far wrong with this picture.

The lights dim almost imperceptibly and flicker like candlelight in the chill breeze of eve. A rush of wind, its source impossible to fix, rushes through the floor chilling all who notice it to the bone. Teeth clatter and fingers lose grip, children sink back slowly into the busy crowds, grappling for their mother's skirts. Breaths become bated, shallow, vaguely strangled in the close, maddening, air.

By the side of the till there is a large black sack, not unlike a suit carrier, which must be hauled up to the Manager's office as a greasy note dictates. As it is dragged across the floor it leaves an angry red smear on the cream tiles that no one—save a beady eyed brat—seems to notice. The Assistant reaches the lift just in time. As she steps onto the grubby corrugated floor of the rusted elevator, the floor almost claims her shoe.

Back at the cash desk a spectacled banshee shakes fistfuls of crumpled notes at a young worker, glaring wildly as her legs are enveloped by the floor. The Cashier instantly begins an accident evaluation sheet, because if these things aren't done properly, Trading Standards could have them all liquidated. Before the woman's mouth disappears she throws the notes in the air and complains venomously and, with that, her face vanishes beneath the tile leaving only a tangle of brown hair to sit, like a toupee, on the now-solid floor.

Most of the customers on the ground floor suffer such a fate. A few are left to run screaming to and fro in this macabre garden, amongst the tangled limbs of their fellow patrons and the cool breeze of the now functioning air conditioning. Few notice, as you now must, that the front doors have unlocked and slowly creak open as fresh customers shuffle into the store marvelling at the avant-garde displays.

● ● ●

IT is typical that a delivery like this, the ominous black sack heaped in the corner of the rusted elevator, should appear on the busiest day of the week. The Assistant should have been finished at twelve o'clock, but it must have been, at least, half past that. It was hot and the place took on an unwelcome reek: it stank like Hell and worse. She couldn't pinpoint the exact smell and breathed a sigh of relief when the doors slid open.

First Floor, Ladies' Suiting, is relatively calm. Patrons have not yet caught wind of the screams echoing up the stairs. The first mists of confusion are only setting in. The enormous pictures on the walls have only just begun to change. Fine silhouettes, an army of sharply dressed models, once frozen in uncomfortable stances, now stagger from their positions. Some stretch out maniacally, barking silent laughter, whilst others crawl into dark corners and weep, covering their ears and mouths.

When this catches on, there is suitable panic. Wide eyes and clenched fists, hands on mouths, hands in mouths, shuddering heads and bombastic movements, the realization of something leaving; the air sucked from the room. Everyone gasps. The pictures keep moving, playing host to storms and scenes of a foreboding nature.

Still the Assistant launches herself forward with fervour, muttering apologies wherever she can and barking at any shoppers unlucky enough to get in her way. Some hapless bystanders slip in the smears left by the black sack, only to rise shaking and stuttering at the gooey consistency smeared over their persons.

All the shiny white and polished wood seems somewhat grubby, tarnished and vaguely foul like furniture left in the street. Only when she reaches the other side of the floor does she stop to consider that she has absolutely no reason to be there, and races back to the lift as things get ugly.

● ● ●

FLOOR Two, Men's and Sportswear, is silent and pitch black. The Assistant shuffles out of the lift, letting the black sack slump over the doorway as she staggers to catch her breath. The air is damp and impossibly warm. The place has the uneasy stillness of a hospital corridor in the night. There is a soft droning but not of machinery.

The lights have failed, plunging all into darkness. Except not total darkness since there are small candles radiating out in web-like precision down the pathways. Step by step, inching forward slowly and silently, the Assistant begins to feel the first pangs of fear.

As she moves closer to the back walls, she notices the ground change. Where it was gleaming white and new, see it now, stained with hundreds of filthy footprints. Smell the foul effluence, hear the cacophony in the velvet darkness. Feel—

Feel the icy hand of it, wet, soft and hungry, clench around your arm as you kick out one of the candles in panic. Feel a weight of rank meat tumble on your body, slathering it with juices foul beyond the grave. The Assistant flails and races back into the light, slowing only when nothing emerges from the shadows to give chase.

When her heart rate has slowed and the dull ebbing of her pulse has retreated from her ears, she hears the sounds. All around her, in the pitch darkness, a lament of sobs and whispers drifts around the room. Squinting, the Assistant can see forms, just barely.

Groups of men cling to the walls tightly, holding hands and shaking. Every so often the thing in the shadows lets out a long mournful sigh, and the men snort in fear, shuddering against the walls. There is a flump of weight hitting the floor, the clambering of the thing, and the soft slapping of wet bodies. It begins to feast on the unlucky soul who fainted in the heat.

The Assistant races down one of the well-lit pathways, and hanging a sharp right into the equipment department, she slams a key code into the door and slides through to the relative safety of the Menswear staff area. It is well lit back here and there are few shadows to hide in. So she rests, slipping onto the musty sofa, whilst forgetting about everything.

● ● ●

HERE and there the other staff members perch, no two standing too close together or too far apart. The air is thick with accusation and morbid curiosity. The overall effect is somewhat jarring to the Assistant who awakens, with severely mixed feelings, to a room full of bloodied silent people staring at her.

She makes her way to the table and takes a seat, one of the new girls picks up her scarlet coat and swings it on, wandering to the door.

"You're seriously going out in that?"

The girl turns, confused and distant, a constant question on her brow. The Assistant takes out a rusted blade and slides it across the table—you might as well stick that in your heart right now. The girl picks up the knife in a daze, turns, and leaves for the ladies toilet. The sobs stop and start, then dissipates to nothing. The door remains locked.

As she reaches over the table for a glass of water, the room shudders violently and the pitcher quivers over the edge of the surface to smash loudly on the laminate floor. Everyone gasps and prepares to flee, but the action fades as quickly as it started.

"It's the rain," someone says, "the rain, it's falling too hard. It'll wake the Old Ones."

Everyone frowns and turns away, waving arms and making sharp sounds of dismissal.

"You'll see," the Assistant says.

Over by the phone, a young man has the handset to his mouth and is whispering something into the receiver. The Assistant wanders over to whisper in his ear, "Where can I get the Manager's office key?" The man seems to start awake then turns to her.

"The Manager should have them."

"Last I heard she was in the basement."

"Basement's flooded, so...I hope not."

"Ok, so I'll make my way up—"

"Have you noticed—"

"You guys stay here, enjoy your break."

"You probably shouldn't—"

"See you."

He turns back to the receiver and carries on whispering. She steps out onto the floor and stops to listen. Over the Tannoy, comes a strained whisper, "Prowl...prowl...I wanted help on the desk but no one came there was a body but it disappeared after a while in the basement then the blood but it wasn't blood it was pus from the boiler it's all gone off..." It goes on and on. The Assistant makes it back to the lift just as the candles puff out in her wake and something slides towards her in the dark. She drags the black sack in and the door slams shut. Something reeking of flowery perfume slams into the door.

The lift stops on Three but the doors won't slide open so she presses the button for Four and the problem repeats. This time the inadequacy of the institute sets a fuse in her belly, and she screams every terrible word she knows. She considers calling someone but the janitors are zombies so the engineers have probably met similar fate.

She fits her fingers into the groove between the doors carefully, nails first, and wrenches with all her strength. Nothing. Not even a slight give. She pulls her lanyard from her neck and bashes the plastic fob into place, pushing the door millimetres apart. Her fingertips fit in and she splits a nail in her haste, the pain makes her hands tremble and, accompanied by the stench of the sack, she feels nauseous. Only whilst the doors slowly creak apart does she remember this usually happens when something leans against the doors.

It is somewhat jarring to find one of the fine porcelain-coloured store mannequins leaning haphazardly against the metal doors of the lift, its hand frozen in mid-air, where the door was only a second ago. More jarring, perhaps, is the fact the mannequin looks like it has been testing cosmetics; its face plastered with thick stodgy clumps of cheap mascara and bitter blue lipstick.

The rest of the floor is in a similar state. Mannequins stand here and there perusing the wares of the glass cabinets and many make-up counters. Most of them are in some way dolled-up. Their hair is matted with childish scads of foundation, their rigid fingers clumsily adorned with rings and bangles not sized for the inanimate shopper. Customers stroll around taking no notice of the garish display, even plucking items they desire from the fiendish looking dummies. It looks perfectly safe.

The Assistant lodges the black sack in the lift doorway. Stepping back, she notices how strange the lift looks now, with its rusted doorway and tattered metal insides, bizarrely decrepit against the cream walls of the Accessories and Cosmetics department. Still, there's the bag to be taken care off so she walks over to the cash desk to find a manager. Behind the desk one of her colleagues stands over two bodies. Both corpses heaped clumsily in the walk-space in a mess of blood. The girl looks round but her eyes are black. The Assistant frowns dubiously.

"What's going on?"

"I was blind but now I can see."

"And the bodies?"

"I found them. Out there. Something tried to cut them in half." She steps back and points to the corpses. "I didn't want to scare the customers, so I carried them here. You should join us."

"Ok, good job. And no. Have you seen a manager? I need a key to the Manager's Office." The Assistant points to the black bag.

"I was blind but now I can see. There are no managers left. One died in the basement, the others fell before the store, or soon will. Join us."

"Thanks. And no."

Nobody is being helpful, everything is wrong. This is a nightmare and she only wants to go home, she was due out hours ago. The Assistant pulls up her shirt sleeve but her watch is smashed and all the numbers are zero. All she has to do is take the bag upstairs and she can leave, and then she will be safe.

She very nearly believes it before the searing pain and the blood in her eyes. Right before the knife slides across her forehead and an impossibly strong hand yanks at her hair, pulling the gash wider and wider. The Assistant is blessed by low pain tolerance so she collapses to her knees after a spasm of utter agony. The convulsion shakes her attacker's hand loose, as the fall puts her away from the knife. All of a sudden a wave of near-celebratory violence washes over the department.

The glass cabinets on either side of the Assistant explode with the weight of shoppers. Everywhere mannequins slide into view, garish visages painted in chunks, and begin to decimate the population of the floor. Lifted into the air, slammed onto counters and cabinets, wrestled to the tiles, bashed off pillars, shoppers kick and scream for their lives. An old woman, hoisted high, looks crooked and ridiculous, her sprawling figure inspires no sympathy from tormented fellow-patrons, not even when the mannequin scalps her can anyone help. The action has become vogue, and now all the mannequins are doing it. The Assistant leaps into the lift holding her hair in place, then—blindly—she drags the sack into the rusted box and jabs at the buttons. She escapes with her life, barely, but she does not escape the sounds of the madness beneath.

Floor Five is little more than a thatched barn where a handful of shoppers roll on the floor under a few grubby tweed suits. Their faces spell out wild abandon whilst in the shadows an awful growling oscillates between animalistic prowl and the death rattle of something human. Noticing that the bizarre sound has already began a flirtation with her keener, less respectable, senses the Assistant holds her finger fast to the lift switch and is relieved at, what she assumes is, a lucky escape.

Skipping Floor Six, which had already been scored off the floor plan with hasty vicious gouges, the Assistant steps out on Kidswear, lets her charge flop impotently to the floor, then storms off to screech at a young mother in the process of dismantling an unmanned till. Close by, her red eyed child desperately beats a charity collection off the cracked tiles like a deranged monkey trying to navigate a coconut.

In this brief moment, hardly a calm in the storm but perhaps the closest thing, serenity does its best to settle. Through the floors of concrete and chaos only the loudest screams pierce the walls. Unrelenting sounds of construction and deconstruction maintain a vicious bass, a constant chugging, which gives the impression of pulse-like motion. The walls swell and contract, but so slightly that to notice is to look dangerously close.

On the floor immediately above, a loud crash shakes dust from between the obsidian tiles. A few of the meagre lights shudder out leaving large portions of the shop floor in uncomfortable dark. After cracking the young mother's head open with the till she had been vexing to prise open, the Assistant continues heaving the black sack across the floor to the fire escape. Behind her, as more lights flicker out and bodies run to and fro snatching at air, the child toddles over to its mother's corpse and there is a moment of darkest consideration that bereaves the soul of any onlooker, a moment of childish hunger that begins an action, so awful, it is probably best lost to the dark.

The fire stairs are old and doused in a sickly red light accentuated by the flames that have begun licking their way towards the top. The heat is near unbearable and the stench of burning stabs at the Assistant's head. The wind on the ground floor, the smell of the lift, the reek of blood on the fourth floor, the smells cling to her nostrils. The smoke sneaks in with thin greasy black fingers to creep down her throat and she retches uncontrollably. A few floors down, one of the fire escapes creeps open then slams shut. She blacks out soon after.

● ● ●

SHE wakes up when the biting cold water seeps into the gouge on her forehead. She feels the straps across her chest and legs. She smells burning hair. She panics and fights the straps that bind her, arching her back and shaking with rage. To her right there stands a huge black prism which reeks of rotted fruit. To her left, rows of cleaners kneel and sway, faces turned down in hoods fashioned from large carrier bags with the company's logo emblazoned in crimson. The low thrumming of heart strings and vocal chords sounds like a riot in the ears of the terrified girl. A soft whine emanates from the prism and she shakes with fear. She dreams of a time when things were normal, but that dream becomes just as foul and twisted as this one. She opens her eyes and prays for something to happen, and it does.

The Head Janitor steps forward and places his hand on her stomach, smiling whimsically as his hand rubs the soft skin slowly.

"Hail the Conqueror Worms!" he gasps.

She spits and curses, calls him every name she can, and carries on faster as he raises the dagger. The seething masses abandon their plastic wrappings and hum louder than before, reaching a fever pitch as the smiling monk drives the dagger down. Down it flies as the Assistant screams and the dagger drives deep into the monk's stomach, he looks at her, bewildered, and then collapses back into his followers.

The Assistant becomes aware her ropes have been loosened, just as the midnight mass is spontaneously reduced to one sea of pale flesh and vein. There are no limbs visible, no faces or mouths, but there are too many eyes, eyes that stare wide and panicked from their new lodgings. The Assistant rubs the skin at her wrists and walks silently towards the fire escape as the humming of the disgraceful thing continues.

Racing up the stairs with the black sack bouncing awkwardly off the steps, the Assistant passes the entrances for floors Eleven and Twelve, the former emanating a stink far worse than the fire, whilst the latter is in possession of a sign which simply reads "NO" in thick black marker. She stops on Thirteen and peeks around the door.

It's surprisingly tidy and well-lit here. In the corner, a man in a tatty stormbreaker carves busts whilst across from him sits a swollen spinster adorned with shades of purple and black. She chuckles as the heavy chunks fall to the floor then nods enthusiastically when he presents her with a scrawny skeleton of whitest marble. The ribcage of the thing sags in ludicrous imitation of breasts, whilst the sockets are reduced, made narrow to represent the woman's small, beady gaze. Around them other customers wander about with their own ghastly busts, smiling with their eyes closed. The Assistant shuts the door quietly and continues up the staircase to Fourteen. There were other floors but the stairs don't go far enough and some of the doors have moved.

Floor Fourteen is barren and void of the madness that has gripped nearly the entire store by now. Cleaners crawl to-and-fro across the hairy floor, waxing it as they go. This month's leavers shake hands with various company officials and step into neat holes in the white-washed walls. Burgundy floor tiles show up dusty footprints left by the construction team. In the centre of the floor the area coordinator oversees some last minute changes to room separations.

