
# Table of Contents

Dark Dossier #24

DARK DOSSIER MAGAZINE | ISSUE 24 - JULY 2018

PHOTOGENIC | BY NISAR MASSOM

Memoirs of a Killer | Entry 2 of 3 | Recovered and Edited by Chris Aldridge

Memoirs of a Killer | Finale | Entry 3 of 3 | Recovered and Edited by Chris Aldridge

TRADING PLACES IN THE GLEN | By Roy Dorman

Gunfight at the OK Turnpike | By Dan Klefstad

Demotion | BY KELLY PINER

THE UNINVITED | By Phillip Frey

GEMINI | BY V. Mylynne Smith

The Glass Path ~ A dark fable with Dr. Skullmoss | By: Walter G. Esselman

LIFE BLOOD | BY THOMAS HOOVER | Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

The Return | Chris Aldridge

|  |

---|---|---

# DARK DOSSIER MAGAZINE

# ISSUE 24 - JULY 2018

Dark Dossier Magazine is a print & digital magazine (ezine) that is published monthly (12 issues), with 70+ awesome pages devoted to fiction & nonfiction stories of Ghosts, Aliens, Monsters, & Killers.

Dark Dossier Magazine is published monthly by Dark Dossier Publishing and is printed in the U.S.A.

Dark Dossier Magazine is TM (C) 2018 DARK DOSSIER. All Rights Reserved. The stories sent in to Dark Dossier are (C) by their respective owners. No material from this magazine may be reprinted without the consent from the owner. This magazine is dedicated to you the reader and we would love to hear from you.

Like us on Facebook or follow us on Twitter.

Please visit us on www.darkdossier.com

Cover Photo by https://www.istockphoto.com/

Dark Dossier Magazine

4325 Latin lane

Columbus Ohio 43220

darkdossiermag@gmail.com

|  |

---|---|---

# PHOTOGENIC

# BY NISAR MASSOM

"Is that what Mom said?" Hanif asked as he took another spoonful of spaghetti into his mouth.

"Yes I remember it clearly," Sonia replied. "She said that for an income so mediocre I still buy the most fashionable clothes."

The engaged couple were eating dinner at Hanif's favorite five-star restaurant. It was a freezing night outside in the middle of winter. Beautiful golden lights surrounded the dinner hall. Hanif suddenly looked up at his fiancee's confused expression.

"I'm sure she meant it as a compliment," Hanif told her. "Now take a bite before your food gets cold."

Sonia nodded with a faint smile. As she picked up her fork lined up with spiced noodles something fell off from underneath the cuff of her expensive sweater.

"Why do you always carry that?" Hanif asked her as she picked up her pocketknife from the table and replaced it in her cuff's pocket.

"After my mother's murder", she explained. "I've always kept this knife with me."

Hanif nodded. He then told her that it would have been better if she had taken karate lessons from him. Sonia laughed at that thought.

"Learn karate from Hanif, the great architect", she joked. "As if your parents had never hired a security guard for your protection."

Suddenly, Hanif's smile faded. His facial expression showed an unexplainable lifelessness. Sonia was tempted to look backwards. She finally looked over her shoulder and saw an attractive blonde woman sitting with two clean-shaven men a bit older than her. One raised his mobile phone trying to capture her picture.

"What's wrong? Do you know them?" Sonia asked.

"I felt as if..." he abruptly said now facing her. "My photo was being taken."

***

THE NEXT MORNING SONIA awoke to the feeling of her fiance getting up from their bed. They had made love last night so an emotion of separation had become a kind of signal. She pressed her palm against the space her fiance always occupied. He wasn't there.

She got up wrapping the quilt around her breasts till her ankles. Then the young woman left the room and walked slowly downstairs. Hanif was standing in the front doorway. He had the daily newspaper in his hands with his eyes fixed on something.

"You're looking at the paper as if there's the most beautiful woman pictured on it." Sonia remarked.

She got shocked when Hanif showed her what he had really been looking at. It was a photograph of a girl his parents wanted him to marry a month ago. It was a separate item from the newspaper.

"This came with the paper?" Sonia asked.

"Yes and I was wondering who put it there." Hanif said furiously.

"No need to be angry about stupid incidents, my love." She said moving closer to him and kissing his cheek. "For a moment I thought you had gotten attracted to her again."

***

SONIA WAS LAYING ON the three-seated lounge sofa reading a women's magazine. But her mind was somewhere else. She was wondering about that morning's incident. Who had put that photograph there? It had to be Natasha's own doing, she thought bitterly.

Natasha Ahmed was Hanif's cousin from his father's side. His parents wished for him to marry her because of the family tradition. But Hanif refused to leave the love of his life, Sonia. Hanif's family was one of the richest British-Pakistani families in England. Sonia always had a feeling of inferiority due to the wealth of her fiance's family. She herself was not rich or from a wealthy household. Her father was an ex-cop and her mother had been murdered in a mugging a few years ago.

Natasha was an aspiring model. It was rumored that she had been picked up by a well-known fashion company. Sonia was a kindergarten teacher. Another inferiority complex came from Natasha's good looks and silky hair. But Sonia was always told by Hanif that Natasha's appearance was purely photogenic.

The doorbell rang twice then the sound of the front door lock turning was heard. Hanif walked into the lounge rubbing his wet black-wavy hair.

"It's starting to pour outside," Hanif declared.

He leapt onto the sofa next to his fiancee.

"Do you know what time it is?" Sonia asked sternly.

"Sleeping time?"

"You said you'll be back by ten. It's the middle of the night, Hanif."

Hanif got up and yawned while stretching his arms. He told her that he would take a nice warm bath before sleeping and allow her to cool off. She watched him with eagle eyes as he departed the lounge. Sonia knew something fishy was going on. She waited to hear the tap running when she reached the upstairs hallway. After a few minutes of hearing the water from the shower hit the tub she made her way to their bedroom.

She took a step towards the bedroom. A voice made her return her foot. She took a deep breath after realizing it was just Hanif humming rhythmically in the bathroom. Sonia made her way to the bed. Hanif's shirt and trousers lay there. Her suspicions made her grab the shirt and check it. There was a lipstick mark on the collar

***

THE SUNDAY MORNING was clear without any grey covering of the sky. A pleasant wind was flowing throughout the public park. The temperature had gone a bit up which was unlikely for a winter day in New Town.

"You know after hearing all this I'm still surprised you're not feeling too high-tempered," Sonia's best friend Jenna told her.

They were sitting beside each other on a bench feeding a flock of birds some bread crumbs. The dampness of the grass spread a putrid odor. It had rained heavily the last night.

Sonia tugged nervously at her purple muffler. "The saddest thing is that I know who it."

"A British-Pakistani lady. Slightly attractive with radiant silky-black hair." Her friend stated.

Sonia looked at her with astonishment, "How did you know that-"

"I saw them in Blue Cafe last night while passing by," Jenna interrupted trying to ignore her companion's intimidating gaze. "They were having lunch together. Even laughing whole-heartedly, no offence."

"It's all so peculiar. Hanif despised her since childhood. Why the sudden feelings and who dropped that photograph on our doorstep?"

Jenna moved closer to Sonia. "Listen I've heard of a folklore relating to this topic."

"This isn't the time for one of your horror stories, Jenna. Don't tell me you picked this one up from a straight-to-DVD feature."

"Just hear me out, okay? There's a woman downtown. She earns her living by designing stylish photos for people who wish to get married." Jenna paused taking a deep breath. "It's a rumor but I've heard that any photo she makes will make the intended person fall in love."

Sonia couldn't help giggling. Jenna had been like that from high school. She was a natural storyteller.

"Laugh all you want but remember what Hanif was talking about last night while you two were in bed," Jenna reminded. "You always talk a little but he said nothing before dozing off. He also murmured something in between his slumber."

"Yes he was whispering his mistress's name."

"He's been affected, Sonia." Jenna said standing up from her seat and getting ready to leave. "You can find the woman in her shop, The Matchmaker."

***

WHEN SONIA HAD REACHED home she saw her fiance watching a soccer match on TV. He looked unhappy although his team was definitely in the lead. She walked over to him.

"How are you feeling today, darling?" Sonia asked trying to act calm.

"Quite alright. So how is dear old Jenna?" Hanif asked without looking at her.

"She seemed okay. She told me about an old folk-story governing this town."

Hanif gave her a scary glance. She felt a chill run down her spine. She felt her heart thudding faster all of a sudden. But it was not because of the passion that was now mostly felt at night and lessened at dawn, it was a horror-struck emotion. He got up from the sofa. Slowly, he made his way to her. Sonia wanted to back up but she pretended not to be afraid.

The wavy-haired man stepped closer. His footsteps made no noise to Sonia's ears. She had gone deaf and her vision had gone blurry due to her newly-found fear. Hanif took hold of her tender shoulders. She shook a bit when he touched her. Then he did what she could have never predicted at that point. He kissed her gently on the lips.

"Is anything wrong, Sonia?" Hanif asked after they finished smooching. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Before Sonia could answer she clutched Hanif by the front of his dark-brown T-shirt.

"What's the matter, honey?" Hanif asked gently.

"Someone w-was watching u-us, Hanif," Sonia muttered. "Someone was staring at us from the window."

Hanif signaled her to stand back as he went over to the window and pushed aside the curtains a bit further. There was no figure standing outside. Sonia started thinking that she was seeing things. Maybe it was due to the underlying impact of her friend's story.

"See there's no one there." Hanif assured her pulling back the curtains and walking back to her.

She grabbed his face by the sides and they kissed with the utmost passion. It was like the first time they exchanged tongues. She pushed him onto the sofa and their sounds soon muted the noise of the television.

***

HANIF WAS BUSY WITH an architectural project so it was Sonia who had to do all the groceries. The night was colder than the last. The moonlight shining over the pavement was dull and gave the streets a bizarre look. She had dismissed Jenna's story from of her head completely. Hanif was his usual self especially in bed and even on the sofa.

She could not help but get a feeling of being watched. She looked over her shoulder. A black-colored hooded figure was moving her way. She was getting closer to her car running while carrying two brown bags filled with grocery items. Loud footsteps coming from behind made her realize the figure was running too. She thought she wouldn't be able to make it to the car on time, so she slid into an almost unlit alleyway.

She held her breath as she hid behind a trash can. Her heart was beating fast as the footsteps began thudding even more loudly. Then she heard a dozen footsteps. It was the sound of people walking on the pavement nearby. With newly-found courage she got up then stared straight into the eyes of the hooded figure.

He grabbed her by the throat and shoved her against the wall making her drop the shopping bags. The scarred man tried to choke her to death. He was 30something years old. Sonia had no alternative. She swung her wrist swiftly revealing her pocket knife. Her energy was slowly dying away as she clicked open the blade. All of a sudden a police car showed up in the alleyway.

"No! Nothing shall interrupt my task." The stranger announced squeezing tighter.

Sonia managed to cut the attempted murderer on his already scarred cheek. He screamed in pain holding the damaged side of his face. Two cops got out of the car and signaled for the man to put his hands behind his head. The scarred man gave Sonia an evil smile as he again reached for her but was shot twice in the chest. He fell on top of Sonia and her knife was plunged into his stomach due to the fall. She tried slithering underneath the corpse but he was too heavy so the policemen finally managed to get her out.

***

LATER THAT NIGHT.

Sonia was shocked by the attack on her life. She was even more puzzled when she found out that the man was an employee of a shop called The Matchmaker. The shop's owner, as Jenna had described earlier, was a skinny, old woman with grey hair. She wore a black overcoat over a black dress with similar-colored stockings. Her appearance had already convinced Sonia that she was behind the assault.

"I can't believe old Johnson would do such a thing," the elderly lady told one of the cops.

"Sonia, are you alright?" Hanif asked as he entered the store and embraced his fiancee.

She dug her head into his chest. "That guy attacked me. I w-was so s-scared. Luckily I had my knife and then-"

"No need to say anything more," Hanif interrupted. "My God, you're trembling all over."

"But one thing I can't figure out is why Johnson would try to kill a person," The shopkeeper told the officer.

"Because you told him to do it!" Sonia exclaimed still clutching tightly to her fiance.

"Miss, please calm down," the cop standing in front of the shopkeeper told her.

"He told me that nothing will interrupt his task," Sonia continued. "You ordered him to kill me!"

"Miss Beatrice, I'm sorry about this misbehavior," the policeman apologized ignoring Sonia's story.

A figure appeared from the back of the shop. He looked like the same man who attacked Sonia. But his face wasn't scarred this time. She dug her head once again into Hanif's chest and pointed towards the man.

"He's back. He's come back to kill me!" Sonia cried with tears rolling down her cheeks.

She watched the two police officers shake their heads as Miss Beatrice grinned.

"That's Jameson. He's Johnson's identical twin brother." one of the officers informed the couple.

***

THE NEXT MORNING SONIA was rubbing her hair harshly against a towel after taking a nice long bath. It was confirmed that no person had ordered Johnson to commit a murder. But Sonia knew Miss Beatrice was far from innocent. Although she felt a bit sad for Jameson who was crying over his brother's death, the police did not even arrest the shop owner. Every event from last night seemed unreal.

She was preparing for her job. She left her room, went downstairs and stared wide-eyed at the situation in the lounge. Her fiance was on top of an attractive woman on the sofa. That lady's sensual shrieks reminded Sonia of her first night with Hanif.

"Hanif?" Sonia gasped with a hand clapped over her mouth.

Hanif swiftly got up from the sofa revealing Natasha laying half-naked upon it. He rubbed his Hawaiian T-shirt with his hands and walked over to his fiancee.

"I'm expecting you have an apology, or better yet, an explanation," she told him bitterly.

She knew what was coming. It wasn't my fault. That other woman started it. My masculinity got the better of me.

"Why do I need to give you an explanation?" Hanif asked sarcastically. "I don't love you anymore, Sonia."

***

SONIA HELD HER CELLPHONE against her ear as she walked towards a shop in an almost completely deserted area.

"Yes, I won't be coming to work today, Mrs. Crusoe," she said on the phone. "I have the flu but I'm sure I'll be well by tomorrow."

She waited for the principal's reply as she continued her stroll. "Thank you Mrs. Crusoe. No, I'll definitely be able to teach the class by tomorrow. I'm sure you can call Mrs. Kidman to teach as a substitute today."

She hung up and finally reached The Matchmaker. Her eyes studied the store. It seemed simple from the outside with a banner outside reading The Matchmaker in red-colored text. When she opened the front door a bell was rung. She saw no one behind the counter or in the shop itself. Photographs of mostly families and couples were hung on the walls. A beautiful blue-colored parrot was eating a bread crumb inside a circular cage on the far end of the counter.

Sonia called out for someone. But there was no reply. She waited for Miss Beatrice or her assistant to march in anytime. The longer she waited the more desperate she became. She swiftly moved to the back door. Without second thoughts she turned the door knob and reached for the light switch.

She flicked it and a bulb flourished the dark basement with a yellowish glow. She almost tripped over as she walked down the creaking stairs.

Not a good day to sport high heels, she thought.

The basement was warmer than the shop. There were hundreds of pictures and negatives scrapped on a long mahogany table and on the walls. A second bulb hung beside the other lighted one downstairs. It was for red light. Sonia suspiciously looked at some pictures on the table. They were all incorporating one person and shot like Natasha's photograph from that morning. The woman who was with her fiance, or ex-fiance, right now.

She noticed something underneath a pile of pictures. It was a book. She removed the photographs from the top of it and picked the book up. It was medium-sized but heavy. The book's cover was light-brown with no title. She blew some dust off the cover and then opened it. There was nothing on the first page. She flipped some pages and on all them saw that there were writings of a language unknown to her.

There were hazy black stick-figured diagrams on some pages. She stopped at one page where there was a diagram of a large pot and what seemed like a woman standing at the back of it. She knew what this book was. It was a magic book. Her attention was withdrawn when she heard footsteps coming from the stairs.

***

SONIA ALMOST DROPPED the old book when she heard the footsteps coming closer. She replaced the book and the photos then hid behind two large cardboard boxes. Miss Beatrice entered the basement and walked slowly across the room. Sonia watched the old lady checking out the photographs scattered on the table.

Without any second thoughts, Sonia ran to the staircase. She heard Miss Beatrice call out for help from behind her. Suddenly, she bumped into a figure which seemed like it was made of steel instead of flesh. It was the assistant, Jameson. He looked at her angrily and there was no reason not to, she had in a way, killed his twin brother. Sonia knew she couldn't get pass the tall man in front of her. She turned around and witnessed the shopkeeper nod her head twice. Sonia was unable to interpret what she was signaling when she felt a sharp pain on the back of her head, and everything went pitch black.

***

SONIA FELT DROPS OF water collide against her face. Everything was a blur when she opened her eyes.

"Wake up poor child," she heard Miss Beatrice's evil voice.

The old woman was standing in front of her. Sonia tried to move her body but it seemed bound. Her wrists and ankles were tied against a wooden chair. She screamed loudly.

"I hate intruders breaking into my store," Miss Beatrice told her. "Scream all you want but no noise will pass through these walls."

The door from which the staircase was slapped open.

"Ma'am we have a customer," Jameson called out then retreated into the hall closing the door behind him.

Sonia tried to yell again but it was responded to with a harsh slap on the cheek.

"Now my book will get rid of you when I get back." Miss Beatrice said and put the hardcover book back on the small mahogany table.

She slowly ascended the stairs, opened the door and slammed it shut behind her. A tear rolled down Sonia's check due to the impact of the slap.

That old lady sure packs a punch, Sonia though half-surprised and half-angry.

She released the knife from her cuff's pocket. Slowly and steadily she cut the restraints on her wrists. After working on her ankles for a while she got up after they had been dealt with. Flick-blade in hand, she tiptoed to the staircase. But something got her distracted mid-way to them. A portrait was hanging on the wall to her side. It was covered with a cloth. Due to her curiosity she walked over to the portrait and slowly removed the cloth.

A handsome middle-aged man sporting a goatee and black hair with white on the sides greeted her. The name, Simon Black, was labeled under the picture, along with the man's date of birth and death. She picked up the chocolate-colored hardcover book which was on the small table under the portrait.

She opened it to find the same portrait in a smaller size with the same description under it on the first page. Sonia couldn't help but stare into the man's ocean-blue eyes. She found herself sucked into the photograph. The view was bloody red. She starting seeing strange erotic visions. Simon was on top of her fully naked at one point, and then she was on top of him. She saw herself jumping the muscular body joyfully. Then she the woman's expression change from happiness to anger. Hanif's face came into view lying on one corner of the room. He was crying like a baby watching them make out. She watched the other Sonia scream angrily as Simon watched with wide-open frightened eyes as both she and Hanif suddenly disappeared.

