 
# Haunted:

# Fact or Fiction?

### A Halloween Anthology

All stories, memoirs, and poems are copyright of their respective creators as indicated herein, and are reproduced here with permission.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by an means, eletronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author(s).

Book cover design © Kate Marie Robbins

Front Cover:

©jimmy brown

https://www.flickr.com/photos/jimmybrown/5164513561

©David Talley

https://www.flickr.com/photos/davidtalley/6126240344

This book is dedicated to those that love all things spooky. Happy haunting!

# My Last Night

By Boyd Miles

I have my rope. I have my note in my pocket. I was ready. All I needed now was to find a good, stout tree limb. It is getting dark and there is a chill in the air. I better hurry or I will be trying to do this in the dark.

There, that limb might do. Just toss the rope up and over and tie the end around the tree. I don't know many knots, but this one will hold well enough.

What was that noise? There is something moving over there. I back up behind the tree to let whatever it is pass and stumble over a rock. I almost laugh. It is not just a rock, it is a tombstone. I am in some old, abandoned graveyard. The perfect place.

I look around the tree to see if whatever made the noise is still there. It is getting dark enough that I can't see a thing. I listen and hear nothing. Must have been a bird or squirrel.

Back to the task at hand, my last task. The tombstone will be just right; I can stand on it and jump off into oblivion. I'm sure the owner won't mind.

Another noise, a rustling sort of sound. I stand still and watch. My heart races. Again I almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. I am about to hang myself and here I am afraid of something in the dark. Still, I don't want to be interrupted by a do gooder or something. I'll just wait a bit. It is getting colder, but soon enough I won't care.

Behind me another noise. I turn slowly, but there is nothing there. At least I can't see anything there.

To the side, then the other side. All around me are the sounds of footsteps in the leaves, but I can't see anything. I press up against the tree and hope I am not seen. They just keep coming closer. I am truly afraid. I have a copper taste in my mouth and I can hear my heart beating now. My knees are knocking; I didn't even know that was a real thing.

Closer they come, but I still can't see anything. I hear screaming and slowly realize it is me doing the screaming, but I can't stop. Fear takes control of my body. Even over the screaming I can still hear them coming closer.

I run, a headlong blind panic dash through the woods in the dark. Tree limbs and vines slash my face. I hold my hands up in front of my face and charge on. I trip and fall and hear whatever they are behind me. I scramble up and run on.

I'm out of breath and my heart is pounding. How far did I walk into the woods? I must be near the street by now. It is so dark. I run headlong into a tree and fall down, dazed. I can see the sky the limbs of the leafless trees look like arms and claws reaching for me. I can hear them getting closer.

I somehow pull myself up and stumble on in the blackness. There, a light ahead. I try to pick up speed and trip over an unseen object. My knee hits a rock and feels like it shatters. I am rolling on the ground holding my knee like a soccer player. They are coming closer, I can hear them. I pull myself together enough to shamble on toward the light.

More branches scratch at my face and eyes. I fall and hear more screams, not my own. High pitched screams like children.

"That's not funny asshole," comes an angry voice. I look up and I see a fresh new hell. A zombie is standing over me. So are Ironman and a football player. They turn away giving glances back at me, herding a group of children in costume further up the sidewalk. I remember what day it is. I hadn't even thought of it, but it is Halloween.

The wind blows dry leaves out of the woods.

# The Ghost Dog

By Chasity Nicole

You know that feeling that you are being watched every second of everyday by something that isn't there? It can't exactly be described, no one believes you, but you know that something is out there—watching and waiting. You never know why they are there, you just know they are, and that if whatever it is gets the chance, they will harm you in any way that they can?

Every day the thing draws nearer to me, and each time I can feel it slowly moving towards me. Almost as if it is inside of my brain, telling me that it is coming to get me. Each day I fear going outside because of that thing. I fear the ghost demon dog.

* * *

"River, it's time for you to go to school now," my mom called.

"But mom, that thing it's out there."

"River Alyse Rosylein, you get your butt out here and get to that bus stop!"

"No, I'm not going."

"Honey, she's doing it again," I overheard my mom whisper to my dad, and that wasn't a good sign.

"River, you listen to your mother and get out of this house and to school. This mischief has gone on long enough. You refused to go outside and play with your friends all summer long or go anywhere for that matter. You're going to school and that is that!" my father yelled, as I heard his footsteps growing closer.

"No!" I yelled before my door flew open.

"Young lady, get out of bed, and out of this house!"

"No! I refuse. You can't make me!"

"Yes I can!" My father picked me up from my bed and dragged me out of my room. I kicked and screamed down the entire hallway. "Stop all this nonsense. Go to school. You'll have a good day. You'll see your friends. There is nothing outside. Now onto that bus," he said, as he sat me down in front of the screen door.

"Fine!" I open the screen door and ran outside towards my bus stop. I glanced down at my watch only to realize I had ten minutes before my bus would show up. "Great."

It was silent at first. No one was around me. No birds were chirping. It was as if the world stopped moving. All accept that rustling coming from the bushes by my bedroom window. Next came a vicious growl, then out of the bushes came a huge ghost dog. It bared its blood stained fangs as it inched closer to me.

I tried to scream, but nothing came out. The dog just kept coming closer and closer and hunger filled its blood-red eyes. I glanced behind me and saw that my bus was pulling into my neighborhood. I could get away. I could live to see tomorrow. Suddenly, I felt warm air on the back of my neck, sending chills throughout my entire body—the dog was on top of me.

"What do you want from me?"

I want what is rightfully mine. And I'm going to get it.

"What is yours?"

That is for me to know, and you to never find out.

"Well, I want to give you what is yours, so that you can leave me alone."

Too bad little girl. You should have thought about that sooner.

The ghost dog opened its jaws wide and bit down hard on my neck. I felt the pain of the bite, but no blood was drawn and no marks were left behind. After the bite the dog retreated back to the bushes and my bus pulled up. I quickly scurried onto the bus, for it was my safety net from that beast that would no doubt get me later.

* * *

School went by all too quickly. Unlike my classmates, I dreaded going home. In fact, I would have rather stayed at school than go home at this point. That ghost dog was waiting on me and I knew it was going to get me. There was no way that it would let me survive. Apparently I had done something to it and made it furious.

"Earth to River!" Jessie said, waving her hand in front of my face.

"Yeah?" I looked over at her and saw that she had pulled her long blue hair up into a ponytail.

"We're at your stop now. You need to get off the bus."

"Oh." I turned bright red as I stood with my backpack and darted off the bus. I stood there for a while and waited for the bus to drive away before I headed for my house.

You're back I see.

"Yes, I'm back. I live here." I slowly turned to face my house to see a shadowy figure standing in front of my bedroom window.

Good, the fun begins. You don't mess with the shifting demon as you have.

"I've done nothing to you!" I yelled, as I ran for the front door of my house, slamming the door shut behind me and tightly locking it. I didn't take into account that ghosts don't use the front door or doors at all.

Tisk, tisk, little one. I'm already in here.

I couldn't see the ghost dog, or was it a shifting demon. Regardless of what it was, I didn't know where it was, or where it had come from. I also had no idea what it wanted with me.

The frames on the wall began to shake as one by one they flew from their nails straight for me. Luckily, I managed to dodge every one of them. Next came everything else in the living room: mirrors, cups, computers, books, chairs. If the entity couldn't pry it up it stayed put. Sadly for me, there wasn't much it couldn't pry up.

The last thing tossed at me was the couch and because of its size there was nowhere for me to run. It hit me, pinning me tightly against the door. I yelped in pain as the demon showed itself again.

I told you I'd get you.

"But what did I ever do to you?"

The people that lived here before. They were negative. I had so much negative energy to live off of. Until one day they moved out and you moved in. Your family has no negativity. I'm being slowly dragged home because of that. I'm losing my haunting spot because of you. So if I go, I'm taking you with me to haunt in the underworld until I can return here and put fear into the living once more.

"So you're going to kill me?"

Duh, you stupid teenager.

"But I am good. I won't go to Hell. I'll go to Heaven."

That may be true, but at least I get my revenge anyway.

"Nooo..." I screamed and jumped up from my bed. I looked around blindly at first, thinking I was dead. My eyes slowly began to focus and I realized that I was in my room. I was sitting on my soft bed, which was now soaked with sweat.

"Was it all a dream?" I asked myself, pulling the covers off of me. I glanced down at my leg and realized I had three jagged claw marks running from my right knee to my right ankle—the demon scratch.

It wasn't a bad dream. It was all real. That demon was real. What happened was real. We saved you before he killed you. Truth is, this house has always been haunted but by good and bad spirits. You were lucky this time, next time you might not be.

"Who said that?" I turned around in my bed to see a white feminine shadow floating above my bed and a calmness washed over me.

Rest now dear. We're here to protect you. But don't go after him. That is what he wants you to do. If you chase him and are out of our protection he will drag you under with him. We won't be able to save you then.

"So, you're my guardian ghost?" I tilted my head sideways.

Yes. And that thing you met earlier is a demon sent here to grab up the gullible that chase him. You chased him and let on that you knew he was there. That is why you now have that mark on your leg. He has marked you and can now track you wherever you roam. And he will get you when we are not there. Be safe young one. I must go, he hears me speaking of this and I've told you far too much.

"Wait..." I called into the nothingness as the spirit disappeared. How could I go to sleep now, knowing that my house was haunted by ghosts trying to protect me and a demon trying to kill me? This was going to be a long year, but at least we were moving after that and I'd be ok. Right?

**Wrong, wherever you go I will follow. You've been stained with my blood now. I can track you wherever you go.** I heard the demon speaking through my window as red began to drip from my bedroom wall—forming the words 'In the end I will get you.'

# Warning

By Cynthia D. Witherspoon

April sixth was a day that I would never, if I exist for a million years, ever be able to forget. No matter the number of years that passed, the date would pull that horrible memory forward. It had changed me forever. Just not for the better. April sixth was my day. Mine. And no one would ever be able to take it away from me.

That hateful date had made its way around again and I once again found myself standing on the side of Highway 418 where the car crash had occurred so many years ago.

I heard a car pull up behind me. It was always the same – each and every year. There was always someone, some man, who would stop to help the poor girl mourning on the side of the highway. They'd stop to offer me a ride, and then something more. Just as Devon had done. They, much like him, wouldn't listen to my warnings.

"What's a pretty little thing like you doing out here? You all by yourself, girl?"

I let my fingers graze against the thick green ribbon that had seemed so clever that night. Now, it served a much more important purpose than fashion could provide. I could see the man approaching me, the gleam in his eyes the very same that had been in Devon's. No, he wouldn't believe me if I tried to warn him. And that look in his eyes told me that he didn't deserve one.

"You want a ride, sweetheart? I could give you one... One you'd never forget."

Devon had been the first to attack me, leaving me broken and bloodied in the front seat of his Chevy. Until the anger gave me the strength to jerk the wheel so that he would drive off the Carolina cliffs.

This man, like the others, reached out to grab my arms. There is no stopping the determined. I'd learned that the hard way. He snatched at the green ribbon around my neck and pulled it free, with all the certainty of a child opening a Christmas present.

My silent scream became his own as I began to grin, catching my head in my hands. Devon wasn't the only one to die that night on those cliffs. My head had been cut clean off when I went through the windshield. But this man, on this night, hadn't heard the stories about my haunting. He would have never listened to any warning.

I followed him as he stumbled backwards along the path I'd taken before. When we were dying on that accursed night of April 6, 1954. The date when I had been damned.

This man would join me in the ranks of the damned. His whimpering met my ears; his beady eyes searching for a way out. Yet, there wasn't a way out. There never was...

# A Death-Defying Escape

By Sudhanshu Mishra

"Don't go... Don't go... Joseph, come back... Please..." "I... I promise I won't do this again... I swear... Please come ba.." The electricity was disrupted and the television went off.

"Humayra... Where are the candles?" a man yelled, while checking the drawers. "Humayra, where are you? Bring the candles please," after a pause he yelled again.

"Ah! Humayra... There you are," He said as he saw a dark shadow on the wall, "There is enough dark to frighten a twenty-six year old guy, place a candle here, please!" he added as found a dark shadow looming over him. He turned back, shutting the drawer abruptly, and saw someone standing in the doorway. A little scattered light of the candle from another room carved her silhouette out in the darkness. "Humay... Ra," he gibbered. "What's wrong with you? Why are you not replying," he added when he did not get any answer.

She proceeded towards him. "Ah! Give it to me," he snatched the candle and the lighter from her hand and moved towards the door, lighting the candle to check the electric fuse. She blew out the candle and held him from back. "Ah, someone is in mood, huh?" he asked and turned towards her. He lit up the lighter and saw her black shiny hair dangling over her shoulders. She blew out the lighter this time and smiled weirdly. She stepped back to go, but he pulled her gently by her hand closer to him and held her by her waist. "Humayra, I love you..." he mumbled and lighted up the lighter once again. He saw the reflection of flame in her blue eyes, then he moved the flickering lighter down, and saw her lips stitched together. In the same moment the lighter was blown out again. That sight sent scary chills down into his soul, which frightened him to the core. He immediately lost his grip on her waist as he trembled and his body sweated. As she fell back power recommenced and the vision cleared out.

Her blue eyes were stoned, her nose was injured, and her stitched mouth was struggling to be opened. Her gown was torn and dirty and she was balancing at fourty-five degree on her right leg. The other leg was slashed in half, spilling blood fiercely. As he saw her, a shriek of fright left his mouth, which damaged his throat. His heart came to his mouth, fear pierced his veins. He tried to run away, but his legs didn't support him, and fear paralyzed his body.

She stood up vertically and embraced him, "I love you too..." That raspy voice gave him heart attack. He screamed in fear but no voice left his throat. He fell back on the ground and crawled on his hands and knees. She proceeded towards him, jumping on her one leg, with growls leaving her throat, and rotating her neck left to right and right to left. He tried to chant Bible verses, but just blabbering came out. He was trembling terribly with every crawl back on his hands. Her jumps were faster than his crawl. She approached him, leaned on him, and scratched his face with her dirty yellow nails.

"1...2....3," she counted in her raspy voice. She held him by throat and threw him on bed. His face hit the bed, he writhed on it as she reached out and sat on his stomach. She plunged her nails in his chest and growled loudly. He screeched in colossal pain, but no voice left his throat. She slashed his chest, pulled his heart out of it, and rubbed it on her face. She held his head, placed it on her lap, and sung a lullaby.

"Sam, I have been calling your name for a long time. What the hell are you doing?" Some voice drew her attention and she rotated her neck to see where it was coming from. The door of the other room opened and Humayra entered, too busy tying her gown to look somewhere else. The voices from the room hadn't carried into the other room, as if the room was disconnected from the world for a while. Humayra did not know what had just taken place in her home. As she finished with the gown and looked towards bed she screamed in fear seeing a ghost and her dead husband.

"Sshhh..." she placed her finger on her stitched lips and climbed down from bed. She headed toward Humayra and then disappeared suddenly. Humayra fell unconscious. After the dark visions when Humayra opened her eyes she looked at her dead, disintegrated husband and ran towards him, there was no one else in the room. She knelt in fear as she opened her mouth to let a shriek out. Someone held her neck and turned her to the back. She saw a little girl with blonde hair dipped in blood. A knife plunged into her one eye. The girl bit on her neck and slashed it with her teeth. she fell dead on the bed. Meanwhile the lady appeared again and took the little girl along with her. The bed turned into sepulcher as they both disappeared.

* * *

Lyka kissed Ivan and went to her car. "Take care, Ivan," she said and opened the car's door and seated herself.

"You too..." he replied as she shut the door, "You've gone mad, Lyka," he whispered "Going to some lonesome place, just to complete your novel, really insane," he added.

"I heard you," said Lyka, while closing the window. She smiled at him, waved him bye, and drove off.

After a long journey, she stopped her car and climbed down to run her eyes over. She saw a big, beautiful house with a huge green lawn, and a fence around. She was at the right place. She smiled and moved towards the house as she hit a broken sign board with the words:' **Do not** **enter** ' written on it. She shrugged her shoulder, took a deep breath, and had a look at the area again. The house was situated in a lonesome area. There were nothing but a dead road leading to the city and an endless jungle on the other side.

"Perfect!" she beamed and moved to open the main entrance of the house. As she stepped in, she noticed some bumps in lawn. She ignored it and reached the door. The handle of the door was rather stiff. She tried with force and it opened with a creak. She moved in and saw a big hall embracing all the luxuries in it. A huge, beautiful chandelier was hanging down from the ceiling, a small table surrounded by royal couches giving the feel of a palace. The stairs connecting the other level of house were beautifully carpeted. "Wow," she gasped. "But... How?" she sighed. She was pleased to see the lavishness of the house, but she was amazed with the tidiness. She did not pay for such a nice house. She took a slip out of her handbag and went out to see if the address was right. There was not any address written over the main entrance. She picked out her mobile to call the agent, but her mobile was dead. It was almost dark out, so she decided to stay there. "I am exhausted," she yawned and fell upon the couch to relax.

Some unusual movement took place above her head and she looked up. A girl with dried blood all over her face was dangling from the chandelier and staring at her. She screamed in fear and suddenly opened her eyes. She rubbed them and had a look above her head, there were nothing there.

"Ah! It was just a dream," said she and heaved a sigh of relief. "Let's get on with your work, Lyka." And she began to find a perfect place in the house to start her work.

She stepped into a room dipped in darkness and switched on the bulb. There was a lavish and cozy bed placed in the middle of the room with well decorated walls. As she saw a big portrait of a couple hanging over one wall she couldn't stop herself from adoring them. "What a beautiful couple," she said with a smile and put her bag down on bed and unpacked it. She kept her clothes and the other things in the wardrobe. As she shut the wardrobe she saw someone's reflection in the mirror on the door walking closer to her. She turned back and found no one there. She felt scared and then thought that maybe her tired mind was experiencing hallucinations. It was not for the first time for her. She picked up her towel and went to take shower in bathroom situated on the other side of the bed.

It was silent. The ticking clock was the only companion to her. She was sitting on her chair, writing her novel. She yawned and had a look at the clock, it was eleven p.m. She left the table and fell onto bed. Some sort of noises kept on annoying her, but she thought them to be the hallucinations and fell asleep.

