 
charm

By Tal Turing

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

© Tal Turing 2016

Published at Smashwords

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All rights reserved

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# Table of Contents

Dedication

Isabella – Introduction

The Soldiers – Eric

The Soldiers – Malcolm

The Soldiers – Darla

The Soldiers – Chad

The Soldiers – Tina

The Soldiers – Isabella

Porter – Introduction

Porter – Stacy Sullivan

Porter – Isabella

Porter – The Watcher

Charm – Righteous Rules

Porter – Hidden Butte

Charm – The Raid

Porter – Isabella

Porter – The Ski Lodge

Charm – Grand Master P

Porter – Climbing

Charm – The Sentries

Porter – Reaching the Top

Porter – The Stakeout

Porter – The Church

Porter – The Return

The Letter

Porter – The Package

Author's Notes

# Dedication

This work is dedicated to the memory of Jodi Huisentruit. If you don't know the name, please take the time to google her.

# Isabella - Introduction

Something tingled as she pulled her Volkswagen into an available space and stopped the engine. She paused. She didn't have 'spider sense' as her old college friends used to say way-back-when, but wasn't there a different name for this feeling? The feeling that something was askew, not immediately but in general, like the slow realization of being on the wrong road, one that ends badly.

The term she wanted was not 'feminine intuition', she disliked that term, just another societal mechanism for letting the female of the species get her way without having to substantiate herself. For Isabella, it was more a type of event pattern recognition. One could look at a person's face and know there was something aberrant long before determining what or why. And she had this same feeling about life. Something was wrong.

She snapped out of it, forcing herself to ignore whatever it was which bothered her, and having already checked the mirror, she opened the door, stepped out into the busy street and moved quickly to the safety of the sidewalk. Isabella was not the type to be caught looking the wrong way figuratively or literally.

She tossed her dark, reddish-brown hair as she located the store. Upon entering, she ignored the large advertisements and the aisles of merchandise and strode directly to the service counter.

She gave the man behind the counter her name, and when he was unable to find the order she realized that her earlier feelings had muddied her brain, she was not thinking clearly.

She tried again, this time providing her brother's name. Malcolm had placed the order but the weekend would be spent with her friends and she was so excited for him that she almost felt that this was her idea. It was often that way between big sisters and their little brothers and Malcolm was the only sibling she had.

The man returned with a single large heavy box and she was immediately annoyed with herself for not realizing how much equipment she needed to haul back. There would be ten packages, one per person, and already the box which held them all would not fit in her car. How would she get it home?

"Do you have scissors?" she asked eyeing the container as the man processed her credit card.

"Sorry, I don't have any here," the man replied.

She tugged at the box lid but it was sealed securely with packing tape, she started to puncture the tape with one of her nails when she thought the better of it. What had this man said? He didn't have scissors?

She turned back to the middle-aged man in the Gumby T-shirt. He was looking at her as if her presence kept him from continuing his life. She smiled to herself, it had been so long since the last time she used her power and so the thought of breaking her vow for such a trivial reason amused her. Besides, she hardly ever needed it anymore, and sometimes she wondered if she ever really had. Power was like any weapon, you use it because you have it, else you find a different and often better way.

"Could you go look? In the back perhaps? Scissors, a Swiss army knife, box cutters, a steak knife, anything like that will do."

The man walked away so suddenly that she thought he was either angry or that...somehow she had done it anyhow.

Gumby-man returned quickly as well, an exacto-knife in his hand, he opened the box and began placing its contents on the counter.

She counted the rifles; there were ten. She also found ten uniforms each encased in plastic. She tore one open and found a crimson jump-suit, and a pair of plastic, white-rimmed safety glasses, the lenses tinted dark-yellow. Then her eye caught the white lettering on the back of jump suit, L-A-R-R-Y.

"This name isn't right," she murmured as she inspected another package before adding, "And neither is this one."

The large green Gumby on the man's chest expanded as he sighed.

"I...I dunno. We had a couple orders coming in, maybe they mixed the order with another group. But this is the only shipment we received today, so..."

So if she made too much of a stink, she might not get anything. And Malcolm would be so disappointed.

"Forget it, I'll take them."

# The Soldiers - Eric

Eric realized it was time to stop and check on the others. He had been in a hiking stupor for at least 30 minutes, immersed in the joy of the outdoors, the scents and sounds of the wilderness. He was in his element even if the region was new to him and he was excited to see this butte. It was the sort of thing he would have gladly come to see on his own and he was starting to wish that would have been the case.

When his new girlfriend, Izzy, had invited him on this weekend adventure, he had naturally assumed that she and her friends had done this sort of thing before, that they had hiked longer than five miles, that they had cooked over a camp fire, that they had spent the night outdoors. But now he knew differently.

He couldn't help his personality and had quickly assumed leadership of the party of ten, deciding when they would leave, who would carry what supplies, and he had chosen the path. And when they reached the base of the mountain, he would decide how best to navigate to the top.

He had not been familiar with Hidden Butte or the Ski Lodge of the same name, perched on the formation's southern wall. But Google provided him with all he really needed to know, the rest would come from his eyes, his senses, his experience.

The ski lodge was abandoned now having gone bankrupt a decade ago. Although located on private land, it bordered several State Parks and it had remained an attraction for hikers until a bridge on the only service road was condemned, making Hidden Butte accessible only by serious hikers; and in this group, only Eric qualified on that score.

Eric turned to see how far behind the rest had fallen. He was pleased to find one of the women not too far back. It wasn't Izzy, who was probably shepherding the weaker hikers or doting after her little brother, a strange kid who looked and acted like a tweenage tom girl.

"Hi!" a woman smiled enthusiastically at him. He forgot her name but was pleased to notice she was not out of breath. She looked like the type which might teach yoga or spinning or both. She turned easily on one foot upon reaching him, like a ballerina, presenting her back to him and calling, "Can you adjust my pack? Something keeps hitting my thermos and it's driving me crazy!"

"Sure," he said as he examined her backpack which was now thrust into his face. Some of the straps had come loose, allowing a carabiner free to swing against her state-of-the-art thermos. He approved of her choice in gear, as well as her toned and tanned legs. He forced his attention back to her equipment, making sure it all met his standards. It did.

Eric patted her shoulder, tearing himself away and taking in the site of the rock formation in the distance. Hidden Butte was a marvel indeed, like a perfect piece of forest thrust upward nearly twenty stories into the air, becoming an island to its surroundings. One could not look at it without wondering what lied at the top. He sensed the rest of the party arriving, at least one was limping from, no doubt, an unattended blister. It would be a longer journey than he had thought.

Eventually they reached the base of the cliffs. While the rest investigated the old ski lodge, Eric examined the cliffs. The face was plenty irregular with stone outcrops, ledges and bushes growing from the rock face. If they chose their route carefully, ropes would not be needed though the women might need some help to navigate some of the ledges.

Izzy joined him as he surveyed the situation and he spoke to her without turning.

"The best route, the safest route will also take the most time. We'll start from the west side of the base and then criss-cross to the center and back until we get about half-way up, then we'll move to the other side." He continued thinking-out-loud until everyone had arrived.

"Why don't we go straight up the middle?" asked Tyler, a tall, athletic young man.

"You and I could probably go that way, but not everyone here has the height or the strength to ascend vertically like that. But see those ledges along the left?" He turned to Darla and spoke to her directly, "It's a short hop onto each ledge and then walking in between, you would have no trouble right?"

In answer, the young woman walked up to the wall, slipped up onto the ledge and climbed up. Then she stood and walked easily along the ledge until she found the next ascension point. She turned to face the group from her new perch and nodded happily.

"What about on the way down?" Izzy speculated, "It will be harder to see where you are stepping on the way down, especially if it grows dark. And we might not remember the route on the way down and won't have the viewpoint we have now."

Eric was nonplussed, "We'll make it to the top long before dark and camp overnight, we'll have plenty of light when we come back."

"What about that line of trees and foliage on the far right?" his girlfriend asked, gesturing to a vertical swath of greenery which extended from the top to the bottom. "It should be easier to get down there, going tree by tree or bush by bush..."

Eric looked over only quickly before returning to his plan.

"Sure it has trees, but it's even steeper there," he pointed out, "this way we can return the same way we go up, I'll be able to retrace our path, I guarantee you that.

# The Soldiers - Malcolm

Malcolm crawled into a bright red uniform, his mind excited by the realization that the game would finally begin. The hike to Hidden Butte had been okay, he had seen some hawks and caught some good views of Darla's plump ass. And he had actually enjoyed climbing the butte, it made him feel like he was conquering it.

It was late afternoon when they finally reached the top and they made camp in the forest. Then his mood had soured, he had thought they would start the game right away, but every time he said anything about it, he was met with a stupid comment or an idiotic look.

Instead, Izzy's friends just sat around, making stupid jokes or talking about the most useless things. As if Malcolm cared about people he didn't even know or what they did all day at their boring jobs. Afterwards, they insisted on eating, but Malcolm wasn't even hungry!

As the sun set, Malcolm was fuming. Why else had they come except to play the game? But despite his annoyance, he ate his food quickly, allowing his mood to improve. Surely there was nothing else to do after dinner but play, right?

So when that wide-eyed whore Tina asked for someone to pour her some wine, Malcolm decided he hated all the women. Worse, two of the guys jumped to do her bidding.

Fortunately, some of the guys did want to play, they didn't say anything, they just went and put on their suits. Thank fucking god!

Eventually the girls followed suit but even from his tent he could hear them complaining about the uniforms. Tina didn't like the colors and Adrian complained that the names printed on the uniforms were wrong.

"I t-t-told you all," Malc yelled. "The company f-f-f-fucked up, fucked up the uniforms. Who cares!" He never thought anyone would care about the names. Who the Christ cared if a uniform said 'Adrian' or 'Vera'? She would be shot just the same. All that mattered was that there are five red uniforms and five blue uniforms, two teams, one game.

Malcolm was so mad that he yanked on the flap of his tent as he left and the structure fell. Enraged, he stomped his foot hard and looked down, realizing that he had struck something with his foot, the laser rifle. He kicked it a second time. Stupid thing!

Those closest to him just ignored his outburst. Izzy's friends were always like that when it came to him. They knew better than to start something. The only one who would be concerned would be Izzy herself and right on cue here she came with her big cow eyes and the worried crease in her forehead, the good witch of the South. 'Spare me' he muttered.

He walked away from her, into the woods. She called to him, but he ignored her. The forest was quiet except for the rustling of the leaves high above and as she caught up to him, Malcolm's eyes widened and his chest heaved. He turned to her quickly.

"Did you see that?!" he whispered.

# The Soldiers-Darla

Darla walked casually, not stealthily among the tall trees, the night wind rustling the leaves of the canopy far above her. What had started as a cautious creep had turned into an enjoyable stroll. It was too nice an evening to be playing this silly game and now she decided she would be happy to be eliminated early. She would spend the rest of the night with the other 'losers' or even by herself.

Besides, the silly plastic rifle slung over her shoulder was as uncomfortable as it was distasteful. Oh, the things we do for our friends! But, if not for them, she would never herself traveled this far into the wilderness and she certainly never would have tried to climb this 'mountain'.

Oh, it was far from the kind of climbing one sees on television, with ropes and hooks and impossible peaks. Although it had taken hours to get to the top, Darla never felt like she was in danger, she was careful about her footholds and followed Eric's directive, so what seemed a dangerous climb was more like an arduous hike. She had quite enjoyed both the climb and the sense of accomplishment upon reaching the top. And the view had been spectacular!

She had already made up her mind that she wanted to do something like this again, but only with some of her girlfriends...or perhaps with a man like Eric. Or maybe with Eric himself if he and Izzy didn't make it.

Darla was rewarded as she reached the edge of the trees and broke into a meadow. The moon wasn't full, but it provided enough glow to show the tall grasses and small bushes which lay before her up to the edge of the butte, where solid rock met dark sky. And although she now felt comfortable ascending the butte in the daylight, she knew that, unable to see the footholds and handholds and the details of the rock, she could never climb down at night.

She let her back slide along a tree and looked up into the sky, uttering a soft gasp of delight upon seeing the starry night sky. Where she grew up, one might see ten or twenty stars at night but this was incredible, it was as if they were submerged in an ocean of tiny luminescent specks.

She let the rifle fall into the grass and caught a glimpse of the moon light reflecting off her jumper, making the red cloth look more like crimson. Did it even make sense to wear these uniforms at night? Could anyone tell red from blue at night?

She hoped that Izzy did not spend too much money on the laser tag stuff, the names weren't even correct and Darla doubted anyone really wanted to play. She didn't.

She saw another of her teammates across the field, near the cliff. She recognized him from his stature and his stride. It was Eric. She took in a deep breath and decided she would not call out to him.

Darla fully realized her attraction to Izzy's boyfriend, she liked the way he had taken charge of the group, how he made her feel safe, how he had taken an interest even in how she tied her shoes. However, he was another woman's find, at least for now and Darla was not the type to try to steal another's man; even though she was pretty sure he had some interest in her. Better not to push it; boys weren't nearly as loyal as girls.

Her mind turned instead to the poem she had been writing. This was a great place to be inspired and she had been trying to write about simplicity, about taking things as they were rather than changing, improving, building. She wanted so badly to visit Walden Pond, to walk around it, to see the site of Thoreau's cabin. One should do things like that every once in a while before, once again, life took hold.

She concentrated on the last line of her poem, vaguely aware that a figure had entered and exited her peripheral vision, another of her group no doubt, she did not care who or from which team.

When Darla was in high school, she used to write some of her best poems alone in her room, lying on the bed, surrounded by stuffed animals, during the time between finishing school work and eating dinner. She could write better on a less-than-full stomach.

But there was always that awful moment, just as she was trying to finish off one single line with the right word or phrase, when someone would suddenly bang on her door or yell her name, startling her and breaking her concentration. It was years before she learned to not react angrily to such interruptions. Still, they were disappointing.

Now, it happened to her again. Darla's wonderful musings were pierced by a sudden and unexpected cry. Her eyes flipped up and focused on the location from where the sound had seemed to originate. But there was nothing there, and what had started as a scream of alarm and terror was quickly dying away, swallowed by the wind and the night. Darla's eyes widened in confusion.

And now the starry night sky, formerly so warm and romantic, turned decidedly cold and hostile.

# The Soldiers - Chad

The thrill of the game was beginning to wear off. Chad had been sitting silently in the tiny cabin, watching for any sign of motion in the larger building across the way. Both structures were near the cliffs and so he did not need to worry about enemies coming from cliff-side.

The building from which he watched had been an observation station, a small cabin with two windows, one facing out over the cliffs and into the night-covered countryside while the other faced the other building, an abandoned restaurant, once a reward for hikers who climbed up from the lodge below. It was through that window which Chad had been watching.

Somewhere, his partner Brian was hiding. The two had left a lantern inside the empty restaurant, hoping to lure someone from the other team or possibly a group of them. Chad had assumed the role of sniper, he would cover a large area, taking careful shots from afar while Brian would lie in wait, taking a close shot and relying on Chad to provide cover or backup. It was possible the two of them could take out the entire opposing team.

A good plan, in theory, but time had passed and Chad was anxious for some action. Brian loved the ambush, the art of lying in wait, and he had the endurance and patience to do so. But they only had ten people total, there would not be tons of action and Chad now worried the entire game would be decided while they waited.

He was about to break his position and walk over to find Brian when he saw a figure rushing through the grasses toward them. He knew at once it was one of the girls. He could tell from her silhouette and from her stride.

Chad moved quickly before Brian could act. He aimed, pulled the trigger and received the warm satisfaction of a low tone from his weapon; it had found his target's laser receiver and registered a fatal hit. For fun, he shot her a second time. Then he looked back to the left, perhaps more were coming?

But he saw no one and the silly girl kept running, straight up to the old building. He wanted to call out to her but he was not about to give his position away. She might be a decoy, a sacrifice to draw the two blue team members out. Let Brian fall for it.

He did. Chad saw Brian rise up from his grassy hiding spot and the girl rushed to him. Her anxious voice carried on the wind. Damn, something was wrong. Someone had probably gotten food poisoning or sprained an ankle. Chad stood up and put his hand on the door, sighing. Next time he played laser tag, it would be with a group of experienced players, and not with girlfriends or children.

"What's going on," he asked as he approached the couple. The female, Adrian, looked ridiculous in her laser tag uniform but with the splash of blond hair, blue eyes and pink lips foiling the camouflage.

"We can't find Izzy!" she cried. "Her brother said he saw her in the forest and she suddenly turned and ran away. I can't find Eric either."

"Well, maybe the two lovebirds went off somewhere to be alone?" Chad suggested.

"And we think we heard a scream!" Adrian added, her pretty eyes blinking rapidly.

"Okay, lets find everyone and get this sorted out," Brian asserted. Chad looked at him and it was clear that the man had made up his mind. Game over.

# The Soldiers - Tina

"Izzy?!" Tina called as if to ask 'are you here?'.

"Izzy!" Tyler called as if to demand she appear.

The couple neared the edge of the small forest which occupied the center of the butte, their flashlight illuminating the greenery immediately around them but it did little to tell them what was even two yards away. Searching at night was difficult, Tina realized, and so she did not say anything when Tyler turned the light off as they emerged from the wood.

Before them, partly-illuminated by the moonlight, the ground gave way into a small basin of tall grasses and wicked-looking weeds. At one time, perhaps, it had been a pond but now it seemed dry. On the other side, they could see the glint of the roof of the metal observation station, located near the cliff edge. They were to search to that edge and then walk along the outer boundary of the butte, until they met up with Brian and Adrian.

"You know, this place is like an island of rock," Tyler muttered to Tina. "A patch of ground surrounded on all sides by cliffs...and an ocean of air."

"You do have a poetic side to you, don't you Tyler?" Tiny smiled. She was anxious about what had happened to Izzy but Tyler's muscular frame and decisive personality made her feel safe and secure. As long as he were on this island, she would not worry. It would be better to be with Tyler than even two of the other men.

"Islands are romantic only until you want to leave them," Tyler responded in his normal voice. "And until we have enough daylight to illuminate the cliff face, we are stranded here."

"Stop it, I'm worried enough," Tina complained and then she called in her loudest voice, "Izzy! Where are you!" then in a hushed tone. "You don't think she went back down? At night?"

"Why would she? Izzy is too smart to do something so senseless. Besides, she wouldn't leave her baby brother, right?"

Normally Tina would be put off by Tyler's easy compliment toward another woman, but her eyes had caught a motion, slow and gradual, as if something had risen up in the distance.

"Tyler," Tina whispered in alarm, her hand clutching his arm. She stared.

On the other side of the basin was a dark form, silhouetted across the moon-lit sky. The boundaries of the shape fluttered in the wind, as if it wore a cloak or had feathers. But the thing itself, humanoid, stood waiting or listening.

Tina just stared, as if she were dreaming until, suddenly, the thing held up one hand and extended its fingers into the air; each long, thin and menacing.

"Oh my God! What the hell is that!" Tina cried, unable to whisper any longer.

"Just some bullshit," Tyler growled, pushing off his feet and down the embankment. Tina tried to stop him, her hands grasping his arm, but the large man pulled away and was gone.