Sonia blinked rapidly as she found herself back in the dusty old basement. She loudly closed the book with a clap. For a moment she thought she had fallen in love with the middle-aged man. She tightened her grip on the pocketknife. The kindergarten teacher knew what had to be done.

***

OPENING THE DOOR QUIETLY, she saw her best friend Jenna, talking to Miss Beatrice across the counter. Sonia was about to call for help but Jameson was standing in a soldier stance in front of the entrance to the shop. She couldn't hear what Jenna and the shopkeeper were discussing. Jenna had no boyfriend so it was unlikely to be about an affair.

The handle pressed roughly against her palm's skin. She ran to the shop-owner and pulled the pocketknife against her neck. Grabbing her from the shoulder, Sonia signaled for Jameson to clear the way to the entrance. Jameson was about to reach for something in the pocket of his jeans but stopped when Sonia nicked Miss Beatrice's neck.

"Sonia, what are you doing?!" Jenna asked with a bewildered expression on her face.

"There's no time for explanations." Sonia told her best friend motioning for the brute to move aside already. "If you don't clear the way I'm going to cut open your boss's throat." She watched Jameson step over to where Jenna was standing.

Sonia held the old lady against her as they walked over to the front door. When Sonia was able to get hold of the doorknob, Jameson tried to grab her. But Sonia pushed Miss Beatrice into him and he almost tripped trying to break the shopkeeper's fall. The young woman rushed outside to the foggy streets. She reached her silver Audi, got inside and saw the rearview reflection of Jameson coming up from behind.

She prayed under her breath as she drove the car in reverse which made the tall man roll over to his side. Then she slammed her foot against the pedal with all her energy and drove off. She saw the reflection of Jameson becoming entirely submerged by the fog as she drove away from the shop.

***

SONIA HAD NEVER BEEN so happy to reach home. She ran hurriedly to the front door. She had to talk some sense into her fiance. Her foot touched something on the front step. It was a white envelope. She picked it up and stared open-eyed at the words written on the cover: Invitation to the wedding of Hanif Ahmed and Natasha Ahmed.

***

THE WEDDING WAS TAKING place three days after that horrible incident. An expensive hall out of the town was booked for the wedding. Both Hanif and Natasha's family and friends were gathered to attend this marriage.

Beautiful chandeliers spread a bright array of golden lighting over the hall. Hanif sometimes had strange feelings as he sat next to his new soon-to-be wife. But then Natasha's smile would make him forget about what of all the hesitations he was having before. He saw his father and future father-in-law laughing happily together. He had always despised that picture even having nightmares about it sometimes. But it was alright as long as the most beautiful woman in the world was by his side.

Romantic music was playing at the venue. It added to the already marital atmosphere. Hanif saw Miss Beatrice and her assistant Jameson standing near the food and drinks table. They looked uneasy. Hanif wondered if he had ever seen them before in his life. A familiar figure was standing next to them.

"Stop the wedding!"

Hanif glanced around the hall after hearing this absurd announcement.

"Stop this wedding now!"

This time he stood up as he recognized the voice. It was of his ex-fiancee, Sonia.. She and a tall British-African man walked into the middle of the hall.

"Who let them in?!" Hanif's father questioned but there were no signs of security coming.

Sonia tried spotting someone inside the huge crowd. A smile crossed her face when her eyes found Miss Beatrice's. The ex-fiancee raised something in her hands. It was a hardcover book.

"This book holds magic of the most evil form!" Sonia cried. "It contains black magic!"

Many gasps and whispers were heard after that bold comment. Hanif's father was about to tell off Sonia but Natasha's dad stopped him.

"And who does it belong to? No other than New Town's most beloved photographer, Miss Beatrice!" Sonia declared.

The group of people standing next to Miss Beatrice and Jameson starting walking away from them. It was as if a spotlight had been laid over them.

"This is absolutely absurd!" Hanif's father exclaimed.

"Daddy do something," Natasha pleaded to her father. "She wants to steal Hanif away from me."

"But you stole him from me first," Sonia reminded her.

"Now listen here-"

"No, you listen. All of you listen," Sonia declared interrupting Natasha's father. "My friend here is from London. He is a historian of magic and knows about everything magical in England."

"Can't you all see that the heartbrokenness has made her go mad?!" Miss Beatrice questioned everyone loudly. "She was dumped by her yearlong fiance."

Everyone now glanced at Hanif then again at Sonia. The groom standing with cloudy eyes. He was partly aware of what was going in. As if he had been drugged.

"Let me prove it." Sonia took out something from in between the book's pages, and then handed the book to the man alongside her.

It was an old photograph of a handsome middle-aged man with a goatee.

"Give Simon back to me!" Miss Beatrice yelled as she ran towards Sonia.

"Now!" Sonia ordered.

"Digimon ut vasabia!" The historian read the unknown text from the book aloud and then raised it in front of the running shopkeeper.

Suddenly, Miss Beatrice's body was converted into tiny particles as she ran. Then the photograph from the open book in the grasp of the historian illuminated a red-colored light and vacuumed the pixels of the old woman, transporting her inside. She was then seen smiling alongside Simon Black in the photograph. With that the British-African man closed the book with a loud clap.

"Enough of this." Jameson said as he took out a pistol from behind his tuxedo. "Throw the book on the ground and slide it across to me."

All of a sudden, the gun was kicked out of Jameson's hands. A medium-sized middle-aged man struck some mighty blows into Jameson's stomach then landed a nasty punch on his nose. Jameson was knocked out onto the floor. Even before turning around, Sonia recognized the hero. It was her ex-cop father. She ran to him and they embraced joyfully while others stared with puzzled expressions at the unbelievable scene that had occurred right before their eyes.

***

EVERYONE REMEMBERED that night. But no one would mention it ever again. It had became a folk story along with New Town's plentiful others.

"I'm so sorry," Hanif said.

He was on top of his old fiancee in bed after a long time. But their bodies were covered with undergarments at that moment.

"There's no need to apologize," Sonia told him. "I just hope they find the person who tried to enslave you to Natasha forever.""

"Come on, dear," Hanif said sitting up. "You still think I don't know."

"Huh?" Sonia also sat up against the headboard of the bed.

"I know it's your dad who arranged the whole mishap. He hated this engagement idea from the beginning."

"Please don't tell anyone else."

"Your secret is safe with me," Hanif grinned. "Just please don't ever tell my parents I was making love with Natasha in front of you."

"Deal."

They kissed then Hanif got up from the bed. "The Matchmaker store will be demolished by tomorrow. Hopefully, no other witchcraft will be recovered."

Sonia returned a romantic smile and watched him leave the bedroom. Then she heard him cross the hall and descend the stairs. She waited until his footsteps were completely out of earshot, then opened her bedside drawer, and took out a chocolate-colored hardcover book.

There is always a benefit from having an ex-policeman as a parent, Sonia thought with an evil smirk on her face.

END

|  |

---|---|---

# Memoirs of a Killer

# Entry 2 of 3

# Recovered and Edited by Chris Aldridge

--------

THE GARDEN SPIRIT INSTRUCTS me more. Sometimes he appears, sometimes he vanishes. Usually, he comes out during my most severe mental anguishes.

"So, where'd you go for your first kills?"

"Just a few places around town," I reply. "Nothing big yet."

"I thought you would execute the master plan tonight at some point in a heavily populated area somewhere. Like, you know, someplace with far more people than this little town."

"There's enough people, don't worry. I plan to carry out my massive attack in good time, maybe as soon as tomorrow."

"Not in this city, you won't. It will not succeed. The Palladiom is stored here, unbeknownst to the people."

"What the hell is that?"

"The sacred image of the Goddess Athena, you fool. Dating back to the Trojan War. It is a gift from heaven, and lovingly protects the city in which it resides. You may be able to kill a few people here and there like tonight, but an attack on the citizens themselves as a group will not prevail in your favor!"

I throw up my arms. "So what am I supposed to do?"

"There are only two options. Either find and remove the image, or leave the city to attack another."

I ponder for a few moments. "I think I have a slightly better idea."

*

THE NEXT DAY, I BEGIN my journey to find the sacred relic. I realize I don't have much time as the radio reports the murders from last night. The police are already on the cases, looking for evidence and linking it all together. I fear it's only a matter of time before they get a lead right to my front steps; I must hurry if my grand attack is to not be foiled. It's true I could easily go to another city or area, but I hope that if I can find The Palladiom and hold it to me individually, perhaps I can usurp its power to protect me alone. If the relic can protect an entire city, it could certainly protect me from, let's say, police bullets. As I said before, I will die before I go to prison, but what if I don't have to do either? What if I could bend all of the world to my will? The pursuit is worth a chance.

*

I WAIT OUTSIDE THE museum for the doors to close to the public. It's the only logical place it could be. The one thing I have on my side is that the people of this city don't know what they truly have in their possession. The thing I do not have on my side is that I have no idea what I am actually looking for.

As night covers the area and everyone sleeps, I manage to find an open window on the side of the building. I lurk about the rooms inside, for anything that could resemble a sacred and ancient religious icon. I know the labels on the exhibits will not say Palladiom, but a statue of Athena is easy to spot.

I turn down a dark hallway and a red light on the far end illuminates a display case with a golden object inside. Droplets of blood fall from the bulb and splash onto the glass. The more I walk into the darkness, the harder it is to breathe. Burning smoke starts to choke me. I soon stand before it to recognize Athena by name. This must be it. There's nothing else like it anywhere in the facility. Of course, there's only one way I'm getting it out of here. The glass shatters at my heel and the alarms nearly fracture my eardrums. I suppose I had forgotten about the security system, as well as the cameras that have no doubt caught my image from several different angles by this point. I snare the relic and throw myself back out the window, dashing to my car.

*

I FLEE THE SCENE AS fast as I can. When I begin to turn down my street, I see police cars all over the place. They have found my house. They are waiting for me to return. I reach over to my passenger seat and retrieve the statue, ready to use its power. Holding it before my eyes, I smile as world dominance lingers at my fingertips. I step out of the car, supremely confident as I walk toward the flashing lights.

"Right here, assholes! Gimme your best shot!"

They draw their guns when they notice the object in my hand; they are unable to fully identify it in the dark. They order me to drop it. I raise it up before me instead, and the police open fire. The shots ring out and one strikes me in the leg. The statue begins to melt in my hands and turn to a ball of fire to my horror. I chuck it at the police and run back to my car with charred hands. The fire spreads all around them and causes a panic.

I retreat successfully from the city with my guns in the backseat, trying desperately to tie off my bleeding leg and cool my blistered hands. My old town is a loss. I have no idea why the Palladiom didn't work, and even though the relic is now gone, everyone will be on the lookout for me. I must find a new population to target and finish the job while I am still alive and well.

The End.

|  |

---|---|---

# Memoirs of a Killer

# Finale

# Entry 3 of 3

# Recovered and Edited by Chris Aldridge

I pull up to the public square of some unknown city the next morning. The spirit from my home has followed me. He lurks over my shoulder.

"Oh, Marlin, you fool," he whispers. "I expected you to get rid of the statue or go to another location, but I never thought you'd be dumb enough to try and use it for yourself," he laughs. "Don't you get it? The gods don't like murderers. They have no use for you anymore."

I grow more angry than ever before now. The climax nears as I look out across the crowds of people. I am ready to execute my grand attack on the human race I so despise.

I gaze up at the masses. People are just so generally pathetic, and I hate pathetic people, too. I despise every fault in each human. The features of every face, and the movement of every body, disgusts me. Something has to be done to make my voice heard. I deserve attention, and I know it will make me feel better to just mow them all down. They have no real lives anyway. They are just useless sacks of bone and flesh, every one. AND THEY ARE EVEN HAPPY ABOUT IT! They are smiling, laughing and shaking hands with each other. They are taking pictures with their phones and eating fatty foods. Children are running and playing with dogs and toys. Fools they all are! Oblivious of their dismal lives. So rotten that they have grown used to their own stench!

I close my eyes and clinch my rifle, my knuckles turning white. It is ready, and so am I, with all the bullets we can both hold. All I have to do is point and touch the hair trigger, and spray extermination upon these bugs, ridding myself of their kind forever.

I open my eyes and see my face in the visor mirror. Suddenly, I am struck as if by a bolt of lightning. Staring back at me is a man with no life on his face, no expression whatsoever. He is lost to time and place. I am the only one out there not having fun. I have no friends, no family and no good to call my own. All I have is my hate for everyone and everything. I realize that my life is actually the only one that's pathetic, worthless and wretched, and the only one that is a plague upon mankind and the Earth.

This will be my last journal entry, then I will put my rifle close to my head and finally fulfill my mission to rid this world of my misery.

The End.

--------

CHRIS ALDRIDGE IS AN American fictional and non-fictional writer originally from Thomasville, North Carolina. He is a longtime and proud contributor to the Dark Dossier line.

Find him online at www.caldridge.net

and on Facebook at ChrisWayneAldridge and ChrisAldridgeArtist

|  |

---|---|---

# TRADING PLACES IN THE GLEN

# By Roy Dorman

"Hey, up there; help me get loose, would ya?" came the call from a wizened old man in the gully near the creek.

Jeff York, fourteen years-old, was playing hooky from school and was on his way to his favorite fishing hole. There were more than three hundred acres of woods outside of town to the north, complete with a large spring-fed creek and a number of caves in the higher rocky bluffs. It was a kid's paradise and Jeff knew that all too soon he would no longer be a kid.

Looking down at the old man, Jeff could see that he had somehow gotten his foot lodged between two large rocks.

Jeff saw that this was not just an old man, but a strange old man. He had dirty white hair and a scraggly beard. He was short, maybe all of five feet tall, and wore old fashioned work clothes like Jeff had seen in fairy tale picture books.

"Are you a leprechaun?' Jeff asked.

"No, I'm just an old man who's had some bad luck. My name's Max Von Peters," he said with a little bow. "Max bein' short for Maximilian."

"That doesn't sound Irish," said Jeff. "Leprechauns are Irish, aren't they?"

"I told ya I'm not a leprechaun, dammit. I'm just a short old man who's got his leg stuck in the rocks."

Jeff had read some science fiction and fantasy books and had always had a vivid imagination.

"What if some sorcerer trapped you there?" said Jeff. "If I set you free they might be angry with me."

"We're in Vermont, kid!" Max yelled. "We're two miles from town. This ain't some kinda magic kingdom. Now get your butt down here and help me."

"Here, catch," said Jeff, throwing the old man an apple from his lunch sack. "I'm alone out here and something doesn't feel right about this. My folks always tell me to trust my instincts. When I get home from fishin', I'll tell them about you and they can decide what to do."

"Don't leave!" said Max. "I'm helpless out here. I've got money; I'll pay ya."

"My folks will probably tell the sheriff and he'll send help. I gotta go."

***

JEFF CAUGHT A FEW FISH, but of course he had to let them go. He couldn't very well bring fish home on a school day.

He took a different way out of the woods, and as his mind was on a girl in his class named Susan, Maximilian Von Peters was gone from his thoughts when he got home.

The next morning when he was packing his lunch for school, he dropped the apple he was about to put in the sack.

"Shit,' he said, as he remembered the old man in the woods.

"Watch your language, Jeffrey" called his mother from the other room.

"Sorry, Mom."

What could he do? If he told his parents now, they'd say how irresponsible he was to leave an old man in the woods overnight. And why had he been there yesterday anyhow; yesterday was a school day.

He couldn't go to the woods and miss again or the school would probably call to check on him.

But maybe if he left now, a little early, he could go to the woods, help the old man, and then hurry to school.

Thinking about it now, he really didn't believe that leprechaun and sorcerer stuff and he no longer felt afraid.

But he felt bad.

***

JEFF HAD TROUBLE FINDING the spot where the old man had been. Yesterday, he had just been walking along and Max had called out to him.

Finally, he remembered the general area and carefully looked into the gully until he saw him. Max was lying on his side in a way that looked very uncomfortable.

"Hey, Mister," Jeff yelled.

No answer.

He started down into the gully and called again when he was a just few feet from the old man.

"You okay, Mister?"

When he still didn't get an answer, he was even more worried than before. What if he was dead?

Jeff leaned into the rock that was facing downhill and pushed for all he was worth. He felt it loosen a little and then used both feet for leverage. Finally, after much exertion, it moved enough for him to pull the old man's foot free.

As soon as he was free, Max jumped up and roughly pushed Jeff onto his back. The loosened rock rolled back and captured Jeff's right leg at the ankle.

"Left me to die, did ya," yelled Max. "Well, now the tables are turned. See how you like it."

"I'm sorry," wailed Jeff. "I forgot. I came back as soon as I remembered. I'm sorry I didn't help you yesterday. All that fairy tale stuff was stupid and I should have got you loose then."

"Well, ya didn't, and I'm free now," he said as he started climbing up out of the gully.

"Please!" begged Jeff. "I'd do anything if I could make it yesterday again with me up there seeing you down here. Anything! I'd help you! I would!"

"Hmmm. Why, that's not such a bad idea," said the old man.

Jeff felt a dizziness come over him and when he looked up at the old man he saw...., himself? Looking at his hands he saw they were old and leathery. He was wearing the old man's clothes because...., the old man had traded bodies with him!

"Don't worry, I'll send someone back for you. If I remember, that is. Right now I'm going to see about wooing a beautiful girl named Susan and having my way with her. You would have been her first, but now I will!"

Jeff realized too late he may have been right in thinking that the old man had been imprisoned by magic. All of the plant life where Max had been was withered and dying.

He struggled with the rock he had moved just minutes ago, but the leverage wasn't the same.

Strange, piping music was now coming from the deeper part of the woods. Jeff feared that whoever had imprisoned the old man may be coming back to check on its work.

His thoughts roiled as he tried to think of an explanation that might make the captor set him free.

The discordant music was getting louder and a charnel house smell now drifted out of the woods.

And as to an explanation as to how he had come to be imprisoned in Max's place, Jeff was coming up empty.