Four men work quickly, bricking up a section of the floor. Behind the near-finished wall, in a small windowless room that smells like meat, a group of sales assistants play cards at a shabby table, seemingly oblivious to their premature interment. Dollops of concrete run down the wall like mucky tears, only to be scraped up, then reapplied to hold the bricks in place. Nodding silently to the men, the Assistant carries on across the floor to the office, heaving the leaking sack.

The Manager's office door is open. The Manager's office door is rarely open. The Assistant approaches and peeks in, the place reeks of garlic. A man sits on the couch shuffling through papers. She wanders in, sack in tow.

"Where have you been?" he asks, literally blank-faced.

She is too tired to respond, so pulls the bag over to the desk, lets it shudder to the ground, and then flops down on the sofa.

"What's in the bag?" she asks.

The man with no face gets up (grunting from some unseen orifice) then pulls the black sack up onto the huge desk chair with much strain. Unzipping the sack releases a foul stench that fills up the room instantly, but is somewhat lessened by the garlic. The Assistant gags and burrows her head into her armpit, momentarily envious of the man's lack of nostrils.

Sitting on the chair, with the black plastic sack peeled away like the petals of a giant black lily, is a desiccated corpse. No eyes, ears, or teeth, limbs as scrawny as the legs of a crow, and a few strands of sickly hair hanging long and stringy from a mottled scalp. The man goes to work pulling long thin tubes, which appear to be connected under the table, towards the corpse and sticking the polished brass ends into the rubber-like skin.

"Who's that?"

"New manager, he grunts."

"Where's the old one?"

"Basement, I think. She drowned."

"Oh. When will the new guy be up and running?"

"Few hours yet, got to do the blood, then there's induction, safety videos, and the paperwork of course."

"Of course..."

"It's still faster than most other ways. We tried everything; vacuum packing, freezing, dehydrating, tried them all and it didn't take..."

There's a moment of silence interrupted only by the sucking bubbling noises of the hoses as they push thick mauve liquid out of the desk up into the body. The Assistant doesn't care anymore, its home time.

"Do you need—"

"No, that's fine thanks, why not go play cards with the team? It would be good for you."

She doesn't even argue, there's no point. They wouldn't listen if she told them, so she wanders back onto the shop floor, past the builders braying loudly at rags, steps through the moist aperture and takes a seat with the rest of her co-workers. Someone passes her a hand and she takes it, staring out the shrinking hole at the Fourteenth floor.

The lights flicker and the tannoy crackles whilst a noise on the stairs promises chaos could still reach this floor. The tiny room is now darker than ever as the bricks are laid in place. Someone at the table breathes in the ragged after-sobs of a good long cry. The Assistant sighs and looks at the hand she has been dealt as the hand looks up at her. The lights flicker once more, drastically, and the hole is one more brick away from becoming a wall.
8. SEARCH HISTORY

Jonathan Hatfull, England

MARY heard from her brother roughly once every six months. When Theo did get in touch, it was to tell her that he was going out of the country so could she please not call, or that he had broken up with his girlfriend so could she please not ask about her, or that he had got a new job and would be very busy so could she please not expect him to call. It was a situation that she was comfortable with.

Theo was six years her senior and she'd never really known him that well. When their parents died, they shared some awkward moments at the funeral and wake she'd organised, and then he'd gone home without their cousins noticing he had even been there. As far as she was concerned, a card on his birthday and at Christmas was the sum total of her sibling duties.

So when she opened her laptop and saw an email from him marked urgent on a cold October morning, she took a moment, leaned back in her chair, took a sip of coffee and thought for a moment before she opened it. What could be urgent in Theo's world? Money? Some kind of illness? Maybe something had happened to one of his friends. She assumed he had to have some.

STUCK IN NEW YORK. HURRICANE. NEED YOU TO GO TO THE HOUSE AND CHECK SOMETHING. INSTRUCTIONS IN FLOWER POT BY THE DOOR.

She read the email twice and had a look at the news. Hurricane Sandy had hit the East Coast and travellers were being advised that it could be at least three days before planes could take off again. The message had been sent a few minutes ago, so she fired off a response asking if he was OK, and if there were any more details he wanted to share. Seconds later, another urgent-marked email arrived.

JUST GO, PLEASE. URGENT.

The prospect of a drive out of London and into Kent wasn't exactly what Mary wanted to do with her Sunday. However, she wasn't able to kid herself that it wouldn't happen. She knew that it was curiosity, rather than any sense of obligation, that got her out of the flat and into the car.

The roads were relatively clear; no one else was daft enough to be driving on a snowy Sunday winter morning. The stop and start of London traffic gave way to the dull monotony of the motorway, and it wasn't long before Mary had to force herself to start paying attention to turn-offs and increasingly tiny road signs. Theo's house was a little way from the centre of a small village, and stood alone just off to the side of a lane lined with large overhanging trees. She'd seen it briefly when she'd helped him move in a few years previously (her idea, not his), and it was bigger than she had remembered. Bigger than he needed, she assumed, but then reminded herself that she had no idea what he was getting up to in there.

Mary parked her car in front of the house and crunched over the gravel to the blue front door. Sure enough, there was a cracked flowerpot, filled with soil and nothing else. She had a moment of confusion when she bent down, carefully lifted the pot, and saw nothing. Then she remembered that he hadn't said under. He'd said in. She dug her fingers into the cold, damp soil and pulled out two small clear plastic bags. One contained the front door key. The other contained a note.

She was surprised when she opened the door and didn't hear the insistent beeping of a burglar alarm. Presumably no one came to bother Theo out here. She took off her shoes and took the opportunity to have a quick look around the downstairs area. It was slightly messy, but not shockingly so. She'd always imagined Theo sitting under a layer of dust, but that wasn't the case. Natural light streamed in through the large windows, but heavy blue curtains made it clear that Theo could sit in darkness if he wanted to. The surfaces looked like they'd been cleaned recently. She was impressed. She went through to the kitchen, found a glass and ran the tap while she opened the bag.

The piece of lined paper inside had been folded over several times. On one side, it simply read MARY. On the other, THIS WON'T MAKE SENSE. IF THE BASEMENT DOOR IS OPEN, LEAVE. IF THERE'S NO BAD SMELL, OPEN THE INSTANT COFFEE JAR. IF THERE IS, OPEN THE TEA.

Mary was taken aback, but she had entered into this in the spirit of curiosity. The urge to get out of there as quickly as possible was weaker than the desire to know exactly what was going on. There had been no obvious reek when she'd entered the house but, to be certain, she took a long sniff, feeling a little silly as she did. Nothing. Just the smell of a house left empty. She turned off the tap and went through the kitchen cupboards until she found the instant coffee. Sure enough, another small plastic bag with another small piece of paper. She opened this up and took a seat at the kitchen table.

I NEED YOU TO KNOCK ON THE BASEMENT DOOR.

She turned the paper over. MORE INSTRUCTIONS IN THE KNIFE DRAWER.

This one was a puzzler. For a moment she wondered if Theo was playing some kind of long distance game with her, or if he really was in New York at all. Would he really play an elaborate prank on her? She didn't think he cared enough to do that. Just to be on the safe side, she opened the drawer and found the next clue first. Deciding against opening it first, more in the spirit of the game than anything else, she walked over to the other end of the kitchen and knocked on the door. The noise was startlingly loud in the silent house and she instinctively took a step back.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself, and stepped back to the door, putting her ear to the wood. Nothing. "OK..."

She opened the next note. This one was longer and more detailed, and made her wonder if she'd made the right choice coming here.

IF YOU HEARD NOTHING, KNOCK AGAIN. LOUDER. IF THERE'S STILL NOTHING, LEAVE. IF YOU HEAR SOMETHING, FIND THE NOTE IN THE OVEN.

Something wasn't right. This was no hungry pet situation. There was no broken boiler to be checked. But she couldn't very well turn around and leave now. She knocked again on the door, harder this time. Nothing. She hit the door as hard as she could. Pressing her ear against the wood, she heard something. Faint. A rattle. Something metal. Then she heard a cough.

She pulled back from the door. She moved quickly over to the oven, pulled open the door and found a plastic bag taped to the bottom, ignoring the grease and blackened debris that got under her fingernails. THERE'S FOOD IN THE FRIDGE.

While she stood, staring at the note, she heard a cry. A voice from the basement, a girl's voice, cried out. It was crying for help. She clenched her fists, crumpling the note, and took a knife from the drawer. Whatever the hell her brother had done had nothing to do with her, but she wasn't the kind of person to leave a situation like this. Above the basement door she found a set of keys which fit the locks on the door. Belatedly, she wondered why anyone would need to lock a basement.

Standing at the top of the stairs, the basement went deeper than she'd expected. She flicked the light switch, and nothing happened. As she took the first step down, she saw something move quickly out of sight. It looked like a hand. She moved slowly down the steps, using the light from her phone to illuminate the room.

There, in the corner, she saw the source of the noise. A young blonde woman, barely in her twenties, was chained to the far wall. In the muck and dirt of the room, the locks on her hands and feet were pristine. She looked terrifyingly skinny. Blood had caked where the locks rubbed her skin. She wore a red evening dress. She had dressed up, before all this had happened. She had turned her head away from Mary as far as it would go, but turned when Mary muttered, "Jesus Christ almighty."

At this, the young woman turned, her eyes and mouth open wide. "Help me!" she rasped. "Please, you have to get me out of here. You have to get me out of here before he comes back!"

Mary moved to the young woman's side. "Jesus Christ almighty," she repeated. "What has he done to you?"

"Please!" repeated the woman, crying now. "Please, get me out of here!"

"It's alright," answered Mary. "He's not here, he's not coming back. Tell me what happened."

The woman sobbed. She told Mary that she had been on her way to a party and had got lost. "It was raining so hard. He stopped in his car and said he could help me find a phone. He seemed nice. He talked about his wife and kids. He said he had a little girl and a little boy. He asked me if I liked the music and then...then I woke up and I couldn't move."

"Has he done...anything?" Mary asked, dreading the answer.

"No. He just kept me here. He won't let me out. Please, please call the police."

Mary stood, the full realisation of what her brother had done sinking in. "This is...this is horrible," she said to herself. "I can't believe...my brother..."

"Your brother?" screeched the woman. "Your fucking brother did this to me? You have to let me go! You have to let me out!"

"I'm really sorry," said Mary. "This isn't how we were raised, you understand."

The woman looked up, her eyes wide in disbelief. "I don't give a fuck!" I don't give a fuck! You need to let me go, you need to call the police!"

Mary bent down and brushed the hair from the woman's eyes. "What's your name, sweetheart?" she asked.

"What does it matter?" answered the woman. "It's Rose, what the fuck difference does that make?"

"None, I suppose," answered Mary. "But I want you to know, Rose, that this isn't how we were brought up. We were taught to do it quickly. I don't know what Theo's playing at."

Rose opened her mouth to answer, and Mary slid the knife across her throat. "There's no need," she said, as the blood poured over Rose's chest, the look of confusion on her face freezing. "There's just no need."

Mary found a piece of plastic sheet in the garage and covered Rose's body. She went back upstairs and drank the glass of water. Before she left, she wiped down the surfaces she had touched. She had been taught to clean up her mess.

The traffic was bad on the way back. Mary thought briefly about what Theo must be thinking, up in the air and fretting, before deciding that she didn't particularly care. She had a long shower, drank a bottle of red wine, watched some bad TV and slept for ten hours. She had been taught to properly unwind. When she woke up, she made herself a cooked breakfast, packed with grease she wouldn't normally allow herself. When she'd eaten and drunk the contents of a cafetiere, Mary opened her emails. There was one marked urgent from Theo.

You had no right it said simply.

Neither did you she wrote, and pressed send.
9. GONE FOR GOOD

Vinny Negron, United States

I made a rare appearance at Kenny's house one night after a particularly shitty argument with Maria. Kenny answered the door with a smile. He reached out, locked my hand in his, and yanked me into a bear hug. A muscled arm draped around my shoulder, he led me into the living room, where David, Larry, Cesar and Strings were playing beer pong.

Kenny pointed to Strings. "First you crawl out from your wormhole or whatever the fuck, now this dude shows up like the prodigal son."

I took a pull off a bottle of tequila Larry offered me, and then grabbed a beer from a cooler. I could see that the old crew was already twisted in the way that was common during my college years, and it was refreshing. While college wasn't yet a distant memory for me, the corporate job, the relationship, the step-daddying, had made me the oldest twenty-three-year-old I know.

Strings bounced across the room toward me. He wore a tight-ass Iron Man T-shirt that accentuated his man boobs. On the right side of his neck was a tattoo of the Mets logo. Similar Queens-inspired tats inked his forearms, including a sprawling depiction of Ralph's Diner, the local greasy spoon.

"Nino," he said, and swallowed me into a hug. He smelled of perspiration, weed and cigarettes. He maintained his hold on me for a long time, and I let him. Once, we were inseparable and insufferable. Two knuckleheads, the McBride Street derelicts known for causing trouble and setting shit on fire. That was before I left for college, and before his mother committed him to Bellevue. A lot of years had passed between us without a word. It was good to see him now, as last I heard, a nervous breakdown had made him a pariah.

We hadn't exchanged more than a few "How you beens" before Kenny came between us.

"Let me talk to my boy for a sec," he said to Strings. "Need the man's advice on a refinance." And with that, he led me to the kitchen, his arm across my shoulders.

He opened a Corona with his teeth and slid it across the countertop. Kenny was only recently out of the army after two tours in Afghanistan. It was good to see him looking happy. I drained my beer and picked up the fresh one with a nod.

Kenny looked me in the eye.

"You know homeboy ain't all there, right?" he said.

"He seems cool."

"He has his moments, but don't let him fool you. Dude is seven-thirty."

"He was always a little off."

"True," he said. "But it's different now. I know you two got history, that's why I'm telling you. It's not like it used to be—not with him."

"You think he's dangerous?"

Kenny paused before saying, "Yeah. To me, instability in the dome piece is dangerous."

"Then why's he here?"

"He's still TGH," he said, a hint of sadness in his voice. "Know what I mean?"

I nodded. TGH, short for "The Group Home" is what we used to call our crew.

"And I'm pretty sure we're all he's got," he said.

Kenny lifted his bottle and I did the same.

"It's good to see you, man. Here's to The Group Home," he said.

We touched bottles and drained our beers.

"Speaking of The Group Home, I gotta make some calls. Let's get stupid up in here."

About an hour later, Kenny's house was packed. The party moved into the backyard, where a keg had materialized. A DJ arrived and set up on the patio. He spun mostly old-school rap of the sing-along variety like Doug E. Fresh and Snoop Dog. It was after two in the morning when Strings found me on the edge of a picnic table bobbing my head and mouthing the words to Biggie's "Hypnotize." We hadn't spoken much that night, and I could tell something was on his mind. He stood over me with unfocused eyes.

"Cesar's about to cartwheel through a ring of fire," he said. "And they call me crazy."

"Means five-oh will be here soon."

"You know it."

I stood and wobbled. I took hold of Strings's forearm to steady myself.

"Dude, why's your arm colder than a witch's tit?"

He held up a can of Shock Top.

"This was at the bottom of the cooler," he said. "Had to dig for it."

"For a second there I thought you were undead."

"Alive and well, my friend."

"Good."

I swallowed the last of a vodka-cranberry and set the plastic cup on the picnic table.

"I should get going," I said.

"Give a brother a lift?"

"Sure."

