

The Road Less Travelled

A Blood Moon Rising Anthology

Copyright © Road to Terror by S. K. Gregory

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © A Werewolf's Head by Erin Hayes

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Homecoming by K. E. Scowcroft

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Hunted by C. G. Coppola

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Moonlight Express by C. L. Hernandez

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © The Shimmer and the Abyss by Toneye Eyenot

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Good Intentions by D. J. Doyle

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Dragon's Song by M. L. Sparrow

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Weird New England – Tiffany Street Stone by Donald Armfield

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © By the Light of the Silver Moon by Sharon L. Higa

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Road to Darkness by Joleene Naylor

All Rights Reserved

Road to Terror

By S. K. Gregory

Aria rolled onto the forecourt on fumes, her Camry protesting all the way. It sputtered and gave out, three feet from the pump.

Aria rested her forehead against the steering wheel, breathing hard. Her hands ached from gripping the wheel. She had been driving for hours, aimlessly, looking for somewhere, anywhere, she could stop and rest. It was after midnight. There had to be a motel or something nearby.

Checking her purse for cash, she climbed out of the car. The hose wouldn't reach. Swearing, she took the parking brake off and pushed the car forward a few feet. She filled the tank and headed inside. The fluorescent lights inside hurt her eyes. Squinting, she headed to the drinks section for something high in caffeine in case there weren't any places to stop.

A couple were the only other customers in the store. They were around Aria's age, early twenties; the guy was tall with dark spiked hair and was wearing a leather jacket. The girl was several inches shorter than him, with long blonde hair and eyes ringed with black eye liner. She was standing on tip toe, kissing the guy. She stopped and glanced over at Aria. Aria quickly looked away. She didn't mean to stare.

Picking up some drinks, she walked past them to the counter. The girl watched her, a wicked grin on her face.

"Hey," she said, as Aria passed her.

Aria kept moving. "Hey, you," the girl said again.

She followed Aria toward the counter. "Are you deaf or something?"

Aria glanced back at her. "No, I-I was j-just..."

"J-just what?" she mocked. Aria knew girls like her. Always ready to start a fight over nothing.

She stepped closer to Aria, a crazed look on her face. Aria tried to move back, but was blocked by a display.

The girl smiled. "Don't look so scared. What's your name?"

"Um, Aria."

"I'm Stella. Do you want to go to a party?"

"A what?" she asked, confused by the turnaround.

"A party. Have you never heard of them?"

"Yes, I know what a party is."

"Good. Do you want to go?"

"I don't...I'm not from around here, I'm just passing through."

Stella shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Her boyfriend came over and wrapped an arm around her neck. "Who's this?" he asked.

"Aria. I asked her to go to the party, but she said no."

"Do you have a problem with our company?" he asked.

Aria shook her head. "No, I'm just in a hurry."

He gave Aria the once over. He smirked at her and pulled Stella away. Aria watched them suspiciously. Who went up to a perfect stranger and invited them to a party?

Were they just playing with her? Or planning to rob her or car-jack her?

She let them pay for their things first, hoping they would be gone by the time she left. She took her time counting out the coins from her purse. The clerk looked irritated, but she didn't hurry.

Finally she headed back outside, only to find that the couple were still there, sitting in an old mustang three pumps over. Clutching her keys, Aria kept her focus on her car and walked as fast as she could towards it.

The passenger door opened on the mustang and Stella got out. "Hey! Come over here," she barked.

Aria broke into a jog, opened her car door and threw her drinks onto the passenger seat. She jumped into the driver's seat and locked the doors. She could see Stella in the mirror, making her way towards her. She started the car and pressed the accelerator down. The car shot forward back out into the night.

Aria kept driving, hoping they would just give up and leave her alone. She was so tired, she didn't need this.

A couple of miles down the road, she realized that they weren't following her. She tried to relax. Grabbing a can from the seat beside her, she popped it open and took a long drink.

Headlights from behind lit up the interior of the car. A horn blasted loudly and Aria dropped the can onto the floor. It was them, they had followed her. She sped up, wondering how far they would follow.

The mustang suddenly appeared beside her. She couldn't make out the couple through the darkness. They blasted the horn again. Were they going to run her off the road?

"Leave me alone!" she screamed, even though they couldn't hear her.

The mustang swung out in front of her and she slammed on the brakes. It stopped a few feet in front of her and she saw Stella get out, waving wildly at her. She didn't approach the car though.

Aria opened the car door and put one foot on the ground. Keeping the door between them she cried, "What the hell do you want?"

"There's someone in your car!" Stella screamed.

Aria froze, that wasn't possible. Even as she thought it though, she heard the door behind her open. She ran toward Stella.

"Don't look back, just run!" Stella yelled.

She did as she said. Stella leapt back inside and left room for Aria. Before the door was even closed, Stella screamed at her boyfriend to drive.

Aria looked back. Standing in the road, was a man dressed in black. She couldn't make out his face, but she could see the sling blade he held in his hand. He had been behind her in the car. He could have killed her at any time.

She doubled over, struggling to catch her breath. "Oh my God, who was that?"

"He climbed out of the trunk back at the station. We saw him get into the back seat," Stella said.

"The trunk?"

How the hell could he have been in the trunk? And for how long?

"Where are we going?" Aria asked.

"Away from the psycho with the big knife," the boyfriend said.

"What's his name?" Aria asked Stella.

"Why do you want to know?" Stella snapped.

"I just wanted to know what to call him?" Aria said.

"Killian," he grunted.

"Maybe we should go to the police," Aria suggested.

"I don't think so," Killian replied. He seemed amused at the thought of it.

"What if he kills someone?"

"Well it won't be us."

Aria wondered what she had gotten herself into, but they had saved her life.

"Well can you drop me off in the nearest town?" she asked.

Killian nodded. Stella was staring at her again.

"Where were you going?" she asked.

"I don't know, I was trying to find somewhere to stop for the night."

"Thought you said you were in a hurry?"

"I was...I am."

"Where did you come from?" Stella asked.

Aria sighed and rubbed her right temple where a headache was forming. Why was she so nosy?

"I don't...I was at college and..." she trailed off.

"And what?"

She turned away from Stella and stared out the window.

"I don't know."

"What you mean you don't know? Surely you can remember where you came from?"

"Actually I can't. Not really. I hit my head and there are blanks in my memory."

Stella and Killian shared a look. "You have amnesia?" she asked.

"Not amnesia, there's just things I can't remember."

"Like what?"

"I was at college and something happened. Someone was killed."

"Who?"

"I don't know her name. I think I was in the same dorm as her. I think somebody broke in because I remember seeing someone in the room. Then I was hit in the head. When I woke up, I ran."

Stella was actually stunned into silence. It didn't last long. "Someone was murdered and you ran off? Why? Was the guy going to kill you too?" Her eyes widened. "Was that him in the car?"

"I don't know. How would he have gotten into my car?"

"Who cares about the how?" Killian said, "It had to be him. Unless you are unlucky enough to run into two murders in the one week."

Aria knew he was right. It was him back there. He had been so close to her. She thought she was putting distance between them, but he was with her the whole time. And she had left him back there with the keys in the ignition. She looked back again, searching for any sign of the car, but the road was in darkness.

"What if he follows us?" she said.

"There's no one following us," Killian said, but he left the highway and drove into a small town. It was deserted and suddenly the thought of being left on her own, terrified Aria.

Killian pulled into a parking lot beside a bar. "I need a drink," he said. He got out and went inside, not waiting for Stella.

"Come on," she said.

Aria followed her, since the alternative was to wait in the car.

The bar was half empty and was filled mostly with older men and couples. Killian was leaning on the bar.

He slid a shot glass full of clear liquid towards Aria. After what she had been through she knocked it back fast. Her throat burned and she began to choke which Stella seemed to find funny.

"Never had a drink before either? Are you sure it was college you were at and not a convent?"

"I've had a drink before," Aria said, although she had trouble remembering a specific occasion.

Stella knocked her drink back without choking. Killian bought them another round.

"I thought you guys were going to a party?" Aria asked.

"We are. Soon," Stella replied.

It was already after one am. Where could they be going this late? She needed to ditch them. As grateful as she was for them saving her life, she didn't want to be around Stella and all of her questions. She just wanted to sleep and hopefully in the morning she would be able to think more clearly.

She reached for her purse, before realizing that she had left it back in her car.

"Fuck," she muttered.

"What?" Killian asked.

"My purse was in the car. I have no money, what am I supposed to do?"

He shrugged. "Don't look at me."

She groaned. The thought of being stranded out here was more than she could bear right now.

"I'm going to use the restroom," she said.

As she stared at herself in the dirty mirror over the sink, she noticed the state of her dark hair and her pale skin.

What happened to me?

She reached back to check the bump on her head. Wincing when her fingers made contact, she wondered if she had a concussion. Maybe it would be a good idea to go to hospital, just in case. At least she would have a warm bed for the night. But a big part of her insisted that she keep moving. Staying still could mean that he would catch up to her.

An image filled her mind of the college girl. She lay on the ground, face down. Her head was twisted round so that Aria could see her face. Her eyes stared vacantly up at her. Dark red stains covered her back.

Aria shook her head to clear the image away. Was it real? Or her damaged brain conjuring up horrible images?

I was at college. And someone died. She was sure that these facts were true. So she had been hurt and ran away. And that psycho followed.

Aria returned to the bar. She would say her goodbyes and check if there was a hostel nearby.

She was surprised to find that Killian had bought her another drink. He pushed it toward her and she knocked it back. Maybe it would relax her.

Stella bounced over, having just put a song on the jukebox.

"Dance with me," Stella whined, draping herself over Killian.

He gave her a look as if to say, are you fucking kidding me?

Aria felt a stab of anger. What did Killian see in her? She was so needy and an attention seeker.

When Killian didn't get up to dance, Stella moved to the middle of the floor and started swaying to the music. Despite everything that had happened, she didn't seem to have a care in the world. Aria envied her.

After one last drink, Killian announced that they were leaving. Aria found herself following them. She'd never get into a hostel at this time of night anyway.

Maybe she could crash on their floor.

Killian drove them across town to an apartment, in a rundown building. A man in his fifties with long black hair, answered the door. He looked like an ageing rock star. Killian greeted him like he was an old friend, introducing him simply as Jim.

They went inside and the two guys immediately started drinking. Stella fiddled with the stereo, leaving Aria standing awkwardly, wondering what to do next.

Jim patted the couch beside him. She sat down as far from him as possible, accepting the glass of alcohol that was thrust into her hand.

After a while, Stella headed into the other room, waving to Aria to follow her. Not wanting to be left with Jim, she hurried after her.

Stella was in the bathroom, fixing her hair.

"Having fun?" she asked.

Aria shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."

Stella smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it.

"Don't think I don't know what you're up to," she said.

"What are you talking about?"

"I see the way you're looking at Killian. Let's get one thing very clear. He is mine."

Aria rolled her eyes. "I'm not interested in Killian. I just want to figure out what happened to me."  
Stella scrutinized her, then nodded slowly. "Good. It's not like he'd be interested in you anyway."

Aria felt anger building in her. Why wouldn't Killian be interested in her? As she glared at Stella, a memory popped into her head of another girl mocking her. The college girl, the one who was lying dead on the floor. They had been talking and she was mocking Aria.

"Like you would have a boyfriend," the girl had scoffed.

"He's real. You'll see," Aria snapped.

The girl, Zoe, just sneered at her. All Aria wanted to do was shut her up and soon her wish came true. She wished that Stella would shut up too. Just go away and never come back.

*

Aria left the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She noticed that Jim had passed out, but Killian was still going.

"Where's Stel?" he slurred.

"She passed out on the bed," Aria said, taking a seat beside him. He gave her a drink.

Moving closer to him, she dropped a hand onto his knee, pleased when he didn't push her away. He did shoot a quick glance at the bedroom door though.

Grinning at him, she let her hand wander further up his leg. Again he didn't stop her. When he leaned in to kiss her, she forgot all about the horror of everything that had happened. He tasted of whiskey and cigarettes.

Jim let out a loud belch in his sleep and they pulled apart.

"We probably shouldn't do this," Killian said. He stumbled to his feet and staggered toward the bedroom.

Aria felt her face burn, he was knocking her back?

Asshole. He and Stella deserve each other.

She heard a soft rapping at the front door. She hurried to open it. On the other side stood Adam. He looked tired, there were dark circles under his eyes.

"Hey baby, I've missed you," she said softly.

"Why did you run?" he asked.

"I hit my head. I didn't remember anything," she said. "But I remember now. And I found some new ones for you."

There was a yell from the bedroom and Killian came out, his hands covered in blood.

"Oh my God, she's dead. Stella's dead," he cried.

Aria turned back to Adam. "Let's finish what we started with those bitches on campus."

A Werewolf's Head

By Erin Hayes

The bite on my Achilles tendon is killing me. The beast bit me at one point during my hunt, and it's been a pain ever since. And sticking my arthritic thumb out is making this whole thing even worse.

No one picks up hitchhikers anymore, Richard. Especially in the middle of the night.

It's the same thing I've been telling myself for about three hours now. And I'm starting to believe it.

Not that I've seen many people go down this road in that time. One in the morning, on a backwoods country road isn't exactly rush hour. Add in the torrent of rain, and I might as well be on the moon. But I stand at my spot, determined. The rain has washed away the sign I wrote on a piece of found cardboard. Permanent marker is not permanent against a hurricane. And my plea for a ride into town is as fleeting as hope.

I'm soaked to the bone, and my bag on my shoulder is a heavy weight to bear. I shift the strap, trying not to think about what's inside. It's soaked as well, and I hope and pray to God that it's rain and not something else.

The bag is still assurance. Assurance that I killed the bastard and saved the town of Jupiter.

I'm a hero and no one is any the wiser.

That's how it should be. A selfless act that was done for the greater good. Still, I feel the narcissistic twinge of wanting someone to know. I remember reading a long time ago that a mad serial killer allowed himself to be caught because he wanted credit. Not that I'm a mad serial killer, but I want people to know.

They owe their lives to me. I killed a killer, a monster who would've destroyed the town and everyone in it.

At least I have this weight on my shoulder. I can give myself credit. Too bad this damn bite is keeping me from walking any further. Without this horrible limp, I could walk all the way back to town and present my kill. I could go right to the police station and show them what I've found. What happened?

Stranded on the side of the road and unable to walk isn't exactly the heroic exit I'd hoped for.

I remember how the killings started. Small at first. Squirrels, then small pets. All in a brutal, bloody way. Heads were missing. Limbs, torn clean off.

People were upset, terrified, thinking that some awful kids were pulling off horrible pranks. The police begged for the kids to come forward or at least stop. No one came forward. And the killings didn't stop.

But no one noticed that they all happened during the full moon. They say that the crazies come out during full moons. Hospitals beef up the staff to accommodate injuries. There's a more pronounced law enforcement presence on the streets. Heck, even people recognize that everyone, and everything, acts differently. They seemed to have forgotten all that in the wake of the hysteria arising from the killings.

But I did. Oh, boy did I recognize that it only happened during full moons. I put two and two together. I saw the killings for what they were.

A monster.

Then the killings jumped to humans. An old man one month. A young couple in a tent out in the woods. In a town of sixty thousand, suddenly having violent murders every month raises red flags.

I knew I had to stop it. And stop it I did. I can imagine the headlines now: 'Local man heroically saves town from bloodthirsty monster. Mayor gives him the key to the city.'

Okay, maybe I'm embellishing that headline a bit. But wouldn't it be nice?

We'll see what happens. After dropping off my evidence, I'm going to go home and have a long, hard drink of whiskey. Heroes deserve to have a celebratory drink after all. And a celebratory headline.

There hasn't been a car for a long while now. My thumb sticking out aches and I finally lower it. I can almost hear my joints and muscles sigh in relief.

Richard, you're getting too old for this kind of shit, you know that, right?

I grunt in answer to myself and shift my weight off the offending foot.

"I may have to get that looked at," I mutter.

Bites can be nasty, vicious things. Wouldn't want that to get infected.

I look up, realizing one thing that is working in my favor now. The rain has ceased. My bottom lip shivers as the wind picks up. Being soaked to the bone on a windy night makes for a cold, lonely wait. I resituate the strap on my shoulder and look up. The clouds have parted, revealing—as I knew it would—a full moon. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that I'm always right. A full moon every time that monsters would show its awful head.

This moon is different than the others. This one is bright red.

A blood moon.

An omen.

"I gotcha, you bastard," I say aloud. I'm not sure if I'm talking to the blood moon or to the monster that I killed.

What I wouldn't give for a warm bath right now.

Headlights.

I blink rapidly and shake my head, whisking the remnants of the water off me. Just when I thought there'd be no one coming to my rescue—which is not fair, since I went to everyone else's—there are lights on the road.

Quickly, I stick my thumb out and lean against my bad foot again, ignoring the creak and the protest that my joints give me. Just a little longer. I even visualize that warm bath and relax into it.

It's a truck, one of those Ford something-or-others that you can hit with a hurricane and they're still running. This one is a tank, and as it slows down in front of me, I see that it's Sam Lesman, the owner of the hole-in-the-wall bar on the far edge of town. I've spent quite a few nights at his place, and while it's not the swankiest of drinking spots, it feels like home.

It must be sometime after two a.m. if he's driving home. I must have been standing on the side of the road for a lot longer than I thought.

He rolls down the window and squints down at me. "Richard?" he asks, as if in disbelief. "That you?"

I sweep the bag behind me, blocking it from his view with my body. No use in raising suspicions. Not until I've made my case. "Indeed."

"What the hell are you doing out here? It's so late and it's been raining." He barks out the questions in confusion, like he's never seen an old man along the side of the road before.

Then again, how many old men have singlehandedly saved a town?

"I had errands to run and got into trouble." Both of those statements are true. "Are you going into town? I need a ride to the police station."

He furrows his brow. "Why didn't you just call them? Peggy in dispatch would've sent someone to pick you up."

"I don't have a cell phone, sonny."

He nods. "Right. Well, get in of course. Sorry the truck ain't cleaner than it is, but I just got off work. The cab light don't work no more, so you at least can't see it."

"This'll be just fine."

I open the door, and true to his word, the light doesn't come on. I settle into the passenger seat. It smells of cigarettes and it's threadbare, but right now, it's the most luxurious seat I've ever sat on.

"How long you been out there?" Sam asks as he puts the truck into drive. "You're soaked, man."

"Hours," I say truthfully. "I've been out there for hours."

As we drive down the road, the rain picks up again, as a reminder that it was never gone too long to begin with. I'm inside now, ha!

"Why didn't you just walk?" Sam continues.

"Couldn't."

"Why not, man?"

Now's my chance. Now's when I get the first ounce of recognition from someone. I'm going to tell Sam my story, he's going to look at me in wonder and realize what I've been doing for everyone in Jupiter.

I grunt as I prop my leg up on the dashboard—I'm pretty spry for an old man when I want to be—and pull up my pant leg. "Because of this."

I haven't seen the wound for a few hours now, and I realize that I should have cleaned it and wrapped it in bandages. It's red and bloody, and I see yellow puss oozing from it.

Sam's eyes flick to my wound. "That's a pretty bad blister."

"It ain't no blister. It's a bite."

"A bite?" I see Sam's thoughts and confusion play out on his face. "What do you mean? Did you get attacked by something out there?"

"You could say something like that. Rather, I attacked something," I say with a chuckle.

"How do you mean?"

I set my foot down, and now is when I remember that I'm and old man with arthritis. "You know those killings that have been happening around here?"

"Yeah?"

"I found out what's been doing it."

Sam's grip on the steering wheel tightens. "What? Who?"

I pat the bag. "It's a 'what'."

Now.

I lift open the flap of the bag, my prize inside. Sam's eyes flick to the contents of the bag, and he yells in fear, the steering wheel and the fact that we're driving down a road forgotten. The truck swerves, narrowly missing the guard rail. He rights the car and then pulls off to the side of the road. He breathes heavily, staring forward, before putting the truck into park. A stream of curses issues from his mouth.

"I had to stop it," I say.

"It? It?" Sam is hysterical at the moment, and I don't blame him. "Richard, that's Jim Hopper's head in there. His head!"

I look down, and there's a surreal moment, where I don't recognize what's inside there. I had killed a big, hairy monster with a silver bullet and then hacked off its head with machete. It's all according to a How to Kill Werewolves article I found online. When I put the head in there, it was huge, weighed about twenty pounds, complete with furry ears, sharp fangs, and a bloody muzzle.

But now... I find that Sam is right. Old Jim's eyes stare blankly up at me.

That doesn't make sense. Not at all.

Oh, wait.

I remember from my research, when I was working on my plan to kill the creature that I saw something about werewolves transforming from humans into the monsters. When I killed the werewolf, it must have transformed back into Jim's head.

This is going to be a hurdle for me to convince the police department—after all, I don't have a monster's head in my bag, but a man's head.

But I killed it. It nearly killed me, but I got it first.

Now, I'm not so sure.

"Where is the rest of Jim's body?" Sam's firing off a load of questions, but that last one stuck out to me.

His body. I can take the police to where I left the rest of his body. They'll see the lair where I tracked it, where it bit me in the leg. Where I left the machete. There's evidence there, there has to be.

"He's a monster," I tell Sam. "He was the one who did all of the killing."

"The killing?" Sam has taken off his seat belt and he's cowering in the corner, away from me. I get the feeling that he would have gotten out of the truck if it wasn't raining. As it is, he's watching me fearfully. "Richard, the only killing I'm seeing is you. You killed him."

I shake my head. "I had to. I had to save the town. I did my research. There was a werewolf, Sam, you have to believe me."

He stills. "A...werewolf?"