THE END

--------

ROY DORMAN IS RETIRED from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and has been a voracious reader for over 60 years. At the prompting of an old high school friend, himself a retired English teacher, Roy is now a voracious writer. He has had flash fiction published recently in Black Petals, Yellow Mama, Theme of Absence, Dark Dossier, Near To the Knuckle, Bewildering Stories, Shotgun Honey, and a number of other online and print journals. Roy is currently the submissions editor at Yahara Prairie Lights, which puts him in the enviable position of sometimes being able to accept his own work. That site is at yaharaprairie.wordpress.com

|  |

---|---|---

# Gunfight at the OK Turnpike

# By Dan Klefstad

(Abandoned Mors Striga Training Camp, Illinois - site for the trial of Fiona, sired by Agripina).

"The court will come to order."

I look up from my seat at Miklos, our oldest. Next to him sits Konstantin, second in command. Based on the scale of my crime, however, I'm expecting someone more senior than their 1,500 combined years.

"Is the defendant hungry?"

My head-shake is the only move I can make. My hands and feet are anchored by silver bracelets, and a harness of the same metal keeps my pelvis and back still in the witness box. For the first time in 250 years, I am paralyzed from the shoulders down. Eyes and mind are free to roam, though, and I see Miklos and Konstantin lack the customary wigs; part of me feels validated that another more powerful will decide my fate.

"Due to the seriousness of the charges - conspiracy to commit fratricide on multiple counts - this trial will be presided over by a special magistrate." Miklos scans the courtroom. "I was informed yester-night that Caius Drusus arrived at the compound, and will join us presently."

"I am here."

All eyes turn to the back of the room where a male stands draped in Roman robes, crowned by a golden laurel. Miklos and Konstantin rise, step back, and bow as the 2000-year-old magistrate passes. As he does, I hear him whisper to Miklos:

"I can't believe you picked a site that belonged to our enemy. This place is fit for mortals only. Decamp immediately after this trial."

"As you wish, Magistrate." Miklos and Konstantin bow again.

My judge sits and examines the evidence before him. I never met Caius Drusus, but know his history of non-leniency. Still, he has a reputation for fairness - often in unexpected ways. He looks at me: "You are Fiona, sired by Agripina?"

I nod.

"You are aware of the charges against you?"

I nod.

"Have you been nourished with the required ten pints of blood each night? Please speak."

"Yes, Magistrate."

"Are you ready to defend yourself?"

"There will be no defense, Magistrate." My words prompt gasps and rumbles throughout the room. I raise my voice. "My crime, though one of passion, posed an existential threat to every immortal here. I throw myself... "

"It continues to pose a threat." Ferdinand steps forward. Older than me by a century, he was assigned to prosecute. "Magistrate, Fiona is attempting to derail these proceedings with a surprise plea designed to elicit mercy. We cannot allow her to escape the ultimate punishment."

"The prosecution will speak only to recite the facts." Caius Drusus speaks calmly, but his eyes reveal a sudden urge to squash Ferdinand beneath his sandal. "Your next improvised utterance will be your last - am I clear?"

***

DANIEL APPROACHES AN exit on the Roy Turner Turnpike, and instructs Bluetooth to dial Fiona. As is the case for several weeks, it goes straight to voicemail. This will be his twentieth message since her disappearance:

"Fiona, this is Daniel outside Tulsa, Oklahoma. If you never see me again, you'll at least know of my rendezvous with Wolf. A few weeks ago, Soren and I asked Wolf to go undercover as a spy in Mors Striga. Unfortunately, he may have been turned - not by choice, but by blackmail or other means. I'm going to see him and try to flip him back. It's risky, but he knows too much about their organization - and ours - not to try. The rendezvous point is just ahead. I will proceed and hopefully call with an update." A pause. "Fiona, I refuse to believe that you are not alive. Please contact me the minute you're able."

***

THE ABANDONED PROPERTY is just ahead. Incredibly, Wolf stands in the middle of the road, squinting at the headlights, hand raised in a greeting - or warning. Daniel gets out, wearing a bullet-proof vest and a pair of infra-red goggles on his forehead. His left--and only--hand holds an M-4 rifle like a pistol. To prepare for one-armed combat, he taped an extra magazine to the inserted one.

"Wow, you're not taking any chances." Wolf walks slowly toward him, stopping at thirty feet. "I assume you're alone?"

"As you requested." Daniel locks eyes with him. "I'll assume you're not."

"You always said trust no-one."

"Are you armed?"

Wolf gives a slight smile. "You asked the same question when we met. Remember my response?"

"Remind me."

"I have two to your one, so better armed than you."

Daniel smiles just a little. "Right after you said that, Fiona appeared out of thin air. You should've seen your face."

Wolf laughs. "And my life's never been the same." Keeping his eyes on Daniel, his head tilts left, then right. Next his eyes dart behind Daniel, who nods slightly before glancing down. "Your shoe's untied."

"Yeah?"

"I think you better tie it."

Wolf crouches, and Daniel jerks his head so the goggles fall in place. Yellow blobs appear to the right and left. He fires short bursts at each. When these fall, he gets behind the left front wheel of the car and fires toward the rear. The return fire comes heavy and close, forcing Daniel to lay flat. He shakes the glass from his hair and flips to full auto. Then he kneels, raises the gun above his head, and sprays through the now-windowless car. A second later, he's empty. He squeezes the weapon between his knees, releases one magazine and inserts the other while voices close in behind him. Daniel moves to the passenger side and sprays again, fighting for time. He looks for a nearby blob that might be Wolf, but doesn't see one. After switching to single-fire, Daniel keeps the intruders at bay for another minute before he's dry. As he reaches for his pistol, he sees a blue blob coming fast from the left. The attackers grow excited when they spot it, too:

"Vampire--switch rounds!"

Soren Fillennius smacks Daniel's head as he crouches next to him. "Fool - couldn't you tell this was an ambush?"

"Did you bring something useful, like ammo?"

"Not for that." Soren hands him an antique machine pistol. Daniel looks down, confused. "What the fuck is this?"

"My old MP-40. It still works." Next, Soren lifts a rusty helmet over Daniel, who pulls away. "It says SS. I'm not dressing like a war criminal."

"Look, you ungrateful piece of shit." Soren's icy fingers grab Daniel's face. "This is a rescue mission, and I'm in command--and you're wearing this fucking helmet!" He slaps it on Daniel's head. Suddenly, Daniel's phone rings, and Soren can't believe his ears. "Really? You're going to take that?"

Daniel answers. "Wolf, is that you?"

"Look at my text."

Daniel pushes up his goggles with the phone and reads: They have wooden bullets. Show this to Soren. Daniel does as instructed, and Soren's face turns grave. He looks toward the rear of the car where their assailants are now within ten yards. Then he taps the gun. "This fires full-auto. When I count to three, open up. You need to keep their heads down for five seconds - got it?"

***

FROM A DISTANCE, WOLF shakes his head in wonder as Daniel stands, lit by the car's remaining fog light, wearing an SS helmet and night-vision goggles - a Nazi/Steampunk mashup worthy of Comic Con. Then Wolf laughs as Daniel raises a World War II machine gun and fires, forcing the monks to dive for cover. When was the last time anyone saw anything like this? When Daniel stops firing, Soren Fillennius speeds through the Mors Striga soldiers, taking wooden bullets while smashing heads and breaking necks. The attack ends in seconds with no prisoners, no survivors. Even though Wolf will miss his now-dead colleagues, he'd give anything to be by Daniel's side - fighting with someone he often doubted, but now admired more than anyone. Too bad fate intervened. For the first time, Wolf thinks he's fighting for the wrong side, and it may be too late to cross over. One day, if they reunite, he'll tell Daniel just how proud he was to witness him in action.

***

CAIUS DRUSUS FOLDS his hands as he stares at me. "Does the defendant realize that admission of guilt could result in her death?"

"Yes, Magistrate."

"Does the defendant also realize that I alone have sentencing authority?"

"Yes, but I have information vital to the protection of everyone in this room - including you."

Ferdinand steps forward. "Magistrate, please!"

Caius Drusus silences him with a look before turning to me. "You cannot introduce evidence after your plea."

"Magistrate," I raise my voice, "I urge the council not to abandon this compound after this trial."

Caius Drusus hushes the crowd with a wave. "I will indulge you a little longer - but don't try my patience. Why do you recommend we stay?"

"The monks will find out we're here - it's inevitable. This compound is your best defense. Scatter, and you'll get picked off one at a time - like Agripina."

Ferdinand moves between the bench and witness box. "First, she gives up the location of our meeting place. Now she wants to save us?" He faces the magistrate. "Fiona has no credibility, and yet you allow her to poison this process!"

"The process is the problem," I strain to be heard, "because it stays the same. Nothing in our society evolves. Meanwhile, our enemies continue to improve their weapons and tactics..."

"ENOUGH." Caius Drusus stands and motions to Miklos and Konstantin. Both rush to place a black hood over the magistrate's golden laurel. Then they stand back as he locks eyes with me. "Fiona, sired by Agripina: Tomorrow, just before dawn, you will be chained to a pole in the courtyard, facing east. There, you will watch the sun's scorching rays creep closer and closer. Soon after the fireball clears the horizon, you will be reduced to ashes." He motions again to Miklos and Konstantin. "Take Ferdinand into custody. He will burn next to her."

***

"WOLF!" DANIEL WALKS away from the shattered car.

"He's gone, and not coming back." Soren steps between the corpses, sniffing. His shirt has several holes where the wooden bullets passed through; none hit his heart. "Why do you keep believing in him? He's just a tool for the monks, Fiona, or anyone who pays attention to him--like an orphaned puppy. Ooh, this one's A positive." He points. "Stay over there and keep watch. You don't want to see this." He lowers his face toward a dead man's neck.

Daniel takes a flask from his pocket, swallows scotch, and stares into the dark landscape. For the tenth time since the gunfire ended, he checks his phone:

Forget about me. Fiona is a prisoner at the old Mors Striga camp in Illinois. An attack is imminent.

###

|  |

---|---|---

# Demotion

# BY KELLY PINER

Large coffee stains and cigarette butts marred the once polished marble floors at the Randall Building where the lobby now appeared dingy and dim, illuminated only by overhead flickering emergency lights. After the artwork had been removed, dents and imperfections stood out on the walls, giving the space a warehouse feel. Dorothy Downs sidestepped litter and sludgy dark liquid as she proceeded to the company elevator for the long ride up to the sixth floor. Only two years from retirement and now this, she thought.

But an "Out of Order" sign hung from the elevator door.

She moaned under her breath and pushed open the door to the stairwell. Candy wrappers and old Styrofoam cups covered the stairs, and a family of roaches nestled in the corner of one step. Housekeepers had been let go weeks ago.

Dorothy shook her head. The Randall Building, once a premier art deco architectural showplace had been reduced to this.

She stared straight ahead as she climbed, barely blinking, refusing to allow her thoughts to hijack her mind. She'd get through the day the same way she'd made it through all the rest these past three months.

At the top of the stairwell, she turned and shuffled the short distance to her cramped office. Inside, the carpet smelled of mildew and old rags.

Dorothy held her hand over her mouth and muffled a cough, and then she slung her purse over a hook and plopped down at her desk, overlooking Cordell Avenue. The once fashionable street had turned barren and dingy. Long gone were the sophisticated dress shops and quaint bistros hiding behind burgundy awnings. Most of the stores had been boarded up with bars at the windows.

She turned away and pulled open a small file cabinet under her desk and lifted a stack of invoices. She dipped her stamp in ink.

Emma Kerns, Balance Overdue $300.

Deceased.

John Arthur, Balance Overdue $900.

Deceased.

Having spent more than twenty years earning the coveted position of Accounts Manager at the Randall Corporation, world's finest maker of upscale bath and kitchen fixtures, she'd recently been demoted to a mere billing clerk. She'd grown numb to the invoices weeks ago. At this rate, the Randall Building would be forced to close its doors, leaving the remaining employees out of work and on the streets.

She flinched when Mr. Hodges pounded on her door and then leaned into her doorway frowning. He pushed a lock of tangled hair from his forehead. His rumpled clothes looked as if he'd slept in them.

"How are those invoices looking?" her boss asked with a hint of desperation. His hollow eyes bore into Dorothy as if she were single handedly responsible for keeping the company afloat.

"Not good, not good," she said.

His lip curled up. "Unbelievable. The Randall Corporation is number one in its field. I expected more from you. Make some phone calls and collect those balances. Our jobs depend on it."

"But," she started.

Mr. Hodges threw up his hand, silencing her, and sped back to his office.

Dorothy felt the blood pounding through her temples. Could she help it if these people hadn't paid their bills? And how many had died? She'd lost count. She pushed herself to her feet and pulled her purse from the rack.

But inside the bathroom, the stale stench of urine hung in the air. With the water shortage, all public toilets were on timers that flushed only once daily.

She pulled her blouse up over her nose when she stepped inside the stall. Afterwards, she leaned over the sink, now discolored by cigarette ashes and grime, and turned the faucet for some cool water to splash over her face. But the faucet only hissed and sputtered. She caught a glimpse of herself in the cloudy mirror. Until recently, she had looked healthy and vibrant. Now, at 63, she looked as her grandmother had looked those final days in the nursing home. Her pallor was off and her eyes looked sunken and dark, as if she hadn't slept in weeks. Her red lipstick had settled into cracks, giving her the look of an ancient marionette doll.

She pushed a wad of disheveled hair from her face and plodded back to her office, her dress pumps as heavy as two lead buckets. With a new stack of invoices ready to be processed, she dipped her stamp into the ink pad and heard the thud as it came down.

Myra Hines, Balance Overdue $3,000

Deceased

Joyce Dudley, Balance Overdue $850

Deceased

Mr. Hodges would not be pleased. Not a single paying customer so far today.

Two hours later, perspiration soaked through Dorothy's linen dress top and skirt. The air conditioning had been turned off weeks ago and in the mid-August heat, she fanned herself with a brochure and fanaticized about a long, leisurely lunch. Images of a tall, chilled parfait glass filled with a frosty chocolate shake sprang to mind. She moistened her lips and imagined pairing the milkshake with an old-fashioned burger on a toasted bun, a pile of savory fries on the side. One of the local diners was bound to still be open.

At noon, she rushed five blocks to the Linder's Family Pharmacy, established 1912. A tiny bell jingled inside the entryway, and the air smelled of potpourri. Only one other customer sat at the lunch counter, an elderly woman sipping a bowl of soup. Dorothy sat at the far end on a red swivel barstool and looked over the chalkboard that featured the specials. The only items listed were a bowl of broth and a dinner roll.

"This can't be right," she said to the server. "You have the best shakes and burgers in town."

The woman shrugged, her complexion ashen. "With the power shortage, this is the best we can offer."

A few moments later, she dropped a bowl of murky broth in front of Dorothy along with a yellowed roll served on a paper plate. With no butter for the stale roll, Dorothy dunked it into the lukewarm broth and washed it down with sips of tepid water that had flecks of rust floating on top. She paid her bill and emerged back out into the sweltering heat. Some lunch. She shook her head.

On the corner outside the pharmacy, a rusted newspaper stand held a bundle of papers where the headline read: Massive Blast Destroys Five City Blocks.

With a shaky hand, Dorothy deposited a coin into the slot and removed the paper from the Plexiglas enclosure. This was just too much. How much tragedy could one town suffer? First, the massive layoffs, and then the power outages and water shortages. And now, a horrific blast. Had her town incurred the wrath of God?

She steadied herself against the side of the building and shuffled back toward the Randall Building, feeling as if she were sinking in quicksand. With still three blocks to go, swirling black clouds blocked out the sun and exploded into a great downpour. She slid the paper inside her purse and raced back to the safety of her building.

Inside, she dabbed her face and with a handful of brown paper towels and kicked off her squishy pumps. She tossed the newspaper aside. She'd had her fill of bad news for a lifetime. She dipped the stamp in ink.

Jean Ann Wells, Balance Overdue $600

Deceased

Tony Landry, Balance Overdue $5,000

Deceased

And on and on....

Dorothy rubbed her burning eyes and pushed the invoices aside. If she didn't find some money soon.... She leaned her head back and practiced deep breathing. She'd need to find paying customers before the day ended. She reached for the newspaper. She'd show Mr. Hodges and Mr. Randall that she could single handedly keep the company afloat, even if it meant working nights and weekends. She might even be promoted back to Accounts Manager.

She glanced down at the paper, dated May 18, and frowned. But it was August 15. She scanned the first paragraph of the newspaper article.

The mysterious blast destroyed five city blocks of Cordell Avenue, including the prestigious Randall Building, now reduced to a pile of rubble. Nine hundred employees lost their lives....

Dorothy's mind went numb as she methodically lifted the ink stamp and heard the thud once more against the next invoice.

Dorothy Downs, Balance Overdue $1,100

Deceased.

|  |

---|---|---

# THE UNINVITED

# By Phillip Frey

It has been said that truth is stranger than fiction.

Back in our early twenties Jerry and I had found a one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan's West Village. We had been friends for a number of years, and as aspiring actors could not afford to rent alone. We would be subleasing from an artist named Lee Gatch.

Near our move-in date we met with Lee Gatch at the 50 King Street apartment and signed the papers. He looked to be in his late-fifties, with a trim figure and a full head of gray hair.

Without a dining room we sat at the kitchen table, in a small uncarpeted area at one end of the living room.

"Do you have your own furniture?" Lee Gatch asked.

"No," Jerry said, "we've been looking for some."

"My daughter lived here," he explained. "She works for the airlines and has been transferred to Atlanta." He took a moment to gaze at the blanket chest at the foot of the Hollywood bed. Unless I misread the look, it appeared to carry a touch of dread. "It's my furniture," he went on, "so if you like, you can keep it until you move out."

An offer Jerry and I could not refuse. Lee Gatch seemingly as pleased as we were.

"Be kind to the furniture," he said. "The blanket chest, mirror and dresser are from the Eighteenth-Century. Same with the dresser in the bedroom." Then added, "Whenever you're ready to move out, be sure to call me and I'll pick it all up."

The day we moved in I chose the living room, with the Hollywood bed to sleep on. Being an early riser it gave me easy access to the kitchen and bathroom without disturbing Jerry.

On our first night I lay ready for sleep. In the dimness of the room, my tired eyes made out a wispy cloud creeping across the old mirror that hung above the dresser. Soon as it had passed the mirror, it vanished.

In the morning, when Jerry came out of the bedroom, I told him what I had seen. He had a methodical mind; I trusted his analytical abilities. In bathrobe and slippers he approached the mirror and gave it a quick study. He then turned to the open blinds that covered the window between my bed and his bedroom.

"Last night were the blinds open or closed?"