It was nine o'clock in the morning when she was woken up by her alarm. She experienced stiffness in her back and was amazed how she got it in a cozy bed. She sighed and went to freshen up.

She examined the entire home the whole day and was greatly engrossed with the beauty of the home. She decided not to contact the agent for providing her such a luxurious house by mistake. She thought that some mistakes are beautiful.

It was six p.m. when she was working in her room and heard some tapping on window. She stood up, yawned, and moved toward it. Wind was blowing fiercely outside and the window-pane was hitting the wall. She shut it and went out of the room to get some food in her.

She sat on couch with a bowl of popcorn and switched on the T.V. She laughed her head off seeing Mr. Bean wearing a pink gown with heavy make- up. Then she noticed someone else laughing with her. She turned her head around to check if someone was there, and she found no one was. She got scared, but then she tried to summon some courage. She curled and cuddled herself and tried to enjoy the show. Mr. Bean made her laugh again and someone guffawed with her again. She was sure that this time it was no hallucination. She felt someone's presence in hall. She put the bowl on the table and stood. Before she could turn back and see the boy who was climbing up the stairs, he disappeared in the dim light. She headed to her room to check if she had left her laptop on, but suddenly stopped as she heard some fidgeting on the upper level of the house. Her breath choked in her throat, and she realized that something was not fine in the house. She climbed up the stairs with soft steps to reach to the first floor. As she reached to the top of the stairs she saw a number of photo-frames hanging on the wall in a collage. They were not there when she had checked the whole house in the morning or did she fail to notice them? She thought and moved closer to have a clear look at them. She was aghast to see the photos of sepulchers with the names written at the bottom of them: Bradley Godwin, Richard Usher, Sam Harris, Humayra Harris. The next frame froze her heart with fear as she saw that it was blank with 'hello' written at the bottom of it. She felt the terror creeping into her soul, but then suddenly some notion did unwind her that maybe someone was playing prank on her, but no one knew the address except one person who would have seen the address slip in her bag, Ivan.

"Ivan, if it is you who is trying to terrify me then it is not working and it really is so awful. I am going to my room and if you want to come there, come. I do not like it at all," she said in anger and then returned to her room. But somewhere in her heart it was telling her that it was not Ivan, but her mind told her that there could not be any other possibility than it to be him. She stopped thinking about it, as it was distracting her from concentrating on her work.

It was eleven p.m. and she was busy writing her novel. She felt that someone was peeping through the window, but ignored it in anger and kept on writing. "I am not scared of whoever you are. Just know that I have a gun and I will shoot you in head if you try to terrify me anymore," she shouted. She was feeling irritated and scared, though she did not want to show that the trick was working on her.

She locked the window and door immediately and picked her mobile out to call Ivan, but there was no signals on her mobile. She was scared, thousands of possibilities started to form inside her head but she tried to protest her fear. She knew that she was alone and she had to act wisely as the situation was getting dreadful. She was sure that there was someone in the house and she was in trouble now. She knew that Ivan would never stretch any prank to this extent. Her heart started to beat faster with the last thought. She sweated and started to think of how to get out of the house. She knew that he or she didn't have good intentions.

She sat on the bed, struggling with her fear and thinking of what to do next. But she suddenly noticed something unusual with her bed. Fear chilled her to bone as she slowly looked down on her bed. She screamed as she saw a sepulcher instead of her bed. She screamed and jumped away without noticing that the ghost of a little girl was standing behind her with the knife plunged into her eyes. Lyka's back hit her face forcibly, plunging the knife completely inside her eye and throwing her onto the window, where ghost-girl's head hit the window pane and broke it. Lyka turned as she realized that she had hit something behind her. She gasped with choked breath as she saw ghost-girl crying on the floor. The ghost-girl was scared of her and crawled backwards. Lyka couldn't believe it.

All of a sudden the door of the room swung open and the blue stoned eye lady ghost came jumping towards her. Lyka screamed as she saw her and kicked the lady-ghost in her stomach with all of the force she could muster, all out of fear. Lady ghost collided with the door and fell outside. Little girl-ghost found a way to escape as she noticed that Lyka wasn't looking at her, so she stood up and ran out of the door. Lady ghost got up and ran jumping behind her and the doors closed by themselves. Lyka fainted and fell on her sepulcher, which just turned to bed as the ghosts ran away.

It was nine a.m. when Lyka was throwing clothes from wardrobe to the bed. She had decided to leave the house. She started to pack her bags and muttered in a terrified and breaking voice, "Ivan was right. I was mad to have come here." As she walked to the table and picked up her laptop, she heard some tapping on window. At the same moment her toe hit the table leg and she gasped with a weird sound out of her mouth. Tapping stopped.

Lyka had always believed that God could take a long time to come on Earth and help you out, so better help yourself before you meet your end. She knew that she had to run away now. It was morning and she knew that ghosts were scared of her, but still they were hazardous. She realized that she was just lucky to escape her death last night.

She walked out to leave the home, but the main door was stuck. "Fuck..." she thundered and hit the door with her leg out of fear. She checked whole house, but now every window was stuck, and the door of the room she had stayed in didn't even open. She panicked and fainted out fear again. When she woke up it was dark and suddenly the electricity went off. She was scared to the core. She pulled the torch out of her bag and looked for her other trolley- luggage, which was not there. She had her laptop in that one, she had to find that. She started to look into each room to find her luggage. She stopped in front of a room which was locked when she checked previously, but now it was open. As she tried to look in, she saw some ghosts sitting on bed-become-sepulcher and playing cards. She stepped back silently, without focusing the torch in the room. "Disgustingly horrifying. Do ghosts play cards?" she cried and went away.

The clock on the wall struck two-thirty at night. She had been swallowing her fear for the last four hours and was sitting with the torch focusing to the roof to keep the hall illuminating. She stood up and went to main door of house to check if it could open now or not. She held the handle and pulled the door, it opened surprisingly with a creak. "The fuck," she almost cried again on her luck as she stepped out to witness graves and dead men walking with the shoulders hanging forward and the head bent to the ground, as if they were waiting for her, but did not come inside for some reason. She shut the door instantly and cried in fear. Her torch stopped working at the same time. She fainted again.

When she woke up in morning she felt something weird with her head. She touched her head and found an amputated hand was touching her head. She screamed, threw it away in disgust and ran to the washroom. Her fear was intact still, but she knew that as long as she was not scared of the ghosts that they wouldn't kill her. She was standing in front of the mirror in bathroom when she saw the same girl-ghost holding one knife in her hand to attack on her, but was not proceeding towards her. Lyka's heart came to her mouth, but she knew that if she got scared the ghosts would overpower her and kill her. She waited for the girl-ghost to leave, but she did not move a single inch. Lyka was panting in fear and looking the mirror. She slowly moved her hair, dangling down over her face and filled her mouth with red tooth paste and water, keeping her eyes on her. Then she gargled without letting a single sound out of her mouth and suddenly turned and ran towards the girl-ghost growling as loud as she could. The girl-ghost screamed in fear and ran out of the bathroom. Lyka couldn't stop her laughing to what she just did. She fell on the floor laughing as she couldn't believe herself. She had just scared a ghost and this time she did it in her own consciousness.

She had to hurry now to get out of the house. She gave up the idea of searching for her luggage and picked her bag from the hall. She tried to open the main door, but it was jammed again. She tried everything to open the door and other windows, from applying the force to smashing things into them, but they seemed to be concreted and didn't break or open. She knew that at night the doors could be opened so she decided to escape at night. As she sat down on the sofa in the hall she saw someone's burnt hand on it beside her. She panicked and picked up her torch out of fear and smashed the hand non-stop. The lady ghost standing behind her. She screamed and disappeared. Lyka's heart was beating fiercely out of fear, but she felt good for her win over the ghost. Her confidence to battle with them at night was uplifted a bit.

She sighed and lied down on the sofa and closed her eyes. She couldn't resist opening her eyes as she felt someone's presence. She knew that they were around her again. Girl-ghost, lady-ghost, and boy-ghost were standing a little further, looking at her in anger. She closed her eyes again and summoned the courage to behave as if she didn't care about them. She got up, yawned, stretched her hands to their faces, ignored them, and left. She kicked her legs backwards as she walked ahead. Her slipper flew and hit them as they disappeared.

The moon topped up and she tried to open the door, but she was unable to open it. After struggling for fifteen minutes, she noticed the lady-ghost hanging upside down from the ceiling over her head. She pretended to ignore her and walked to the sofa as the lady-ghost jumped on ceiling along with her. As she sat down on the sofa, the lady-ghost sat on chandelier fondling her rough hair and started to swing. Lyka inhaled deep in fear.

She was starving as she had not eaten anything in the past two days, so she went to the kitchen. It was dark in the kitchen, so she lit a candle and saw the boy-ghost fumbling for a chocolate in cupboard, but he didn't notice her there. "What the bloody fuck," she mumbled with disgusted face. "The children remain children always," she chortled at boy and shushed him with the candle. The boy was scared of the flame. He screamed, jumped over her head, and ran away. An idea clicked in her mind. She rushed to another room and brought a blanket dipped in paraffin to the kitchen.

She had found her trolley bag in the kitchen too. She opened the bag, took her laptop in one hand, and kept some chocolates inside the bag. She left the bag in the middle of kitchen and hid behind the door. She waited for half an hour when the boy-ghost finally arrived and saw the chocolates. He moved forward to take them. As he bent down, she threw the blanket from behind her back and set it on fire. The blanket caught quickly and he ran out of the kitchen growling into hall. In no time, she poured some paraffin on her trolley bag and ran into the hall.

Boy-ghost was burning in the blanket and running after the lady-ghost and girl-ghost all around the hallway. They all were growling. She ran to the door and pulled it, it opened very gently without any force this time. She heaved a sigh and moved out. Dead men, stretching their legs on the lawn, were the next death-defying challenge for her. She had to walk for her life through the living cemetery. She shivered in horror and dragged her trolley-bag. She had reached in the middle of the lawn, but to her surprise no ghost approached her. She was about to finish the walk through the dead when she felt some pull on her trolley-bag. She turned back swallowing the fright and saw the little girl-ghost sitting on it and staring at her. The lady-ghost was jumping after her followed by the boy-ghost. She lit the lighter in a moment with her trembling hand, burnt the trolley-bag, and pushed it away towards them and ran out as fast as she could. She jumped into her car, picked the keys out of her pocket and started it as she saw them engulfed in flames and growling. Suddenly she felt extremely powerful and excited of her escape that she blew a flying kiss to them. "Take care, guys" she yelled and drove off showing them her middle finger.

# Breathe

By Heather Kirchhoff

My eyes snapped opened as I jerked awake. I sat up quickly, glancing around, assuring myself that I'm safe. I was laying on the couch in the living room, the TV that was on is now silent. A blanket was covering me and I tossed it aside, watching it fall into a heap on the floor. I waved that away, trying to shake the remaining parts of my dream out of my head. It doesn't really work. I sighed as the memory of the knife plunging into my throat just seconds before I woke up replayed again. I got up and walked to the kitchen, going to the refrigerator to get me a glass of milk. I filled up a glass cup before replacing the milk where I got it from and taking a small swig of my drink. I took tentative sips, staring at the wall when I heard my dog come racing into the room. He came to a sudden halt and I looked over in time to see him skid a little bit. I snorted softly and shook my head, rolling my eyes at Rascal. But when he started growling, his fur standing up, backing away slowly, I turned and gazed at the spot his attention was fixed on.

Nothing was there.

I moved closer, carrying my glass with me, my eyes never once straying from the spot, but I still didn't see anything. I glanced at my dog, who was still growling and backing away. I looked back again but still didn't find a thing.

"Nothing's there," I told Rascal, going over to him and kneeling down. I reached out for my dog, but hesitated, suddenly afraid he'd bite me. I'd never seen him like this before. He's always so calm, hardly growling or barking. This was completely new. "Stop," I said softly. "It's okay. Nothing's here."

He didn't listen to me.

Instead, the small brown and white dog kept on going, up until he hit the cabinet behind him. He wasn't fazed, though. Actually, he was far from it. I watched him for a few moments silently, my drink forgotten for a bit. This behavior is scaring me a little, I'll admit to that. I'm unsure what's causing it or how to go about stopping it. I didn't know what to do. I closed my eyes briefly, rubbing at my temple as a headache started to bloom. When I heard a loud bark, they snapped opened once again just in time to see Rascal sprinting from the room, going for the living room now. I followed him, trying to process what was happening.

"Calm down, Rascal," I scolded, coming up behind him. "There isn't anything to growl at."

The small dog cowered in front of me, facing the corner in the wall, his eyes so trained on it, as if something is there. I shook that thought away as quickly as it came. Nothing is here.

"Rascal!" I exclaimed, my headache flaming. "Stop."

Ignoring me, he crept forward slowly, his stomach touching the ground, as if stalking prey. It was a strange sight. Fear began to root inside of me, digging deeper the more my adopted dog acted like this. I swallowed, moving closer, setting my half-empty glass on top of the entertainment center. I knelt down in front of the spot the dog was staring fiercely at, but it was just an empty corner. Nothing more. Exasperation set in and I threw my hands up in the air, shooting my dog a look over my shoulder. I adverted my gaze from the hostility I saw there. I shakily stood up, standing still for a moment before grabbing my glass and moving past Rascal, finishing off my milk; I refilled my glass and took a long swig of it, downing the drink in a few gulps.

Out of nowhere a soft whimper reached my ears and I turned towards the living room, holding my breath only to hear it again. I quickly moved to the other room, knocking my glass to the floor in the process. The sound of glass breaking filled my ears, but I ignored that; all that mattered to me was my dog. I saw him lying on his side against the wall and my heart lurched. I touched him gently, my vision blurring as I saw his chest barely rising and falling. I didn't understand what happened, but I then knew something was terribly wrong. Was it possible I was wrong in thinking nothing was here? I closed my eyes, lifting my best friend into my arms and holding him close. His eyes fluttered opened and met mine, terror filled them and I felt horrible. He moved around in my arms, licking my left arm and whining. I sighed, relief overtaking me for a few minutes.

"You'll be okay," I whispered while a stray tear fell down my cheek. "You will be. I'll make sure of it."

His tongue darted out to touch my upper arm and I smiled at the warmth of it. He wagged his tail, staring up at me. I rose carefully, cradling him against my chest and left the room, going to my bedroom where I set him down on the bed and kiss his little head.

"I'll be right back," I assured him, running my hand along his side before moving away.

I went to clean up the mess I made earlier, picking up the glass and discarding it; after that I moved on to wiping up the spilled milk up. Suddenly, I felt chilled. I got up and looked at the thermostat only to see that it was in the seventies. I frowned at that and turned it up a little more. Static filled the room and I flinched, glancing over at the television. **What the hell?** I gaped at it, confusion clouding my mind. How could my TV be on? And then, just like that, silence rang out. I stayed where I was, afraid to move to investigate. **What could be going on?**

Light footsteps sounded from the other room and I ran for my bedroom, finding everything was how I left it. No one else was there. My dog still lay on my bed, only he had moved to my pillow, curled up and sound asleep now. I walked over to him and placed one finger in front of his nose, making sure he was breathing. Thankfully, I felt his breath against my finger and I let out the breath I was unaware of holding. I smiled and checked my closet, assuring myself no other human was in my home.

But I felt like I was being watched.

It was really creepy and I closed the door quickly, putting my back to it and leaning against it. **Calm** , I told myself, taking a deep breath. **It's just your imagination.** I didn't believe myself, though. Something felt off, wrong. It felt like I wasn't alone, like someone or something was standing right beside me, breathing down my neck. I was really unnerved by now. **It's nothing.** I knew differently. I could feel it. I could feel that there was more than I was seeing. I sighed again and sat down beside my dog, wishing I wasn't living by myself. Wishing I had someone else that could be here, going through this with me. Was I going crazy? I couldn't be sure.

Suddenly, there was loud knocking. I shuddered, ignoring it; instead, I curled up underneath the blankets with my dog pressed against me. I closed my eyes tightly, trying to block the noise out. More static and knocking came, plus footsteps, but I didn't move. I didn't dare to. I just held my breath and waited for it to pass.

Only thing is, it didn't.

It got louder, until I felt like something was right there, inches away. I burrowed further under my blanket, holding my dog tighter. No way was I going to let him go. Not now. Not when I was so confused. I didn't know how long I stayed like that until I'd had enough. I threw the blanket off of me, standing quickly, disturbing my dog, waking him from his calm sleep. I glared around at nothing, sick of this. Sick of the unknown. "Stop!" I yelled, my hands shaking. Soon my entire body began to shake and I screamed that one word again.

Suddenly, there was a shift in the air and I looked up, my heart stopping as I gazed at a white light that resembled a person. I swallowed as it came near, wrapping me in its soft glow, calming me instantly. When I glanced up at him, Rascal was watching on silently. Clearly, this didn't bother him at all. I was at ease now, my heart beating normally once again. I smiled, my eyes shining, comforted. In an instant the light was gone and nothing more happened. It was really silent and I enjoyed that. After a moment, I realized that I probably won't ever be truly alone at my home. That Rascal and I won't be. There's something else here, something I may never understand, but I will never let fear take over me again. Not when I know there's such light. Not when I know it'll all be okay in the end.

# Ghost Call

By Johnathan Anderson

On a Thursday last month, I was admitted to the Brantford General Hospital after I fainted at a meeting. I went by ambulance to the hospital. The cause of my fainting was unknown. I was discharge around 6:30 a.m. and went home to sleep for a little bit. When I woke up from my sleep, I received a call from a private number and I answered it. "Is this Johnathan," the voice said, and I replied with, "Yes."

The voice on the end was hard to hear and I could only make out a few sentences. The voice said, "I had an appointment at the BGH at nine in the morning on Tuesday." "You are not to wear any hair product on the day of the appointment," said the voice, before hanging up the phone.

Tuesday came and I took a shuttle into Brantford at eight to be there for the appointment. Not knowing where to go, I asked the information desk where I should go and she sent me to another information desk. I told them that I had an appointment and didn't know where to go. They took my heath card and no appointment had been made for that day. They called the M.R.I, C-Scan, and X-Ray department, my name was not on the list. I was sent to the emergency department to see if I needed to go there. I gave up and went home, only to file a complaint with the hospital.