"No!" Tina cried out, her exclamation choking itself on a sob. What if...what if. She didn't even know what it was she feared. What was going on?

She watched Tyler scramble across the field, toward the rise on the other side. Although she could only see his head in the dim light, she could tell that the ground was fighting him, muddy or uneven perhaps, because his motion was erratic rather than his usual machine-like uniformity.

The shadowed figure on the other side, to the contrary, showed no sign of disability nor apprehension. It stood waiting, its long fingers flexing. They were fingers, weren't they?

It was as Tyler pushed his way up the other side, climbing the slope to where the strange being waited, that she saw it happen. She heard Tyler's angry demands and then his voice was wrenched into a yelp as his body halted its motion and seemed to quiver in space.

"Oh!" Tina exclaimed in fear and astonishment. As she watched, the creature swiped at Tyler with its hand, with those awful fingers and for a moment it seemed the motion was only symbolic, a dismissive gesture, but then she saw the jetting of Tyler's arterial blood through the air. The trembling of his body transitioned into a violent shake as her boyfriend's body dropped into the darkness.

Now Tina started to scream, hysterically, and she felt as if she were frozen where she stood; all she could do was stare and scream even as she saw the creature's wings flap in the wind before it, too, dropped into the basin.

She feared that it was coming for her and the thought stifled her screams. It was now difficult to breathe or even to move, as she became consumed by terror. The best she could do was turn, slowly, back in the direction from which they had come.

She stepped forward, her heart hammering in her chest, her mouth already tasting something bitter. She took a second step, her legs weak. It was on her third step that she heard the foliage rustle directly behind her.

# The Soldiers – Isabella

Run!!

Every nerve and every organ of Isabella's physical body screamed its collective need to leave, to flee, to get away from the spot she had been, to run as if her life of thirty years would otherwise soon end in unimaginable pain.

Her body exploded into action, her fit legs carrying her quickly across the forest floor, her short stature ducking the tree limbs that swiped at her like claws. She ran, her thin arms driving her body like pistons, her long, reddish-brown hair flying in the wind, brushing against her ears and muffling the sound of what had frightened her, the thing that had forced Isabella, who prided herself on being pragmatic and defiant, into such visceral and desperate action.

She had no plan, no vision of the future, no thought except to run and keep running until she could run no further. She would not look behind, she would not listen for the pursing Death as she might an opponent during a foot race.

When running the 1600 meters in college, Izzy would start the race at about 80% effort at and then drop her pace to something she could maintain for the majority of the race while still leaving strength for a strong finish. But now she was running near her maximum, with only the bushes and branches preventing her from full speed. She was not running smart, she ran out of complete instinct and desperation, the way one yanks a hand away from a searing hot surface. She could not maintain this effort.

Her body burst out of the forest so quickly that she startled and overtook a resting black bird even as it spread its wings to take flight. Unrestrained by the forest, Izzy moved even faster, her long legs carrying her over the ground, her arms finding more room to swing.

She was in a field now, and the night wind roared in her ears even as its cool touch calmed her fevered brain. It could not take away her prime directive, but somehow she started to think and she realized that the only thing after this field would be the cliffs.

Her mind flashed pictures of her future, that final powerful push into the air, the rush of the wind as her body accelerated downward, the crunch of bones as she slammed into final blackness.

But she didn't care. Nothing was more important than the need to get away from...from whatever had frightened her so badly.

In desperation, her mind offered her another image, one she had beheld as she had approached the butte earlier that day: her mind's eye saw the vertical line of trees, a direct and treacherous path from top to bottom. And there was something about trees that made sense, perhaps that the brush could hide her earthly body from its sight. Even the thought that the brush might hide her corpse and protect it from desecration was a comforting one.

The thought was enough, her fevered brain allowed her body to make that small course correction, veering her off to the left, toward the trees which filled a ridge in the butte. Gravity would be just as strong there but...perhaps.

She thought no more as she approached. There was no time and no room in her mind for further analysis or speculation. She leaped, her imagination sure that something was reaching for her just as she did so. Something with horrible hands.

Her dim view of the dark trees rushed toward her as she landed in a canopy and continued through it, her body easily brushing aside the thin branches and leaves at first but as her speed increased, they provided more and more resistance.

Her vision went black as the trees swallowed her, she grasped at their limbs, her body in full panic from her fall but she was only able to hold briefly. As the branches cracked and splintered and as her poor body was buffeted, she felt her mortality.

Ironic. She had often fancied herself a powerful witch, and yet she could fall to her death just like anything else.

As her body ripped free of the canopy, she felt herself fall fast to the ground below. Her legs were bent at the knee when she came into contact with the mountain ridge, her feet sliding out from under her, her body sliding madly.

In the moonlight which filled the space between the treetops and the mountain side itself, she glimpsed giant dark forms approaching and she steered her body away from these killers which threatened to stop her progress with lethal resistance. And once again her body left the earth and she fell through the air, this time falling through thick brush which scratched and ripped at her skin. She hit ground again and the process repeated.

Finally, her body started to roll and then to tumble and her mind seemed to return to her, allowing her to concentrate entirely on controlling her descent rather than worrying about the thing from which she had run.

Isabella cried in frustration as she found she was unable to stop the incredible tumble of her body and she felt sure that she was approaching something that waited to smash her bones or her skull or perhaps swallow her whole. Meanwhile her body was buffeted, resulting in sharp pains, in her knees, her back, her forearms, her wrist, each a possible fracture, each dull thump of her skull on the ground a possible end to her consciousness. She waited for that final impact, the one she would never remember.

Her face slid across an unforgiving patch of earth and now there was so much pain that it was hard to realize...that her motion had slowed...and that now she lay in a heap at the base of the formation which had just cast her off.

She lay still, immersed in a pool of pain, before she slowly started to untangle herself, each small motion awakening myriad other but smaller pains which then faded into dull aches. Finally she lay flat on her back, looking up into the starry sky; she forced her eyes open, worried that if she closed them, the darkness would take her once and for all. Finally, she lifted her aching head, looking further down the slope.

There, through the branches, she thought she saw a single source of yellow light, perhaps a fire or a lantern. She rose to a sitting position, her eyes fixed on it, then she began to crawl in that direction.

# Porter - Introduction

Porter pulled his face out of the book, having realized that the light from the window was no longer sufficient to make out the characters on the pages. It was also an indication that he should think about dinner.

His body rose from the simple bench and he used his arms to push himself the rest of the way. His forty-eight year old body was not as mobile as it once was, so he tried to reassure himself with a strong hop to his feet, a quick light of a lantern and a peek out the window.

His side of the mountain had darkened quickly, but there was a moon by which to see and to walk and...to search, but somehow he was not in the mood this evening. He began to draw a curtain across the window, but having enjoyed the view of the moon in the sky, he decided to leave it open.

Staring through the simple window of his lonely cabin, James Porter thought about how fate had brought him here.

Porter grew up in the small town of Roscoe, not far from the Iowa-Wisconsin border. The first forty years of his life were not remarkable but it was certainly unique even if it didn't start that way.

He graduated in the public school system, attended the nearest community college, studied business and accounting and when the old barber shop closed down and the building owner was desperate for renters, Porter scraped together the money and opened up a tax preparation service.

The key to his 'service' was slightly better software than what could be found at Walmart and enough formal education to know how to use it and when not to. Sometimes he would perform other services as well, such as reviewing real-estate contracts for people who refused to pay $200 to a lawyer but whose conscience insisted that 'someone' look at it. Porter would never tell them that the contract was good or bad, only if he saw anything they might want to question.

Porter spent many a sleepy Saturday sitting in his shop, reading a magazine or watching the local television news.

In Roscoe, the staff of KROS, the only local television station, took Saturday and Sunday off. That left the understudies and interns to attend to scheduling, clerical duties, to make announcements or give weather forecasts. One of the new 'weekend' faces was a young blonde intern named Stacy Sullivan. The first occasions Porter ever saw her, Stacy was doing weekend traffic and accident reports. By the end of the year, she was announcing local festivals and craft shows and in the following year, she even would show up at those events, eating a caramel apple or sitting in the wagon of a hay ride before it departed.

Porter didn't make a lot of money with his shop and his parents worried that his little business kept him from pursuing a bachelor's degree and they were probably right. But he was able to save some money, to buy a reasonable car and court a nice girl whom he eventually married.

On the day he was married, Porter sat happily in the bar/restaurant which adjoined the reception venue and chatted with his in-laws. Looking up on the screen he saw Stacy Sullivan doing a live report on the start of the hunting season. She stood with a group of burly men, each wearing camouflage outfits, bright orange hats and sun-glasses. Stacy wore a white down jacket over jeans and a similar orange hat pulled over her blonde hair. Although none of the men had much to say, they took turns passing Stacy their phones so that she could take selfies with the group.

"I keep expecting that young girl to pick up and go work for some network program," Porter laughed.

"Stacy?" responded his new father-in-law. "Nah, the Sullivans have lived in town for generations. Don't expect she will go anywhere. Nice, practical girl. You won't see her chasing the money upstate."

Porter kept his little store even though his in-laws encouraged him to rent space at the mall. And he refused their offers of money to repave the parking lot or get a fancy sign. Sure, he knew that his store front looked a little seedy, he was still able to charge $20 an hour even though some considered that extravagant and when he was presented with a situation or question which was beyond him, he took the forty minute drive to the town of Brock and consulted with a CPA there.

Another contributing factor to the seamy ambiance of his store front was the old motel which was located across the street. The 'Getaway Inn' was about the same age as his building and had a similar style and coloring. With its empty pool, dead flower beds and perpetually blinking 'Vacancy' sign, it was the target of jokes and insinuations. Indeed, Porter saw more vehicles parked there during the day than at night. It even happened that he would see someone park in his lot, only to furtively sneak across the street and not return until hours later.

One Saturday, stuck in his shop without a car, as his wife needed it to take their daughter to a birthday party, Porter found that he was thirsty and craving a Coke. So he walked across the street to the motel and tried to use the vending machine. When he found that it was not working, he walked into the office and was able to buy a can from the lady behind the counter, she was also the owner/manager/sole-employee. They talked a little and on the way out he noticed that the office television was on the local news. That Stacy Sullivan had found someone's miniature collie and had come into the station so she could go on the air and try to find the owner.

The ice broken, Porter and Lee Carol, the owner of the Getaway Motel, would sometimes share a morning coffee or afternoon soda, always sitting in her office, complaining about how hard it was to run a little business or about local politics. And sometimes they just watched the news. Once they watched Stacy Sullivan stand in the pouring rain, dressed in a yellow rain coat and green boots, in front of the railroad tracks which crossed Main Street, waiting for a crew to repair the malfunctioning train signal.

"You couldn't pay me enough to stand in that cold rain all day," Lee laughed, "but with all the train traffic we get, they had better get that repaired before I head home later!"

# Porter - Stacy Sullivan

And then came the day when Stacy was no longer on the news. She became the news. James Porter sat sipping a coffee in the office of the Getaway Motel. By that time, Stacy was drawing small assignments during the weekdays as well as weekends but today she was neither in the newsroom nor in the field, rather it was her picture in the background and the dark, somber faces of the morning news crew which greeted their viewers.

"We have some disturbing news," a man began, "Our colleague, a familiar face here at KROS, is missing. Early yesterday morning, field reporter Stacy Sullivan was to do a report from the Huntley Road overpass of Route 293, but she was not there when our camera technician arrived. Over the course of the day, calls to Stacy's cell and home phones were not answered and neither did any of her friends or family hear from her. It was only when Stacy's car was found at the work site that the police were called and a search was begun. If you have any information which may aid the search, please call the Roscoe Police..."

To James Porter, it was surreal, as if someone had changed the channel to the Twilight Zone. It was so hard to believe that it had just happened in their small town, to someone Porter had seen so often.

The details came in slowly over the next couple days. Stacy was to meet her cameraman at a construction site on the Huntley Road exit of Route 293. The cameraman arrived, waited, called and finally left. Meanwhile the construction crew arrived and set about their work. All day, friends and co-workers tried to locate the young intern, their efforts becoming more desperate and frantic as the day wore on.

The first real break came at dusk, when the road crew packed up and left for the day. As the last couple workmen walked to their trucks, they realized there was a remaining car in their make-shift lot. The police were called and it was, indeed, Stacy's car. Inside they found her purse and her cell phone. The cell phone was on. The car was locked but neither the keys nor Stacy were found. A technician was able to determine that the car was locked via the key remote.

The police set up a road block near that fateful exit every morning afterwards for a full week. They stopped each car, handing out fliers and questioning the occupants: Had they driven the same route on the day of Stacy's disappearance? Had they seen Stacy? Had they seen anything unusual?

Porter watched the news every day, turning it off only when they interviewed Stacy's mother or father. He couldn't stand to see their anguish. By the weekend, a search was organized and Porter volunteered.

When Porter arrived at Riverdale Elementary school, he found a large group of volunteers around a table covered with donuts and coffee. Eventually some police officers showed up and gave them instructions. Then they boarded school buses which took them to an area of forest near the construction site.

Porter stepped into the forest. He walked slowly, careful not to get ahead of the searchers on either side of him. Initially, they were quiet and all he could hear was the sounds of foliage bending and breaking in response to their movements. But, after a while, he could hear conversations break out although he neither initiated nor responded to them. He kept his full concentration on the trees, brush and ground in front of him.

He found beer bottles, plastic jugs, candy wrappers and soda cans. In every case he made a quick visual inspection to determine if the object might have been dropped recently. He didn't feel that any of them had, they were all stained with soil.

His eyes widened when they stepped past a line of tall ferns and found a large object in the clearing ahead; it was an old, rusted, automobile. The doors had been pulled off and the trunk cover was gone. There was nothing inside it except for debris and insects.

It was nearly two in the afternoon when one of the searchers called for a pause. Porter was asked to help. A woman, Alice, had found a large tree which had fallen over, cracking and splintering at a point along its trunk roughly seven feet above the ground. She was concerned that there something within.

Porter crept onto the tree at the place where the branches touched the ground and walked up, at first he walked upright but as the toppled trunk carried him higher and higher into the air, he moved to all fours. Soon he reached the splintered fracture of the trunk and could look down into the stump. Alice was right, it had started to hollow out but all he saw was moss and leaves.

He called for a stick and someone handed a long branch up to him. He was able to use it to probe into the bottom of the stump. Nothing.

They search was suspended for the day.

On the second day, the number of volunteers had reduced noticeably. By the end of the week it was decimated. People needed to return to their jobs and their families. But Porter showed up each morning and stayed until the afternoon. Afterwards, he drove to his office, hoping for some evening work and for some new details on the case or, better yet, a breakthrough.

At first, Porter's wife and daughter were enthusiastic about his participation; but the support dwindled as time went on and the story lost prominence. Eventually his wife's mood became indifferent and finally hostile. Porter learned not to speak of it. His daughter, now in her teens, already had plenty of reasons to be annoyed with him so he began to look forward to his time outside of the house.

Even Lee, his friend at the hotel, did not understand his obsession with the case and neither did Porter. But he stuck with it, even after the formal search had ended. He wanted Stacy to be found, whether it be in the woods or at the bottom of Lake Roscoe. It would have been easier to know for sure that she was dead. What haunted him was the thought that she was alive and that all he had to do was look and she would be found and restored to them, just as she was before: bringing them daily traffic reports and introducing their seasonal festivals.

Sometimes Porter wondered if he would have felt the same way about a baby or a Chinese man or an older woman. Did he care about this missing woman because he was attracted to her? Stacy was certainly pretty and congenial but he did not know her and he never had any interest to even meet her. It didn't make sense, but he just wanted her back, for life to go on the way it had, as if this change were a wound in him that kept him from continuing.

Porter's marriage ended after a year and he lost his office building as well. Fortunately the Roscoe Walmart had a tax preparation kiosk and they were happy to have him as long as he was happy to be paid their rate. There were no longer any formal searches for Stacy, so he worked during the day, ignored his wife or daughter's angry calls in the evening and went on long walks in the woods whenever he wasn't working.

As the two year anniversary of Stacy's disappearance approached, Porter felt sure it would be significant. The first anniversary was too obvious, but time had passed and he felt something would happen. Perhaps the person responsible would return to the scene of the crime or maybe Stacy's ghost would appear. Whatever would happen, Porter was determined to be there to see it.

On that morning, he parked his car half a mile from the former construction site and walked the service road toward it. The highway was quiet, and dawn was not far off. Now that the time had come, he suddenly lost faith that he would see or experience anything and his thoughts were dark as he walked. If anything, he hoped that the ghost of Stacy Sullivan, at least, would notice his presence and appear long enough to nod or to smile at him, to let him know it was over, that her soul had fled the Earth.

Finally, seeing and hearing nothing in the darkness except the occasional passing of a car, he walked into the weeds and sat down, his head in his hands. He thought about how life had led him to this point, to this place.

It seemed like an hour later when he saw a black form moving up the road. He watched it approach and pass by his location. At first he was only curious and then he was frozen by the possible significance. Was it someone like him? Someone obsessed with the case? Or was it someone else? He crept out of his hiding place and located the figure. It was not a dream, something was there.

It moved, but its dark outline flowed and shifted, like a shadow, or a being with a cape of darkness. Porter's heart was racing as he followed. The thing moved quickly along the road which was now rising up to meet the overpass and he struggled to both increase his pace yet remain unseen. Porter had not yet reached the crossroad when he realized the figure was moving much faster now, perhaps running and the dark form slid along the bridge, crossing the highway.

He started to run as well when he heard a sound which seemed like laughter; a victorious and yet taunting sound, like one he used to make when he was teen after he had pulled a prank and was fleeing the scene, the scene of the crime. The scene of the crime!

James Porter broke into a full run now, no longer caring if he was discovered and at the same time he cursed myself for expecting something significant to happen but not believing that it might. Upon reaching the overpass, the shape was already exiting on the other side and merging with the shadows. He knew he was vulnerable now, his position on the bridge was relatively lit and he was descending into the darkness, the shadows. If his target had turned and was waiting for him, he would not know it until it was too late.

He didn't care. he sprinted as he hadn't done in years and his lungs were giving out even as he passed the midway point. But he was unable to maintain his pace and he slowed as he reached the other side. A sliver of red light split the horizon as dawn approached and now he felt he could see the road ahead. Nothing was there.

Unable to run further, Porter began to walk, looking everywhere and seeing nothing but grass and pebbles and road ahead of him, a forest to his far right, fields on his far left.

A glint of metal caught his eye and he looked down to find a set of keys. They were car keys. The initials on the key chain were SS. The item was not rusted or even soiled; if was as if they had just been dropped.

Porter's decision not to take the keys to the police was one which would haunt him in the wee hours of many a morning, but he had seen enough Discovery ID broadcasts to know that it is common for a guilty party to come forward later, to provide new pieces of information, to help with the case; it was their way of reliving the crime. He could picture the police interviewing his friends and family, how they would discuss Porter's fascination with the unsolved disappearance of Stacy Sullivan, and where that might lead. Whatever his life was, he was not going to spend the remainder in jail or in court.

Instead, he placed the keys in an envelope along with a detailed description of how he had found them and gave the sealed package to his lawyer along with instructions to open it only in the event that Porter himself went missing for more than a year.