"Closed. I opened them around a half-hour ago."

He went to the blinds. "Maybe car lights bounced off the windows across the street and shone cloudy through the edge of the blinds and the window frame."

"And hit the mirror as the car moved slowly forward," I added in agreement, and that was that.

A few months had passed when one night I turned the lights out and got into bed. I lay there whispering the lines I had learned for an audition. When ready for sleep I rose up and adjusted the covers. Something caught my eye at the foot of the bed, where the old blanket chest sat. Its lid rippled like pond water on a windy night. I thought I had gotten dizzy, sat forward and gazed at the lid--at the face of a woman with open dead eyes, hair splayed under the rippling water.

"Jerry!" I hollered.

He rushed out of the bedroom. I turned to him, then flicked my eyes back to the chest--the image gone.

The lights on now, I told him what I had seen. In his robe he thoughtfully patrolled the room.

"You must have been asleep and dreamed what you saw. There's no other explanation."

"I was awake, sitting up when I saw it." Thinking then that it would be useless to try to convince him. "I don't know," I breathed, "maybe your right."

"Well, of course I'm right," he said with a yawn.

I kept the lights on and slept in stops and starts, sitting up occasionally to check the lid of the chest.

Another few months later I was falling asleep on my side, facing the open bedroom door. In the near-darkness I made out Jerry in profile before the mirror of the antique chest-high dresser. He wore dark slacks, a white shirt with billowed sleeves and appeared to be putting on cufflinks. As I wondered why he was getting dressed with the lights out, he came toward me and stopped in the doorway. With tortured eyes he dropped to his knees, arms pleading toward me--it wasn't Jerry!

"No!" I cried out.

The figure evaporated as Jerry leapt from his bed. He snapped the light on and came through the doorway.

I sat at the edge of the bed, voice shaking while I told him what I had seen: the tortured eyes; the figure pleading desperately.

"Has to be another dream," Jerry said.

"Nightmare is more like it. But I saw it," I went on. "I wasn't asleep--I know I wasn't."

I kept the lights on and stayed awake the rest of the night.

A few weeks later Jerry and I entered our building with groceries. We stood waiting at the elevator. Jerry stepped across the lobby to where an eighteenth-century map of Manhattan hung. He studied it, then muttered, "I've never read this." He turned toward me. "You ever read the fine print at the bottom of this map?"

"No, never noticed it," I said as I joined him there. Squinting, I read that on this property had stood George Washington's Manhattan wartime headquarters.

"Well," Jerry said, "if you actually did see those ghostly things, this could be the reason."

"You really think so?"

"No, of course not, but I have to admit this is quite a coincidence, and pretty creepy."

At the end of our year's sublease I called Lee Gatch and told him we would be vacating. Jerry and I were now able to afford our own apartments.

Lee Gatch came with movers to collect his furniture. He and Jerry and I sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee while the movers performed their chores. There was a lull in the conversation, Lee Gatch lost in thought, eyes on the old dresser under the mirror, then shifting to the blanket chest at the foot of the Hollywood bed.

"In this apartment," he said hesitantly, "did you ever see anything strange?"

Jerry and I exchanged a glance. I answered, "Yes, a number of times."

"When my daughter was little, she had her own bedroom and kept her toys in the chest. There were times she'd awake in the middle of the night and rush scared into our room. The reason was always because of the chest."

I told Lee Gatch about the face under the rippling water. Without any sign of surprise he said, "In the late 1700's, my ancestors came here from the Isle of White. The chest was on their ship. Its legs had to be cut off so it would fit into one of the storage bins."

Jerry asked, "What would the legs being cut off have to do with the chest being haunted?"

"No idea," Lee Gatch said regretfully.

"What about the mirror," I asked, "the dresser under it, and the dresser in the bedroom?"

"They were aboard the same ship." Then said, "We kept them stored in our basement."

I had never seen Jerry so troubled. It was a dilemma for this particular man of methodology.

The three of us left the apartment and went down into the street. Where Jerry and I said our goodbyes to Lee Gatch. He drove off and Jerry said, "Guess we can also say goodbye to the George Washington theory."

Some years later, Jerry's acting career had blossomed. Mine had not. We remained close friends while I worked at a small record store. It was a wintry evening when I arrived to relieve Brian. He had the newspaper open on the counter, reading his favorite section, the obituaries. We exchanged greetings as I went into the restroom where I hung my coat. As I did, I heard Brian call out, "What do you know about that--Lee Gatch died!"

Stunned by the news, I went to him. "How do you know Lee Gatch?"

"Never heard of him," he said. "Just thought I'd yell it out."

______________________________________________________________________________

Phillip Frey grew up in Cleveland, Ohio, where he performed as a child actor at the Cleveland Playhouse. He later moved to New York where he performed with the New York Shakespeare Festival, followed by the Repertory Theater of Lincoln Center.

With a change of interest, Phillip wrote, directed and edited three short films, all of which had international showings, including The New York Film Festival. With yet another change of interest he returned to Los Angeles to become a produced screenwriter.

Phillip is now devoted only to writing prose. His published books are "Dangerous Times" and "Hym and Hur." He has also had the privilege of having short stories published in various literary journals.

|  |

---|---|---

# GEMINI

# BY V. Mylynne Smith

My twin sister and I are identical. Our parents gave us cutesy names when we were born, giving me the name Julie and my sister the name Jenny. They used to dress us alike when we were babies, and paint our fingernails different colors so they could tell us apart.

Grade school was difficult because our teachers had the tendency to call me by the wrong name, or they would refer to us as "the twins." When our personalities started to blossom it was clear that my artistic, free-spirited interests were unrelatable to the rest of society. Jenny, however, loved ponies and dolls like every other little girl.

I thought I would vomit when Jenny was elected homecoming queen. Our parents were delighted to shell out a grand for a dress so that my sister could wave from the backseat of a car. I had become the black cloud that followed behind her, the shadow to her every glimmering deed.

"Why can't you be more like your sister?"

I heard that phrase from relatives, teachers, and every friend I tried to make. There's only so much one person can take until they crack.

I was sick and tired of being tethered to my twin sister. We looked exactly alike down to our fucking fingernails, but no one noticed me. The boys at school flocked to Jenny no matter what I wore or what color I dyed my hair. The teachers fawned over my sister's bubbly personality. My parents also seemed to favor her.

After sixteen years of torment, I decided to rid myself of my other half. I went online in search of a solution. I started off by searching Craigslist ads, but one rabbit hole led to another. The internet is a fascinating place.

I'd like to clarify before I go any further that I'm a believer. I'm open to all possibilities as to what might await us after death. I've always found it to be a fascinating subject, and I spend a great deal of time researching the plethora of theories people have crafted in order to comfort, or disturb, themselves and each other.

During my search, I came across lore about an otherworldy being called Gemini. Gemini was a nickname given to the creature by the internet. The creature's true name was sixteen characters long and there was no way I could pronounce it correctly.

Gemini was said to be a dark spirit that plagued certain twins, creating a divide between them. These unfortunate duos were argumentative, unhappy, and cruel to their counterparts. Gemini's goal was to separate twins by convincing one to sacrifice the other.

I needed no convincing.

My fingers danced across the keyboard as I looked for the details on how to summon the entity that could rid me of my woes. I found a laundry list of instructions and quickly jotted them down before abandoning my desk for the safety and solitude of the basement.

Pausing before my retreat downstairs, I grabbed a few necessities for the ritual. I snagged sea salt out of the kitchen cabinet and turned on the stove. I waited for the burner to get hot and set the blade of a butcher's knife on the coil.

In my mother's craft room I borrowed a safety pin from her sewing kit. The ritual also called for a single red taper candle. Thankfully, we had a few of them leftover from last year's Christmas decorations. Unsnapping a tub in the corner of the craft room, I dug around until my fingers enclosed one of the candles.

The blade was glowing red hot by the time I pulled it off the stove. I tapped the candle wick against the coil until it sparked. Shutting off the stove, I quickly made my way down the stairs to the basement. I reminded myself of the warnings I'd read on the website as my feet padded across the cement floor.

I could not - under any circumstances - reveal my full name.

Giving a creature of the spirit realm your name was the equivalent of giving them permission to wear your body as a meatsuit.

I could only ask questions.

According to the site, the demon would do anything to get a person to break this rule. He would latch onto anything that a person seemed passionate about in order to provoke a conversation. I had to stay focused and refrain from making any statements or saying any random words.

I could not reveal the object of my frustration.

I couldn't say my twin's name or ask outright for her to be killed. At the end of the ritual, my fifth and final question had to be, "Do you know of whom I speak?" If the demon said yes the ritual had worked and my problems were over. I would be yanked out of my sister's shadow and given my freedom. However, there was no explanation as to what happened if Gemini said no...

In the damp and dark lower level of our home there was a closet, a roll top desk, my grandmother's old trunk, and one full length mirror mounted to the brick wall. The mirror acted like Skype, a portal between the human realm and the spirit realm. It was a way for me to draw Gemini to the surface for a conversation. I had no idea what he would look like, but I couldn't imagine it would be pleasant. It didn't matter to me, though, not much did anymore. I couldn't go on like this, continually second best to a clone of myself. Perpetually placed on the backburner by someone wearing my face and using it against me. I needed Gemini's help.

Drawing a half-circle in front of the mirror was supposed to create a safe barrier between the physical world and the netherrealm. I followed instructions, creating a crescent moon on the cement below the mirror.

The next step was the most difficult. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. In order to get Gemini's attention, a sacrifice had to be made. I had to distinguish myself from my sister...permanently.

My hands shook, rattling the candle and the butcher's knife clutched in my fingers. The room was dark, as it had to be, so I raised the candle to my face for better lighting. My other hand raised the red blade to my face. It had stopped glowing, but the heat still radiated from inches away.

I took another deep breath. The candle shivered and wax dripped onto my hand. I jumped and bit my lip to keep from shouting. Inhaling deeply, I moved the hot blade closer to my cheek. The pain from the melted wax ebbed, distracting me slightly as my other hand drew the hot knife closer to my skin.

Holding my breath, I mashed the blade flat against my cheek. My knees turned to water, washing out from under me and sending me to the cold ground. My skin seared below the blade and I slowly released a groan as I allowed the weapon to fall from my quivering fingers and clatter against the cement.

I would have my fucking freedom. I would get my own life, free from the constant comparison to a perfect replica. My time was now.

Pulling out the pointed tip of the safety pin, I quickly pricked both of my thumbs and squeezed each of them to produce fat blood droplets. The ritual called for the leviathan cross to be drawn at the top of the mirror. With my newly bleeding thumbs I went to work, trying to ignore my reflection.

Taking a step back, I admired my work. Holding the candle at my chest, my reflection caught my eye. The mark on my cheek went from the corner of my lip up to just below my eye. It was ugly and littered with frayed flesh around the edges of the wound. As I examined myself, my candle was snuffed out.

A new light reappeared in the mirror, illuminating a grotesque humanoid with stringy white hair, gray skin, and a smaller, second head protruding from its shoulder. The fully formed head was a man with gigantic teeth that looked more beast than man. His teeth shined from an intensely curved set of lips. One of his eyes was clouded and milky with cataracts while the other was a black, empty socket.

The second head had swollen lips that were sewn together with thick, black thread. His nose was crooked, looking as though it had been smashed it several times over. Much like his lips, one of his eyes had the lids sewn shut with sparse lashes peeking through the black thread. His other eye matched his cohort's, cloudy and pale.

I was so distracted by the monstrous state of decay they seemed to be in that I had momentarily forgotten to speak. I cleared my throat and planted my feet.

"Do you know why I called you?" I asked.

The head that rested on the neck cackled. "Of course, I do," he said without losing his sickening grin. His voice was deep and gravelly, sending a chill down my spine. "It must be terrible to be the ugly version of your perfect sister," he continued, "Tell Daddy her name."

My stomach churned. His grin was cartoonish, like something from a Hannah-Barbara nightmare.

"Can you help me?" I asked, trying to stay focused.

"If you give me a name," he said, "I can't do it without one."

He was trying to trick me. I knew this would happen, and I had to ignore it.

"Do you know what she looks like?" My heart fluttered as the words left my lips.

"I'm staring at what she looks like, princess." He released a boisterous laugh. Suddenly he lunged at the mirror, chomping his horse-like teeth. "Tell me how much it hurts," he said, saliva pooling on his lower lip. "Tell Daddy what she's done to you."

As vile as this creature was, I felt a burning desire to confide in him. I wanted him to know how badly Jenny had wrecked my life. I had never accomplished a single goal without her besting me. I had never received any credit for any of the good things I had done because her illustrious light always outshined mine. I wanted to tell him. I wanted him to know.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his demeanor shifting from wicked mischief to slight concern. "Can you feel your heart breaking?" He closed his eyes and pressed his palm against the mirror. "Let me feel it...let me know your pain."

It was another trick. I had asked three questions and there was only one left.

"How will you get rid of her?" I asked, my breath leaving my lungs in a quick rush. I staggered slightly, swaying before I could correct my footing.

The creature stepped away from the glass, and his lips drew back in another heinous smile. Two black bugs scurried out from between his teeth and skittered across his molars to bury themselves in his gums.

"Just tell me how you want it, baby," he said, "We can do it however you want." His empty eye socket winked.

The light dimmed as he continued to back away. My heart raced as the darkness started to close in on me.

"Wait!" I called before he could disappear, "Do you know of whom I speak?"

The second head struggled to life, jerking and twitching at the man's side. It fought against the stitching on its mouth as the fully formed head pushed more laughter from his throat.

"Once the flesh debt has been paid," his low voice rumbled, "A statement must not again be made."

With one word I had condemned myself.

I never should have told him to wait. He wasn't allowed to leave until after the fifth question, but he was backing away. I thought I was losing my chance and I panicked.

Tears filled my eyes as I became catatonic. My body refused to move and my eyes would not close as the mirror shifted. The creature in front of me took on my image.

My lips sealed and I felt the jolting pain of a needle piercing meat. Rough twine was ripped through the hole and another stab was made to the middle of my lips, melding them together. The thread slid through the wound as blood started to drizzle down my chin. Another jab shot pain through my lips and the horrible thread was dragged through a third hole in my flesh.

The needle moved on once my lips were firmly connected. The lids of my left eye were pinched and pain exploded through the delicate skin. The thread tugged through three times to match my lips. Once my eyelids were bound together, the vision in my right eye became clouded.

Looking down with my foggy eye, I saw that my girlish figure had disappeared. I was flat chested with gray skin. Rolling my good eye the other way, I found myself connected to a one-eyed man with the teeth of a mare.

The girl in my reflection offered me a devilish grin before walking out of frame.

***

BIO:

My name is V. Mylynne Smith and I live in Northwest Arkansas with my husband. I love to write thrilling tales with paranormal elements. My debut novel "Premeditated" came out March 28, 2018. My story "Jeremy's Picture" was featured in the April issue of Dark Dossier Magazine.

I can be found on facebook, instagram, twitter, and wordpress.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/vmylynne

Instagram: @v.mylynnesmith

Twitter: @MylynneV

www.vmylynnesmith.wordpress.com

|  |

---|---|---

# The Glass Path ~ A dark fable with Dr. Skullmoss

# By: Walter G. Esselman

Hubert's mother smacked the steering wheel, and made dark, furious, little noises.

She was driving so very fast.

Now, Hubert had made sure that he and his sister were buckled in. But still, he worried about the speed. He glanced at his sister, Callie.

She was looking down though. She gingerly touched the bruise on her right forearm. It was shaped like a man's hand.

The car started to slow, and Hubert's mother jerked the vehicle into the far right lane. They turned off into a gas station and convenience store. Eschewing the open parking spaces, Hubert's mother stopped right in front of the sign that read: 'No Parking Fire Lane'.

Angrily, Hubert's mother shut off the car and started to get out.

"I'm hungry," said Callie in a small voice.

Her mother spun around.

"No food," snapped their mother. "No food--you're getting fat anyways--and food is for Winners. They might kick us off the circuit for what your brother did. Do you know that? That means, no more competing. No more cash prizes. No more money. In fact, No Christmas Now! You know that? We had everything in today's competition."

"I didn't want to go with Mr. Jones," said Callie in a soft voice.

"What did I tell you about Winning?" demanded Hubert's mother.

Callie turned her eyes away.

Swearing, Hubert's mother got out of the car and stormed into the convenience store.

Forlorn, Callie just looked down at herself. She absently picked at her cowgirl costume. It had been custom-made for the talent portion of the contest.

Hubert took one look at her face, and immediately came to a decision. He undid his seatbelt and then turned to undo his sister's.

"What?" she said softly.

"Come on," said Hubert. Keeping down, he carefully opened his door and slid out. Callie just watched in confusion.

"Do you want to stay here?" he asked.

Callie stiffened, but then she scrambled across the seat towards him. Hubert carefully closed the door behind them. They kept low, and he led Callie around the back of the car. Once they were around the corner of the building, they straightened up and he took his sister's hand.

"This way," he urged.

"Where are we going?" asked Callie.

"I...I don't know," he admitted.

They nearly ran towards the big fence behind the store. It was a tall wire fence, but there was an open gate, which lead into some woods. Hubert slowed though as they reached the gate.

"Wha...?" muttered Hubert.

In the entrance of the gate was what looked like a path made of glass. It grew, from a solitary point, to a walkway big enough for two adults to walk side by side. Hubert looked down at the path and saw his own reflection.

"Is...is it safe?" asked Callie in a quiet voice.

"Hubert! Where are you?" screeched his Mother from the front of the store. And then her voice erupted into a dread roar. "WHERE'S CALLIE?"

Both kids glanced back, but then Hubert stepped onto the glass path. It held his weight, so he led Callie onto it. The path was not slippery though. They shuffled tenuously at first. But, when the path did not give like ice on a frozen pond, they moved more assuredly.

The trees were tall with a wide canopy, which meant that only a little light came through. However, Hubert noticed that there was a soft purple light coming from within the glass itself. And that subtle glow helped illuminate the way.

They heard shouting from the beginning of the path, but the words were faint and indistinct. It was as if the voices were a million miles away.

"Where are we?" asked Callie cautiously.

"I'm...I'm not sure," admitted Hubert. "But away is good right now. I don't want..." And his voice faltered.

However, Callie just nodded in agreement.

As they walked down the path, the day grew darker and darker. Soon, only the path's gentle glow lit their way.

The glass path weaved here and there, but not in any great change of direction. If the path deviated, it was only to veer around an old, stately tree.