I was contacted by the hospital, saying they would look into it and investigate. A few days later, I received an e-mail and was shock by what it said. The hospital had no record of any follow up appointment or calls to my phone. The trauma doctor that discharged me hours before said he never made a call as well. When I finished reading the e-mail a cold chill went my back.

# Blood Moon

By Twinkle (Sugandha) Varshney

Sometimes it's the end that makes sense and explicates the beginning. Waking up drenched with a heavily pounding chest has become a routine for Kayn for last three years that now she could not fathom people shrieking of horror. She wriggled her toes, rolled over to her side, shut her lids in a vain try of disremembering the dream. She hoped one day it will all end. The dreams will stop, they have to stop, but now after three years and loosing much more than she has bargained for, she hoped that these dream end before all of it ends.

* * *

Every night she dreamed the same dream. It started with a slight shimmering fog or thickened air, swirling, shadowing all over her room, mustering all around her, clouding the flowery patterns her mom had painted in a beautiful pattern successing over the top of other interminably on the white ceiling with thousands of pink and violet flowers, so that the pacifying, hypnotic patterns could lull her to sleep. She could smell something coppery, rotting, making her cold and shivery. Twirling slowly, the fog disappeared near the wall beside her, and enigmatically in a flash appeared a solid figure wearing a pale, silvery, blood stained gown with many patches, and its face covered with the scruffy, muddled curls. She couldn't believe her eyes, she didn't want to anyway. She never imagined something like that, even in her worst nightmares and now she was seeing something her eyes won't ever be able to erase. The adrenaline flew through her veins like a carp through the river, but she couldn't move a single muscle, not even to scream. The filthy, ghastly figure or creature, Kayn never seem to find the right word to call it, gradually levitated beside the wall. Numb, trying to become more aware, she often was unable to breathe. All she could sense was a creepy laugh clouding her mind, deafening her senses. And then everything goes blank, like it never happened, like it was just a mirage, a dream in her dream. Then she wakes to find that there was nothing but her, with a heavily pounding chest, sweating, messy and most of all terrified.

Yearning, Kayn opened her eyes, affixing them to the ceiling fan circling languidly overhead. All her senses were clogged by the echoes of that petrifying laughter. Sometimes she questioned herself **"Why me? What have I done to deserve this? And Gran? She was the most innocent women I have ever met. She gave sweets even to that crazy filthy moony near the church."** But all these questions were as meaningless as the mysterious murder of her brother Jonas or her gran.

It was three years back when Kayn entered her brother Jonas's room early morning after that first dream. She opened the door and marched forward with her legs shaking, making every step feel like a mile. Her psyche was screaming something was not right, as if she could have changed what has already happened. Numb, she stumbled through, tripping over the table sideways, falling head first, fortunately she hit the stuffed animal hippo lying on the floor.

Kayn smiled seeing the hippo she had gifted Jonas on his sixteenth birthday. He has got many gifts, but Jonas picked her gift first and turned it side to side making guesses. "What is this?"he'd asked. "It's a hippo." Kayn chuckled. Jonas rolled his eyes, "But I won't play with a hippo," he insisted. "Then I will borrow it from you." Kayn replied, giggling. Jonas messed her hair and said, "Surely, lil gal!" and took it to his room.

Kayn picked up the hippo and was about to straighten up when Jonas hand dropped on her back making her spine tingle and she jumped on her foot. Holding her breath she pulled the sheet over her strangely still brother and there he was lying on his bed with his eyes gaping into a void, cracked jaws, his hands were turned at an uncanny angle and there was something sticking out near his chest covered with thickened blood, and some bluish-red, thin, corrugated rubber like tubules. Kayn screamed irrepressibly and tightened her eyelids, bile rising over her throat. The absolute horror completely paralyzed her, and the more she thought about running away, or simply moving a bit, the more she felt discouraged and utterly terrified, unable to bear this any longer, she passed out.

When she came back to her two feet, there were lot of people and cops in her house. She could recognize some of them, but her eyes were searching for Tabitha. Tabitha hugged her tightly and said, "I'm sorry!" and patted her on the back in an 'I told you' sort of way.

How can Kayn ever forget, it was an eclipse, a full lunar eclipse. Her friend Tabitha kept whining all day, "It's the blood moon, Kay! My mom says it's a bad, bad sign." Kayn laughed at her foolishness and scolded her "Taby, do not believing in all these hypocrisies, there is nothing like the blood moon." Tabitha, the tall girl with red curls was her best friend. Kayn or Kay as she called her were always together.

That was the first night Kayn had that horrendous nightmare. The cops were clueless. There was not any evidence indicating a breaking in. But the most baffling fact was her dream, on the same night all this happened, when she saw the creature for the first. She never believed in Déjà vu, but any rational explanation failed to explain her brother's uncanny death. Her mind was taken over by that grisly laugh and she passed once again.

It didn't stop there, Kayn started seeing the dream every night. She didn't remember being that scared in her life and that was just the beginning. Then on the next blood moon, it happened again, this time it was her gran. Kayn had a special connection with her gran, and they had the same unusual hazy eyes. Her sudden and merciless murder broke her. She was baffled, but was sure it was just a coincidence, though her psyche constantly debated. But there could be nothing like the blood moon.

* * *

She shivered when Tabitha announced it was a blood moon again today. Sometimes we don't know ourselves what we believe in. No matter how much she denied, deep inside the blood moon sent chills through her.

She almost burst out, "How many blood moons are there?"

"Umm! My mother says there are unusually high number of blood moons in this decade and now only three more are left," Tabitha stated.

"I don't want to hear this," Kayn gasped.

That night Kayn was restless, though she didn't want to believe it, but her psyche kept on screaming. She was unable to sleep, but every passing moment was hurting her, shoving the dawn farther and farther. Next day when she opened her eyes she was stumped. "No, no, this can't be happening," she mumbled and ran to her dad and pushed the sheet aside. Her dad had turned in a lump of a darker shade of crimson, unrecognizable. She quavered him repeating "No, no, this can't be happening," in hope of talking with her now so silent father.

* * *

**One Year Later...**

"What if you don't sleep? If you don't sleep, then you won't dream ."

"And no dreams means no one will be killed!" Kayn hugged Tabitha, her cheeks wet. She didn't even remember the last time when she was this happy.

"I seriously hope this works." Kayn smiled. It was a "blood moon" again.

They have planned it all. She will spend this blood moon with Tabitha. They will talk, play, study, do anything but not sleep.

It was already two-thirty and they were still awake, though every passing minute, keeping the eyes open was becoming much of a challenge, but they have to fight it. They can't sleep, no matter what, but they can't sleep.

Suddenly Kayn screamed "Run, Taby, get out. She's here."

They were chitchatting when Kayn heard that creepy, emotionless giggle again, coming closer and closer. She fearfully looked towards Tabitha and asked, "Can you hear it?"

"Hear what?" Tabitha screamed.

"Can't you hear that laugh, that blood thirsty laugh, she is here, she is coming nearer..."

"Damn it, Kay, stop it. Stop scaring me, there is no one here. See there is no one!" Tabitha got up from the bed, trying to tuck her hair above her head. "What the hell are you doing, Kay? You are scaring the shit out of me." Tabitha stood there with her mouth wide open and her hands dropped down, making her red curls to shadow her half face.

Kayn was whispering something almost inaudible.

Suddenly Tabitha screamed and stumbled backward, her head hitting the floor with a bang, like someone has pulled her leg.

Tabitha was almost crying now. "Kayn, please help me. No!" she pleaded. Her hand twisted at an angle of two-hundred seventy degrees, making her screech in pain. Her nails began shifting away from her fingers, with blood dripping from them like an invisible force was snapping them. She couldn't breathe anymore, it felt as if someone was choking her. Her heart was racing up and down and all she hoped was to open her eyes from this bad dream. Irony it wasn't a dream. A choked yelp for help forced itself up her throat and she felt a tear run down her cheek. It seemed as if this was the end of the road for her. A broken glass piece appeared from nothing, moved towards her making her beg, "NO! Stop it! Don't kill me, please." She toppled under the bed, crying, the glass moved under the bed, slashing her face, making her right eye pop out, rolling on the floor, as a final hit, paralyzing her. She couldn't say if it was by pain or horror. Her jaws moved, gaping wide and her eye socket was full of blood. Tabitha lay there still, feeble while her soul left her.

Kayn opened her eyes. "No, this can't just happen. She has not slept. No, no, no." She stretched her hands out to hold Taby and screamed, "These are just dreams", just to find her pale hands covered with scarlet, warm blood. She stood up, shocked to find a huge splatter of blood painted across the white wall behind her. Kayn felt shocked, she should have been used to this by now, but the strings these scenes pulled, hit her like a hurricane. She looked at Taby's once lively skin, which was now dull gray. Kayn ran to her body and tried to wake her up, but she wouldn't. She kissed her dead lips and stroked her red hair, but the only living trace left of her was stained across her shaky hands. Her blood.

* * *

No one believed Kayn or her dreams. They said she has gone crazy. That she had murdered them all. Now this small gloomy room with a small window, an old mirror, and a locked iron gate of a mental hospital was her home. She hadn't bathed for a year now. Dressed in that filthy white gown, with her hair growing like a wild weed. She had drawn some lines on the floor, one for every day she has spent in this prison, her new home. "257, 258, 259, 260... Today is a blood moon." She laughed, like a mad, crazy person.

She was missing her mom terribly today, but she has lost all hope for life. When she was a little kid, her mom used to say: "Dreams are our playground and its okay to play there." But today her dreams have played her. Her dream have been more real than the reality itself.

Suddenly, she felt there was something near the mirror. She moved toward it, but today she wasn't frightened, because she has nothing left to lose. She didn't know how wrong she was. As she moved closer towards it, she caught the reflection in the mirror. It seemed to be familiar, that weary expressions, those hazy eyes were so kin. It combed her hair with the knife, widening her smile, gaping into her hazy eyes. "Missing mommy, let's go back to home!" With a raunchy laugh, Kayn said ,combing her hair again with the knife!

# Music Box

By Aisling Spofford

One night I was at my mother's house with my oldest daughter, who was a year old at the time. My parents, my daughter, and I were in the living room watching T.V. and eating dinner.

At one point everyone was quiet, when we suddenly heard music coming from the dining room. There wasn't anyone else in the house, so my mother and I went to find out where it was coming from.

We found out the music was coming from a grand piano shaped music box that my grandmother had given to my daughter as a Christmas present. The music box plays the song "Lorelei," which is my daughter's name. The music stopped and no one touched the music box. We went back to the living room and a few minutes later the music box started playing again even though none of us had touched it.

Later on that night, I randomly looked at the calendar only to realize that it was my brother's birthday. He died eight months before the day the music box kept playing on its own.

# Hold Me Close

By L.L. Hunter

"Oh my God. It's so high!" Kara shrieked. She couldn't bear to look down at the ground below.

Ketan chuckled. "Don't look down." He took her hand in his and squeezed. "We're almost at the top."

Kara had been looking forward to her ski trip with Ketan since he invited her at the beginning of the school term. Kara's parents weren't so enthusiastic though. At sixteen, she was barely old enough to begin dating, let alone to be going away on a holiday with someone of the opposite sex. Kara didn't care what her parents thought though. She loved Ketan. To keep herself from looking down the mountain their chairlift was climbing, she turned to look at Ketan. He gave her a wide, toothy grin, which made Kara giggle. Ketan always made her feel better. The chair lift jolted as it passed under the pulley system to take them up to the next level. Kara clutched Ketan's shirt. They were almost at the top of the mountain. Ketan raised the bar over the heads and Kara looked at him in horror.

"What are you doing?"

"It's almost time to get off."

"But..." the chair passed under the alcove to their stop.

"It's okay. Just follow my lead. Jump and bend your knees as you land."

"But..."

"It's okay. Kara, jump! Jump now!"

"What?!" She didn't get time to question him. Ketan leaped off the chair and because she was still holding his hand, Kara had no choice but to jump. Her skis hit the snow hard and she just remembered to bend her knees. Ketan pulled her around to the left away from the chair lift. The chair they had occupied turned the bend and started its journey back down the mountain.

"You did it! You're at the top of the mountain!" Ketan said as they came to a stop at the top of the ski run. She let out a shaky breath and glanced around. The winter landscape was beautiful. The naked trees looked like dark grey skeletons against the bright white of the snow.

"It's so..."

"High?"

"Yes, and gorgeous."

"Yeah. Are you ready to ski?"

"Yeah...." Oh crap, Kara thought. She had lied to Ketan when he asked if she could ski. She really couldn't. She had never been to the snow before. Now was the time to fess up.

"Ketan, I..."

"What's wrong? Don't worry about the height or the angle of the slope. Just concentrate on your turns and snow plow if you feel you're going too fast."

"It's not that. Ketan I have to tell you something. I kinda lied to you."

"About what?" Ketan took his goggles off his eyes and put them on top of his beanie. Kara took hers off too, so she could see his delicious chocolate brown eyes. His eyes were the first things she noticed about him. She was an eye person, and Ketan's were the sexiest ones she had ever seen.

"I... can't ski." She looked down at her ski boots and the snow between her skis as she mumbled the last part.

"You... What? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to seem like a baby. I've never been to the snow before and I don't want to have a lesson. Lessons are for kids."

She thought he was going to reject her then, possibly even dump her and leave her up here all alone. What he did next surprised her and made her swoon.

"Kara, I know you've never been to the snow before. Your mum told mine. Don't worry about it. We'll take it easy. The left run is the easiest. We'll go down nice and slo..." An ear splitting siren, which echoed over the entire valley, drowned his words out.

"What's going on?" she shouted, but the siren ate her words too. They looked around and that's when they saw the chairlift operator waving his arms in their direction and telling them to come to him. Kara glanced at Ketan who looked confused. She looked down the slope and a few skiers were quickly fleeing down the mountain. Before they could ask the chair operator what was going on, the ground began to quake, and low rumble could be heard underneath the siren. The chair operator skied up to them and began pulling their arms.

"What's going on?"

"Guys, you need to get out of here, now!"

"Why?" asked Ketan.

"There's an avalanche!" The chair operator began skiing away toward the slope and Ketan didn't hesitate. Both he and Kara knew what this meant – it meant Kara had to ski down the mountain to save herself or they would both die. There's nothing like the treat of a bigger danger to get you over one of your worst fears. Kara didn't even think. She pushed off and skied down the hill.

The rumble of the avalanche was louder now and the chair operator was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone so fast?

"Kara, are you okay? Remember your turns and ski plow."

"I'm fine. Don't worry about me. There's a freaking avalanche behind us!"

"I should've pretended there was a bear or an avalanche behind you to get your butt moving to begin with," he chuckled.

"Not funny!"

Kara almost stumbled and went down, but with Ketan's help she just managed to stay up. Left, right, left she turned as she descended the hill. The roar of the avalanche behind them grew louder by the minute and Kara feared they didn't have much time. She looked back up the mountain. Worst mistake. The wall of white powder and trees was above her. She turned back to Ketan and managed to catch one glimpse of his beautiful face before the wave of snow consumed them.

* * *

Ketan opened his eyes to nothing but whiteness. Was he dead? Was this what the afterlife looked like? Why did he still feel cold? He tried to move, first his fingers, then his toes. He could feel them. He tried to move his head next, and as soon as he did, snow shifted above him and went down his mouth and nose. He coughed and spluttered. It was so cold. Ice scraped and burned his throat. He also couldn't breathe very well. There wasn't much oxygen where he was. Where was he exactly? He decided to listen. He could hear nothing but the cracking and groaning of the snow on top of him. Then he realized where he was. He was trapped under a snow drift. The avalanche! Kara! Where was Kara? He tried to open his mouth to shout her name, but it only filled with more snow. He had to settle for whispering.

"Kara? Kara, where are you?"

Over the cracking and groaning of the snow slowly moving, he could hear something else. The wind? Crack. Groan. Rumble.

"Ketan?"

Wait. Was someone saying his name?

"Hello?" he whispered and coughed.

"Ketan? Where are you?"

"Kara?"

"Ketan! Where are you?"

He could hear Kara calling out to him from the other side of his coffin of ice. He tried to call to her louder, but snow fell down his airways as soon as he opened his mouth. He tried to shift his head sideways, and noticed that no snow fell when he did. There was an air bubble or space for him to breath. He took advantage of this space and yelled as if his life depended on it. "Kara!"

"Ketan? Over here, he's over here!" he felt the ground above him shake and more snow fell. He wanted to tell who ever was above not to move, but before he was smothered by more falling snow, his eyes were suddenly overwhelmed by a bright white light. Oh my god, he was dead! He was going to heaven!

"Ketan Andrews?" A face hovered above his own. Ketan blinked and tried to shield his eyes from the glare. When the face moved across in front of the light, he saw it wasn't Kara. "Ketan Andrews, is that your name?"

"Y... yes," he croaked. "Where's Kara?"

"Come on, we have to get you out of there and warmed up. We're going to move you onto the stretcher. Tell us if anything is broken or hurts."

He nodded, but he wasn't worried about his own injuries. He was more concerned about the wellbeing of his girlfriend.

"Kara?" he asked again, but the men in the red vests with the white crosses didn't say anything. The men in the medical vests lifted Ketan and placed his body on a stretcher that was attached to a skidoo.

"Stay with us, buddy." Ketan felt fine physically, except he felt drowsy and his head heavy. Why wasn't Kara around? He tried to call out to her again, but the skidoo was already moving down the hill. All he could get out was a whisper of her name that was left behind in a white cloud on the breeze.

* * *

Kara blinked and opened her eyes. She looked up at a sky dotted by scattered clouds. The sun shined down through one of those clouds, shining its spotlight on something dark sticking out of the snow. She got up on her elbows and crawled towards what appeared to be a twig, but on closer inspection was actually some black cloth. She tugged on the cloth but couldn't make it budge. She looked around saw nothing but a vast white desert. She was the only living being in her snowy nightmare. Where was Ketan? Kara was afraid to even think of the worst, that he was dead.

"Ketan?" she cried out as loud as she could. It was then when she listened that she could hear the snow below her moving. It groaned, and then she heard a whisper. Over the howling wind she could just make it out. It was definitely a voice, and it was coming from under the snow.

"Kara?" the voice said. She recognized that voice anywhere, even as a whisper.