Next James Porter quit his job at Walmart, packed some of his belongings and walked into the woods at the place where he had found Stacy Sullivan's car keys; in those woods he began living off the land.

He spent the first year in a tent but gradually amassed enough derelict lumber and items to build himself a small cabin just outside the boundary of one of the region's many State Parks. He spent most of his time living in the woods and searching. A couple times a week he walked to a highway rest stop where he got a free shower and did some odd jobs in exchange for some basic supplies. This was his life when Isabella literally dropped into it.

# Porter - Isabella

James Porter stood, his head in his hands, at the window of the small cabin which he had built. The moon hung high in the sky, illuminating the forests, fields and valleys below with a spooky light. It was a angry moon, he felt, and as if to test his theory, he opened the window.

The air which rushed in to meet him was mixed, a warm evening breeze but one salted with coolness, the herald of a change in seasons. Porter thought of how perfect it was until he lurched at the sound that echoed through the night, a wail, the cry of a human in distress.

His eyes squinted as he tried to make out anything in the night, but all he could see was the sky, the stars, and the faint glow of the grasses around his cabin and in the fields beyond. He listened for another such sound, expecting that he might, dreading it at the same time, but heard nothing. He remembered that some birds made such eerie, human-like cries. He stood vigil and listened and considered and listened some more.

At some point, his eyes made out a dark form at the edge of his clearing. First he thought it was only a shadow but when he looked again it had moved. He watched it calmly from his window, sure it was a trick of the approaching night even as it decidedly moved closer. Suddenly, the awkward sway of the dark figure transitioned to a steady, decisive movement, as if it had become aware of him.

He thought to extinguish his lantern or fetch his pistol, but then he would lose sight of the apparition and might never know what exactly it was. Then, out of the darkness, a voice spoke to him.

"Nice evening, huh?"

The voice was feminine, and young. He was more than a little surprised. He formulated his response, his eyes trying to make out her features even as the form drew near. She spoke again. "My name is Isabella but you may know me by a different name...".

Porter now saw the young woman. Where he had pictured some lost camper or perhaps a succubi of the night, he saw a pale face beneath a mat of crazy, tangled hair over torn and ripped clothing. Her face was marred with dark lines and marks, perhaps cuts and bruises or some strange tattoo. Even in the dim light, her blue eyes shone and her full lips were moving as she spoke. But he had stopped hearing her words.

Porter sat, once again, inside his cabin. The stove was burning, the light low but the room now warm and fragrant from burning wood and coffee. Funny, he didn't remember lighting the stove nor making coffee.

The light from the lantern tickled the dark walls and ceiling of the room which had been his home for the last two years. The simple towel which he used as a window shade had been drawn closed.

He looked at his hands which were placed flat on the table, palms down. What had happened to his coffee cup? He thought to rise and find it but somehow the thought evaporated as fast as it had formed.

He looked up and saw her. She was sitting across from him, a cup at her lips. He startled but his hands remained where they were. He felt himself panic, it was if she had appeared out of thin air. But how did she get here? He looked at the cup pressed to her lips, it bore the logo of the Roscoe Jaycees. It was his favorite coffee cup.

The woman looked a fright. Her clothes were sullied and torn, her face scratched and stained with grass and earth. Her hair was tangled and matted but her demeanor was calm. Even through the mess he could tell that her skin was smooth and young, her face like that of a doll and her ears and nose dainty.

"Did I make you that?" He asked, nodding to the cup.

She smiled but did not respond, she seemed to be thinking, considering.

Still unsettled, he thought to stand up, to find another coffee mug so that he could drink while he waited for his guest to speak, but he decided against it. He would wait for her to make the next move.

After a while, she spoke.

"I'm afraid I'll need to borrow you. Might I ask, do you have any family, any loved ones?"

He looked at her as she stopped speaking and the words hung in the air for a moment and then evaporated. Had she spoken at all?

"I have a family, but no loved ones," he said with a calmness he did not feel. "At least they do not love me very much. They are...estranged."

"But you still have a next-of-kin?" she asked. "Someone to whom you would leave...all of this?" she finished, her eyes casually roaming the simple cabin.

"I suppose, I never really thought about it." But he wanted to ask her why it mattered. He had just told her that he was not close with his family. There was no one else, so he said so.

He looked at her again and now she appeared different to Porter. Some of the grime had been wiped off of her face, her tangled hair had been coarsely combed. When did she do that? She was looking at him expectantly, as if she had asked another question.

"Done?" she asked. "Then let me see."

He raised his eyebrows and tried to meet her eyes but she was looking at the table near his chest. He followed her gaze and found a piece of paper before him. It had not been there before. He flipped it over to her even as he leaned forward to read the title.

The Last Will & Testament of James T. Porter.

"What?!!" he let the word drag out even as he tried to make out the details. But she ignored him, apparently in order to read it.

"Good enough. Now. Mister. Porter. I. Want...."

"Why are you speaking like that? One word at a time?" It was a funny question to ask compared to the others which were queuing up in his mind. "Do I even know your name? How did you get here?"

He did know her name. Had she told him? Isabella. The name was familiar.

"Porter. I. Want. You. To. Sign...."

She was doing the strange word thing again. As if she was speaking with someone who didn't know the language well. He put together the words she was speaking.

She spoke again. This time in a normal voice. "Thank you."

He was about to respond but instead looked down at the table. The document, his will, was now signed. But...he didn't do it."

"Do you remember what I just asked you?"

"Sure," he said slowly, puzzled. "You spoke slowly, I am not sure why, but you asked me to sign this piece of paper. But it's already signed. And I didn't..."

"I asked you to write a document which contained instructions for your estate in the event or your death. You did that. I reviewed it and then asked you to sign it and you did."

"I see the paper but that doesn't..."

She whistled, the way one calls for a dog or the way a policeman might attract the attention of a motorist. He stopped talking and looked up at her, mildly annoyed. But she was not put off, she seemed equally intent on having her way.

"Porter, you need to know what is happening here. I came upon your little mansion and upon finding you, promptly put you under a spell of sorts. It's my thing, something I've always been able to do. So you've been charmed, or converted as I call it. You have been following my instructions since I arrived, lighting your stove, making me coffee, answering my questions and, of course, writing and signing this document with your own hand. Before we go any further, I need you to realize what is happening. Do you understand?"

Porter wanted to stand, to pace, but he thought better of it. He did feel a bit woozy, a bit unbalanced. He tried to remember if he had had anything to drink earlier. He said what he was thinking.

"Just because I let you in, or fetched some coffee, and just because I haven't kicked you out into the night, something I won't do as long as you behave..."

Isabella put down the cup and looked at him, waiting for him to look back into her eyes. Her tangled hair was dark, a reddish-brown, but her skin was fair and smooth beneath the dirt and grime. But her eyes were clear and a bright blue. He could see that she was probably a fairly attractive young lady when she didn't look like a professional dumpster diver. He was about to say so.

"Left handed or right handed?" she asked softly.

"What?"

"Which is your dominant hand, Mr. Porter, the one you use to write a letter, to fire a gun, to pick your nose, hold your member..."

"I'm right handed," he laughed. Hold his member? That was funny.

She nodded and looked around the room. He watched her, wondering what she might be searching for. Then she looked over at one of his make-shift book shelves. The bottom two shelves were littered with magazines and books that he had always meant to read. But on the top shelf were stored a scattered array of tools including a trowel, a couple screwdrivers, a mallet.

The pain was so great that tears came straight from his eyes, his face flushed and he snapped his left hand away from the table where it had lay. He stared at the dark red appendage, his little finger, which was throbbing. He tenderly placed it into his mouth, trying to nurse it back to health.

"What did you do?" he asked incredulously, staring at her.

"You are the one holding the hammer, right?" she replied patiently. "Think about it, try to capture the moment before it leaves you, do you remember what you did?"

He looked down at the ground, the damaged pinky finger momentarily forgotten, he did seem to...

"I raised the hammer in the air..." Porter began.

"Higher than necessary, but who am I to interfere in your tasks?"

He looked at her, realization dawning.

"I did it," he declared, decisively." I walked to the shelf, I grasped the mallet, I returned to my seat..."

"I know."

"But you didn't tell me to do that. I just seem to have..."

"Porter!" she exclaimed, standing. "I did tell you. Try to remember. You won't always remember what you did but, believe it or not, it's the actual verbal commands that you forget the quickest. Probably because you fully internalize them, believe in them, they aren't just words to you anymore."

She waited for him to respond to her.

"I once saw this guy perform at my college," Porter began, his mind racing. "He was a mentalist, a title he gave to himself. He could tell you your social security number, he could lift tables with a single finger, he knew things about you that no one could know. The thing was, he admitted right from the start that it was a trick. No psychic powers or any of that...so just because I don't understand how it is done..."

"Fine," she grinned mischievously, sitting back down and swinging her legs up onto the bench, her coffee finished. "You are right, let's take this slow. I really am pretty patient, especially with the new recruits.

Besides, we have all night, and you have nine fingers left, ten toes and a couple other poundable appendages that we could..."

Porter snapped his hand back and off the table. He looked at her. She was more than confident, there was no trace of anger and now she had lost any sign of impatience as well. She genuinely seemed pleased with the conversation. He nodded his head and held up his other hand.

"Let me...let me just give you the benefit of the doubt, for now. And say that, without knowing the details, you are able to somehow make me do things. To control me..in some way..."

"Yes, let us do that," she agreed happily.

"I think you said 'conversion'?"

"Very good, Mr. Porter! You remembered. This will be a new experience for both of us. You see, I don't normally bother to tell my minions what I have done to them, neither do I ask them questions about it. It's not really important as long as the job gets done."

"I still have questions, though," he interjected.

"Of course," she approved, "I will answer some, but the priority is that you understand what is happening...what has happened to you."

"I have been charmed...converted as you say," he blurted hastily, holding his wounded finger protectively. "I am following your commands but, for some reason, I don't seem to remember hearing you speak the instructions and apparently I don't always remember DOING them either."

"Very good, Porter!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes sparkling. "But you are remembering some of it? You heard me ask you to sign your will, right? And you could remember raising the mallet into the air..."

"I remember that one instruction because you were speaking so slowly, one word at a time, I had to..." he looked at her, his face brightening, "so that is why you were speaking so slowly!"

The girl nodded thoughtfully. "As I said, I'm learning too. I thought that maybe if you had to put the words together you might remember them longer. I've had this thing, this power, for a long time, and I've always known that those I charm tend to forget my commands and often even their actions. They are slower somehow...which is why I call them 'converted' rather than 'charmed'. Still I never really cared about the details, as long as it worked."

"But...this doesn't make sense..."

She raised her eyebrows and waited.

"So why tell me?" Porter began with a tinge of exasperation. "Why the painful demonstration? You just admitted that I was already following your commands. So why give me something to worry about? To wonder about? Might I even potentially have the ability to resist now that I know what has been done to me?"

She nodded and her serene expression morphed into something else, concern, worry perhaps.

"It's a good question, Mr. Porter. Normally, you might never know. And I must admit there have been only a few times when I took the time to explain to my subject what I had done to them, to demonstrate my power. And in all those cases it was to because I was going to have them do something terrible to themselves."

For the first time, Porter could feel his heart race and he began to sweat.

"This is not one of those times?"

Isabella laughed. "It is not my wish to hurt you, I want your help, I am enlisting your aid. But being my ally may be a fate worse than being my enemy. But I have no choice and neither do you."

Porter leaned back.

"You haven't answered the question. Why tell me?"

For the first time, the witch seemed impatient but her response was even. "I will, but first I have to tell you a story, my story. But that will wait until the morning."

"I can make the bed for you," Porter offered, unsure if she had just commanded that of him. "I can sleep on the floor."

"You could, but you won't."

# Porter - The Watcher

Porter realized he was cold before he realized anything else. The night sky was bright, the clouds were smoky white and drifted noticeably. The crickets were in ardent song and the evening breeze was whipping through the tree tops; one of which is where he found himself.

He could see plenty from his elevated position, he could see the fields around his cabin, he could see the trees past that, he could see the mountain, the sky. He turned his body within its perch so that the could continue his slow sweep of the landscape. And when his neck had twisted as much as it could, he turned yet again so he could continue his scan.

He was not sure how he had come to this position nor how long he had been there. The large moon had already set, so he knew it was almost dawn. An owl hooted, and he saw in his mind the number 12 and it became a 13; he had heard that sound 13 times. He had heard birds call, he had heard the crickets stop and start their noise and he had heard a scream. It was not like the one he had heard earlier that evening. This scream was high pitched and frantic and it rose and fell and then rose and fell and finally rose and fell again. It was like three screams in one. He wondered again how long he had been in the tree. And how long he would be there.

He heard the cabin door open and close. Still, he kept his watch.

"Are you cold?" her voice seemed to enter his head from thin air. A question. He considered. He was not supposed to speak without a question or a reasonable expectation of comment. He was supposed to repeat questions back. It was a method.

"Am I cold? I am chilled but it doesn't matter. I hardly notice it."

"Do you know how long you have been out here?"

"I do not know that."

"Report."

Porter opened his mouth and rattled off words: "The crickets sung five times, owl sound 13 times, bird call 20 times excluding owls, creaking limb 5 times, something dropping in my cabin twice, and a screaming.

"Scream? I did not hear screaming, tell me about it."

"It came from far away, it started and then fell and started again, quickly, as if there was not enough breath to maintain a one long scream. Sheer terror, I think."

It was certainly a female, Porter had decided and in the back of his mind he thought about Stacy.

She did not reply. But suddenly it was morning and the field was coming alive. Birds were chirping and small creatures were rustling through the grasses.

He had left the tree and was seated on the ground, his back against his own cabin. The door opened and she stepped out. It was the second time he had seen her that morning. The first time she had appeared wearing her torn and soiled clothes from the night before but she had washed her face and bandaged some of her cuts. She asked him about clothes and he took her to the shed where he pulled out a small bin of garments, items he had bought for his daughter in case she ever would visit him here.

"You did not know I had these?" he asked.

"I'm not a mind reader. I can take them?"

He looked at her. Was that a question? He puzzled.

"Can you wear these things? That is why I am showing them to you..."

"Right, but you remember the question?"

"Yes, I do. I still do. It was a strange question to ask."

"Exactly," she called as she walked away and disappeared into the cabin. She did not appear for a while, perhaps an hour. And he did not think to try to determine if something might be wrong. That thought did not cross his mind.

When she returned, she wore clean jeans, a T-shirt and a light jacket. They started toward the mountain, each equipped with walking sticks and a small backpack.

She looked over at him and he got his first look at a face unmarred with dirt and her hair free of leaves and twigs. She was certainly attractive, though not in the standard model-perfect way. But there was something about her. She seemed to have a young, innocent look while her eyes seemed mature and knowing.

"Do I look familiar to you?" she asked casually looking forward.

"Do I recognize you? No. I don't believe so."

"Have you heard of 'Righteous Rules'?"

"Righteous Rules? No, I do not know that."

She looked at him, initially surprised at his silence and his lack of a reaction.

"Would you like to guess what they are?"

"Righteous Rules? What are they?"

"Yes, I want you to guess who they are...and you don't have to repeat my questions back to me any longer; it is more annoying than I thought it would be."

"A soccer team. No, a television show."

"Neither. They are Superheroes, out of Ravenswood, I would have thought you would have heard of them, it's not that far away. No?"

Porter considered and then shrugged.

"I don't remember. I have driven by Ravenswood but that was years ago, there is a college there but I don't know anything else about it. As you can tell, I'm a bit of a hermit, I'm very preoccupied with non-conventional things."

Isabella stopped and pointed at the butte in the distance.

"Have you been there?"

"Not to the top," Porter replied quickly, "not yet. I've been to the ski lodge at the base. But I just haven't worked my way up the butte. I will one day."

"One day is coming sooner than you think, Porter. But first, I have to tell you about Righteous Rules."

"Superheroes? Like comic books?"

"Yes. Silly right?"

"I would have said so...but given the last twelve hours..."

"Wait until you have heard it all. Anyway, I moved to Ravenswood when I was nineteen, to attend Baxter College, I studied psychology and I was a reasonable student but I had other passions.

At the time, at least among kids my age, superheroes were all the rage. You could find them in the movies, on the internet, in books and comics. Almost every guy I met had some pseudo-secret alter-ego; they were super-detectives, super-paramedics, protectors of animals, you name it, even assassins. And I was as into superheros as models are into rock stars.

I guess the world needs heroes and somehow so did I. I started to date one of the members of a team that called themselves Righteous Rules. Actually, I fell in love with the leader. He was a lovely Haitian man whose real name was Xavier but Bat Fink was his hero name."

"Bat Fink?"

Isabella looked over at him.

"Very good. Asking a question on your own? Anyway, yes, Bat Fink; he was crazy, in a good way. He was dark and brooding and would suspend himself from his ankles while he thought, sometimes while he napped."

"Could he fly?" Porter asked. What else would he ask?

"No, but it didn't matter to me; I spent all my time with him and the other members of his team. There was 'The Brawler' and 'Insider' and 'Carnivore', you think I'm scary, Carnivore was tall and busty and she literally ripped the flesh from her enemies."

"So could any of them fly?"

"No, Porter. Why are you hung up on flying? They couldn't fly. That is not the point, it is the mystique which is important, having an ability that sets you apart, fighting for good, being part of a group that can change the world.

I loved hearing about their adventures during the days and I hated when they left me every evening to go out for a meeting or a stake-out or whatever."

"But you had powers of your own, right?"

"I'm getting to that."

# Charm – Righteous Rules

When I first started hanging around Xavier (aka Bat Fink) and his friends, I didn't have any interest in being one of them, I just wanted to be with them. If they had asked me to join them, I'm sure I wouldn't have known how I could help because when you listen to their stories, there is nothing they want or lacked, it always works out for the best. I didn't see that they needed me.

But it was a new chapter in my life, I was no longer surrounded by family and friends and now lived on my own, in a college town, I began to realize that the childhood 'trick' that I sometimes played, where I pretended to cast of spell of control over another person...was much more real than I had realized. No...let me clarify that...this ability to charm was much more UNIQUE than I had ever known. I started to realize why other people had so much trouble getting cooperation out of others, while I never had.

As a child, I was a naturally endearing and outgoing and so it was no surprise that my family went out of their way to make me happy. I wouldn't say that I was a spoiled brat, but I was certainly spoiled.

Occasionally, I might have trouble with someone, a cousin or a teacher for example, and normally I took it in stride. But there were times when I didn't want to compromise or to accept that I couldn't get my way so I played around with this idea of casting a spell, the same way you might curse an enemy or day-dream of good fortune. I approached my subject in a new way, with the expectation that they would start to see things as I wished. It might sound very 'Oprah' to you, but I promise you my success rate is much better than any of that mystical junk.

Ironically, my first significant attempt was not for myself, rather I was trying to help my little brother. He had been holding some weed for his friends and, of course, he was caught with it all and they assumed he was a dealer. My family pulled every string they could, called in every favor. In the end, the prosecutor was willing to require only counseling and monitoring and in retrospect that might have been a good idea. But I couldn't accept it. I went in and met with the police and the prosecutor and I worked my 'spell'. Evidence was lost, charges were dropped. Ironically, sometime later, the lead prosecutor committed suicide, sad but it isn't relevant to my story.