"Yeah!" I say. "The damn thing even bit me!"

I pull my leg up again, and raise my pant leg up again. And now that I'm looking at it from this angle, I see that it's not a bite mark. Just like Sam said, it's a blister. A horrible one, but not a bite from the beast.

"It's..." My voice trails off as my logic fails me. "It bit me. Jim was a monster that terrorized our town and I had to kill him." I grab at Sam's shirt and pull him towards me. "He was a werewolf! I had to stop him. I'm not crazy. I'm not! You believe me, don't you?"

At first, I hear nothing. No reassurance from Sam. Not even him saying that he doesn't believe me. I only hear my own heartbeat, frantic at trying to make sense of my world. He was a werewolf. He had to be. This isn't just a case of a senior getting confused and wandering off. I had evidence, dammit.

Then I hear it.

A low laugh starts. I blink furiously, trying to figure out where it's coming from. The laughter fills the cab, sinister and evil.

Then I realize that it's coming from Sam.

"You were almost right, Richard," Sam says. In the darkness, I see the flash of his teeth. All too long and too sharp to be real human teeth. "Almost right. In fact, you were totally right about it being a werewolf." Another low chuckle that has no warmth. It saps all of my hop away. "You even killed poor ol' Jim. But you had the wrong man, Richard."

"But—" I start.

"And now," he says. His voice is different, almost like a growl. He looks hairier now, even though it's dark in here. Like something's wrong with his ears and his nose. "I'm sorry, too."

And the last thing I see is the snap of those jaws coming down towards me.

Homecoming

By K. E. Scowcroft

Stepping out of the terminal into the early evening air, a delicate late summer breeze brushed her face and brought a smile to her lips. Taking in her surroundings, Eve, felt strange sense of coming home even though she had never set foot in England before and never even thought she would. Shrugging the feeling off as having spent the last sixteen hours in various aircrafts, being on solid ground was probably enough reason to feel this way. Gaining her bearings she could see the sign for the car rental place and began pushing the full luggage cart over to collect her reservation for the next stage of her journey.

Walking into the office she was met by a scene of utter disarray, one attendant was desperately trying to calm down several customers and another younger man sat in his chair with his feet up on the counter with a bored expression on his face. Eve reached into her bag and pulled out her documents wallet with her details and paperwork. Seeing movement, the man turned and saw Eve and instantly took his feet down and straightened up.

"Oh, how can I help you today?" he said.

Stepping forward Eve said, "I've come to collect a car I reserved." She held out the email confirmation slip.

The young man's face dropped, and took the paper and said, "Let's have a look, but I must warn you that we've had a few issues with the office and not getting the reservation information though and our hire cars are being a little temperamental at the moment."

He pointed towards the increasingly irate customers and the now very hot and flustered looking assistant. Looking down at her paperwork, he looked dismayed and said, "Well we don't have this model you booked but if you're willing to change to what we have available we can do it at the same price for you."

Smiling politely and just wanting to be on her way, she said, "I'll take whatever you've got." Grabbing a set of keys and a clipboard, the attendant came around the counter, took hold of her luggage and said, "Let's go and get you all set up."

She silently followed the attendant around the back of the building, glad not to be having to push the heavy luggage cart again. But even before they reached the corner Eve could hear the sound of tools and the dull thud and the sound of drilling and the distant voices that she presumed was mechanics shouting at each other. Coming around the corner she could see an array of vehicles that looked like they belonged in a wrecker's yard instead of a car hire business.

The attendant blushed and grumbled, "They are our temperamental ones; the available ones are this way."

He began leading her toward a small group of cars over in the far corner. As she got closer she could see that there was a couple of Minis, a people carrier and a velvet red Grand Cherokee. She hoped that the attendant was going to offer the Cherokee rather than a Mini. The attendant stopped at the Mini and her heart dropped, looking at the paperwork he said, "Oh, I see you've booked and paid for a Satnav too, well you'd best have our brand new Cherokee then as that has a built in Satnav and we don't have any others working at the moment."

"Do you have everything you need from me to get set off as I've a long drive ahead of me?" Glancing at the paperwork and then back at Eve, he handed her the clipboard and said, "Yep all set, I just need to see your original drivers licence and a signature and we're all good to go."

Handing over the documents for him to check, she signed the form and handed it back to him. The young attendant opened the trunk, stowing her large amount of belongings, "So where you heading off to, anywhere nice? I'll put it in the Satnav," he said struggling with her largest back pack.

"To Eardunge Hall in Derbyshire."

Dropping her bag with a thump and recoiling quickly, his face drained of color. "I'll let you be on your way then." He turned on his heels and walked away as quickly as he could without turning back. Throwing her last bag in the trunk, she quickly got into the car before he changed his mind on her having the car. Quickly putting the address into the Satnav, she looked up to see the older gentleman coming around the corner with the young man, she shifted the car into reverse and pulled away in the opposite direction from the advancing men.

It didn't take long for her to get into the hang of driving it helped that the Cherokee was smooth and easy to drive so she could concentrate more on the female English voice and her directions. She learned quickly that a freeway was called a motorway and they were a lot shorter here in England. She had not been on it long when the directions took her off into what seemed to be lots of smaller towns and villages with twisty and bendy roads that were slightly more difficult to navigate. She was lost in her thoughts and it still seemed difficult for her believe that this is where she was born twenty-one years ago tomorrow. She had never known she was adopted, even after her parents both passed suddenly in the car crash last year. She still didn't know anything until she got a call from a very English sounding lawyer who informed her she was the sole heir to a house and its surrounding lands and rather a large sum of money.

After investigation and talking with family friends who didn't seem so happy to be talking about her parents, she learned how they had arrived home with her after a trip to the UK but they didn't shed much light on the origins of their new charge. It wasn't until several days after the phone call that a package was delivered from the lawyers, with her birth and adoption records inside. It was then that she began to make sense of the situation. It seemed her mother was the daughter of a rich land owner, who had either had a relationship or was taken advantage of by an older boy who was passing through the area and Eve was the result. Embarrassed by the fact that their single young daughter was pregnant out of wedlock, her parents arranged for her mother to be sent away and looked after by a trusted midwife till after the baby was born. Shortly after, the midwife died due to complications from a nasty strain of flu. It was within these documents that Eve also found out that her mother also had died due to complications during labour, and that her Aunt refused to care for her and signed her out for adoption and the trusted midwife placed her in the care of a visiting American couple who couldn't have children before promptly retiring several years early. Eve was confounded at the thought that who she always thought were her parents, could have actually bought her all those years ago. Maybe that's why they never told her she was adopted out of the problems of the authorities finding out she had been illegally adopted. The flashing headlights and the harsh honking of an oncoming vehicle brought her quickly back into her current surroundings, unsure why the flashing vehicle didn't just move over when she suddenly realised she had drifted over onto the wrong side of the road, "SHIT" she screamed, swerving at the last minutes as a van rushed by her shaking the car. Feeling a little shaken she noticed a small little roadside café lit up in the near distance and decided it was time to take a quick break.

As she pulled into the parking lot, she noticed a small family group of a mother carrying a toddler and two girls being herded out of the restroom area by what looked like the father. Eve noticed the smallest figure seemed to be pulling back from the group as if in an effort to distance herself from the others, and looked over at Eve. Making eye contact with the little girl who seemed by her expression to be visually upset and scared. Eve was just about to speak to her as her Father shouted at the others "to get in the fucking car." He strode over towards the young girl and grabbed her by the arm and began to drag her over toward the car. Eve opened her mouth to speak when the man turned and gave her a look that said: don't even bother trying to get in to it with me, don't interfere. He reached the car and roughly shoved the girl inside, and drove away. Eve thought about calling the police but soon realised that she had no cell phone as she didn't have the money before she left to change it over to allow it to work in the UK. Getting out of the car she noticed the air was a lot fresher out here in the countryside and it was a lot quieter than she expected.

Walking into the café she was met with a smell of the most delicious food and coffee. At the counter she saw that there was only one other customer in there other than herself.

"What can I gettcha, chicken," said a small bubbly lady from behind the counter.

Turning, Eve looked at the smiling face and said, "Erm, do you have a public phone I can use I think I need to call the police."

The smile dropped on the lady's face and she looked over at the man sat in the booth. The man got to his feet and turned around and she saw that he was a policeman.

"What seems to be the problem young lady?" the officer looked at her with a condescending look as if to say stupid American got herself lost in the countryside. Not sure how to express what she had just seen as she hadn't actually seen the man harm the girl, it was just the look in the man's eyes told her something wasn't right.

"Erm well, I suppose I was just a little concerned about the man that has just left the restroom area, he seemed a little....little rough with his family and I was concerned for their wellbeing."

The police officer looked at the lady as she joyfully said, "Oh that was just Ted, Elaine Whittaker and the kids, was it the little girl throwing a fit again she's always at it. Been giving Ted and Elaine the run around since she arrived last month. Sullen little thing that she is."

The name Whittaker rang alarm bells in Eve's head, where had she heard that name before and then it came to her Whittaker was the solicitor's name who had contacted her just over a month ago and the reason why she had made this trip.

"Whittaker as in the lawyer from Whittaker and Cairns."

"Oh no, dearie, that's Thomas Whittaker his brother that's the lawyer in these parts," Shirley beamed.

Breathing a sigh of relief and turning back towards the officer, Eve said, "Well I just thought I would mention it as you never know sometimes, do you?"

The officer smiled and shook his head. "Around here we tend not to have any bother with private family matters like that, and we tend to keep ourselves to ourselves to avoid trouble if you get my meaning."

Nodding, Eve knew all too well that wasn't a statement but a warning, and realised it was the best idea to leave as soon, and as she politely, as she could. Turning towards Shirley she smiled and said, "Please could I get a coffee and one of those cheese sandwiches to take with me?"

Turning, Shirley picked up a large take out coffee cup and poured the hot steaming liquid into it, stopping three quarters the way up. "Do you take sugar and milk, chicken?"

"Milk with one sugar, please." She could still feel the officer watching her from just off to her right hand side. Determined not to turn, she watched Shirley picking up and wrapping a cheese sandwich and grabbing a huge chunk of chocolate cake, bagging it up and saying, "A little treat for you later just in case, my dear."

Eve was just about to decline, but knew that having that argument may delay her being able to leave and even though she had almost no money she thought what the hell, she would be rich in a few days anyway. Pulling her wallet out of her pocket, she looked up at Shirley. "How much do I owe you?"

"Not a bean, lovey, it's on me for being a Good Samaritan, most young people would have just carried on and not bothered."

Not sure how to react to this, she picked up the bag of food and the coffee, smiled and said, "Oh thank you, but I had better be on my way as its getting dark."

The officer moved forward and said, "Speaking of which, just where is it your heading to?"

A feeling of uneasiness spread over her but she knew better than to annoy a police officer, "Erm, I'm heading over to Eardunge Hall, believe it's not too far away now."

Shirley's face drained and the officer appeared to become annoyed. "What business could an American young lady like you have at Eardunge?" growled the officer.

Taken aback by his tone, Eve muttered, "Apparently I am the niece of the previous owner and I'm on my way to see about claiming my inheritance."

The officer looked at her, venomously growling, "I do believe then it is your time to leave here."

Looking at Shirley, she was just about to say nice to meet you and thanks for the food when Shirley, with eyes bulging, began to shriek, "Get out, get out, GET OUT NOW!"

Shocked by her reaction, Eve hurried from the building. Even though they both were watching her from the window, Eve knew she needed to visit the restroom before she went anywhere else, as her bladder was starting to show signs that it was getting uncomfortably full. The restroom was pleasantly clean and tidy and showed no sign of a struggle from the previous party. Breathing a sigh of relief she hurriedly went into the first stall as her bladder was now making it quite clear it wanted emptying. Closing the door, and pulling down her pants she sat on the toilet and began to pee. It was then she looked up at the door and saw what seemed to be crudely written in what could only be described as faeces was the phrase HELP US. Her stomach dropped. Was this message left by the unhappy girl and how could she have known that someone would see this in time to help. She hurriedly finished and washed her hands and left as quick as she could, getting into the car she pulled out of the parking lot and continued on her way following the welcoming tones of the Satnav.

Driving down the winding country lanes during dusk was a little harder than she had imagined at first, but she soon got into the rhythm of slowing slightly and turning without having to be reduced to a crawl. She wondered if this was the right decision to make due to the reactions of people when they heard were she was heading to, but since her parents' death and the escalating debts they left behind, she needed the inheritance to clear the debt and start afresh. She had no one left in America now, as soon as her parents died and the details of the money issues became public knowledge, everyone left like rats from a sinking ship. On the day of her parent's funeral she was the only person in church other than the priest. Coming around a particularly hard bend that seemed to take her almost 360 degrees back on herself, her lights shone onto the most horrific scene. Slamming on the brakes, she looked at the two figures in front of her, caught like rabbits in her headlights. At first she couldn't understand or make out what she was actually seeing as it seemed surreal, like something out of a horror film. Stood in the middle of the road was the little girl, her yellow sundress covered in dark patches that glistened wet and red in the headlights. The man had her by her long black hair, while she was pulling and screaming and pumping her little arms and legs to get away. It would of looked comical if the situation wasn't so life threatening. She was for some reason drawn, mesmerized, by how white his t-shirt looked compared the carnage around them. A sudden flash of silver in his hand drew attention to the fact that he had a machete raised above his head ready to strike the girl directly in her head. It was then that she saw three blood soaked bodies lying off to the right on the road. She could just make out what remained of the mother. The toddler, that she could now make out to be a blonde haired little boy of about 18 months, and a blonde haired girl of about seven. Realizing that he was also going to kill the little girl in front of her very eyes, she honked her horn startling him just enough to lose his grip on the struggling child. Turning with a look of vengeance and pure rage, he set off after the girl. Instinctively pushing her foot down on the accelerator she zoomed forward and hit him side on with a sickening thud.

Jumping out of the car she ran around to see him lying on his back on the road, whimpering in pain. Looking around she could not see any sign of the little girl, she seemed to have disappeared off into the woods that ran along that side of the road. She crouched down next to the shaking figure as he was whispering something to her. As she drew closer, he smiled at her and as the life went from his eyes he said, "Thank you I'm free, she is your problem now."

Standing up, wondering what the hell to do, she knew she had to go and check the family to see if they needed any medical help, but as soon as she drew nearer she realised it was most definitely past that point.

Running back to her vehicle, she jumped in and turned it so the lights shone towards the tree line, in the hopes to be able to see the little girl, as she couldn't leave her out here all on her own. Going back over to the trees she called out to the girl that it was safe and she could come out of hiding and it was all over now. But all she was met with was the sound of silence and shadows in the trees. Seeing the moon was part way up already, she realized that she couldn't stay there much longer. The Hall wasn't that much further away, and that there was someone already there waiting to meet her. She knew she shouldn't leave the scene but there was no other way to get help. She jumped into the car and sped off towards the Hall.

It didn't take that long for her to make the last few miles of the journey as she flew around the country lanes at high speed, almost losing the road a few times and bumping and scraping the paintwork of the car. She was glad she had opted for the extra insurance premium that covered any damage and she thought about the faces of the attendants and how mad they would be when they saw the damage of their brand new Cherokee.

The Satnav's voice informed her that her destination was coming on the right. She turned sharply and sped up over the gravel. Pulling up right outside the heavy oak doors she leapt from the car, and ran to the door. She didn't even bother knocking but went straight for the door handle and ran inside shouting, "HELLO! Is there anyone there? There's been an accident and we need to call the police!" Her voice echoed back to her from around the empty hall. She ran through the rooms and saw that the furniture was in various stages of either being uncovered or covered, calling out Mr Whittaker's name as she went. She came to a long corridor that had numerous oil paintings of the same two figures, a man and a girl with different people or family groups in each one. The paintings seemed to vary in age but the same two figures that were in each and every one without any variance in age.

These paintings stretched all the way down it and a light flickered from under the door at the end. Making her way down to the door she called out again for Mr Whittaker but to no avail. Reaching the door and pushing it open, she stepped inside into an Edwardian style room. At the opposite end there was a roaring fire, and a high backed chair was positioned with its back to the door. A movement in front of her gave the fact away that there was a person sat in the chair and a voice that made her blood chill filled her ears.

"Welcome home Evelyn, I'm Mr Cairns and you're ours now."

She didn't even stop to see what this person looked like, but turned on her heel and ran as fast as she could down the corridor and out of the building. Jumping into the Cherokee she threw it into gear and sped off, she didn't even make it down the driveway when a little laugh and a flash of yellow came from the passenger seat. How the hell could the little girl have been there as she would have come face to face with her as she got back in? Turning, she looked at the little girl and her face was deathly white and her eyes were black and lifeless. Turning back quickly, she just about had chance to see the stone pillar that held the wrought iron gates speeding towards her. She never had chance to react, as she was propelled through the windscreen. All she could hear was the sound of the little girl squealing with delight. She hit the road and rolled a few times, coming to a stop on her back looking towards the sky and the big sliver moon that was high up and almost full.

The little girl came to her side and Eve knew that this would be that last peaceful thing she ever saw. Feeling a hand grab her ankle, pain filled her body as the little girl began dragging her over the gravel back toward the house, skipping and singing as she went. She felt her body bump up the cold stone steps her head making a sick thud as it hit each one, and then coming to rest in the entrance hall. The little girl jumped on top and straddled her chest and peering down at her with those large black eyes and the now large black void that was her mouth. Barely holding on to consciousness, Eve saw another dark shape appear over her and a voice said, "Yes Evelyn, you're home now and going to make a very good mother to my little Brangwen, maybe just maybe we may make a little sister for her to play with." Then the dark fog slipped into her brain and that was the last thing Eve remembered. That and the sheer pain that came from the little girl bouncing up and down on her broken body squealing, "Play with me, mummy, play with me."

Hunted

By C. G. Coppola

He was born a werewolf in this life. He didn't know what she returned as.

But that was the good thing about possessing animal genetics—the tracking aspect. A crazed snout was better than a human nose, and that's what he would need to find the one soul placed as far from him on the earth as possible. Igor spent nearly half his adulthood narrowing down the search. Each full moon brought him closer and tonight, he was mere hours away.

The moon hung high, casting a white glow on the forest, making it easier to see. Not that he needed it; Igor sharpened his tracking skills years ago, when he was forced to flee from each town after a brutal night of slayings. As a boy, he'd been unable to keep himself from feeding on the local villagers. He'd wake up, covered in their blood and surrounded by the bodies of those he'd murdered. It was all part of the curse.

He was to know no happiness.

No escape.

Unless he could find her.

Eloise.

And he was closer than he'd ever been. Just a few miles away now, and he was moving fast. Igor forced himself to focus on her white glow through the maddening red. She was the only thing he could see, the only soul he could sense when he was in this state, lost to the crazed hunger driving him on. Other people might die, sure, but wasn't that his life? As long as he didn't hurt or kill her—Eloise—that's all that mattered.

After some time, Igor slowed to a stop and sniffed the air.

Blood.

Human blood.

His stomach rumbled at the familiar ache. He would have to feed soon. He wouldn't allow himself to get close to Eloise without—

Another scent drifted through the air. Something odd. Something cold.

A scent not entirely human.

Igor smelled it once before when he was in Romania, but that had been around a century ago, hadn't it? And he never found the source of the scent. Pressing one padded paw to the soil, Igor lifted his snout and sniffed again. Warm and cold blood. Just beyond the trees there. Perhaps some other animal's kill? Perfect. He would take the remainder as his own and feed, and then hunt down and kill the other beast as well. He had to keep up his strength if he was to find her. And she was so, so close that he could—

Pain.

Instant and intense.

Igor collapsed to the dirt, a million daggers slicing his skin. He let out a guttural howl and the torture returned, burning his neck and back like fires exploding in his thick black fur. And his leg—something was happening to his leg. He slashed and clawed but it did no good. He couldn't get to his assailant. It was too fast—too supernatural to pin down. There was nothing Igor could do but endure the pain, and when it did finally ebb, the werewolf popped open his eyes.

And glared at three women in hooded capes.

"Mm..." the one closest to him licked the red off her fingers. Black hair curled down over her shoulders, past a bodice revealing ample cleavage. "This one is tasty."

The second rounded on Igor, her eyes never leaving his. "I have not had werewolf since the 1700s," she leaned in with a pout, thick blonde locks falling forward. "And it was far too uncommon back then."

"Shall we save him?" The third suggested, her maroon eyes wide with excitement. Bright red hair fell from her head, shaping a nicely-formed chest like the other two. "It would be foolish to drink him all tonight."

Igor struggled to move. Looking back, he noticed an iron rod impaling his leg, fastening him to the ground.

"Good idea, Mary..." the first continued drawing blood off of her fingers in long delicate licks. "If I am not mistaken, werewolves are known to regenerate. The older ones, at least. We could keep him for a long while," her maroon eyes found him, "if we do this correctly."

Igor snapped.

The human in him was terrified. It was true—werewolves boasted regenerative powers which meant he could be kept alive for centuries or longer, being fed from. Being a living meal. He should have known that the cold blood he smelled were vampires.

The immortals circled him.

"Play nice now, little doggy," the blonde cooed.

"Or don't," the one with black hair ran her tongue over pointy white teeth. "I like when mine fight back."

Igor snarled.

"If we drain him too quickly he will weaken to his human form and then there is a very real possibility that we could kill him."

"I am willing to bet his life if you are," the blonde offered.

"But werewolf is so rare," Mary, the red-haired vampire dropped to her knees in front of him. Igor lunged forward, snapping.

He didn't even get close.