We left quietly, skirting the crowd, avoiding the drunken good-byes. As we neared my Jeep, I could hear Cesar calling for help, and over his cries was Kenny's voice, directing Cesar to stop, drop and roll.

● ● ●

ON the drive over to his house, Strings sat way back in the bucket seat, his legs extended and crossed at the ankles on top of my dashboard. Under the light of a streetlamp, I noticed a four-inch gash across his calf muscle.

"Fuck happened to you?"

"You wouldn't believe me," he said.

"Pamber cut you? I'd believe that."

"She still hates you, you know."

"Feeling's mutual," I said. "I was hoping she was dead."

"That's harsh, bro."

I downshifted as I made the left onto Mott Avenue.

"You still together?"

"On and off. Mostly off. I haven't seen her in a few months."

"Probably for the best."

Strings sat up and crossed the injured leg over the other. He ran two fingers over the half-moon shaped scar on his calf.

As I turned into his gravel driveway, and my headlights swept across the front of Strings's house, it shocked me to see the old row house looking abandoned. It was two stories of shit-brown asbestos shingle that barely hung on. Plywood covered several of the windows. The front porch sagged on one side as though it had suffered a stroke.

"There's something I want to show you, if you got a minute," he said. "You're not gonna believe it."

"First you said I won't believe what happened to your leg, now you're saying I won't believe what's inside. Do I dare?"

He pushed open the door and climbed out of the Jeep.

"It's all related. And it's all pretty un-fucking-believable."

Our sneakers crunched over spilled dog food as Strings led me through his kitchen. Stacks of crusty dishes lined the countertops. The air was stiff, as if a window hadn't been cracked in months, and the house reeked of fast food, nicotine, and dirty laundry. Strings looked at me over his shoulder like he feared I'd leave.

"I got it from the drunk up the street," he said. He had a wild look in his eyes, like a fat kid at a make-your-own cupcake party. He opened the door to a narrow set of stairs that ended in the basement.

"Which drunk?"

"Primo," he said.

"I thought he was dead."

"He's still kicking. He lives on Enright."

Strings took the wooden stairs two at a time and hit the landing with a tremendous thump. The stairs amounted to a rickety ladder with narrow, lopsided rungs. I turned, gripped both railings and descended the stairs, one slow step at a time.

"Jesus," I said when I reached the landing. "Look at this place. It's a goddamn time capsule." Posters of Bruce Lee, Bob Marley and random swimsuit models covered the walls. One wall was a massive collage of pictures of The Group Home. I helped him with all this years ago.

Despite the smell and the decay, it was nice to be back. I practically lived here as a teen, and the good memories started to surface. As I took in the old hangout, I could feel myself falling into my former role as Strings's sidekick. And while part of me delighted to revisit those days, another part of me could hear Maria accusing me of pretending to be someone I'm not. She says I do it all the time, especially with old friends.

"They haven't changed," she'll say. "But you have. You moved on."

I did move on, but the direction I was headed came with too many nights of broken sleep, crushing headaches, and an uneasy stomach. And I'd also taken to drinking heavily on my lunch break to help get me through the day. Sure, I had changed, but not for the better.

The truth was, the only time I pretended to be someone I wasn't was when I was with her.

"Step in to my office," Strings said.

I pushed Maria's voice out of my head and fell in step behind Strings. Hell, maybe it was the booze, but I was glad to be doing something fun for a change.

We stepped into a small room that once served as our sound room, back when we thought rap was our calling. A curtain now cut the room in half.

Strings spun around and looked at me. Under the harsh florescent tube lights, all the lines across his face told the story of some hard years of living. But there was still a spark of youthfulness in his yellowing eyes.

"Stand back."

He disappeared behind the curtain. There was a brief fuss, followed by the snap of something that sounded like the buzz of hair clippers. Finally, he stepped back in view. With a flourish, he slid the curtain aside and moved.

"Check it out," he said, holding it roughly by the loose skin around its neck.

It was about the size of a pit bull, but hairless, with skin the color of frostbite. A prickly ridge, like fish bones, traced the length of its spine. Long ivory fangs poked out of the sides of its mouth. Its eyes were open, revealing pupils the color of hardboiled eggs.

"What the hell is that?"

"Bro," he said. He lifted it higher and shook it clumsily. "It's a fucking chupacabra, yo."

● ● ●

MY mother warned me about getting involved with girls with kids. She said it was hard enough to raise your own crumb-snatchers, let alone some other man's flotsam. And what happens when Dad gets out of jail?

But I was in love with Maria years before she allowed me into her world. By then, she was a package deal. Vivian, who was two at the time, captured my heart. At four years old she was a walking radiant smile, and I worried for her safety and well-being as though she were my own. More so after what Strings showed me. That something like the chupacabra was within walking distance from Vivian's bedroom scared the shit out of me. On my way home from Strings's house, I thought about buying a gun.

The next day, I went back to his house because I wanted to see the chupacabra with sober eyes. Strings handed me a blunt and I stupidly smoked too much. A few hours passed before I felt okay enough to drive home.

When I walked into our apartment, Vivian, covered in jelly, was stuck to the couch.

I bushwhacked my way across the living room to plant a kiss on her forehead.

"How'd your day go?"

"Good," she said.

"Honey? What's that stuff all over you?"

"Nuffin."

"Ahh," I said. "Fun. Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

I draped her over my shoulder and made like a monster carrying off the princess.

She kicked wildly. She begged me not to eat her. She called for her mother.

Maria tied her hair into a don't-mess-with-me ponytail in the bathroom. I bumped her aside to soak a washcloth in warm water. Her reflection scowled back at me.

After I cleaned Vivian up, I patted her on the bum and ordered her to change her into PJs.

"Why are you so late?" Maria growled.

"Sorry," I said, and gave her butt a squeeze. "Strings. He never stops. I couldn't break away."

"Strings." She shook her head. "Please tell me you're not hanging with him again."

She looked beautiful dressed in a snug polo shirt with the name of the cleaning company she worked for monogrammed above her breast, and jeans that hugged her hips and packaged her ass into a perfect bubble. For some reason, the sight of her made me sad. I wanted to hug her, and not in my usual way, which often signals my intention, my hope, that the physical contact would lead us into a naked sweaty pile. So I did. I wrapped my arms around her and held her close. And then I got a boner and asked if I could bite her butt.

"It's those jeans," I said. She pushed me away.

"I'm serious," she said. "Haven't you ever heard the proverb, 'He that walks with wise men shall be wise, but a companion of fools shall be destroyed'?"

"That would really concern me if it didn't sound like a tweet from Mr. T.," I said.

"That's not funny," she said as she went into the kitchen, mumbling something about how God was going to punish me. "People get struck by lightning for shit like that."

She breezed by me again as she hurried to collect her things. "Viv, come give me a kiss."

Vivian bolted into the room shirtless and in her underwear.

"Monkey hugs," Maria said as Vivian hung from her neck. She kissed Vivian, and then handed her to me.

"What about me?" I asked.

She kissed me on the lips, a good long kiss. "You're lucky I love your stupid ass."

"I love you too," I said. "Wanna do it real quick?"

"Bye."

I set Vivian down in the living room and followed Maria to her car. "I didn't get to tell you about what Strings showed me."

"Please," she said. "Spare me."

"It's kinda crazy. Even for Strings."

She looked up from the driver's seat. "I made pasta with veggies—make sure Viv eats, okay? Don't let her binge on bread."

"Okay. I'll tell you about it later."

"If you must," she said. "I have to go. I'm running crazy late, thanks to you."

"I'll make it up to you in sexual favors. I have a new move I've been saving for a special occasion. Which reminds me—pick up a peacock feather on your way home."

"You're disgusting," she said.

She closed the door and backed out of the driveway. She turned the corner and I turned to go inside, where Vivian stood in the doorway.

"Can I have garlic bread for dinner?" she asked.

"Sure, kid. Let's do this."

● ● ●

I couldn't wait to tell Maria about the monster in Strings's basement, so I texted her.

About an hour later, she responded with: Stay away from that asshole. You are your worst version of yourself when you're around him.

Fine. But what about the chupacabra? She had not addressed the matter. I texted her back and waited. And waited. She didn't respond.

I tossed around in bed and tried to think of something else, tried to get the image of that thing out of my mind, but nothing worked.

It'll pass.

But it didn't. I kept seeing its bulging white eyes, its sinewy gray body. And I kept seeing Strings. I imagined him brokering the deal with Primo, the two of them hauling the monster through his messy kitchen and into his dank basement. What Maria didn't understand was, Strings—as foolish as he appeared to her—was at least having adventures. He was out there taking chances while I rotted in a cubicle.

When Maria slid into bed around two in the morning, I waited for her to start snoring before I rolled from under the covers. I turned and straightened the sheets over Vivian, who was sleeping between us. Ten minutes later I was back on McBride Street.

That afternoon we sat in folding chairs positioned a foot or so from the cage and stared at his chupacabra. It was unbearable at first, but eventually I managed to look at the thing in a detached way. It was a slab of something vaguely resembling a mix of animals I've seen all my life. It looked lifeless at the time because Strings had zapped it with a stun gun. But after a while it began to move around the cage. Strings mentioned a scheme about breeding it with a rotty, and then we both got quiet as he rolled a giant blunt. Suddenly, the chupacabra hit the cage with the side of its body, bared its fangs and hissed. We jumped when it happened. I fell out of my chair. I decided I was sober enough to drive and got the hell out of there. I could still hear Strings laughing as I pulled out of his driveway.

He wasn't laughing when he lumbered into the kitchen that night. The light off the street filtered through thin curtains and cast a shadow across his face. His eyes were puffy and yellower than earlier in the day.

"You okay? You look like shit."

"I've been in the basement all day trying to teach this motherfucker to sit. I think it's untrainable."

I chuckled but he said, "We got a problem."

A chill ran through me, and I stepped into panic with military precision.

"What do you mean?" I said. "Did it escape?" I scanned the room and all its dark corners. If that thing jumped out at me, what would I do? Would my training kick in? Could I count on my seven weeks of Tae Kwon Do?

"He didn't escape," he said. "Follow me."

In the basement, Strings picked up a baby bottle from the workbench and handed it to me.

"Primo said to feed it goat blood three times a day or the son of a bitch would chew off its legs."

"Really?"

"That's what he said, and that would be a bitch to clean up."

"Plus, it's disgusting."

"Primo hooked me up with enough to last a day or two."

I held the bottle up to the light. It was nearly empty. "What's floating round in here?" I asked, squinting at the bottom of a bottle.

"It's made with real bits of goat. That's how you know it's good."

I put the bottle down. That's when I noticed all the empty bottles strewn across the workbench.

"Dude," I said. "How much did you feed it?"

From behind the curtain that split the room, the cage rattled and bounced around until a corner of the cage moved beyond the curtain and jutted into our side of the room.

Strings walked over to the cage and pushed the curtain aside. "I might have overfed it."

The chupacabra, now four times bigger than this morning, filled the cage. It peered at us through its white eyes and thrashed around. It bit at the cage and hissed when its fangs failed to penetrate the metal grates.

"Crazy, right?" he said.

● ● ●

VIVIAN appeared in the kitchen wearing a purple cape made of felt and my dad's fedora propped crookedly on the back of her head. She asked us to pretend we were walking in the woods and found her near a tree, which we did. I don't remember what happened when we were supposed to have stumbled upon her, but it didn't matter, because the distraction was welcome.

Maria did not want to hear what Strings had in his basement. For some reason I needed her to give a shit. But she didn't, and she made me feel stupid for bringing it up. "I can't believe we're having this conversation."

"It's real," I said. "I'm telling you, it's legit."

She ignored me as she stood by the kitchen table folding and organizing laundry into lopsided piles.

"Let's go," I said.

"Where we going?"

"To see it."

"I don't think so," she said. "I'm not going anywhere near that scumbag's house."

I bit my tongue. I walked across the kitchen to the refrigerator, opened it. I moved containers around. After a while I said, "Amy's a slut." I closed the refrigerator and leaned against the door and loosened my tie.

"What? Amy who?"

"Fat Amy. Strings fucked her. So did Dirty Richie." Amy was Maria's best friend since kindergarten. She was also Vivian's godmother.

Maria's eyebrows met at the bridge of her nose in a sharp V. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

"No one's perfect," I said. "That's all I'm saying. Strings? Okay, he's not all there. But you talk about him like he's a pedophile."

Maria threw a hand up between us.

"Enough. This is ridiculous. Can we talk about something else? How was work?"

"I'm going to give notice. I'm done."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Nope. I can't do it anymore. It's like working for Satan."

Maria stood looking at me with her mouth open. I wanted it to be something we decided together, and later celebrate, but she wouldn't hear it. I made money, and in her mind, that was enough reason for me to stay. But it was killing me. Every day at that desk, with each cold call I made, I died a little.

Vivian shot into the kitchen before Maria got the chance to tell me how selfish I'd been.

After dinner, I cleaned Vivian up, and then read her stories before bedtime. It didn't take her long to fall asleep on my lap. Maria came into Vivian's room and asked if I minded if she went for a run. I said I didn't. She left the room without looking at me. I sat with Vivian on my lap for a while, absently kissing the top of her head. I laid her in bed, surrounded her with her favorite stuffed animals, and slowly backed out of her room.

When Maria got home, she headed straight for the shower.

Twenty minutes later, Maria appeared in a fitted white T-shirt and red cotton athletic shorts that showed her strong thighs. She was towel-drying her hair. I stood up from the worn brown leather chair in the corner of the room. I had a gym bag packed with a few things at my foot.

"Just for a day or two," I said. "We need to cool off."

"If that's what you want."

"I'm tired of fighting."

"Where will you go?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe a hotel."

We stared across the room at one another for a while. She looked upset, but I knew she wouldn't cry—at least not in front of me. She was too proud.

Eventually I took a step toward her. She backed away, turned and closed the bathroom door behind her.

● ● ●

STRINGS stood in his driveway, a beer in one hand and the handle of a retractable leash in the other. He wore a loose wife-beater that displayed his hairy chest and back. He was always hairy—the one teenage friend that could buy alcohol without getting carded—but now he looked like a bootleg Teen Wolf.

He acknowledged me with an uptick of his chin.

"What's with the bag, fuckface?"

I looked down at the bag. I stared at it a while, thinking about what it meant, and wondered if Maria knew I was lying about going to a hotel.

"I needed to get away," I said.

"Where you going?"

"Thought I'd crash here, if that's okay."

Strings looked away toward the end of the leash, then back at me. He scratched his head with the hand that held the beer. "Aw, man. I don't know, bro."

"Why not?"

"Pamber," he said. "We just got back together."

As though on cue, Pamber pushed through the back door. A skinny redhead, her pruned face reminded me of the shrunken apple heads I made with Vivian at Halloween. She always looked to be fighting a migraine, or constipation.

She looked me over—an obvious up-and-down—as she sashayed over to Strings and leaned into him. Her head tucked between his hairy neck and shoulder, she focused her tiny black eyes on me.

I returned her gaze. After a while I cracked a smile.

"Congratulations," I said.

"For what?" Pamber asked.

I waived my index finger at the two of them. "For whatever that is." She stared at me with a blank expression.

"Nino wants to know if he can stay with us," Strings said.

"Hells no," Pamber said. She said it without a moment's consideration, the whole time staring right through me.

Strings looked at her, then back at me. He shrugged. "Sorry, bro."

"No worries." It was a kick in the nuts. I didn't have a Plan B. But there was no way I could stay with them anyway. Pamber was creepier than the chupacabra.