By the time I started at Baxter College, I had only used this spell a handful of times and only as a last resort. I might have hardly used it at all if it were not for Righteous Rules. As I said, I didn't want to be one of them, I wanted to be **with** them and I hated when they had to leave me behind, I hated sleeping alone when Xavier was out on a mission. That drove me to want to join.

I saved my money and commissioned my own superhero costume. Charm Girl's costume was incredible. She had these amazing sparkly red heeled boots, a cute little white skirt with a shining gold 'CG' on the front. I wore a gold bracelet and matching bands which tied up my hair in pigtails and finally a simple black mask around my eyes and some impossibly red lipstick. I promise you that I caused at least one accident a day when I walked down the street.

But if I thought that Righteous Rules would welcome me with open arms, I was in for a surprise and Xavier was reluctant right from the start.

"You have to have a power, something which sets you apart" Xavier explained one night.

"Excuse me, Charm Girl? Figure it out!" I laughed, undaunted.

"That's not a power, honey," he protested. "I can't just put you on the team. They will think it's just because we are together."

"It is a power. My power. People do what I say. I can make them."

He looked at me like I was crazy. Pay attention, Porter, this is a hugely important point. My power is not like flying or turning invisible or climbing walls, it is much more subtle, and so often people are unwilling to believe I have it. It took an hour even to convince you. And having a non-obvious power is a double-edged sword as you will see.

As I was saying, Xavier did not believe me and how could I really convince him? I would never convert one of my friends, never someone I cared about. No offense.

In the end, I nagged Xavier into making me part of his team. I was sure that I would be able to prove myself in time. But it was a mistake; they resented me right from the start but I wouldn't realize it until later. Sometimes it is better to want something than to have it.

Still, I tried my best. Whenever the team hit a wall: an informant who wouldn't speak, a bureaucrat who wouldn't cooperate, a family intent on legal action against us, I would succeed where Xavier failed. Honestly, most of the time I simply negotiated, no charm needed, but sometimes...sometimes I had to convert someone.

# Porter - Hidden Butte Ski Lodge

The pair had been hiking a while, through the fields, fighting the strong incline of the valley. Porter could see the top of the butte in the distance though he could not yet see its base. He supposed that is why they had called it 'hidden' butte.

He had been there, to the old ski lodge, half a year ago. It was a logical place to look for the missing reporter even though previous search parties and the police had certainly investigated the area themselves. He had spent a night in the abandoned building and had found no sign that anyone had been there inside a year. He decided against trying to climb the butte itself, daunted by the prospect of a solitary climb. He had always planned to return another day. And apparently, today was that day.

Porter looked behind them, all he saw as he looked down the valley were fields and trees and the slopes and ridges of the terrain. His little cabin was long gone from view. He wondered how Isabella had found it and him? He wanted to ask.

"There used to be a ski slope on this mountain, right at the edge of the butte," she said as she plopped into the grass and beckoned for him to do so as well. "Do you know the history?"

He shook his head.

"Okay, well the place went bankrupt years ago and most of the equipment was sold. You've seen the buildings but people used to go up there all the time to picnic or look around. But after that bridge was condemned, there was no longer any vehicle access and so now no one bothers.

And believe it or not, you don't really need to be a climber to get to the top, but you DO need to be careful and choose the right path and that takes time. I know, I made the ascent with nine others...my friends...and my family." She looked troubled and looked up the mountain before continuing. "It took us all afternoon to get to the top. It was an incredible feeling and a magnificent view. I...I only had time for a quick look around while the rest were setting up camp. But the top of the butte is a couple hundred yards across, a little forest in the center, and the rest fields and rocks. There are actually a couple buildings, one is close to the edge and seems like an observation station and the other is larger. I have no idea what is inside, we figured there would be lots of time to investigate. Besides, we were tired, we wanted to set up camp, eat dinner and relax. And, of course there was to be a game of laser tag."

"Why...why..." was all Porter could muster.

Isabella looked over at him."

"Why travel so far to play a game? Malcolm, my brother. He was so excited. He loves the whole laser tag thing and always wanted an adventure like this, you know where you enter some haunted mansion and then play hide and seek. Well, we used to do things like that when we were kids. I'd get some of my girlfriends and we'd sneak into the old school or a cemetery or what not."

"Boyfriend?"

"My boyfriend? Yes, he came too, he happened to be an outdoor enthusiast but how did you..? Oh wait. No..no..not that boyfriend, not Xavier. He's long gone. I need to finish my story...where did I leave off?"

Porter was ready for that.

"You had joined Righteous Rules..." Porter reminded her.

Porter found it hard to believe that the story was getting stranger and stranger. First, she had told him that she was a witch and that she had charmed him. Now they were discussing superheroes. It was like a B movie. He had this bad feeling that her story would get even more incredible and might never make sense. And where were her friends? What had happened at the top of Hidden Butte? Why had she not spoken about that?

"Yeah, I rammed that down Xavier's throat," Isabella was saying, "Believe it or not, I can be quite a bitch when I want."

She looked over at him as if expecting him to comment but he remained stoic. What was at the top of this butte, that was his only thought. What happened up there? She seemed disappointed at his lack of comment.

"Anyhow," she sighed. "I told you before that my superheroine name was 'Charm Girl' or 'CG' to my teammates. My costume was kick-ass and whenever we had an issue with someone, I was their Girl. And while the Brawler couldn't always prevail in a fight and while Bat Fink didn't always make the best decision, I always got what we needed from others. As a matter of fact, our popularity in town soared as the local television studios loved to interview me. I was not naive as to why, I was a pretty face in a sexy outfit but I also represented the team in a positive and diplomatic light. Before I joined, the team had only one informant, I pulled in three more."

Isabella had been speaking quickly and happily as they fought the incline of the old ski slope. But then her face darkened and her pace slowed. She continued her story.

"So while our ratings soared, my relations with my team tanked. They looked for ways to isolate and exclude me; also Bat Fink, my boyfriend, was clearing losing interest. One day I realized that they were referring to me as CT rather than CG. You understand? C T?"

Porter looked at her blankly.

Isabella nodded to him, signaling that she understood that she should explain.

"It stands for 'Cock Tease'. I won't ask you if you know that term. It isn't a nice thing, so while I was referring to myself as 'Charm Girl', my teammates, my so-called friends and lover had a new moniker which they were using behind my back and, now, sometimes right in front of me.

It meant that they thought that I got things done by leading people to believe that I would screw them in return. It didn't matter that I was successful with women as well as men.

It really hurt me then and it still makes me angry. The hypocrisy of this world! When a man...when a man smiles and uses his charm, he is suave, he is diplomatic, he is smart. But when I...when I..."

Porter's eyes widened as he heard her voice crack and his mouth dropped open when her eyes glistened with tears.

"...when I talk to a man...I'm a whore..." she whispered. She turned away from him and spoke over her shoulder. "You don't know how fortunate you are to be a man, Mr. Porter" she declared to the sky. "If you run a race and you come in before the rest, you are a great athlete; if you come in last and next time you come in tenth, you are a hard worker; if your army falls in battle but you get yourself a new army and they win, you are a great general. But if I convince a guy to tell me something or get him to open a door or fight my battle for me. Well, it's because he thought I he would be able to bang me afterwards. Sometimes I hate you all so much."

All Porter could do was nod. She wasn't wrong, in his heart, he had also often assumed that a woman's success had something to do with her femininity and he tended not to think that way about men. He did not envy the young, the truths that they had to learn...and deal with.

Isabella looked over, having regained her composure and continued.

"Even Britta, her hero name was Carnivore, looked down on me. She was female, and very attractive, I'm sure she had lots of boyfriends but she spent all her time showing how fit she was, how strong she was. I wasn't in to bragging about myself. So she was the hero and I was the flirt. I don't know why I stayed with them so long...there were so many times I ran home to my family vowing never to return...but I always did. But it all ended one evening..."

# Charm - The Raid

It started when one of the area girls went missing, just disappeared, no indication of what might have happened to her except that she left home one day, without her cell phone, and never made it to school. The police interviewed several 'persons of interest' but made no progress.

Righteous Rules had suffered some setbacks in their reputation and Xavier was intent on scoring some points with both law enforcement and the public; he was convinced that this was the case.

I volunteered to find out more about these 'persons of interest' and the team was happy to let me try, especially as they were making no progress walking the streets, hanging out in bars or with their 'special' internet searches.

I approached a reporter who often worked with the police; in the end I was forced to convert him to get the list of suspects. The best lead was a previous boyfriend whom the missing girl had dumped almost a year previously. But the police felt the man had serious substance abuse issues and would have little ability or motivation to either kidnap or assault the victim.

I had the converted reporter set up a meeting with the ex-boyfriend. For reasons that I will explain later, I would never have converted the suspect but neither did I feel it was necessary. The man seemed extremely honest and open about his relationships and his faults. He told me that the missing girl had ended the relationship because of his meth addiction. He admitted that he didn't want her to go but neither was he willing to give up drugs for her. He didn't seem bitter at all. However, he did admit that the girl had come to visit him in a vacant building where he and others went to do drugs. I wish he had not told me that.

I reported back to the team that evening. I thought they would marvel at how much progress I had made in two days, especially when they had nothing...absolutely nothing! I hate that the memory can still make me so angry.

They listened in stoic silence and I tried not to be hurt that no one was singing my praises. And then I did something I regret, I told them that the missing girl had visited the ex in a drug house and that I knew its address.

Xavier seized on that and asserted that either the girl was there or that someone there held vital information about her where-abouts. He talked for almost an hour about similar cases; men who killed the women who spurned them, addicts who sold women in exchange for money, he went on and on and when the sermon was done, we were all anxious to raid that drug house. Even me, especially after Xavier threw me some token praise which I lapped up like a thirsty puppy.

On the night of the raid, we parked our van nearby; yes we had a burgundy red 'Righteous Van'. It was a moonlit night and we walked past a park and through a cemetery to the house the ex-boyfriend had told me about.

Carny and I knocked at the front door while the men stole around to the rear. Two men answered; they seemed disoriented but they were also suspicious and hostile. I had never converted someone in front of anyone but I started the 'conversation' – my name for the start of the charming process. I was anxious to show my talent to a doubting teammate. But Carnivore didn't wait, she launched into the arms of one man, ripping at his throat with her teeth. I watched her, stunned, the spell broken in mid-flight. Before I knew it, she was on the other as well.

Carnivore was a med student at the time and her 'talent', if you will, was that she knew exactly how much flesh to rip from a victim so as to cause an alarming but not lethal flow of blood. The result was completely devastating, both to her opponent and to the morale of any who saw her in action. Even I was stunned at the horrific scene.

As I stood and stared, we heard the sound of wood splintering from the other side of the house. The guys were crashing from the rear and Carnivore ran to assist. She called back at me, some snide remark, thanking me for my help.

Now the sounds of battle from within the house escalated and I needed to help, so I hurried away with a last look at the bleeding men. I wondered, 'when would medics arrive to treat them'?

When I reached the back of the house, I found a large room littered with garbage, old chair cushions, soiled blankets, spoiled food. I also saw several humans, men and women with pale faces, their heads covered by winter hats; some were lying down, obviously under the influence of some drug but many of them were starting to rise.

Bat Fink and Brawler were knocking them around, toying with them like they were slow moving zombies in a bad movie. Still, there were lots of screaming and yelling and I was eager to show I could hold my own in a fight even though I was certainly the junior member in that regard.

It was then that someone came up on me from behind. As I turned, I could see they had raised their hand, reaching for me. It was the ex-boyfriend whom I had interviewed but I didn't think about that. I only thought about the fight and that I needed to defend myself. I pivoted on one leg and kicked out straight with the other – hitting him square in the chest.

Mine was not a powerful blow, and I didn't have illusions that it would be devastating but I was sure it would move him back. It did more than that. He stumbled back, off balance, and fell out an open second story window. It was just like an action movie.

What followed was confusion as we beat down every one of them who was stupid enough to approach us. In the end they all were either unconscious or knew enough to pretend.

Then they questioned each of them, all of them, using various coercive tactics: threats, torture, whatever. But it was soon clear to me that they knew nothing. Dismayed, I searched the house and the grounds looking for the missing girl, but I did not find her.

As I walked on the concrete surrounding the black-green water of an unused pool, I came across the man whom I had kicked from the second story. He was lying still on his back. I thought he might be dead...or unconscious but he was neither. As I approached, his eyes darted toward me but he did not move.

I hurried to the front of the house, only to find the members of "Righteous Rules" filing out. They were leaving.

"Shouldn't we wait for the police? For an ambulance?" I called?

"We'll call it in when we get back, nothing else for us here..." muttered Bat Fink as they all hurried off into the night.

I called 911 and I explained what had happened in general terms. I was never clear that we were the aggressors, just that it was a confrontation that got out of hand.

To be honest, the town did not much care about what we had done. But the local prosecutor was persistent and we were all charged with trespassing, assault, battery and some others. I refused to do anything about it and in the end we each pleaded to a lesser charge and promised to disband 'Righteous Rules'.

I never spoke with any of my old teammates again. Not that any of them were interested in speaking to me. I think Carny walked up to me in a coffee shoppe, almost a year later, but I just hurried away.

And...if you are wondering about the girl...she was eventually found. She turned up two weeks later in Orlando, with some guy she had met online. Nice, huh?

But it gets worse. Having lost my boyfriend and my team, I was pretty low and I felt sorry for myself. For all that had happened, I was especially guilty about the man I had paralyzed. So I tried to see him.

He had been moved to a special home, as he couldn't take care of himself but he recognized me and refused to let me speak with him.

Here he was, an invalid, cooped up alone in a room most of the time, a person who needed a nurse to empty his urine and his bowels and still he didn't want to speak with me. Every time I would try to say something he would bite down on some device which raised an alarm and the nurses came running, worried that he was choking on his own tongue or something.

I became fixated with the idea of speaking with him so I returned and...and I converted him. And then I told him what had happened and how sorry I was. I paced around the room chattering on and on with every detail of my story, much as I am now and naturally he didn't do a thing and listened patiently, just as you are doing.

When I finished, I asked him if there was anything he wanted to say to me. It's funny, Porter, how we can delude ourselves. Of course he wanted to say something, I had just charmed him. He told me how pretty I was and how he wanted to hear everything about me...my family..where I went to school.

Remember I told you that it gets worse? It certainly does. I was disgusted...disgusted with him and with myself. I turned around and left him there and returned to my prison of self-pity and despair and I never visited him again.

# Porter – Isabella

Porter wondered for the nth time why she was telling him all of this, perhaps she was trying to illicit sympathy from the part of him which understood what she had done to him, even if it couldn't do anything about it. And indeed, he did feel sorry for her. But it didn't make this right.

"Do you believe in Karma, Mr. Porter?" she asked as they walked.

"No," Porter responded. "I don't believe that good things happen to those who do good and neither are the evil punished. It just doesn't work that way."

"I suppose that I agree. But I tried. I burned the 'Charm Girl' uniform and gave up my brief career as a superheroine.

But I was still very popular in town and I received many requests to appear at charity functions or to speak at schools. I often agreed, adopting the simpler moniker of 'Charm' and wearing only street clothes with a simple black mask which covered around my eyes.

I tried Porter. I tried to purchase redemption for my sins. I spoke out against bullying and domestic violence. I volunteered and helped raise money for causes I deemed worthy. I walked dogs once a week at the no-kill shelter. I guess I wanted forgiveness but I also wanted the gods or fate to reward me. I wanted Karma."

For a moment, Porter thought of Stacy Sullivan; how she brought stray animals to the station and begged viewers to give them a home.

"And it seemed to work. I did good things, I improved lives, I resumed my studies eagerly, I felt better about myself and finally I met someone special. Very special.

It was at one of these charity fund raising things, you know, where they 'auction' off local personalities for dinner dates and the such. I agreed to do it and this guy...well his friends kicked in the money and somehow we went off on a date together. I...I won't bore you with the details of our early time together, but we clicked, we felt so comfortable with each other, I felt like I was living a dream.

Once he called me in the early hours of the morning. I almost didn't pick up. I don't know about you Porter, but usually when a guy calls me at that hour, they are either drunk with 'love' or they are in jail or they want me to agree to something that I would never, ever entertain if I were completely awake.

But that wasn't the case. He was worried about something he had said to a co-worker, it was eating him up and he wanted to ask my opinion. It might seem like a small thing to you but he always was comfortable asking me for things that I would want him to be comfortable asking. And he was uncomfortable when he should be uncomfortable. It's hard to explain...I really liked him.

Anyway, I remember I felt that maybe Karma was a real thing, that this guy was the Universe's way of telling me that I was finally on the right track. I was extra careful as well, only gradually allowing him to meet my friends, and finally to travel with me on my trips home. That is when the problems started and six months later...it was all over."

Porter sighed to himself as he watched her try to mask the pain on her face. Was this how Stockholm Syndrome started? How could anyone not feel for a young woman or a young man who poured out their heart like this? He did feel sorry for her. He sensed that she was about to change topics.

"W.w.what happened?" Porter stammered.

Isabella glared at him a cloud covering her face.

"It doesn't matter. I ended it, let's move on," she said with finality.

Then why bring it up? He wondered.

Porter tried to speak but his muscles lost interest in that action as they fought their way up the mountain slope. But nothing could keep the annoyance and indignation from his expression. It was like watching the news...where they tell you only what they want you to know and in the back of his mind...a new thread of worry started.

"Okay, okay, Mr. Porter!" she exclaimed. "What is it? Tell me, you look like you are passing a stone! Out with it and that's an order."

Gladly. Porter thought to himself and now when he spoke, there was no hesitancy or stuttering.

"What was the problem with your family? Did they not like him? Did he not like them? What..."

"I remember the first time, we visited my family for a weekend and we were driving back. He...he was so silent, as if we had been fighting, but I don't remember that we had fought. He just seemed so...disappointed. And that made me unhappy."

"But why? What happened?"

"I don't really remember...we did the usual things I assume...dinner, church, hanging out...he just didn't like them."

"Did you mother like him?"

"Oh...yes she did, she always asked me about him and she was disappointed..."

"How about your father?"

"Geezus, Porter, I was still speaking about my Mom. How did you get so pushy? Did the spell wear off or something? My dad liked him too, everyone liked him. But he had some issue...I never understood. Maybe they weren't good enough."

"So he didn't like your mother?

"He seemed to...stop it, Porter! Enough. I told you, it happened a while ago, I don't remember whatever his issue was. He liked me, he just didn't like my family, he thought they were too...manipulative...to protective of me. If I had meant anything to him..."

Porter stopped, of course, but he was thinking and now a warning bell was starting to ring in the recesses of his mind. But there was little he could do now that she had cutoff his license to question her. What was the point?

They walked for a while before she spoke again.

"I only have one sibling, Porter, and in some ways he is like my child, the closest thing I ever had to one...and I can be over-protective, I know. Some people think Malcolm is spoiled and even irritating but I would do anything for him, just like a mother would do for her children. I guess I wanted this guy to be honest with me...but he was too honest when it came to my family.

And I lost my dad, suddenly, at about the same time. Maybe he came along at a bad time. Let's move on."