Fangs dug through his fur, piercing him in the jugular. Another set ripped into his chest and a third went to town on his shoulder. The vampires drank in large gulps, swallowing greedily, taking as much as they could. With each satisfied moan, Igor felt himself grow tired. Weak. They were going to drink him to death. They were going to kill him tonight; on the eve he was meant to find Eloise.

"Trackers," Mary withdrew, her eyes darting about, searching the woods for movement. "They grow closer. What shall we do, Bethany?"

The brunette ran her tongue over pointed teeth again. "If they are so eager to meet us, let them come out of the shadows."

"They will be brandishing weapons," the blonde moved out from behind Igor. "Perhaps it is unwise to attack when they are armed?"

"Nonsense," Bethany chuckled at the notion. "We are immortals. Not even the werewolf could kill us."

Igor lunged forward, snapping, but the vampire was too quick. On the opposite side in an instant, the un-dead stared at him, the corner of her mouth curving higher. Igor tried clawing at her again, but to no avail.

Something caught his eye—movement in the fauna.

He sniffed.

Humans.

Igor started to move when fangs dug into his neck again, fire exploding through his fur into the skin below. One had latched on, gulping greedily. The red haze faded into a cloudy clear. She was draining him. Right now, without any sign of stopping. If he didn't get the vampire off of him soon, he would die, never having found Eloise.

Driven by this thought, Igor whipped back, throwing his head into the immortal behind him. She shrieked and withdrew her fangs, giving the werewolf the opportunity he needed. Igor yanked the rod free. Pain rippled through him but he pushed forward, racing toward the humans. He'd lost a lot of blood and if he had any chance of fighting off the three immortals, he needed to recharge. And the fastest way was with human blood.

"Stop him!"

Igor couldn't believe his luck. He'd escaped them, dived into the fauna—

Something tackled him.

A woman screamed.

Igor lifted his head as a set of nails dug into his eyes. The werewolf yelped. Howled. Roared. The un-dead dug deeper, clawing and scratching. Cutting off his vision. Blinding him. He flung about, using his unnatural strength to throw off the vampire, but he couldn't.

"There they are!" Someone called.

"Now! Now!"

Igor heard the familiar cock of a gun. Then the explosion. Laughter rained around him and suddenly someone gasped. It was a gasp of surprise, of terror, of having no more voice. Then he smelled it. Blood. Lots of blood. The werewolf licked his lips, the urge to feed overwhelming all of his senses, even the one he lost. Railing back on the vampire, he spun and slashed at the body he found there. Claws extended, he blindly sunk them into the cold flesh and ripped them out again, clutching a squishy jelly-like organ.

The bitch's heart.

"No!"

Igor heard a mass plop to the ground but had no time to examine it. His snout told him something else was gunning for him, something cold and vicious—another vampire. Probably the brunette. Readying himself, Igor slashed at the lunging body, barely scraping it. The vampire hissed as another gun shot went off.

A woman swore and cocked the rifle again.

Fangs dug into Igor's side and he wailed out in protest. Whipping around, he snatched the cold weight off of him, throwing it into something nearby. A tree, by the sound of it. Another hard body landed on his back, a new set of fangs tearing into his fur.

Something whizzed past his ear.

"Contain the werewolf," Bethany hissed. "I will kill the trackers."

Igor struggled with the immortal on his back. He needed human blood. He needed it to hold off the two remaining vampires. And it was close. So close. There was a body nearby, a body covered in fresh, hot blood. He wanted it. He needed it. There was no way he could survive without it. It was now or never.

Reaching back, he snapped the vampire off of him and chomped down on the soft part between her head and shoulder. She tasted sour, like rotten meat, and he spit out the mouthful as quickly as he could. Then held his breath and did it again. This time, Igor tore straight through her throat, separating her head from her body. Dropping both, he felt them hit the ground as something whizzed past his ear again.

"Shit!" A shaky voice cried as the rifle was reloaded. "Shit—shit!"

"KEEP FIRING!"

"She's—"

The same heat flashed past Igor's head as a guttural scream sounded next to him. Igor heard the snapping of bones and the scent of human blood filled his snout.

Yes.

This is what he needed.

The last vampire was feeding, but Igor would claim the prize as his own. Once he killed the immortal, he only had humans left. And that was just what he needed. Food. Lots of food.

Running straight for the vampire, he blindly leapt through the air, tackling the cold woman to the ground. It must've been the darker-haired one—the leader of the trio. Certainly older than the other two, this one would be harder to kill. And being unable to see, Igor needed to—

The vampire collapsed.

"Good," a calm voice said. "Now the other one."

A bullet whizzed past his ear.

He couldn't tell how many humans there were; all the blood in the air mixed together, muddying their scents. But Igor was certain of at least two bodies, ripe and fresh for the feeding. Heat flashed past his side again, nearly searing it.

It was time to end this.

Igor took one step when something cut into him. He fell to the dirt. For a minute he couldn't breathe. Then he felt the fire. Worse than the vampires, this was a new kind of pain, an agony that scraped all his nerves raw, exposing and igniting them all at once. Igor was certain he would die. After all this time. After getting so close.

This is where it would end.

Fresh blood drifted closer.

"He's immobilized, but alive." A male voice said. Igor struggled to snap, to lunge, to feed, but he couldn't. He couldn't move an inch of his body. A moment passed. "They certainly got into a scrape—I can tell you that."

"We've never happened upon a werewolf," a female added.

"I know," the man withdrew, arrogance in his tone. "Our lucky day."

"We came out to capture a vampire and we've bagged ourselves a moon-howler! What do you think the others will—"

"We won't be telling the others."

The woman stopped. "We won't? Why not?"

"This guy," the male leaned in again, driving Igor insane with the scent of his blood, "we're going to sell this guy."

"Sell?"

"We were hired to catch a vampire. And we did. Anything else is ours to do with as we want, and werewolf blood," he stroked Igor's rugged coat, "is extremely valuable. Yeah, we're going to get a lot of money for this guy."

Igor struggled to move, struggled to do anything to defend himself, but he couldn't. Whatever they shocked him with was strong. Impossibly strong. And probably crafted from the blood of another supernatural.

"It's a shame," the woman said after a moment.

"What is?"  
"Eloise wasn't in our group. You know she became a tracker because she wanted to find one. A werewolf. She's been talking about finding one for years."

"And she will. But this one's ours." The man shifted behind Igor. He slid his arms beneath the werewolf's and hoisted his upper half off of the ground. "Now grab his feet. We need to get him out of here before anyone sees him."

The woman did as she was told.

And they were off.

Moonlight Express

By C. L. Hernandez

At the end of a long, hot day in late September, a raggedy man tromped across a wide green meadow. The full moon, wearing a hazy corona of mist, was just starting to peer over the horizon like a slowly inflating yellow balloon. Crickets tuned their fiddles in the tall grass.

If green had a smell, this would be it, Earl thought as he paused for a rest.

He closed his eyes, trying out the theory that being deprived of one sense makes the others stronger. The effects of the cheap red wine he had consumed earlier had not worn off yet, so his jumbled thoughts cracked him up quite a bit. Sure enough, when he drew in a deep breath of the cool mountain air, it smelled greener than ever.

He opened his eyes again, noting that the light from the rising moon tinted the trees and grasses in shades of gray. Odd how that happened. Bloated rain clouds dragged their bellies across the sky, and a breeze perked up, reminding Earl that he would be wise to find shelter from the storm that was on its way.

He resumed his trek along the old railroad tracks. He had five dollars in one pocket, the half-full wine bottle in the other, and one last remaining family member: his sister, Loretta. She didn't know he was on his way to beg her for a place to stay, but he would explain everything once he got there. He didn't even want to think about it now.

Earl had been following this decrepit set of old tracks since noon, when the freight train he'd hitched some two hundred miles back had finally pulled into its last stop. Loretta's house was somewhere in Greensburgh, a small town about ten miles from here. He wasn't sure of the exact address, but it was a small town; someone was bound to know where she lived.

After another twenty minutes or so of steady walking, a low stone wall seemed to rise out of the ground to his right. Moss crept up one side of it, exuding an odd sort of coolness. Bleached by hectic moonlight, the exposed stones looked like tiny white skulls. The grass and weeds growing up in the middle of the tracks were thicker here. Trees wearing mossy overcoats leaned over the tracks on either side, as if they wanted a closer look at this shabby man who walked by himself.

The tracks disappeared into a round, black hole. Earl frowned, momentarily confused, then laughed at his own folly. It was a train tunnel, long-unused and full blissful coolness.

A perfect place to lay up for the night, he thought, and he stepped inside its gaping, mossy throat.

Comforting darkness folded itself around him, and he sat down on the damp ground. He had tucked a half-smoked cigarette inside one of his shirt pockets earlier, and he dug around for it while he waited for his breathing to catch up. He'd been getting short of breath lately; he supposed he should cut back on the smokes.

The temperature of the tunnel, cool to begin with, took a sudden dip. Earl rubbed his hands over the goose bumps on his arms. With the cigarette butt clamped between his teeth, he unzipped his back pack, found his threadbare flannel shirt, and draped it over his shoulders.

A rustling sound, like something burrowing through dried leaves, came from farther back in the tunnel. The silver-gray moonlight didn't quite reach back there, and Earl squinted into the darkness, trying to locate the source of the noise.

A mouse, probably, he thought. Some sort of little critter—

"You too, huh?" A voice, dry and raspy, echoed through the tunnel.

The last thing Earl expected to hear was the sound of another voice. He dropped his cigarette and his heart shot up into his throat. "Who's that?" he called out in alarm. "Who's in here?"

"Take it easy," the calm male voice soothed. "Don't get your panties in a bunch. I'm just another old derelict like yourself. Train'll be here soon. Best move closer to the wall, or it'll run right over you."

Earl coughed out relieved laughter as he patted the ground with both hands in search of his cigarette. "Train? Buddy, I think you're a little soft in the head," he replied. "Ain't been a train through this here tunnel in years, by the looks of things."

"Oh, it'll be along shortly," the disembodied voice went on. "You'll see. It's gonna take us to places we've only seen in our dreams.

"That's liquor," Earl said. "Liquor does that." He lit his smoke, straining to see his companion in the dim circle of light thrown by his lighter.

The other man sat upright, his back against the stone wall of the tunnel. A dark knit cap was pulled down low over his eyes. He appeared to be quite thin. He didn't move at all.

Earl took a deep drag off his cigarette, and blew out smoke that he couldn't see in the darkness of the tunnel. "Hey buddy, you want a drag off this?" he asked, hoping the man would decline. It was his last bit of tobacco, and he probably wouldn't have any more until he got to Loretta's place. Still, it was the unspoken law of the road that you shared what you had with other down-on-their-luck souls.

"Tobacco will kill you," said the other man.

"Maybe so, but not today," Earl said, and he took another deep drag.

The glow from the cigarette's ember intensified, casting an eerie orange light over the walls of the tunnel, and the stranger sitting across from him. The man sat motionless, chin to chest.

Outside, the moon played peek-a-boo with the clouds. Approaching rain added sweetness to the breeze.

Earl moved closer to the mouth of the tunnel. Something wasn't quite right about this guy who shared this dank hideaway with him. He made him nervous for some reason. He was most likely just drunk, but Earl wanted to be close to the entrance in case he had to run. He hoped he didn't have to; his heart was flip-flopping in his chest, and his breathing still hadn't evened out. He wasn't even sure if he could run.

More rustling sounds came from the blackest part of the tunnel, like someone was back there crumpling up a newspaper. Earl tensed, ready to bolt if he had to. A curtain of clouds closed over the moon, and now he couldn't see what might be coming towards him. The breeze picked up and tossed the first raindrops into his face.

"Where ya headed, stranger?"

Another voice, sounding even rougher than the first, asked the question from just over Earl's right shoulder. His body reacted with a start. A sound somewhere between a gasp and a cry of alarm squeezed out of his throat. He fumbled his lighter out of his pocket, nearly dropping it, and flicked the thumb wheel.

A second man sat with his back against the tunnel wall now. He looked even more raggedy and road-worn than the first. A battered cowboy hat shadowed most of his face, but Earl could just make out a long, unkempt gray beard. Where had he come from? Had he been sitting there all along?

"What's the matter?" the bearded man asked. "Cat got your tongue?"

Earl's chest tightened painfully. The lighter grew too hot under his thumb. He tucked it back into his pocket and cleared his throat. "No," he said. "I just...I just didn't see you sitting there, that's all. I'm heading to my sister's place in Greensburgh. Wife threw me out. Got tired of my drinking, I guess."

Earl stopped short of introducing himself. The feeling of unease grew stronger; he didn't want to talk to these two any more than he had to. There was an odd smell in the tunnel now, an odor that rose above the scent of dampness and mold. He smelled old cigarette smoke, and unwashed armpits, and another, ranker stench that he couldn't quite identify.

The rain came down in earnest now; Earl could hear it pattering against the leaves and grass outside. He hoped it was just a passing shower. As soon as it let up, he was going to get the hell out of here and find somewhere else to spend the night.

Cowboy Hat made a dry, hacking sound that passed for a chuckle. "That's a wife for ya," he said. "I don't think you're going to make it to Greensburgh, though. This train don't go there."

Again with the damn train! Couldn't these two hobos see that this tunnel and the set of tracks passing through it hadn't been used in years? "I'm on foot," Earl said. "And there ain't no train passing through here anytime soon, brother."

"Oh, it'll be along soon, you'll see," Cowboy Hat said.

"That's what I tried to tell him," the man in the knit cap said. "He didn't believe me, neither."

They're on drugs, Earl thought. Heroin, maybe. They're hallucinating or something. That has to be it. Ain't no train comin' through here anytime soon.

They were most likely harmless, these two druggies in the tunnel, but Earl still wanted out of here. He hated not being able to see them clearly. It just added to the creeping unease he was feeling. He wished for another cigarette and didn't reply.

"Been waitin' for that train for a while now," Knit Cap said. "It'll be nice to see my mom and dad again."

"I'm goin' to see my parents too," Cowboy Hat said. "And my little brother. Man, I've missed that kid."

Earl wanted to say something about parents, to mention that his were dead and he missed them dearly, but the tightness in his chest increased. It was suddenly too painful to talk. Involuntarily, his hands flew to the left side of his chest.

What the hell? Heart attack? Earl tucked himself into a ball and eased himself down onto the damp ground, grunting and holding his chest. He could hear Cowboy Hat and Knit Cap chatting with each other as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Couldn't they see he was in trouble?

"Help..."

He managed the single word, then felt his body go limp. His hands dropped away from his heart. The edges of his vision grayed and wavered, but he was still able to see the moon, huge, full, and almost blindingly white as it burst through the clouds. With the last of his strength, he turned his face away. He'd never seen the moon so bright before.

"Take it easy, friend," he heard Cowboy Hat say. "Here she comes. Train's a-comin'."

There ain't no train! Had he said it, or had it been just a thought in his head? The tightness in his chest loosened; the pain dissolved. A lightness overtook him, a feeling of weightlessness.

And then Earl turned his head and saw that there was a train, and it was coming up the tracks towards the tunnel. The brilliant white light wasn't from the moon at all, but the engine's headlamp.

It made no noise. It slid over the tracks like oiled silk. Extravagant plumes of smoke rose from its chimney and seemed to blend with the retreating clouds in the sky. The train looked as it was made from moonlight. The leaning trees and the crumbling stone wall showed faintly through its speeding form.

The headlamp illuminated the entrance to the tunnel now. The unveiled moon peered over the locomotive's smokestack.

Earl could see his mysterious companions clearly at last, standing next to him now. Cowboy Hat's grizzled beard clung like Spanish moss on the stark white of his exposed jawbone. His eyes were gone. His shrunken lips peeled back in a toothy grin. One skeletal hand still clutched a hypodermic needle. Earl didn't have the strength to cry out.

The rips in Knit Cap's flannel shirt showed glimpses of his bare rib cage. "Here she comes," he said. "Get ready."

"The dead don't talk," whispered Earl. "They just don't."

"We'll take care of you," Cowboy Hat said.

The cold bone of the dead man's fingers curled gently around Earl's arm and coaxed him into a standing position. "We been waitin' for her a long time. Come on now, on your feet. She'll be slowin' down for us."

Sparks like silver glitter shot from beneath the driving wheels as the ghostly train glided to a stop just inside the tunnel.

Earl let the other two men guide him aboard. He was surprised at how easy it was to breathe now. In fact, it didn't even feel like he was breathing at all.

When the train cleared the tunnel on the other side, the locomotive rose into the rain-freshened fall air. Moonlight pierced through its diaphanous sides. The clouds closed over it, absorbed it

And then there was only the moon.

The Shimmer and the Abyss

By Toneye Eyenot

This road wasn't always here – or perhaps it was? Either by the seeming conspicuousness of day or by the succor of the moonlit sky, this road has been trod by some, whilst others have missed its path altogether. It is what lies within the hearts of those who may chance upon this vicinity which determines its very existence at any given time. For those unsullied of heart, an attractive yet entirely mundane, tree-lined thoroughfare lies ahead. Those who carry the guilt of transgression, however, find they have stumbled into the path of pure malevolence and may never reach their intended destination, sound of mind and undamaged of soul; that is, if they are to ever find their way from this road altogether at all. It is within these trees where the purveyors of duplicity orchestrate this elaborate chimera.

Though many have traversed this path without hindrance or misadventure, for the purposes of this story, we shall bring our attention to Malcolm Turnpike; one who falls heavily into the latter category. Although innocent of the murder for which he is now oblivious to pursuit, Turnpike is by no means virtuous. A victim of his own sordid dealings, acts of selfishness, violence and greed, Malcolm Turnpike has been cast into the abyss of his own making. Betrayed by his former peers masquerading as friends and loyal followers, Malcolm had awoken beside the corpse of a young fellow, brought to his occult gathering of debauchery the previous night.

It had all been a haze of chaos, induced by the hallucinogenic brew in which he and the presently dead man partook. Its effects now long worn off, Malcolm recalls the proceedings of the treacherous night in patchy detail. The vision of his most favored paramour, the ravishing Gloria Speakle, gyrating in all her naked splendor before his mind's eye, lowering herself onto the prone lad stretched and subdued on the warehouse floor and bringing him to his final, fatal orgasm, makes Malcolm shudder with a regret and melancholy so deep, his very soul threatens to devour him.

Malcolm is lost, even though he meanders not too far from familiar haunts. He is lost, both in his way and in his being. He wanders aimlessly, entirely unaware of the motives and machinations perpetrated by Jesse Vaughn and Barry Parker; his – what he thought to be – protégés, and as close to friends as Malcolm had allowed into his life. Now he is an unwitting fugitive from the law. Unbeknownst to him, the murder of Destre Norman had been set up to unequivocally implicate Malcolm directly as the killer. Adrift in the pondering vision of Gloria, Malcolm sets foot onto the road which will lead him into the darkest recesses of his tormented soul.

No sooner has he taken his first step upon this illusive road, a realization batters his ruminating mind. The deep, gashing wound in his hand throbs with agonizing abandon; a wound he has not an inkling of how it was procured. He recalls the very moment when Gloria leapt from the ecstatic Destre at the culmination of his release. Whilst in the throes of passion, what happened next was the last thing Malcolm saw before all became darkness.

It was Barry, standing above the lad and brandishing the sacrificial dagger which they had, until this instance, only used in mock offerings. Malcolm witnessed once again, by means of vivid recollection, Barry dropping at the head of Destre Norman and plunging the blade deep into the unsuspecting fellow's chest.

*

Imps flurry amidst the thicket, peering excitedly from behind branches, licking their thin, sulphurous lips with the anticipation this wanderer's inner turmoil brings. He is one for their mischievous and malign manoeuvrings; a perfect candidate for their ignoble ploys. They sense an arcane air about him; a dabbler they see. They love his kind, easily manipulated and corrupted by the fear these creatures so relish in dispensing. Malcolm's eclectic immersion in occult practices, while serving his desires well in his former life, will now serve only to bring him grief.

Millic, a particularly bold imp, ventures clandestinely from the cover of the trees, creeping slowly up behind the distressed Malcolm. In its small, gnarled claw it carries a blade of tempered obsidian. The razor keen edge peppered with a mind-altering agent acquired from the desiccated remains of a native creature from its own realm, Millic endeavors to strike at Malcolm's calf. Malcolm hears Millic's approach yet when he turns to investigate the sound, the imp is nowhere to be seen. In that instant, the malevolent host of elusive beings cross his path on the road ahead, vanishing into the opposing tree line and bringing with them the remaining light of day.

A great confusion settles over Malcolm, turning back to face the way ahead and marveling in shock at the foreboding night which meets his gaze. Certain that the day is still young, he turns his head to the sky to see the dark crimson orb of the Blood Moon, confirming in no uncertain manner that night was surely now upon him. This sudden shift leaves him disoriented and fearful. He peers forth into the darkness with nervous eyes, unaccustomed to the ambience they perceive. The ground disappears several feet in front of him, producing a shimmer not unlike the mirage cast on the horizon of a hot summer road. It is now that Millic seizes the opportunity, continuing his advance in stealth and looming shadow, to swipe the poisoned keen of the blade across the exposed flesh of Malcolm's lower leg.

With a scream of surprise, Malcolm falls to one knee, frantically grasping the burning area inches above his ankle and throwing his gaze hither and thither, eyes wide and wild with fright. Once again, the assailing imp is nowhere to be seen. Millic has joined his dastardly brethren in the cover of the now spitefully whispering trees. Voices of indecipherable speech reach out towards Malcolm, only to retract mockingly at each turn of his head. The shimmer in the road advances swiftly upon him and Malcolm falls forward onto his elbows, covering his face with his hands and whimpering as he cowers in terror.