Strings tugged at his leash. A second later a small Chihuahua mix trotted up to his ankles.

"You remember Queenly?"

"Sure."

Strings crouched down and scooped Queenly in one arm while unhooking the leash from her pink studded collar. He handed the leash to Pamber, warning her to be careful.

"Trouble likes me," she said.

Strings looked at me and nodded. "He does," he said. "He really does!"

"I have a way with wild things," she said. She pecked Strings on the mouth and ran her fingers through his chest hair while looking at me. When she was gone, I shuddered and turned to Strings.

"Really, man?"

"What?"

"Really?"

"I love her," he said.

I turned away. He sounded like an ass, but I wondered if he thought I was the ass for showing up with my bag.

"She know about the chupacabra?"

"Of course," he said. "Trouble loves her."

"Trouble?"

Strings nodded. "What do you think?"

"Beats the alternative," I said. The night before he enthusiastically settled on the name "Turd of Diablo."

"And she's cool with it?"

"Oh yeah," he said. He walked past me and stood at the end of the driveway. He scanned McBride Street. It was one-way, but he examined both directions. He turned back to me. "She's gonna take him on a walk."

I reached out and cupped his forearm, causing some beer to slosh out of the bottle. "You can't bring that monster into the streets. Are you fucking nuts?"

"Relax. I spoke to Primo. He said Trouble's acting crazy because he needs to pee."

"He said that?"

He pulled his arm of out my grip.

"Yep." He gulped down the last of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He tossed the bottle into his neighbor's overgrown lawn.

"You tell Primo how big he got?"

Strings shook his head. "I didn't wanna get into all that."

"Listen, man, I'm not sticking around for this. Good luck."

He followed me into the street. I stepped into my Jeep and keyed the ignition. WBLS was spinning Frank Ocean's "Lost." I lowered the radio.

"What if he gets loose?"

"He won't get loose."

"But what if he does?"

Strings held up Queenly with one hand.

"This one gets sacrificed."

"I'm serious."

"I'm not worried about it, bro."

He stepped away from the Jeep. I shifted into first.

"I'll call you later," I said.

● ● ●

I spent the night between two bars. After, I parked on Beach 9th Street and smoked a joint. I hadn't heard from Strings and wondered if they managed the walk okay. I decided to go check.

I adjusted my seat and hit the ignition. The air against my face felt good on the way to Strings's house.

I was barely out of the driver's seat when Queenly bolted from out of the neighbor's yard and leaped into my arms. She trembled under my touch. I never understood that about Chihuahuas. Were they cowardly or perpetually cold? I rubbed her head between her ears.

"Did those assholes forget about you?"

The lights inside the house blinked into darkness, followed by a tremendous crash. I imagined Strings falling blindly into those dishes piled everywhere and chuckled. What a dumbass.

Then Strings cried out.

I stumbled back and ran to my Jeep. I set Queenly in the trunk as I fumbled for my lug wrench.

I turned in time to see the chupacabra explode through the side door in a shower of splintering wood. The beast did not look the same. He stood six-foot on his hind legs, his feet long and clawed, and his barrel chest curved toward the sky. His fingernails, like the spine of knives along his backbone, were long and white. I was definitely looking at a monster. My stomach went queasy.

I inched my way to the other side of the Jeep and watched him lower to all fours. He sniffed at the ground, then raised his head and let out a long, terrible roar that rattled the Jeep. I lost control of my body. I was sure that the chupacabra would hear my knees shaking like maracas and come after me.

Perhaps Queenly took note of my involuntary trembling, and the fact that I'd wet my pants, and concluded I wasn't the guardian she'd hoped for. She leaped over the tailgate like a Kamikaze and bolted into the street.

The monster followed her with a steady gaze, but didn't pursue her. After a moment, he stood on his hind legs and sniffed the air before running off in the opposite direction, a hulk of rippling muscle. I saw him hurdle a fence and continue into backyards. It wouldn't be long before he reached Mott Avenue, the busiest street in the area.

I slid down against the Jeep and sat with my back touching the rear tire, clutching the lug wrench in my sweaty palms.

I thought about Strings and figured he was dead. I dry heaved between my legs and turned toward the house. I knew there was no way I could go in there alone, so I called Kenny and told him everything.

"He's dead."

"You sure?"

"He has to be."

Ten minutes later Kenny turned onto McBride Street like a stunt driver, his black Audi kicking up rocks and dust as it skidded to a stop an inch from my Jeep.

He popped the trunk and slid out of the driver's seat. Kenny took my face in his hands.

"This better not be a joke."

When I didn't say anything, he said, "Okay," and nodded. He bit down on his lower lip until his mouth disappeared into a thin line across his face. A shadow fell over his eyes. He flew across town on my word, not knowing what to expect. I could tell he hoped for the best, but prepared for the worst. A true soldier.

He reached into the trunk and lifted the lid of a large metal toolbox. He removed its inner tray. He handed me a headlamp and a gun wrapped in an oiled shop rag. I unwrapped the gun and stared at it.

"Glock 17. It's live."

He unwrapped the gun. His voice was low and flat. "Forty-five Colt. Which one do you want?"

"I don't know how to use this." I handed him the gun.

Kenny holstered the Glock in his waistband, and held the forty-five at his side as we took slow steps toward the house.

Our headlamps swept across the kitchen, revealing punctured drywall, and shattered light fixtures. Shards of busted dishes covered the floor.

The basement door was cracked, and the frame above was chunked away. The chupacabra had gotten too big for the house. From his spiny black head to the last thorn on his tail, he was as big as my Jeep. He tore through the house. That the basement stairs remained usable was a miracle.

A light was on. I called out for Strings.

I turned to Kenny. He was sweating. He shook his head. "This is unreal."

"Strings," I shouted. "Yo!"

My heart raced with each slow footstep and my nose and eyes started to burn. The odor and the heat nearly caused me to pass out. I pulled my T-shirt over my nose.

Kenny gripped my shoulder.

"What's that?" he whispered.

I stopped and tried to quiet my thundering heart. I couldn't hear over it. Kenny and I crouched low and still.

When I heard it, I looked up at Kenny.

He nodded grimly and urged me with a chin motion to continue down the stairs. My heart beat louder and faster when he raised the gun to his side.

Strings lay pitched across Pamber's twisted legs, holding her pale hands in his long red fingernails. Her upper-body faced opposite her lower half. She slumped against the wall, bleeding from empty eye sockets. Her jaw was gone. Threads of saliva and blood, and splinters of white bone remained. Strings gasped for air between fits and released a throaty unnatural yowl on exhale.

Kenny stepped over me and pointed the forty-five at Strings.

"What the fuck," he said.

Tiny sharp spines, like quills, pressed out of Strings's skin below his neck, and down into his shirt. A thick mat of wiry fur covered his arms, concealing his tattoos. When he finally turned to us, his yellow eyes tearful and swollen, he was nearly unrecognizable. He blinked and a white film covered his eyes. He blinked again and the playful eyes of our youth flashed back at me. For a moment I felt weightless. My heart sank when the white returned to his eyes and stayed. That's when I knew he was gone for good.

Kenny and I moved to the far wall. He held the gun in both hands and leveled it at Strings.

"We have to kill him," Kenny said. His voice shook. "We gotta do it."

"I know."

Kenny directed me to stand back.

I turned and ran up the stairs and hid behind the door.

I sat down and pressed my back against it. I held my knees to my chest.

The first shot made me jump out of my shoes. I fainted after the second shot fired.

● ● ●

TWO weeks later, we had a service for Strings in Kenny's backyard. We gathered under a giant silver maple. Strings had fallen from its bare branches one winter and broken his arms. Maria was there, looking stylish in black with a touch of flair. She kept her hand on my shoulder and rubbed my back whenever I teared up.

Shortly after his death, the spiny quills along his back had fallen away almost immediately, and the fur covering his body shed in clumps onto the basement floor. We hoisted him onto the workbench. I touched his face. His snout returned to the nose I remembered. When I lifted his arm, a long red fingernail dropped onto the floor. I reached down to pick it up and cut my hand. It was as sharp as glass. I carefully slid it into the side pocket of my cargo shorts. Eventually everything that was monstrous about him disappeared until all that remained was our old friend.

Kenny and I sat near Strings for a while with our hands on his chest. We said goodbye and sorry. And then we set the house on fire.

At the service, Kenny's uncle showed up in vestments and spoke vaguely about Strings's spirit, and about how his work on earth was done, and that concluded the "formal" service. The gathering soon morphed into a party; much like the one Kenny arranged that night I caught up with Strings.

I walked Maria back to her car.

"I'm sorry about Strings," she said, as she leaned against the side of her car and brushed an errant lock of hair away from her face. We'd been up all night talking and crying, and yet she looked beautiful. I ran my hand down her bare arm. She was headed home, but in less than a month, she'd be moving to Boston, where she would live with her sister while studying for nursing school.

I never told her what happened to Strings or how he died. She, and everyone else, believed he died in the fire. And I never mentioned the chupacabra to her again. I didn't want her to move to Boston, but our little section of Queens was not safe. It was still out there.

Maria grabbed my shirt and pulled me in close for a kiss.

"You gonna be okay?"

"Eventually," I said.

She slid into the driver's seat and rolled down her window.

"Call me if you need a ride."

"I will."

She studied my face. "Come over here," she said. "This has been driving me crazy all day."

I leaned in toward her. She again took a handful of my shirt and pulled me close to her.

"What's going on here?" she said.

She licked her thumb and touched it to my eyebrow and used it to tame an unruly wire of hair.

"You can let yourself go when I'm gone, okay?"

I took a moment to catch my breath.

"I promise," I said.

She smiled, touched my hand, and then drove away.

Watching her leave was like watching everything burn. I stood on the sidewalk, not sure what I was waiting for. For some signal of the monster's return or its death? I would never be the same. After a while, I realized it was pointless to stand there. Who knew how much time I had left?
10. ONE AND DONE

Scott Clark, Scotland

HIT me. Those two exact words and it's always been like this. Same place every week, same tune, again and again; hit me. I fucking dare you. Hit me, a fist like a train. Hit me, a face like nothing you've ever seen, all mashed and pink with scars. Hit me, I'm waiting for that fist to push my teeth into my mouth, for the sweet, sweet taste of red and the colour of blood on a white ring floor, like roses thrown on a stage.

This one's not as clever as the rest. His eyes are too close together, and he seems more involved in the charade of a fight rather than the actual white flash, red taste, thump down feel of it. Shame, mind, 'cos he's in good shape. I mean, if I were a normal person and I met him at the end of a long dark alley, then I'd probably shit myself.

WOOSH! A fist flies by. Not a hair on my head quivers. I don't bat an eyelid. Come on, you useless bastard, do some damage. Do some damage and hit me. Don't think, don't compute, let that shoddy wee fist fall into orbit and take its natural course.

The crowds screams blue murder; they want a piece of this guy, too. Ragged faces, polished old fighters, big men in wee suits, the relics that get wheeled out once every now and again for the old exhilaration game. Too much of this and they'd conk out, wee hearts would just stop and never get back to it. Girls, be them plastic wives, or wooden girlfriends, usually big tits and thick waves of blonde hair, hang off the old bastards like jewellery. Not to say all of them are taken, mind.

Loads of girls just come for the buzz. Hundreds of them. Even if you lose, you're sure of your hole. Small consolation. So that's the first thing you smell when you walk into rooms like this; women. Perfume, clouds of the stuff, swirlin' around the place getting everyone high but it doesn't last long 'cos then it's the sweat in the air. The reek of adrenaline, of wet fur and bared teeth. Smells like that don't sting the nostrils, they strip them bare so it's someone else's stink, all the salt and that, and it's on your nerves. It's in your pores.

Fuck, all this nonsense and I lose the ball for a moment. He just about has me, so I make a quick recovery, let him know I'm back on form. Snap to the solar plexus, then dart in for a jaw shot. The bastard dodges it and I'm below his arm and the stink gets worse and the crowd hums like a thousand bumblebees and then his eyes swing round to mine before anything else.

Hit me. Hit me now.

He does. The fist comes round on circular trajectory, like a comet around Saturn, and all I do is relax everything ready for the hit. Still, the old body focuses all energies on the ribcage; protect the heart and all that. But it's ok 'cos that's not where he's headed. It's uptown he's after and he can have it. Flesh on flesh, but the sound doesn't arrive yet. Jaw shudders, clicks, and then cracks out of place, eyes wave in their sockets, everything stops. The crowd lets out a rasping rolling sound of disappointed hysteria. My legs give way, the traumatized flesh still shaking around my bones. Sometimes you drool with the jaw shot, sometimes you don't. I taste blood. There'll be more of that. The sound catches up, the CLAP of flesh then the sounds of my jaw breaking, and finally the crowd jeering and booing.

People ask why someone would do this. Fight, I mean. They think it's so you can prove what a tough guy you are. For the girls. Sometimes people say it's for the feeling of cold night air on their skin once they've left the ring. Me? I think that's a lot of shit. I like getting battered. I like looking in the mirror and seeing a mess. I like the look of triumph on a man's face when he's just planted a killer blow. The crowds are the same. It's about putting on a good show. You tell yourself that the next will be the last, just one more venture out there to see all the tiny faces smiling and crying and hooting and screaming and laughing and dying right in front of you for God's sake. One more and I'm done.

Down, then slap, one...two...fucking get over it, I'm not getting up. Things get worse fairly quickly. I've not seen a reaction like this in ages. The guys at the front start clambering out of the seats, pushing their broads off them, broads who scream and cry murder in this dire sort of death rattle. The old guys, suited and slicked, here they come to take a piece of the young bastard with his hands in the air standing over me. Following behind them, the men in the audience are scrabbling over the chairs, falling and lumbering as the women grab at their coats and sleeves. Him, the one up there with the red-raw fist, he winks at me. Can you believe that shit? He fucking winks at me. Then he's down, all these tubby guys crawling over him tearing chunks out of him. The guy is quiet through all this, mind. Silent as stone, and there's bits of him everywhere, red all over the old bastards' coats. The women bury their heads in their hands and sob, some of them beat fists on the ground.

I get up and crawl over to the poor guy and push the crowd off.

"Are ye alright?"

"Are ye ok?"

No answer. Yellowing teeth snap at him again.

"Fuck off!" I shout.

No interest is shown in me. A hand on my shoulder, the skin on the knuckles gone, he pats me and chuckles, but his throat's a mess of white and black and red so it comes out all "GLURGLURGLAAAAARG!"

So there's nothing left to do but sit and watch as the rest of them catch up and start nibbling on my ankles. And my shins. And everything. And even when there's some old git, who I used to come and watch here when I was a kid, pulling chords of chest muscle out of me through my stomach, even then I still take the time to look all these fuckers in the face and say, "Hit me."
11. BLACKENED FIREWORKS

Troy H. Gardner, United States

"THAT fake ID is never going to work," Hunter told Corey.

Two seventeen-year-olds sat on a curb in the plaza, watching shoppers come and go.

"I've been growing out this beard for three days. I can pass for twenty-one," Corey said.

Hunter grimaced at the shadow of black stubble on his friend's lower jaw. "Good luck."

Corey stood up, rolled his shoulders back, and sauntered into the liquor store. Hunter prayed they could score booze for Melissa's Fourth of July party. If not, he'd have to break into his parent's liquor cabinet and they'd be pissed when they got back from vacation.

Hunter had considered asking Corey's foster brother for a fake ID of his own, but his short blond hair and boyish looks meant he'd never pass for twenty-one.