# Porter - The Ski Lodge

Finally, Porter could see the base of the cliffs beyond the remaining buildings of Hidden Butte Ski Lodge. The abandoned facility looked much as it had been when he had last hiked this way. The lift mechanism and trolley car had long been disassembled and taken away, leaving only the metal support poles behind.

While Porter was becoming tired from the hike up the mountain and had started to hunch over as he struggled, Isabella's posture seemed impossibly straight and her head was craned back, her eyes looking up into the sky. He realized she was scanning the cliffs and the top of the butte. The wall of the butte behind the lodge was covered with crevices and ledges, boulders and outgrowing bushes and trees, but it was still a wall, a harsh halting hand of nature which seemed to say that the journey ended here.

"If I had tried to descend there," she whispered in awe, "I would certainly be dead now; I would be lying here at the base of the butte."

Even as she said it, Porter looked toward the base and saw a reddish patch of something, like a stain on the boulders which lay at the foot of the rock face.

"You were up there?" Porter asked simply. Had she asked him for his opinion? Why could he sometimes speak to her easily and others..."You came down...by yourself...at night?"

She nodded. "I literally ran off the butte, Porter. I was terrified, I was running for my dear life and I didn't care how I got off as long as I did. I sprinted out of a small forest and straight for the edge."

Porter, his muscles recovering as the gradient flattened out, could tell that she also saw the patch of color at the base. She motioned toward the far right of the formation, to a vertical fissure in the butte, extending from top to bottom, even steeper than the face in front of them, but filled with greenery: bushes and trees. "When, fortunately, somewhere in the back of my brain, I remembered those trees and convinced myself the trees might provide cover...might hide me from...I don't know...from whoever or whatever pursued me. It is so strange that I could be so desperate to get away but that I can't remember from what...has that ever happened to you, Porter?"

"No, I can't say that it has," he replied deep in thought. Not only had nothing like that ever happened to him, he could not even imagine that it could. He had heard of people who experienced 'night terrors' and had awoken from a deep sleep in complete panic, but he had never heard of anyone running away as a result or not remembering anything about what had happened. "Had you been asleep? What was the last thing you do remember?"

"I was with my friends. We had set up camp, we had finished dinner and were talking. I did not have anything to drink but someone had just poured a glass of wine and I thought I would pour a one for myself as well. I walked across the campsite and I saw my brother. He seemed upset and I wanted to see what was wrong and then...I don't remember anything after that.

Porter, when I was young, I used to play hide-and-seek in the cemetery with the neighborhood kids. I remember being alone when one of the older buys rattled a bush slowly and started to growl. I was terrified.

But I didn't run and I didn't scream. I fixed my eyes on the bush, took a single step backwards and called loudly and clearly for my friends. Can you imagine? I was fifteen and hadn't even learned about my charm ability and still I did not run.

Fast-forward to last night, almost fifteen years later, a strong, confident woman with a unique power and...I turned and ran? Leaving my friends, my boy friend and even my beloved younger brother behind to meet their fate? Some superhero huh?"

As they approached a large rock stained with irregular shades of red and burgundy, they split from each other and circled around the boulder from different directions. The patch of color was a combination of the dried blood and the garb of the body which had spilled it.

It was the body of a young man, his body grotesquely smashed into the rock, his limbs broken and yet posed by death like some sort of morbid modern sculpture, his chest had wedged into the rock formation. His head had smashed into the rock and then snapped back, nearly detaching, what was left of the face looking at them along the broken spine.

Isabella seemed undaunted by the site and crept closer, her hands reaching out to inspect the damp, black hair of the corpse's skull.

"Thank god," Isabella muttered as she inspected the grisly scene.

Porter ignored her strange, relieved reaction. She must have asked him to do something because he was carefully walking around the area, looking for objects or other bodies. Having found nothing, he returned to her and noticed that there was a name written across the back of the uniform that the dead man wore.

"Have you ever killed someone, Mr. Porter?"

Strange that she would ask that, thought Porter. Did she think the man had been killed? But he answered her quickly, as usual.

"No," It was that simple.

"Do you think you could kill? If you decided it was necessary?"

Why was she asking this? He had imagined finding the missing reporter, Stacy Sullivan, in many different ways over the years. Sometimes he had imagined finding her body, in a stream or half-buried in the forest, but most of the time, his day-dreams were much more dramatic. He would find her chained to a stump, forced to service some mountain man and Porter would creep up and pull out his...his gun. Where was his gun?

"I think I could. When I was younger, I thought to join the FBI, I used to practice drawing my 'service weapon' for hours. When I got older, I even took target practice."

"So you know how to shoot, but you have never killed."

"Correct."

She walked away from the body, indicating that he should do the same as she continued.

"After you have killed a couple times, well, you get used to it. The same for finding a body. In this case, despite the horrific scene, I think he simply fell, seconds of panic but a quick, painless, if brutal death. You should be happy he is dead, rather than having to watch him quiver, or his eyes move. He is just an empty shell now, not much different than a tombstone." She increased her pace now, toward the abandoned building. "In case you were wondering. He was one of my friends, the boy I had been dating actually.

He was a good person and a good boyfriend. When I told him I was organizing this trip to make my little brother happy, he got right on board, took care of the logistics, made sure we had all the supplies we needed. He was great.

I am not sure why the tears don't come to my eyes now. Maybe I'm too surprised or maybe I'm angry or maybe I am just relieved it wasn't Malcolm or Darla.

But it doesn't matter if I am cold hearted or not. He is only one person, it leaves eight others unaccounted for, we have to press on."

"But we could walk around the entire formation...there might be more bodies" Porter protested. Were they really going to climb this thing?

Isabella shook her head. "No, there is no time. We will check the building and then we have to climb. But we will not be scaling the face, as I did with my friends, we will go up the way I came down, it is a steeper climb but there are plenty of trees and bushes to grasp and they provide cover...in case anything is watching. Right, Porter?"

As if he had any choice. But her questions opened up responses. They walked toward the main building. The shadow of the butte already covered it.

"I'm sorry about Phil..." Porter began.

"Phil?"

"Your friend? The body?"

"Ohhhh. No. His name was Eric. But now I understand, you read the name on his uniform, right?. Just a mistake, some printing error. It kept coming up...maybe Malcolm purchased used uniforms..."

They approached the large building, it had been some sort of Ski Shoppe, but the large display windows were boarded and the advertising sign had faded. They walked across a parking lot which was cracked and infiltrated everywhere by grass and plants.

Porter did not ask, he simply walked through the door first, blocking the entry with his bulk while he looked around. The large room appeared as he remembered, mostly bare, paper hanging from the walls, empty racks along one wall and bare benches in between.

Porter walked in, making a more detailed inspection. In the back were some small offices. He stepped into one. The far wall of the room was a giant dry-erase board, the kind where a supervisor might have scribbled reminders or sales goals. Now the board was covered with various obscenities. He had read some of them before.

However, in the center of the whiteboard, he found writing which did not match childish tone of the rest. Someone had written:

The Little Soldier Boys Go One by One

He did not know if it was a line from a nursery rhyme or not. Or if the author had meant to write more and ran out of space or time. But Porter was sure that he had stood in this place only weeks ago, and had not seen this sentence. Since then, someone had written it.

"Porter!"

He turned quickly, but her voice, though urgent, was not alarmed. She was looking at something. He hurried to her.

The room was littered with garbage, but the walls, shelves, offices and lockers were stripped of anything valuable which they had once held. But the wooden benches apparently were hollow and Isabella had discovered that fact by flipping one over and finding a storage door.

Upon reaching her, the woman was removing an archery bow from inside. The wicked-looking device was less than a meter in length, its frame was sleek, black and curved with a sturdy grip and a silver chord. She lifted it easily and swung it around.

"Have you ever heard of Ski Archery?" She asked as she looked around and pulled out some similarly-colored arrows.

"No. I have seen people ski and shoot with some sort of rifle..."

"This is better, Porter, you really are a good luck charm if you'll excuse the pun. Have you heard of an 'Ace in the Hole'?"

"Yes," he said simply, confused. The phrase referred to the game of poker, the hole card being a hidden card. Did she expect to use a bow? Did she even know how? But she continued.

"Even the silly, overconfident, superheroine Charm, eventually realized that relying on her single power was dangerous. Know how I made that connection?"

"I do not," Porter replied stoically and she laughed.

"Do you want to know?" Isabella looked at him, her pleased countenance persisting despite his obvious concern.

"Yes. Please." he added and she laughed harder.

"Very well. I once converted an attacker, my usual and only tactic. That stopped the imminent threat but as I commanded him, he acted erratically, even dangerously. I realized that he might be insane and was just as dangerous as before.

Think about it, Porter, the power to command relies critically on the subject being able to understand and rationally react to instructions. And this one could not, would not." She looked up happily, "So aren't I lucky to have found such a stable and sane companion as you?"

Porter did not react but couldn't help wondering if the same could be said of her. But she had asked a question even if she had not intended it. Ironic.

"How did you handle him?"

"That doesn't matter, I'm here, right? The point is, I realized that I needed a backup in case I was unable to use my powers. See?"

She picked up the large bow and expertly loaded an arrow. It was a question and Porter did not hesitate.

"Archery? It's not exactly a great weapon. Why not a gun?"

"Oh, you mean like that tiny Derringer you carry?" Her voice was nonchalant as she said it, her arm steady as she swung the bow throughout the room, looking for a target.

Porter was stunned. He always carried the small firearm, loaded with three bullets, it was normally strapped to his calf. Strange, he had wondered where he had left it but somehow couldn't bring himself to check...

He could see her wry smile as she completed her motion and stood scanning the far wall. As she was facing the other way, he might have time to kneel down, retrieve the gun and lift it. It would take him a couple seconds...if he wanted to do so. But he didn't. He couldn't.

"You knew about my gun?" He asked.

"Of course. It was one of our very first discussions, about any guns, knives, grenades, or tanks you might have. You were very honest about it. Your ace-in-the-hole right?"

"I suppose..."

She knelt down and snatched a rectangular, red, price sticker. She held it out to him.

"Porter, go stand by the wall and hold this up, I need a practice target."

Porter forgot her command even as he was walking. But when he reached the wall and started to raise the red piece of paper on the wall, he guessed the purpose behind his action. He pushed his hand as far as he could away from his body. He thought it would be better, at first, to face her; at least it was possible he might see the arrow if it were off course and move away. But could he even do that? Were his reflexes working?

He waited. The room was quiet and now he wanted to turn back toward her, to see what she was doing, but he couldn't and what if the arrow was already on its way? It might strike him in the face! He waited and waited, his fingers tiring as they held the small, crimson, target firmly against the wall and as far away from...

"Oh, very well," she called. "Find a way to attach it to the wall and stand away. I didn't bring you all this way only to lose you now." she laughed. "Moisten it with some saliva and see if it sticks to the wall," she added.

He quickly followed her directions and was relieved to see the red label adhere to the wooden wall. He scurried back, away from the mark.

"That is quite far enough, Porter! I am much better at this than you give me credit."

Porter was correct, he never would have seen the arrow in the gloom. All he heard was a quick whistle followed by a hollow thump. A black arrow was lodged in the wall, about two inches below the mark. He heard her foot steps, approaching.

"Not bad, huh?" she smiled. "You know Porter I think this experiment with you is working out; I find you much more responsive than my usual slaves and you have found ways to ask questions and make comments even without a direct order.

Still, you weren't able to suggest to me that a miss on my part might disable you, the only solider in my army. My power is an armor with many cracks. Too many, it seems."

"What do you mean?" Porter asked, adding weight to her observation.

"I mean that the problem with my ability is that although my subjects are willing and eager to serve, they lose something as well. They lack initiative, they lack ability to think long-term, they miss the drive to speak against me even if it would be in my best interest.

I asked you to stand guard last night? To keep track of anything that happened. Do you remember that?"  
"No."

"But you did it and if anyone had approached you would have told me, as ordered. Still, if there was a fire, you would have faithfully carried out your order and watched it envelop us. I might have even been assaulted out of your sight and it might never occur to you to check on me.

So my strength is also my disadvantage. You asked me if I ever charmed any of my friends and the answer is no, I would not do that to them, but also because honestly a good friend, a loyal friend is a much better partner than a converted slave. Don't you think?"

"I guess you should have given me a chance before you converted me." Porter said with a straight face.

"See!" she laughed, "my slaves never talk like that. Still, if I told you to wait for me here and I walked out that door, you would wait and wait and wait. Soon you would wait without even knowing why."

"Maybe you should release me." He said almost without thinking. Was something changing, was he thinking about his own welfare?

"Good, I was thinking the same thing. A hedge against my own powers if you understand me. Do you know your nursery rhymes Porter?"

"It depends..."

"Well my favorite is that short guy who spun cloth into gold. Do you remember his name?"

"I remember the story. But I don't recall the character."

"Ironic as that is the problem of the Princess in the story. He spins gold for her but in return she will be forced to give him her first born child, can you imagine? She pleads with him and he gives her one way out of the agreement – if she can tell him his name. His name. Now listen carefully..."

Isabella crossed in front of him, her blue eyes holding his as she approached. She lifted herself up, and spoke a name twice into his ear. Of course. Now he remembered. She dropped back to the ground and looked up at him, making sure he had heard.

"Got it?"

Porter nodded in response. He did know it. And then it was gone.

"You will not remember the name, you will be unable to speak or write it. However, if you should hear that word again, then you will be released from my charm. You understand?"

"Of course" Porter smiled.

"Of course what, Mr. Porter?"

"Yes, Isabella?"

"You just said 'of course'. I am asking you why you said that."

"I...I am not sure."

"Very good. Let's go. It is still a long hike to the top and I am not even half done with my story. I need to finish before we arrive at our destination."

In the shadow of the butte, they walked into the trees at the base and started their way up. In contrast to walking the well-lit fields of the mountain side, now they were thrust into the darker, damper and cooler spine of the butte. And while before they could depend only on their legs to progress, now they had to constantly find and grasp bush trunks or tree roots to help them along and upwards.

As they worked, she told him more of her story.

# Charm – Grand Master P

As I said, after leaving Righteous Rules, I discarded my costume, replaced the pig tails with a pony tail, and Charm Girl became Charm, less a heroine and more of a real person though sometimes I still wore the mask during special appearances.

Even after I somehow dumped the man who I still consider my one true love, if you will permit me that romantic notion, I continued my attempts at volunteering, teaching and fund raising. More and more I was giving lectures to women's groups: single mothers, pregnant teens and victims of domestic violence. It became a passion for me.

So I was especially irked at the rise of a what I will call a super-villain who named himself 'Grand Master P'. Don't laugh Porter, his name might be silly but his message was obscene: that women should be traded like baseball cards, that their monetary worth could be evaluated just like company stock, that the personal growth of a male involved walking on the backs of the women in their lives.

Naturally I hated him. And the maddening thing was that he had a significant local following. The were stories of fraternities who had adopted Master P as their mascot. There were websites, sanctioned by him, where one could enter personal details, including photos, of a woman, then press a button and see her 'trade-in value'.

I began speaking out publicly against such objectification of women. I refused to refer to him by name because I didn't want to give that joker any more creds than he had already received.

You should know that I had not used my powers at all since I retired 'Charm Girl'. I had planned never to use them again although I will admit I sometimes dreamed vividly about doing so...those were never good dreams.

But now I began to plan against this 'Grand Master P'. I was willing to break my promise in order to do so, but first I had to find out more about him.

In the end, and to my surprise, he made the first move. I never saw it coming. I returned home one night, entered my apartment to find that I was not alone. A man was waiting with duct tape, a sleeping bag, ropes and wrist cuffs.

Can you believe it? Just like my so-called 'friends' in Righteous Rules, this 'super' villain didn't believe that I had any real power, he must have seen me as a silly, overconfident bimbo who ran around in revealing clothes.

And I admit, I was overconfident, but powerless? Hardly. And it infuriated me to see how little he thought of me that he would send some lacky into my home, my lair, armed with a bag of ropes? I was livid.

Well, the first round was mine, because Mr. Henchman barely had time to even reach into his kidnap kit before I was already converting him. He got to use plenty of his equipment, but not on me.

"So what exactly was your plan?" I demanded from my vanity as I brushed my hair. There was no answer from the darkness and I remembered that I had ordered him to use his duct tape on his own mouth and ankles.

Annoyed, I told him, "Pull the tape off, just rip it."

The sound of adhesive pulling harshly away from skin filled the room as the man grunted in pain.

"My plan?" he was speaking even as he whimpered from the pain.

"Yes, your plan. What the hell was it? I assume you had something in mind for me this evening?"

"I planned to over-power you."

"Really?" I spat. I couldn't believe it. "And is that because they call me 'Docile Woman' or 'Submissive Chick'? Haven't you heard of me?"

"You are beautiful," he began simply.

Shut up. Are you stupid? Why the HELL do you think they called me Charm?"

"I...I thought they called you that because you were charming...beautiful...you know..."

I just rolled my eyes on hearing that.

"And this 'Grand Master' sent you to kidnap me? He did not warn you?"

"He only said that your stock had risen enough to make you interesting. Oh...and that I was not to play with you."

"Play with me? Explain," my tone was as cold as ice.

"I am not to mark you, Charm Girl."

"Don't call me that. Call me Ma'am. Mark me how?"

"Touch you in a way that would decrease your worth, Ma'am."

I was frustrated at my own anger and I was disgusted by the person in front of me.

"What did this 'master' of yours want done with me?"

"Take you to a house. His house, Ma'am."

"Address."

"I am not sure of the address..."

"Smash your face into the floor, it might help,"I growled even as his final "Ma'am" was emerging from his lips. I turned back to my vanity. The thump was accompanied by a grunt.

"Address."

"I am not sure of the address, Ma'am. It is behind the U storage unit, the one on North University. I was to take you there, Ma'am."

"Unbind yourself." I muttered as I turned on the light. A yellow glow illuminated the portion of my space which included a kitchen. There, in the center of a black and white tiled floor sat a wiry young man, his hair a sandy brown, his face covered in a reddish beard. A large bruise bulged from his forehead, a stream of blood ran from his nose and the skin around his mouth was an ugly red from loss of skin.

"Do you remember the last person you abducted like this?" I demanded, not that I really needed to.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Did she plead for you to let her go?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"And what did you say?"

"I told her: 'Save your tears for someone who cares'. Ma'am."

"Where is she now?"

"I don't know. I sold her to Master P, Ma'am."

I approached him, bent over his hunched figure and inspected the other items in his bag. I had no concern that he posed any threat at all to me, because he did not.

"Wonderful, what is this?" I asked as I plucked out a small can from among the rolls of tape, hand-cuffs and ropes which I saw in his bag.

"Pepper spray. Ma'am."

"It's only half full? You've used it?"

"I like to use it. Ma'am."

I turned toward him, snapping his nose with a thumb, his eyes looked toward her but somehow not seeing. The eyes were black and deep. That was typical of those that I convert. They are often not fully there.

"Fine," I began, "gather up all your stuff and go back to wherever you came from. But the next time you pick up this can, for any reason, you will turn the nozzle toward your face and you will discharge the whole can into your own noise and mouth. The whole, fucking, can. Understand?"

"Yes. I do. Ma'am."