The shimmer passes over, around and through him, turning his innards icy cold, and a voice comes to him as though through a tunnel suspended in the passage of time and space. Not only does the sound assault his hearing, but also resonates violently in his bones. It is the unmistakable voice of Gloria Speakle. Her words make no sense to Malcolm as she petitions him for a response. He is loath to remove his hands for fear of what his eyes might witness before him as he struggles to gain understanding of what he is now being subjected to.

In the trees, the imps watch on with gleeful interest. Millic has set in motion the pantomime to which they will now seek their unequivocal enjoyment. They tap their hands together lightly like a macabre theatre audience as Gloria admonishes her former lover, kneeling prone before her spectral figure. They chatter excitedly amongst themselves, pointing at Malcolm intermittently before resuming their almost polite applause. Malcolm can hear them, both Gloria and their mysterious spectators, but still refusing to uncover his eyes, he can only speculate in vain at the source of his torment.

The burning in his leg eases to an almost soothing sensation which spreads slowly until it encompasses his entire body with a light buzzing. He feels suddenly buoyant and weightless as the voice of Gloria comes at him in staccato waves, broken up into chaotic syllables by the clapping of impish hands in the surrounding gloom. With this buoyancy comes a spark of confidence; an almost imperceptible hint of courage. His Gloria; once most faithful of all the women in Malcolm's former circle, is now before him, appealing to him on some baffling level to pay her heed. Perhaps she is his salvation from this hellish situation?

Malcolm looks up from his cowering pose to see just as he had hoped; Gloria looks down at him, every bit as naked as in the last moments his eyes had rested upon her desirable form. She still speaks to him as she holds out a hand in a gesture of helping him to his feet, but although she speaks words as clear to Malcolm as any he had heard before, their meaning is completely lost on him. Shame engulfs him; humiliation at his treatment of her above all of the women who had languished shamelessly at his feet. Gloria gave herself to him in her entirety when he had been in the prime of his power and influence and Malcolm had taken her devotion for granted, just as he had done with even the least desirable of his followers – both male and female. Her betrayal had come, entirely justified and without guilt or blame upon herself.

He hesitates momentarily and then reaches for Gloria's outstretched hand. She smiles warmly but her grip is like ice, and tight to the point of extreme pain. His hand throbs excruciatingly in hers; the wound in his palm still fresh. Blood begins to seep at first, running in rivulets towards his elbow. As he looks in horror at his reddening arm, the flow becomes a gush, running down his forearm and pouring from his elbow to the road. Malcolm returns his stupefied gaze from his blood-soaked arm to Gloria. Her smile now gone, replaced with a grimace as though she were exerting every bit of her strength to squeeze the life from him via his crippled hand.

Malcolm attempts to rise to his feet but Gloria simply increases her grip, evoking an irresistible downward pressure which keeps him on his knees. A fierce storm brews behind her eyes and Malcolm once again cowers in fear at her feet; the blood continuing to flow at an alarming rate until he finds himself kneeling unceremoniously in an increasing pool of the sticky, warm fluid. All the while, the imps in the trees watch on in ecstatic glee, the rhythmic pat-pat patter of their applauding hands beating Malcolm around his head like numerous whips of bamboo. And just as suddenly as it began, all falls deathly silent, the pressure around his hand vanishes, leaving it to drop limply to the road with a painful thud. He stumbles forward onto his elbows, his arm as useless and flaccid as a sodden towel, then continues his descent until his face meets the road, rolling him weakly onto his back. The imps can hardly contain themselves with the entertainment presented to them. Their clapping increases in volume and vigor, with even a few croaking cheers emanating from the trees.

As Malcolm lies there, bewildered and terrified, figures dart about in the surrounding gloom, just outside of his line of vision no matter which way he turns his head. Like a troupe of stealthy stagehands preparing for the next scene they scamper this way and that. Malcolm begins to feel like the leading actor in his own pantomime, a role he indeed now finds himself in. His hand still throbs painfully, iced to the bone, yet the copious torrent of blood he had wallowed in is no longer there; the wound in his palm agonizing but closed and scabbed over. Tears seep from the corners of his eyes and a sob escapes his throat, followed by a wail of anguish. He feels his mind taking leave and struggles to maintain his sanity.

The host of imps take this opportunity to once again cross the road to the trees they had occupied when Malcolm had stumbled onto their road. With them, they pull away the blanket of night and Malcolm is blinded by the intensity of early afternoon sun. His eyes squeezed shut, a shadow is cast above him, relaxing the solar onslaught against his eyelids. He opens his eyes warily to find himself in the midst of the mysterious shimmer he had first witnessed when all had become mysteriously dark. The shadow above him is the silhouette of a man but the brightness behind him leaves his features indiscernible. It isn't until Malcolm sees what the man holds aloft that the panic engulfs, screaming from his every pore. The man standing over him is none other than Barry Vaughn and what he holds brings back the memory of the last thing he saw before being knocked unconscious.

Malcolm now finds himself on hardwood floor; no roof, no walls, just the imposing figure of Barry standing at his head, hands raised high and clutching the sacrificial dagger. The sun beats down from behind and Malcolm feels both horrified by his vision yet strangely aroused as the warmth of the sun fills his body. He is Destre Norman. He is the unwitting victim of sacrifice, laying prone and ready to receive his comeuppance for all of his transgressions. An inaudible scream forms in his throat and his eyes widen with shock as the figure of Barry Vaughn descends in slow motion. Paralyzed, he can only watch helplessly for what seems an eternity as the point of the blade advances ever closer.

The tension and anticipation emanating from the trees is palpable as the imps hold their breath collectively. Here is the culmination of their sadistic efforts; the moment where Malcolm Turnpike's mind finally snaps. The shimmer fills the entire road, giving the whole scene a nightmare quality; one from which their distraught plaything shall never wake. Malcolm's scream finds purchase but it escapes his mouth instead in peals of psychotic laughter. This is too much for his feeble mind to bear any longer; Malcolm Turnpike welcomes death as it draws ever so slowly nearer. The sun's warmth radiates through him and Malcolm feels the onset of orgasm as the tip of the dagger breaks slowly through layer after layer of skin. The agony is exquisite - the ecstasy even more so. Malcolm feels every iota of the penetration as the dagger seeks to enter his heart. Every moment dissected into all-consuming fragments of impeded time. All becomes dark once more.

When he comes to his senses – or what little is left of them – Malcolm opens his eyes to find himself face down on grass. His hands are bound behind his back by unforgiving steel and chaos surrounds him on all sides. The weight of two people keep him pinned and jumbled words assault his ears; angry, disgusted words which, just like with Gloria, hold no meaning to him. He is roughly hoisted up onto his feet by cruel hands and Malcolm sees the naked corpse of Destre Norman laying only a few feet away. Malcolm begins to chuckle at the absurdity of all that has transpired. More angry, indecipherable words fill his ears and he is dragged away as his little chuckle degenerates into uncontrollable, maniacal laughter.

Good Intentions

By D. J. Doyle

"Boo!"

"Ahh! Stop. Stop joking around," Jennifer said to her jesting boyfriend, Aron.

Jennifer dropped a screwdriver from her hand.

"You're going to give me a heart-attack one of these days. You'll be sorry then."

"You know I'm only kidding. I can't help it. It's just too easy," he laughed.

"Yes, but I'm up this step-ladder trying to fix this curtain pole. If you were any good at DIY, it would be you doing this...being the man!"

"No need to insult my manhood."

"I'll be doing more than that to your manhood if you keep it up," she giggled.

Jennifer stepped down whilst holding onto Aron's shoulders, who could have reached up and tightened the loose screw without any effort. Aron couldn't even change a light bulb. He grew up pampered and pandered to, their servants did everything. That was before the market crash four years ago, when the family lost everything. Aron's father was found, in his favourite car, with a gun in his hand and brains splattered everywhere.

A good education allowed him to get a well-paid job. Jennifer's background couldn't have been more than different. She was a grafter and had her first job in a laundrette at the tender age of twelve. Then worked in a supermarket at the weekend while she attended college. They met in a local coffee shop. Aron 'accidentally' picked up her coffee, but it was all a ploy to talk to the woman he found attractive. They had been dating for five years and had their ups and downs yet they always pulled through.

"You need to stop doing DIY and housework. It's time to get ready. We have to check into the hotel and we have a table booked for 8 o'clock, that's in four hours. Susan and Rick will be here in thirty minutes. So get a move on."

"Where are we going again?" she asked as she opened her wardrobe door. Jennifer browsed through her dresses and inspected her line of shoes down below, trying to pick the best match.

"The Fort Lodge Hotel. It's in the middle of nowhere," Aron replied.

"Never heard of the place. Right, I'm going for a shower and will put my face on."

*

Rick pulled up and parked their car outside and he smiled at Susan. Her vibrant red hair flowed like silk and suited the emerald green dress she wore. He wondered what she saw in him, but in the end it was his confidence and sense of humour that had won her over. His large Jewish nose had been the butt of many jokes growing up, so he worked on his charm to talk to the ladies. They walked up the drive to the porch and Susan rang the doorbell.

"Do you think she has an inkling?" whispered Rick.

"No, not a clue. I talked to her yesterday, she has no idea."

The door opened and Aron stood there with a big grin.

"Hey, guys. Come in. Jennifer is nearly ready. She's dressed, makeup on. Just doing her hair now. I have a bottle open. I hope red is okay."

"Sure, Aron. I'm thirsty as hell," said Rick.

Aron poured out four glasses. Jennifer came down the stairs in the blue dress Aron adored. She tossed her long brown hair over her shoulder, slipping the black leather bag on; the last thing that remained of her grandmother.

"Wow, you look amazing, Jennifer," said Susan.

"You do, too, look at you in that dress. And Rick, very handsome in a shirt and tie."

"Hey, what about me? Do I look good?"

"Of course you do, honey," she said and kissed him on the cheek.

They chatted for a few minutes, discussing their hopes of what might be on the menu tonight and the luxury they would experience for their romantic weekend.

The cab turned up outside and they heard the impatient driver bang on the horn. All four finished the remainder of their wine in one go.

"Tonight is going to be great," Aron said.

*

"Everyone buckled in?" asked the driver. Many clicks were heard from the back. "Fort Lodge Hotel it is. I'll be doing the back roads as it's quicker from here," he said and slid the safety hatch shut.

Excitement filled the air, Jennifer hadn't been away in quite a while. They struggled with the first year mortgage payments, so needed a short break. They were finally back on their feet. The girls talked about the latest dish Susan had tried from her favourite cooking show, while the boys laughed at the Trump and Clinton memes going around their office.

Jennifer stared out the window. They had turned off the main road and were on a long, windy country road, only lit by the full moon. Tall trees stood on both sides of the road. Some were so overgrown, the long branches curved over and the leaves brushed against the top of the car. Jennifer found the sound quite soothing. She spotted some movement in the bushes and was convinced a head had popped up. That's odd, she thought.

"Where is this road? I've never been here before. It's so creepy," said Susan.

"There used to be an old asylum near here. It closed down over twenty years ago, I think," Aron said.

The headlights on the car were not strong enough to see further than a hundred yards ahead.

"There's something in the road up ahead," said the driver.

They were unable to hear him so Rick instructed him to open the hatch.

"I said...there is something in the road up ahead. I can't see what it is. It's blocking the whole road."

As the car got closer, they could see a large fallen branch. A mist began to flow through the trees like a river and gathered all around them.

"I'll get out and have a look. See if it is not too heavy to lift and move out of the way," the driver said.

His door creaked loudly as he opened it. Rustling noises came from the beyond the trees, however, he could not see anything moving. He ducked back into the car to grab a flashlight and walked over to the obstruction in the road. The driver shoved the branch with his leg, to test it. It shifted about a foot. Maybe they could move it after all and beckoned Aron to help him.

Aron slide out of the back seat, leaving the door ajar and followed the light that shone directly in his eyes. He could not see a thing so raised his hand to block the rays.

"What's that noise?" Jennifer asked. "It sounds like someone is moaning."

As the driver waited for Aron, the others in the car saw them coming. All they could see were silhouettes of people. Creeping forward with their arms stretched out

"Who are they? What are they doing?" asked Jennifer.

They lurked towards the inattentive driver and reached out. Jennifer and Susan yelled at him to turn around.

"Watch out. They're behind you!"

Rick struggled to get out of the car as his shaky hands tugged at the door handle. He shouted to warn them.

Five zombies mauled the driver and dragged him to the ground with more lunging on top. They heard a shriek of pain with blood spraying out of the heap. Bits of flesh and intestines propelled into the air. The women screamed.

Aron stood frozen, facing the empty space where the driver had stood. Jennifer hollered for him to come back. Tears welled up in her eyes and trickled down her cheek.

"What the fuck is going on?" Susan said.

"I think they're...zom...zombies," replied Jennifer.

"Don't be silly, zombies aren't real," quipped Rick. "C'mon, Aron."

"What the fuck do you call them then?" Jennifer bellowed.

"They're probably escaped lunatics from the asylum I told you about."

"That closed down years ago. That's what you said, remember?"

"Well, maybe I was wrong."

More zombies came from the bushes. They headed straight for Aron, grunting and moaning. Aron turned to run though it was too late. They hauled him down to the ground and lugged him over to the side of the road as they fought to get their pound of flesh. His body disappeared under the mass of zombies.

Jennifer bawled, unable to breathe. She gasped for air.

"Rick, get back in the car and shut the doors. Don't make any noises," instructed Susan. "I've seen enough zombie movies to know they're attracted to sound and light. We need to get out of here fast." Susan's heart pumped with adrenalin and knew Jennifer was in no state to think straight, she needed to keep control of her emotions and take command.

Rick climbed into the front to make their getaway, instead, an alarm invaded the night stillness. Sweat seeped down his forehead into his eyebrows. Fuck, what have I done? The noise rang through their ears, and the zombies perked their heads up to listen. More came from the trees on either side, all heading for the car.

"Turn it off," Susan shouted. "Fucking turn it off, now."

Rick fiddled with the dials and buttons, all the lights came on inside the car and they could barely see outside anymore. He finally switched the alarm off, then he turned off the lights. Susan gasped, Jennifer screeched. The car was now surrounded by zombies.

They saw faces covered in blood, old and new, with rotting flesh exposed. Their clothes were tattered, and their black and brown teeth covered in blood made Jennifer gag. Susan jumped up in her seat as they clawed at the windows. Jennifer became enraged. "Bastards!"

"How are we going to get out of this?" whimpered Rick.

They did not respond, the two women didn't know what to say.

The car rocked back and forth as the zombies desperately tried to get at the people inside. Rick roared at them to get away, but that fell on dead ears. The windscreen started to shatter as a zombie pounded on it. It was the driver.

"They will eventually get in. What are we going to do? I don't want to die like this," said Susan.

"I'm getting us the hell out of here," Rick said and tried starting the car.

The door opened beside him and he was yanked out.

"Help me. Help," he begged, then it went quiet. Susan reached over and slammed the door shut.

The trunk door clicked and started to open. Zombies poured into the back of the car and reached for Jennifer and Susan.

"Those fuckers are not getting me," Jennifer stated.

She searched for something to defend herself with. Nothing. She checked through her bag in case she had her pepper spray. She didn't, not that the spray would affect them. Rummaging some more, Jennifer found a screwdriver and remembered that she'd had her bag on the floor when Aron frightened her earlier on. It must have dropped right in. Jennifer aimed for the three zombies with their arms reaching through the headrests on the back seats. In the corner of her eye, she saw Aron approaching the car. Covered in blood, he did not look like the Aron she knew, not the Aron she fell in love with. He's a zombie now. She noticed Aron holding something in his hand.

Jennifer lashed out and stabbed each of the three closest zombies in the crown of the head. She heard a crunch from the bone cracking with the force. Blood squirted, like a pulse, all over Jennifer. She did not expect that from 'the dead'.

Horrified silence spread across the crowd of zombies. One lifted her hands to her face and screamed at the top of her voice. They backed away in terror. Jennifer glared at the blood on her hands and body. She stared at Aron coming her way. He held a small opened box in his hands. A diamond ring sparkled under the moonlight.

As they grabbed the driver, they ripped his shirt and trousers and squirted fake blood. They covered his face with grey and brown putty to make it look messy and threw fake flesh into the air above them.

Aron lay on the ground while they made a mess of his face and clothes with more putty and fake blood.

Rick was gagged and dragged away before being let in on the plan. He giggled when he spied on Susan and Jennifer, so frightened on their own.

Aron took the ring from his pocket and took a deep breath. This is the moment that would change their lives forever.

He trembled at the sight of the slaughter.

"Jennifer, it was all a joke. I was going to ask you to marry me."

Dragon's Song

By M. L. Sparrow

It was the dragon's song that woke her. Their harsh, echoing chorus calling her from the dream world, where she had been lost in the woods, alone and scared. Peeling open her eyes, she peered up at the leathery canopy above her, the morning sun shining through making the veins stand out in stark relief. Stretching out her arms, she stood and immediately the wings wrapped around her began to unfurl.

Lifting her face to the cool wind, she breathed in the thin mountain air, pulling her wolf-skin more securely around her body as she surveyed the awe inspiring vista spread out at her feet. Perched upon the peak of Dragon Mountain, so named for the dragons that called the treacherous, snow-capped mountain home, she could see the entire kingdom of Zeron.

Patchwork fields of green spread out as far as the eye could see, heading towards the sea in the West and bordering kingdoms in the North, South and East. In the middle of the rolling hills, nestled the King's Castle, the dark imposing structures out of place in a kingdom otherwise populated by small farming communities, which looked like nothing but specks on a painting from up high, unobtrusive and inconsequential.

A low rumble interrupted her observations and a colossal head swung around, golden eyes staring into her own. Running her hand along his muscular, scaled neck, she rubbed her face against his by way of greeting, mimicking the growling purr that came from his throat. Morning pleasantries exchanged, Bray rose to his feet, surprisingly graceful for a creature the size of a small house. He hadn't even finished growing yet; it was said that the oldest dragon was a thousand years old and, as long as they had proper nutrition, they never stopped growing. Bray was only young and yet he could swallow her whole. A thousand year old dragon would probably cast a shadow over the entire kingdom.

Shivering at the thought, she lifted her gaze to the sky, but saw nothing more unusual than a few moderately sized dragons gliding between the clouds, their underbellies appearing to sparkle when the sun caught their scales. Tossing his head impatiently, Bray flared his wings, giving them a shake before letting one drift to the ground at her feet. Using the sturdy bones that attached the membrane as a handhold, she clambered up his wing like a ladder until she reached his broad back, walking easily along until she got to the dent where neck met shoulder. Settling down into the crevice, she stretched her arms as far around his neck as they would go. His scales were rough against her bare skin, but it was a familiar roughness and it no longer rubbed her raw.

A second later, they were airborne. The breath caught in her lungs, so cold it stung, and her hair whipped back. Fingers gripping tighter, she ducked down further to avoid the torrents of air bashing her from all sides, caused by the flapping of his gigantic wings as he propelled them upwards. They flew through the sky, climbing higher and higher until they reached the very peak of the mountain, where another dragon, the color of emeralds, lay curled around a single egg. There wasn't enough room to land, there was barely enough room for the female to change positions, so they simply hovered there while the two dragons conversed softly in huffs and snorts. During this time, she stared at the egg, almost as big as she was and glowing a brilliant, flawless gold. Shea had been sitting on that egg for over a year, only relaying responsibility to another maternal female every so often, just as she had done when Bray was still in his shell. However, now the tell-tale pulsating indicated the being inside was almost ready to greet the world.

Soon there would be a new addition to their little family, she thought with a smile, remembering the night she'd been welcomed into the family.

Her parents left her when she was eight years old, abandoning her into the care of a couple who owned a farm far out in the cold, snowy countryside. They made it clear that they weren't coming back for her; she was too much hassle, too expensive to feed and clothe, though she wore rags and her bones cut through skin. Young and precocious, she didn't much care; they hadn't been good parents anyway, not like the Mama and Papa who lived next door and doted on their tearaway children. But the couple she was left with were even worse.

After only a few days she'd decided to run away.

Stuffing her pockets with a crust of bread and hunk of cheese pilfered from the top cupboard, which she wasn't supposed to be able to reach but could if she climbed on a chair, she wrapped herself in a stolen cloak and set out. She'd be beaten if she was discovered, so she had to be careful and quick.

The snow went up to her knees in some places as she trekked across the open fields, freezing her legs, left bare by the ragged dress she wore. By the time she reached the relative safety of the woods she was numb from the cold, her teeth chattering like castanets. Thanks to the trees stretching their branches overhead, there was only a sprinkling of snow on the ground and she longed to curl up in the hollow created by two huge tree roots protruding from the frozen earth, but she forced herself to keep moving.

Soon, she stumbled upon the path. Having already decided where she was going to go, she struck out in the direction she believed to be heading back towards the village she'd grown up in; the happy young parents she'd watched so longingly had loved their children so much that surely they'd want another? With this thought at the front of her mind, she smiled, despite the fact that she could no longer feel her face, and hope blossomed in the pit of her stomach.

A beautiful, full silver moon hung heavy in the midnight black of the sky; frozen leaves and brittle twigs crunched beneath her hole riddled boots. In the branches overhead, an owl hooted and something rustled in the undergrowth. Though curious, she didn't stop to investigate.

She hadn't been walking long when a more foreboding noise drifted towards her. Men shouted in the distance and a rumbling roar made her pause, back-tracking several steps. For the first time, fear filled her young heart, making it beat faster, her skin prickling at the unearthly, violent sounds.

Cautiously, she continued onwards until the noise became unbearably loud and she lifted her hands to clap over her ears, squeezing her eyes shut momentarily. During her self-imposed blindness, something big crashed through the trees and slammed into her chest and she went flying backwards.