Suddenly, Callie froze, and by doing so pulled Hubert to a stop.

"What?" he asked.

"I thought I...," started Callie.

A scream pierced through the wood. It was high pitched and frenzied.

The animalistic sound came out of the woods about forty feet behind them. And then Hubert realized that it was more than one voice.

"Go!" he cried, and they ran.

A beast on all fours broke out onto the path thirty feet behind them. It was bent over and misshapen with sharp teeth. Its knobbly spine stuck out from its malnourished back. And it was followed by more of its kind.

"What are they?" asked Callie.

But Hubert did not even try to answer. The creatures were getting too close. Hubert glanced to the darkened wood and prepared to jump off the path.

"Pardon me!" cried a voice in front of them. The boy looked forward and immediately skidded to a halt. He pulled Callie in close.

The person looked like a man at first. Except Hubert had never seen a man without flesh on their face. This "man" was only a grinning skull with some green on it. Dancing neatly around the kids, the person charged right at the monsters.

"Tally Ho!" he called out with a merry cheer.

In one hand, he gripped a cane. With a tug, the top of the cane came loose to reveal a hidden sword. The man swung the sword in a wide arc right before the monsters. The creatures, for their part, suddenly skidded to a halt.

"Hah! Bugger off then!" insisted the man, but he did not have any venom in his voice. "No meal here for you. Go on! Shoo!"

As the creatures started to scrabble away from the man, he booped one of them on the butt with the end of his cane. But he kept the sword well away from the beasts. Once the creatures were truly away, he slowly backed up towards the kids while keeping a wary eye out.

Hubert now saw that the man was wearing a black top hat and a burgundy coat. However, between the elegant, but normalish, hat and the coat was a skeleton held together by a shiny, black substance.

"Well now," said the man jovially. He turned to them, and sheathed his sword. "My apologies for being late. Needed to get the tea off the fire, or else the whole cottage might have burned down while I was gone. Can't have that, can we?"

"Um...no," admitted Hubert diplomatically. He tried to subtly put Callie behind him.

"Whew! Glad to have found you," said the skeleton man, and he noticed the weary look on the children's face. "Um, are you okay?" But then he looked down at himself. "Oh that's right! It's me, isn't it. I've gotten used to seeing a dashing skeleton in the mirror."

The man took off his top hat revealing a big head of mossy hair. With a click of his heels, he bowed to the children.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is Dr. Magnus Pembrookton Skullmoss. At your service. I am here to help you along."

"Along?" asked Hubert cautiously.

"The path," said Dr. Skullmoss as he motioned to the path that they stood on. "And..." But then he suddenly stopped and took a step towards Callie. "What happened to your arm?" However, both of the children began to retreat. Seeing their reaction, Dr. Skullmoss halted.

"Sorry," he said. "I did not mean to frighten. I saw the bruises on the young lady's arm. Did the scabs do that?"

"Scabs?" asked Hubert carefully.

"Those poor creatures who were chasing you," explained Dr. Skullmoss. "Did they do that?"

Callie looked down and away.

"No...someone else," admitted Hubert, and he looked embarrassed as well.

"It's okay," said Dr. Skullmoss gently, and he squatted down so that he was not looming over them. Now, Hubert could see that a bright green moss formed a mustache as well--which curled at the edges--and a little goatee as well.

"Let us start again," said the skeleton man kindly. "I am here, in this forest, to guide young people along the path. To help get them safely to the Blue Gates. I would like to help you two get there."

"That's your job?" asked Hubert wearily.

"As far as I know,' shrugged Dr. Skullmoss. "Truth be told, my purpose here has never been clearly defined. Now, will you allow me to help you?"

Callie tugged on Hubert's sleeve, and the two siblings looked at each other in silent conversation. Then Hubert looked back.

"How...how do we know we won't end up like those...whatever you called them?" asked Hubert.

"Scabs," said Dr. Skullmoss gently. "You won't, because I will keep you on the path. This is..." And he gestured to the ground. "...the Glass Path. I know, cunningly named. Those poor creatures, called scabs, were children that stepped off the path. It is so...so very easy to get lost."

"Those are children?" asked Hubert.

"Were," corrected Dr. Skullmoss softly. "There does not appear to be any way to bring them back to themselves. At least, not that I have found. Though I've tried. But they most of them predate me." He stood slowly without sudden movements. "Now, we really should be going."

"To the gate?" asked Hubert.

"The Glass Path ends at the Blue Gates," explained Dr. Skullmoss, and he looked around wearily. "It really is kind of dangerous right now. The sooner I get you to the Blue Gates, the safer you'll be."

"And you want to just walk us there?" asked Hubert.

"Escort you, just to make sure you arrive safely," said Dr. Skullmoss.

Hubert looked back at Callie who nodded vigorously.

"Excellent," said Dr. Skullmoss in relief.

The skeleton man led them along the path, but he gave a measure of space between him and children. Reaching into his waistcoat, he took out his ancient brass pocket watch. After examining the time, he made a noise, and then put it away.

"We must hurry," he said.

The skeleton man moved just a little quicker.

"What's wrong?" asked Hubert as they sped up.

"Nothing we need to fret about, as long as we hurry," said Dr. Skullmoss.

Every once in a while, Hubert and Callie would start to fall behind, and the skeleton man would slow. But Hubert noticed that Dr. Skullmoss kept looking from his pocket watch to the night sky. Something was worrying the skeleton man.

"Blast!"

Suddenly, Dr. Skullmoss sprinted down the path. The children stopped for a moment in surprise. But they soon caught up with the skeleton man. Across the Glass Path, a number of trees had been felled to form a wall.

"Those ne'er-do-wells," growled Dr. Skullmoss. He stepped up to the tree wall and gently pushed it as first. Soon, he was testing the trees to see if the pile was steady.

Hubert looked left and right and saw that there appeared to be a path around felled trees.

"Um, why don't we just go around," said Hubert, and he took a step closer to the left hand side.

"No!" said Dr. Skullmoss quickly. "It's too dangerous."

Hubert blinked at him. "To go off the path for a moment?"

"First, I think that the sides are a trap, and second...well, we don't go off the path unless we absolutely have to," said Dr. Skullmoss. The skeleton man leapt up onto the wall of trees and found that it did not collapse. "No, it's up and over for us."

Hubert looked at the sides again, but then Callie went over to the wall of trees. Dr. Skullmoss reached down and gave her a hand up. Resigned, Hubert went to follow.

Once they were safely on the other side, Dr. Skullmoss picked up the pace again. He was jogging down the Glass Path. But his head kept turning to the night sky, which was starting to lighten. At the top of a rise, the skeleton man stopped.

Hubert and Callie stopped as well. The path led down into a green valley, and--at the far side--was a large gate that was indeed blue. Across the canopy of trees were ancient buildings that stuck up out of the green. There was even the remains of a castle, but that last building was miles away.

Then Hubert noticed that the skeleton man was staring over the valley. His sight was fixated on the sky, which was now quite bright. Dawn would appear soon.

"What's really wrong?" asked Hubert finally. "Is something about the dawn worrying you?"

"I was hoping that we would be safely at the Gates by then," murmured Dr. Skullmoss. "Something comes out during the day. Something terrible."

"More scabs?" asked Hubert.

"Oh no," said Dr. Skullmoss. "They are only slightly dangerous." He came to a decision. "Come on, let's keep moving."

The skeleton man started back down the path at a brisk pace. Hubert and Callie followed, but a little reluctantly.

"So, what can we do? Hide?" askled Hubert.

"That's one option, but there is nothing close right now," said Dr. Skullmoss. "In fact, I think that is why those logs were across the path. To slow anyone down. I'll have to go back tomorrow night to move them."

The skeleton man kept looking at the sky, which was getting lighter and lighter. The Glass Path led down onto the floor of the valley, and they could no longer see the Blue Gates, or any of the crumbling structures.

Dr. Skullmoss began taking out his pocket watch regularly. He had just clicked it shut when they heard the first sound. It was a dark, vicious noise, that rumbled like thunder through the forest.

"Is that them?" asked Hubert with barely concealed panic.

Dr. Skullmoss stopped though, and looked around. "Just getting my bearings."

"Do we run to the gate?" asked Hubert.

"Too far away, and they are fast when they want to be," said the skeleton man. He stopped and pointed his sword cane off the path. "That's the way we go."

"But you said not to go off the path," said Hubert.

"I did," admitted Dr. Skullmoss. "But this is the only way."

Callie tugged on her brother's arm, and Hubert looked at her while they silently conversed.

There was crash behind them. Something gigantic had hit a tree. The skeleton man whipped around in concern making the kids tense up. He saw that, and turned part way towards them.

"I will keep you safe, my word of honor," said Dr. Skullmoss. "But you must trust me, just a little more." He gathered up the edges of his coat. "I need each of you to take a handful of my coat and hold on tight. We're going to walk that way." And he point off the path. "It will be a short walk."

The kids looked at each other, but then there was another crash behind them. Something was getting closer. Callie let go of Hubert and grabbed onto the edge of the skeleton man's coat. After a moment's hesitation, Hubert did so as well.

"For God's sake, Don't Let Go," said Dr. Skullmoss. "Now, we're going to step off the path."

Towing the children, Dr. Skullmoss took them off the Glass Path, and onto the spongy grass. He walked carefully forward looking this way and that. The something that was following them was getting closer.

"Should we go faster?" asked Hubert with a hint of panic.

"If we run, we'll just get their attention faster," said Dr. Skullmoss, but his tone showed that he was frustrated by this fact.

Stepping around the trunk of a massive tree, a stone building seemed to leap out of the green, as if it had been playing hide and seek. Dr. Skullmoss walked a little quicker now. There was a doorway built into the side that was partially lit by one lamp. There had been more lamps, but the rest were all broken.

Close behind them, the something was almost upon them.

Once in the doorway, Dr. Skullmoss started at a gentle run. Outside, the something began to charge with a howl.

Angling towards the stairs, the skeleton man took the children up and onto the first landing where he stopped.

The walls were curved around them, and stairs kept climbing up.

"What are we...," began Hubert when a humongous arm jammed through the doorway, past its elbow and began to grasp about.

The kids let out little cries and let go of the skeleton man's coat. Grabbing each other, they moved across the landing, so that now they were as far from the door as possible. But Dr. Skullmoss stood his ground as the hand groped around blindly.

Questing fingers swung past Dr. Skullmoss, but he easily ducked away. Then the fingers turned back. The sword cane flashed in the dim light, and it stabbed just under the fingernail of the index finger.

A squall came up from outside, and the arm was swiftly yanked out.

"Hah!" cried Dr. Skullmoss. "That'll make it think twice before trying that again."

Outside the something's howls turned from pain to dark and furious noises.

"Here it comes," warned Dr. Skullmoss.

There was a crash from outside the stone tower as the something attacked it fiercely. The children let out a little cry as the creature pounded its fists on the stone.

"Don't worry," said Skullmoss calmly. "It can't get in here. This tower is older than even it. And sturdier."

The skeleton man turned to the children and slowly walked over to them. He was careful to not make any sudden movements. Hubert and Callie watched him cautiously. With precise movements, Dr. Skullmoss sat onto the ground.

"Well, it's not my comfy chair at the cottage," sighed the skeleton man. "But it will do."

After a moment, Hubert and Callie sat on the landing too.

"What...what was that thing?" Asked Hubert.

"I'm not sure," admitted Dr. Skullmoss. "Giants, it seems. Truly, I've only ever seen them in passing. They are so dangerous that even I don't toy with them. But the good news is that we just have to wait for sunset."

"Wouldn't it have a better chance of getting us after dark?" asked Hubert.

"Probably, but they never go out when the sun has gone down," said Dr. Skullmoss.

"Why not?" Asked Hubert.

"Well--as far as I can tell--they're afraid of the dark," said Dr. Skullmoss.

"You're kidding!" chuckled Hubert.

"How could one make that up?" asked Dr. Skullmoss merrily. "I mean, big, super-powerful, and always scampers home at dusk. I have seen that, and it is quite comical."

Callie was touching the bruise on her arm haltingly.

"I wish I had something to take the pain away," said Dr. Skullmoss to the girl. She looked up in surprise.

"Oh, it doesn't hurt that much," admitted Callie.

"Then, the pain must be in how you got it," nodded Dr. Skullmoss. "I wish I had a balm for that too." Regretfully, the skeleton man held up his empty hands.

"It's okay," said Callie softly.

"Well, I won't pry," said the skeleton man.

"It was a man," said Callie suddenly, and her brother looked at her. Hubert wondered whether his sister really did want to talk about this morning, or was it yesterday now?

"A man grabbed my arm," she continued.

Dr. Skullmoss huffed in annoyance. "The scallywag."

"I don't know...maybe he is," said Callie with a confused tone.

"Sorry," said the skeleton man. "Continue, but only if you wish."

"I was in a show. That's why I'm wearing this," said Callie as she motioned to her cowgirl outfit. "I was going back to the dressing room to put on my makeup when..." And both the boy and the skeleton waited patiently. "One of the judges asked me to come to a side room. But...but there was something wrong with him."

"Was he a lizard man?" asked Dr. Skullmoss seriously. "I always worry with lizard men."

Callie let out a tinkly little laugh. "No, no, he was just a regular person. I just...maybe I was being silly. Maybe I should have gone."

"No," said Hubert quickly.

"If you were worried," agreed Dr. Skullmoss. "There was probably a reason. You were right not to go with him."

"But he tried to make me to go anyhow," said Callie. "He grabbed my arm, and I screamed."

"That's when I came," said Hubert, who was looking down now. "I saw him, and...well, I jumped forward, and...I kinda pushed the judge down the stairs."

"That's when everyone else--and our Mom--came out," whispered Callie. "There was a lot of shouting...a lot."

"The judge's arm was bent funny in two different places," said Hubert almost painfully. He looked like he was about to cry.

"So," said Dr. Skullmoss to Callie. "This judge tried to drag you where he wanted."

Callie nodded morosely.

"And you didn't want to go," said the skeleton man.

"Yes," said the sister with shame in her voice.

"And you," said Dr. Skullmoss to the brother. "You stopped him from taking your sister away."

"Our family is in big trouble," said Hubert softly. "They might stop us from competing, ever. So, Mom was mad. Like really, really mad. I guess there is lot of money involved."

"But you stopped this judge-character--who I'm still not convinced isn't a lizard man in disguise--by pushing him down the stairs," continued the skeleton man.

"I didn't mean to hurt him," said Hubert quickly. "I just wanted him to stop hurting her."

"Good job," said Dr. Skullmoss.

Hubert froze, and then he looked up at the skeleton man in confusion.

"Um, what?" Asked the brother.

"Good. Job," repeated Dr. Skullmoss with precise words. "You protected your sister, as any sibling should do. Good job."

"But I broke him, and we're probably going to get in big trouble for it," said Hubert painfully.

"Pfft!" replied the skeleton man. "Just explain what was happening, and it should all be all right."

"I did," said Hubert.

"And they didn't believe you?" asked Dr. Skullmoss in shock.

Hubert just shook his head sadly. "Not even Mom. Maybe they didn't want to believe."

"Idiots," snapped Dr. Skullmoss. "Fools! What kind of place is this? You two did nothing wrong."

"But...," started Hubert.

"No!" interrupted Dr. Skullmoss. "I will not hear it. You Did Nothing Wrong. Your sister had the right to not go. And you had the right to defend her. If he were here now, I--myself--would give him a good, solid thrashing."

"Really?" asked Callie softly and carefully.

"Absolutely," said Dr. Skullmoss with a bedrock of assurance.

"Mom was really mad," said Callie.

"I do not believe that that was your mother," sniffed the skeleton man.

Hubert and Callie looked at each other, and then at Dr. Skullmoss.

"Um, she is our mom," said the brother slowly. "Unfortunately." And he looked up in surprise at Callie, and then at the skeleton man. "I'm sorry."

"It's quite all right," said Dr. Skullmoss as he waved away the apology. "It seems justified."

"But she is our mother," insisted Hubert.

"Oh, that she gave birth to you, and gave you your first meal, I have no doubt," said Dr. Skullmoss. "But I argue that that does not make one a mother. No, protecting your young...helping, guiding them. That is what makes a mother."

"So, she wasn't really our mother?" said Callie.

"Not in the true sense, as I see it," said Dr. Skullmoss. "Your mother would have jumped in to protect you, like your brother did. Brave fellow that he is."

Hubert straightened up a little.

"But now you are safe," said Dr. Skullmoss. "And I will keep you safe."

A small smile spread across Callie's face.

Outside, there came the sound of more attackers beating upon the stone tower. The kids looked up in concern.

"They really can not get in," assured Dr. Skullmoss. He stood carefully and took off his coat. Next to the children, he laid the coat down on the stone landing. The skeleton man then sat back down where he had been and motioned to his coat.

"It's not a mattress," said Dr. Skullmoss apologetically. "But it is softer than stone."

Hubert reached out and gently touched it. Then he and Callie moved on to it.

Since there was a stone wall behind the children, Dr. Skullmoss shifted around to face the doorway. While the children had seemed reluctant to doze off at first, soon they were fast asleep.

And Callie let out a teeny tiny snore to Dr. Skullmoss' amusement.

***

HUBERT JUMPED WHEN a hand touched his shoulder. He looked up in surprise.

The grinning face of Dr. Skullmoss retreated away, and the skeleton man glanced back at the empty doorway.

"Um, did I fall asleep?" asked the brother groggily.

"Both of you did," said Dr. Skullmoss. "But both of you are not having pleasant dreams."

Hubert looked back at his sister who was still sleeping. But her face was contorted in fear. He touched her unbruised arm.

Callie jerked awake and she looked around wildly.

"It's okay," said Hubert quickly, and he held up his empty hands. "It's okay."

Callie focused on her brother, and she shot forward to hug him.

Hubert murmured softly to her. "He can't hurt you. You're safe."

Content, Dr. Skullmoss went to the edge of the staircase.

After a minute, Hubert pushed the skeleton man's coat at him.

"Thank you," said Dr. Skullmoss as he put his coat back on.

Hubert and Callie looked from him to the darkened doorway out of the tower.

"It's night," said Hubert. But it was also a question.

"I heard the somethings scamper away over an hour ago," said Dr. Skullmoss. "So, if we are careful, we can get back to the Glass Path. Then to the gates."

They stepped down the stone stairs, and looked out of the tower. The one remaining light lit up a small patch of grass.