"Ketan?" The black cloth then began moving. Was it his scarf? Before Kara could begin digging, she heard a buzzing sound in the distance. It was a motor of some sort. Then a red skidoo leaped over the side of hill and landed not far from where she lay. Two figures dressed in red vests with white crosses on them jumped from the skidoo and ran towards her.

"Over here!" Kara yelled. The two men ignored her though and began digging in the snow beside her.

"Did you find the girl? Kara Brown, her parents said?"

"Yes. She's already on her way down the slope. Any sign of the boy, Ketan Andrews?"

"He's right here," Kara said, but couldn't get her mind around the men ignoring her. Why were they ignoring her when she was lying right in front of them, possibly hurt? Then something else they had said resounded in her mind, twirling round and round in her head: **"She's already on her way down the slope."**

Why did they say that when she right here?

The realization hit her like a freight train. Was she dead? Kara could only lie back in the snow helpless and watch as the medics lifted Ketan's lifeless body out of the ground.

* * *

Kara awoke to the sound of beeping and hushed voices. She blinked and tried to touch her face, but felt resistance at her wrist. She looked down and saw an IV drip sticking out of her hand. She looked around and saw a few nurses standing nearby talking and doctors running back and forth. She tried to sit up, and felt nothing holding her down. There were no tubes or wires. She sat on the side of the bed and found the IV stand next to the bed. She stood up on shaky legs. Why couldn't she remember what happened to her? Why was she in a hospital? She made her way through the curtain that was draped around her bed and peered down the corridor. That's when she saw a familiar face.

"Mrs. Andrews? Candi?" Ketan's mother and sister were standing beside a bed on the opposite side of the room. Both were crying, and neither of them looked her way when she called their names. Perhaps they were so caught up in their grief and shock they simply didn't hear her. Kara crept closer.

"Mrs. Andrews?" She stood beside the older woman. Her wavy brown hair, the same color as her son's, was disheveled and cuts and bruises marred her beautiful face. Candi's long straight hair looked tangled and unbrushed, which was very unlike Candi. Ketan's sister was two years younger than Kara and Ketan, and normally the picture of perfection. She wouldn't dare leave home without makeup and freshly flat-ironed hair. Today she looked like she had walked straight off the set of a zombie movie. How come they weren't paying her any attention? Then she looked down at Ketan, and his appearance stopped her heart. Her boyfriend lay in the middle of a tangle of wires and machines. His gorgeous body was covered in bruises, cuts and dried blood. Both of his legs were in casts and one of his arms too.

"Oh my god, Ketan," Kara cried. "What happened, baby?"

Kara walked around the side of the bed and took his hand in hers. A tear escaped her eye and rolled down her cheek.

"I'm so sorry I lied to you about skiing. It's my fault we were there. I was such a baby!" A sob wreaked her body and she bent over and buried her face in Ketan's chest. A cacophony of beeps and shrieks of machinery pulled Kara from her bubble of despair. Nurses and doctors ran down the hall. Candi and Mrs. Andrews looked at each other with concern. Candi squeezed her mother's hand tight.

Over the chaos, it was then that Kara heard a voice.

"Kara! No, don't leave me!" Kara ran out of Ketan's room towards the sound of the voice. She found her parents standing just outside her hospital room watching the doctors and nurses working on her body.

Wait! Her body? A feeling of dread settled over Kara as she looked down at herself then over at her unconscious body in the hospital body. Oh no! Her body was in a coma and she was standing in the hallway watching herself be resuscitated as a ghost. She turned around to bolt back to Ketan's room, but collided with something hard. A breath rushed out of her lungs as arms held her steady and eyes checked to see if she was okay. She had seen those eyes before. She recognized those eyes. She loved those eyes. "Ketan?"

"Kara, thank goodness. I was freaking out. I thought you were gone. I saw my body and..."

"We're ghosts, Ketan!"

"What?"

"We're freaking ghosts!"

More machines went haywire down the corridor. They turned to see doctors and nurses running toward Ketan's room. More crazy beeping, sobbing, screaming, then flatline. Ketan began flickering like a flame. Kara gripped his hands tight.

"What's happening, Ketan?"

"I don't know. I think... I think I just died."

The sound of another machine flatlining froze the world around them and turned dull like the color had been sucked out of everything.

"What's going on, Ketan?"

"I don't know, but don't let go of my hand. Okay? Everything is going to be fine if we just stay together."

"I'm scared."

"It's going to be okay. We'll get through this together."

Kara watched as the doctor's called time on each of their bodies, and their families collapsed into a puddle of grief. The worst feeling of all was not being able to comfort them. They couldn't do anything at all except watch.

"Ketan?" she asked with a slight whimper as she watched her parents hugging each other and crying over her body.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for staying with me."

"It's no problem. I made a promise didn't I?"

She wrapped her arms around his waist and snuggled into his chest. Even though they were no longer part of the world they once lived in, Kara knew she would be okay as long as Ketan held her close.

# Movie Night

By Kate Marie Robbins

It was suppose to have been just like any other autumn night. It was chilly, but the night was beautiful, with its almost cloudless sky. Stars dotted across the vast blackness, lighting up the night.

My family and I were getting ready to have one of our campfires in the fire pit in our backyard. A tradition throughout the summer and autumn weekend nights. That night it was just myself, my one brother, and my parents. My other brother always called it a night early, not being a night owl.

I'd spend a few hours outside by the fire. We may have roasted marshmallows or hot dogs that night. That detail escapes my mind. I'd like to say that we did, because at this moment in time, it does sound quite delicious. Despite the fact that we did or did not do so, it isn't what this story is about. It's what happened once I returned to my bedroom later that evening.

It was maybe around eleven o'clock by the time I decided to head inside. One of the first things you see when you enter my bedroom is a book shelf type that I use to house all of my movies. Upon the top shelf, I had placed a cardboard box, for lack of anywhere else to store it at the time. It left no room between the top of the shelf and the dvds below it. Underneath that box on the top shelf, were all of my Johnny Depp movies. Those are some of my favorites, so I keep them there for easy access.

That night when I entered my bedroom, I noticed that one of the movies underneath the box was flipped downward, no longer showing the title of the movie any longer. My eyes locked on that downturned movie, trying to figure out just how the movie had been moved. My brother was fast asleep upstairs, and everyone else was still outside around the fire. The only other living being in the house was my cat, and I really don't think that he wanted to watch a movie. Maybe he did, who am I to judge.

That night wasn't the first time that I'd felt the presence of a spirit in the house, but this was the first time the spirit had moved anything of mine.

Needless to say, I left the movie tipped on its side, terrified that if I moved it back to its righted position that I might anger the spirit. I know I probably should have put the movie in and watched it, but I was also afraid of what would happen if I did.

To this day, I can no longer look at the movie, **The Libertine** the same way again. Maybe one night I'll have a movie night with the spirit living in our house.

# Revisited

By Sandy Ashley

When I was eight, my dad passed away. It was very unexpected, actually. I wasn't very old, but it hurt pretty bad. I was at the apartment with my baby sitter while my dad was at work. It was a normal day really, at least it was when I went to school and came home.

Someone was knocking on the door. I went to answer it and I was staring at my dad's friend from work and his wife. I hadn't seen his wife in ages. I would go to their house a lot, but I hadn't been in a while. I was excited to see them both.

We hung out for a bit. However, they told me they had something to talk to me about. I curled up on the couch. They started to tell me about something. It was the look on their faces that told me I wasn't going to like what they were about to tell me.

I had tears in my eyes already, and then the bomb hit. My dad was gone and he wasn't coming back. I just started bawling. They held me tight and after a little while, we gathered up some clothes and I went to their house. I had nowhere else to go.

My mom was in Texas and my dad's mom was in Montana. Everyone was spread out. Most of my dad's family was in Montana. I didn't want to see any of them though. I honestly already knew where I would end up and I didn't want to go. I wanted to stay in Oregon with my dad's friend from work.

Everything else was kind of a blur. I woke up the next morning and was asking why no one woke me up to go to school. I was told they didn't think I would want to. They wanted to let me have time to yourself. I didn't understand. Why wouldn't they send me to school?

I actually didn't go back to school rest of the year. It was almost over anyway. My dad passed away on May 1st. So, I guess there wasn't much time in school left. At the age of eight, with just losing my dad I didn't remember much of it.

I'm not sure if it was a few days or a week after he passed away, I got a huge envelope with drawings and stuff from the kids in my class. It was actually a sweet thing to have gotten. One of the nicest things being that young that could have happened.

After I moved to Texas with my mom. I was finally sort of settling in. I never really adjusted to living with my mom. I just did what I had to. It was the last place I wanted to move though.

Few months after all of it, I was dreaming one night. There in my dream was my dad. At least I think it was a dream. I wasn't really sure. It actually seemed real. He wasn't solid like if he had been alive. He had a ghostly look to him.

I was kind of freaking out a little bit. I wasn't sure what to think or what to do. I wanted to scream, but when I opened my mouth nothing came out.

"Dad?" I finally managed to get out.

"Yeah, it's me. I just wanted you to know that I'm okay. I don't want you to worry about me. I'm in a better place. I'll watch over you though, so just know I am always here and I'll always be in your heart."

"Why did you have to go though?" I asked.

He must have seen the sadness in my eyes, because, well, what would have felt like his touch was more like chills. All the sudden there I was standing in the middle of my room with tears rolling down my face.

# The Haunting Night

By J. L. Mitchell

"Go on go in." My older sister said as she shoved me towards the creaky gate of the old tree mansion.

"Do I have to?"

"Yep, you took the dare, so you have to."

"And you will pick me up in the morning, right?"

"Yes, I have no choice, mom will be pissed if you aren't home." I glanced up at the mansion, thinking back on the stories we were told every Halloween about the events that happened at the house ten years ago and were warned never to go there.

Can't believe I took a dare from my older sister at the party, I should have learned by now in all seventeen years of my existence to never take a dare from my sister. Nothing good has ever come out of it, but have I learned that by now? Hell no, so why do I do it? Am I really that desperate to fit in with her crowd?

"Well hurry up, go in. I want to get back home to our show," she said, giving me another shove. I picked up my overnight bag that held a change of clothes, a sleeping bag, blanket, pillow, and a stuffed animal I never leave home without, and I walked through the gate that was so rusty that not even a can of W-D40 and rust-away could clean up the mess.

I stopped at the stairs, turned around and looked at my sister and her friends who were snickering behind their hands. I decided to pull up my big girl britches and go it strong and proud, I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of seeing me scared of a rickety old house on Halloween that was just absurd... Right? I waited until I heard the familiar screech of her car tires before I dropped my stuff on a plastic covered sofa, which let off a dust storm in protest. I swear in that dust storm was a small face, screaming of terror. I ignored it and decided to go looking around the house.

'Don't do this Aby, you've seen the horror films, nothing good comes out of people who wander around a haunted house.' I silenced the nagging voice in my head as I went from room to room, looking at all the dust covered objects in the rooms, seeing a lot of furniture that looked preserved with plastic wrap and masking tape. How very original. So far I haven't seen anything that scary in here. Suddenly, I walked into a skeleton hanging from the ceiling. Talk about ewwwwww. I quickly backed out of the room and immediately I felt something or someone grab my shoulder. How was that possible? No one was supposed to be in this house, were they? I turned around and, I kid you not, screamed so loud I swear people in China heard me scream. I went running back down to the living room where my stuff was and grabbed the giant container of salt and started making a circle thick with salt around the couch.

Once I had the salt set in place I curled up on the couch with my stuffed animal and the blanket and looked alert in case anything else undead and creepy came crawling towards me. I waited out as long as I could until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. I woke up the next day and there was a tiny sliver of sun peeking through the broken shutters of the living room. I did it, I survived the night!

"Take that Isabelle!" I screamed as I punched the air.

"Oh, but Aby, you wouldn't want to leave us, would you?" Came a voice. I stopped cold in my victory dance and looked around for the origin of the voice. "I'm over here Aby," he said again. I turned toward the sound and just as I was about to scream bloody murder, the creepy hand that moved on its own covered over my mouth before I had the chance to inhale breath.

"Not very smart, my dear. You wouldn't want to wake the resident ghosts here, would you?" he said sinisterly. I shook my head as best I could and he smiled with wicked intentions. "Good, now I will order my minion to let your mouth go, but only if you promise not to scream. Understood?" I shook my head hoping beyond hope my sister would hurry up. Then a thought occurred to me, how the hell did they get into the salt circle? I look and see that a spot in the circle was cleared away, well crap. The hand slowly moved away from my mouth and jumped onto the couch

"Now, listen up, you trespassed, and we don't allow trespassers into our house. So as payment when you leave here you will allow us to roam one night a year into your world, only fair we trespass into your territory just like you did ours, do I make myself clear?" he said.

"Yes."

"Good, now I think I hear your ride, off you go, and remember our deal next year on this day you will allow us to wander about."

I nodded as I gathered my stuff and ran out of the house just as my sister came to a screeching halt in front of the gate. "Get in the car now! Mom is on her way home early, and don't you dare mention any of this to her understood?"

"Yep, now can we please go...? I uh, have to use the bathroom and I'm starving."

I jumped into the car and buckled up as she drove off, I glanced out the back window and to my horror saw the mysterious voice waving at me through the window.

# The Strange Creature In The Yard

By Nancy Cooley

Back in the 1950s, a young mother was sitting outside on the front porch of her family home while her six-year-old daughter played in the yard. It was a day just like any other day, nothing was out of the ordinary. She and her daughter often went outside together while her husband was at work.

But a little while later, the mother saw a horrible-looking animal that she at first thought was a stray dog, but then she noticed that even though it had four legs, it also had big, red eyes, and snow white fur. And it was slowly sliding on its belly, moving in the direction of her young daughter.

She became alarmed, but she knew that she had to handle the situation delicately, so that she wouldn't frighten her daughter to death. She decided that she'd just try to get her daughter to come into the house with her as quickly as possible. So she abruptly told her that her playtime outside was over, but the girl still wanted to play outside a little longer, so she continued to run around the yard some more.

As she was running, she almost ran straight into the animal that looked as if it had come straight from hell. But the girl never saw the animal ghost. It was only visible to the mother. So, realizing that her little girl could not see this horrid creature, the mother ran over quickly and grabbed the girl just before the strange-looking ghost could attack her.

And as she hurriedly dragged the girl into the house with her, she looked back at the hell animal and watched it as it slid its deformed body out of the yard, focusing its big red eyes on its next destination.

# Will You Help Me Find My Mommy

By Keleigh Grosso

It had been a weird day... I mean, nothing weird actually happened, it was just one of those days where uneasiness was as thick as fog. I had been uptight all day pacing, nibbling at my nails, and fidgeting with my thumbs. I'm usually not like this, but I couldn't help but feel that something bad was going to happen.

The sun was getting ready to set, and a light, but cold wind began to blow. I shivered as I shut my car door. It had been a pretty chilly fall thus far. I was going to make chicken for dinner, but it wasn't until I got home from work that I realized I had no groceries. I reluctantly decided to go to the store despite the fact it probably was not the best time to be leaving the safety of my home.

I pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store and parked in a spot in the right hand corner... "Okay, I need..." I thought out my list as I approached the automatic front doors. A heaviness grew in the pit of my stomach. I walked down aisle after aisle grabbing items. I was so consumed in my thoughts, I barely noticed that there was hardly anyone in the store. It was almost as if everyone had dropped off the face of the earth.

I looked around and shrugged. "Oh, well..." I sighed. I continued on my way down the aisle. I stopped to look at the spices. The fluorescent lights above my head began to sporadically flicker. I looked up and raised an eyebrow. "Damn lights..." I mumbled. I shook my head as I grabbed a bottle of paprika and tossed it in my basket. I turned to finish going down the aisle and stopped.

He caught me by surprise. A little boy probably about six or seven stood at the end of the aisle. He was wearing a Sesame Street t-shirt and shorts, unusual for this time of the year. He was very pale, almost white. He had dirty blonde hair and green eyes. I got lost in his stare. He just looked at me with a calmness about him. Despite my better judgement, I pushed my cart over and knelt down in front of him.

"Sweetie, are you okay?" I whispered. He looked down at the floor. The lights again began to flicker. In a sad, slow voice he replied, "Will you help me find my mommy?" I took his hand in mine and felt a chill run down my spine. It was freezing cold. "Sure... What's your name?" I asked him as I gulped in nervousness. Something just seemed off. He then looked up. "Ryan Ellerman." He murmured back. "Okay, Ryan. Here, take this." I told him as I handed him my jacket from the basket. He stared at my outstretched arm with an indifferent look in his eyes. I took the jacket and draped it around his shoulders. "C'mon Ryan, let's go find a cashier." He slowly nodded and proceeded to follow me.

We got to the front of the store and I got into one of the lanes. I approached the lady behind the counter. "Excuse me, ma'am? This little boy needs help finding his mom..." I told her. She looked at me and smiled, "Of Course! Where is he?" she asked. "He's right here," I replied as I turned to look at him. My mouth dropped open, my hands fell to my sides, I went speechless. He wasn't there.

"I swear he was right there!" I exclaimed. "Well, ma'am, what's his name? Maybe he wandered away. I'll call him over the intercom," she replied as she held the phone up, getting ready to press the intercom button. I thought for a second..." Ryan, Ryan Ellerman." I told her. She hung up the phone and walked around the cash register.

"Miss, can you follow me, please," she asked. Still dumbfounded, I nodded. She led me to a wall in the back by the employee office. It was filled with pictures of missing children. She scanned them for a second then pointed to one. "Is this what he looks like?" she asked me. The picture was of a little boy with dirty blonde hair and green eyes wearing a Sesame Street shirt and shorts, smiling happily while about to blow out six candles atop an Elmo birthday cake. I nodded. She shifted her stance uncomfortably and looked down as if to avoid my curious gaze. "Well, ma'am, that little boy, Ryan, was abducted from this store in 1989. He wandered away from his mom and was never seen again until they found his body in a house down the street. He was missing for two weeks." I whimpered silently as tears welled in my eyes. Suddenly, I remembered something.

"Wait!" I called as I ran back to the aisle where I first saw him, the concerned cashier following behind me. I looked around on the ground, under the racks, on the shelves... nothing... I turned around to walk back to my basket. "It's alright, Miss... you're not the first to see him. He's always doing this to people." I wiped a tear from my eye as the cashier put her arm over my shoulder.