Gasping for breath, she scrambled out of the bush she'd been flung into, her eyes widening at the sight in front of her. A burnished red dragon fought off a team of men trying to capture it with heavy metal chains; several were already crossed over its wings, pinning them close to its back. That, along with the close confines of the forest, prevented it from flying off and it bellowed in rage, trashing its head and tail desperately as it tried to escape, clawing at the hard earth, tearing it to shreds.

The tail that had struck her once more whipped through the air in front of her face and someone yelled at her to get back, which she did.

A second later, a big, hulking bear of a man appeared in front of her. Bleeding from a gash on his shoulder and another on his forehead, he wrapped one huge hand around her arm and pulled her back further.

Despite his fearsome appearance, his voice when he spoke was gentle. "What you doing out here all alone at night, missy? Don't you know the forest is no place for a little girl?"

"I...I...I..." she stammered, eyes still fixed on the massive, red scaled creature.

"Got lost I imagine," he said before she could answer and she nodded frantically. "Well, you best come back to camp with me, girly, can't leave you out here alone. Tomorrow we'll see you get back where you came from."

A flash of hope swelled once more; maybe she wouldn't have to walk all of the way after all.

Hand still on her arm, he began to steer her off the path. The hope quickly turned to creeping apprehension as the vegetation grew thicker and taller. She glanced back over her shoulder at the disappearing path and swallowed tightly; her fear now had nothing to do with the continued roar of the dragon and more to do with the shouting of men. As a child, she liked to think all adults were good and kind, but life had taught her harsh lessons and she knew that wasn't always true.

Led through the depth of the forest, they eventually stepped into a clearing, empty of people but scattered with supplies, with horses tied around the edges and a roaring fire in the center.

"Warm yourself by the fire, girl," he gave her a little push. "I'll get you some'it to eat."

Her stomach growled at the mere mention of food and the warmth of the flames beckoned. Going to sit on a log by the fire, she held her frozen hands out to it, listening to the soothing crackle and pop. Slowly she began to relax, her eyelids drooping.

She must have drifted off, because she half woke as the rest of the camp returned with stomping boots and rough voices. Still in that comfortable, hazy place between sleep and wakefulness, she listened to the conversation going on around her but couldn't understand the meaning.

"We have the hatchling secured and under guard. The girl was a lucky find."

"Yes," the voice of the man who'd brought her to camp agreed, "she's ragged and scrawny, but she's young and the young ones always sell well."

The words didn't sound right and she frowned, struggling to awaken fully. That one word, 'sell,' circled around and around her head. Sell. People didn't sell children. Unless they were slaves. She wasn't a slave... but they intended to make her one, she realized.

Suddenly conscious, her eyes flew open in alarm. Someone sat across the fire from her and she quickly screwed them up tight again.

"Should we tie her up?" someone asked.

"No need, she thinks we're escorting her home tomorrow, as if she were a little princess," the man snorted. "She ain't going nowhere."

Fear of what they'd do if they knew she was awake was the only thing that kept her in place as the men ate and drank around her, becoming rowdier as the night wore on. A fight broke out at some point and she heard shouting, along with the familiar pounding of fists on flesh. Eventually though, everything was quiet except for the occasional whiny from the horses and the sound of men snoring.

The fire had ebbed and she stood in the semi-darkness, glancing around her at the sprawl of bodies. Slowly, carefully, heart pounding, legs trembling, she picked her way through the sleeping figures to the outskirts of the camp and slipped into the forest. She didn't know how to find the path again, but she didn't give it much thought at that moment; all she wanted was to get away.

Once more, it was the sounds of the dragon she instinctively headed towards, though it was no longer uttering cries of rage. Instead she followed the soft, piteous mewls of distress.

Several minutes later she reached another clearing. Strapped down by thick chains, the dragon looked smaller than she'd first thought. Nostrils flaring as if scenting the night air, the creature turned its head as far as it was able, gold eyes fixing on her.

Hesitating on the outskirts of the clearing, she looked towards the guards, unsure who she was more afraid of, this fire-breathing creature or the men that guarded it. However, both were fast asleep, their swords cradled like babes in their arms.

Looking back towards the dragon, she could see deep, seeping gashes in its thick hide from said weapons and felt an instant flash of sympathy for the wounds that had been inflicted on it. Cautiously moving closer, she stared into one reptilian eye, transfixed by the emotion and the intelligence she saw there.

Without thought, she stepped up to that big head and gently laid a hand upon its snout. The hard scales were hot beneath her fingers and she could feel the rise and fall of each breath. He nuzzled into her touch and she cuddled closer to him for warmth.

She wasn't sure when she'd begun thinking of the dragon as a 'he' instead of an 'it,' but she felt sure that she was right and he no longer seemed like a big, scary menace; he seemed young and afraid, just like her.

Glancing around, she saw that the numerous chains were secured to the ground with big metal spikes – she didn't know if she'd be strong enough to pull them out, yet she knew she had to try.

The metal was cold against her bare hands, making her clumsy. It took her several attempts to pull the spike free and when she did the ground released it so suddenly that she fell backwards into the snow, breathing hard.

Realizing what she was doing, the dragon gave a low rumble of pleasure and began to flex against the restraints.

"Ssh," she chastised him, looking fearfully over at the guards who stirred but didn't awaken.

Freeing several more of the spikes securing the creature's neck and body, she paused for a minute to rest, her little arms shaking from the effort. Once more the dragon began to shift and strain. One wing managed to get free and the chains began to snap, careering into the trees with load, splintering cracks as he lumbered to his feet.

Instantly, the guards were awake, shouting to one another and brandishing their weapons. Paralyzed by a mixture of shock and fear, she could only stand there watching as the dragon broke free completely, whipping his head around to snap and snarl at his attackers.

More shouts sounded from the woods and she heard the rest of the camp stampeding through the trees towards them. The dragon snatched one man up in his jaws and dispatched him with a sickening crunch. However, he wouldn't be able to fight them all.

Ducking deftly beneath his swinging tail, she darted forward, pushing at one thick front leg. "You have to go," she cried, "they'll catch you again."

Hot air blasted out of his nostrils as he craned his long neck to look down at her. The next thing she knew she was dangling above the ground, held carefully between his deadly fangs. Pushing off with his legs, the dragon leapt into the air, clearing the tops of the trees before releasing his enormous wings with an audible whoosh.

The ground receded, the men disappearing like ants as they rose higher. From this high up she could see the path, a thin brown line through the expanse of dense green. Most children would probably be afraid, dangling so far above the earth in the jaws of a beast, but she found herself feeling exhilarated. Her heart beat faster, but not from fear, and she enjoyed the feel of the wind sifting through her hair and battering against her face. Her cloak whipped uselessly around her, however, the dragon's steady breaths kept her from freezing as they flew through the night.

They were heading towards the Dragon Mountain, she realized, where everyone knew the dragons went to nest. The thought filled her with excitement to see more of the magnificent creatures, but then she caught sight of the village down below and her stomach dropped, her longing for a family that loved her was too strong to be ignored.

"Down!" she cried, over the rush of the wind in her ears. "Please, you need to put me down. I need to go there."

She didn't know if he understood her words, or was responding to the wild gestations of her hands, or perhaps he just smelt something intriguing down there and had decided to investigate, but either way he began a steep descent. At the last moment, when she thought they'd crash into the ground, he flared his wings, pulled up sharply and brought them to a gentle stop. Placing her carefully on the ground, he chuffed softly, as if trying to communicate with her.

She smiled, reaching up to pat his neck. "That was a very good landing, you really are a magnificent flyer. You must be very proud of yourself."

Preening, he huffed a warm gust of air in her direction, clearly enjoying the praise.

"Well, goodbye," she said sadly as she glanced over her shoulder at the village, "I best be off and you need to get back to your family too, I'm sure they're worried about you."

Turning away, she began to walk away only to look behind her and find the dragon following. "No," she said firmly, "you need to go to your own home." She pointed towards the mountain range and he cocked his head, making a rumbling inquiry in the back of his throat. "I'll be all right," she answered. "I'm going to find a family to take care of me and maybe I'll come and visit you one day."

Snorting, he bumped his snout against her shoulder affectionately, before stepping back and taking off in a swirling rush of air. Her lower lip trembled as she watched him fly away, but she told herself it was for the best.

It was early morning and the village where she'd spent the majority of her short life was beginning to awaken as she made her way towards the cottage she used to live in. The scent of fresh bread drifted from the bakery and window shutters were being opened.

Her childhood abode was little more than a dilapidated shack with holes in the roof and broken glass in the windows, however, the cottage next door was a beautiful place to behold. It was currently covered in frost and snow, yet she knew that in the summer flowers would flourish in the front yard and at Christmas the joyful caroling of children could be heard.

Suddenly nervous, she walked down the front path, neatly shoveled clear of snow, and lifted the knocker.

The little girl, she believed her name was Annabel, answered the door. Only a few years older than her, the other girl sniffed haughtily and tilted her nose. "Mama," she called into the house, "there is a dirty little beggar girl at the door."

Before she could correct the mistake, Mama came marching towards them. The face she'd always remembered as kind and understanding twisted into an expression of disgust.

"We have nothing for you, child," she snapped, "be gone." And with that she slammed the door shut in her face. On the other side, she heard the little girl laugh shrilly.

Aghast, she hurried away, taking refuge in the abandoned cottage next door. Huddled by the empty, soot streaked fireplace, she wept. How could they not recognize her as the girl who'd watched them so longingly from her attic window? All her life she had idealized the perfect family next door and they had not even known she existed. It was a harsh blow and one she did not know how to recover from.

She didn't know how long she hid for, but the snarling of her empty stomach soon forced her to move, since she had lost the food in her pocket during the flight. Venturing back into the heart of the village, she stood outside the bakers shop, staring longingly at the buns in the window. She stared so long and so hard that the baker came out in his white jacket and hat, brandishing a broom.

"Be gone with you," he snapped in the same heartless voice Mama had used, "we don't want your sort here. Be gone, you're scaring off my customers."

She didn't understand how she could be scaring off his customers; she was only a child after all, but she moved on regardless, hungrier than ever now that she'd seen such delicious food. Briefly she wondered if she should have stayed at the farm. It was a horrible life, but at least she'd been fed and watered, no matter how little. She was contemplating walking back and begging for forgiveness when she saw something streak through the sky.

"A dragon!" someone shrieked.

"Run for your lives," cried another.

Arrowing downwards, he landed with a thud and a terrifying roar. Screaming, the villagers fled, barricading themselves in houses and yanking the shutters closed, until she was the only one left standing outside.

"You came back!" she exclaimed, rushing forward to throw her arms around the creature's thick neck and hanging on tight as he chuffed, his huge chest vibrating.

After a few minutes, she let go and stepped back. "What should I do now?" she asked solemnly.

As if in answer, he crouched down and twisted his neck around to gesture at his back.

"You want me to ride you?" she said uncertainly, "But where would we go?"

He looked towards the Dragon Mountain.

Following his gaze, she smiled.

Now, several years later, she barely remembered a time when she had lived without her adopted family. Bray, as she had named the red dragon, was her closest friend and his mother, Shea, had welcomed her into the fold, treating her as her own hatchling rather than the little imposter she had felt like at first. And now their family was growing.

A hairline crack appeared in the beautiful golden egg.

Bray huffed in excitement, flapping his wings, and Shea lowered her head to nudge the egg, hurrying her hatchling along.

Another crack appeared and then a section of the shell flew off and a little head popped out.

Tiffany Street Stone

(A Haunting)

Narrated by Robert Stack

By Donald Armfield

Attleboro, Massachusetts: a small town just about fifty minutes from Boston, as long as you don't get stuck behind some old biddy driving too slow. Home of the glowing Doucette stone. For years locals and people from surrounding towns would gather and stare at the phenomenal glow that cast on the Doucette stone. Spectators had no explanation of how or why this little stone captured its small glow.

Many strange occurrences throughout the years, took place near the gravestone at the St. Stephen's Cemetery. The silhouette of a little girl can be seen bouncing a ball in the reflection over the Doucette gravestone, as her parents watch over her. Ghostly footsteps are heard on the cement pathways surrounding the gravestone. Even during the daytime you'll get an eerie chill that makes the hairs on your testicles stand straight up. Local legend has even broken down the family name Doucette into a type of acronym, saying; "DO-U-C-ETTE?" Talking about the eerie light that glows upon the stone.

During the summer of 2013 two so-called, grave robbers by the name of Fritz Barber and Gillian Rider heard about an heirloom buried with a little girl. They went in for another grave robbing, but faced an ultimate challenge, a haunting, one of their damned souls taken over by the Doucette ghost.

What you are about to read is a reenactment of what took place when the two grave robbers dug up the bodies of the Doucette family in hopes to find riches. This is not a news broadcast.

"Listen. Stop being such a pussy. This heirloom is going to make us rich," Fritz taunted his friend.

"Man, I just heard strange shit about this place. It's not like all those other times where it was just some random biddy or some old fart that just horded all sorts of riches," Gillian said, rubbing the hairs on his arms.

"You believe all that hocus pocus bullshit? Grab the shovel and pull the underwear out of your camel toe, girly-man."

The two men started to dig as dusk set in over the summer sky. Within twenty minutes they hit the coffin with the shovel. Fritz Barber then pried open the coffin with a crowbar. The skeleton of a young girl laid before them. Around the neck of the girl, a slight glow of a necklace caught Fritz's eyes. Over the scattered dirt that dusted the remains of the young Doucette girl. Fritz grabbed at the necklace. The head of the skeleton snapped from the spinal cord and rolled to one side of the coffin.

"Dude, what the fuck? You're not supposed to disturb the dead in that kind of way!" Gillian yelled.

"Man, she is long dead. If you don't shut up....I will take a huge shit in one of her eye sockets." Fritz held the necklace up to a beam of the moon light from the sky.

"Haven't you heard the tale about this stone?" Gillian asked.

"Yeah, yeah, some little girl playing with herself and her parents watching. The stone glows when there is a full moon. It's a bunch of hocus pocus," Fritz said, knowing he messed the story up.

"Listen Fritz, I know the real story......"

Just in case Gilligan fucks the story up the producers told me to cut in.

It was late in the summer 1995. St. Stephen's Cemetery was a hotspot for gawkers. People from parts of Attleboro were coming to maybe get a glance of this gleaming mystery. The radiant green hue mesmerized the ones who saw it. Teenagers started hanging out in the cemetery, making silly noises. The neighborhood was sick of all the traffic and the weekend partying taking place. So they decided to put an end to it. The following year researchers from an unseen source came to dispel what they thought was a reflection of nearby streetlights. Posted along the roadside for a few days on Tiffany Street the researchers exterminated the glowing phenomenon. After the researchers came to their conclusion, they turned the stone a bit out of place on the cemetery grounds.

During the course of two weeks the stone illuminated an uninviting red glow for the houses near by the cemetery. Some of the neighbors felt spooked well other were annoyed. The spirits of the Doucette family was disgruntled that their stone had been moved from its original position. Eventually after calls from the neighboring houses the stone was moved back, the way the researchers found it originally.

Later interviews from constant visitors, told familiar stories of a ghostly presence. Footsteps, mumbling voices; when you got too close to the stone, the whispering would instantly stop. One man went all out and said he felt a ghost stick a finger in his ass. The man's appearance, producers tell us. A little hillbilly disfigurement. Missing teeth, a net fitting baseball cap. The normal cliché of a trucker.

The story these two so-called grave robbers have been telling may have been misinterpreted and mixed up from another family with the same last name. Producers have been jumping through hoops like trained seals to find any leads or maybe this concocted story the two grave robbers possibly pulled out their of asses.

"Dude, that doesn't look like some heirloom. It looks like some piece of shit jewelry you buy out of some Avon catalog," Gillian said, watching his friend twirl the piece of jewelry between his fingers. As he shined the flashlight on it.

"Shut the fuck up! Only I say what is shit from our findings!" yelled Fritz. "Got it?"

When Gillian Rider looked up to the sky, just above the tree lines. He saw two shadowed-silhouettes figures. According to Rider the shadows had on what looked like long trench coats. Standing on the limbs of a nearby tree. Fritz must have seen something too. He was already up ahead running with the open bag of digging tools, dragging behind him. Gillian Rider took one more look over his shoulder at the shadowed figures and caught up to his buddy.

What happens next in the early morning hours, at the residents of Fritz Barber's studio is odd beyond strange. One Neighbor said he saw two figures, probably males, approach the screened in porch area of Fritz Barber's first floor studio. The neighbor said he was getting in his vehicle, and paid it no mind.

Police officials received two separate calls, both calls in-sync with each other. Screams were being heard from the Barber's residence. When police officials arrived they found Fritz Barber sitting on the floor of his living room, cradling his head in his hands. Gillian Rider was hiding like a scared little bitch, under the futon in the apartment. Producers learned from the statements that Fritz and Gillian gave certainly said what they had seen, was not human.

"They were giant fucking birds.....with trench coats on," Fritz told the police.

"It was vultures with top hats. The collars on the trench coats were popped and feathers spiked out of the neck of the jacket, man," Gillian, added to the report.

Gillian Rider was an adult and volunteered to corporate and undergo a series of studies. Since Fritz Barber was only a seventeen year old runaway, police had no patience in hunting down parental rights. So they let him off with probation and weekly checks on his behavior.

With a new invention still in its infancy, Brain Play was a lie detector that connected to the frontal lobe of the brain and reacted with the scrotum pumping blood vigorously through the body. The truth was then played out in a vision along a silver screen. Almost as if you were reading the person's mind and seeing what they had actually seen.

Police called in the scientist behind the odd invention and within the hour like some pizza delivery boy, the scientists were in the station, plugging in their machine and speaking---in what sounded more like minions blabbering from the "Despicable Me" movies.

In what seemed like hours, the police officials were able to woof down a dozen donuts and two coffees each during the process. The silver screen came to life with the flick of a switch and some static interference for a brief second. The producers had to give me warm milk and tuck me in for the night, back stage. After I read the Brain Play results, during rehearsal I was scared shitless and my mind felt tortured as I tried to sleep the night away. I am still shaking in my gray trench coat, as I watch you read the Brain Play results.

Brain Play recording.... from Gillian Rider's mind.

Fritz went to go and answer the door, because I gave him the head nod. Pointing at my lap with the playboy magazine being used as tabletop to roll a nice fat joint. He opened the door and these two tall figures, pushed their way inside. They had the heads of vultures and the body of men long and lanky, squared-off shoulders. The long coats they wore had the collars creased, standing upright. They kinda looked like the "Spy vs Spy" characters. Fritz fell to the floor and landed on his ass. I was in mid-licking, about to seal the joint and paused. The room started going all sepia in color and this portal formed above Fritz's futon. The vulture-headed men made a come here finger gesture and suddenly we were standing in a barn. The barn had the smell of animal feces, lingering in the air. The dirt covered ground was moist to walk on. Disturbed bales of hay throughout the barn, leaves a littered mess scattered around.

I notice a ladder descending upwards to a loft above. It was like some magnetic force started pulling us towards the ladder. With no choice in the matter, Fritz and I climbed to the top of the lofty area. It really felt like a dream, but yet everything I touched I could feel it's texture, almost.

At the top of the loft, there is animal corpses hanging upside down, sliced at the jugular veins with torn flesh dangling off half of their carcasses. Piles of dried up blood, shows they may have been there for a while.

Then we felt this motion pull us backwards, as if someone pushed the rewind button. We were standing outside the barn doors, again. Fritz slowly pushes the door open and inside are things eating the farm animals. The noises of the squealing animals fills the air. The sound is so alarming, it makes my ears bleed.

As these strange creatures bite down on the screaming animals, smoke rises out from the sides of their mouths. When the things pulled their heads up to chew and gawk around the barn, the saliva dripped out of their mouths with pieces of flesh dangling from its maw. The saliva dripping from the creature's maw fell onto the animal carcasses, singeing the remaining visible skin and fur, like the burning of a film reel. We quickly turn around and go to run but freeze.

A little girl stood in front of us. She had a long plaid dress on, long black hair---tied back in a ponytail and a droopy sad face. She said, "Why did you dig up my grave?" I felt this brush of wind push through my body. It made Fritz and I gasp for breath. Everything went black and we were back in Fritz's studio apartment.

"The police officials were stunned as they stood before the silver screen. Wondering if this Brain Play machine had truth logic to it. The odd-minion scientists just sat back in their portable chairs. Gillian Rider was still hooked up to the machine with eyes closed. In a deep slumber like sleeping beauty herself. When nothing else was appearing on the Brain Play's silver screen. The scientist stood up to unplug Gillian Rider from the machine. That's when all sorts of bizarre shit happened."

Gillian suddenly started going into convulsions. The small chair he sat in started to rise up, off the floor. It slammed down and all was silent for a quick second. Gillian Rider's body then twisted at the stomach like a rung out rag. Turning all the way around in his chair to face the police and scientists, his eyes tuned red and he let out a loud growl. The growl let out a cyclone of wind gust, blowing everything around the room.

The entire room shook, small cracks formed up the sides of the walls, crumbling pieces fell from the ceiling above. The odd-minion scientists were blown back in their chairs, falling backwards to the floor. Of the three police officials in the room, one of them was able to draw his revolver, firing a single shot, before being catapulted across the room. The gusting wind coming from Gillian's mouth, ceased. Gillian Riders stomach untwisted reverting back to its normal position. Gillian was still breathing at the moment. Silence filled the room. The odd-minion scientists were still tilted back in their seats, with their feet in the air.

One of the policemen walked over near the body of Gillian Rider and spotted his hat. While reaching over the body of Gillian to grab his hat. Gillian's eyes popped open and his body sprung to a sitting position. Gillian then bit a chunk into the officer's solar plexus, right through his shirt. Blood quickly spewed from the open wound. The officer put his hand over the wound, the blood continued to pour out. The officer fell backwards to the floor, gasping for air.