"Wait in here," ordered Dr. Skullmoss.

Carefully, the skeleton man walked out a little ways looking for danger. He turned and saw that the children had stepped outside the tower as well.

"Oh no," he murmured, and Dr Skullmoss started back towards them when a giant arm reached around the side of the tower. It grabbed Hubert and lifted him up into the air. Callie fell back onto the ground and scrambled a little ways back.

Stepping into the light was a something with flowing brown hair and huge teeth. It peered closely at Hubert, who pounded his fists ineffectually against the giant man's hand.

"Let me go!" screamed Hubert.

The something stiffened and looked down at this leg. Using his sword cane, Dr. Skullmoss stabbed near its knee trying to fell the great creature. But the sword was only pestering it.

Twisting Hubert around, the something prepared to bite off his head.

Callie watched in horror and felt powerless twice in as many days. She started to get up when her hand curled around a rock. She stiffened. Leaping up, she threw the rock, which hurtled right past the something's head.

The rock connected with the last lamp on the side of the tower. As the lamp exploded, the area was plunged into darkness.

A frightened shriek came from the giant. The something let go of Hubert who plummeted to the ground. Dr. Skullmoss leapt forward and the brother crashed down on top of the skeleton man.

"Ow," said Hubert, but his voice was drowned out by the screams of the something. It bolted into the trees in a blind panic.

Callie ran over to her brother and Dr. Skullmoss. She pulled Hubert up while she watched the tree line protectively for more somethings.

"Hurry," she said.

"You're going to pull my arm outta the socket," complained Hubert softly.

"We gotta get back to the path," said Callie.

Dr. Skullmoss picked up his sword cane and sheathed it. He felt someone grab the edge of his coat. Glancing to the side, he saw that Callie already had a handful of coat. Curiously, he noticed that her body was already pointed towards the Glass Path, though she could not see it.

Once Hubert had also taken ahold of the skeleton man's coat, the three retraced their steps back to the path. Stepping onto the Glass Path, the kids let go Dr. Skullmoss' coat and followed him.

The walk to the Blue Gates was uneventful. The Glass Path led right up to the gates. At the moment, the tall gates were closed. They looked like they had been built from a bright, blue metal.

Stepping aside, Dr. Skullmoss motioned towards the gates.

"Well, there they are," said the skeleton man, who kept the sadness from his voice. "Sorry it took so long."

"It's okay," said Hubert, and he took a step towards the gates.

There was a metallic whisper, and the gates opened by themself. Hubert and Callie tensed, but when nothing jumped out, they moved a little forward. Inside the gates was a white wall.

"Is that it?" asked Hubert.

"Yes," said Dr. Skullmoss. "Just through there."

"What's on the other side?" asked the brother.

"I...I don't know," admitted the skeleton man. "It won't let me through."

"Why not?" asked Hubert.

But Dr. Skullmoss just shrugged. "Maybe I am only supposed to be here. Maybe I am paying a penance. Maybe..." But his voice trailed off.

Going up to the white wall, Hubert reached out and his hand went in like it were smoke. Pulling his hand back, he saw that it was unharmed. He turned to the skeleton man.

"Thank you," he said.

And Dr. Skullmoss clicked his heels together and gave a bow. "It was my pleasure."

Hubert looked at his sister. "Ready?" he asked.

Callie started to nod, but then she stilled. She jumped towards Dr. Skullmoss and gave him a bone creaking hug.

"I will miss you too little one," said the skeleton man.

Stepping away from Dr. Skullmoss, Callie took her brother's hand. The children waved once more to the skeleton man, and then they stepped through the white wall.

After a moment, Dr. Skullmoss took a step forward and touched the white wall with one skeletal finger. The tip grudgingly went in, and then burst into flame. He pulled his hand back and shook out the flame.

"Well, worth trying again," sighed Dr. Skullmoss to himself, and he turned. The skeleton man went back along the Glass Path to his cup of tea, which was in need of being rewarmed.

***

SEE MORE OF WALTER G. Esselman's work on Facebook with the keyword: Dragonson.

|  |

---|---|---

# LIFE BLOOD

# BY THOMAS HOOVER

# Chapter Nineteen

"What did he say?" I asked, not quite catching the burst of rapid-fire Spanish from the cockpit. The explosion of ex­pletives had included the word navegacion. Something about malfunction.

God help us.

Alan Dupre's helicopter reminded me of the disintegrating taxis on Guatemala City's potholed streets. The vibration in the passenger compartment was so violent it made my teeth chatter. My stomach felt like it was in a cocktail shaker, and the deafening roar could have been the voice of Hell.

I was staring out the smudgy plastic window, where less than three hundred meters below I could just make out the top of the Peten rain forest of northwest Guatemala sweeping by beneath us. So this was what it looked like. Dense and impenetrable, it was a yawning, deciduous carpet enveloping the earth as far as the eye could see--if something ten stories high could be called carpet. I'd been in the forests of India's Kerala and seen some of the denser growth in southern Mex­ico, but this was like another planet.

The main problem was, a violent downpour, the leading edge of the hurricane, was now sweeping across the Yucatan, stirring up the treetops of the jungles below. The rain, which had begun in earnest about ten minutes after we got airborne, had been steadily increasing to the point it was now almost blinding.

This was the risk I'd chosen to take, but let me admit right here: The weather had me seriously scared, my fingernails digging into the armrests and my pulse erratic. And now was there something else? We'd only been in the air for thirty-five minutes, and already we had some kind of mechanical issue looming? What was left to go wrong?

"Some of the lights went out or something." Dupre tried a shrug. "I'm not sure. No big deal, though. This old bird always gets the job done." His pilot, Lieutenant Villatoro, formerly of the Guatemalan Army, had just shouted the new development back to the cabin. "Probably nothing. Don't worry about it."

Don't worry about it! His "tourist" helicopter was a Guatemalan candidate for the Air & Space Museum, an old Bell UH-1D patched together with chicle and corn masa. Surely the storm was pushing it far beyond its stress limits.

"Right, but what exactly--?"

"Sounds like the nav station." He clicked open his seat belt. "Something . . . Who knows? If you'd be happier, I'll go up and look."

I felt my palms go cold. "Doesn't seem too much to ask, considering."

The world down below us was a hostile melange of tow­ering trees, all straining for the sky, while the ground itself was a dark tangle of ferns, lianas, strangler vines, creepers--among which lurked Olympic scorpions and some of the Earth's most poisonous snakes. If we had to set down here--I didn't even want to think about it. To lower a helicopter into the waves of flickering green below us would be to confront the hereafter.

"It's just the lights, like he said." Dupre yelled back from the cockpit's door, letting a tone of "I told you to chill out" seep through. He was peering past the opening, at the long line of instruments. He followed his announcement with a sigh as he moved back into the main cabin. "Relax."

I wasn't relaxed and from the way his eyes were shifting and his Gauloise cigarettes were being chain-smoked he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. In his case it wasn't just the weather. He was fidgeting like a trapped animal, giving me the distinct sense he was doing someone's invisible bidding and was terrified he might fail.

"Well, why don't you try and fix it?" Was he trying to act calm just to impress me? "Can't you bang on the panel or something?"

"Okay, okay, let me see what I can do. Jesus!" He edged back into the cockpit, next to Villatoro. The wind was shak­ing us so badly that, even bent over, he was having trouble keeping his balance. Then he halfheartedly slammed the dark instrument readouts with the heel of his open hand. When the effort produced no immediate electronic miracle, he set­tled into the copilot's seat.

"Que pasa? " he yelled at Villatoro, his voice barely audi­ble over the roar of the engine and the plastering of rain on the fuselage. Then he looked out the windscreen, at the tor­rent slamming against it, and rubbed at his chin.

"No se, mi comandante," the Guatemalan shouted back. I sensed he was hoping to sound efficient and unperturbed. Dupre claimed his pilot had personally checked out the Bell and prepped it. Now, though . . . "Mira. Like I said the lights. On the nav station. Maybe the electrical--"

"How about the backup battery?" Dupre was just barely keeping his cool.

Villatoro scratched his chin. "I'll tell you the truth. The backup is muerto. I tested it before we left, but I couldn't find any replacements in Provisiones. I figure, no problem, but now, amigo . . ."

I felt another wave of dismay, right into my churning stom­ach.

"Well, keep your heading north." Dupre's voice was com­ing from a place of extreme pain. "And if you sight the Rio Tigre, then Baalum or whatever should be more or less due west, according to what I'm assuming. Just keep your eyes open." He paused. "Problem is, with all this rain, the river's going to be tough to make out."

I redoubled my efforts to peer out the window, searching, my breath coming in bursts. Still nothing. Dear God, what now?

Finally Dupre headed back, bracing himself against the firewall as he crouched and passed through the door into the main cabin. When he settled into the seat across from me, he was glaring at me as though everything was my fault. "You know." He was yelling again. "I'm beginning to think maybe we ought to try to find a clearing and just sit out this crap till morning." He leaned over and peered down through the Bell's spattered side windows at the dense tangle of growth below. After a moment he got up and once more moved the toward the cockpit, still with the same troubled look. This time, how­ever, he was beaming as he shouted back.

"There may be a God after all. I think we just intersected the Rio Tigre. We can bear due west now, along the river. We could be getting close, if it's where I think it is."

I turned and stared down again, barely making out the thread of the stream through the rain. Yes! Maybe there's hope. Still, below us the windblown treetops were a solid mass of pastel sparkles, a dancing sea of hungry green . . . But then I thought I saw something. Hey! It might even be a clearing. I quickly unbuckled and made my way up to the cockpit, hanging on to anything I could grasp.

"Alan, look," I yelled, and pointed off to the side, out

through the rain-obscured windscreen. "I think we just passed over something. Back there. See?"

"Where?" He squinted.

"You can still just make it out." I twisted and kept pointing. I was biting my lip, trying to hold together. "There . . . it looks like some kind of clearing. Maybe . . . I don't know, but what if we just set down there and let this storm blow over?"

He ordered Villatoro to bank and go back for a look. A few moments later it was obvious there was an opening in the trees.

"Yeah, let's check it out." He then said something to Vil­latoro and we started easing toward it, definitely a wide open­ing. The billowing ocean of trees below us seemed to be parting like the Red Sea as we settled in. There had to be solid ground down there somewhere. Had to be.

"What's . . ." I was pointing. "There, over to the side, it's a kind of hill or something. It's--"

"Where?" Dupre squinted again, his voice starting to crack. Then he focused in. "Yeah, maybe there's something there. Hard to tell what it is, though. But I guess we're about to find out."

He gestured to the lieutenant, barking an order in quick Spanish. While the Bell kept moving lower through the open­ing, Dupre flicked on the landing lights, and appeared to be muttering a prayer of thanks.

I was staring out, growing ever more puzzled. A "hill" was there, all right. The problem was, it was definitely man-made, topped by a stone building. I could just make it out in the glare of the lights.

"What do you think that is?"

"What do I think?" Dupre studied the scene for a moment longer, and then his face melted into the first smile I'd seen since we left. "I think we are lucky beyond belief. God help us, we may have found it. That could be the damned pyramid or whatever's supposed to be up here." He leaned back. "Yeah, congratulations. Look at that damned thing. Either this is the place, or we're about to become the archaeologists of the year. Cover of Time. The Nobel frigging Prize."

At that moment I almost wanted to hug Alan Dupre, but not quite. Instead I moved farther into the cockpit, trying to get a look out the windscreen. By then we had lowered well through the opening in the trees, the helicopter's controls fighting against the blowing rain, and it felt as though we'd begun descending into the ocean's depths in a diving bell, surrounded by thrashing, wind-whipped branches.

Now, though, I was staring at the ghostly rise of the pyra­mid emerging out of the rain.

"It looks brand new."

"Yeah, the whole place is 'Jungle Disneyland' remember? Except this deal ain't about Mickey Mouse, believe me. There's plenty of Army hanging out around here."

Lieutenant Villatoro took us ever lower, gently guiding the chopper's descent, and now we were only a few feet above the ground. There certainly was no mistaking what was around us, even with the blowing rain. The pyramid loomed over one side of a large plaza, a big paved area that was mostly obscured from the skies since the swaying trees arched over and covered it from aerial view.

"Okay, we're about to touch down." Dupre was clawing at his pocket, yearning for a cigarette. "So if you still want to get out, move over by the door. I'll disengage the main rotor once we're on the ground."

As we settled in, the rotor began to cause surface effect, throwing a spray off the paving stones, which now glistened under the cold beam of the landing lights. And looming above us, off to the right, was a stepped pyramid in the classic Mayan style. We all lapsed into silence as the Bell's skids thumped onto the stones. The ex-Army pilot, Villatoro, kept glancing over at the pyramid as though he didn't want to admit even seeing it. Did he know something Alan and I didn't?

This was the moment I'd been bracing for. I was increas­ingly convinced somebody wanted me to see this place, whatever it was, but now what should I do?

Well, the first thing was to dip my toe in the water, do a quick reconnoiter on the ground. If this really was Baalum, Dupre's Maya Disneyland, could it also be part of Alex Goddard's clinic of "miracles," the location Sarah called Ninos del Mundo? If I knew that for sure, then I could start figuring how to find out if she was here--as I suspected--and get her out of his clutches. Maybe the see-no-evil embassy might even be prodded into helping an American citizen for a change.

"I'm getting out, to look around a little, but not till you turn off the engine. I want to be able to use my ears."

"All right, but don't take all day. This kind of weather, I want to keep it warm." He turned to Villatoro and shouted the order. In the sheets of pounding rain, I figured that no one could have heard us come in. That, at least, was positive.

When the rpm's of the engine had died away, I clicked open the Bell's wide door, slid it back, and looked around. In the glare of the landing lights I realized at once that the stones were old, weathered, and worn, but the grout that sealed them was white and brand new. The plaza was free of moss, clean as the day it was done--which did not appear to be all that long ago. Above me, the pyramid, continuous recessed tiers of glistening stones, towered into the dim sky­line of trees.

I stepped out onto the pavement, holding my breath. The plaza was almost football-field in size, reminding me of an Italian piazza. Around me the rain was lessening slightly, and as my eyes adjusted . . . my God. There wasn't just a pyramid here; through the sparkle of raindrops at the edge of the helicopter's lights I could see what looked like a wide cobblestone walkway leading into the dense growth just off the edge of the square, probably toward the south, away from the river, connecting the plaza with distant groups of small, thatch-roofed houses, set in clusters. . . .

Could Alex Goddard's "miracle" clinic be in some col­lection of primitive huts? It made no sense.

But I decided to try to get a closer look. I'd walked about thirty feet away from the helicopter, across the slippery pav­ing, when I saw a flash of lightning in the southeast, followed by a boom of thunder that echoed over the square.

At least I thought it was thunder. Or maybe the Army was holding heavy artillery practice somewhere nearby. Abruptly the rain turned into a renewed torrent, and the next thing I heard was the helicopter's engine start up again. Then I sensed the main rotor engage, a sudden "whoom, whoom, whoom" quickly spiraling upward in frequency.

Hey! I told him not to--!

When I looked back at the Bell's open door, Dupre was standing there, frantically searching the dark as he heaved out my tan backback and what looked like a rolled-up sleep­ing bag, both splashing down onto the rain-soaked paving.

What! For a moment I thought the thunder, or whatever it was, must have completely freaked him. Then what was actually happening hit me with a horrifying impact.

"Alan, wait!"

I started dashing back, but now the main rotor was creating a powerful downdraft, throwing the rain into me like a mon­soon. By the time I managed to fight my way through the spray, the rotor was on full power and Alan Dupre and his Bell were already lifting off. I reached up, and just managed to brush one greasy skid as he churned away straight upward into the rainy night.

"You shit!" I yelled up, but my final farewell was lost in the whine of the engine. My God, I thought, watching him disappear, I've just been abandoned hundreds of miles deep in a Central American rain forest.

Then it all sank in. Whoever had gotten to him was playing a rough game. They didn't want me just to see Baalum, they wanted me delivered here. Probably to secure me in the same place Sarah was. Colonel Ramos, or whoever had frightened Dupre into bringing me, had wanted us both. So what now? Were we both going to be "disappeared"? Staring around at the pyra­mid and the empty square, I could feel my heart pounding.

Then I tripped over the rolled sleeping bag and sank to my knees there in the middle of the rain-swept plaza, soaked to the skin and so angry I was actually trembling. Up above me, Alan Dupre, king of two-timers, had switched off his landing lights, and a few moments later the hum of the Bell was swallowed by the night sounds of the forest--the high-pitched din of crickets, the piercing call of night birds, the basso groan of frogs celebrating the storm.

And something else, an eerie sense of the unnatural. I can't explain it. Even the night songs of the birds felt omi­nous, the primeval forest reasserting its will. It was haunting, like nature's mockery of my desolation. I pounded the sleep­ing bag and felt . . . shit, how did I let this happen?

Get a grip. I finally stood up and looked around. Maybe when God wants to do you up right, She gives you what you want. You used Alan Dupre just like you intended: He got you here. But there's more to the plan of whoever's holding his puppet strings. So the thing now is, don't let yourself be manipulated any more. Get off your soggy butt and start taking control of the situation. . . .

That was when I sighted a white form at the south, forested edge of the plaza. What! I ducked down, sure it was somebody lurking there, waiting to try to beat me to death as they had Sarah. Did Ramos intend to just murder me immediately?

But there was no getting away. If I could see them, they surely could see me. And where would I escape to anyway?

I dug my yellow plastic flashlight out of my backpack and my hand shaking, flicked it on. The beam, however, was just swallowed up in the rain. All right. I strapped on the pack and taking a deep breath, threw the rolled sleeping bag over my shoulder and headed across the slippery paving to­ward the white, which now glistened in the periodic sheets of distant lightning.

Meet them straight on. Try and bluff.

When I got closer, though, I realized what I was seeing was actually just the skin of a jaguar, bleached white, the head still on, fearsome teeth bared which had been hung beside the paved pathway. Thank God.

But then, playing my light over it, I thought, Bad sign. My first encounter at Baalum is with a spooky, dead cat. It felt like a chilling omen of . . . I wasn't sure what.

I studied it a moment longer with my flashlight, shivering, then turned and headed quickly across the plaza toward the pyramid now barely visible in the rain. If there were jaguars, or God knows what else, around I figured I'd be safer up at the top.