And I am sure he did. He left with complete alacrity as if he had just delivered a pizza.

# Porter - Climbing

Isabella paused her story at this point and looked at Porter expectantly. But he did not know why. He had listened attentively as they worked their way up the tree covered hills, their muscles engaged in from grasping roots and limbs and pulling and pushing themselves upwards and onwards.

He wanted to pinch himself. But here he was, hiking the side of a mountain, the wind ringing his ears and chilling his skin, the sun hanging high in the sky and beating down on his brow. And the woman accompanying him fancied herself some sort of witch who claimed to have him charmed or 'converted' as she had termed it.

And he wondered if he could break free of her influence if he should ever wish it. Naturally he couldn't help but wonder what happened to the kid with the mace. Whose to say if he had followed her instructions or not.

"Comments? Questions?" she asked in a tone which was similar to the one she used when she told the story.

"No, Ma'am."

Porter mentally froze. Why had he said that? His eyes flitted to hers and she also seemed surprised. Again, her words invited a response so he gave her one. "I don't know why I called you that Miss Isabella. Maybe the story? I apologize."

She nodded, looking at him. "For an instant there...I thought you were mocking me...that you were only pretending to be under my spell. That would be a first.

Anyway, that day marked the first time in a long while that I had converted anyone. Obviously, my promises to myself to the contrary mean little when I find the need."

"What happened...to the kid who tried to abduct you, the guy with the mace?"

"You were paying attention, Porter? I told you my last instruction to him and he had already stated that he enjoyed using the mace so I have no doubt that he is dead now. You think otherwise? That he was able to ignore my command or refrain from using the mace?"

"Perhaps, he might have thrown the can in the lake, taken a bus out of town, started a new life..."

"It's possible," she laughed, "but I would not bet on that horse if I were you. And why would he? You are supposing that he even remembers my command in spite of the fact that you can hardly remember them even seconds later, even as you are carrying them out! Porter, I know that being something and understanding something are different beasts, but I have had a front row seat through many of my spells and I know how they work. That idiot walked happily off and his life continued as normal, until the day his passions drove him to try to subdue another human being, a passion as strong in him as my command. So just as surely as he tried to use that weapon, he just as certainly turned it on himself."

"But you don't know that he did. You could only witness what is done in your presence...if he had tried to fight it later...you would not have been there to see it...."

Porter felt a twinge in his back as he pulled himself up an embankment, but he did not slow down, he continued the motion even as his metabolic rate jumped to keep pace with the needs of his muscles. In a continued motion he obtained the higher ground, wrapped one hand securely around a root, tested it and then reached back to extend his hand to his companion.

She hesitated. Briefly. Before allowing him to grasp her hand and help her up. She ascended quickly and was soon past him. He turned to find her standing, her hands rubbing the muscles of her neck.

"I believe in myself, Porter. But that doesn't mean that I can't make mistakes or that my power does not have limits. I do and it does. As you will hear."

# Charm – The Sentries

I arrived at the storage facility and located the house behind it. It was dusk, a time I had chosen, and so my approach to the house was covered by the growing shadows.

The house was old and abandoned, the windows shuttered, the yard owned by weeds and large, unpruned trees. A covered porch highlighted a front door which also seemed to be boarded up. I ignored it and walked around to a side entrance.

It was only as I stood before the small door, a dim, flickering light bulb on one side, did I finally realized that I was all alone, with no back up and no one knowing I was here.

In days since, I often wondered if I, myself, were possessed by a spell of foolishness or over-confidence. But any concerns I had this day faded as I confidently rapped on the old door.

I knocked once. Twice. Three times before the door began to open and I felt my pink lips curl into one of my sweetest, most innocent smiles. The one which would get my foot in the proverbial door.

"My car broke down and I was hoping..." I began even before I could see who was there.

The man who answered the door was young, straight sandy hair and bangs with a gaunt and pale face. He was dressed in disparate black: black jeans, dark sneakers and an dark grey T-shirt; it was as if he wished to look official but on a budget.

I am not sure what went through his mind when he saw me, but a single look in his eye told me the spell had started and so I pushed it along.

"Hello, my name is Isabella, my car seems to have broken down and I saw your house. I was wondering if you could help me?'"

I hope you are paying attention, Porter. I never speak about the moments when I convert a subject.

The guard opened the door further as I spoke to him and already I was pushing forward, into the house, my eyes taking in my surroundings while still keeping tabs on him.

The door opened up into an old kitchen. There was no sign that this was a home, no dishes or coffee pots or even a country sign which said 'Welcome Friends'. Still it was obviously used, numerous plastic cups littered the counter along with fast food bags and the like. I had stepped into the room, my subject retreating, and started to close the door behind me when I felt two arms wrap around my body and pull tight.

I have to admit I was a bit surprised. Guard A looked at me blankly, he was converted, charmed now. The other must have been waiting right behind the door. And even then, sometimes I can charm multiple people at once, but I had never done that without at least seeing them all and apparently I only got one of them this time.

Looking back, I should have been very worried, an enemy is an enemy but I was young and in-control and I have to admit I was excited by the challenge.

I giggled at guard A and opened my mouth to speak, his pupils dilated in response. His buddy had a tight hold on me and I didn't resist, I didn't give him any cause for concern or escalation.

"How sweet that you want to fight over me?" I purred.

Or something like that, words which were quickly sinking into my subject's brain. I was not in the least concerned the command would not be obeyed so I turned my head and looked back at my temporary captor.

Interestingly, he had similar features to Guard A, brothers perhaps. Blood might be thicker than water but it didn't keep my new slave from launching a ferocious attack on the man holding me. I caught a stray blow on my chin as he rushed by, freeing me and taking the other to the floor.

I remember being annoyed that I was actually struck! I turned my back on the fighting pair and walked to a corner of the kitchen. I hopped onto the old, scratched-up table I found there, crossed one leg over the other and watched them fight while I arranged my ruffled hair. When I saw that one of them had a holstered weapon, I walked over and retrieved it from its owner as he fought for his life. I don't even remember which one that was.

I decided that they were brothers or close friends because one kept moaning things like 'dude, what's wrong?' or 'it hurts, stop!'.

"Where is he? This Master P?" I asked casually as I worked the safety on the weapon. Whichever one was my slave grunted an answer. He told me that the 'master' was in the basement. And that is all I wanted to know.

I didn't care much who would be the victor and I toyed around with the idea of leaving them to their quarrel while I looked for my quarry. I was so young, so sure of myself but you have to admire my spunk, right Porter?

At that point I heard one of their heads smash against the floor. Then again and yet again, the last time sounding extra hollow, as if the cranium had collapsed and I was pretty sure it was over.

Guard A crawled on all fours toward me. I raised the gun as he grew closer looking up at me with anticipatory eyes, still my slave.

A smarter Charm would have used him, she could have walked through that entire place, building an army of slaves as she went. But, not that Charm. She was annoyed, she was angry and she had something to prove.

I shot him once straight in the forehead. His head jerked back first and his body followed. I stood and put a second bullet in him. Then, and don't you dare roll your eyes, I tossed the gun onto the body and strolled out of the room.

I know, Porter, it was silly to leave the gun. Don't you think?

Porter answered her: "It seems pretty gutsy, and yet you say that yesterday you ran away from something that frightened you?"

Isabella glared at him, stopping in her tracks, but then she nodded: "You are right. It is strange. Have I changed so much? Do seven years make such a difference? Am I the same person? You are older still, are you much different than you were?"

Porter was not prepared for that question, one asked intently and patiently. Now it was his turn to nod: "I am different, I want different things, I see things differently but my raw emotions, my inner reactions to life are much the same. In many ways I have the same childish reactions as I always did."

Isabella replied: "Okay then, and I've always been confident and headstrong, not that it has always worked but somehow, I just can't help it. I'm old enough now to know better but that doesn't mean I am wise enough to act differently, just as you said. I'm not the kind of girl to run from something.

But. I did. I ran like I have never run before. And I don't know why. Something is different, something I don't understand. But I'm almost done with my story. Listen."

I really did leave the gun behind, and it makes me cringe even now. It was stupid not only to leave behind a working weapon, but to have eliminated a source of valuable information as I would soon realize. I thought I had learned all I needed, that my target was in 'the basement'.

But I was wrong. I crept through the old house, through the bare rooms, but I could not find a door which lead to the basement. The only staircase I located led to the second floor.

I was confused. I circled the first floor, entering each room and closet multiple times, trying to be more careful and more methodical each time. But the more time went by, the more I began to worry; I had planned on a quick, decisive defeat of my quarry but now time was bleeding away. With no other choice, I ascended to the second floor.

I wish that I hadn't. First, I'll tell you right now that the entrance to the basement was not from the second floor. But while most of the upstairs rooms were abandoned, there was one which was not.

I found a futon lying on the floor of a simple bedroom. The window was covered with black garbage bags and miscellaneous items were thrown around the room: pieces of rope, hand-cuffs and the like. I slid open a closet to find shelves, one covered with dildos of all sizes and related sex toys, on another were women's clothing, bright and gaudy: sparkling red heels, a skimpy checkered skirt among similar costume pieces. Finally, I found a video camera and the litter from used video cartridges. I fought away the images of what happened in the room and focused on finding the basement.

I returned to the ground level and looked out each window, checking for an exterior door, one which might lead underneath but I did not find one and I was loath to leave the house and expose myself. I sat on the floor and puzzled. Where was this basement?

Perhaps it was my silence and patience that rewarded me. Suddenly, right before me, a piece of the floor lurched and rose up – a trap door. The occurrence was so unexpected that I didn't even rise from my sitting position, I just stared as a large, bald man emerged.

"Well, well. What do we have here?" I brazenly called to the newcomer as I hopped first to my knees and then to my feet. I placed one hand on my hip and started to choose some witty comment to continue my charm. But, strangely, the man did not seem to notice me."

Porter could hear Isabella's voice start to fade, as if she had softened her speech. Or she had stopped walking. He turned to find that it was the latter. She looked troubled. In his mind, he knew he should ask her what was wrong. Instead he waited. After a while, she sighed and looked back at him, her piercing blue eyes lighter, vulnerable.

"Porter, I am about to reveal something to you which I have not told a soul. So I am hesitant, I'd prefer to keep it to myself, as I always have...but, right or wrong, I need you to understand me and my strengths and weaknesses...because it's possible that whatever waits at the top of this climb...is more than I can handle. Now listen."

As I was saying, the large, bald man did not respond when I called to him, thus I could not tell if the charm had started. I called again, another sarcastic, witty, remark, but again, he did not respond.

But then, maybe he sensed a vibration or perhaps just coincidentally, he turned around and saw me. He was clearly surprised and I should have realized the implications...instead I continued speaking...restarting the process which I thought I had started.

Even people who know about my power believe my effect is mostly visual and my reasonably attractive looks work in my favor to perpetuate that myth. Yes, it is certainly much easier if I can see them, because visual feedback helps me fine-tune my spell but that is the crux of it all: the power is in my voice, I need to be heard and understood for the charm to work. It had never been a problem before, but consider that I had never converted someone whom I had not spoken with previously.

The man charged me, like a bull. I evaded him, he rushed by and somewhere deep in my silly mind, a seed of worry sprouted. He clearly knew I was there, he looked right at me as I spoke, but I was having no effect. I could feel my eyes widen and my pulse quicken as he rushed me again even as I tried to make him hear me, but nothing was happening except that he came closer and this time he was prepared for me to evade.

I turned and ran up the stairs but I was much too slow and he grasped my ankle and turned it hard. The pain pulsed my brain and I yelped from both the sensation and from sheer panic.

The beast pulled on my captured foot and my body was pummeled by the hard steps of the stair case as he dragged me along them and then he mounted me. It was only as his left hand closed around my bare neck and I could smell his body odor that I saw one of the hearing aids and guessed what went wrong: he couldn't hear me.

Again, I was so confident despite being outside of my comfort zone. In the past I converted people that I knew, people I had met or had spoken with, thus I could always convert them if needed. But now I was flying blind, handling opponents as they turned up and I had never done that before. It was risky. It was stupid. And now I was about to pay for it.

Growing up, I had always gotten what I wanted, I don't mean that I was spoiled, I mean that my parents took care of us and provided and I didn't have extravagant needs or wants.

I might have never learned about my talent, my power, it if weren't for having a kid brother. Malcolm was young and sickly and while I wanted a doll, he wanted a real laser gun or a monkey or some crazy thing he couldn't have. But he was my little brother, the baby and so I was often intervening on his behalf rather than my own.

I think the first time I really used my power and KNEW that it worked was at a carnival. Malcolm wanted so bad to win this action figure from a dart game booth. He came so close but as usual in those games, he did not win. I kept paying for new games and every time he lost, he became more upset, and the booth worker seemed to enjoy it. I was furious and I walked up to the older man and started 'talking' to him, intently. His face got this stupid look on his face not unlike many of you morons get when I speak to you but I could tell it was different, I could feel it.

I made the worker give him his pick of the prizes and then I had him give out all of his prizes to every kid who so much as looked his way. He wasn't there the next night.

Porter, you are letting me mix stories! Why did I have to jump back to the beginning? I was telling you about the first time I met someone immune to my charm, or so it seemed.

Anyhow, there I was, pinned to the stairs by this deaf and angry ape. I know it's sexist to say, but I am not sure you can understand how it feels to be so helpless, to be held down by a man no matter what his intentions. His beefy hand was on my neck and I could feel how easy it would be for him to stop my breathing and I was doing very little to stop him.

I quit struggling, it was useless and just wasted my strength. I was worried, but I had not yet panicked. I wanted my opponent to feel that I didn't have any significant resistance to offer. I let my hands slide over the front of my body, I had a purpose.

Remember I was speaking about aces-in-the-hole? Hidden advantages? Well, I had one. I had not yet tested it, unfortunately, but I had begun experimenting with poisons and I had one with me, it dangled from my belt like some of the other baubles I wore there. There was no way I could forced it into his mouth, and with time running out I switched to plan B.

He had pinned my upper arms but I didn't need much mobility. My hand plucked the vile and swiveled under my top to dispense it. Soon the sticky syrup was smeared over my belly and my breast bottoms, it was fragrant, like a sweet perfume. I know it sounds very 'Jane Bondish' but, as I said, I had been working on a poison, something that would work in food or like a coffee-sweetner, who would expect that from Charm?

Doofus saw I was doing something under my shirt and pulled up the top. He sniffed, drew closer and sniffed again even as his eyes took in my flesh. By this time I was offering only the smallest of resistance, as if I were exhausted. He licked my chest and then looked at me, as if waiting for a reaction. I gave him a helpless look of shock and indignation and that was all he needed, I didn't see his face again for another couple minutes as he ravaged me with his mouth.

Isabella stopped, her eyes raised up to the myriad patches of blue sky peeking through the high trees. Porter relaxed, he could tell that she was in no hurry to tell this tale. He certainly was not going to push her. She sighed and continued her story.

Remember I said that the poison was not meant to be used in that way? And that I had not finished testing it? Too bad for me because the poison was caustic to skin, as I found out as soon as it touched my chest. First it stung, then it burned and I screamed and tried even harder to push him off, to get away so that I could stop the stuff from chemically searing my skin. I suppose it made the whole thing more convincing because now the beast ravaged my entire chest and thank god the poison actually worked.

So when he grabbed his own throat and started to wretch, I wet both my palms with my mouth and desperately tried to wipe the stuff off my breasts, my nipples, my belly. He was convulsing as I was finally able to wipe the stuff off with my shirt. Scraping up the excess helped in a way, but it also ground some of the substance further into the pores of my skin. It hurt so bad, Porter.

Isabella stopped her story, stood facing him, and lifted her shirt up to her chin. She wore a sports bra but he saw a large amorphous pink cloud of damaged skin spread between the bottoms of her breasts and her naval.

"This is actually the best my skin has looked in years, it used to be an ugly red and black. Poor, poor me. But let me continue, there is not much more to tell."

I wanted to scream but instead I freed my left leg, and pressed the foot squarely into the chest of the dying man and pushed him with all my might off me and away. His bulk toppled slowly and then tumbled down the remaining stairs to the wooden floor.

I walked to a bathroom and cleaned off the rest of the poison, my mind on fire. I tried to regain my composure and returned to my task. I never even considered cutting my losses and leaving that house. I was angry at myself and I was furious at the man who was behind it all. I returned to the living room and stepped into the large hole revealed by the trap door.

I strode down the stone stairs into the damp, dark basement. I was in such a foul mood that I hardly even tried to soften my foot steps. I reasoned that such confidence would not arouse suspicion, if that makes any sense to you.

The room in which I now found myself was your typical horror-movie cellar, unfinished ceiling; ugly, stained walls; ancient tools displayed on dark peg board and rusty screws and nails scattered on the floor.

There was a hallway and I saw dim, yellowed lights in the distance so I walked in that direction. My boots clapped lightly against the floor as I walked and now I could see a door at the end of the irregular hallway. Being on the short side, I didn't have to duck down or mind my head, and it was clear to me that the hall had been carved out by amateurs. My reasoning was that we were now beneath the storage facility; that something was being transferred easily between the house and the facility or perhaps the reverse. It was then that I spied the final guard, I had already decided he would not fare any better than the rest.

To be honest, I think he had seen me before I saw him, he just couldn't believe that I was so boldly approaching him in my lonesome. Or perhaps he thought that the beast or one of the loser brothers was at the rear. Who knows?

I smiled as I approached, introducing myself in true super-heroine fashion as I quickly closed the distance between us.

There were no other doors in the hallway and I now was sure where Master P was hiding. No more worries or concerns, I was supremely confident even after all my misteps. I had already started the conversation and the tall, mustached man's stupid smile had turned even more idiotic.

"Hi Beautiful!" he beamed as I came to within arms length.

"Hi," I smirked as I grabbed his smiling skull between my hands and slammed it into the wood of the door he guarded. I knocked with his head once, twice and finally three times. "Hello? Anybody home?" I called as I opened the door and pushed the man inside. He took only a couple steps before his body crashed to the ground as I stepped into the lair of 'Grand Master P'.

I guess this should be the part of my story where I describe this epic life-and-death struggle, a fight between good and evil, super-heroine vs super-villain: the highlight of my career. But it was none of that.

This 'Master P' was hardly older than myself. As a matter of fact, I recognized him from one of my courses in communications. He was lying on a mattress with two scantily-clad and inebriated women. I converted them right away. Believe it or not, the female of the species has always been easier for me to convert, there is something about their ability to trust, to invest themselves in a cause different from their own that makes it easier for me. I do not think it is a bad trait and honestly I respect my gender for having it. It just so happens that it benefits me.

I questioned them, leaving their master for later. He still didn't appreciate his situation. He knew who I was and he kept saying strange things like "I knew you would come" and "You will be my prize".

Porter I can't even describe to you the growing sense of unease and failure that I felt as I realized that this kid was not only mentally incompetent but was just a tool of yet someone else. He had been set up in this house and allowed to babble his super-villain bullshit and in exchange he was able to lure other clueless kids to his house, some of them joined him and others were placed in containers and sent...somewhere. Who knows where. The women only knew so much and there was nothing else to be gained.

I had them burn the place down, with him in it. I left and I vowed, once again, to never use my power and to stay out of the vigilante business.