I got to my basket and began to uncontrollably weep. Folded neatly on the side, was my jacket. I snatched it from the edge and ran out the front door to my car. The darkness of the night surrounded me as I jumped in and quickly started it. I needed to get away, just to be anywhere but here. I pulled out of my space and made my way to the main street.

As I drove past the front door of the grocery store, Ryan stared at me from the glass window. His pale face lit by the moonlight.

# You Can't Kill Rock and Roll

By Justin Osborne

When Diane got the call about the job, it couldn't have come at a better time. With myself unable to find work in the last two years, and her current job getting a little too stressful for what they were paying, we were close to hitting one of those 'rough spots', but with this new job, things were beginning to look better.

We'd spend every morning after our daughter Katie left for school, going over wanted ads. Diane, working the graveyard shift would just be getting home, while I was just getting up to start my day. We'd brew some coffee and scan the papers, usually seeing nothing of interest. While living in a small town had its advantages, finding decent or even **somewhat** decent work was not one of them. Then one morning an ad jumped out and bit my nose. It wasn't really for me but it seemed perfect for her. After I read it real quick, I passed it to Diane, I went over its good points while she tried to read it, but she didn't appreciate the assist and gave me a half-hearted kick under the table for my trouble. Who says good deeds don't go unpunished?

The ad was looking for a live-in manager for a local apartment complex. We knew of the place, it didn't have the best reputation and was in a pretty rough part of town, but the perks were something we just couldn't pass up. Free apartment, amenities, a very nice salary and the office would be right across from our front door. It sure beat what we had going on at that moment, so Diane and I discussed it and decided that it was worth a shot.

* * *

Diane was grinning from ear to ear when she got back from the interview, it seemed that it had gone well. The only problem was they needed her to start pretty much right away, she hadn't put in her two weeks' notice at her current job yet, and she was insistent on leaving on good terms, just in case things fell through.

I tried to talk her out of it, for her to just leave 'em in the dust, that'll show 'em. But she wouldn't hear of it. Diane was a hard-headed woman, but it worked out in her favor about 95% of the time, so I just let her do what she was going to do.

All of the moving was up to me and Katie, who was surprisingly helpful for a girl of thirteen; Diane earned the right to not help since she was averaging about four hours of sleep a day if she was lucky. Things got slightly easier for her once her two weeks were done and gone at the old job, but unfortunately the previous manager had left the office in shambles.

Simply put, it was a mess.

Most of the work Diane put into the office at first was just organizing files and putting things the way she liked it. When she was finally done, it was time to clean house. The previous manager, who was on the run for pocketing quite a few folks rent money, hadn't bothered to run background checks on most of the undesirable tenants, or enforce the rules.

After putting the office to rights, Diane set upon putting the unruly tenants in order. Most fell back into line, but some were insistent on keeping things the way they were. They quickly had to find someplace else to live.

Intimidation seemed to work on the former manager, and they tried it with Diane. They obviously didn't know who they were dealing with, all that accomplished was to hurry their evictions along.

Since it was a three bedroom apartment, we had an extra room which was promptly filled with my musical equipment. It was crammed full with my guitars, amps, keyboard, and drum kit. I'm primarily a guitarist, but I fiddle around with all of it, and I'm not too bad either, in my not-so-humble opinion.

I even had room for a little bit of recording equipment. It all used to be nicely spaced out in my old garage, but there was no way I was putting all of it in storage or selling it. I still used this stuff! I was even in a band with some local guys, we used to play at most of the bars around town, but since Jerome, our rhythm guitarist moved, we were on hold until we found a worthy replacement.

While Diane was busy enforcing the rules and filing evictions, I spent time in my 'studio' in between filling out applications and going to job interviews. Needless to say I spent a lot more time in that room then I would have preferred. Being cooped up in the apartment was slowly taking its toll on my sanity, or so I thought, as it turned out our apartment had come with an extra perk.

* * *

It started small as all things do, things moved around, and things falling off of shelves. At first, I thought I was forgetting where I put things, or setting them too close to the edge of the countertop, things that were easily passed off as 'normal'.

Then there were the strange things with my equipment.

Weird feedback through my amplifier was the start of all that. I couldn't make out the sounds, but it definitely wasn't normal. I took it apart and made sure nothing was broken, and to my surprise, nothing was. Then there were the times I'd leave the room to do whatever, and I'd hear the guitar strum or the keyboard play a note or two. I'd rush back into the room and see nothing, **nobody** was there. I would have blamed the cat if I had one.

There were other times when I would have my headphones on, practicing as quietly as I could so I wouldn't disturb anybody. Apartments do not make for good practice spaces, in case you were wondering. But there I'd be jammin' away, and I could swear I heard a voice coming through, it was like the feedback on the amp, but the headphones made it so much clearer. I didn't understand any of it, but it was a voice, I was certain of that. I passed it off as cell phone interference or something, so I just learned to tune it out.

I didn't tell Diane or Katie, they'd think I had cabin fever and possibly going over the deep end.

This continued for a few weeks before it escalated, and it escalated **big** -time.

Sometimes when I got bored, I'd try to grab a power nap for about an hour or so before Katie got home from school. On one particular occasion, I was in that state of rest just before you actually fall asleep when I felt the worst pain I've ever experienced, right between my shoulder blades.

I shot up to a sitting position yelling in pain, instinctively touching where it hurt, and it hurt like a son of a bitch.

I jumped out of bed and threw off the blankets searching for the six or eight legged bastard that bit me. No dice, there was nothing there

I even pressed down on the area of the mattress where I was laying; looking for an errant spring or anything that could have poked me, and again, **nothing**.

My back hurt too bad to try to sleep again.

This happened daily for the next week and a half, and always when I was just about to fall sleep, every damned afternoon, but never at night. I was **allowed** to sleep at night.

With afternoon naps out of the question, I spent more time outside, socializing with my new neighbors. And what an eclectic bunch **they** were, lemme tell you.

Probably the most interesting one was a guy everyone called 'Biker Bob'. And boy did he look the part: long, grayish, straggly hair, with a beard to match, always decked out in jeans and faded t-shirt, and a greasy bandana to cover his bald spot. The funny part was that 'Biker Bob' didn't even have a motorcycle. There was even speculation whether or not he had **ever** owned one or even knew how to ride the damn things. It seemed like he just liked the 'uniform'.

He was a local historian of sorts, as far as anyone knew he was the longest lasting tenant at the complex, and he seemed to know a lot about the town's history.

I had planned to ask him about the weird occurrences in the apartment, but one day he beat me to it.

I had developed a habit of sitting under the carport in a lawn chair, enjoying a cup or two of coffee, especially when it was raining. And considering that it was early November, it was raining almost daily. I had just settled down with my cup, listening to the rain ping off the tin carport when 'Biker Bob' came out of his apartment.

He had a daily habit of his own. Walking. Where he went, I couldn't tell ya, but he made multiple trips throughout the day until the sun went down. Back and forth and back and forth he went to wherever it was that he went. Sometimes on his way out he'd stop and chat for a bit, this particular morning, he did. Now, another interesting thing about 'Biker Bob' was the way he talked.

He made even the dullest conversation sound like the speech of the century, he mulled over every sentence like his life depended on it. If he told you about the size, shape, and consistency of his bowel movements, the soothing drawl of his velvet voice made you want to sit down, and takes notes so you'd remember it for all posterity.

'Biker Bob' usually started every conversation with a question, but that morning, he totally blind-sided me. He didn't even open with his usual 'Good Morning!" Instead he opened with, "So, have you met Dean yet?"

I answered his question with one of my own. "Who's Dean?"

I haven't yet met all of the tenants yet, but I've heard all of their names. I didn't hear about any 'Dean'.

I told him that I haven't yet. He gave me a strange look and asked, "Are you sure about that?"

I nodded and said, "Pretty sure, yeah."

He scratched his beard. "That's weird; I figured you would have already, considering that he lives in your apartment..."

Of course I asked him what the hell he was talking about.

Then he told me a story.

* * *

"About ten years ago or so there was this kid, Dean, that lived down at the far end of the complex, number thirty-three, I think. Anyway, this kid was in a band with my boy, Anthony, and a few others. They practiced in one of their garages, and they were pretty good. But Dean was the best guitarist I've **ever** heard at his age. Hell, he was better than most professional guitarists three **times** his age. They played shows around town, even won a battle of the bands down in the city. Those kids were going places, especially Dean. Then the rumors started, drugs and such, hanging around the wrong crowd, y'know? I never saw anything like that, the kid didn't act any different, and it sure as hell didn't affect his playing as drugs are prone to do, and I never saw him with any undesirable people, so I considered them to be just unfounded rumors. You know how kids are. Anyway, one day he turned up missing. Nobody had seen him in a few days, and there was talk of a drug deal gone bad. He owed people money, the kind of shit that comes up in this situation, y'know? Turns out he was **killed** , not missing. Stabbed in the back twenty-seven times! The poor kid didn't deserve that, he was a **good** kid. You hear about kids helping old ladies with their groceries or taking out their trash, Dean **did** that! Every damn day. He was respectful, kind, never had a bad thing to say about anybody. I never believed the bullshit rumors. I knew that kid, there was no way. But, he turned up dead anyway... The police found his body a few days after his dad reported him gone, and they found him right behind **your** place. I heard rumors that he's still hanging around, and I tell ya, I believe **those** rumors. I've heard too many things from people that have never met each other that have lived in that apartment. There's gotta be something to it, y'know?"

'Biker Bob' finished his story and waited for a response, but I had nothing. I was too stunned to speak. My apartment was haunted by a dead guitar prodigy? What the hell are you supposed to say to **that**?

'Biker Bob' saw my reaction and said, "I guess you **have** met him then."

I told him everything. From the things being moved around and knocked over, the unseen fingers plucking at my guitar, to the naptime stabs in the back.

He simply scratched his beard and nodded. "Yep, that sounds like Dean all right. He was a bit of a prankster, never hurt nobody though. It sounds like he's trying to tell you something, and since you're a musician like he was, he probably feels comfortable around you, and as for the stabbing? He's probably frustrated that you've been ignoring him. Sounds like a typical sixteen year old to me, even though he'd be twenty-six now..."

I asked if I should call a priest or something to get him out of there, 'Biker Bob' laughed and told me that the kid was probably hanging around because there was something he needed to do or something that needed to be done for him before he could move on.

I asked what Dean would possibly need, Bob just shrugged and said that he didn't have a goddamn idea, that I'd have to figure that out for myself, or I could always just ask Dean myself. He also said that I should acknowledge Dean, talk to him, let him know that I know he's there, and maybe he'll open up.

Bob held up a finger and said that he'd be right back and that he had something for me. He turned and went back to his apartment. I took the opportunity to go get more coffee.

When I went back inside, I got chills. It's one thing to **think** that you have some unseen thing in your home, it's another matter altogether when you **know** you do. I decided to break the ice. I said hello and called to Dean, just like Bob said to do. There was no answer of course, ghosts didn't just come out and answer you when you talked to them. I didn't even know if he was there or not, although I couldn't imagine where else he would possibly be. That thought gave me the chills all over again. What if he was, is and always would be here, in this apartment? Constantly watching us, when we eat, when we sleep, and maybe even when we... I didn't finish that thought. I refilled my mug, added creamer and sugar and went back outside quicker than I meant to.

Bob was waiting under the carport for me and handed me a CD. He told me it was one that Dean and his son, Anthony had done with their band. I looked down at it, 'Wicked Taco Shits' it said. It had an accompanying picture of a flaming toilet on the cover. It was obvious that it wasn't professionally made, but it showed creativity and imagination, and isn't that what music is all about?

Bob excused himself and told me that he had to get going where he was going. We exchanged 'Laters' and he was on his way.

I swear to God that one day I'm going to follow him, out of sight of course, and find out just where the hell he goes.

I folded up my chair, grabbed my coffee, and went back inside. There was nobody else to talk to out there, and I really wanted to check out this CD. I'm always interested in what the kids are listening to these days, except for Katie's 'bubblegum' Top 40 crap. I **hate** Top 40 crap.

This time when I went back in, I swear I felt eyes on me. It was a very uncomfortable feeling to know you're being watched when you know that nobody's there.

I held the CD up as if I was showing to someone and said "Hey, Dean, I got your CD here. I'm gonna see if you live up to the hype. I hear you're pretty good."

There was no response of course, but I kept talking anyway. It helped with the 'creeps.' "The Wicked Taco Shits, huh? I'm not sure you'd get much radio play with a name like that, but hey, the times they are a changin' right?"

I loaded up the CD and pushed 'play'.

The opening riff blew me away; the kid was **good** , **damn** good. Not only was he fast, he was also articulate, I could hear each crispy note. He was a bit rough around the edges, but he **was** only sixteen or so when this was recorded. The other kids in the band though, were **iffy** at best, the drummer kept time like a cheap knockoff watch, the rhythm guitarist was all over the damn place, and I had the check the case to make sure that there actually **was** a bassist. It claimed that there was, but I'll be damned if I could hear him though.

Dean lived up to the hype and then some. If he hadn't been taken out of the game before he hit his prime, he could have been legendary. I have no doubt of that at all. I also have no doubt that the other guys in the band would have been quietly led away, never to be heard from again.

Then I got the chills again, but more so. I felt a hand on my shoulder, or thought I did, it was so faint, but I know that it was there. Then an overwhelming feeling of sadness and despair came over me. My knees went weak, tears welled up in my eyes and thoughts that were and weren't mine at the same time filled my ears.

**"** **Too soon. Unfair. Not done yet."** Were the loudest and clearest among them.

My knees finally gave out altogether and I went down to the floor, weeping.

I was still there when Katie came home from school, the tears had dried up, but I was still just laying there. I couldn't find the strength to pick myself up until Katie asked me what the heck I was doing. I told her I was looking for the remote under the entertainment center. I held it up and said "Here it is!"

She gave me the look that a teenager gives her parents when they're being 'weird', and went into her room. By that time the CD was over, so I turned the stereo off, sat down and the couch and replayed what had happened.

Dean **was** there, he **touched** me, I felt what **he** felt, and I never felt so sorry for anyone, ever. This kid, this **good** kid, with an incredible talent and a promising future to be rock and roll royalty, or whatever the kids would consider today's equivalent. Snuffed out like a candle, it was just too tragic for words.

* * *

That night I ate dinner in silence. Well, I didn't really eat all that much, I just moved food around and occasionally it would find its way into my mouth. Katie talked about her day and the usual teenage gossip; I did my part and nodded when I was expected to. Diane talked about her day as well, and I did the same, but she wasn't a teenage girl who was alright with nods and half-assed one word answers. She was expecting full sentence answers and my full attention.

She asked what was wrong.

What would I tell her? What I believed to be the truth? She'd laugh or worse!

Then in that moment of awkward silence, the kitchen tap came on. We were all still sitting at the table in the dining area and Diane and Katie both whipped their heads in that direction. I just continued to stare at my plate and half-heartedly told Dean to knock it off, I wasn't in the mood.

Katie and Diane nearly broke their necks to look back at me.

Diane asked who 'Dean' was, with more than just a hint of frightened curiosity in her voice; Katie just continued to stare at me.

Then as suddenly as it came on, the tap shut off. It seemed that Dean had got the hint.

Before Diane could ask again, I told her and Katie everything that had happened up to that point.

Afterwards, she was more than a little freaked out. Katie, on the other hand, was ecstatic; she thought it was the coolest thing **ever**.

Right after she loaded up the dishwasher, Katie immediately ran off to her room and got her fancy new phone, she said she was going to try to get an EVP recording, something those guys on the 'Ghost Hunting' shows that she watched did all the time. I never watched those shows so I had no idea what she was going on about, all I knew is that she was **way** too excited about it.

Much to her mother's displeasure, Katie turned everything off, the T.V., the lights, everything. The apartment was completely dark and silent, except for Diane, who was grumbling about being able to see her dinner. Diane always was a slow eater.

Katie turned her phone on and set it to record, it sure beat the old cassette recorder I had when I was a kid. She started off by asking Dean questions like "Is your name Dean? What are you doing here? Do you need help?" She was kind enough to pause long enough to let Dean answer her if he chose to. Katie explained that sometimes spirits didn't feel like talking, and we wouldn't hear him anyway until we played back the recording.

As soon as Katie asked the last question, her phone died. Diane made a remark about keeping her phone charged, Katie responded by explaining that her phone was fully charged but spirits needed a lot of energy to manifest themselves, that this is what she hoped would happen, she explained that any response was good and this was **definitely** a response.

Now that the excitement was over, Diane grumpily asked for Katie to put the lights back on, her potatoes were getting cold.

Katie went back into her room and got her charger and plugged the phone in. She stared at it as it juiced back up, her eyes wild with excitement, she just couldn't wait to hear if she got anything.

Diane, already unimpressed with the whole deal, went to the couch and turned the T.V. on; I joined her as we waited for the phone to charge.

Five minutes later, Katie had waited long enough; she just couldn't handle waiting anymore. She frantically called me over and told me to mute the T.V., as these EVP things could be hard to make out, they required your full attention.

Diane pouted, crossed her arms and made a comment about me 'couching it'. I was starting to think that she wasn't very interested in any of this.

Katie and I huddled close together as she hit the 'play' button.

After a second or so of silence, we heard Katie's voice loud and clear ask "Is your name Dean?" We heard nothing during the pause before the next question. Strike one. "What are you doing here?" came next, and again, no response. Strike two. We held our breath as we waited for a response to the last question, "Do you need help?" We were about to pass it off as strike three, but we heard something. It was so faint, we couldn't make it out, but it was there. A sound that none of us had made.

I told Katie to go get her headphones so we could hear it without any outside noises getting in the way. She ran and was back in seconds. I plugged in the headphone and hit play again. The sound was still faint, almost a whisper, but I **heard** it, it was two words.

I gave the headphones to Katie so she could hear, but I didn't tell her what I had heard. After a few seconds, her eyes lit up and she blurted out "Oh my **God**!"

She yanked the headphones out and asked what I heard. I told her we should both say what we thought we heard on the count of three.

One.

Two.

Three.

**"** **Help me,"** we said at the same time.

I was more than a little freaked out, but Katie was loving it. We each listened to it a few more times to make sure that there was no doubt as to what we heard.