"Hey, man, could you help a veteran?"

Hunter jumped up to his feet. A smelly guy with a ratty beard and a torn coat stood only a foot away. Hunter backed up a step.

"What?"

The man shook his head warily. "I'm trying to make it to my family in Sylvanville. I just need some money for a bus or even some coffee, man."

"Oh."

"If you can spare anything, brother."

Hunter grimaced. The hobo probably wasn't even a veteran. And he'd just use the cash to buy booze. Or drugs. Or booze and drugs.

"Uh..." It crossed Hunter's mind that if Corey struck out, they could pay the beggar to buy them something.

"Don't make a vet beg, man."

"I don't have any money on me," Hunter lied.

"Thanks anyway."

Hunter leaned against the wall and felt his wallet as the beggar lumbered away. He expected Corey to get kicked out any minute, but the seconds ticked by and nobody emerged from the store apart from a creepy old woman. He watched her hobble past the beggar on the other side of the parking lot. He'd make Corey chase after him if they needed his services.

The front door opened again and Corey emerged carrying a large paper bag. Hunter hurried over to him.

"You did it?"

"Of course. Trust in the stubble."

That night, red and gold lights burst in the mid-summer sky. Hunter gaped back at Corey, who sat beside him looking equally awestruck.

Melissa's party was everything Hunter had expected. No adults. Tons of booze. He'd graduated in June and most of his old classmates were set to go to college or some branch of the military, but Hunter hadn't made up his mind yet.

Corey had been accepted to Prescott University. The only consolation was that Hunter could drive over to Prescott, crash in Corey's room, and have access to a whole campus of girls.

College was going to be good for Hunter even if he wasn't enrolled.

"Come on," Corey said, slapping Hunter's back. "There's only so many Jell-O shots."

They made their way through the crowd toward Melissa's kitchen and found the hostess handing out shots.

"Hey Corey," Melissa said. "This music sucks, can you put something better on?"

"Yeah, I have This is My Roommate on my phone. I'm on it."

"Thanks," Hunter said, grabbing two Jell-O shots.

"Careful. Those are strong."

● ● ●

HUNTER'S eyes opened. Blinding light poured in. He lay face down on his mattress, the sheets bunched all around him. He was naked and his head throbbed.

His stomach rolled and he barely managed to make it to the trashcan before he added more puke to it. He stumbled down the hall into the bathroom, thankful his parents were on their cruise, and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked years older. The spit and puke around his lips didn't help. He splashed water on his face and opened the mirror cabinet. After downing some aspirin, he cradled his head in his hands.

What happened last night?

Fireworks and Jell-O shots and—what else?

The night was a blank but Hunter had a feeling something bad had happened.

You're paranoid.

He couldn't believe he'd made it back to his house in one piece. He wobbled back to his room, grabbed his underwear and jeans and went into the living room.

"Corey?" he called out.

No one answered. The couch was empty. So Corey hadn't driven him home or slept over.

Had he hit on Melissa? Had he made a move on one of the other girls? He pictured himself stumbling up to his former classmates and throwing himself at them. Maybe he'd been too forceful? Maybe he'd been slapped or something.

What if he got in a fight with Corey? Hunter could be a real jackass when he got that hammered.

Maybe his phone held some clues. He returned to his bedroom and searched for it on his bedside table and in the pockets of the dirty jeans on the floor. The longer he went without finding it, the more worked up he got.

It's going to be bad. What the hell did I do last night?

He tossed clothes off the floor and kicked others out of his way.

Where the hell is it!

Hunter slammed his fist into his mattress. He felt like pulling his hair out.

He stalked back to the living room and dialed his cell on the house phone.

As soon as he heard the ringing, he held the receiver to his chest. A soft ringtone sounded. He set the receiver down on the stand and followed the sound of his phone until he found it in the kitchen sink.

"Huh."

Hunter grabbed his phone, wiped the sour cream off the edge, and scanned through the last dozen texts, his heart beating madly.

To Brenda at 2:03 am: hry cutie u upp?

No reply. Not too bad.

To Heather at 3:47 am: oreiage?

Little worse. Call it a butt text. Salvageable.

From Corey at 4:01 am: You get home all right?

To Corey at 4:04 am: saop wpou s

From Corey at 4:04 am: all right man, get some sleep!

But what about email?

Hunter logged into his account on his phone and checked the sent folder. Nothing from last night. He turned on the instant coffee maker and sat down. Maybe nothing bad happened after all.

People black out all the time, right? Well, not all the time, but still.

As the smell of cheap coffee permeated the room, Hunter remembered to check Facebook. No messages. Nothing but a few new pics of him drinking that he swiftly untagged.

Even after finishing a cup of heavily sweetened coffee, Hunter couldn't shake the foreboding feeling. Something had to have gone wrong. A fight with someone. Something broken. He needed to figure it out and fix it before it was too late.

Maybe I can't fix it, whatever it is.

He started checking the house over. Maybe he'd stumbled into a wall or knocked a vase over. An easy lie to his parents when they returned and that would be that.

Everything seemed normal in the kitchen and the hallway. The door to the garage was open.

The car!

No, he couldn't have crashed it. He'd be bruised and more than his head and stomach would hurt.

He caught his breath and stepped into the garage. Boxes and tools lined the walls. Christmas decorations and broken lawnmowers. An empty spot where his dad's car usually sat. His own car in its regular space. No cracked windshield. No flat tire.

Just something dark on the bumper.

Hunter flicked the lights on in the garage. His blood ran cold.

The front bumper was bent and stained with blood.

I hit someone! I hit something. Oh God oh God oh God.

He must have driven home without even realizing what he'd done.

Hunter's mouth went dry, his head spinning. His life was over. He'd done something unspeakable and he couldn't even remember doing it.

Clean up. Maybe no one knows.

The following minutes sped by in a blur. Bleach. Rags. That smell. All the blood. When he was satisfied he'd destroyed the evidence, he grabbed a hammer and a two by four and gently tapped the dent out of the front bumper.

His shop teacher would have been so proud. Presuming that's not who he hit.

The house phone rang. Hunter jumped and spun around. He hurried toward the living room.

It's the cops. Has to be.

He imagined an authoritative voice on the other end. He glanced out the front window. No cruisers at his front step.

Hunter Derrickson, you're under arrest.

Hunter answered on the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

"Hello, I'm calling on behalf of MacCaffety Realty," a chirpy woman said.

"No thanks." Hunter slammed the phone down. He cradled his cell in his hands. Was he a murderer? Maybe it was an animal. A deer would have done too much damage. There were backroads, could have been a cat or a dog. The idea didn't exactly please him but better than a person. Better than a child.

He called Corey.

"You're up early," Corey said.

"It's past noon. How's it going? How are you? Anything happen last night?" Hunter asked.

"Just you projectile spewing. And you decided which tattoos we should get."

"That's all?" Hunter asked.

"It seemed like a huge deal last night," Corey said with chuckle.

"Funny how three or four Jell-O shots will do that."

"Or ten shots. We had to hide the rest from you."

Hunter could taste the liquor on his tongue and his stomach rolled. "Anything, you know, bad happen?"

"You really did black out. Um, I can't really think of anything noteworthy."

"Good. Good. No news is great, right?"

"Sure. You all right? You still coming over for games today?"

"Just hungover. I need to shower and stuff. I'll call you later or something."

"All right. Peace."

Hunter dropped the cell on the couch. If they came for him, he couldn't act guilty. What did normal people do? Normal people took showers, ate lunch, and followed through with plans with their friends.

Normal people don't ride by the same backwoods route they drove home the night before looking for signs of murder.

Hunter hurried into the bathroom and turned the shower on. He stripped and jumped into the scalding spray.

There's no murder. Maybe manslaughter...

He grabbed a bar of soap and rubbed it over his body, the white goo collecting on his hands. The soapy smell stung his nostrils.

I'm never going to drink again. Never. Screw that. I'm smarter than that.

Hunter imagined the sirens and the cops knocking at his front door. He turned the shower off and listened. A dog barked in the distance and nothing more. He turned the water back on and washed the soap off of his shaking body.

He turned the shower off again and listened. Blissful silence.

It's too early. They won't come until tonight.

Hunter toweled off and put his clothes back on. He ran back into the living room and looked out the window. No cops.

He returned to his room and dealt with the puke in his trashcan and then he opened his laptop. He checked for obituaries in the city but couldn't find anything from last night.

It's too soon. Hey, maybe your victim lived. He'll come after you himself.

Hunter pictured a limping hitchhiker with bloodshot eyes and a butcher knife held high.

You left me to die!

He ran into the living room and locked the front door.

● ● ●

COREY texted, asking if he was still up for hanging out, but Hunter knew he couldn't relax outside the house knowing he could miss the cops arriving. He pushed it off every time Corey contacted him. As long as Hunter sat in the living room in his boxers and a stained T-shirt, he could be sure no one was coming for him.

He spent two days watching TV and thinking about drinking, just to ease his nerves. But his parents would know. They'd also know when he was arrested. He tried showering but could only stand to be isolated away from the living room for five minutes before he shut the water off, toweled dry, and resumed his vigil waiting for his life to end.

His phone rang. An unknown caller. He breathed slowly and answered.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Julia. You said I should call sometime."

"Cool." Hunter barely recognized the girl's voice. They'd gone to school together since they were kids, but they'd never hung out. Since when did she even have his number? Blackout horny Hunter must have made a pass. He didn't even remember Julia being there.

"How you feeling? You were so trashed when you left Melissa's house."

Great, a witness.

"Came down with something. Not really feeling up for talking."

"Oh. All right. Well I guess I'll see you at the next party?"

Or during the trial.

"Looking forward to it."

"Bye, Hunter, feel better."

On his third day of solitude, Hunter checked Facebook and froze when he spotted a memorial page for Bart Gregory.

War vet fallen on hard times crossing the country on his way to family in Sylvanville, New Hampshire.

Hunter's blood ran cold. It had to be a coincidence. He licked his lips and read on.

Sergeant Gregory's body was found in the woods just off Birch Street. Exactly halfway between Hunter's house and Melissa's. Hunter pictured the curve in the back road.

Someone crying out. A body flying through the air into the woods. Tires screeching.

He read the memorial post again and the following fifteen comments.

It was almost a relief to hear the news. No more wondering. It happened. Hunter knew.

I killed him.

He shouldn't have been out there that late!

He found a steely resolve that carried him to his parent's liquor cabinet. One corkscrew later and a glass of red wine stilled his shakes.

The wine tasted like home as he swallowed his second glass.

His phone vibrated.

"What's up?"

"Hey, you coming out tonight?" Corey asked.

"I completely forgot." Hunter clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Innocent men went to parties, but wasn't there a lesson in all of this? "I've been pre-gaming, man, I can't drive."

"I'll pick you up. Throw in a couple bucks for gas? If that's cool."

"Sure. Mom and Dad left me two hundred while they're gone and I've only spent half on pizza."

"Cool. See you in a few."

Hunter ended the call and downed the last of his wine.

Everything's fine. If they do come for me, I'll look completely innocent. Carefree at a party for three or four blissful hours. No murderer could pull that off.

Hunter poured himself another glass of wine while he waited.

● ● ●

HUNTER pounded beers as Corey joked with their old classmates.

Don't worry. Relax. Big smile. Everything's all right. There aren't cops getting a warrant at this very minute.

He gritted his teeth and rummaged through the refrigerator for another beer.

"Can you believe we finally graduated?"

Hunter jumped. It was only Julia. She twirled a finger through her long black hair. Was she prettier than normal? Better makeup? Bigger boobs? Or was he just that buzzed?

"Yeah. Like twelve years of schooling finally over."

"Until college."

"Uh, yeah. 'Till then."

"Sorry, are you not going?" Julia asked.

"Taking some time off first."

"Guess I assumed you'd be rooming with Corey at Prescott."

"Maybe next year." Hopefully there'd be another year. His next year could be spent in state penitentiary going to classes online. "Did you hear about that dead vet over on Birch Street?"

"I heard the animals got to him. Probably passed out drunk and got mauled by a bear."

"What do you—I mean, is that, like, official?" Hunter asked. "Like the CSI guys think it was an animal attack?" He tried to play it cool. He leaned against the countertop and slipped, nearly skidding to the ground. He caught himself and smiled stiffly.

"You okay?"

"Sure. So animal attack?"

"My uncle works for the sheriff," Julia said. "My cousin said they're ruling it an accident. It's not like they're going to drive in some forensics expert to waste money on a victim with no family who was most likely killed by wildlife."

"Damn wildlife. They're a menace!" Hunter had to stop himself from pumping his fists in the air.

"You're really into this case, huh?"

"No, no. I mean, I just assumed it was a hit and run. That road is real dark and twisty at night. Like maybe his body was hit on the road and thrown into the brush where the animals screwed around with it afterward. Or something. I should go. I mean, Corey is probably looking for me. Later!"

Hunter scrambled away from Julia. He couldn't let himself succumb to the relief.

Julia sounded confident, but what if her intel was off? What if the cops were lying to lure the killer into a false sense of security? What if they were springing a trap on him at that very moment?

She could be a spy. Plain Jane Julia, international woman of mystery.

What had he told her? Did she suspect him now?

He pictured Julia testifying against him. He told me he thought the vet was run over and that he thinks Birch Street is very dark at night. He was super specific.

Guilty!

Hunter couldn't focus on finding Corey. There was the Julia problem to deal with.

She's buzzed now, so she won't piece it together, but by the light of day it'll be a different matter.

Hey, Hunter was awfully interested in that dead hobo. He sure had a great theory on the murder. What if Hunter was involved...

He wiped the sweat off his forehead. Julia had to be taken care of. She couldn't wake up remembering what he'd said.

What could he do? He'd committed murder but he wasn't a murderer.

This all happened because he'd drunk too much. Maybe he could use that to his advantage. Hunter returned to the kitchen and mixed a Post Nap Funk for Julia.

"Drink up!"

"But I never drink this much."

"We're celebrating!"

"Ok." She looked dubious, but she still tilted the mixed drink to her lips.

"You and me, let's have a chugging contest. Three beers to win."

"I don't know. What's the winner get?"

"You name it," Hunter said. Julia giggled and blushed. He had to go for it. "How about the loser pays for dinner sometime next week?"

"For three drinks?" Julia asked.

"You're right. Four would be better."

Julia gulped but nodded. "Okay."

Goodbye incriminating memories.

When Julia finished her drink, they lined up four beers each and faced off. Hunter knew he could have smoked her but he didn't want Julia to give up. She had to down the drinks. She had to forget everything he'd said to her—blackout wasted.

He barely cracked open his fourth beer as she slammed her last one down on the countertop with a burp.

"Nice," he said.

"Uhhhhhh." She swayed and Hunter had to grab her shoulder to keep her upright.

"You need to rest or something? Maybe get a little sleep and forget about the night?"

"When are you paying up, bitch?" she asked through a fit of giggles.

"Paying up?"

"You, me, dinner."

"Oh right." Damn her memory's still sharp. "Next Saturday, I'll take you someplace decent?"

"It's a date, Cute Buns."

He'd never seen Julia like that before in the twelve years he'd known her.

Am I really doing this? You have to. Sometimes you just have to buy a weird girl dinner to stay out of jail. Age old story.

● ● ●

AT least half of the kids had left. Hunter couldn't find Corey. Someone had mentioned wanting to watch GhoulBashers 2 even though everyone knew the original was so much better. Corey had screamed that he wanted to watch Supernatural Exertion but that was the last Hunter had heard of him.