# Porter - Reaching the Top

Porter felt another stream of sweat roll over his eyes and down the front of his face as he pulled himself up along the cold, firm earth. He wiped his face quickly and turned to make sure Isabella could handle the ledge as well. But she had already scrambled up and was beside him. While the climb had progressively worn him down, somehow it seemed to invigorate her.

He looked up along the slope; now the trees and greenery were opening up and he could see blue sky among the white, fluffy clouds. It would not be too much longer before they were on top of Hidden Butte.

"You need some rest," she declared as she waved him off the trail, "unfortunately we'll have to do so out of the sight-lines of our goal, just in case. As a matter of fact, from now on, we'll continue in the denser foliage." He sat against a tree, not caring about the bugs which would begin to probe him. She continued. "Tell me Porter, do you resent me for what I have done to you?"

"I do not," Porter responded quickly without having to think. "But it was wrong of you to force me to do things against my will. Still I doubt I would leave you at this point, even if I could."

"It's a fair comment. I have used my power as any other talent and who is to say if the great leaders of the world did not possess some similar ability. But I have, at least, been honest with you.

I have told you my story, I have told you where we are going and why. If you die, at least you won't be like the multitudes who did so without knowing the reason for their passing. Anything you want to ask me?"

Porter had only one question.

"What is up there?"

"I have told you already. I don't know. Just as I don't know if Eric fell off the edge or was thrown off. Or perhaps he jumped off the edge trying to get away, just as I tried.

By now you should know that I am not the type to run from a fight and certainly I would never leave my friends nor my beloved Malcolm behind.

I might have charged right back up there...except that the whole thing was so...strange...so mysterious. Why did I run? And why can't I remember? Could I have been drugged? Did I fall asleep and wake from a nightmare...so hard to believe. I feel like I am missing something.

And that is the reasons I need you. I can't accept that I could be so easily handled, so easily deterred by anything. It may be that whatever is ahead is more than a match for me. So I need something extra...something unexpected, so I bring you. I will thank you now in case we are not both standing in the end.

But I want to be both clear and honest with you, Porter, even though you don't have a choice. You are my weapon, my shield. If there is mud, you are going to get dirty; if we bleed, your blood will spill first and if only one of us lives through this, it will probably not be you.

But neither will I leave you to fight. I'll be with you the whole time."

Porter just nodded. It was as she had said, this was going to happen, like it or not. She was determined and thus he had no choice.

"Porter?" she prompted him as she stood up, signaling for him to rise as well.

"Yes."

"Many believe that karma is what happens to us, a consequence for our actions. But I would suggest that sometimes we are the karma, we are the consequences of some one else's actions. We are that which comes around. We are fate."

# Porter - The Stakeout

It was surreal as Porter crawled out of the ridge in the butte and found himself on the edge of an island in the sky. There were field and trees on one side, sky and open space over distant green fields on the other. He turned away from the spectacular view and made for the trees, his body low, like an animal.

She had given him a device to wear around the back of his head and over his ears.

Good news, Porter. I actually am getting a strong cell signal. So you should be able to hear me?

He responded even as he entered the cover of the trees and the howl of the wind died down. He didn't try to turn to see how far back she was or if she was coming at all. That didn't matter. All that mattered was that he stay low and move as quietly as possible. He could not be silent but neither could he move too slowly.

It was not too long before he saw one of the lemon colored, dome tents. He edged closer, his body close to the ground when he moved and then rising up to observe his progress and his surroundings. Each iteration brought more tents into view. But he saw nothing else.

He stood at the edge of the camp site, now in full view of five tents, one of them seemingly collapsed. He kept behind a tree, retrieved a rock from the ground and then, carefully, aimed and threw. The object sailed through the air, visible only to one who knew where to look and thumped on the ground. Porter froze. Waited. Listened. But there was no response.

We had four couples, each in their own tent and then two individual tents. Why only five tents now? Look again.

He felt himself creep around the site, going tent by tent, checking each one and every time expecting something to pop out. But all were empty save for some scattered clothing and a backpack or two. But he found only five tents, not six. In the collapsed tent Porter found only a mean-looking, although plastic, rifle. He also found a blue uniform.

Laser Tag. Remember? Put on the uniform, it may help us.

The back of the uniform said 'Ed' and he muttered that name as he put it on.

Doesn't matter, the names aren't ours and I don't remember who had that one. Two teams: red and blue. My uniform was blue in color and the name was on the back was 'Emily'. I remember that much at least. More importantly, where is the other tent?

Where was everyone? Porter wondered. It was spooky. His mind flashed to a image of the broken body they had found at the base of the formation, had they all met a similar fate? Would it be worse to find them or to not find them...like Stacy.

We have to move on Porter. Let's finish this while we have light. There are two buildings on the other side of this forest.

He crept through the trees, barely aware that the blue uniform that he had appropriated was accumulating a layer of mixed chlorophyll and soil, his arms as well, a gradually improving camouflage.

He found nothing in his path that would indicate that any human had been there. When he reached the far edge of the forest, the cover of the trees was replaced with that of tall grasses and weeds and the ground sloped down, a depression in the soil, a dried-up pond perhaps. Indeed, the soil was more than damp, almost wet and it started to slurp as it accepted his arms and legs as they pressed in and then protested when they pulled out.

Porter was not aware of time, but it seemed that he could almost see the sun moving in the sky as he checked its position in order to navigate.

Adjust your course – one o'clock.

The voice was just a thought in Porter's mind as he looked back up into the blue sky, found the sun and adjusted his course to his right, by roughly one sixth of his field of view. The course change didn't seem to matter, the ground and the plants were the same but Porter could tell he had almost reached the other side of the depression as now the ground started to rise. Then he heard the buzz of the flies and he smelled the stench of something large and dead.

As he parted the thick grasses, the flies exploded, a black cloud that partially pelted his face. His eyes closed and opened again as they dispersed and soon returned to the thing that had attracted them, a large heap of dark blue clothing, very similar to the garb he wore. He muttered under his breath as he circled the bloated corpse, crawling over the legs, around one side, over an out-stretched arm, to the head.

The skin of the young man's face was pale and dry, his hair dark and curly. His mouth was open and things crawled within while the flies congregated on three dark, thick bands of ruptured skin across the neck. It was if the man had been felled by a single swipe of sharp claws.

Porter was aware that he had been speaking to himself and now had lost interest in the neck and was examining the chest. The torso was puffy beneath the blue garment stained heavily with dried blood. But in the center of the chest were two black holes, like what might be left by the bite of a fanged creature.

Anything else?

Anything else? Porter muttered to himself. What else did one need to see? Still, he was curious about one thing. He held onto one arm and pushed the body onto its side and then over onto its stomach. There was nothing remarkable except the name on the back: Phil.

In his mind, Porter saw the names on the uniforms. The body at the base of the butte was 'Ed', this one was 'Phil' and the name across Isabella's back had been 'Emily'. Emily. Edward. Phillip. It was familiar.

I told you about that, it doesn't matter, we have to move on.

It meant something. He knew. He was sure. The names meant something. He insisted.

Fine. I'll try to get signal for a data search, continue.

The wind blew across the field and the grasses swayed. He felt the warm sun on his face and heard geese fly overhead. But he kept crawling forward, up a hill until he could see the edge of the other side of the butte. And a small cabin. He kept moving.

He found himself staring at the outline of the cabin against the bright blue sky. Somehow he knew that to pass that cabin, to enter that brilliant patch was to fall to one's death. Still the old wood structure reminded him a bit of his own dwelling. The planks were separating from each other, there was a foggy window, a small pipe in the roof which might let out smoke from a fireplace or stove.

Suddenly, Porter felt his head press into the earth, turning as it did so, his arms and legs flattened. He couldn't move but he could see the tall grass in front of him and he could hear...nothing but the wind. As if there were nothing here. He began to panic but he could not move.

Okay, now move into that cabin, quickly. I want to know what is in there.

And now he could move. The shack had a single entrance and there was nothing he could do except crawl up to it. He opened the door and looked inside. The room was sparse, with a dirt floor, an old rusted stove, and a bunk bed reduced only to its frame and springs. But in the center of the room was a large duffle bag.

"Empty. Stove. Large bag, like a sleeping bag, stuffed with something," Porter muttered.

He crawled forward, closing the door behind him. The bag was long like a body bag, a zipper which extended lengthwise. It seemed to be stuffed full...of something.

Porter trembled as he unhitched the clasp which held the zipper closed and slid it back slowly. There was no response from the bag. So why did he sense something? He wanted to cast a furtive look over his shoulder but somehow his body did not agree. And his eyes only widened when the parting cloth revealed a human head, its mouth gagged, its skin shiny with perspiration and its eyes wide with fear.

"Young man in the bag. Tied up. Alive." he whispered even as he recoiled. The occupant of the body bag did not react, did not relax, rather it started to quiver, then trembling uncontrollably. Porter reached for the gag and the man flinched. "No, dark eyes, not blue." He added.

Porter fought the urge to turn and check the door. To check for whatever or whoever had placed this man here. Rather, he reached out and removed the gag.

"Explain. How you got here." Porter insisted.

"Please leave," the man croaked, "I was warned. I cannot try to escape, I must stay right here," the man's voice wavered.

It was then that Porter saw the thin lines of crusted blood in the man's face, his neck, his chest. As if something had cut up his entire body. He made audible comments and waited for the response.

"Who. Tell me who did this," Porter persisted.

"It did, the devil. It comes and goes as it wishes and it likes to cause pain. Please, please...I was warned."

"Where is it now?"

"Where? Where? Anywhere, no, not my fault...it's not my fault if he returns..." the voice rose and fell.

He's holding on by a thread, Porter. Put him back in his safe prison.

Porter shrugged, replaced the gag and zipped up the bag again. The man gratefully closed his eyes. Porter returned to the door and waited. He wondered if Isabella could have converted the man over the connection. Would it relax him, calm him or would it push him permanently over he edge?

When Porter opened the door, the outside light was beginning to dim. He slipped into the tall grasses and continued his movement, the roof of a larger building slipped into his view of the blue sky, the sun at this back now. And suddenly, he knew it was time to act.

He stood, the wind roaring in his ears, and moved quickly toward the larger building. He was aware that for the first time since they had arrived at the summit, he was no longer trying to remain concealed, he was moving brazenly, an obvious target. And that worried him.

# Porter - The Church

Porter's eyes jerked left and right frantically as he strode toward the other, larger, building but he saw nothing except the grasses and weeds leading up to the door of the entrance. A crisp, white, cross had been engraved into the door but the symbol had been marred with a rusty slash that looked like it had been painted with a dismissive swipe of a thick finger.

He entered and closed the door softly behind him. He listened. The building was silent except for a soft whimpering; the sound a distressed child might make.

In front of him the building opened up into a single, large room. The ceiling faded into darkness but the floor and walls were ineffectually lit by several electric lanterns, the light yellow and dim, the batteries expiring. A real candle flickered on a table in the center of the room. He walked toward it.

But his eyes widened as he approached. The red candle swayed in the air and now he realized that someone was holding it. Lying as if fixed to the wooden table was a nude woman. She held the candle in the air with two long, pale arms. Her body was nude and the back of her head was pressed against the table as if it were attached to it while she stared up into the air in concentration. Her legs and feet were not constrained and seemed to slide back and forth on the wood in desperate movement.

He realized that the molten, red, wax from the candle was dripping onto the woman's bare skin, her arms and body were speckled dark red.

Porter's lips moved as he circled the table and surveyed the scene. The woman on the table continued her whimpering, seemingly unaware of his presence or in spite of it.

More people were present in the room. Another woman, also nude, was pressed against a back wall, on her knees. Still another was in a similar position but she lay with her leg beneath her, as if she could no longer kneel. The first one ignored him as well, but the next looked over at him, her head turning very slowly. He saw her eyes sparkle in the darkness, reflecting bits of the candlelight.

"Do you have a gun?" the voice whispered mournfully, like a prayer.

"A gun?" Porter responded softly.

"Then leave. Now, before he returns, run."

Porter!

He jumped, turning away from the woman.

Go outside now. Make a hard left as you leave, walk quickly. Turn back only when I say. It is time, don't let me down, Porter.

He acted immediately, the command already fading from his conscious mind. He pushed open the door, the orange-red light of the developing sunset greeting and blinding him as well. He walked quickly, cat-like, muffling his foot falls. He heard a sound over the wind, behind him, a guttural moan. He kept walking.

He heard the whistle of the air as something slipped through it, then a grunt of surprise and finally, her command. He turned to see a dark form, as large as Porter and only six yards away, its shape was irregular like a black jellyfish, its wings fluttered around its body in some type of frantic motion, a piece of it stuck to the wall, held by an arrow.

His eyes focused on the thing. It swayed on leg-like appendages, its thorax was substantial in size, the top of which sprouted a bulb-like stump, its texture like black-velvet. Indents in this 'head' seemed like eyes and indeed, they were unmistakably fixed on Porter.

The creature's asymmetry was in its arms. One sprouted a set of long, sharp talons, which flexed open and close, squealing and glistening as they did so, eager to grasp him and cut him. But it was the other limb which rose toward him, like a weapon, the black stump sparkled hypnotically as it extended toward him as if it could reach across the distance. Instinctually he dreaded its touch.

Now the thing's chaotic movements calmed and it moved with one purpose, to reach him, even as its wing held firm, threatening to rip away. Porter now realized that the arrow pinned a part of the creature to the wood exterior of the building.

With his peripheral vision, Porter saw her emerge from the tall grass, her body outlined by the red sun. A second arrow rushed through the air and this one buried itself into the monster's form.

The thing howled, an unearthly scream but one that warped into a high pitched cry of pain and rage. She was approaching, a third arrow loading.

"Stop it! You stupid bitch!" came the whiny voice which had now suddenly become distinctly human. Suddenly the strange cape ripped and fell away, the sparkling limb fell to the ground to reveal a human hand, its owner clutched at its wounded thigh even as that leg fell from one of the stilts it had worn. Another hand ripped off the dark mask to reveal blonde hair, blue eyes and pale skin. And red lips.

Isabella's predatory stride halted and her calm countenance fell away to be replaced with confusion, her mouth falling open.

"Malcom?"

"You hit me! You hurt me! Stupid cow!!"

Her brother's hand grasped his right thigh, his long, slender, fingers touching but not clutching the arrow which sprouted there. Finally, the man-boy plucked at the wooden shaft, pulling it out in small lurches.

"Malcolm! Sweetie, I am so sorry. What are you doing?" Isabella cried as she hurried closer to him.

Porter watched, surprised that he could observe so stoically at this strange development. For a moment, he had actually believed that he was in the presence of some fantastic creature, an alien perhaps, he hadn't had time to think more.

But now it was clear that it was all just a costume. A black cloak, stilts and a black fabric that pulled over the head. And his arms, one was an evil glove which ended in long blades rather than fingers, and the other had held a taser baton.

"You are lucky this damn thing came out," Malcolm growled as he looked around, taking only a quick look at the standing Porter. "Or else you and your slave would have to carry me twenty miles. Damn it, where the hell did you get arrows? I thought you were gone already, Jesus Fucking Mother of GOD!!!" the boy screamed as the blood oozed out of his wound.

Porter watched as Isabella removed her own jacket and tied it around her brother's thigh.

"I didn't know it was you! You looked like...I don't even know!" Isabella protested.

The angry Cupid laughed for the first time.

"I was just having some fun...for once...finally. Well, I had thought I sent you away but it looks like I'll need you and your boy to clean everything up. I forgot to bring a shovel for burials or we could let him take the blame...I just don't feel like taking to the cops."

The little man was calming down but Isabella was in tears.

"But...but...Malcolm! Eric is dead! Did you know that? And there is a body in the woods and...and...someone is..."

"Of course I know about Eric, I pushed him. He was going on and on acting like a big shot" Malcolm laughed. "I wish you could ever find a boyfriend that I actually liked. It would be better for them too and it would save me the trouble of getting rid of them. God how you cried over the last one...you are ALWAYS crying over something which is exactly why I don't let you remember."

Now Isabella stepped back and straightened her posture.

"I don't understand..."

"Please explain" Malcolm finished for her, mocking her voice and mannerisms from his position on the ground. "You always say that." He rolled his eyes and appraised her waiting form. Then he continued.

"Fine, Miss Charm, let's have this conversation one more time. You are like that silly girl in the movies who forgets everything while she sleeps and then they have to remind her who she is every morning.

So, first of all, I am the one with all the power. I'm the genius, I'm the one who figured it all out. I pull the strings. I just gave you some of MY power because it was easier and less conspicuous if I had you do my dirty work for me. We got along fine until the first time I had you kill someone.

God, I just couldn't take all of your crying and wailing over it. Why couldn't you just let it go Izzy? It's not a big deal. But you were such a girl about it, so I had to start wiping your memory after our little escapades."

Isabella's face was white, her lips trembling. Her mouth opened to protest but stopped as her eyes ran over memories which had been freed.

"You never read that book I gave you, did you Izzy, or you might have had some idea of what was going on. You see, I am just tired of having so much power with so little reward. Tired of all the sympathetic voices, the looks of concern from the ones I can control and the scorn from those I can't. This was my time to really turn it all around, to show my true, dark, heart. So I brought along an alter-ego, a costume of my own making.

And it worked too! Your friends were terrified. I had to get rid of Eric first, I judged him the strongest and he made it too easy as he peered over the edge of the cliff, looking for you. Then I went after the men, it wasn't all that difficult with my taser baton.

You should have seen it. Tyler pissed himself after I stunned him and he probably shat too when I cut open his throat. I killed Brian next while Chad watched. I would have offed Chad too but he fell to pieces and is so much fun to toy with. He is sure I am the devil himself, I think I have driven him insane by now.

But if it was rewarding punishing the men, it was twice as nice with the girls. The way they screamed and begged and cried. Now, they are finally giving me the respect I deserve rather than looking me like a helpless puppy, the way YOU look at me all the time.

I almost wanted to reveal myself to them, to really stick it in their face, to show them I was never the helpless child they saw me as."

Isabella held up a protesting hand.

"What did you mean...'send me away', how did you send me away?" Isabella stammered.

"I needed to get rid of you, Izzy. Once you 'disappeared', I knew I could use the chaos to pick off the men and it created this wonderful mood of danger. Besides, I didn't want you to interfere in my plans so I sent you away.

I told you, I'm the one with the power, not you. I can make you do all sorts of things, you know that right? You've been working for me all your life. In this case, I gave you the command to run for your life and you ran! I might do it again right now except first you two will help me clean up around here. Should we just bury everyone or should we blame this all on crazy Chad? You can probably handle the police and all the questions, I can go back to being the terrified younger brother. What do you think?"

"You are asking me how to cover up....this?!"

"Sure, Izzy. Not like you haven't done it before? You would never let anyone or anything hurt you little brother. Anything for Malcolm, right? Anything for Malcolm."

Porter didn't see this ending well. But it was certainly ironic.

"Stop mocking me, Malcolm."

Now the boy seemed genuinely annoyed.

"Or what? You'll try to charm me? Ha! You know what, I finally met someone who has a heart just like mine, and so I don't need you anymore. I'll bet I can give your powers to her as well...insignificant as they may be."