Gillian Rider's elbows bent in the opposite direction, the radius and ulna bones of his forearm popped up and out of the skin. His head spun around a full three hundred-sixty degrees, somehow staying connected to his neck---the skin reshaping itself. Gillian opened his mouth and let out a high pitch noise, the sound a cat would make if it was rung out like a towel. His head stopped spinning and a black ooze spilled out from his ears and tear ducts.

Gillian barred his teeth and plummeted onto one of the remaining officers, who was beginning to come out of conscience, after slamming into a wall from the wind currents the emitted from Gillian's mouth moments ago. The officer let out a blood curling scream of agony, as Gillian bit down on his cheek and ripped from his skull. Gillian snapped the officer's neck and jumped to the injured officer, still holding his hands over his solar plexus. The small struggle from the officer was no use. Gillian quickly did the same to him, snapping his neck as well.

The remaining officer pulled his gun from its holster and aimed at Gillian. Gillian did a small head nod and the gun flew out of the officer's hand and landed on the other side of the room. Lunging through the air, Gillian landed on the police official's shoulders and peeled his scalp back, exposing his brain. Gillian reached inside his skull and ripped his brain out of its cavity. The officer's body fell limp to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

The old-minion scientists still lay backwards in their chairs, just smiling up at the ceiling, having no idea on the events going on around them. It's as if they were manipulated by whatever gotten inside of Gillian Rider.

"Officer Travis Downing, came running down the corridor to see what all the commotion was about. He was later interviewed by the local news crew."

"I walked into the room, blood was dripping from the ceiling. Body parts tossed around, it was the worst nightmare you could imagine. This strange creature scattered by me. Its body was disfigured, crawling on all fours. I noticed it was a human or what was left of him. My god, his back arched, his forearm bones protruding out of skin, it was like some kind of human bug scurrying along the floor, so weird. It made my arms ache and fingers curl, just from the sight of its awkwardly bent angle. I aimed my gun at it, but hesitated. I don't know why I didn't shoot? Or what came over me, but it just didn't seem like the right thing to do at that time."

"Maybe officer Downing was a bit of a wimp. Or for some bizarre reason the creature, (the body of Gillian Rider) manipulated him as it rounded the corner and escaped. There was little said of this incident after. No news crew was aloud on the grounds of the police barracks. The case was put in an unsolved file cabinet, with fear of the outcome or the return of Gillian Rider.

Now I can't say that I don't get a little spooked out. Walking through these scenes where blood curdling screams have been heard. Or the place where a stone once glowed and then took a shit on the soul of Gillian Rider. No thanks to the awesome job of Officer Downing, who swore to serve and protect. Now this creature is out there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for something or someone. It's next victim to rip apart and mutilate like the ones who died on August 19, 2013.

If you have any information about this story, please do not contact us. If that son-of-bitch creature knows we are associating with you, it will probably eat us or some shit like that. Rip our heads off and use it to wipe its scrotum sweat. If you see this Gillian Rider thing, I suggest you go the opposite way. Make haste like you see the U.F.Os do.

This is Robert Stack saying see you next Tuesday. Or until something fucked up happens in your neighborhood.

By the Light of the Silver Moon

By Sharon L. Higa

Joel shuffled along beside the cracked, humped asphalt of the two lane road. He was dog tired, and the last ride he caught had been five hours earlier in the day.

A coyote howled in the distance, and its lonely cry caused him to involuntarily look up at the full, silver-tinted moon shining in the night sky.

"At least I don't have to worry about falling and breaking my neck tonight." Joel hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud until the coyote howled out a reply.

Shivering, the 25 year-old hitchhiker continued on. At six feet, two inches tall, curly blonde hair and grey eyes, Joel Trotter had lived up to his last name the majority of his life. Orphaned at twelve, he ran away from his first foster home at age 13, and never looked back. Big for his age, he'd been able to survive by doing odd jobs on various farms throughout various states, worked the racetrack circuit, and learned to 'sling hash' at various eateries. He'd even saved up enough money to make it to Hawaii for a year before heading back to the mainland.

His wits and his intelligence kept him safe as well as on his toes, and though he never had any formal education, his backpack was stuffed with books of all kinds; books he traded off in different towns for new books, new information.

Tonight, though, there was something tingling the back of his neck. I'm just exhausted as hell, is all, the young man thought to himself as he fought to keep his eyes open. Plodding along, head slumped forward, chin on his chest, he was jarred out of a light doze when his right foot slipped into the ditch running alongside the road.

"What the blue blazes?" The surprise of almost landing sideways caused Joel to shout out loud. Catching his balance, he staggered up the other side of the grass-filled ditch and reached out, grasping a piece of iron to keep from falling. Once back on both feet and steady, Joel glanced about, noting where he had stopped, and what he had ahold of.

His right hand was wrapped around the railing of a low, wrought iron fence. It was rusted, and in some areas, Joel noted, the bars were missing. It was also a little too low and ornate for being an animal pen, and as the young man peered further beyond the fencing, he began to discern shapes. Crosses, rounded mounds of stone, a statue of a kneeling angel began to become visible.

"I'll be hung," he muttered to himself, "it's a cemetery." Joel began to look around, and saw nothing but fields dotted with copses of trees. He was surprised at not finding either a church or a farmhouse, and without thinking he continued to talk out loud. "Why is it out in the middle of nowhere?"

The memory suddenly hit him. He recalled seeing a few gravesites at the remote farmhouses he'd worked on in the past. The owners had all told him that the graves were of family members from the time when there were no town cemeteries or churches nearby. Folks would bury their family, and sometimes the farmhands as well, in plots set up about a half mile, or thereabouts, from the farms.

Joel assumed - looking around once more at the fields - that the farmhouse this plot originally belonged to more than likely was torn down or burned in a fire; the cemetery was all that was left.

He yawned, deep and hard; that made up his mind. The fence was only four feet high, so Joel tossed his backpack over then hoisted himself up and into the family plot. He noted that the grass was cut low, and the tombstones were pretty well maintained. Even so, time and the elements had their way with a few of them.

The moon was shining full and bright tonight, and judging from its position, Joel figured it wasn't much past midnight. He began walking around, looking at the dates and names, and casting about for a safe place to rest awhile. He noticed that most of the stones dated back to the eighteen and nineteen hundreds, but there were some graves that were as recent as 2014. It was obviously still used by the family who owned the plot, and probably the land surrounding it.

"No wonder it's in pretty good shape." Joel found his eyes trying to close once more, so he gave up looking at the tombstones and found a weeping willow tree planted in the back corner of the cemetery. He saw that it was far enough away so he wouldn't be noticed by anyone travelling the road - fat chance of that happening tonight, he thought - and wide enough to give him some shelter underneath the drooping branches.

"Well, beggars can't be choosers," he spoke out loud, then snickered at how close to home the saying came to his actual lifestyle. Joel tossed his backpack in, then crawled after it. The leaves were dry and thick, the branches swaying and moving slightly with the soft, gentle night breeze. Joel unhooked his sleeping bag, laid it out and stretched on top, pulling his extra blanket over his body. Within seconds, the periodic calls of the night birds and low murmurings of the willow tree's branches sent him off into a deep sleep.

Joel didn't know how long he'd been in deep repose, but the sound of voices raised in anger brought him to a full awakening. He listened for a few more seconds before he slowly slipped his blanket off, then belly crawled to the edge of the hanging branches.

The voices, male and female, were coming from the opposite side of his position under the tree, directly in front of the fence. Joel couldn't make out what they were saying, but he could hear the anger and fury in the man's voice, the fear and upset in the woman's.

Joel parted the leaves and looked out, directly onto the scene of a heated argument. The woman was really no more than a girl, about eighteen, he figured, dressed in jeans, heavy boots and a fur lined parka clutched about her upper torso. The man was dressed in overalls and work boots, sporting a heavy jacket and gloves. His arms were by his sides, but Joel didn't like the way his fists were alternately bunching, then twitching.

The couple continued to argue while Joel watched from underneath the tree. He couldn't figure out what was wrong with the scene in front of him, until suddenly the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

It was mid-summer, yet both of the figures standing on the other side of the fence were dressed as if it were winter time. Joel peered at their clothing, then wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked at them again, while a little voice in his brain spoke up:

Joel, old buddy - what's wrong with this picture?!?

The creepy thought was interrupted when the woman let out a short scream. Joel looked up in time to see the man lunge at the young woman and grab her by the throat, dragging the two of them to the ground. Straddling the woman beneath him, the man began to punch her in the face, repeatedly, whipping her head back and forth, harder and faster, until Joel heard a distinctive SNAP! The struggling woman suddenly went limp.

Without thinking, Joel burst forth from his hiding spot yelling, "Stop it! Dammit! You're gonna kill her!"

In his haste, Joel became snagged on the fence, fell face first onto the other side, jumped up then ran pell-mell for the spot where the man and woman lay tangled together on the ground. He looked up and skidded to a halt.

No one was there.

Joel spun in circles, eyes bulging, straining to hear any racket in the brush or across the fields. Nothing. He slid down to the ground and grasped the sides of his head.

"Am I hallucinating? Dreaming? What the heck is going on?"

A small movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. The young woman stood twenty feet away, by the edge of the woods, face swollen and cut, blonde hair darkened with her blood. She stood there watching him, not moving.

Joel held his hands, palms out, to show he meant her no harm. "Hey there," he called softly, "I'm not here to hurt you; I want to help." His words were low and level, his movements slow and deliberate.

She waited until he was about five feet from her, then the beaten woman turned and began to move slowly into the woods. Joel followed.

No matter how many times Joel picked up his pace, he could never seem to catch up to the figure in front of him. He even broke into a quick sprint, but when he looked through the shadows within the woods, she was still ahead of him, on a small dirt path. He finally gave up and kept up a steady walk. They had reached the deepest part of the woods when she veered off and headed between the trees themselves.

Joel followed her, not wanting to lose her among the shadows. She would stop periodically and glance back, making sure he was still with her. The woman came to the bole of a huge tree, stared directly at Joel, then pointed up. Joel stopped and looked at where she was pointing.

About fifteen feet up, he saw a dark opening in the trunk of the tree. "What about the hole?" Joel spoke out loud as he returned his gaze to the woman at the base of the tree.

She was gone.

Joel darted to the tree and walked all around its base. The bloodied, beaten woman was nowhere to be found. Joel stopped and ran his hand through his hair. He yelled, "What the heck is going on?"

A soft breeze blew through the woods, seemed to engulf him. He heard a female voice whisper in his ear, Climb up.

Joel's gaze shot up to the darkened section of the tree. The closest branch was about three feet above his head. Before he could lose his nerve, Joel reached and grabbed the branch, pulling his body up. The branch held.

It took him a few minutes to reach the dark spot. It was a hollowed out space in the trunk of the tree. Joel reached in and felt something that crackled, but was soft in spots. He pulled it out and held it up, into a beam of silver moonlight.

It was a glove, crusted with what appeared to be dried blood. A moon-beam of light hit the trunk of the tree where he was balancing on the branch and spotlighted the hole. Joel took advantage and leaned over, staring inside. He saw another glove, as well as a couple more pieces of what he assumed was material wadded up and stuffed inside.

Not wanting to disturb anything else, Joel dropped the glove back into the hole and shimmied down the tree. Taking out his pocket knife, he marked the base with an X, then began working his way out of the woods, marking other trees to denote the way.

Wide awake and focused on what he needed to do next, Joel hopped the fence, rolled up his bedroll and tied it onto the pack. Without a second's hesitation, the young wanderer hit the cracked, lined asphalt and took off at a steady trot, heading toward the nearest town.

*

Dawn had just peeked over the horizon when Joel passed the sign saying:

Welcome To Morristown. Pop. 6, 824 Est. 1802

He pushed onward, past the first line of homes, laid out in neat rows on either side of the road. He reached the town square and found the sheriff's office to the right of the massive fountain, set in the middle of the many shops and stores circling the little square.

Joel approached the door and gave it a push. The sheriff's office was already open, and he could see a figure behind a line of frosted glass already seated at, what he assumed, was a desk. He reached the front counter just as the seated figure stood and moved to the closed office door.

A tall, heavyset figure emerged from the room. Joel took in the thick, grey hair, bushy eyebrows and craggy features. He guessed the officer was probably forty-five, fifty years old at the most, but his haggard, greyed out appearance made him appear much older. Joel glanced at the right hand side of the man's uniform. The name tag read, 'DANBORN'.

The man laid massive, calloused hands on the counter and looked at the kid standing in front of him. "What can I do for you, son?" His question was polite, the voice gravelly and low.

Joel set his pack down between his feet and unconsciously brushed off the front of his shirt. "Is the Sheriff around? I would really like to speak to him...," he paused for the briefest second, "or her."

The bell above the door jingled; someone came in behind Joel as he was finishing his question. "Boy, you're talkin' to the sheriff right now."

Joel turned to find himself face-to-face with a much older, paunchier gentleman, also wearing a uniform. This officer walked past the young man and worked his way behind the counter, taking a seat on the stool in front of a computer placed on the corner. "I'm Deputy Wallace. Sheriff, you want to go into your office now? I got things under control out here until the others arrive."

Sheriff Chase Danborn motioned for Joel to follow him into the room he'd just come from. Deputy Wallace pointed to a cubbyhole situated by his knee. "You can leave your pack there for now, son. I'll look after it for you."

Joel nodded, stuffed the backpack into the opening then walked past the big man into his office. Sheriff Danborn waited until Joel sat in the chair before he closed the door, exchanging a nod of understanding with his deputy. Wallace turned his attention back to booting up the computer, all the while keeping one ear tuned toward the office, just in case a situation occurred.

The sheriff sat down then scrounged around his desk until he found a notepad and pen. Scooting his chair closer, he set the notepad in the middle of the table and began fiddling with the pen. Even though his demeanor was one of ease and friendly interest, his eyes were locked on the face of the man across from him.

Joel ran a hand through his hair, giving himself time to collect his thoughts. Well, the best way to start is to plunge right in. Taking a deep breath, he began.

"Sheriff, please hear me out. I know my story is going to sound like I belong in a straightjacket or something like that, but, I need you to listen before you say or do anything. So, here goes..."

Joel proceeded to explain in detail what had happened the night before, and he noticed that as he continued to speak and relay what had occurred, the Sheriff's demeanor began to change. He stopped fiddling with the pen and began to slowly sit up, his torso going from a slouch to almost ram-rod straight. When Joel got to the description of the woman, the blood drained out of the Sheriff's face. Forgetting all about the pen in his hands, he grabbed the arms of the chair and gripped them until his knuckles turned white.

Seeing the sheriff's reaction, Joel's voice faltered, but the man motioned for him to continue with the story. Clearing his throat, Joel finished his tale. When he was done, he sat back and waited, afraid to either move or talk, not knowing how the sheriff would respond.

Sheriff Danborn sat stock still, his eyes glazed and unseeing. Little shudders began to shake his body, which caused Joel to come half-way out of his chair, calling out loud, "Sheriff? Sheriff? Are you okay?" Shoving his chair back Joel bellowed, "Hey! Deputy! Something's wrong!"

The clatter of the stool being shoved backwards and the approach of heavy, hurried footsteps was followed by Wallace throwing open the door. He found the young man leaning over the sheriff, the kid's voice filled with a combination of fear and concern. Sheriff Danborn sat as if he'd been hit with a bolt of lightning, shock evident in his features and the claw-like grip of his hands on the arms of the chair.

Deputy Wallace moved fast for his bulk, pushing Joel aside and yanking open the lower drawer of the desk. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey and sent the cap spinning off into a corner of the room, then shoved the neck of the bottle past the frozen lips of the catatonic man. He managed to pour the liquid between the gritted teeth, then pushed the sheriff's head as far back as he could, forcing the man's throat to reflexively swallow. Wallace repeated this procedure two more times before Danborn began to sputter and cough, lurching forward and waving the deputy aside, letting the two men know that he was once more coherent and aware.

While the sheriff regained his breath and wits, Wallace turned, eyes wide and puzzled, to Joel. "What in the name of all that's holy did you say?"

A croaking, cracked voice spoke from behind the two men. "Take him to the interview room; let me get my wits about me in here." Color had returned to the sheriff's face, but the deputy and Joel could see he still was fighting shock. Wallace set the bottle down on the desk and simply nodded. As both men exited the room, the last thing Joel saw before Wallace closed the door was the sheriff picking up the bottle and bringing it towards his mouth.

Wallace and Joel entered a smaller room which had a table and four chairs, with two small windows set just below the ceiling line. Joel sat down, once again across from a uniformed officer, and began to tell the deputy exactly what he told the sheriff. When Joel got to the description of the two figures, however, Wallace began to sputter and scramble about, muttering, "Lord, god-a-mighty! Hold up boy! Hold up a minute!" He stood and bolted for the door, motioning Joel to stay where he was. The older man was back within minutes, this time with a notepad and pen of his own. Grabbing his seat, he motioned for Joel to continue with the descriptions.

Neither one of them heard the sheriff when he quietly opened the interview room door and stood, silently listening and watching, arms folded to keep them from shaking once more.

When Joel finished telling his tale for the second time, he looked up and saw the sheriff. Deputy Wallace wrote the last few sentences, then with a trembling hand, set the pen down. Without taking his eyes from the papers in front of him, Wallace said in a low, shaky voice, "Sheriff, does that description fit anyone we know?"

Sheriff Danborn pushed away from the door jamb and said, "Come on, Joel. Deputy Wallace and I need you to show us the tree. Wallace, call Aubrey and Teigs, as well as the coroner; I believe we have us a crime scene."

*

Twenty four hours later found Joel, the sheriff and six other deputies stuffed inside the sheriff's office, getting a plan laid out to bring in their suspect. Along with the gloves, a bloodied shirt and jacket were found crammed inside the hole. Swabbings from inside and around the opening, as well as these items were bagged, tagged, then bundled by the coroner and taken to the lab for testing. A rush was put on the tests, and since the forensics lab owed the county coroner a favor, the results were done in double time.

Joel's description of the man fit a particular resident to a tee, and once he was brought in and presented with what was found, he broke down and confessed to the young woman's murder, claiming it was done in a fit of passion. Wallace was left with the District Attorney and their murderer's lawyer to finish up the details, while Danborn ushered a thoroughly bewildered and exhausted Joel into his office.

The door closed on the cacophony outside, and the sheriff let out a huge sigh of - what Joel assumed to be - extreme relief. Danborn held up a finger to the young man sitting in the chair and pulled out his cell phone. He leaned back in his own chair, covering his eyes with one hand while holding the phone with the other. Joel heard four rings, then the click of the line being answered on the other end.

"Hey honey...yes...yes...we got him...I know...I know...I'll tell you the rest tonight...love you, too...'bye."

Sheriff Danborn hit the END button, stuck the phone inside the front pocket then turned his attention back to the kid who had helped bring a murderer to justice. He took a deep breath, bent over and brought the much depleted bottle of whiskey from its spot in the bottom drawer along with two plastic cups. Pouring a quick splash into each container, he handed one to Joel, then leaned back in the chair, staring into the bottom of his.

The sheriff began without preamble. "I have to first, thank you for being so cooperative today, considering you don't have a clue about what's happened and was, at the beginning of this investigation, considered a suspect yourself." Joel flinched, realizing that possibility had never even crossed his mind.

"But, I'm hoping that by the time I finish telling you the whole story, the pieces of this puzzle will all fall into place."

Joel nodded and took a sip of the booze. He had to really concentrate on keeping his eyes open – exhaustion was beginning to set in with a vengeance - because he truly wanted to hear what the sheriff had to say. Knowing the whiskey would only worsen his attention span, Joel set the cup on the edge of the desk and focused on the sheriff.

"This case actually began with the murder of a twenty year old woman found outside of the fence-line of her family plot. The young lady's name was Carol Marie Danborn. She was found beaten to death on March 1, 2014, by a neighbor searching for his horse who had broken out of its pasture the night before."

Joel shot up straight in his chair, his tiredness all but forgotten. "Carol Marie Danborn? Your...your...?"

"Yes," the sheriff said in a soft, sad tone, "Carol Marie Danborn - the only daughter and child of Sheriff Chase and Claudia Danborn." He cleared his throat and went on:

"The weather had warmed up, snowmelt and a rain the night before ensured that no clues could be found either around or on the body. For months the investigation stretched on, but with the small police force we have and all leads panning out to nothing, we had to finally, after six months, set the case aside and move on to others that we could solve. I understood, from my professional experience and basic police protocol, but the father in me was raging and refusing to give up. Even on my days off, I was tracking down every little scrap of gossip or clue that came to my attention. My wife begged me to let it go, saying that Carol wouldn't want me to destroy our marriage or my career this way. Three months ago, I finally conceded defeat and put my daughter's murder aside; then you showed up yesterday morning."

Joel shifted in his chair, digesting the information. "So, who is the guy I saw in the vision...dream...premonition...whatever you want to call it? Was that actually your daughter I saw? Why me?"

Sheriff Danborn gave the questions some thought before he replied. He looked over Joel's shoulder and smiling, stared at a picture that was hanging on the wall. When he returned to his narrative, his demeanor was all business once more. "The guy who murdered my daughter, who you saw in your 'vision' - his name is Riley Raines, and he is one of the mildest, most easy-going, nicest guys you could meet in this town."