"We should watch that movie with the serial killer who tattoos his victims," Melissa said as she thrust the last of the Jell-O shots at the remaining guests.

"No killers," Hunter said.

Hunter stumbled through the house. What time was it? Did he even know anyone there? Something like fireworks exploded outside, but he couldn't focus to get out there and enjoy it.

The fun was over. His spirits had died. It was time to shore up and channel his remaining energy on not spending the next twenty years in prison.

Melissa made her way through the halls collecting trash and putting people to bed.

"Time for lights out. You sleeping over, Hunter?"

"Naw. I'll walk back. It's only twenty minutes."

"Really?" Melissa asked. "I'm, like, proud of you or something."

"No more drinking and driving," Hunter said. "I have so learned that lesson."

"Yeah?"

"It's nothing, forget it." Hunter sighed. He didn't know if he could get Melissa blackout drunk, too. If he did, Hunter would probably end up swimming along the ground driving everyone crazy.

"One more Jell-O shot!"

Hunter counted to ten. He breathed in, he breathed out.

"I'm going home," Hunter said. There were boos and awws but he didn't care. He'd learned that driving drunk was stupid. That it led to murder and trembling hands.

Or it made you promise dates to girls hoping they'd pass out.

Everyone can pass out. Julia's no exception. The cops don't care. It's just a homeless bum. No one cares.

● ● ●

HUNTER snapped to and realized he was walking back toward his house along Birch Street. Melissa's place was far behind him.

The woods were a black wall, too dense for any light at that time of the night. Hunter's legs carried him on autopilot through the back roads toward home.

Ok, that was the last time drinking.

He pictured Bart Gregory out there in the woods bleeding to death. Scavengers clawing at the body, tearing the flesh apart. What would the dead hobo think of him at the moment? Would he laugh, would he taunt him, or would he scrape at his flesh?

"Hunter..."

He turned around and asked, "Someone there?"

His skin tingled. It wasn't even windy. There was just the open road and the woods.

His feet felt sore. Why hadn't he driven? Right, no more drinking and driving. He stifled a yawn and forced his feet onward. He'd be home in ten minutes and snoring in bed in twelve.

Bart Gregory had been walking the same stretch of road. Where was he going? Where had he been?

"Hunter..."

"Who's there?" Hunter peered through the dark. "It's not funny."

He picked up his pace. He needed to get back home, back to the safety of a ceiling and walls.

"Hunter..."

There was no denying it any longer. Hunter stumbled away from the woods and started running. The sobering adrenaline rush overpowered him and he stumbled and face-planted on the rough sand. He shoved himself back up to his feet and made sure his stalker hadn't reached him.

He was still alone on Birch Street.

Hunter spotted the bend in the road up ahead. Something told him that was the spot he'd hit Bart Gregory. His head pounded and he threw up.

Keep moving.

"Hunter..."

Something sparkled just behind him in the moonlight. Was that what he'd tripped over? He approached it and picked up. A necklace. No, a military dog tag. Bloody.

Hunter read the name. Gregory, Bartholomew C.

He forced his legs to carry him past the bend. His chest felt tight.

"Hunter," the voice in his head whispered.

A light shone in the distance. The curve in the road behind him. Hunter had just enough time to turn around and recognize Julia's drunken face behind the wheel as she ran him over.

As he lay dying, Bart Gregory's outline hovered over Hunter in the vanishing car lights.
12. IT'S DIFFERENT WHEN YOU HAVE YOUR OWN

Rosie Fletcher, England

"IT'S different when you have your own," she said to me as she cooed and goo-goo-gooed over somebody else's baby. Seven months gone and my best friend was positively evangelical with pregnancy, as if the scales had fallen from her eyes and she had found a glorious new religion.

I shouldn't worry.

"Your maternal instinct will kick in soon," she tells me. "When you feel a life inside you, it changes you. Every woman has the instinct, you wait, it'll happen."

I had a cat once. Not the same, I know, but I loved this cat; she was my friend. We'd go on the prowl together. She'd comfort me when I was sad—taught me things, that animal. She used to bring me "gifts". Leaves and snails when she was a kitten, then when she was older it was dead things. Birds, mice, an occasional mole. Not the best gift—a crow in the toilet. I used to tell her off and eventually she stopped. Stopped with the dead stuff, that is—then it was live stuff. A chaffinch flapping round the bedroom. A vole on the floor, scared senseless while the cat kept it locked in the headlight of her proprietorial glare. There was even an angry duck once—a match for the cat, but fair play to her, she'd got it through the cat flap. God knows how. Then there was this shrew. Tiny little mite, you could see its heart beating like mad, its little legs paralysed with fear. So small—no bigger than your thumb, really. It's a wonder the cat bothered.

That's where I got the idea.

The cat's long dead. It would have been ridiculous to wait for the fickle fancies of a bloody cat, anyway. But you can buy these things (God bless the internet) to feed to snakes. Apparently most people don't buy live shrews—normal people prefer frozen mice. Normal people don't want to see the price of life, the exchange. One for another, ten lives, a hundred lives, a thousand. But you can buy live shrews. There are a lot of weirdos out there.

I found a man who sells them not forty minutes' drive from my house. Phoned ahead. Bought ten for "Sissy" my pet snake (so I wouldn't look like a weirdo) and carefully took them home in a cardboard box with holes in the lid. In the house I peered into the box. Teeny little things, they were. Hardly a meal, merely a mouthful.

The first one died. They're so little and panicky and I couldn't hold onto it properly—I don't know if I broke its neck or it died of fright or both. I just couldn't get it inside the condom, it was struggling too much.

Nine more tries.

But the second time was a dream after I blew the condom up a bit first. I wanted a bit of air in there, anyway.

I rubbed butter on the outside.

I'd always been good at taking pills.

This was different, of course.

It was moving, for a start. I could feel its tiny feet on my tongue—ten tiny toes! I wretched a bit. But I swallowed it all down in the end. I was frightened at first.

What have I done?

I relaxed. I knew this was what I wanted, knew it was worth the sickness and the discomfort. I could feel it in me, my esophagus, going down, could feel its little heartbeat, its breathing, its clawing and wriggling, felt it move into my tummy. Could I feel it kick in there? Maybe. I'd like to think so, yes. Yes—yes, I could feel it kick, because it's no one's body but my own, and I know what I felt. Life. In me.

There. She was right. It changes everything. So I know next time I see a baby smiling up at me, its soft fatty limbs waving in tender joy, I'll look at it quite differently.
13. THE HOUSESITTER

Elliot Arthur Cross, United States

THE sun was already setting as Nolan finally spotted the narrow driveway leading to the lake house. He'd thought he was lost for the last five minutes and considered calling it quits. But there was Thirteen Serling Drive, barely visible through the thicket. The lake had to be on the other side. How far out had he driven?

He crept the car down the drive until he reached the impressive two-story house with mammoth windows. The lights were on in one room and a classic car from the '60s or '70s was parked by the front door. It looked European and was jet black except for the white trim around the wheels and curtains in the backseat.

Nolan parked next to the vehicle and stepped out into the balmy summer air. He couldn't believe how lucky he'd been to spot the ad on Craigslist. Housesitter wanted for one week $500. In other words, Hey Nolan, here's some easy cash to get out of your cramped house and enjoy yourself for a week. You're welcome.

He knocked on the front door and stepped back. He'd emailed back and forth a few times with the homeowner, but there was still that voice in the back of his head telling him it was too good to be true. Maybe he was being catfished or lured out into the boonies by some psychopath.

Just my luck.

Nolan absent-mindedly tugged on his silver cross necklace. The door opened and a man with wavy black hair and moon-shaped glasses smiled at Nolan. He wore suspenders and a bow tie like he was horribly out of date or terribly fashion forward. He stuck his hand out for Nolan to shake, his skin cold to the touch.

"You must be Nolan. Or a particularly polite home invader."

"I'm Nolan."

"My preferred choice. I'm Amicus Sundown. Enter."

Nolan stepped inside the house and took stock of the space before him. A narrow hallway led to a room on one side and a huge open space on the other, part kitchen, part living room. The back wall consisted mostly of windows overlooking a dock jutting into the darkening lake.

"My new summer home," Amicus explained as he shut the front door, a slight Southern accent in his diction. "Are you familiar with the property?"

"The lake? Not really."

"It's not the lake which interests me. It's the plot of land." Amicus ushered him into the living room while he busied himself in the kitchen. "I'm a collector, you see. I'm drawn to oddities. History. I'm leaving in just a moment, care to share a drink with me first?"

"I'm only seventeen."

"Perfectly legal in civilized cultures like Vienna or Cyprus."

"Okay, sure." Nolan wasn't about to turn down free booze. His eye caught a drawing on the wall of a sad-looking clown. It looked like a child's picture.

Amicus poured Mountain Dew, rum, gin and blackberry brandy into twin glasses half filled with ice. He trotted to the living room and handed Nolan one. He clinked the glasses together and brought his up to his thin lips. Nolan smiled weakly and gingerly sipped the drink. Sweet, carbonated, and unlike anything he'd had before.

"What is it?"

"Post Nap Funk." Amicus sat in an easy chair and clicked his tongue against his teeth. "The cat doesn't like strangers, you see. Macabre is a persnickety kitty, but he'll grow accustomed to you. Just make sure he doesn't leave the house. There are all sorts of things out there that'd give you night terrors."

"No problem. You spelled out everything perfectly in our emails."

"Yes." Amicus drank, his eyes closed.

"You mentioned the fireplace. Where's the wood for it?"

"There's a cabana of sorts behind the house. I may turn it into a bar. The wood is stacked there." Amicus stood and grazed his fingers along the mantelpiece. He stopped at a small taxidermied rodent. "It's more difficult, I hear, on the smaller creatures."

"What is that? A mouse?"

"It's a shrew. Most people feed them to snakes. Not this one. Tell me, do you like stories?"

"Sure. Who doesn't?"

"Good. I thought it important you know the history of the property. Just in case. Long before this home was built by the water, the entire area was farmland. The apple trees that dot the forest covered the fields and a farmhouse sat further inland. The Munroe family lived there until 1911. In the dead of night one summer evening, all six Munroes were lured into their barn, one at a time, where a stranger viciously hacked them to death with an ax from their own toolshed. A young farmhand who often stayed on the property was murdered inside the house."

"That's awful. Who did it?"

"No arrest was ever made. Three days after the murders, neighbors noticed the usually boisterous farm had been silent and none of the Munroes were seen in church. The police arrived and found the farm animals perfectly looked after. The killer had stayed in the farmhouse those three days, cooking meals and caring for all the animals and carrying out the chores. He must have eaten breakfast mere feet from the farmhand's gruesome corpse."

Nolan shivered and sipped more of his drink. "So they tore down the farm and some yuppie built this lake house? No offense."

"None taken. Would you like to know the most peculiar aspect of the case?"

"Is it going to freak me out?" He'd be spending a whole week here, and he didn't want to imagine ghosts every time a floorboard creaked.

The storyteller's eyes sparkled. "The killer covered every mirror in the house with sheets, as well as the farmhand's face, as if he couldn't stand the thought of being seen. For some reason, perhaps out of respect, he placed a single flower on the death veil. Even stranger, he wrapped a pillow case over the telephone."

"Why would someone do that?"

"Perhaps the killer couldn't stand the notion of anyone, or anything, reaching out to him." Amicus downed his drink and poured the ice out into the sink. "It's time I got going."

Nolan felt something poke against his butt. He felt the couch cushion and found a collar stuffed inside with the name TROUBLE crudely written on it.

"All right," he said. He stood up and walked toward the front door. He'd been looking forward to being alone, but after hearing the story, he couldn't shake the feeling he wished the stranger would stay just a bit longer. "I've got everything under control here."

"Of course. I'll see you in one week, I'm sure." Amicus tilted his head to the side, giving Nolan a long look. The edges of his razor thin lips curled upward before he left.

Nolan watched through the windows as the strange man approached his car and bent down for something that turned out to be a large apple. He bit into it as he got into the classic car. It started without a problem and then slowly backed out down the driveway. Nolan thought about the murderer all those years ago and pictured him dressed similarly to Amicus, only shabbier. Had he gorged on apples as all those bodies decomposed?

At least I'm not in the murder house. Don't think about the axman.

Alone at last. No brothers and sisters or his mother and father breathing down his neck. And apparently a fully stocked bar.

He returned to the living room and tossed his keys on the coffee table. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and autodialed Parker, gazing out at the pristine lake through the kitchen window. The full moon reflected on the inky water beyond the dock. He thought about the week ahead and all the time he'd get to boat on the lake. Too bad it wasn't warm enough to swim at night, otherwise he and Parker could skinny dip. That was an idea all right. Screw the temperature, he could think of other ways to keep his boyfriend warm.

My boyfriend.

Two months of sneaking out of the house. Two months of lying to his brothers and sisters. Lying to his parents. He absent-mindedly touched the cross round his neck.

But Parker's worth it. I can tell them about him when I go to college. If I'm still with Parker. I'll still be with Parker.

"Hey, babe, what's up?"

"Hey." Parker's voice brought an automatic smile to Nolan's face. "Dude left a minute ago. It's just me, the lake house, and Macabre the cat for seven whole days."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

Parker sighed. "I thought that was next weekend."

Nolan felt deflated. All this excitement and he'd have to wait even longer. The phone vibrated and he found an incoming text from his mother reminding him to say his prayers every night.

"Well, this vacation gig goes through next weekend," Nolan said.

"I already got next weekend off and ordered us tickets to see This Is My Roommate," Parker said, his voice sounding flat.

"What?" Nolan squealed.

"I wanted to surprise you."

"I am surprised! You're the best. I love those guys, but you're a close second. Oh my god." Nolan couldn't believe Parker's thoughtfulness.

"Glad you're happy. Hopefully I can swing by after work."

"I can't wait to see you. I've got everything to make us some Post Nap Funks."

"Don't even. That drink's cursed," Parker said.

"How's a drink cursed?" Nolan was surprised Parker had even heard of Amicus' drink; he'd been hoping to impress him.

"I don't know. Just heard it's cursed. Like whoever created it was born under some bad mojo or something."

"Just makes me want to drink that much harder," Nolan said. He took another sip and pulled open the drawer in the coffee table.

"Fine, do whatever you want."

"Thanks, Dad," Nolan shot back. He found the drawer full of trinkets. Something shined in the light. He pushed aside playing cards and a fire investigator's report and found dog tags with what he hoped was only rust on them. He quickly shut the drawer.

"Can we address the elephant in the room?" Parker asked.

"Uh, sure, what?" Nolan asked. He felt clammy and he couldn't imagine what his down-low boyfriend had to tell him.

"I don't really like the idea of you being all alone with that fugitive on the loose."

"What fugitive?" Nolan asked.

"The serial killer. He escaped from the state prison. Don't you ever watch the news?"

"I like that closet case weatherman. He's cute—not as cute as you are. Should I worry about a convict on the run while I'm out here on the lake?"

"I guess not," Parker said, though his voice didn't sound convincing. "The prison's only an hour away."

"And some maniac on the loose is going to run for days, not hunker down by a populated tourist trap of a lake and slaughter a sexy house-sitting teen—if I do say so myself."

"That's it, Nolan. The housesitting part. The papers used to call him the Housesitter."