When I reached the base and shined my light up the steps, I saw they were steeper than I'd thought, but they also looked to be part of some meticulous restoration and brand-new, probably safe to climb. And there at the top was a stone hut, complete with what appeared to be a roof. Good. If there hadn't been anything taller than it around I think I might have just climbed a tree.

On the way up I began trying to digest what the place really was. The pyramid was "fake". . . or was it? A hundred years ago the eccentric Brit archaeologist Sir Arthur Evans whimsically "reconstructed" the Palace of Minos on Crete with his own money, and it's still a tourist highlight. So why couldn't somebody do the same with a reclaimed Mayan pyramid in Central America? Still, this was different, had the feel of being somebody's crazed obsession.

As I topped the steps, I realized the building that crowned the pyramid was also a "restoration" like everything else, including a decorated wooden lintel above the door that looked to be newly lacquered. Bizarre.

I moved through the door and unloaded my gear, then extracted my water bottle, now half-empty, for a pull. Finally I unrolled Alan Dupre's sleeping bag on the (dry) stone floor, removed and spread out my wet clothes, peed off the edge, then took a new pair of underpants, jeans, and shirt out of my backpack, donned them, and uneasily crawled in. I was shivering--whether from the soaking rain or from fright, I didn't know--and my teeth were trying to chatter. Was I hidden away enough to be safe? I didn't know. All I did know was, I was in something deeper than I'd ever been in my life, and I had no idea how I was going to get out. And I was both scared to death and angry as hell.

Sarah was here, though, I was certain. Like a sixth sense, I could feel her presence, out there somewhere in the rain. For a moment I was tempted to just plunge into the storm looking for her, but a split second's reflection told me that was the stupidest thing I could do. Instead, I should try and get some rest, till the storm cleared, and keep periodic watch on the plaza in case somebody showed up. Then, the minute there was light, I'd hit the ground and go find her.

I suppose nothing ever happens the way you plan. My mind was racing and my nerves were in the red, but I was so exhausted from the teeth-rattling trip in the Bell I couldn't really stay alert very long. In spite of myself, I eventually drifted off into a dreamless doze, a victim of the narcotic song of wind in the giant Cebia trees and the insistent drum­ming of forest rain on the roof.

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter Twenty

--------

I AWOKE AS A SLIVER of sun flashed through the stone door­way of the room and forest birds erupted around me in cele­bration. As I pulled myself up and moved over to the opening, a quick tropical glare burned into my face. My God, the dawn was electric; it was the purest blue I'd ever seen, a swath of artist's cobalt. An azure radiance from the sky glis­tened off the rain forest leaves around me. Had I dreamed the stormy, haunted world of the night before?

When I looked down, everywhere below me was a bank of dense, pastel mist. Was the plaza really there or had I imagined it? I felt like the top of the pyramid was floating on a cloud.

"Babylon." That was what Sarah had called this place. Ancient and mysterious. I took a breath of the morning air and wondered what would draw her back here. Was Baalum the ultimate escape from her other life? Even so . . . why would she want to return after somebody had tried to murder her? What was waiting down there in the fog?

Turning back, I noticed that the room's inside walls were embossed with rows and rows of classic Mayan glyphs, like little cartoon faces, all molded in newly set plaster. To my groggy sight they seemed playful, harmless little caricatures, though next to them were raised bas-reliefs of warriors in battle dress. It was both sublimely austere and eerie, even creepy.

I knelt down and rolled my sleeping bag, trying to clear my head. Then I stuffed my still-moist clothes into my back­pack and thought about the river, the Rio Tigre, down some­where at the back of the pyramid. And I felt my pulse rate edging up. The first thing I wanted to do was see it in the light of day. It had been Sarah's way out, the only thing I knew for sure she'd touched.

Get going and do it.

I headed through the rear door and down the back steps. When I reached the ground, the dense forest closed in around me, but I was certain the river lay dead ahead, through the tangle of trees. As I moved down a path that grew ever steeper, the canopy up above thickened, arching over me till it blotted out the pure blue of the sky. And the air was filled with nature sounds--birdcalls, trills, songs, and clacks, all mingled with the hum and buzz of insects. Then suddenly, from somewhere up in the canopy, a pack of screeching spi­der monkeys began flinging rotten mangos down in my di­rection. I also thought I heard the asthmatic, territorial roar of a giant howler monkey, the lord of the upper jungle. And what about snakes? I kept an eye on the vines and tendrils alongside the path, expecting any moment to stumble across a deadly fer-de-lance, a little red-and-black operator whose poison heads straight for your nervous system.

On the other hand, the birds, the forest birds, were everywhere, scarlet macaws and keel-billed toucans and darting flocks of Amazon parrots, brilliant and iridescent, their sweeping tails a psychedelic rainbow of green, yellow, red. Then the next thing I knew, the path I was on abruptly opened onto a mossy expanse of pea-soup green, surely the Rio Ti­gre, and . . .

My God, those dark-brown bumps scattered every­where . . . they're the eyes and snouts of . . . yes, crocodiles, lurking there in wait, hoping I'm dumb enough to wade in. Forget what Alan Dupre said. This is definitely not "Dis­neyland."

Then I glanced upstream and caught sight of a string of mahogany dugout canoes tied along the shore. They were huge, about fifteen feet long and three feet wide, and clearly designed to be crocodile-resistant. They . . .

Wait a minute. Lou said Sarah was found in a dugout canoe that had drifted all the way down the Rio Tigre to where it joins the Usumacinta. One more clue she might have been here. Maybe I was closing in. Yes!

I glared back at the crocodiles' unblinking reptile eyes and tried to get my mind around the fact Sarah could have stood right where I was standing, or been set adrift from here in a coma, to float downstream. Seeing that vision, I felt un­bidden tears trailing down my cheeks. And the questions I had kept piling up. Was this the location of Alex Goddard's "miracle" clinic? Why was Baalum such a high-security se­cret? What was the connection between this place and Sarah's ravaged mind and body? I wanted to know all of it, and by God I would.

This was the farthest I'd ever been from "civilization," though I was trying not to let that fact sink in too deeply. The water was green and full of small aquatic creations, but I managed to find a reasonably un-mossy spot and--still keeping an eye on the leering crocodiles--splashed my face. It felt good, even if it was filthy. . . .

Okay, I'd seen enough of the river. I raised up and stretched. Time to go.

My hopes at war with my nerves, I turned my back on the scummy, fetid Rio Tigre and headed back up the jungle trail toward the plaza.

When I got there, I was struck all over again by the vision of the pyramid. Something like it might have been here origi­nally, but in any case it had been completely redone, with newly cut yellowish stones and white lime plaster, an exotic castle nestled in the green lap of the rain forest, rising above the square like a haunting presence. It must have been well over a hundred feet high, a stone wedding cake with a dozen steep tiers between the ground and the platform at the top, which also was square and roughly fifteen feet on the side.

Standing there gazing at it, I think I'd never felt more disoriented. Sarah, Sarah, how could we both end up here, at the last outpost of the known world? But seeing is believ­ing. I took a deep breath, then turned down the pathway toward the thatch-roofed huts.

Through the mist it was gradually becoming clear that Baalum actually was a village, and a sizable one. The walk­way led past a string of clearings, each with clusters of one-room huts built in the ancient, classical style, with walls of mud over rows of vertical saplings, their roofs and porches peaked with yellow-green thatch weathering to browns and grays. The structures, outlined starkly against the towering green arbor of the forest above, were grouped around paved patios. It all was neat and meticulous, like a jungle Brigadoon. Although the effects of the storm were every­where--blown thatch and bamboo--I still felt as if I'd fallen into a time warp where clocks had gone backward. What . . . ?

Then I began to catch the outlines of people, as though they had materialized out of the pale fog. All pure Maya, short and brown, shiny black hair, they appeared to be just going about their daily lives. I was approaching a workshop area where, under a wide thatch shade, men with chipped-flint adzes were carving bowls, plows, various implements from mahogany and other rain forest woods. Next to them, potters were fashioning brown clay jugs. They all were wear­ing white loincloths and a large square cotton cloth knotted around their shoulders, their hair tied back in dense ponytails. It must have been how the Maya looked a thousand years ago.

Their earnestness reminded me of the villagers I once filmed in the Yucatan for the Discovery Channel--with one big difference: There I was the big-shot gringo; here I felt like a powerless time traveler. The sense of being lost in another age was as compelling as the "colonial" mock-up at Williamsburg, but this was real and it was decidedly spooky.

Finally one of the men looked up and noticed me. Our eyes locked for an instant--it seemed like forever--and then he reached over and, in a way that seemed breathless, shook the man next to him, gesturing toward me. Together they gazed back as though viewing a phantom, their brown faces intent, and then they turned and called out to the others, alerting them.

What are they going to do with me? I wondered with a sudden chill. A stranger here in their hideaway midst. Would they just turn on me?

Find some women. Get off the street.

I turned and headed as fast as I could down the cobble­stone central path, till I saw a cluster of females on a white­washed stone porch, long hair falling over their shoulders as they bent to their tasks beneath the thatch overhangs. Some were stirring rugged clay pots of corn soaking in lime; others were grinding the softened maize to tortilla thinness on wide granite platters. Behind them was another group that ap­peared to be part of a sewing commune, young wives busy at their back-strap looms, layering thread after thread of dyed cotton. None of them was wearing a huipil--the traditional multicolored blouse I'd remembered from the waitresses in the restaurant. Instead, they all had on a kind of handloom-woven white shift I'd never seen before.

Talk to them. Let them know you're no threat to anybody.

As I moved down the hard clay pathway toward them, two looked up and took notice. Their first reaction seemed to be alarm, as they tensed and stared. But then I tried a smile and it seemed to work. Their looks turned to puzzlement, then embarrassed grins, as though they wanted to be friendly but weren't sure how to acknowledge my presence.

When I reached the porch, several reached out to touch me. One older woman, short and wizened and extremely brown, even tried to stroke my hair.

What was going on? I was taken aback, but I also was determined to get through to them. Why not just ask them point-blank if Sarah's here? Is there any chance they under­stand Spanish?

"Buenos dias." I smiled and nodded. "Dispenseme. Quiero descubrir . . . esta una gringa de los Estados Unidos aqui? "

They all returned uncomprehending looks, then glanced quickly at each other in confusion. Or at least that was how I read their faces.

"Sarah," I said, pronouncing the name slowly. "Sarah Crenshaw."

"Sara," one voiced, then others. They backed away and immediately began a heated dispute, which eventually in­volved all the women. Well, one thing was for sure: They damned well knew who I was asking about. But why were they so upset? Next, several of them grew testy, pointing at me as they continued to argue.

Finally the two I'd first approached turned and began urg­ing me to leave, gesturing at me with their hands as though sweeping me out of the compound. Yes, there was no mis­taking. I was being dismissed. And I detected an odd ner­vousness as they glanced around, seemingly worried somebody might catch me there with them. I got the feeling they'd finally decided they didn't want me anywhere near them, since they kept pointing down the thoroughfare in the direction of the pyramid.

I've blown it, I thought. They must have figured out I'm here to get her and decided they no longer want to have anything to do with me. What did that mean?

And now what do I do? As I retreated back out to the main walkway, I felt a growing sense of defeat. Then, looking down it, I realized I'd literally been going in a circle. It was actually a large oval that curved back to the main square and the pyramid, where I'd started from.

God, what a nightmare. I obviously had to rethink my game plan, find a way to communicate. And on top of that, I was dying of thirst.

I fished out the almost-empty plastic container from my backpack, then walked across the square and settled myself on the first step leading up the steep front. As I drew on the bottle, my mind still swirling, I happened to notice an upright stone slab off to the side, like a tall, thin tombstone, with a bas-relief of a Maya warrior on it, next to some kind of two-headed serpent god--probably Kukulkan, one of the few Maya deities I knew. And then, down the side, were rows of lines and dots. I studied them a minute before realizing it was the classical Mayan number system, telling precisely when things happened to the ruler shown there: born on such and such a date, assumed the kingship, won great battles, etc., all carefully dated as career high-points. I knew that dots represented single years, horizontal lines the number five. The Maya loved numbers and numerology, so . . .

That was when I glanced up to see a group of women approaching slowly across the square, with a bunch of the men watching from the forest arbors beyond, and they were huddled around something they were carrying. Whatever it was, they seemed to be delivering it to me. Then I realized they were the same ones who'd just kicked me out of their compound. What next? Are they coming to drive me from the plaza too? Should I try and forcibly search all the huts?

But then they set down their load--it turned out to be a crude bamboo-and-thatch palanquin--and stepped aside as they beckoned me forward.

For a moment I just stared, disbelieving. I felt like I was seeing someone I didn't want to recognize, perhaps because that someone looked so much like me.

"Morgy, they told me a new one was here, and I hoped it was you." Sarah was swinging her skinny legs off the side, her voice bright. Her face was drawn, but her hair was neat and her eyes were radiant. "Isn't Baalum the most wonderful place you've ever seen?"

She was wearing a white shift that reminded me of the blue hospital smock she'd had on the last time I saw her, except here it seemed more like something that had a special significance, like the robes of an acolyte. Her shoes were soft brown slippers that looked brand-new, and around her waist was a braided leather band. As I stared at her, I won­dered if she was really as transformed as she looked. She was undeniably stronger than two days ago, in spite of what that bastard Alex Goddard and his Guatemalan Army cronies had done to her to get her here. But still, she had to be half dead. Thank God Lou couldn't see her now.

"Sar, oh, Sar." I rushed over and threw my arms around her. She'd been freshly bathed and perfumed--a fragrance like chocolate--but she felt like a bag of bones. "Are you okay?"

"I was afraid Baalum was all just a dream." She hugged me back, then started rising to her feet. God, could she walk? "But now I remember everything."

"Sar, I've come to take you home." I grasped her hand, warm and soft, to help her stand--though it wasn't necessary. "You're not safe--"

"No, it's wonderful now" Then she turned and said some­thing to one of the women. It took me a moment to realize she was speaking their language; I guessed it was Kekchi Maya.

I was stunned. How did she learn it? Finally she looked back at me and switched to English again. "I didn't under­stand before. I was . . . sick so much."

"Sar, come on." I slipped my arm around her. "We're going to get you out of here."

I'd never felt so helpless. Alan Dupre had said there was a road, but it was controlled by the Army. Right now, I didn't even know where it was. Maybe I could find a phone, or radio. Call the embassy. There must be something. Alex God­dard has to be here somewhere, but he's not going to stop me. I'll strangle him if he tries.

I hugged her again, the feel of her skin-and-bones frame making my soul ache. But most hurtful of all, I wasn't sure she would want to leave.

"Sar, can you understand me?" I tried to catch her deep blue eyes. "I'm taking you home. Your father's very worried about you."

Mention of Lou seemed to finally get through to her. She turned and examined me with a quizzical look, and then her eyes hardened.

"Morgy, he was never there for me." Her voice was filled with certainty, and pain. "But when I went to see Dr. God­dard he let me come here for the ceremony. It's so spiritual. After--"

"Sar, come on." What did she mean by "ceremony"? Whatever it was, I had to get her out of this place. Immedi­ately. "We've--"

"Are you here for the ceremony?" Her face flooded with renewed joy. "It's two days from now. Maybe he'll let you--"

"She should be resting." It was a harsh voice, directly behind us.

I recoiled, then whirled around. Three men were standing there, two of them young privates in uniforms of the Gua­temalan Army and carrying AK-47 assault rifles, the ones with the long, ominous curved clip Steve called cuerno de cabrio, the "horn of the goat."

The third was in a black sweatshirt and black jeans, his long salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a ponytail.

"They should have known better than to bring her out here," Alex Goddard said. "Not in her condition."

The bastard. It was all coming together in my mind. He'd tried to kill her once before, and now he was going to finish the job. But he'd have to kill me first.

"I'm here to take her home." I marched up to him. "You're not about to get away with kidnapping. I'm going to get the embassy to--"

"She's here for important medical reasons." He met my eyes. "I hope you'll allow me the opportunity to help her."

"What do you mean, 'help'?"

"I'll explain if you'll give me a chance." He revolved and delivered some brusque orders in Kekchi Maya to the women, who nodded apologetically and began helping Sarah back onto the palanquin. After he admonished her in the same language, he then said something in quick Spanish to the two young Army privates, who gave him a firm salute, turned, and walked over to pick the palanquin up, to carry it for the women. The sense of authority he exuded reminded me of that first morning we met at Quetzal Manor. His eyes flashed from benign to demanding to benign in an instant.

"No, damn it, alto!" I strode over, shoved the soldiers aside, and took her hand. "Sar, honey, don't you understand what's going on? Something terrible happened to you when you were here before. I'm so worried--"

"But he says I need to stay, Morgy." She drew back. "It's best. He's helping me."

As I watched the two privates carry her away, down the cobblestone pathway, AK-47's swung over their shoulders, I felt my helplessness become complete. The Army here was under his control, just like everything else.

How was I going to tell Lou about this, that Sarah had been brainwashed? Whatever Alex Goddard had done to her had turned her into some kind of "Moonie," ready to de­nounce her own father. So now did I have two battles to wage: one with Alex Goddard and one with her?

Then he walked over to me.

"I'm not going to ask how you got here, though I assume it wasn't easy." He smiled, like a kindly priest, and put his hand on my shoulder. "But however you did it, I'm glad you decided to come. It's important for you to be here. She needs you now."

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter Twenty-one

--------

"CUT THE CRAP." I PULLED away, still in shock from seeing Sarah so addled. I wanted more than anything else in the world just to slug him. "Why did you bring her here? Think about your answer. Kidnapping is a serious crime in the States."

"I've been very concerned about her." He looked up at the groves of Cebia trees around the square, a quiet glance, as though to inhale the misty morning air. My legal threat had gone right past him--probably because here he was the only law. "But now she's receiving the treatment she needs. I expect she'll be fine before long."

"Treatment?" I was caught off guard. Okay, let's start get­ting things straight. "When she was here before, somebody tried to beat her to death. How--?"

"What happened then was beyond my control." He mo­tioned me to join him as he settled onto the first step of the pyramid sadness in his eyes. We were alone in the square now, and I felt like I'd become his personal prisoner, trapped. "Sarah was . . . is very dear to me. I care for her deeply."

"You cared so much for her she ended up in a coma, over on the Mexican border." I didn't sit. Instead I just bored in, hoping to stare him down, but his eyes had grown distant, that little trick he had of alternating between intimacy and remoteness. Again it reminded me of that first morning we'd met, looking out over the bluffs of the Hudson.