A few minutes later, curiosity finally got the better of Diane and she pulled herself away from the couch and took a listen herself. After a few seconds, her face went white. It would seem that she had heard it too.

A plea for help, from beyond the realm of the living.

Diane poured herself a stronger than usual drink and returned to the couch to resume her usual habit of watching a bit of T.V. before bed, but Diane didn't sleep well that night, in fact, none of us did. I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched and Katie was all amped up over showing her friends at school the EVP she'd recorded.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Dean made his presence known in little ways. He'd mess with my music stuff, and I swear that he actually managed to hit a couple of actual notes here and there. Dean also liked to mess around with Katie, he'd tug on her hair gently or poke her in the nose when she first woke up, she would swear that sometimes that she could hear him laughing.

I found out later that Dean had a little sister that was Katie's age before his death.

He pretty much left Diane alone though; he must have known that she wasn't thrilled that he was there, and even in the afterlife he respected her space. But every so often he'd do something to her; it was almost like he just couldn't resist the urge. He was particularly good at hiding her shoes and they'd always show up before she got too upset about it. Diane never mentioned if she ever heard him laughing about it, but I'm sure he was; **I** thought it was funny.

And the best part? Dean stopped jabbing me in the back.

* * *

As the weather outside got colder, I switched from coffee to hot chocolate for my morning ritual. One morning as I was looking off into the distant clouds wondering if it was going to snow, I heard someone yell for Anthony. It sounded like old 'Biker Bob.' I looked up and saw someone familiar, someone I saw nearly every day, but I never had a name to go with the face. **So, that's Anthony** , I remarked to myself. I always assumed that he was just another one of the 'unsavory' tenants here, badly in need of a shower, shave, and some clean clothes. But nope, it was just 'Biker Bob's' twenty-something year old son that still lived at home in serious need of a shower, shave, and clean clothes.

Anthony kept right on walking, pretending not to hear his father calling him. Seconds later, Bob came out wearing nothing but sweatpants, no shirt, no shoes. He hollered after Anthony again telling him to take the trash out, since he had nothing better to do but hang out at his friend's house doing nothing but get drunk and smoke weed all day, **NOT** working. I found that funny because that's what Bob did all day too, except he **had** an income, if you counted drawing a disability check. What his apparent disability actually **was** , was anybody's guess. He seemed pretty fit to me.

Anthony didn't even bother to turn around to shoot the middle finger at his father; his train kept right on a rollin'. Bob returned the middle finger and stomped off back into the house.

I saw this as an opportunity, **he** played guitar, I played guitar, I thought maybe he'd like to jam with me sometime. I know that **I** always liked jamming with the old dogs when I could, learning new things and maybe teaching those old dogs a few tricks or two of my own. I called him over.

I had never looked Anthony in the eye before, and he always had this 'look' about him, like he was always on the verge of exploding. But looking him straight in the eye was a whole different feeling, almost as if he was a gun looking for a target, and when he looked right at you, you could almost feel the crosshairs boring into your forehead. I tried not to let it show and smiled.

"You're Anthony, right?" He just maintained his glare without answering. Then I realized that was a stupid thing to say. I obviously just heard his father call him by name. Nonplussed, I continued.

"I hear you play guitar, so do I. How about jamming with me sometime?"

Anthony's emotional void of a face cracked slightly, and he mumbled out a response of, "Yeah, yeah, that'd be cool..." And he went on his way without another word.

As I watched him go, I immediately regretted asking. I got a real bad feeling about him; he gave me a serious case of the 'heebie jeebies.' Well, it was too late now, I was committed. I hoped he would forget about the offer or flake out on me or something. I had no desire to be alone with this guy away from any witnesses.

Then I had another brilliant idea, but without the implied sarcasm.

Maybe there was a way that I could try to jam with Dean? I highly doubted that he would be able to pick up a guitar and play along with me, but I could try to make **something** work. After all, speaking as a musician, **not** being able to do something involving music **must** be killing him, pardon the pun.

* * *

The next morning after Katie was off to school and Diane went to work, I hit the 'studio', so to speak. I turned everything on, the amps, keyboard, mixer, even the recorder, just in case Dean wanted to participate. I just hoped that he **could** or I'd feel like I was dangling it under his nose like a starving dog.

I sat down, plugged in my guitar and said, "Dean, if you're here, feel free to jump in, man. It would be an honor to strum some strings with you." I waited a few moments for a response of some kind, **any** kind, to let me know that he was even there.

Then a heard the ping of a high note from the keyboard. I froze. I know that I was expecting a response, but it still freaked me out a little bit.

"Dean, I have an idea if you're **able** to that is. How about you hit a high note for a 'positive' and a low note for a 'negative', can you do that? If you need 'energy' or whatever, take what you need from the amp, Okay?"

Another ping of a high note from the keyboard, almost immediately.

Now this was getting both extremely cool and pretty damn scary at the same time.

I thought that I'd try having a little Q and A session with Dean using the keyboard, to talk to him in some way. I didn't have an Ouija board, those things were bogus.

My ego as a guitarist asked the first question, "So... I guess you've heard me play, right, what do you think, am I pretty good or what?"

High note.

I was about to thank him, and then came the low note.

What the hell? Was that a maybe? A so-so?

Somewhat humbled, I continued.

"Your buddy Anthony, is **he** any good?"

Low note. And another. And another.

"I'll take that as a no," I said.

The low notes continued, then sped up, then it seemed like Dean was just slamming on the keys over and over.

"Alright, alright, he sucks, I get it!"

Dean stopped slamming on the keyboard.

Then he started a sequence. Threes keys repeatedly, one after the other. They were all low notes which was a negative response, but why three different ones? I didn't get it. Dean kept at it, three notes with a break in between, over and over.

I went over to the keyboard to see what he was trying to do, something he was trying to say, it took me a minute to get it, but I got it.

Piano or keyboard keys have lettered designations, just like guitar strings, and the keys Dean was hitting spelled out a **word** , again and again. When I finally picked up on it the sequence looked like this:

BA.D... B.A.D... B.A.D... B.A.D... B.A.D...

I thought to myself, **pretty smart, kid!** But I said out loud, "Alright, we've established that Anthony sucks."

This time Dean **really** slammed on those low notes.

I tried asking him something else, but he never answered. I think I pissed him off. It wasn't until later, when it was almost too late, that my stupid ass realized that Dean didn't mean Anthony's ability at all and it nearly cost me my life.

After a few days of not hearing anything from Dean, I wondered if he was ever coming back, and I must admit, I was kinda missing not having him around.

* * *

After a week with no Dean, I was in my 'studio' working on a new, original song. With my headphones on, I was oblivious to everything, off in my own little world. I looked up from the fret board just on a whim, and I nearly fell off my stool.

Anthony was standing in the doorway, **inside** my home! When I gathered myself enough to form words, I asked him what the hell he was doing.

I was **pissed**. He simply shrugged and told me he was here to jam with me, I didn't answer the door and it was open, so he came in to see if I was home. He acted as though this was perfectly acceptable.

I told Anthony that this was definitely **not** cool, but he didn't seem to even hear me. He just looked past me, eyeballing my gear.

"So, can I use one of your guitars?" he mumbled. "My dad sold mine for rent money."

For a brief moment I reconsidered my feelings for the kid, maybe he was raised wrong? Maybe I should give him another chance?

Still not 100% sure of the kid, I handed him one of my not-so valuable axes. A cheap off-brand that I just kept around because somehow or another it picked up an interesting tone. I told Anthony to go get a chair from the kitchen and set it in the doorway because my 'studio' was barely roomy enough for just me. He went and came back with a chair and sat down. I reached behind me and handed him the old beater. He took it and looked it over. "Hey, this is pretty nice..."

I gave him the 'are you kidding me?' look, but he didn't notice. Anthony obviously didn't know squat about guitars. I handed him my jar of assorted picks.

I heard from a wise man once that you could judge a guitarist by what pick he uses. I wasn't entirely sure if there was any truth to that statement, it's just what I heard.

Anthony shoved his hand in the jar and chose his pick without even looking. That was strike two against any legitimacy the kid might have had. Strike three would be whether he could actually persuade a decent note out of the 'beater'.

I plugged him in and sat back to watch the show, or the train wreck, whatever the case would turn out to be. It turned out that strike three **should** have been tuning it up. Anthony didn't bother, he dove right in.

Dean was right. Anthony sucked.

Now don't get me wrong, he wasn't **totally** horrible, with some lessons and a **lot** of practice, he eventually **might** become decent, if he was lucky.

After a few minutes of him figuratively beating the living hell out of my old guitar, I had to stop him before he destroyed music for me forever.

Let's say he didn't exactly like the idea.

"What the hell, man! I was just getting' warmed up!"

I tried to take the guitar back in an attempt to show a better way to place his fingers for a note that he messed up a few times, but he wouldn't let it go. It was like trying to take a bone from a junkyard dog and I let go before I got bit.

He continued to rant. "I don't need you to show me **shit**! I'm good! I'm the best in town!"

Normally, I'm quiet and reserved, but this jackass was getting on my nerves and I shot my mouth off.

"Kid, you can't **play** for shit. If you're the best this town has to offer... Just, just get the hell out of here, and put down my goddamned guitar!"

Given the combination of the look on his face and him blocking the doorway, I was suddenly very regretful of opening my trap. If he started something, I had no way out, except **through** him, and he had at least fifty pounds on me.

He decided to show his displeasure by chucking the guitar at me, luckily he missed. Unluckily, it went through my bass drum skin.

Now **there** was an expense I didn't need, but I was grateful that there wouldn't be a hospital bill on top of it. He stormed out without incident, and after slamming my front door, he was gone. There was a moment of stunned silence as my 'fight or flight' reflex took its time to decide whether or not it was safe to breathe.

Just as my pulse finally slowed to normal, keys were struck on my keyboard in a familiar pattern.

B.A.D. B.A.D. B.A.D. over and over again...

I nodded in the direction of the keyboard. "Yeah, no shit, Dean. No shit..."

I considered calling the cops and reporting all this, but the local cops were lackadaisical at best. They rarely arrested anybody unless it was really necessary, so I figured if I bothered calling. They'd just show up, ask some half-assed questions, and give a warning, which would probably piss 'psycho-boy' off even more. So I let it slide for now.

* * *

When Diane got home that evening, she told me that she had to go out of town for some kind of Property Management training seminar for a few days. And it would be just me and Katie for some father/daughter bonding time.

I wanted to go to, but we agreed that Katie was not nearly old enough to be by herself for that long. So I stayed home and played Mr. Mom.

That night I made Katie's favorite, English muffin pizzas, and after dinner we popped some corn in the microwave and watched a movie of her choosing. Want some advice? **Never** ask a thirteen year old girl what she considers a good movie.

Never.

So after ninety minutes of sappy crappy romance, Katie had to wake me up from the couch so I could sleep in an actual bed. Being half awake I completely forgot my usual bedtime rituals and shambled to my bed.

* * *

Sometime later, I was awoken by the movement of the blinds in my bedroom window. Normally I'd blame a draft coming through my window, but being mid-November, that window stayed closed, and locked.

The only other thing that caused the blinds to move like that was the vacuum created when someone opened the front door. I rolled over and looked at the clock radio on the nightstand: 4:37am.

I remembered that one of my bedtime rituals was to lock the door. In my daze of half-sleep, I'd left it unlocked. And someone had just opened it. Someone was in the apartment.

I got out of bed as quietly as I could and listened for any sound and heard nothing. I slowly opened my door just enough to peek through it. The whole apartment was dark except for the kitchen. The stove light was on. And I **know** that was left off. Then I heard the sound of movement, someone was **in** the kitchen. I picked up the thick wooden dowel that I kept on the top shelf of the closet, just in case.

I crept out of my room, literally on my tiptoes towards the kitchen, dowel at the ready. Suddenly a shadow stepped out of the kitchen and I swung.

It was fortunate that I swung high. It was also fortunate that Katie took after her mom and was only 5'2. The dowel hit the corner of the entryway and broke in half with a loud crack. That sound was followed by Katie's ear piercing scream, and that sound was followed by Katie's glass of water shattering on the linoleum.

"Dad! What the HELL?!?" she yelled. Normally we frowned on Katie using language like that, but since I nearly took her head off, I gave her a pass.

"What are you doing up? I could've **killed** you..." I asked.

Then she gave me a look that she inherited from her mother, most married men would recognize it as the "What the hell do you **think** I was doing?" look.

She was very good at it for a girl of her age. She very animatedly pointed to the broken glass on the floor. "I was THIRSTY! Crazy old man..." She bent down to pick up the large pieces of glass and held them in her right hand. I looked down at her and told her to be careful. She looked up and gave me another look, much like the previous one.

My eyes followed her as she stood to throw the glass in the trashcan, and I jumped in surprise.

'Biker Bob' was standing right behind her, partially hidden by the shadows. Before I could say or do anything, he had my little girl's throat in his hand and a large knife in the other. His eyes were cold and dull; he didn't even blink as he glared at me.

With her free hand, Katie weakly clawed at her neck, trying to get free.

"Bob, what the hell are you **doing**? Let her go NOW!" I demanded.

He raised the knife to Katie's neck. "Thanks to **you** , my boy doesn't want to play anymore! Where do you get off tellin' him that he's no good? He was my ticket outta this shithole town!"

I dropped the busted dowel to the floor; it was useless to me, he had my little girl... If I went after him, he might hurt her, or worse... I was frozen, powerless, he held all the marbles for the moment. I tried pleading with him.

"Bob, please. Let Katie go, I'm sorry I insulted your boy. Just let Katie go, okay? Please." I didn't mean a word of that apology, but I had to do **something** to get him to let Katie go.

But Bob never wavered, not in the slightest; in fact he held the knife closer to her throat. "I'll do to her what I did to that little asshole, Dean. He thought **he** was better than my boy too! Anthony taught him everything he knew! And how did he repay him? Made him feel like shit because he had slow and stupid fingers!" Bob edged the knife closer. It was now touching my little girl's neck. "If I had the time, I'd have cut off his damn fingers and fed 'em to his little diva ass!" he spat.

Katie may have inherited the 'look' from her mother, but she inherited something from me as well. My fast hands.

Katie's little arm shot up between the crook of Bob's elbow and herself, and fed ol' 'Biker Bob' a handful of broken glass.

He immediately released Katie's neck, but not the **knife**. I managed to lean forward and pull her away behind me. The knife cut her slightly as I pulled her away. Thank God it wasn't deep. I pushed her into her bedroom and told her to lock the door and call 911. No matter what happened next, at least Katie was safe.

With his free hand Bob yanked piece after piece of glass from his face while squealing. He still held the knife in the other hand. Katie's blood reflected off the blade in the dim light, the sight of it fueled me to action. I can take all sorts of abuse, and I could count all the fights I've ever had on one hand, but I wasn't about to let someone hurt my child and get away with it.

I lunged at him, ready to gouge his eyes out, but he was stronger and shoved me away with little effort. My back hit the bathroom door hard, knocking the wind from me. As I struggled to regain my balance, Bob advanced on me, the bloody knife held high.

From Katie's room I could hear her yelling at the dispatcher to send someone right away, and inwardly I hoped they'd make it in the next few seconds.

As I tried to stand, my fingers brushed something that shouldn't have been there, it should've been in the other room, in its stand, beside the amplifier. It was the old 'beater' guitar.

Determined to protect my daughter, and **myself** , my fingers wrapped around the upper neck of the 'beater', I gripped it hard and swung upward.

Having no momentum and using only one hand, the swing was weak and slow. Bob managed to avoid it completely and took another step towards me.

With the 'beater' at the apex of its arc, I was able to get my other hand around the neck and I brought it down as hard and fast as I could on Bob's left shoulder. There was a loud crack, at the time I wasn't sure if it was the guitar or Bob's collarbone that broke, but I wasn't about to stop until one or the other was broken.

Bob howled and dropped the knife while I held onto the guitar and kept swinging. After a few good hits, Bob was on his knees, beaten and bloody. But I had one more swing left in the 'beater' and goddamn it, I was gonna use it. I brought the guitar down one final time directly on top of Bob's skull.

They both broke. The only thing holding the guitar together was the strings, I couldn't tell you what held Bob's head together.

* * *

Amazingly enough, the police decided that this particular situation was worth looking into, so much so that they kicked my front door in. I can't say Diane would have approved, but hey, I almost got killed, right?

And once they did the old 'sweep and clear', the questions came.

"What happened here?"

"What was your relationship with Mr. Harris?"

"Why would Mr. Harris attack you?"

So on, and so forth.

The whole thing seemed to take hours. They asked the same questions over and over, trying to see if my story changed.

They finally stopped when one of them discovered the microphone in the hallway. Apparently it was under my feet during the entire fight.

It's funny; I know that I didn't put **that** there either, I 'm also quite sure that I didn't push the 'record' button on my recorder. But I have an idea about who **did**.

Once the police played back the recording, the case was pretty much closed. They had a confession of the ten year old murder of Dean Withers, and one for the attempted murder of myself, amongst other charges.

It also turned out that ol' 'Biker Bob' survived, in a sense anyway. He slipped into a coma brought on by severe head trauma, and he was looking at life in prison if he ever recovered.

He didn't. He lasted on life support for three days before the doctors pulled the plug. The lucky bastard got the easy way out as far as I'm concerned.

I called Diane as soon as I could, and she insisted that she come home right away, but I convinced her that there wasn't really much she could do. I was fine and Katie got away with a minor cut, she didn't even need stitches.

Katie and I spend the next couple of days in a local hotel, until the police finished their investigation. It didn't take long for them to come to the conclusion that it was self-defense, mostly due to the confession. Thanks Dean.

* * *

When we returned, the first thing I did was call out to Dean. I was half hoping that he was finally able to move on and go where he was supposed to go, and a little selfishly half hoping he was still around. There was no answer of course, not even a sign.

I shed a tear, happy that the kid was at peace. And he was, just not in the way that I expected.

* * *

A week after the 'Biker Bob' incident, I was in my 'studio' thinking about Dean and missing him. I had been listening to his CD, trying to glean something from it, hoping to improve my playing. I just couldn't figure out the finger placement to hit the notes that he was.