"Coincidence." A wolf howled somewhere across the lake and Nolan pictured the 1911 axman covering all the mirrors in the house. "Maybe you could get off work early though?"

"I'll try but I doubt it. Where are you on the lake?"

"Thirteen Serling Drive. I expect to see you as soon as possible, mister."

"That would be nice. Hey, I think that's around where the Housesitter killed one of his victims."

"All the more reason for you to get your cute butt over here," Nolan said. He could practically see Parker's smile plastered across his adorable face. He was so worth disappointing his entire family and risking eternal damnation for.

"Don't joke about that! He killed, like, twenty people."

"You're not helping—"

"Sorry. I'm probably being weird. His MO doesn't even fit. From what I read, he'd sneak inside someone's house and find a room to wait for them in. Like, he'd sit in your bedroom or your bathroom for hours if that's what it took, perfectly still, perfectly dark, perfectly crazy. And then you'd go about your business or whatever and walk into your bedroom, flip on the lights, and he'd be there waiting with his knife ready to grab you and gut you."

Nolan heard a wicked, animalistic screaming from outside. Shivers bristled down his spine, the hairs standing on end all over his forearms.

It sounded like a cat dying.

Not dying. Being murdered.

Had Macabre snuck out when Amicus left? Had the cat stumbled across a bobcat or fishercat?

"I gotta go! Come over here as soon as you can! Bye."

Nolan set the phone on the coffee table and raced toward the kitchen as the screeching sounded again.

"Macabre?" Nolan asked. "Please don't be murdered outside."

He grimaced and opened the drawers nearest the front door looking for a flashlight or something to scare off wild animals. One drawer held silverware, the other contained just one item—a smelly old leather-bound book written in an ancient language.

Nolan tried the hallway closet and found two items hanging from the wooden beam. A light blue T-shirt with CAMP FRESH AIR emblazoned on it and a ratty looking I Heart NY shirt. Nolan inhaled stale beer and piss and almost slammed the door shut, but spotted a hefty flashlight on the shelf above the T-shirts.

Maybe over the screaming's over. Maybe I don't need to check outside.

Nolan held his breath and counted to ten. Nothing. Silence. Bliss.

He exhaled.

His mother would have told him to call the police like some paranoid creep. His father would tell him animals die all the time and it wasn't his fault. His brothers and sisters would call him a sissy for ignoring the cries.

The howling outside tore through the house. Nolan steeled himself and unlocked the front door. He turned the flashlight on as he stepped outside. All he could see was the woods illuminated from the kitchen window and the oval beam of light directed from his hand.

"Macabre? You out here? You hurt?"

No more screeching. Nolan looked left, looked right. Where had the awful sound come from?

A branch snapped off to the left. He shined the light in that direction, but all was still.

Great, a whole week of this crap.

"Macabre? You there?"

Nolan left the safety of the front door and headed carefully through the trees.

"Here kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty. Can't wait for you to meet Parker. We're going to have crazy fun naked time while you're being aloof and ignoring us. Here kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty."

He crushed leaves and grass as he walked along the edge of the lake through the sprinkling of apple and birch trees. This wasn't even worth five hundred bucks.

No, it really is. Just get your act together.

The light flashed across something incredibly bright. It blinded Nolan and he slowly turned the beam back to it.

A funhouse mirror leaned against a tree. It reflected him in a hundred obscure versions as it was cracked like a spider web.

That was enough for Nolan. He turned around and hurried back to the lake house. When he reached the front door, he turned the doorknob, but the door wouldn't open.

His blood ran ice cold. How could he be locked out? He tried the door again and again it wouldn't budge. He must not have flicked the lock all the way. It had to have spun back into place when he closed it behind him.

He could call—his phone was inside.

He could drive—his car keys were inside.

He could—he was screwed.

Parker was coming over at some point. He could wait it out and hope Macabre wasn't murdered outside the house. At least it wasn't raining or snowing. All he had to do was sit outside a beautiful home by the water and wait for his awesome boyfriend to show up like a knight in shining armor. He could go back to Parker's, log onto his email and get Amicus' number. There was probably a key hidden under some rock or something he could use.

Nolan checked under the welcome mat but found only a strange stain.

He rubbed at the small cross dangling around his neck. Another branch broke, this time to the right. He turned the flashlight toward it, but only saw still trees.

"Macabre? You out there, buddy?"

The cat was probably inside asleep. Just how he'd prefer to be.

Come on, Parker. Come on.

A light flickered inside the lake house.

Bad bulb or mischievous cat?

Where would a strange collector hide a key? Had to be someplace strange.

He surveyed the house and ran his fingers along every nook and cranny he could reach. He picked over rocks to make sure they weren't hollow hiding spots. He circled around the house painstakingly slowly until he came to the side room by the front door. He shined the light inside and found a room empty except for one bookshelf full of trinkets. Next to it was a framed poster for a Scottish boxing match. Nolan held the flashlight under his armpit and tried the window. Of course it didn't open. That would be too convenient.

An owl hooted.

More snapping twigs.

"Macabre?"

Only stillness.

There couldn't be a fugitive fresh out of prison with blood on his mind out there. Just couldn't be. So what if he'd killed someone in the very same neighborhood before being sent away. So what if he might return to wherever he felt comfortable while on the run. So what if he could be out there in the woods with him at that very moment.

Nolan made it to the back of the house and gazed out at the lake. The still black waters called out to him but he resisted temptation.

Focus. Find a way inside. Earn your five hundred bucks.

He slid open the cabana door. A hefty stack of firewood and storage boxes filled with God only knew. Fliers lined one wall. Posters of a missing blonde woman with an English address.

A bottle of rum rested on one of the boxes. Nolan certainly wouldn't run out of ingredients for Post Nap Funks this week.

He had to remind himself that this would pass. He'd eventually get back in the house and start the vacation he deserved. He could have Parker's friends over and his brothers and sisters if he was truly lonely. Not at the same time, of course. Maybe even his mother and father could come over for dinner one night. Only one night. Yeah, the week would be cool. Assuming he ever got back inside the house.

He could throw a rock through a window. There were so many windows to choose from.

And Amicus Sundown would return and refuse to pay him the five hundred bucks. He'd have every right to make Nolan pay for the damages. Sitting around outside for an hour or two until Parker showed up had to be worth the cash.

He sat on a lawn chair and lazily flashed the light across the water. He was comfortable, he'd have company soon, nothing to worry about.

Tiny bubbles burst on the lake surface.

"Uhhhhh," Nolan grimaced. "If anyone's out there, my boyfriend's a jock. Only JV, but he's got these biceps that, if you're not worshipping, you should be afraid of. Just saying."

The bubbles stopped bursting. No one answered. Good.

He'd be inside watching TV snuggled up with Parker soon. All Nolan had to do was relax and be patient.

Maybe there was a basement he could sneak into. He left the serene dock and stalked around the other side of the house. Of course there was nothing but grass meeting cement. Probably impossible for a basement so close to the water. He returned to the front door. Had the Housesitter used the front door when he snuck inside and butchered his victims?

You go to sleep in your bed. Your kids are safe and sound tucked into theirs. Next thing you know he's standing over you, ax raised high. He brings it down. What are your last thoughts? You know the kids are next. The house itself practically drips with blood.

Nolan shuddered. Good thing he'd never have kids. Or he'd turn into some weird hippy and decide at fifty he should bring new life into the world. Would he still be with Parker? God, he hoped so.

What would his life look like then? His parents gone, probably. His brothers and sisters dealing with him being gay. Would they like Parker? Would they accept him? Would it be some other guy they'd have to let into the family? Or would the wall he'd erected around his personal life grow sturdier and keep all others out?

Would Parker go to church with them? Would he let himself be loved?

Worrying about it all gave him palpitations. He needed to chill.

He felt something scurrying along his neck. He reached out to brush it off but didn't find anything.

More wailing in the woods.

No protection.

He shined the flashlight at the trees.

Silent sentinels.

More animal screams.

How soon until he was screaming?

Nolan left the supposed safety of the front door and traipsed through the thicket, flashlight wildly swishing back and forth.

"Macabre, buddy? You out there? Kitty, kitty?"

The random area between trees slowly grew to resemble a pathway. Nolan stepped onto it as the lake vanished off to his side and the woods swallowed his progression.

Something thumped behind him. He spun and shined the flashlight along the ground. Nothing out of the ordinary. Another thump off to his side. He turned again, completely disoriented from the house and the lake. He continued on, unsure if he was making it better or worse.

Something behind off to his left side. The small circular beam of light found a sheet dancing between the trees. Six foot tall and fluttering several feet away.

And then it took one stilted step closer.

Was that the shape of a head at the top? Arms at the side? A dark flower pinned at the top?

The stiff-legged movements brought the sheetbody even closer.

Nolan screamed and backed up, but he smacked against an apple tree, the branches rustling in his face and hair.

Was this what happened to the Munroes? A dancing sheetbody beckoned each of them into the barn where it butchered them?

The pale figure came closer. And closer. The sheet reached out for him.

Nolan threw his arms in the air, the flashlight casting a wild range of flittering shadows as it darted forward and back.

The sheet dropped flat to the ground, the petals scattering.

Nothing moved. It must have been caught on a tree limb and dancing in the breeze.

Nolan carefully jabbed at the sheet with one foot, but it didn't stir. Of course is didn't. Why should it?

Nolan exhaled. Amicus had said the night was full of terrors, but so far it had only been full of bed linen. He started walking away when something thumped right behind him. He froze.

The sheet?

A bright red apple lay in the center of the sheet. Nolan looked above, but there were only birch trees in the immediate area. He approached the apple and picked it up. It was half rotten and worms and ants snaked their way through it. He threw the apple as far he could. It exploded against a tree.

He half jogged through the underbrush until he'd left the sheet far behind. When he stopped and caught his breath, he found a squat farmhouse laying right in front of him. There, off by the road, stood a mailbox.

MUNROE.

He hadn't passed this farmhouse on his way to Thirteen Serling Drive.

He just needed to get inside. Safety. He spun around, looked behind him. Why couldn't he be sitting in front of the fireplace waiting for Parker to show up?

The flashlight dimmed. The batteries wouldn't last forever.

The farmhouse was locked. Nolan stepped to the side and shined the light in the window. It was dusty inside and a dark, human-sized lump lay in the kitchen floor. The house phone was covered, so were the mirrors.

Nolan stepped back. Barnyard animals cried out. He aimed the flashlight in that direction.

A barn loomed off to the side, large and foreboding.

He heard a creaking sound, like a door slowly opening, but saw no sign of movement.

Someone's really out here with me.

Nolan's mouth went dry as his palms grew damp, almost causing the flashlight to slip from his grasp. His eyes were drawn to the barn door. It was wide open, the inside a rectangular black hole. Was the door open before?

His feet moved on their own.

Maybe it would be safer in there. The last place anyone would look.

Nolan's tongue lolled to the side as he found himself absent-mindedly chewing on it, gentle but firm. A grounded motion that told Nolan he was still alive. For now.

He stepped inside the barn. He didn't dare close the door behind him—the movement or noise could alert whoever was out there with him. Inside the barn, he found horse stalls and a ladder leading to the hayloft. It stank of piss and mildew. The flashlight's beam grew dimmer. Before long, it would only be useful as a club for self-defense.

A flashlight against an ax.

Something tickled Nolan's ear. He jumped back and brushed at it. Nothing there.

Everything would have been fine if he'd just stayed inside the lake house.

He shined the light into the vaulted rafters and found massive spider webs.

Maybe a spider dropped on me. Crawling through my hair, inside my ear, laying a sack of eggs.

He chewed harder on his tongue. Ran his pinky in his ear. Nothing but a little bit of wax.

Nolan's breath rose in front of his face. It was suddenly freezing in the barn.

A light flickered by the entrance. Nolan ducked into one of the stalls and shut the flashlight off. He crouched low, caught his breath, and squinted.

"Clara? You in here? Poppa said no one's allowed out here this late." It was a boy younger than Nolan. He carried a lantern in one hand, the light illuminating his scuffed-up overalls. He walked into the center of the barn and peered into the darkness.

Clara must have been the boy's sister. Was she the first one lured out here to die?

"It's getting late and—" The boy's body convulsed and he dropped the lantern. His overalls were torn open, his flesh bursting like ripped seems. He started to scream but his throat opened wide.

The young farmer's body dropped in a heap. A moment later it was yanked toward the ladder. Nolan forced himself to watch as invisible hands hoisted the fresh corpse into the hayloft.

Nolan squeezed the small cross dangling around his neck as he heard footsteps in the loft directly overhead. It was his best chance to escape before whatever it was came back down. Came for him.

He wanted to move. He desperately needed to. But his legs wouldn't budge. The exit was too far away. He noticed the light streaming in through a small opening in the back wall. The broken window was much closer but smaller. He could at least scope it out.

The footsteps paced back and forth overhead.

Nolan crawled on all fours through the shit and straw to the narrow window. The glass had been knocked out already but the wooden crossbeam remained. Nolan bore down on his tongue and gripped the wood with both hands. Grunting, he pulled the wood free and set it on the hay. He pulled himself through the open space and fell flat on his stomach on the other side.

The wind was knocked out of him and he started to panic.

Something hard pressed into his groin. It sent a tingling sensation though his stomach and knees. He pulled at it and realized it was just the flashlight. He flicked it back on and pushed himself up to his feet.

When Nolan turned around, there was no barn. In its place were dozens of apple trees.

There was barely any path caught in the dying flashlight's beam, but Nolan made his way toward the water's edge and walked along the rocky ground toward the lake house.

He wished he knew how late it was. He felt like he'd been locked out for hours. His feet were sore and his nerves beyond raw. Safety waited for him inside the house. After all, Amicus lived there part time and no axman's ghost had butchered him.

The flashlight flickered and died. He slammed the end against his palm and produced a faint glow. He hurried through the trees, praying he'd reach the lake house before he was completely out of light.

His foot caught an apple and he crashed to the ground, his head slamming against something hard.

"Poppa?"

"There's something out in the barn."

"Stay here, Jacob."

"Let us make this quick."

"Poppa?"

"Clara?"

"Stay here, Jacob."

"I'll check the barn."

The voices washed over Nolan like a tidal wave. Tears stung his eyes. His temple burned and his entire body felt heavy. His eyelids fluttered and something warm dribbled from his mouth. He spat the blood out; he must have bitten down hard on his cheek.

He pushed himself up and scrambled through the trees, dying light shakily aimed just ahead of his feet.

The light flickered one last time as it died. Nolan emerged out of the thicket and found himself standing in front of the lake house with only the moon to guide him.

He heard his phone ringing faintly inside the house. Probably Parker. Hey, Nolan, it's getting late and I'm sure you're not locked outside so I'm just going to head home. Later, sucker.

The ringer went silent.

His back against the door, Nolan dropped to the ground. He thumped his head against the wood. It wasn't safe out there. Those things were everywhere. Amicus had to have a spare key hidden somewhere.

It could be in the cabana. In one of those boxes.

He pushed himself off the door and circled the house. He opened the cabana door, but without a light it would be impossible to search inside. He backed away from the cabana, his legs trembling. He dropped to the deck in a heap, utterly defeated. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Rage flashed through him and Nolan flipped over one of the lawn chairs. He stood up and grabbed the second chair, then threw it into the lake. Something silver caught on the moonlight. Taped underneath the chair bobbing in the water was a key.

"Yes!" Nolan pumped his fist in the air. He'd done it.