Joel blinked, confusion written all over his face. The sheriff went on to explain. "The problem was that Riley had a secret. Riley, it seems, had been obsessed with Carol from the first day he laid eyes on her, when she started high school as a freshman. He was a junior, but, for reasons only his twisted mind knew, he kept this infatuation to himself. Even his friends - and he was able to run with about any clique in the school - had no idea. But Riley did keep tabs on Carol, all the way through high school graduation, and even after. The night he killed her, he'd just found out through the town grapevine that Carol was leaving to go to college on the West Coast. Riley had asked Carol to meet him at our family plot that evening so he could convince her that she actually loved him, and wanted to marry and settle down here in town."

Sheriff Danborn choked back a sob. "Well, we now know how that conversation went." He straightened up and pointed towards the back wall and the picture. "As for whether it was my daughter you saw...well...take a look for yourself."

Joel turned in his chair and stared at the family portrait. There was no doubt about it; the woman he had seen at the cemetery had been Carol. "As for why you," the sheriff's words brought him back around to face Danborn, "I haven't a clue. I'd like to think that you were just in the right place at the right time, or maybe your tiredness opened you up to another dimension, or just maybe - and you may not know it, but - you could be a touch psychic, like my Carol was."

Sheriff Danborn knocked back the rest of his drink, poured Joel's into his cup and finished it off. Standing up, he came around the desk and placed a huge hand on the young man's shoulder, nudging him to follow. "Whatever the reason is, Joel, I'm just glad and will be eternally grateful that you were there to get the message. Now, what do you say to coming over to my house, eating dinner and getting a decent night's sleep?"

*

It was early the next morning when Joel Trotter stood on the outskirts of town, shaking Sheriff Danborn's hand. The sheriff had given him a lift and they now stood in the dawn's light, Joel shifting from one foot to the other, eager to be off.

"You know you can stay here as long as you like, Joel. Heck, we could probably find you a permanent job around the town." The sheriff made the offer, but he already knew what the answer would be.

Joel smiled then looked out toward the rising sun. "Thanks Sheriff, but I best be moving on. I'm just glad to have been able to help you out."

Sheriff Danborn nodded, head down, not trusting his emotions. "You did more than that, young man. You gave me and my wife's hearts peace, and my baby girl...," the sheriff's voice hitched and faltered once, twice, as his emotions got the better of him. Joel laid a gentle hand on the older man's shoulder.

"It's okay, Sheriff. I get it. You know she's at peace now; just take care of yourself, all right?"

The sheriff swiped at his eyes quickly then stared at the horizon. "You do the same, young man. Any time you come back around, know that you'll always be welcome and will always have a place to stay."

Joel nodded and stood by the side of the road while Sheriff Danborn piled into his cruiser and keyed the engine. The police car made a quick U-turn, headed back into town. Joel picked up his backpack and swung it over his shoulders with ease. Smiling, he began to meander on down the road to parts unknown, the anticipation eventually quickening his steps.

He never looked back, so Joel missed seeing the young woman standing in the tall grass at the town line. A smile graced her face – once battered, now whole and bright - eyes shining with gratitude. Her blonde hair, now clean and blood free, gently blew about in the morning breeze.

Carol Marie Danborn raised her arm, hand held high in a wave of thanks and farewell.

Road to Darkness

By Joleene Naylor

The car crunched over a bumpy gravel road. Inside, Jenny followed Candice's eyes to the GPS. Though she could see the road through the windshield, as far as the digital map was concerned they were driving through grassland.

GPS off-roading.

She lit a cigarette and leaned back in the seat. "Where are we?"

Candice, her best friend since fifth grade, only snapped, "If you're going to smoke put the window down."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Jenny rolled her eyes but obeyed. "You worry too much."

"You know if the car smells like smoke, Dad will be all over me. I don't want to lose it again."

Jenny shrugged. "You're almost eighteen."

"Almost. And the car is still in his name, so he can take it if he wants. You're lucky. Your parents don't give a damn what you do."

"True." Jenny blew a stream of smoke out the window. "But sometimes that sucks, too. I think parents just suck."

With her words, a heavy atmosphere descended that she tried to ignore. Her parents were divorced but, instead of the usual fight for the kids, they'd thrown up their hands and said, 'If you want them, go ahead.' Not that they didn't take care of Jenny and her brother Churo afterwards, but they were causal about it. Unlike Candice's dad. 'Where are you going? Who will be there? When will you be home?' If he had even half an idea of the stuff she got to do at Jenny's, he'd never let her go again.

Jenny tugged the concert ticket out of her pocket and checked it against the in-dash clock. "If you don't find the interstate soon, we're going to be late."

"Yes, I know, but I don't see anywhere to turn around, do you?" Candice motioned to the gravel road and the muddy fields on either side. "What do you think Dad would do if I called him and said we're stuck in some farmer's field?"

Jenny flopped back in the seat. "Geeze, would you quit worrying so much? I know you're upset about Anthony, but-"

Candice gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. "I don't give a fuck about Anthony, or his so-called girlfriend, so don't even start."

Jenny snapped her mouth shut and looked away. Though she hadn't meant to rub salt into the wound, she knew it still had that effect. It still hurt.

Anthony was one of her brother's friends – the one Candice had always been in "love" with. Jenny had always liked Patrick better; blue eyes, messy blonde hair, and delicate facial features.

It wasn't just his looks, but of the two Patrick seemed sweeter. When Jenny and Churo had moved to Dunwick, Patrick was the one who'd made the effort to stay friends with her brother. He was the one that called, who came over for sleepovers, who invited Churo to birthday parties, while Anthony always just kind of tagged along. But, she supposed, Anthony was slicker, more intellectual, and that was what Candice liked.

That they had different tastes worked well. In junior high, the girls secretly divided the boys up, Jenny got Patrick, and Candice, Anthony. Not that the guys knew about it. Eight years older than they were, there was no way they'd be interested in a pair of kids.

They didn't stay kids forever. At seventeen, the girls had grown up. While Jenny was left with a mane of curly golden brown that made her look her age, Candice was lucky, with long dark hair and full breasts. She was the one who'd started to get the attention of older guys. They were all younger than Anthony and Patrick's twenty-five, but it gave the girls hope. Over the years, neither Patrick nor Anthony had paid much attention to them, or how old they were. Maybe if they lied about their age they could land them. What was a year or two, anyway?

As if a wish had been granted, last February Anthony and Patrick showed up looking for Churo. He wasn't there, but the girls convinced the guys to hang out. With a lot of booze and a little encouragement, Jenny had finally gotten Pat, and Candice had Anthony. The whole thing was too good to be true, and when Candice said she was waiting for Anthony to come back, Jenny had told her so.

"He won't. And neither will Pat. I mean, I want them to. Well, I want Pat to, but they're not gonna go for us. We're seventeen. For Christ's sake, he called em Chirp half time."

Chirp. Her old childhood nickname, Chirp and Churo, like a pair of hamsters. Though her brother had grabbed onto his nickname with both hands, she wanted to shed hers. She was too old for that now, and she'd told Patrick that.

Not that he remembered it.

Despite her predictions, Anthony came back two weeks later, alone and looking for Candice. He was fighting with a guy in his hometown, so he was hiding out in Dunwick until things cooled off. And since he was there, they might as well hang out.

If only he'd brought Pat.

As February turned into March, then April, Anthony kept coming around. Jenny asked him why he never brought Patrick. The answer: "He's always too fuckin' busy, doin' God knows what, but I'll try."

When Patrick finally came, Jenny got lucky with him, but she knew there wasn't a relationship. Not like Candice and Anthony. Anthony stopped by, he called her, he sexted her - and that made him her boyfriend.

Jenny was jealous, until Candice bought the concert tickets. There were three; one for her, one for Candice, and one for Anthony. When Candice called to tell him, his first reply was, "Take someone else." The girls took it for a game, and Candice said she wanted to take her boyfriend. He went quiet for a moment and then, "Look, I think you took things the wrong way. I never meant for...I'm not...I didn't mean for you to think..."

"Didn't mean for me to think what?" Candice had asked coldly.

"About the boyfriend thing. I thought we were just having fun. That's all I meant it to be. I've got a girlfriend."

Though Jenny would have been okay with that arrangement – she'd be Patrick's side girl any day – Candice wasn't. She cancelled the concert trip, only she couldn't get the tickets refunded. Jenny thought going out would be good for her. Hell, maybe they could meet some new guys – better guys – so she'd insisted. "You already paid! You don't want the tickets to go to waste. Besides, your dad said you could go, for once, so don't throw that away. We'll go without Anthony and have a good time. We don't need him to have fun."

The pep talk worked, and Candice went. After missing their exit, she'd taken the next one with the hope the GPS would reroute them. But the directions were wrong; the road it wanted them to take didn't exist, and the one they were on was apparently invisible. Jenny wasn't superstitious, but she wondered if maybe they should have skipped it, after all.

Then she saw a road. "Look! Use that to turn around."

Candice followed her suggestion, and soon they were headed back the way they'd come. Jenny tugged the tickets out again and checked the times against one another. "We'll miss the opening band, but maybe we can make the second."

Even if they didn't, it would still be better than going home.

Ten minutes later they were on a secondary highway. The lanes crumbled at the edges, and the paint was faded. A far cry from the interstate they should have been on, but at least the GPS had figured out where they were. If they followed that road, eventually there was an exit, then they'd be back on track.

They rounded a curve, and came across a car pulled over on the shoulder, hood up. Two guys stood in front of it, hands on their hips, as if they were willing the vehicle to do something. As the girls' headlights slid over them, they turned towards the car and waved wildly.

Two hot guys who wanted them to stop.

Except Candice didn't.

"Aren't you gonna see what they want?" Jenny demanded.

Candice slowed and slid the car over into the other lane, giving them a wide berth. "No."

Jenny gestured to their increasingly wild motions. "I think they need help."

"Then they can call someone."

Jenny looked back as they left the guys behind. She imagined being in their place: broken down in the middle of nowhere, waiting for someone to come along. "Maybe they don't have anyone to call. Or maybe they don't have their phone. Or maybe it's dead."

"Either way, it's not our problem."

Jenny twisted around in her seat to watch as their diminishing figures slumped back to the car, defeated. "I know you're pissed at Anthony, but don't take it out on them."

Candice gritted her teeth. "It has nothing to do with Anthony. We're already late, remember?"

"Yeah, and there's no way we're gonna make it. Look at the time. The concert starts in five minutes, and we're not even back to the interstate." She tugged her friend's arm. "Come on, we might as well pick up some hot guys. Think about what a 'fuck you' that would be to Anthony."

Candice surrendered, and they turned around in a driveway. As they headed back, Jenny drove the point home by reminding her that the whole point of going to the concert was to find guys, and there was a pair, ready and waiting, with no competition to steal them away.

Could we get any luckier?

Within moments, the guys and their vehicle were in view. Just like before, they turned toward the girls' car and waved wildly.

"You know this is stupid?" Candice suppressed a grin as she pulled over behind them and dropped the car into park.

Jenny reached for the door handle when the guys were suddenly on either side of the car, tapping on the windows. The one at her window had short red hair, brown eyes, and pale skin. From his build, he looked to be in his early twenties – maybe a college guy. A leather cord peeped out just above his t-shirt collar; a necklace.

Guys with jewelry are hot.

She wound her window down and glanced to see that Candice had barely cracked hers. What is she afraid of? That they're gonna strangle her to death in the car?

Jenny rolled her eyes and looked back to the guy. "Do you need some help?"

He gave her a smile. "My name's Cade. We're not from around here."

"Neither are we," Jenny chirped. "We got lost on the way to a concert."

The other guy, a blonde whose hair curled around his ears, leaned on Candice's door. He seemed about the same age as his friend, and wore a leather jacket that made him look like one of those bad boys with a heart of gold. "You must really be lost if you're looking for a concert out here. This is kind of the middle of nowhere."

"Yeah," Cade agreed. "We didn't think another car would ever show up."

His smile widened, and Jenny noticed his teeth; pointed canines, almost like a vampire's.

Not that they're real.

"...if you don't mind?"

Jenny jerked back to the conversation, but she'd missed something. "What?"

Candice frowned her I'm-mature-and-I don't know-about-this frown. "Jason asked if we could give them a ride to a gas station."

Jason? That must be the blonde's name.

"I'm broke, but we have some weed we could trade for gas money," Cade suggested.

And that was the beginning of a party – a party that would be just as fun as the missed concert, if not more fun. Jenny shot Candice an excited grin, her eyes alight with the possibilities. "That sounds great."

"Cool." Cade stepped back, his hands in his pockets. "I'll go grab it and lock up." He hesitated. "Unless you wanna smoke it in our car?"

Jenny almost squealed. "Sure! That way it won't make Candy's car smell. She gets wound up about the smoke. Her Dad-"

Candice shot her a warning look and Jenny snapped her mouth shut. Dad. How could she be so stupid? Mentioning a dad was a sure fire way to spook an older guy. They might as well paint "jail bait" across their foreheads.

"We could just smoke it later," Candice suggested.

Jenny motioned the idea away. "We're missing the concert, we might as well have some fun."

"Fun is always good." Jason leaned on the car, pressing his face closer to the window opening. "Unless you think your boyfriend will get jealous?"

"I don't have a boyfriend," Candice snapped back.

"I find that hard to believe. The guys must be blind where you're from."

Candice's cheeks tinted and she struggled to stop the smile. "Yeah, okay. Why not?"

Jenny gave her arm a squeeze of appreciation, then hurried to hop out. She glanced back to see Candice hesitate, and almost shouted at her to relax. The girl worried way too much. Serial killers were the stuff of TV, not Ohio.

When she was sure Candice was following, she turned back for the guys' vehicle. It was an older style, though with her limited knowledge "blue four-door" was how she'd describe it. Cade opened the back door for her, and Jason made a show of bowing and opening the other for Candice.

Jenny slid inside and noted the clean floorboards. That seemed odd for guys, and especially college guys with weed.

Maybe they're just a step up from what you're used to.

Candice hesitated at the door. Jenny met her eyes and saw something unsettled in them. "Are you getting in or just standing there?" She teased her friend.

Though she didn't look certain, Candice slid inside. The backdoors shut and Candice jumped with the bang.

"What's wrong?" Jenny whispered, half of her attention on the guys, who moved to the front of the car and closed the hood.

"I don't know. Something just doesn't feel right." Candice's voice dropped even lower, until Jenny could barely hear it. "I think we should get out now."

Before Jenny could reply, the guys climbed in. "Comfy?" Cade asked cheerfully.

"Actually, it's kind of stuffy in here." Candice reached for the door handle.

"Now don't be like that," Jason said, his tone so friendly that it felt over the top.

He flashed a smile and Jenny noticed that he had the same weird teeth as Cade. Maybe they were just related, and maybe they really were perfectly nice, but those strange teeth made her think of that word again: vampires. The thought, which would normally amuse her, made her shiver. Suddenly, with the heavy moon throbbing in the sky, and the spring crickets chirping in miles of empty grasslands, vampires didn't seem funny, but a little bit terrifying.

We need to get out of here.

She gave her own false smile. "Actually, it's kind of chilly. Let me grab my jacket from the car."

Jason's over-the-top cheer continued. "No worries, we can fix chilly." He turned the key and the motor came to life, purring as he adjusted knobs on the dash. "There we go. Heat's on."

The heat might be on, but it didn't fix the weirdness, the strange tension, and the fact that the car was running. Even Jenny wasn't stupid enough to miss that. But it was Candice who voiced it.

"I thought you were out of gas?"

The guys exchanged looks, then Cade said, "Ah fuck it, just go."

Go? Go where?

Jason dropped the car into gear and understanding crashed over Jenny in a millisecond of understanding.

Oh holy fuck, we're being kidnapped!

As one, she and Candice threw their doors open. Candice made it out of the car but, before Jenny had her legs free, Cade was outside, blocking her exit.

How in the hell did he move so fast?

"Jason, get the other one," the redhead ordered as he put his hands on Jenny's shoulders. "And you, get back in the car."

His calm voice seemed as wrong as the clean backseat. "What is this? Is it some kind of joke?"

"Sorry, no. Just stay in the car and you won't get hurt."

The threat was there, and she rebelled against it. "Let me go and you won't get hurt." She punctuated her sentence by twisting away from him and kicking him in the shin. It was like kicking marble, and had the same effect.

Cade rolled his eyes and grabbed her by a handful of her curly hair. She cried out as he shoved her into the backseat. He released her and slammed the door. She went for it again, but he stood outside like a sentinel, so she dove for the driver's side door. She barely had it opened before he was on that side, slamming it closed.

"Just fucking sit still!" he snapped.

Jenny pulled back, her knees on the seat, and her attention through the back windshield. Candice had made it to her car and was inside. As Jason reached it, her headlights snapped on and the car suddenly lurched forward, slamming into the guys' vehicle.

The impact threw Jenny into the back of the front seats. She untangled her legs, and looked up again to see Candice's car peeling backwards, throwing gravel. The car hit the road and Jenny realized that her friend was leaving her behind.

Cade was a few feet away, so she flung the door open and ran towards Candice, waving her arms. She had to stop and let her in!

Cade was suddenly at Jenny's side. He snatched her up like a shield, and jumped in the path of the oncoming vehicle. The lights blinded Jenny and a scream tore from her lips. She could see her death, imagine it reflected in the shiny grill of her best friend's car.

But Candice squealed to a stop. Through the glare of headlights, Jenny could see Jason climb in the driver's seat, then the headlights shut off and the motor died. Candice tumbled out the passenger door, but Jason leapt over the hood to land in front of her.

What in the hell? How did he do that?

Candice made it to her feet. Before she could run, Jason grabbed her and, with a roar, bit into her shoulder. Jenny screamed in unison with Candice, and Cade stormed towards the attack, dragging his prisoner with him. "Jason! Cut it out!"

The blonde pulled away and wiped his mouth. Candice dropped to her knees, sobbing, one hand to the bleeding wound. Jason gave her a dirty look, and slammed her head into the side of the car. Her body fell limp, like a sack of bricks that he barely caught before it hit the ground. With a snarl he dragged her around the vehicle and dropped her near Jenny.

"I'll get the rope."

Rope? Oh God.

Cade forced Jenny to the ground where she reached for her friend. The shoulder wound still bled, but it looked like a clean bite – more like she'd been bitten by a large cat than a person.

Those weird teeth.

She couldn't force herself to look at Cade, afraid of the truth she'd see on his face. "Are you going to kill us?"

"No. We have our orders to take you alive."

"Orders?" Jenny's head snapped up. Someone had ordered him to take them? But who? They weren't worth kidnapping, no one would pay a ransom. They were just a couple of teenage girls from Dunwick. The only interesting thing either had done was when Candice dated Anthony – Anthony! Churo said he sold drugs. Did that mean he was in a gang?

"Holy shit, is this about Anthony?"

Jason reappeared with rope and a roll of duct tape. "Anthony? That name sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

"I dunno." Cade shrugged and knelt down, a hand extended for the rope.

Jason handed it over. "No, really. It sounds familiar."

Cade rolled Candice's limp body over and pulled her wrists behind her back. "He's not one of ours."

"He might be one of Andrei's," Jason suggested.

Andrei. The name meant nothing to Jenny, but she'd seen enough horror movies to know you should always play along with the psychos. "Yeah, that sounds familiar."

"Sure it does," Cade said impatiently as he finished tying Candice's wrists and turned for her.

Jason crouched down and put his hand on Jenny's shoulder, ready to force her face-down like Candice was, but he hesitated. "No, seriously. If she belongs to this Anthony, and he's in Andrei's coven, everyone will be pissed. Imagine seeing your pet in the punch bowl."

There were too many horrifying words in that sentence, so Jenny just nodded along. "Right. He'll be furious."

Cade practically snarled as he turned to her. "Fine. Show me your mark."

Cold terror filtered through her. Mark? What did he mean? Like a gang tattoo? Fuck, she didn't have one! "It's – uh, it's not in a good place."

"If he didn't want you to flash it, he shouldn't have put it there. Hurry up."

"Um..." She shifted into a more upright position. The only tattoo she had was a red heart between her boobs. There was no way that was a gang sign.

Cade gave a final grunt of impatience and shoved her down on the asphalt. "She doesn't have one. Either hold her hands or tie them while I hold them."

Jenny squirmed as they pulled her arms back. "I-I don't have a mark, but Anthony is still going to be mad if you kill me!"

The rope tightened, then they pulled her back up and slapped a piece of duct tape over her mouth.

"I already told you we're not going to kill you," Cade said. "The master prefers you alive."

Master? And with that word Jenny realized that, familiar name or not, this had nothing to do with Anthony.

As Jason stuffed her in the car, Jenny tried to beg him to let her go, tried to threaten, tried to bargain, but the tape muffled her words into an unintelligible mess. He forced her head first into the backseat, and an unconscious Candice soon followed. Car doors slammed as Jenny struggled to right herself. The vehicle was still running, and Jason dropped it into gear. Jenny pulled herself up in time to see Candice's car, now pulled over to the side of the road with the windows down, practically begging to be stolen. As it dropped away into the distance, she told herself that someone would find it. There was probably enough evidence spread all over that the cops would figure it out.

Wouldn't they?

As they drove, Jenny kept an eye on what passed outside the windows, not that there was much to see in the dark. Even if there was, what good would it do? Unless she could flag down a passerby, her only hope was to escape when they finally stopped. But what about Candice? Unconscious, she couldn't save herself, and there was no way Jenny could drag her along and still get away. All she could do was pray that she woke up before they reached their destination.

Past the comment about keeping them alive, there were no other hints about why they were being taken. With the word "master", the only conclusion Jenny could come up with was a movie plot; they were being kidnapped and turned into sex slaves who'd be sold on the black market. That was better than being dead, but the only problem was that her dad wouldn't care enough to hunt her down, and Candice's, who would care, didn't have the "specific set of skills" necessary to save them.