I was about to say 'screw it, I can't do it' and nearly gave up when I felt Dean's presence in the room, but this time I felt happy and at peace. In that state of relaxation, it was easy for Dean to guide my fingers where they needed to be, and I was one step closer to matching his style. My fingers weren't used to bending in the way they needed to, but as they say: Practice, practice, practice...

Dean came by every day to teach this old dog some new tricks. And even though our styles were different, I managed to take a little bit of this and that, and came up with a merger of the two with great results. I showed my new and improved techniques with the other guys in the band, and they **loved** it. So much so, that we were all inspired to **really** buckle down and find a replacement for Jerome and get back to it.

A replacement came in the most unexpected form: Anthony Harris.

With his psychotic father out of the picture, the kid totally changed: his attitude, his ego, **everything**. He was now actively looking for work and staying at his aunt's until he could get out on his own, just like he always wanted to, but he was a prisoner under his father's constant berating and guilt ridden emotional abuse. The kid took criticism and instruction much better now. It's funny what you can accomplish when you **want** to do something and not **forced** to.

With our new direction in full swing, me and the boys burned up all the bars and venues in town, and slowly branched out to other counties, word was getting around about us. And we were getting results.

We eventually got around to recording a demo, and getting some play on local stations. I had one stipulation for the liner notes though, and it was accepted unanimously. Dean Withers would get a collaboration credit.

When we all got our personal copies, I brought mine home and held it up, pointing to Dean's credit, hoping that he would see it.

As I heard the keyboard in the other room fire off a bunch of high notes, I knew that he had, and he was stoked.

As time went on, I still got a 'lesson' now and then, Katie still got poked in the nose when she woke up, and Diane still hunted for her shoes every few mornings, only now she would tell Dean to 'stop screwing around, it wasn't funny anymore', yet she still laughed every time.

Sometimes 'moving on' isn't about going on to somewhere else, sometimes, just sometimes, it's about staying right where you are, doing what you love.

# Sibling Rivalry

By Aimee Carnegie

Have you ever listened to a friend tell you a horror story, something they found online, and felt that cold shiver down your spine? The kind of shiver that makes you almost question the legitimacy of the story? I get that a lot. My friend Courtney had this way of memorising every word of even the longest story and telling it in the creepiest way. Although I suppose being a wannabe actress in every school production ever done would give you a knack for remembering lines.

We'd arranged a sleepover on Saturday, in August, and Courtney was telling me about this article she'd found on Reddit, in the NoSleep tab. They're not usually that good, but I'd heard a few good ones, made better by Courtney's uncanny way of really getting under your skin. Something about a guy's dead girlfriend sending him Facebook messages. But it was weird. Her hands were shaky and she kept staring behind me at my wall. Weird, right?

After ten minutes of watching her shake and listening to her stumble over words, I sighed. "What's going on?" I asked her. My best friend looked me dead in the eye and whispered four words I never thought I would hear.

"I saw your brother." I stared at the girl like she was crazy. My brother had been dead since I was fourteen, three years ago, after drowning in the pool of our old home. "Ash, please... Don't look at me like that," Courtney whispered. Why was she whispering?

"'Ney, you know he's been gone for more than three years. Stop it."

"But Ash-"

"'Ney. Stop." She glared at me and stood, storming out.

I watched her go and sighed. Curling up under my covers and flicking on my laptop, I frowned at the screen that appeared after I logged into my account. Had I set that picture? It looked recent, me with my arm around my brother. But he'd been dead three years, ever since he passed out at that stupid, stupid party. He'd been nineteen when he passed, but in this picture he looked older.

Shrugging it off as him being photogenic, I opened my browser to check Facebook. I only had a few notifications, two of them were status likes... But one was a comment on my new profile picture. I hadn't changed that picture in almost two years, a picture of myself and my boyfriend of four years. But it was now a picture of me and my brother. I frowned, wondering if maybe Courtney was playing a prank.

I spent the night playing games and watching TV shows on my laptop before shutting it down and standing to use the bathroom. I yawned and stretched, then froze when I heard something clatter in the bathroom. Assuming my mother was half-asleep and trying to use the loo, I ran towards the sound and pushed open the door. "Mom, you really need to stop-" I paused when I flipped on the light, blinding myself as brightness filled the empty bathroom.

Something in the mirror caught my eye and I frowned, looking at it. A chill rushed through me as water dripped from the wet hand-print on the reflective surface, covering the reflection of my face. "Mom..?" I called, hoping my mother and best friend were pulling some cruel prank. Nobody answered my call, so I tried once more. Silence. I looked back at the mirror, only to find the hand-print gone. "Time for bed" I mumbled to myself, yawning and trudging back to my room.

The next morning I recounted the story to my confused mother. "You didn't put that there?" the woman asked. I frowned.

"What do you mean?" I asked, head cocked to the side slightly.

"I went in there around two, there was a print on the mirror. I assumed you had put it there."

"Huh. It was about three when I went in" I replied, shrugging. "Courtney was being weird last night too. Said she saw Timmy." My mother went pale and I frowned. "Not you too?" I sighed. My mother just stood and left the room.

That night, I found myself walking along to the bathroom around the same time the hand-print had appeared. I pushed open the door and walked in, sitting on the toilet lid. That's what I noticed the footprints leading towards where I was sitting. A cool breeze washed over me and someone whispered my name. I stood and looked in the mirror – and staring me in the face was my own brother, dripping wet and grinning, evil in his eyes.

# A Haunted Cemetery

By Aisling Spofford

One chilly September night, a friend and I decided to take a walk around a local cemetery. There were no other people there besides us... Living people that is.

The front of the cemetery has the oldest graves dating back a couple hundred years and is surrounded by a lot of trees that are probably just as old if not older.

The back of the cemetery is more open with significantly less trees and more recently erected headstones.

Both my friend and I have experienced getting different "feelings" when we visited cemeteries and other haunted places before. This was our first time visiting one together.

We began towards the back of the cemetery. As we kept walking I felt drawn to one side of the cemetery about halfway towards the front. I kept feeling the presence of a man. He made me feel sad and lost. He kept mentioning his wife and that he had lost her and he couldn't find her.

After a little while we began circling back around. As we walked through the front of the cemetery I kept getting an intense feeling that something else was there. Once we reached the very middle of the main path that runs through the cemetery my friend and I stopped and looked towards the front. There were maybe a dozen or more shadowy figures in a group. All at once I felt a mix of feelings. They felt sinister, but also curious and cautious. Neither of us had ever seen so many spirits in one place at one time before. We slowly made our way around to the front again. The shadowy figures were no longer in sight. We decided to go to the spot where they had been. They had vanished, but the sinister feelings still remained.

Ever since that night, whenever I drive by that cemetery, I can still feel the loneliness and sadness of the man in search of his wife. I haven't dared stepped back into that graveyard yet though. The group of shadowy figures still intrigues me, as for finding out more about them... I don't know if I should or not.

# Shadow Walkers

By Yvonne K Anderson

# Chapter 1

The truck came to a jarring halt as we pulled into the driveway of our new home. It was one of the biggest houses in the small town of Skyview, New Brunswick. The house was built with oldish, brown looking bricks that probably used to be red before it grew old. The house itself had a menacing feel to it, like someone would always be watching you. The door was painted all shiny and new, a blood red colour. That in itself was a foreboding sign. I looked at one of the windows, craning my head to see what they were like. I could have sworn I'd seen a curtain move.

"Dad, is someone in the house?" I asked, leaning forward. "I saw an upstairs curtain move."

"Nope, the renovations have already been done," my dad said gruffly. "It must have been the wind."

I let it go, not even thinking about how the window probably wasn't open. I shrugged and opened my truck door. "We should start moving our stuff in. It looks like it might rain," I observed, looking up at the clouds.

"We should wake your mom and sister up first," he answered, turning to mom and shaking her gently. She yawned, sitting up straight.

"Hey sis! Wake up!" I immediately commenced poking her in the side. She didn't wake up, but squirmed a little. I pulled her hair back from her ear. "Arya!" I half-shouted.

She woke with a start, covering her one ear with her hand and whipping around to face me. "Thomas! You could have made me deaf!" she exclaimed, with her blue eyes open wide. She was about four years younger than me and looked a lot like our dad. She had bright blue eyes and dark brown hair, so dark it was almost black. My hair was more of a honey colour, not quite blonde, not quite brown and my eyes were a green colour, like the pine trees that used to be near our old home in Ontario. My eyes were Dad's eyes.

We all got out, going around to the bed of the truck, where all our stuff was tied down. Dad untied the knots and mom scooped a couple boxes from near the back to hand to me. They were heavy, full of books, so I put one down and carried it to the front door. I set the box down on the porch and tried the door. It creaked open a bit and I pushed it open more, peering inside. There was a wooden staircase in the hall and the carpet was a burgundy colour. I sniffed a little and then wrinkled my nose, having smelled a musty smell.

"Thomas? Are you going to pick up that box and bring it inside?" Mom asked from behind me, her voice telling me she was carrying something heavy and was really just telling me to get a move on.

"What exactly is the hold up here?" Dad asked impatiently from behind us, carrying two boxes of his own.

"Thomas froze," mom informed him promptly, as I groaned. I was going to hear a strong reproach from dad.

"I did not freeze. I was simply looking at the inside of the house. It seems kind of morbid," I told them, turning to pick up the box of books, only to find it wasn't there.

"Thomas, if you aren't going to help, at least move out of the way," dad said, clearly getting angry. I was already starting to hate this move.

"I am helping. I just can't find the box I was carrying. I swear it was right here and now it's gone." I said, looking everywhere on the porch. I moved to the side, hoping to find it there. I looked over the railing, just to see the box tipped over on its side, the contents spilled out. I groaned, walking down the steps and to where the box was. I set about picking the books up off the ground and tossing them back into the box.

Dad came around to see what I was doing. "Did you knock that box off the porch?" he asked, looking down at me. I got up and then lifted the box up. He seemed slightly panicked, seeing his precious books all over the ground.

"No, I didn't. I put the box not even close to the railing." I replied defensively, starting to walk back up the stairs.

"Be more careful. Some of those books are rare and are full of historical facts," he demanded sternly, following me up the steps. I walked into the house and set them on top of the other boxes.

"Yep, I know," I mumbled, rolling my eyes. My dad was a historian, bent on finding out all he could about Canada; even the small towns. "Was that all of the boxes?" I asked.

"No, there's still my box with my important papers for the book I'm writing. I'll get it though, since you dropped my historian books." I made a face and headed into the hall a bit more to explore. The walls were a charcoal gray, giving it an eerie feeling.

"Mom! Can I choose my room?!" I shouted, knowing she'd be wherever dad's new study was, putting books on the bookshelf for him. She was the master of organizing.

"Yes, you can! The master bedroom is ours!" she called back cheerfully. I walked up the stairs, looking at the walls as I went up. There was no brightness anywhere I looked. When I got to the top of the stairs, I immediately turned to my left, to a fair sized bedroom with a solitary window facing the water of the Miramichi River. I stood in front of the window, watching the river. The river itself looked as dark as the clouds in the sky. The clouds that had been hovering ever since we came opened up with a downpour of rain, making the river ripple in the distance. Arya walked in, interrupting my absent minded watching of the rain.

"I'm glad you chose this room," she said from behind me. "This room gives me the creeps." She shivered in discomfort. She was ten and still thought there was such thing of ghosts.

"There's nothing scary about this room. It's just like any other one in the house; dark and depressing."

She shivered again. "There's a very dark energy. You can tell," she insisted. There was what felt like a ripple when she said that and I felt this sudden gust of cold air.

I felt the sudden urge to protect my sister. I pushed her out the door and shut it quickly. "That was weird; I'm going to have to check to see if there could be a draft anywhere," I joked lightly, shaking it off for Arya, who was clearly scared. She ran down the hall, far away from my room and whatever she thought was there.

# Chapter 2

It was a fairly quiet dinner with everyone so tired with moving. We ate the pizza in silence, with mom and dad talking quietly every now and then. They were talking about where mom would work in town. She would be starting as a small town doctor as that was what the town needed. It seemed to all fall into place with dad looking for an obscure place to do research and mom getting a transfer. The only problem was that I hated it here already. I missed my old friends and my old home where I'd lived for longer than I could remember. Skyview seemed like a weird, little town. The people weren't nearly as friendly as small town folk usually were and they seemed to be keeping a secret from the world: a dark and terrible one. I fiddled with my pizza as I thought about this, picking at the cheese.

"What's wrong, son?" Dad asked, looking across the table at me.

"I don't like it here. I want to go back to our home in Ontario and be with my old friends," I answered, deciding to tell him half of what was on my mind.

"You'll love it here, Thomas," Mom said sympathetically before dad could answer. "And you'll make new friends, besides, you can still contact your old ones."

"But I can't hang out with them, now can I?" I asked, looking up angrily. "You uprooted me from my home and yet you expect me to like living here already. You expect me to adjust, but I don't want to! I want to go back to Ontario!"

"No, but you can make new ones here and hang out with them," mom repeated, her mouth starting to set to a firm smile, ignoring my other words and telling me that the conversation was over.

"I don't have to like it," I spat at her, my eyes flashing as a sudden burst of anger flashed through me. "This town is creepy and depressing."

"Thomas! That is no way to talk to your mother! You may go to your new room and think about what you've done!" Dad thundered, his voice shaking with every word. He was extremely protective and didn't like us talking back. He was a stern person.

"Whatever," I muttered, pushing my chair back so hard it hit the floor. I stomped down the hall to the stairs and tramped up them, kicking a stair every time I went up. I muttered under my breath, swearing at my parents' stupidity. They didn't get my feelings, didn't listen. I opened the door to my new bedroom and stepped inside. I turned around and slammed the door behind me, loud enough hopefully that they would all hear. I went to sit on my single bed that had dark green covers and a bright yellow pillow. So far, it was the only spot of light in the room. I had my bed close to the window, so I could sit and watch the river when I needed to think. This river seemed dark, not as nice as the other rivers back home where I'd go fishing sometimes with dad. I looked out the window, watching the river as it swelled with raindrops.

I then saw something weird, it was dark and hard to make out, but it looked like a person, an undefined shadowy outline. I pushed open my window, about to call out when it seemingly disappeared without a trace. The wind had reached a fever pitch and was whistling as it grew louder and more violent. It blew into my room, messing up the sheets and making it extremely cold. I shivered and tried to force my window shut. It just wouldn't; it was like some unseen force was trying to keep it open, but I knew there had to be a logical explanation. The window was probably just jammed. I exerted most of my strength, panting as I tried to get my window closed. The door slammed shut and I whirled around.

"Dad!" I called, now trying to open my door. "Dad! I need your help!" I started to panic, banging the door in fear. I heard running footsteps as someone rushed up the stairs.

"Thomas! What are you doing in there?!" Dad exclaimed, taking hold of the doorknob and trying to open it. Finally, after several minutes, the door opened, and he fell sideways into my room.

"I opened the window, but couldn't get it closed again and then my door wouldn't open," I answered, gaining my composure back.

"Why the hell would you open your window? There's a huge storm out there." He threw up his arms.

"I saw someone near the river. I wanted to get a better look," I told him, but not telling him that the person just disappeared into thin air.

"Why the hell would someone be out in this weather?" Dad asked, folding his arms in disbelief. "Whoever goes out in this weather has to be some sort of crazy."

"But Dad, I saw him," I argued, once again getting annoyed that he wasn't listening.

"It was probably a tree," he said, gritting his teeth. He was getting angry with me. The energy in the room was almost palpable as we stared each other down. Dad noticed the negative energy and almost turned toward the door as if he just wanted to leave. The air intensified, like lightning striking in the room. Dad shivered and backed out of the room; not seeming to know what he was actually doing.

# Chapter 3

He didn't even say a word, just walked down the stairs in a daze. I followed him, thinking of scientific explanations as to why he'd act that way. He never usually walked away from anything. He was tough. There was no way it could be a ghost; they simply didn't exist. It was probably just too cold in the room for him. He always hated it and he had shivered. That was it! That was the explanation I would use. As soon as he was at the bottom of the stairs, he turned and looked at me. He was back to normal and he seemed not to mind that I was out of my room.

Finally he spoke. "You will apologise to your mother," he ordered in a voice that brooked no argument. "She's in the living room with your sister." I said nothing as I walked past him to the living room. When I went in, mom was curled up reading a book and Arya was practicing her math.

I cleared my throat and mom looked up. "Sorry for earlier," I announced, looking down at the floor. That's when I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked up sharply, but it turned out to be dad coming in and then disappearing into his study, which was a room jutting off from the living room. He kept the door open, flipping through his books and surveying the situation.

"Thomas! Are you listening to me?!" Mom asked, recalling me to my surroundings and why I was standing in the living room. "I swear, you're becoming more of a bratty teen every day." She was half joking.

"Hmph, well at least I listen to people when they tell me they don't like something," I mumbled crossly under my breath.

"What was that you said?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. I could swear she had the hearing of a wolf. She could hear almost everything I said, even mumbling. Dad looked up from his reading sharply, his eyes flashing.

"I said, I'm going to go get my stuff ready for school tomorrow," I told her, keeping a straight face.

"That's what I thought." She smiled smugly. Arya had long since stopped doing her math when I had entered and was listening intently.

"That's not what he said," she told mom and I glared at her. Sometimes, I could swear she wanted to get me in trouble for kicks and giggles.

"It is so," I retorted, sticking my tongue out and turning on my heels to leave. I walked back to my room without another word and closed the door tightly behind me. The window was still open, so I went over to it and pulled it shut. To my surprise, it shut easily. I looked out the window, leaning on the window sill, but all was quiet save for the wind, which was still whistling outside. I went over to my newly set up desk, which was very disorganized as usual and started looking for my school stuff that I'd already unpacked. I found most of it and put it into my bright blue school bag. My bag had the names of all my friends in permanent marker. They had signed it, just so I'd feel a little better about moving.