"You don't frighten me, little brother," Isabella began.

"I've been saving your little friend, Darla, the one who is always writing rhymes? I think it would be fun for her to write something that rhymes with 'taser penetration'."

Porter was only marginally listening to the conversation, mostly he was watching Isabella's face. She had seemed both concerned and resigned but now there something new in her face, a thoughtful defiance and he could almost hear that when she spoke next.

"You know, you are cute, even when you are angry. You remind me of that nursery rhyme. You won't remember, you were much too young. That little dwarf who can turn thread to gold."

Malcolm put some pressure on his leg and started to rise. "Yarn...yarn...he can spin yarn into gold. And of course I remember his name."

Porter watched Isabella's face. She opened her mouth to speak but seemed unable to complete the action. Instead, she waited until he looked at her. Then she rolled her eyes, dismissively. It was enough.

"Rumplestiltskin, you silly bitch," he laughed.

Even as Porter tore his gaze from her and swung it completely to the brother, he knew what he was doing. His body dropped to a crouch, his left hand sliding along the ground, up and under the pant leg, to the item he now knew was there.

He was already leveling the weapon, taking aim, when Malcolm sensed the motion and started to turn his head. In his mind's eye, Porter could envision the freak's eyes glowing with annoyance and menace but all he could see was the nose as it came into view, the head turning.

He squeezed the trigger easily. A head shot was not normally the safest, but his arm was level and so it was his best shot.

The first bullet impacted Malcolm's cheekbone, continued through the flesh before destroying the nose. The second, the better shot, struck at the center of his target's head and entered the skull behind the ear. By the time the first two shots were fired, Malcolm's body was already falling and Porter waited for the body to hit the ground and stop before attempting his third and final try.

Then he re-aimed and fired into the center of the body – striking between two ribs, missing the heart but severing one of its arteries. Malcolm's form shuddered and stopped.

Porter did not look up as he approached the body. The fading light hid the blood but Porter touched the neck, it was still, there was no life, there would be no sudden reanimation as in the movies. Porter raised his eyes slightly toward Isabella who was now motionless, a reddish-gold statue against the sky.

He felt invigorated, revitalized, he felt free, he was free. He wanted to scream victoriously but he knew it was likely that she was in pain and he did not wish to exacerbate that.

He thought about the women in the church, scooped up the taser weapon and moved swiftly toward that building. He couldn't help but listen for her voice above the wind but he didn't hear it. He would give her privacy in this moment.

# Porter – Return

When he entered the church now, the room was darker and quieter except for the whisper of the candle still held in the air by the poor woman lying on the table. He wondered if the sounds of shots fired had plunged the room into a deeper silence.

He held the baton firmly as he moved to one of the walls and retrieved the brightest electric lantern. He approached the center table, the glow of his light bathed the flesh of the woman lying on top of it, revealing her, it couldn't be helped. The woman did not look at him, indeed he saw her eyes slide closed as her gaunt, pale face came into view.

Her legs were long and lean and her toes curled. Porter reached gently for the candle. As he did so, another drop of hot wax dropped onto her stomach, already covered. But she did not flinch. He firmly pulled the candle from her grasp, but her arm remained in the air as if waiting for its return.

"Are you cold?" he asked her but her eyelids remained closed, as if sleeping or, more likely praying. There was no movement from the others in the room.

Porter decided to approach the one who had spoken to him previously. As his lantern temporarily revealed portions of the floor, he found a pile of clothing. He scooped up what seemed to be pieces of denim and cotton before approaching the woman.

While before she had rested on the sides of her thighs, now she had returned to a kneeling position. Her back was bare and only a single pair of panties adorned her small frame and thick thighs. He stood at the side of her face, certain he saw her eyes flicker his way.

"That guy is dead. You must have heard the shots," he began, laying the clothes at her side before backing off one step. No response, initially, but then she looked over at the clothes. "Would you put something on?" Porter persisted, "and help me with the others?"

"You..you said you didn't have a weapon..." she said cautiously.

"I didn't say that, and I have his taser. Did you know? About the taser? And who he was?"

"I figured that was what it was," she began, her voice rising as she snatched at the clothes, pulling a shirt over her head. "And I knew who it was even though he was so keen on pretending to be some sort of demon or monster but I knew who he was. I recognized his voice, I saw the stilts. Promise me that asshole is dead?"

"Malcolm is dead, his sister brought me here, she's with..."

"Izzy?" the woman exclaimed, standing and turning to him for the first time.

"Yes, Isabella?" Porter responded knowing he was in for a long explanation. "I left her with the body...she is probably very upset...would you help me with the others..."

"Izzy!!" the woman moaned a second time but she was no longer speaking to Porter. She ran across the room to a figure who had entered the perimeter of his light. He turned in time to see the two embrace. Even before he could react, the other two women joined and the room was filled with sobbing, frantic questions and whispered reassurances.

"I'm so sorry, so very sorry, I didn't know, please forgive me..." He heard Isabella's voice from within the group.

Porter stood by awkwardly while the conversations continued. He did not want to intrude or approach the distraught and semi-nude women.

After a while, Porter looked around the room and located more clothing, sneakers and boots. He gathered them up and brought them near the four women, careful not to get too close. He set the belongings on the floor near by and then headed for the door, having just remembered the man in the other building, in the body bag. He needed to release him, to let him know it was over. He scolded himself for forgetting that terrified victim.

"Porter, wait," Isabella implored, her voice still choked with emotion. "We stay together, we'll stay here until there is daylight."

He couldn't leave that man for even a second longer and, besides, he was useless here. And he was free!

"You can't tell me what to do," he snapped, probably quicker and louder than he had meant, so he added hastily, "I have to let that other guy out..."

He could not see her face but her voice was soft.

"Of course, Porter. But please wait for us. We'll all go together. He won't know you and consider how my friends would feel if you left and...for some reason did not return..."

He saw her point. He was not afraid at all anymore, but her friends, those left alive, must all be in a very fragile and emotional state and might be for a long time to come.

A short time later, with all the women clothed, they all walked to the cabin and retrieved the man. It was a very long and emotional reunion and it was almost an hour later before Porter was sure that there were no more survivors.

Porter was concerned that Chad needed immediate psychiatric care, tranquilizers at the least, but the women brought him back to the larger building and stayed close to him, whispering and reassuring him and each other, throughout the night.

Next morning, Porter searched. He found the bodies, content to simply verify the locations of the remains only, the medical examiners could determine the grisly details behind each death.

In doing so, he found the missing tent. It had been hidden within a bush. It contained wallets and purses, some blankets and Malcolm's backpack. Porter found an unfinished letter as well. He read it and then hid it away, determined to give it to Isabella only after they had returned to civilization. They had all had enough trauma, this letter was too much more. Strangely, nothing written there surprised Porter.

Later that day, the group carefully made their way down the rock formation and hiked another ten miles to Farrendale Forest Preserve, a place where Porter often went for supplies.

After that came the police and the ambulances and eventually the reporters. Porter spent most of that day sitting beneath a shade tree, waiting for the next person who wanted to speak with him. He had agreed to spend a few nights in a local motel, under police guard, so that he would be available if needed.

"I don't want to talk about him," Isabella insisted as she walked up to him as he watched the parking lot slowly empty. Soon his ride would arrive as well. "Not yet, not for a while."

"Okay," he replied. She seemed placid, almost matter-of-fact. It seemed that somehow she had forgiven him for killing her brother. He thought she might but he hadn't been sure and now, relieved, he was suddenly very tired.

"I'm not going to fill your ear with thank-yous or apologies. I owe you and I expect to pay my debt. So think of something, make it good, and I'll do it. Look at me, Porter."

He looked over at the strange young woman, her blue eyes flashed with intensity.

She continued, "But whatever you ask, I will not judge or question, okay? And you know the things I am capable of doing so think big."

That was a question he did have. Did she still have her power?

"I thought Malcolm said that he gave you your power? Now that he is..."

She waved her hand dismissively, "Power doesn't make someone omnipotent or even right. Malcolm said lots of things, speaking is always the easy part.

Ask me, Porter. Ask anything of me, even my body...my life. If you need time..."

"I don't," he laughed suddenly and then was embarrassed for his outburst. "I'm sorry."

"Ask," she insisted, "it's your turn to have some control, to do what you want. I don't care what it is."

He told her. It was only a single sentence. He told her and then he looked back at the cars filing out of the parking lot. Another had pulled up and the door was opened for him. It was his ride.

"What?" her eyes glimmered as she turned his face back toward her. "That's just bullshit! Ask for something else."

Now she sounded childish for he first time since he had known her. And he was annoyed.

"I just told you what I wanted. It's up to you now." Porter insisted.

"You didn't even hesitate, you've planned this?"

"I have not. Call it inspiration."

"Porter? Mr. Porter...how can you do this...I hoped to feel better and this makes me feel worse!! I won't do it." her eyes glistened and tears flowed out.

He looked at her, rose and sighed.

"I certainly can't make you..." he said as he walked away, toward the trooper who was quickly approaching. He was spent and didn't want to discuss it further. As she said, it was his time to get his way. Either they would speak again, or they wouldn't. Porter was used to the idea that wishes often never come true.

# The Letter

The letter found in Malcolm's tent

Hey!! I'm hanging around and was thinking about you...a lot. So glad that I met you and I can't wait until we can go out again. I hate myself for not trying to find someone like you before, and you were just waiting to meet me!

I guess it's good to have a family, but I know that I need more. I need you. And you need me too. My family has always been around when I needed them, but it is not the same, they never encouraged me, never understood me and so they can't take me higher.

I'm the youngest, you know, and so they all worry about me, always trying to make me happy but they don't know how. In the end, their 'love' slowed me down, kept me from being what I am, what I can be. And because they kept doing things for me and giving me things, I couldn't realize what I was. I didn't know my true abilities.

It was actually my dad who made me see. He was so amazed at the things my mother would do for me and how my simple suggestions became her truth...Truth. I remember one time I told mums I needed some cash, you know, and she asked why and I told her the dentist had asked me for it. Pretty stupid excuse huh? But I didn't care. Next thing I know, my old man is yelling at her and she is protesting that our dentist needs the cash and I have to give it to him. It was actually funny.

But I still wasn't sure...so when dad caught cold, I had her add antifreeze to those ice cold Mountain Dew's that he said soothe his throat. And she did it, and kept doing it. I guess I should have told her when to stop, huh? LOL

Funny thing, and I already told you, it doesn't work on everyone, but I have an easier time with the girls; you'd think that would be a good thing but they all look at me like I'm some sort of wounded puppy. So I started trying out things with my older sister next. I was even able to teach her some of my tricks and she was able to control people that I couldn't! That made her very useful...see?

There was this guy at work who used to fuck with me. He said that I looked like I wore lipstick because the skin around my lips flushed sometimes. Anyhow, I had her go and see him and that was the last time I had to worry about that asshole. I only wish I could have seen him drive his car off that bridge. I guess I shouldn't write this all down but I didn't even do it, it wasn't me, so I have no blame. That is the beauty of it all.

But it wasn't good for me, I missed seeing their face, I would have given anything to see the look on his stupid face when he went into the water! You want to know what I found out? I didn't miss anything, they just look like dumb animals when it happens. She doesn't do it right or something because next time I had her film it when she offed someone for me and they don't even realize what is happening!! It is so boring. What is the point of power if no one knows about it, never realizes it? Who wants to be strong if everyone thinks you are weak?

Remember I told you she pissed me off and so I did her? You'd think she would be mad or scared or something but she wasn't. She just looked at me with those cow eyes while I rammed her. I got tired of that quickly. That's why you can trust me...why you know you are the one for me.

Still, she could be useful so I keep her around. I should have looked for a replacement after she messed up her body. I can show you pictures, she burned the whole front of her chest and boobies while doing some dumb thing. Good thing for her I had not met you yet.

But no more. I just can't take the way she mothers me, how she worries I might get hurt and then when I show her, when I show her my power; then I hate the way she cries when I do something fun or make her do it.

I was nice to her once though, there was that guy she wanted to marry, but he didn't like me at all. I wanted to slit his throat, but I agreed to let him go. She broke up with him, and it was something to see the pain on his face. Maybe that was the best way.

Okay, I am taking too much time writing this. I have to get back to what is turning into the best weekend of my fucking life. Wait until you see some of the excerpts! Did you finish reading 'And Then There Were None'? It's the inspiration for this whole weekend and my favorite book of all, the only good gift anyone ever gave me. I liked it so much that I used the names of the victims when I ordered he Laser Tag equipment. I thought it was funny but these assholes made such a big deal about it and they didn't even have to pay for the equipment so why do they care?

It is so cool to finally be able to see real fear, to watch what pain can do. They think I am a demon sent by death himself, I fucking love this. I have already chosen one of the guys to be the one to 'confess' when it's all over. Fuck, I think that asshole is walking around, I warned him to stay put, I am going to teach him a lesson he will never forget. Love you!

# Porter – The Package

Porter didn't know what to think when he heard the buzzing outside his cabin, and saw the strange drone drop the package practically at his door step. It was addressed to him, with latitude and longitude in place of an address. Had the world changed that much since he had left it all behind?

Inside the package Porter found a cell phone. The color was a pink-purple which seemed familiar and when he powered it on, he found it was fully charged and activated. But the phone book was empty and he did not find any personal information. Was it a gift?

Later that evening, the phone signaled an incoming call and Porter was able to figure out how to answer.

"Hello?" he began.

"Porter?"

"How did you do this?" he laughed, recognizing the voice. He had a feeling it was her.

"This is Isabella," she said simply, her usual frank demeanor. He decided from her tone that she was not calling to catch up, she wanted to ask him or tell him...something.

Porter considered what she had told him when they had last met, that her powers were unaffected by Malcolm's death. If that were true, should he be leery of speaking with her? Might she drag him on yet another task.

He had some mixed feelings. On the one hand, she had unfairly involved him in a dangerous adventure. On the other hand, what the hell else was he doing with his life? It didn't bring Stacy back but it had made a difference to some one. Besides, he was happy to hear from her. He expected he would hear from her at least once.

"I know who this is..." he continued his affable tone but turned it business-like. "So, did you do it?"

She took a breath, he could hear that clearly before she responded. "I did it. Damn you."

"Well, will you tell me what happened? If it's not too personal?"

"As I told you almost my entire life's story," she began, "I don't know how I can hold back now.

So, yes, it took almost a week, but I found him. He was working in a homeless shelter of all places. He looked the same as I remember, except he grew a beard and was dressed a lot like the people he serves, he said that it's easier to work with the homeless when you dress simpler, think about basic things. I suppose."

"Was he surprised to see you?"

"Porter, he was shocked, but he recognized me right away."

"Did you tell him? About Malcolm? That he drove you away from him?"

"Come on, Porter!" she protested, "I can't tell him all that. He would never understand what Malcolm was, no one would. I didn't tell him anything except what was in the papers. As far as he is concerned, Malcolm was no different than your garden-variety maniac. Besides, things have changed, he is married now."

"I see," Porter spoke not sure what else to say. Of course that was a possibility. Life happens. "I'm sorry, Isabella, when you.."

"No," she interjected, " it's good. It's fine. I'm...I'm very happy. I think we will be friends and, either way, I'm happy I did that...that you suggested it. I would have always wondered...thank you. Thank you for everything."

"I could make a joke that I didn't have a choice but you might not think it was funny," he added.

"You certainly seem to be in a good mood. Are you so happy to be returned to your hermit's life or are you just glad to hear my voice again?"

"Both, how are you doing with..."

"Do you have any food allergies?"

"Food allergies?"

"Porter, I am going to go away for a while, to travel and to think. But I want to see you before I go so I'm dropping by next week. I'm bringing some real food, not that freeze-dried astronaut stuff you keep."

"You don't have to...", Porter began, considering it might be too soon.

"Why? Do you have any other plans for your birthday?"

"My birthday? Now that I think about it, my birthday is next week. But how did you know?"

"We had more conversations than you remember, so next week? Okay?"

"Well...sure. But you don't have to come here, you can't even drive up..."

"Fine, meet me at the Forest Preserve building, we'll hike in."

"Okay...then I will see you then..."

"Porter, that gives you a whole week to call your ex-wife and your daughter."

"Hmmm, I doubt I am going to do that," Porter retorted.

"Why not, you made me mend one of my broken fences..." she insisted.

"Ah, but I'm not a super hero."

# Notes from the Author (Spoilers!)

I hope you enjoyed this work. I wrote it for the 2016 National Novel Writing Month (Nanowrimo). I didn't make the 50,000 word goal but I fleshed out the basic story and then wrapped it up in the months which followed. So what is 'Charm' about and where did it come from? It is basically three stories in one.

Superficially, the story is a horror/thriller. Ten people spend a weekend in a secluded area of the wilderness, on a butte, an island of rock in the sky. The island aspect is important as it enforces that the party are trapped until the next morning when they can actually see the cliff in order to climb down. I had a related experience climbing with friends and we made a similar mistake when the sun went down and we were unable to get off the mountain. In the end, we remembered a line of forest cut into the side of the mountain and got down that way, just as Isabella does. The story is also overtly influenced by the Agatha Christie classic "Ten Little Indians" which was also called "Ten Little Solider Boys"; in that story, a party of ten are 'trapped' on an island where one by one they begin to die. The villain in my story is directly inspired by the tale and there are numerous allusions to it. For example, the backs of the laser tag uniforms have the first names of the characters in Christie's tale. The villain even references the story and writes an explanatory letter just like in the novel. But I intended the story to be more than just a slasher thriller. Although it is implied that the villain commits awful acts to his victims, I do not describe most of them. It is not that I am above it, I am not, it's just that I don't see the villain as exceptional or interesting, he is just one of those bad things that happen, like cancer or food poisoning.

Beyond the horror theme, the story is also about a young woman, a witch, a superheroine, a sister, a girlfriend. It is a story about labels, how labels can describe us, help us and hurt us, even to ourselves. And although knowledge may be power, the reverse is not true. Skills, talents, abilities, wealth – none of that is a substitute for learning about ourselves and the world around us. Isabella has a distinct power but her real strength is the willingness to test and learn about her own power as well as its limits. She learns that power is relative.

I am writing a much larger work which resolves around a modern-day interpretation of the witch genre. That work is set in a very complicated and character-driven dystopia. But for this work, I wanted to do a simpler story but it turned out more involved than I thought.

Finally, this story is about missing people. If you read the dedication, you saw that it references a real life missing person case, that of Jodi Huisentruit, who was a television reporter who went missing more than 20 years ago. The sad thing is that she is one of so many people who go 'missing' and are never found or heard from again, leaving family and friends and the rest of us to wonder why.

Beyond what I saw during a television story, I don't know much about the woman or her life, still, for some reason, this case haunted me in a way I can't explain. John Porter, the main protagonist and 'hero' of my tale, is my attempt to write about what a normal person in Jodi's home town might have felt after her disappearance. John Porter is a pure product of my imagination, I did not pattern him after anyone.

Finally, this story is about moving on. Everyone in my story either dies or is wounded, perhaps badly. Porter doesn't find what he is searching for and Isabella learns that much of what she believed was a lie. It is not clear how these two or the other survivors will fare in coping but it is clear that they will try.