Largely ignored, Jenny spent the ride trying to free herself. She worked at the duct tape with the tip of her tongue, hoping to moisten the adhesive. When her arms started to hurt, she turned to trying to untie the rope, like they did in the movies.

She couldn't do it.

If only Candice would wake up, then they could sit back to back and untie each other. Except Candice didn't wake up. Had Jason hit her head too hard? Maybe he had cracked her skull, or given her a concussion, or even brain damage? God, was Candice in a coma?

At least her shoulder's stopped bleeding.

When the car finally stopped, Candice was still comatose. Cade pulled Jenny out and she stared wide eyed at a sprawling mansion. Windows glowed with light, and music drifted from inside. Once again, sex ring was the only thing she could think of. Those were always run by wealthy sickos.

In this case, sickos with weird teeth.

She tried to communicate what a lousy prostitute she'd make, but her words were muffled by the tape. Cade gave her a glance that said to shut up, and hauled her towards a cellar door. Inside, a set of stairs disappeared into darkness.

The thick black filled her with terror, and she tried again to reason with him, to plead with him, but the tape made it impossible. He dragged her down the steps, his hold a vice she couldn't break free of. As the darkness closed in, she gave up escape and only tried not to trip.

Invisible in the black, a metal door screeched on rusty hinges. Cade pulled her through it. Though she couldn't see her surroundings, she could feel the enclosed space, the chill, the moisture, and smell the mildew and damp, like a basement.

Cade pushed her deeper into the room, then let her go. She blinked against the deep dark and waited for Cade to flip on a flashlight. If she couldn't see, he couldn't see. Instead, she heard footsteps, then Jason's voice. "Here's the other one. We better get their clothes and report."

Get their clothes? Did he mean take them, or give them new ones? Both options were terrifying, and Jenny shuffled farther away from them. Again, she waited for light, but there was just the sound of a zipper and the rustle of cloth that meant they were stripping Candice.

Oh God, and once we're naked, then what?

Cade's voice came, surprisingly close. "Here, re-tie her hands. I'm going to start on the other one."

Jenny took another shuffling step back and told herself that he couldn't see her. If she just stayed quiet, he wouldn't be able to find her -

He took hold of her arm and spun her around. Deftly, he untied the rope, then ordered her to strip. She drew away, rubbing her wrists. Her pleas came out as whimpers, and he gave an annoyed grunt.

"It's easier if you do it yourself, but if you don't I will."

She drew back and tentatively touched the hem of her t-shirt. She imagined resisting, refusing, and then he'd make her, just like he said. He'd knock her down, rip off her clothes, maybe bite her like Jason had bit Candice...

These people aren't human, are they?

She closed her eyes and pretended she was home, pretended Patrick was there with his pretty blue eyes and his easy grin. He was flopped back on the couch, watching her, silently encouraging her.

Just think about that.

She peeled her shirt off, then unfastened her jeans. Her shoes kicked off easily, and she slid the pants down. She lost her balance climbing out of them, but caught herself.

Cade pulled the clothes out of her arms. "All of it."

She took off her socks first. The cold floor bit into the soles of her bare feet, and she hopped once or twice, before her terror overpowered the shock. At Cade's impatient noise, she swallowed down her humiliation, and forced herself to unfasten her bra.

At least he can't see me in the dark.

That thought was the only thing that allowed her to pull down her panties and step out of them. She'd barely finished when Cade snatched the undergarments from her. A second pair of hands grabbed her, and she stumbled, her scream held back by the tape.

"Tie her hands again," Cade said, and she realized the other hands must belong to Jason.

Bizarre relief filled her. Jason was a monster, but at least he was a monster she'd seen before – a monster she knew. That was better than someone, or something unknown.

God, I'm already crazy.

Jason re-tied her hands, then dragged her by her arm and half tossed her to the floor. A sheet of plastic wrinkled under her, and she tried to roll into it and cover herself.

She heard the metal door slam, heard a lock click. Then, Cade and Jason's footsteps moved across the floor and faded, replaced by the sound of her raspy breathing and the soft drip of water.

Jenny counted off the minutes. When enough had passed, she wormed to her knees and tried to call for Candice. The tape had loosened with her earlier efforts, but not enough to make her words intelligible.

With her hands tied, the best she could do was scoot across the floor. The cement was rough, damp, and cold, and scraped her skin. She quickly retreated back to the plastic, then scootched along, the plastic trapped between her knees and the cement. At last her leg bumped something soft and warm.

Candice.

She tried again to communicate, but with no words, and no hands, there was nothing. Frustrated, she sat back on her haunches and gave into sobs. She was going to die. Candice was going to die.

That is if she's not already dead!

When her sobs quieted, she leaned on her friend. Naked skin on naked skin, a sensation that should have been erotic or unsettling, now it was only comforting. Something warm and human, something beyond the cold, damp, darkness.

She could hear Candice's heartbeat, feel her body rise and fall with her breaths. She was alive, but if they couldn't get out, how long would they last?

Terror filled moments passed, set to the steady drip-drip of the water. Jenny's ears strained until that sound became so loud, so all encompassing, that she could feel the vibration of the splatters in her chest. Though she tried to see her prison, in the thick black there was no difference between having her eyes open or closed.

She didn't know how long she stayed there before Candice stirred. She squealed encouragingly, and nudged her friend, hoping to pull her back to the world of the waking.

But who would want to wake to this? Maybe she was better off asleep.

Candice's muffled scream and hysterical thrashing said she was awake, and knew enough about what had happened to panic. Jenny tried to soothe her with soft sounds, and eventually she calmed down.

Jenny wasn't sure how to communicate her feeble escape plan, or even what the plan was, past untying their hands. She shifted around until her back was against Candice's, and caught her friend's flailing fingers in her own. She felt carefully for the rope around her wrists, then for the knot. At the odd angle, and with no visuals, she couldn't get it untied.

Candice murmured something behind the tape, and stopped Jenny's efforts. She shook her head, though she knew her friend couldn't see it. She needed to get that rope loose so they could-

But Candice understood better than she thought, and instead of pulling away she worked on the rope around Jenny's wrists. The knot came undone, and her hands were freed. With a muffled cry of delight, she reached for the tape on her mouth, but stopped when she heard something; a door opening?

She grabbed Candice with one hand, and the plastic with the other, throwing it over them like a blanket. Maybe if they stayed quiet, those people – or whatever they were – wouldn't be able to find them in the dark.

But of course they can. They can see right through it. They're not human.

With the acknowledgement came an acceptance. They'd been kidnapped by monsters.

The thought died away as she heard footsteps drawing closer. Unlike last time these were slower, almost reluctant, and with them came the soft glow of light.

Candice huddled against her friend, whimpering softly. The plastic only partially covered them, leaving their heads exposed, but Jenny resisted the urge to tug it over them; Cade and Jason might be close enough to see them, and if they saw her hands, they'd know she was free. Better that they think she was restrained. Maybe she could use that to her advantage.

She forced her aching arms behind her back, as though they were still tied, and tried to calm her pounding heart. Her body trembled, and her tongue stuck in her dry mouth. The seconds it took them to cross the room seemed like hours.

Light flashed in her face and dazzled her eyes. The whimper escaped and she turned her head away, as blind now as she'd been in the dark. An unfamiliar voice came, not Cade or Jason. "You do one, I'll do the other."

Footsteps closed in, and Jenny's whimpers turned to involuntary screams, muffled by the tape. Someone reached past her and yanked Candice away.

This is it, our chance.

With a muffled cry, Jenny launched herself at their assailant. He swore and knocked her back, hard enough to steal the air from her lungs and send her crashing to the floor. Adjusting to the light, she could see Candice fighting against a man; kicking, thrashing. He grabbed her by her hair with one hand, and jammed something into her arm with the other. A needle? He was shooting her up? Drugging her?

Oh fucking God.

He held Candice down as her efforts slowed, and ordered his unseen accomplice, "Get her."

Jenny knew that she was the "her", but her legs shook too hard to stand. The light drew closer, the bearer invisible in the contrast, and she scooted away, her fear gasping out in horrified sounds. Her back pressed against a cold wall and, as the light drew near, all reason left her. She turned and clawed uselessly at the bricks, her body slick with sweat and her mind thrumming with terror. She couldn't die here, not like this. Not like this!

The light shifted and her assailant grabbed her arm. She spun, trying to wrench free, when she met a familiar pair of blue eyes. Blue eyes she'd dreamed about, giggled about, looked into.

It was Patrick.

She whimpered a mixture of disbelief and thankfulness. If Patrick was here it meant he was saving her.

Didn't it?

The other man's voice shattered her illusions. "Just stick it in the fleshy part of her arm."

Her eyes went to the syringe in Patrick's hand. No. He wasn't there to save her. He was there to drug her, and drag her away, and let them do God knew what to her. Despite logic, she remembered the way Cade and Jason had moved – how fast they had moved – the way Jason had bitten Candice's shoulder with his long, pointed teeth...

Please Patrick!

She shook her head furiously, pleading with soft noises, and she saw his eyes shift towards his companion. The man was on his feet, Candice a lumpy burden in his arms, and moving towards the back of the room.

"I'm going on up. Bring her to the kitchen when you're done."

Jenny tensed, still not sure if Patrick was a savior or a monster. As the other's footsteps faded, Patrick slumped to a sitting position and picked up his phone.

Was he calling for help? The police? Or was he calling Cade and Jason to come handle her?

"Are you all right?"

His question seemed insane. Did she look all right? When he didn't make a move to kill or restrain her, she peeled the duct tape from her mouth in a painful pull. "Oh my God!"

Patrick looked away from her, to the syringe in his hand. "Are you all right? They didn't, you know, do anything?"

She rubbed her bleeding lips and followed his eyes as they moved from the syringe to her naked breasts. "No, they took our clothes but they didn't-"

"Good."

"What are you doing here?"

Patrick made a low noise in his throat and looked away. "I – I work for them. It's complicated."

"He's always too fuckin' busy doing God knows what."

And now she knew what that was.

"You work for them kidnapping people? Is this a sex ring?" But time was short, and she could ask questions later. Now what she needed was to escape. "Never mind, you can tell me later." She tried to stand, but her legs gave way and left her on all fours, facing the rusted metal door. "We came through there. They parked the car and dragged us down a set of stairs." She touched the cold rusty surface, her eyes on the heavy padlock. "If we could just get out."

"We can't. I'm sorry. I have to take you upstairs."

She snapped around, her mouth open to object, but he motioned her to silence. "If I don't, they'll kill me, but listen. I'm not going to drug you. Just pretend to be out of it, all right? Once we get to the kitchen there's just me and a couple of women. All you have to do is get out the door."

They'll kill me. That explained why he was "working" for them. "What about Candice?"

She heard the regret in his voice. "I'm sorry. I can't do anything about her. Once you're out the door, run and don't stop. There's a wall in the back, but you should be able to get over it, then just keep running. When the sun comes up, I'll come back and try to find you. Do you understand?"

As she nodded, he pointed the syringe at nothing and squeezed out the medication in a thin stream. Empty, he recapped it and stuck it in his pocket. "All right, I'll have to carry you. Remember, you have to act drugged."

She nodded her understanding and thought of the way Candice had gone limp so quickly. Whatever that stuff was, it was powerful. That meant she had to lie perfectly still in his arms. Limp.

Like the dead.

The thought sent a shiver through her, but she suppressed it as Patrick scooped her up. She nestled her face against his shoulder and breathed in the smell of him; cigarettes, alcohol, and cologne. Or was it just his deodorant? It didn't matter, the scent comforted her, and she relaxed against him, letting his warmth seep into her. It was okay. Everything was going to be okay.

He carried her to a low doorway where a tunnel sloped upwards. She could almost feel the reluctance in his steps and thought again of what he'd said. They'll kill me.

"Patrick," she whispered, her lips close to his ear. "What are they?"

"Vampires."

The word should have been impossible, ridiculous, but somehow it wasn't. It was just what she'd expected. "You won't let them hurt me, will you?"

She took his silence for assurance.

A door was open at the top of the tunnel. Instrumental music swelled, the same as she'd heard outside, a reminder of the master and whoever else was there. Afraid someone might see, she closed her eyes, and tried to look as limp as she could. She felt his motion, knew he was moving through different rooms, but she didn't look.

I just have to get through this. He'll tell me when, then I'll run. It's okay. It's going to be okay.

They went through a door and a woman's voice teased, "We thought she got the better of you!"

That was one of the women Patrick had mentioned. Just himself and a couple of women. She could get past them and out the door. Run to the wall, then over it.

"No," Patrick answered, with fake joviality. "She's just hard to carry and that tunnel is pretty small."

A second woman chimed in, "Okay, bring her into the ballroom and I'll get it set up."

Jenny felt Patrick stiffen. "I thought we'd do it in here?"

"You were too slow. Lennon already took the bowl back. Don't worry, I heard about..." the woman hesitated. "I'll handle it so you don't have to. Just take her in there and put her in the bowl."

Put her in the bowl? Jason's words came back to her, "Imagine seeing your pet in the punch bowl."

If Patrick was right and they were vampires, she could guess what the punch would be.

Oh fuck.

She shifted in Patrick's arms, and he quickly changed position and clamped down. She shouldn't move, wasn't supposed to move, but she needed to know what was going on. Had things changed? What was the woman going to handle? Should she still run?

Without answering, Patrick carried her through the door and onwards. The music grew louder, until they were in the same room with it.

Bring her into the ballroom.

Patrick's voice sounded, close to her ear. "Just stay calm. I have to put you in a pan of ice. It's going to be cold but don't move."

Though she knew she shouldn't, she eeked out a final terrified, "Save me."

Patrick drew to a stop. After a moment passed, the woman whispered fiercely, "Hurry up. They're starting to notice us."

They? Did she mean the vampires? Oh God. Were there vampires in the ballroom with them? What happened to just two women and Patrick?

Save me!

Patrick laid her gently on a bed of something hard and cold; the ice he'd mentioned. Though she tried not to react, she couldn't stop her body from stiffening.

Oh God, did they hear me? Did they see me?

Someone grabbed her wrist and pulled her arm across her, dropping her forearm into what felt like a cold metal notch. She chanced a peek under her eyelids to see she was right, then quickly closed them again.

God, Patrick, please!

Then the pain came: a slice across her wrist that pulled an involuntary scream from her and abruptly halted the music. On instinct alone, she jerked away and into a crouch, grabbing her bleeding wrist, terrified eyes sweeping the ballroom.

And that was exactly what it was. With a parquet floor, chandeliers, and a wall made of mirrors. Guests stood around in fancy clothes, dripping jewels, their faces as shocked as the woman who stood in front of Jenny, holding a knife.

The woman took a step back, and Jenny bolted. She hit the floor running, and raced for a set of French doors. Out the door. Over the wall. Run and don't stop.

A bald man was suddenly in front of her, arms extended, and pointed teeth gleaming. Pointed teeth like Cade's and Jason's.

Vampires.

Jenny slid to a stop and spun, frantically looking for an exit, for Patrick, for anything that might save her. The guests, who'd stood in shocked silence, began to move. Most drifted away, but a couple came forward, snapping fangs at her.

She stumbled backwards, and landed against a hard body. Spinning around, she came face to face with yet another of the monsters. He grinned, and gave her a little push backwards. She caught her balance, and saw an opening. If she could just get past them...

She darted, but the opening closed. She drew back, feet sliding on the polished floor, and headed for another gap, only to have it close again. A trio advanced, cornering her, but then they stepped aside with mock bows, motioning her to go.

Too panicked to think, she dashed away from them, but she was soon cornered again, and again let go. The fourth time, one of the vampires grabbed her arm and bit; a flash of pain that earned a cry. She struggled backwards amid the monster's laughter, when another seized her. He pressed her against him and sank his teeth into her neck. Sharp, like knives, they pierced the flesh, and she felt the warm moisture of blood bubble out as she tore herself away from him.

Another wave of laughter as she tried to run, looking for Patrick or the door. She found only more of the monsters, mouths curled in cruel smiles and teeth snapping. One of them bit her hand, and another her elbow. She wrenched free of them, only to be captured by a woman who bit her naked breast, then released her, licking her lips.

Jenny dashed away from her, but the vampires caught her again, bouncing her back and forth between them like a toy ball, biting when they could, laughing, grabbing. Blood streaked her naked body, and her chest heaved with her panicked breaths. She broke free and looked again for deliverance. This time she found Patrick, standing near the woman with the knife, but she didn't see salvation in his eyes, only an apology.

Save me!

"Enough!"

Someone clapped their hands and the crowd parted to reveal a young man, not much older than she was, dressed in old fashioned clothes. He stepped inside the ring of vampires to glare at her distastefully. She wanted to look away, wanted to run, scream, but all she could do was stare back at him; this beautiful, horrible, terrifying monster.

He pulled her to him, and for a second she had a flash of her earlier fears, of being raped, abused, but the thoughts fled as he opened his mouth, fangs shining in the chandelier light.

Oh God, no!

She screamed as he tore into her, rending flesh and taking her blood. Pain radiated from the bite; a thousand screaming fires roaring under her skin, taking her reason and what little bravery she'd had left. Seconds passed like searing hours, and when he finally released her she was too weak to do more than lie in his arms, whimpering, her eyes squeezed shut against it all. In those hellish, horrible moments she had tasted something worse than her nightmares, something worse than death, and she knew that it was coming again.

Save me!

She opened her eyes in time to see the blonde sneer and toss her to the waiting monsters. With a cry of delight they grabbed her up. As the music resumed, they bit, one after another, tearing, shredding, drinking. Agony ripped through her, and she screamed, begging for salvation, for anything to make it stop.

Even death was better than this.

Save me.

S. K. Gregory lives in Northern Ireland and writes horror and urban fantasy. She has just released the third book in her Daemon Series – Daemon Battle, as well as offering authors reviews and promotions for their books through her website.

www.storyteller-skgregory.weebly.com

Erin Hayes is a sci-fi junkie, video game nerd, and wannabe manga artist. Erin writes a lot of things. Sometimes she writes books. She works as an advertising copywriter by day, and she's a New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author by night. She has lived in New Zealand, Hawaii, Texas, Alabama, and now San Francisco with her husband, cat, and a growing collection of geek paraphernalia.

http://www.erinhayesbooks.com/

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

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

C.G.Coppola is the author of the Fantasy Adventure series, Arizal Wars. In addition to short stories that explore magic and the paranormal, she writes books that involve a lot of kissing, kickass heroines, and fighting alongside best friends. When not writing, C. G. Coppola can be found watching The Walking Dead, playing with her dog, Appa, or trying not to mess up a recipe she found on Pintrest.

https://Authorcgcoppola.com

C.L. Hernandez is an author of horror and dark fiction. Her works include the books A Jar of Fingers, The Witch War of Fiddlehead Creek, Seven Deadly Ghosts, The Curious Case of the Tuscan Plague Doctor, and Mr. Goddard's Menagerie. She also writes the Horror Story Six-Pack series, Cobwebs, and A Half-Dozen Horrors, and Waterlogged: Six Tales of the Aquatic Undead.

www.cindylouhernandez.com

Toneye Eyenot writes tales of horror and dark fantasy which have appeared in numerous anthologies over the past two years. He is the author of the ongoing SACRED BLADE OF PROFANITY series with two books, THE SCARLETT CURSE and JOSHUA'S FOLLY, published through J. Ellington Ashton Press and a third currently in the works. He has a clown/werewolf novella titled BLOOD MOON BIG TOP awaiting release with JEA Press and is the editor of the soon to be unleashed FULL MOON SLAUGHTER werewolf anthology, also with JEA. Toneye lurks in the Blue Mountains in NSW Australia, with the myriad voices who tear the horrors from his mind and splatter them onto the page.

 https://www.facebook.com/Toneye-Eyenot-Dark-Author-Musician-1128293857187537

D. J. Doyle loves Irish history and mythology and they are strong elements in her first book and will continue to be for another two books - a trilogy so to speak. She is still in the hectic role in work but making sure she can find time to write at least twice a week and hopefully her second book will be released soon.

https://www.facebook.com/DJDoyleAuthor/

M. L. Sparrow is currently the author of four books: two YA Sci-fi's, The Demon Inside and Ghetto, an Adult Fantasy called No Rest for the Wicked and she will be making her debut into the Contemporary Romance world with her NA story, Player. She will write pretty much anything that pops into her head, no matter the genre, and enjoys keeping her readers guessing as to what she will write next, though you can pretty much guarantee that there will be some degree of romance!

www.mlsparrow.wixsite.com

Donald's active imagination gathers in a heap of words....and after a few days of organizing and a short nap, his dexterous writing abilities compile a masterpiece. (well....that is what he likes to think.) Donald's short stories and poetry has appeared in multiple anthologies, blogs and e-zines. Follow his Facebook page:

http://www.facebook.com/donald.armfield

Sharon L. Higa has been writing horror and supernatural tales since she was nine years old.

She published her first short story and novel in 2013, and hasn't stopped since. She currently

Has four novels, one novella, and over twenty-five short stories currently published, and has

Another novel coming out with JEA Press very soon. Sharon lives In East Tennessee, sharing her home with seven cats and one dog.

www.leapingunicornliterary.com

Joleene Naylor is the author of the glitter-less Amaranthine vampire series, a world where vampires aren't for children. She maintains several blogs full of odd ramblings, and occasionally updates her website at JoleeneNaylor.com. In what little time is left she watches anime and pins recipes and DIY, all from a crooked Victorian house in Villisca, Iowa. Between her husband and her pets, she is never lonely, and should she ever disappear one might look for her on a beach in Tahiti, sipping a tropical drink and wearing a disguise.

http://JoleeneNaylor.com