He approached the edge of the deck and lay on his stomach, reaching out for the chair leg. It was just out of reach. He scooted even further off the deck, straining.

Little bubbles popped on the water's surface on all sides of the chair. Nolan froze. An apple rose out of the water, then a second and a third. A handful of petals appeared.

Nolan didn't want to wait to find out what would appear next. He leaned out even further over the water, straining with everything he had left.

His fingers grazed the chair leg. Just enough to pull it closer. He grabbed the leg and dragged it back to the dock.

It caught on something. Nolan tugged harder, but the water yanked the chair back. He lost balance, but caught himself before he fell into the water, his face inches from the surface, the ends of his hair wet.

A dark clump rose next to Nolan's face so close he could make out the texture in the soaking wet cloth. Five covered ridges. A hand.

Nolan grabbed the chair leg again and pushed off the dock, dragging the chair out of the lake. In a mad dash, he ripped the key off the chair leg and tripped over his own feet running to the front door. He jammed the key in, unlocked the door and slammed it shut behind him.

Something brushed against his leg. He screamed and threw on the light switch.

A black cat meowed at his feet.

"Hi, Macabre. Glad you've been here, sitting pretty this whole time."

His heartbeat returning to normal, Nolan scratched the cat's chin before he trotted away. He limped to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. He leaned back against the countertop and sipped it.

Safe at last. No more worries. Thank God.

His phone rang again. He searched around until he found his cell vibrating from under a hand towel. Weird a cat would cover his phone.

Nolan read the text from Parker, On the way. Hope you're still not paranoid about the Housesitter killer.

Nolan shuddered and typed back, Thanks for reminding me. I'd completely forgot about the escaped lunatic. You wouldn't believe—

He stopped himself and deleted the text. Better not act like a crazy person himself. He sent back a simple Great, c u soon! and set his phone down.

Everything was finally going his way. No more being locked out. His boyfriend on his way. A whole week to run his own life and be the person he wanted to be. And five hundred bucks for it. Just don't stray too far into the apple trees...

He finished his water and headed upstairs. He needed to prep the guest bedroom for Parker.

Mood lighting—maybe candles?

Some music—soft jazz?

Sexy fragrance—uh, what?

Nolan reached the top step and hummed on his way to the guest room. He opened the door and switched on the light.

He knew in that instant that no matter how scared he was of the outside world, it was nothing compared to being locked inside with the maniac sitting in the dark, waiting for him.
AUTHOR AND EDITOR BIOS

Elliot Arthur Cross, author of "Crashing Mirrors" and "The Housesitter"

Elliot is a New England based author of gay-themed horror, mystery, young adult, and adult adult books. Who says you have to stick to one genre? He's been published by JMS Books and their imprint Queer Teen Press.

He's always had a passion for writing and loves all things horror and paranormal.

According to several on-line articles, an author should have some sort of backstory info in his or her bio. So his favorite pizza topping is Hawaiian, his favorite color is red, and his favorite cheese is extra sharp. He has never tasted a cheese too sharp. He wants to slice his tongue open on its insane sharpness.

Erin Callahan, author of "Black Holes"

Erin lives in New Hampshire with her husband and daughter. When she was a small child, she told her mother she'd defaced a wall with crayons because she'd been possessed by an imp. She's convinced that same imp drives her to write.

Check out her blog at erinpcallahan.com, or the YA urban fantasy series-in-progress she co-penned with her friend Troy H. Gardner at madworldseries.com. You can follow Erin on Twitter @ErinPCallahan.

Jonathan Hatfull, author of "Back Home" and "Search History"

Jonathan spent a lot of time inside as a teenager, which may be due to his discovering Candyman and Stephen King at far too young an age. He has an MA in writing from The University of Warwick and writes about genre film and television as features editor of SciFiNow magazine. His short fiction can be found at his too-infrequently updated blog Hatfull of Horror, and he's working on a novel that he promises will be better than the one he wrote at university.

Jonathan can be found rambling incoherently but passionately about Ginger Snaps, Poppy Z brite and horror movie sequels on Twitter @JonathanHatfull. He thanks you for your time and hopes you have a good night.

Joshua Winning, editor

Joshua is a film journalist and author of dark fantasy series The Sentinel Trilogy (available through Peridot Press). He is a contributing editor at Total Film magazine, and also writes for SFX and Digital Spy. He is co-founder of the Night Terrors book series, which launched in 2014 with gay murder mystery Camp Carnage and continues with 13 Tales to Give You Night Terrors.

Joshua lives in North London and can be found online at www.joshuawinning.com and on Twitter @JoshWinning.

Rosie Fletcher, author of "It's Different When You Have Your Own"

Rosie is a book, film and television journalist and editor of Crime Scene magazine. A life-long horror fanatic she's the resident horror columnist for SFX magazine and was a juror on 2015's inaugural James Herbert Award for horror writing. She's appeared as a zombie in a film and been chased by werewolves in real life, but has not, as yet, been bitten by a vampire.

You can follow Rosie on Twitter @TotalFilm_Rosie.

Scott Clark, author of "Ad Infinitum", "One and Done" and "Store Macabre"

Scott is a film journalist and author based in Edinburgh. His reviews and articles have been published at The People's Movies, Cinehouse, and Culture Fix. Scott's debut published fiction appeared this year in the horror anthology My Favorite Apocalypse (from Tulip Tree Publishing) and he recently founded forbiddenroom.co.uk, where all his film-related writing is compiled.

You can contact Scott at scott.forbiddenroom@gmail.com or on Twitter @startclock.

Tom Rimer, author of "Clown"

Tom is an educator and author living in Foxborough, Massachusetts with his wife, Kacee, and daughter, Alice. He is a huge fan of the New England Patriots, reality television, and the band Styx. He is currently working on a Young Adult Science Fiction novel that he hopes to soon release on the world.

You can follow Tom on Twitter @RimerTom.

Troy H. Gardner, editor, author of "Blackened Fireworks" and "Waiting for the Wolf"

Troy grew up in New Hampshire and graduated with a B.A. in English/Communications with a dual concentration in film and writing from the Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts. He spent ten years working in the banking industry dreaming up numerous stories to write. When not working on his writing, which is seldom, Troy conquers video games, or at least makes the attempt.

He's published fantasy, horror, and YA stories with MuseItUp Publishing and horror and non-fiction film essays through CreateSpace.

You can follow Troy on Twitter @TroyHGardner.

Vinny Negron, author of "Gone for Good"

Vinny Negron—who publishes under the pen name Vinny Negron—is an American writer who for years was thought to be the reincarnation of El Cuco. He grew up in the working-class city of Far Rockaway, Queens, in the shadow of JFK Airport and a crackhead named Snot Bubble. When he's not writing, he practices stealth from his cubicle, and reenacts scenes from "A Brother From Another Planet." Vinny's fears include politicians, the O-Town Reunion Tour, and stick bugs.

You can find Vinny on Twitter @VinnyNegron.
CAMP CARNAGE SAMPLE

Also available from Night Terrors

CAMP CARNAGE, a gay murder mystery by Elliot Arthur Cross & Joshua Winning

In the summer of 1986, Billy Collins is sent to his own personal Hell—summer camp. The remote Camp Genesis offers desperate parents a place to "straighten" out their gay teenagers with the help of the puritanical Katherine Creevey.

Besides the typical horsing around, campfire tales and summer games, the Genesis program forces gay and questioning teens into humiliating gender-based lessons. While Billy wants nothing more than to escape Camp Genesis, he can't help worrying that something even more sinister is hiding just out of sight.

Unknown to Billy, two campers were murdered three years ago. Just days after Billy and the new campers arrive, people start to go missing, and it's up to Billy and his new friend Jem to find out what's really going on. Is a maniac on the loose? Is history repeating itself? One thing's for sure—at Camp Genesis, you have to fight to survive...

PROLOGUE

August 2, 1983

THE summer heat had eased off and Miles took a grateful breath of the cool evening air. Back in Dallas, his hometown, the sidewalks practically sizzled all year round, but even he'd found the sweltering Colorado weather tough this week. He was glad that being a camper at Camp Genesis meant he got to wear shorts and a vest and goof off in the lake most of the time; otherwise he'd have melted into a gooey monster version of himself days ago. Hell, it was so hot he'd have worn nothing if he could get away with it. For some reason, though, the counselors frowned on nudity.

"Gorgeous, huh?" he sighed. As much as he hated the anti-gay activities they were forced to endure there, he couldn't deny the camp's beauty.

"What?"

Beside him, Blake looked blank and Miles shot him a glare. Blake didn't appreciate the peace of the dusky woods like Miles did. He came from Kentucky, where every sunset was a living postcard. He was taller, barely seventeen, and his tanned, defined arms gleamed blue in the moonlight. Miles shoved him, but Blake's innocent smile made being angry so goddamn difficult.

Grinning mischievously, Miles tore off into the woods.

"Catch me if you can!"

"Hey!" Blake called, but Miles ignored him. He liked being chased. Maybe it was some sort of residual caveman mentality. Or was it cavemen who did the chasing? He couldn't think clearly over the hammering of his heart. Perhaps it was cavewomen who liked being chased? Either way, he was soon panting and shimmering with sweat. He had to slow down, but he didn't care.

Getting caught was the fun part.

It didn't take Blake long to catch up. Strong hands seized Miles' bare shoulders and he laughed, tossing back a head of sandy blond curls. His back hit a tree trunk, knocking the breath out of him, but then there was Blake, bringing their lips together. He tasted like cherry pie and chewing gum.

"It's my lunch money, isn't it?" Miles gasped melodramatically. "Just take it, please. Don't whale on me."

Blake looked confused for a moment. His brown puppy-dog eyes widened—sweet, simple Blake, so very much the product of his farm upbringing—but then he grinned and bit his lip. He pressed into Miles, his body heat divine torture.

"Yeah," he said. "I really like, uh, sloppy joes, and...tater tots."

Miles laughed again. A bird flapped over their heads, disappearing into the canopy, which let in thin shafts of silver light.

They both froze.

"Miles, what if somebody catches us out here?"

He grabbed Blake's ass in both hands.

"They'll have to ask my permission to spank you, because this is all mine."

"Seriously, Miles, we could get in deep shit."

For a guy as big and powerful as Blake, he sure was a pussy sometimes. Miles liked that, though. He didn't get to play the strong one often.

"Come on." He took Blake's hand and pulled him through the woods.

"Where—" Blake began, but Miles held a finger to his lips.

"Shhhh."

They made their way between the trees, fingers entwined, finally emerging into the moonlight. The lake was still, like liquid mercury, and a boathouse rested at its edge.

More of a shack than a house. It was that old and decrepit and Miles felt confident nobody would disturb them there.

"The boathouse?" Blake murmured, uncertainty in his voice. "Isn't it condemned or something?"

"What can I say? I've always wanted to act out The Love Boat for real."

Miles turned the dial on the rusted padlock.

"You know the code?" Blake cast worried looks about them, puppy-dog eyes wider than ever. Miles couldn't help thinking it was adorable—and oh so ironic. Miles the bad boy. His mother would have a fit if she knew he'd snuck out there with another guy while the rest of the camp slept.

Good.

He was in half a mind to tell her every sordid detail, just to see the expression on her face. That'd make her take notice, stop harping on about her own miserable mother. Serve her right for enlisting him at this ridiculous camp. It was meant to fix him. Straighten him out, so to speak. Make him a real man.

Real my ass.

"There," he said, brandishing the padlock triumphantly. "Just call me Magnum, PI."

The door creaked loudly and Miles flinched, ushering Blake inside quickly before pulling it shut behind them.

Miles would have been creeped out inside the boathouse if Blake wasn't with him. A lone paddling boat rested half-submerged in the water, slowly rotting like a slumbering sailor. Cobwebs looped across the ceiling and junk cluttered every corner. Rusty tools hung on racks and Miles thought he saw a mouse skitter away. At least he hoped it was a mouse.

"See? Romantic as hell," he said with a grin.

"This place gives me the creeps."

"Don't be such a baby."

"Want to take my mind off it?" Blake sheepishly shoved a hand through his floppy black hair.

"Grrrrr!" Miles snarled, pawing at Blake's chest.

He loved what Blake did to him. Miles had never been so forward in his life. Back in Dallas, he'd never have dreamt of talking to a guy like Blake. He'd dreaded coming to the camp again. Even in the picturesque surroundings, the previous years had been miserable. But not anymore. This year he had Blake.

He hadn't believed it when Blake showed up all athletic and naïve. Miles had watched him from afar for a few weeks, admiring the view as the jock strolled around Camp Genesis, blissfully unaware of the way everybody drooled over him. They'd barely said twenty words to each other when Miles received the news that changed everything. His dad was dead. Suicide. It came out of nowhere. Miles' dad was the kind of guy who always looked on the bright side. Miles couldn't imagine him taking his own life, but it made sense looking back on it. You'd have to be unhinged to marry the type of woman his father had.

In the wake of the news, Miles fell apart. He was only allowed a day off camp for the funeral, and when he got back, the other campers treated him like a leper; like something bad would happen to their loved ones by association.

Blake was different. One day, he stayed behind to make sure Miles was okay while the others had a swimming lesson. He'd sat on Miles' bed and listened while Miles rambled on in between sobs. Blake had pulled him in for a hug, and as they held each other, Miles realized Blake had a boner...

What started out as a comforting make-out session quickly developed into a real relationship. That was three weeks ago, and Blake had helped Miles whenever he retreated into himself. They had to be discreet about their relationship, stealing kisses in the dark and passing notes during mealtimes, but that made it all the more thrilling.

In the dark of the boathouse, Miles pulled Blake closer, pressing his mouth against Blake's sun-chapped lips, savoring the way he tasted. He smelled like a man, sweaty and alluring.

It was a miracle. Somebody this sweet returning Miles' affection. And a guy, even. He'd had to avoid awkward flirtations from girls for a few years, but now he felt like the awkward one making passes. Besides a few old perverts around Dallas, Blake was a first. And it wasn't just because Blake felt sorry for him—no one could fake a boner like that with a snotty, puffy-eyed guy during a crying jag. He seemed to genuinely care. Everything was so easy for him. He didn't seem that fazed at attending such a bizarre camp; he even put up with the stupid rehabilitation exercises without complaining.

Blake jerked away. "What was that?"

"I didn't hear anything."

"I heard something."

"Maybe it's the creature from the Black Lagoon," Miles teased.

"Black Lagoon?"

Miles sighed and wrapped his arms around Blake's shoulders.

"Just forget it," Miles said, giving him a reassuring kiss.

Then he heard it, too. A weird popping sound. His grip on Blake slackened and he looked around for the source of the noise. His gaze rested on the inky water. Bubbles burst on the otherwise still surface. Miles jumped back, half expecting a nest of giant water snakes to explode out of the water at them, but then the water settled again.

"What the hell—" Miles began.

A shadowy figure erupted from the water. Before either of them could react, something shiny flashed in the dark and Blake made a guttural choke. Warmth spattered Miles' face and he stared at Blake, mouth wide in shock.

Blood gushed from Blake's mouth. He choked, confusion twisting his pretty face.

Something was wrong with his neck. Something protruded from it. Something sharp and dripping blood.

"M-M-M—" Blake reached out for Miles as he collapsed to the floor.

The dark figure turned, obscured by deep shadows.

"What's going on?" Miles demanded.

He couldn't think of anything else to say. He wouldn't have to think of anything else.

Something flashed in the dark once more.

Garden shears, Miles realized as they sank into his skull.