"If you'll let me, I'd like to try and tell you something of the circumstances surrounding that tragedy." He was gazing off in the direction the women had gone. "You see, when Sarah first appeared at Quetzal Manor in New York, she was a very troubled young woman. She declared she was a person of pure spirit and she wanted to have a baby without so much as touching a man, some procedure that would produce a divine child created of cosmic energy."

Cosmic energy. I had a flashback, hearing the words, to the time when she'd just turned six and we'd been sent by my mother to the hayloft to track down nests secreted there by rogue chicken hens. When we came across a cache of eggs, she asked if baby chicks came out of them. I assured her they did, and then she asked if human babies came from eggs too. My biology was pretty thin, but I told her I sup­posed they did, sort of, but then the eggs were probably hatched, or something, before babies were born. She thought about that a moment, scrunching up her face, then declared "No!" and bitterly began smashing the eggs. Babies and all living things came from another world, she declared, a spe­cial place we could not see. They came directly from God. . . .

That was why she would seek out someone like Alex Goddard. For her, he must have seemed a messenger of the Unseen. Who better to create a child for her? The ironic part was, I'd found him for almost the same reason, seeking a miracle when all else had failed. Were Sarah and I even more alike than I'd realized?

"So I began trying to work with her." He was turning back to me. "But then I discovered she'd been born with an abnormality of the uterus. It has a medical name, but suffice to say it's very rare, and afflicts only about one woman in twenty thousand. Even after my diagnosis, though, she re­fused to give up. She was a person of enormous tenacity."

God, I thought. Why didn't she come home to us, to Lou

and me? We loved her. I felt my guilt go out to her all over again.

"She next declared she wanted to come here to Baalum, to the place of miracles. I told her that, yes, miracles can sometimes transpire here, but only at a great price. We would need to have an agreement and she would have to keep it no matter what."

"What do you mean, an agree--?"

"Truthfully, though," he went on, ignoring me, "I imme­diately regretted the offer, since I realized she was far too unstable for this . . . environment. Finally I forbade her to come, but just before my next scheduled trip she found out and booked herself on the same flight. There was literally nothing I could do to stop her."

"She put Ninos del Mundo on her landing card." I was growing sick to my stomach at the rehearsed way he was recounting her story. "That's this place, right? Baalum."

"My clinic here is known by that name. The village itself is called Baalum." He was easily meeting my eye, holding his own in our battle of wills. "Sarah was, I have to say, a very impressionable young person. Once here, she forgot all about her purpose for coming. She should have stayed up the hill there"--he was pointing off to the south--"where I could care for her, but instead she moved down here, into the compounds. Then she discovered a hallucinogenic sub­stance they have here, began using it heavily, and I think it tipped her into a form of dementia."

So, she was doing drugs, something I'd always secretly feared. Well, maybe she was still having flashbacks of some kind; maybe that explained why she was off in another world when she came out of her coma.

"What . . . kind of 'hallucinogenic substance'?"

He sighed then shrugged and answered. "Here in the rain forest there's an ugly three-pound toad the Bufo marinus--you'll see them around, near sunset--that has glands down its back that excrete a milky white poison."

I knew about them. They were migrating north now, even into Florida. They were huge and looked like Jabba the Hutt in Star Wars. I hate toads of all varieties, but the thought of those monsters made me shudder.

"My God, isn't their toxin lethal?" Was Sarah trying to destroy herself? Was that why her mind was so blitzed? "I've heard--"

"Yes, it can kill you, but it can also--if processed cor­rectly, with fermented honey--give you truly supernatural visions. The classical Maya used it for ceremonial purposes. I'd managed to reconstruct how they prepared it, and--some­thing I now deeply regret--I showed the shamans here how to replicate the procedure. At the time it was just a minor part of my research into traditional pharmacology, but she heard about it and persuaded them to give her a vial. Then more and more."

That did sound like Sarah. Always out on the edge, testing new realities. But then I thought a moment about what he'd actually said. Some of the people here in his "place of mir­acles" were doing heavy drugs, and she'd got caught up in it.

"But why didn't you stop her?" You unfeeling bastard.

"I tried, believe me. But I'm afraid she was far past lis­tening to me. By then she was learning the Kekchi Maya dialect, becoming totally immersed in their world. She began having episodes of complete non-rationality, and then one day she told the women in her compound she was going over to Palenque, the Maya ruins in Mexico. It's where the classical Maya held their last kingship ceremony. Before anyone re­alized she was serious, she stole one of their cayucos, their mahogany dugout canoes, and headed down the Rio Tigre." His eyes had turned completely dark, the way he used to blank them out. "She just went missing. Everyone here was devastated. We all loved her."

I stood there weighing his story. It didn't ring true. I sup­posed she was capable of something that crazy, but would she have actually done it? I didn't think so.

Then I remembered something else he'd said.

"You said you proposed an 'agreement.' What was that about?"

He stared at me. "It's nothing that need concern us. Suf­fice to say I kept my part. Anyway, it's over and past now."

Why wouldn't he tell me? Did she make some bargain with the Devil?

"But regarding Sarah," he went on, "I only just learned she'd been found and brought to New York in a coma. Want­ing to do what I could, I immediately called the hospital and, out of professional courtesy, they told me she'd shown early stages of coming out of it, but she appeared to be halluci­nating. It was exactly what I'd feared. . . ." His voice trailed off. "I hope I did the right thing, but when I learned she'd been released, I arranged for her to be brought back here, where perhaps I can do something for her."

"What?"

"In rare cases, the hallucinogen she took permanently al­ters critical synapses in the brain. I'm fearful she may have abused it to the extent something like that could have oc­curred. No one in the U.S. would have the slightest idea what to do, but I think I may know of an herbal antidote they turned to in ancient times that can repair at least part of the damage. I also knew that getting her back here through nor­mal channels would be impossible."

"So you had Colonel Ramos and a bunch of his Guate­malan thugs just break in and take her?" I didn't know which part of the story horrified, and angered, me the most.

"I have the misfortune to know him reasonably well, and

I explained it was very important to me, and he agreed to assist. I honestly didn't know where else to turn. I understand there may have been some violence, for which I apologize, but these people have their own way of doing things." He rose and came over and put his hand on my shoulder. "I hope you'll understand."

The son of a bitch was coming on oily and contrite, when he'd just subcontracted an outright kidnapping. I wanted to kill him.

Finally I walked away, trying to get a grip on my anger.

"You know, that bastard also broke into my apartment and stole a reel of a picture I'm shooting." I turned back. "I've also got a strong feeling he's the one who just threatened one of the women I filmed."

"Well, if that happened, then let me say welcome to the paranoid harassment of the Guatemalan high command." He sighed against the morning sound of birds chirping all around us. "Unfortunately, I gather they've assumed you're documenting the operations of Children of Light in some way, doing a movie." His eyes drifted off into space, as though seeking a refuge. "You see, my project up here in the Peten is to carry out pharmaceutical research with as few distractions as possible. But in Guatemala City, I have what is, in effect, a hospice for girls in trouble--which is also called Niiios del Mundo, by the way--that's connected with my U.S. adoption service, Children of Light. However, any time Niiios del Mundo takes in an orphaned or abandoned infant and tries to provide it with a loving home through adoption in the States, the government here always threatens to hold up the paperwork if I don't give a bribe, what they call an 'expediting fee.' So if you were to probe too deeply . . . Let me just say it's not something they'd care to see lead off 60 Minutes."

It sounded like more BS, but I couldn't prove that. Yet.

"Well, why don't you just clear that up, and then I'll take Sarah and--"

"But I've only now initiated her treatment. Surely you want to give it a chance."

I looked out at the rain forest. This was the place she'd come to once, and--though I'd never admit it to Alex God­dard--it was the place she'd announced she wanted to return to. But something devastating had happened to her mind here. What should I do?

The fact was, I didn't trust Alex Goddard any farther than I could throw him. I had to get Sarah and get us both out of here as soon as possible, though that meant I'd have to neu­tralize him and the Army, and then use my limited American dollars to try to buy our way back to Guatemala City.

"But come." He turned his gaze toward the south. "Let me show you the thing I'm proudest of here. It's just up there." He was pointing toward a dense section of the rain forest, in the opposite direction from the river and up a steep incline.

I couldn't see anything but trees, but then I still had the feeling I'd stepped through the looking glass and found Sarah trapped there. The next thing I knew, we were on an uphill forest trail, headed due south.

"I think it's time you told me what's going on back there in the village," I said. What was it about this place that had seized such a claim on Sarah's mind?

"Baalum is difficult to explain to someone encountering it for the first time." He paused. "Much of it is so--"

"I think I can handle it."

"You have every right to know, but I don't really know where to start."

"How about the beginning?" Why was he being so ambiguous?

"Very well." He was taking out a pair of gray sunglasses,

as though to gain time. "It actually goes back about ten years ago, when I was prospecting for rainforest plants up here in the Peten and accidentally stumbled across this isolated village, which clearly had been here since classical times. I immediately noticed a huge mound of dirt everybody said was haunted by 'the Old Ones,' and I knew right away it had to be a buried pyramid. They're more common down here than you'd think. So I struck a bargain with the village elders and acquired the site. But after I unearthed it and began the restoration, I became inspired with a vision. One day I found myself offering to restore anything else they could find--which eventually included, by the way, a magnificent old steam bath--in exchange for which they would help me by undertaking a grand experiment, a return to their traditional way of life."

"So you deliberately closed them off to the modern world?" It told me Alex Goddard could control a Mayan village just as he controlled everything else he touched. It also confirmed he had a weakness for the grandiose gesture. Would a time come when I could exploit that?

"I told them that together we would try to recreate the time of their glory, and perhaps in so doing we could also rediscover its long-lost spirit, and wisdom. On the practical side, they would help me by bringing me the rare plants I needed to try and rediscover the lost Native American phar­macologies, and in return I would build them a clinic where families can come for modern pediatric and public-health services. So Baalum became a project we share together. I call it a miracle."

That still didn't begin to explain why it felt so eerie. Some­thing else was going on just under the surface. What was he really doing here?

Then the path uphill abruptly opened onto a clearing in which sat a large two-story building, its color a dazzling white, most likely plaster over cinder block, with a thatch roof and a wide, ornate mahogany door at the front. The building was nestled in a grove of trees whose vines and tendrils had embraced it so thoroughly, there was no telling how far it extended back into the forest. There also was a parking lot, paved and fed by a well-maintained gravel road leading south.

Seeing it, I felt an immediate wave of relief. Even better, the lot itself contained half-a-dozen well-worn pickup trucks, while sunburned Maya men were lounging in the shade of a nearby tree and smoking cigarettes. They were not from Baalum. They wore machine-made clothes and they were speaking Spanish, unlike the men in loincloths down in the village.

Yes! That's how I can get us out of here. A few dollars . . .

Parked there also was a tan Humvee, the ultimate all-road vehicle, which I assumed belonged to Alex Goddard. Maybe I should just try to steal it.

As we passed through the door and into the vestibule of the building, I glimpsed a cluster of Maya women and chil­dren crowded into a brilliantly lit reception area. Goddard smiled and waved at them, and several nodded back, timor­ously and with enormous reverence. They were being at­tended by a dark-eyed, attractive Maya woman in a blue uniform--the name lettered on her blouse was Marcelina-- who was holding a tray of vials and hypodermic needles. She was pure indigena, all of five feet tall, with broad cheek­bones and deep-set penetrating eyes. Unlike the other women in the room, however, there was no air of resignation about her. She was full of authority, a palpable inner fire.

"One of my most successful programs here"--he nodded a greeting to her--"is to provide free vaccinations and gen­eral health resources for the villages in this part of the Peten Department."

"I thought USAID already had public-health projects in Guatemala." The sight deeply depressed me. They all looked so poignant, the women with their shabby huipils and lined faces, the children even more disheartening, sad waifs with runny noses and watery eyes.

Which confirmed again that they'd come in the pickups parked outside, driven here by the men.

I had six hundred cash in dollars. I could just buy one of those worn-out junkers for that.

Alex Goddard glanced around, as though reluctant to re­spond in the presence of all the Maya.

"You saw those 'security guards' down there just now. They're nothing but boys with guns, 'recruits' kidnapped by the government on market day and pressed into the Army. They're all around here. The powers that be in Guatemala City are very threatened by what I'm achieving, so they've got these Army kids hanging around, keeping an eye on me. They also hate the fact I can provide health services better than they can. But to answer your question, most of the AID money gets soaked up by the bureaucracy in Guatemala City, so the people up here have learned to rely on me. The Army, however, despises me and everything I'm doing."

What a load of BS. You just admitted you had an inside track with Colonel Alvino Ramos. Anybody can see Children of Light or Ninos del Mundo, or whatever the hell other aliases you use, is thick as thieves with the Guatemalan Armed Forces. Don't insult my intelligence. It just makes me furious.

I turned to Marcelina. She'd begun passing out hard-sugar candies to the mesmerized children, showing them how to remove the cellophane before putting them into their mouths. Though she was pure Maya, she looked educated. I instinc­tively liked her. Maybe she could tell me what was really going on here.

"Do you speak English?"

"Yes." She was gazing at me with a blend of curiosity and concern. "If--"

"I've got a procedure scheduled shortly," Goddard inter­jected, urging me on down the tiled hallway. "But I need to take a moment and recharge. Come with me and we can talk some more."

Near the end of the hall, we entered a spacious, country-style kitchen. He walked over and opened the refrigerator.

"Care for a little something to eat?" He looked back, speckled white hair swinging across his shoulders as his ponytail came loose. "I had Marcelina whip up some gazpacho last night and I see there's some left. It's my own secret rec­ipe, special herbs from around here. It's good and good for you."

"I'm not hungry." It wasn't true. I was growing ravenous. But I was repressing the feeling because of everything else that was going on. His "village" was holding back its secrets, and now his clinic of "miracles" also felt suspiciously wrong. I'd seen plenty of rural public-health operations in developing countries, and this setup was far too big and fancy. The whole thing didn't begin to compute.

"As you like." He gave an absent shrug.

I looked around and noticed that just off the kitchen was another space, which was, I realized, his private dining room. There was a rustic table in the center that looked like it had been carved from the trunk of a large Cebia tree. I walked in, and moments later he followed carrying a tray with two calabash bowls of gazpacho and some crusty bread.

"In case you change your mind and decide to join me." He placed a bowl opposite where he was planning to sit. "Like I said, there're unusual herbs around here with flavors you've never dreamed of."

He began eating, while behind him I glimpsed Marcelina

moving down the hall, carrying more trays of vaccine and headed out toward the vestibule again. I had to find a way to talk to her.

As I settled into the rickety chair that faced my plate, I glanced down and saw a red lumpy mixture with a spray of indefinable green specks across the top like a scattering of jungle stars. No way.

When I looked up again, he was swabbing his lips with a white napkin, his penetrating eyes boring in.

"Now," he said, "it's time we started concentrating on you. Got you going with your program."

LIFEBLOOD WILL CONTINUE IN THE NEXT ISSUE................

|  |

---|---|---

# The Return

# Chris Aldridge

--------

I HAVE NO CLUE WHY the hell they brought me back here. It's the last place I care to remember, but here I am, pacing down my old, familiar and dark road that's only lit by dim street lamps. I thought I would be gone for good only a comparatively short time ago, but my few special friends can always be counted upon with their tricks, chemistry sets, and sly words that could convince even demons to do their bidding.

*

I AM VERY TIRED, COMPLETELY ill-tempered more than usual. I don't even wave back to the people who pass me with anything more than a quick irritated glance. My behavior is nothing new, though. I've never had time for those who aren't good friends of mine. Most of the people here seem like one big farce, an unending joke on the universe. I may be one of them, but I still dislike them, and coming back to this place has only elevated my hatred.

I come to my old house, a place where I found some modicum of solace so many times before, but there's a new family living there now. My generation has moved on somewhere else. It pains me like a knife through the heart to know that I am no longer allowed entry. I cannot even step onto the lush yard where I spent my childhood, lest I be trespassing. Not a single blade of grass belongs to me anymore, yet their growth is temporarily aided by my splashing tears, my last possible gift to them.

*

I MOVE ON. MY OLD WORKPLACE comes into view just over the hill, but the bookstore is closed. The volumes inside tell the stories of many lives, just not mine. I find the books I wrote, and the magazines I was published in, piled up in the garbage can outside the door. The community seems to have forgotten me, or perhaps they were just the ones that didn't sell. I'm not surprised either way. I fetch one of the magazines and flip through it, always loving the smell of an old fashioned paper publication. It's the simple pleasures of life that calm me most. If I am a star nowhere else, at least I can be one in my own mind.

*

I CONTINUE MY SLOW march onward. The police station that was looking for me now rears its head. Officers walk about like a colony of ants, and there are as many badges glimmering as there are stars in the sky. Mistakes I cannot escape will still follow me if the cops see my face. They think I left a long time ago, and I must keep it that way. I duck into the dark shadows and brushes, pushing my way into the unseen despite cuts and scratches from thorns and limbs. I am desperate to get way, and therefore, pain doesn't exist for a short time, nor does any real sense of direction.

*

THE STREET OUTSIDE of town finally emerges. The lights grow dim. The dark road is before me. It's my worst nightmare. Home is nowhere. The endless blackness is my only shelter. All I can do is prepare myself to enter the aimless wander.

The town cemetery is the last stop before the unending highway begins. I take a stroll through it, like a ghost or an apparition among the burial markers. I don't like my life, never did, but as I look down into my empty, uprooted grave, I remember that being dead wasn't fun either. In life and death, I feel I have little to no belonging, nowhere to go, and nothing to call my own. All is wrong. I break down in tears as I clinch the surface of my rocky tombstone.

The moon slowly lifts the shadows around me. My friends approach and hold me tightly. They've been looking for me.

"Where will I go now?" I sob. "I have nothing left."

My girlfriend smiles, "We've already figured that out, too. Don't worry. There's a place called Earth that comes into view every few million years. It will arrive tomorrow night. We can go there and start over."

I am intrigued. Earth is indeed a fascinating prospect, far larger and more free than our own planet. In reality, it's my only choice because I have no other. I must leave this place for my own good. My only hesitation resides in the gods. Earth is especially loved and favored by them. If they find I have escaped the afterlife, there will no doubt be serious conflict, and there's no way we would ever stand a chance.

--------

The End.

FIND HIM ONLINE AT www.caldridge.net

and on Facebook at ChrisWayneAldridge and ChrisAldridgeArtist

.