Once everything was ready, I set it beside my bed and lay staring at the ceiling, thinking about my eventful first day in Skyview, New Brunswick. The next day I'd be at a new school, unknown and friendless. I thought about my old friends for the hundredth time. There was Zachariah Garner, Iris Hansen, Avery Nerve, James Tary, and Xander Kerser. Zachariah was the sporty one, always doing one sport or another. He wasn't very good at school work, but all the teachers were fond of him still. He had a twinkling, blue eyed smile and whole mess of light brown hair. Iris was a little on the nerdy side, a math whiz and a history nut like my dad. Her eyes were the colour of coffee and her hair was a curly, chestnut brown. She wore glasses, but always managed to be a little stylish. Avery was my crush, grey eyed, dark red hair and a smile that would flatten any guy. She was smart and could be very sarcastic most times. James was the annoying one of the group, always trying to get us to be part of his experiments. He had brown eyes and sandy brown hair. Last but not least was Xander, he wanted to be in a band and was very skilled on the guitar. He had a bizarre sense of humour that always made us laugh and he'd slick his black hair back as he smiled. His eyes we green grey. I sighed as I thought about them and then my dreams started. I had fallen asleep unintentionally.

* * *

I was running from something, a shadow with glowing eyes. I didn't look back, but I knew it was right behind me, gaining ground. In front of me, my friends were standing, with their arms wide to stop me.

"Thomas, you left us," they moaned, their voices as alive as a barren desert. Their eyes were weird, flat almost. They didn't seem human. I didn't answer, but tried to plow through them. They didn't budge and the black shadow caught up with me.

"Give me a hug. Give in Thomas," the shadow whispered, spreading its arms as if to hug me.

"Fat chance!" I yelled, kicking at the shadow. The shadow didn't seem fazed. I turned, but everywhere I tried to go, I was blocked. "Go away!" I shouted, trying to sound like I wasn't afraid.

That's when I finally woke up, sweating but unscathed.

* * *

I opened my eyes, looking around my room to make sure the shadow wasn't actually in my room. When I finally calmed down, I realized that I was being silly and that I probably shouldn't have had pizza before bed. The nightmare itself had been bizarre and not very common for me. I normally couldn't remember any of my dreams.

It was still dark out, but I didn't want to go back to sleep, so I turned on the lamp on my desk, getting out my computer. I opened the word program and started writing. I would keep a daily log of what was going on here in my new home. I typed about my first day here, putting everything in order as best I remembered.

In the end it looked something like this:

Day 1:

-Moved to Skyview, New Brunswick

-Curtain moves while nobody is in the house

-The box of books is knocked off the porch

-Room seems to repel family

-Dark energy

-Mysterious person near the river

-Cold bursts of air

By the time I was done, it was time to go down for breakfast. I heard footsteps heading down the hall and Arya shouted at my closed door. "Sleepyhead! It's breakfast time!"

I opened my door and stuck my head out. "I'm already up!" I told her and followed her down the stairs. When we got to the kitchen, I grabbed a piece of toast and sat down. Arya sat down right across from me.

"So, you're going to wear pyjamas to school?" she asked, looking at my clothes and giggling. "You're gonna get made fun of your first day."

"I'll get changed before I leave," I mumbled, wanting to strangle her. In truth, I hadn't realized I was still in my pajamas, so I was kind of grateful to her for pointing it out. I gobbled up the toast and then hurried to my room to change and grab my bag. I hurried back down the stairs and dad was at the bottom.

"Would you like to walk to school or do you want me to drive you?" Dad asked. Everything from last night seemed forgotten, or he was just pretending it hadn't. I decided that I would keep it that way. From now on, I would keep anything weird that was going on to myself.

"I'll take that ride," I replied with a smile. "I'm running late already and those clouds still look iffy." In all truth, I just didn't feel like walking. I was tired.

"Okay, get in the truck with your sister and I'll be out in a minute," he told me, grabbing his coat. I put on my coat and walked out to the truck; my school bag swung haphazardly on my right shoulder. Arya was in my spot, but I decided not to get in an argument with her.

Instead, I looked up at the house. It seemed as creepy as usual, but again I saw movement in the same window that I had the day before. This time I saw a hand, pale and clammy looking. It looked kind of bony.

"That wasn't Mom," Arya whispered, looking where I was looking. That's when I started to find out Arya was a little stranger than the rest of the family. She seemed to see things we didn't.

# Poster of Her

By Neil D'Silva

Orson was a man who kept late nights. It wasn't good for his profession as a photographer—since some of the best works are captured in the light of the day—but he just couldn't attune himself to the routine of 'early to bed, early to rise.' When the insomnia set in, which was often, he would just leave his one-room studio apartment and go jogging on uncharted territories.

It was while he was on one such nocturnal jogging trip that he came across a woman that changed his life.

He saw her crying in the dark, seated on a bench on the beach, looking forlornly at the waves.

She did not see him instantly as he was behind her, but even from where he was, he found himself attracted to her. He had been with women before, some of them actresses and models, but this was the kind of beauty that was beyond description.

In his photographer's mind, he began to see her ravishingly fair complexion. It was white, whiter than white, and shone in the darkness of the night. Her silvery blonde hair flew with the breeze that came from the sea. She wore a long, blue gown, but he could mentally undress her and visualize the fantastic form that lay underneath.

He was still admiring her when she abruptly turned and looked right at him.

Her expression rooted him on the spot. Even from that distance, even in the darkness of the night, he could clearly see the tears beneath her eyes. There was a sorrow in her face that obtusely contradicted her unearthly beauty. The tears flowed soundlessly, glistening in the moonlight.

And even though it was unspoken, even though all that was shared between them was an expression of sorrow, he understood that she wanted to share her grief with him. He found something pulling him towards her.

He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't resist. He walked up to her.

Somewhere in the distance, a soulful melancholy began to play.

* * *

When he came to his senses in the morning, he was on the uncomfortable bed of his studio apartment back again, but he knew something was different.

Snatches of memories cropped up in his head. He remembered walking into a beautiful place—smelling the pleasant fragrances that it bore, seeing the enticing sights that it displayed—and then returning to his reality. But it wasn't the same reality anymore; he realized it had been changed.

He turned his head, telling himself sternly that it had been just a dream—but if only it had been.

She was still there. Her naked form was next to him, sleeping, and in the daylight he could see that she was much more beautiful than he had seen her the previous night. Her eyes were closed, and the tears had dried up on the cheeks, leaving dry streaks as they had run along. Her lips, of a very dark pink hue, were just partly open in her sleep, and the lower lip twitched as though there were unsaid words that were begging to come out. Her breasts heaved rhythmically and he stared at them.

Unavoidably attracted to her once again, he placed his arm over her milk-white skin and crept closer to her. She stirred in her sleep. Her eyes opened, and he saw they were blue and deep, and they still bore the expression of undiluted sorrow.

"Thanks," she said. Her voice was a mellow whisper, almost as if she were singing.

"Thanks for what?"

"For bringing me in," she said.

He caressed her silver locks. "Do not think about that," he said, his mind on other things. In response, she began to touch him, causing ripples of pleasure wherever her fingers came in contact with his skin, and he forgot what he had meant to ask.

It was afternoon and he had to get down to his work. He faintly remembered an assignment—some photo shoot for some commercial brand.

With a huge sigh, he separated himself from her.

"What happened?" she said in her singsong voice.

"I have to go," he said.

"What about me?"

He got up. He moved about the room, pulling on his clothes haphazardly. "You may stay here," he said. "It is not much, the room is in a mess, but... If you wish..."

He pointed generally towards his room. His windowpane was broken and cobwebs hung from the ceiling. The only piece of décor in that ramshackle apartment was a pot of lilies, but the lilies had long since died and shriveled up.

"You gave me shelter. That's enough," she said.

"I will be back soon," he said. "By the way, what's your name?"

"Bessie."

He went out, almost drooling over the slight seductive hiss she produced when she pronounced the esses in her name.

* * *

Orson was back in a few hours, but he found that she hadn't stirred. She was still on bed, laying in almost the same pose as he had left her. And yet, there was something different about his apartment. It seemed livelier somehow; it seemed as though it was affected by a warm healing touch that he hadn't been able to give it thus far. He could sense it, but he could not spot it.

He did not care about the room anyway. He immediately dropped whatever he had in hand and clambered into bed next to the bewitching woman.

"What is your sorrow?" he asked her, when he noticed that her blue eyes still bore the dullness that he had seen them with the first time.

"I don't know," she said. "I don't remember."

"Where are you from?"

"A house. A green house with a big red roof."

"If you know where this house is, I can take you there," Orson offered.

"I don't remember. Only thing I know... Lots of children. Playing around. Laughing."

"Anything else?"

"It is night, I remember. There are fires everywhere. People are crying, yelling, shouting. I have my hands over my ears. My mother comes to me."

"And?" I pressed her.

"I don't know."

Orson mulled over this for a while. "A green house with a red roof on the beach, you say? That shouldn't be difficult to locate. Would you like to go there now?"

"I want to sleep now. Sleep... With you."

"All right," he said, "we'll go there tomorrow morning. If you wish." He turned off the lights.

He was slipping into the quagmire of seduction, and this seduction was lethal because it had no eyes. He could not see beyond the physical appearance of the woman, but then he had a young man's heart—fanciful and footloose. A young man's heart is not afraid of things it has not seen; mere conjecture of doom does not move it.

But even then, he had time to wrangle out of it. He should have kept the lights on. He should have looked around the room.

Then he would have seen—the cobwebs that had hung around his house had now all disappeared, its spiders lying dead in their vicious nets; and the shriveled lilies had sprung back up to life, resplendent in their white glory.

* * *

They walked, hand in hand, like two lovers. It was uncharacteristically early for him, the sun had not yet reached its zenith in the sky. He had scarcely seen the environment at this time in the morning, and he found it lovely. The beach, with its soft, cool sand, slipped beneath his legs and the early morning breeze rejuvenated him.

"I am a photographer," he said. "My name is Orson." He had the camera dangling around his neck, hoping to make the best of the morning.

"I know," she said.

He looked at her, puzzled.

"When you were gone yesterday, I looked around in your house. Found your visiting cards. And you have a camera around your neck."

He smiled. "I would like to click your photograph."

He meant well, but at the very mention of that, she recoiled. She actually pushed him so hard that he fell on the sand and started running away from him. Bemused for a while, he lay on the sand, not understanding what had bugged the girl, but then she went a distance and sat down in the sand, her face buried in her hands.

"What was that all about?" he asked her when he came up to her.

"No photo," she cried. "Never take my picture."

"Why?"

"Never do that," she pleaded.

"But it's not going to hurt you."

"What do you know about that?"

"Just one picture—for my own private collection," he insisted.

And then she stood up. Her eyes were bloodshot in rage. Her lips quivered as she opened them to speak, and her teeth now resembled fangs more than teeth.

"You will never take my picture!" she screamed out aloud. "You understand?"

He meekly nodded.

She took him in her arms and consoled him, for he was now shivering in fright. She put her arm over his head till he was pacified.

* * *

They were back in his studio apartment when they could not find the green house with a red roof. Perhaps it was on another beach; they would have to try again.

They spent almost the whole of the day in bed, when they were interrupted by the doorbell.

"Who is that?" Bessie asked. The fear in her voice was palpable.

"You stay in this room," Orson said. "No need to be afraid. I am not expecting anyone. Probably someone selling something. I will shoo them off and be right back."

He strode across his hallway with a robe hurriedly put around his shoulders and opened to the door. Immediately his expression changed—this was certainly not a visitor he had expected.

"So there you are!" the woman standing at the door said in way of reprimand.

"Lonnie, I didn't expect you," he mumbled like a schoolboy being scolded. Not expecting her, Orson had even forgotten he had a fiancée.

"You don't return calls, you don't visit, what am I to do? May I come inside?"

He hesitated for a moment and that was enough for her to make up her mind.

"Oh well, then I **am** coming in," she insisted. "I think I have every right to."

She walked right up to the bed and saw the naked woman in his sheets.

"Who is this?" she asked in a voice loud enough to shake the boards of the little room.

"I... I can explain..." he stammered.

"The hell you can explain! I see two half-naked people in front of me and I don't want an explanation. I am not a child."

Bessie, wrapped in the bed sheets, stood up. "Is there a problem, Orson? Who is she? Is she your girlfriend?"

Orson nodded apologetically. "We are to be married soon... But, oh! How stupid I have been! Lonnie, Lonnie, there's nothing between me and her, you must understand that." He walked up to Lonnie. "It's not what you think. I found Bessie on the beach. She was distraught. She has lost her memory. I gave her shelter."

"Oh, it's not just your room she is sharing, Orson. I can clearly see that. I am not staying here a minute more." There was immense anger in Lonnie's eyes. But then she looked at Bessie. In the single split instant that the two women's eyes met, Lonnie's expression went a dramatic change.

Her anger immediately subsided and was replaced by a very different emotion—fear. Orson could not understand it. He had never seen stark raving fear on her fiancée's face before.

"Don't ever call me again," she mumbled to Orson, and then clumsily gathering her purse which had been flung down in the heat of it all, she stormed out of the house.

Not minding Bessie standing there, Orson ran after Lonnie in a bid to catch up with her.

He found her on the street, walking away hurriedly, wiping her tears.

"Lonnie, listen to me," he tried to stop her. He reached up to her, and held her hand, but she slapped it away.

"Just go away," she said.

"Lonnie, I am sorry. I am so very sorry," he said. He forcefully stopped her. "I drifted away. Could you forgive me?"

She mellowed. She was still angry, but this heartfelt apology did mean something to her. "It will never be the same, Orson," she said.

"Let me make it up to you," he said. "I will go home right away and get her out of the house."

"What do you see in her anyway?"

He could not answer that truthfully.

"Oh, I know the look," Lonnie said. "You are smitten with her! But that? That thing? Don't you see?"

"See what?"

"Throw her out before it is too late," she said and walked away in a huff.

He kept looking at her and then turned homeward.

Lonnie hadn't walked much ahead before she came to a narrow alley. It was a regular shortcut she used. Few people used it because of the stink, but it saved her a good ten minutes whenever she took this route.

Walking along with a hundred thoughts in her head, she came up to a person who refused to budge.

"Excuse me," she said, trying to make space to walk across in that narrow lane.

The interrupter turned to look at Lonnie.

And Lonnie's expression froze. **"You?"** she said in a tone of utter bewilderment.

At that, the figure gave an ear-piercing laugh that shattered Lonnie's eardrums and blood began to trickle out of the holes. Her eyeballs grew wider and wider till they popped out of their sockets and dangled from them. Then, the ground beneath them turned into nothing but black smoke and she found herself falling into its unknown depths. Falling, falling, falling. There was nothing to break her fall till she succumbed into the unending darkness.

* * *

Orson returned to his studio apartment. He could not see her immediately. He meant to go up to her, confront her, and ask her to leave. He cared for Lonnie and he didn't want to lose her. He could go after Lonnie later and beg her to be with him.

Bessie seemed to be in the bathroom. Orson waited for her, but when it was so long that he almost drowsed off to sleep, he went up to the bathroom door and knocked. "Are you in there?" he asked.

There was no answer at first, but it was then followed with a meek, "I will be out right away."

Minutes passed and there was still no answer. Worried that her despondency might get the better of her, Orson went to the bathroom and tugged at the door handle. He was surprised to find that it wasn't locked.

He opened it and felt ashamed of himself for doing so. "I'm so sorry," he mumbled, "was just worried."

But his words were lost on her, who was sitting on the commode, with her back turned towards him. She was moving slightly and he assumed she must be weeping. He went up to her and was just about to place his hand on her back, when he was arrested right in her tracks.

There were three dead lizards on the floor next to her, their severed tails still wriggling desperately. A fourth was in her hands, and she was munching on its belly like it was the newest candy treat in town.

She sensed him standing behind her and looked back, still chomping on the putrid lizard flesh, its green bilious blood oozing out of her pouty lips, with her eyes now a reptilian shade of green.

Orson recoiled and puked in the sink that was right behind him. The sight refused to leave his eyes, even though he had them tightly shut now, and he puked till he started gagging on his own vomit.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, and in it he could her standing right behind him. He turned, wanting to tell her that this was over, that he did not want a reptile-chomping predator in his house, but then she smiled.

It was the first time he saw her smile.

And it had a much stronger effect on him than her tears had ever had.

The next thing Orson remembered was being in bed with the most beautiful woman he had ever encountered riding atop him. His vision was still blurry. He saw her insanely white teeth, bared in a bewitching smile, bobbing up and down with her silver hair moving in the rhythm.

His eyes closed again.

* * *

Days later, maybe weeks, he did not quite know, he began to sense the confusion in his head. He forced himself to think straight, but his thoughts didn't obey him. It was as though someone else was guiding him with a leash fastened around his nostrils. Even his thoughts weren't his own anymore.

But there were moments of clarity. And in one such moment, he had a fulsome glimpse of her.

She was sitting by the window, looking demurely at something outside. She was oblivious to his presence. In that pose, she looked like a Renaissance goddess come to life. Her expression of stoic sorrow lent an aura of grace to her appearance.

It awakened the photographer inside him again.

By instinct, he remembered that his camera was kept in the bedside drawer and he took it in his hands. Suddenly, the years of conditioning his eye to detect esthetic brilliance took over his senses. He just wanted to click her and this was his chance. This would be the candid photo to outclass all other candid photos.

He switched on the camera and its shutter opened. There was a slight noise, but it went unnoticed. Then he put his eye to the lens and saw. It would take a moment to focus, and he waited for the right angle.

He was just about to click, but in the very nick of time, she turned and saw him.

He expected her to be angry, wild as she had been these days, but he was surprised. There was no anger; there was only a very pained look on her face—the kind of expression one has when they realize they only have a few moments of life left in them.

Through the lens he saw that ultimate look of agony. It was as though someone had stabbed through her heart. She attempted once again to stop him, but it was too late.

The flash blinded him for a moment.

Then, with a trained reflex, he looked into the screen to see how his work had figured. It was a wonderful picture. He had captured her pain at the right moment. It was his Mona Lisa in a photograph.

He looked up to congratulate her. But he could not. The window was open, the curtains were flying, the lilies were still in bloom, but she wasn't there on the chair.

* * *

Three months later, he still pined for her.

He missed her presence in the house, he missed the careless romps on the bed, he missed her fragrance that permeated through the room.

He kept the window open in the hope that she would return someday. He went to the beach hoping that he would walk by her again. But it was not to be.

He kept himself sheltered within his cocoon of an apartment and rarely ventured out. He stopped taking any assignments for it pained him too much to even hold the camera in his hand again. It was the instrument of his grievous loss; it brought no further joy to him.

But it had his last labor of love. The photograph of her. He needed to see it, frame it, keep it as a souvenir of the times they had.

For a long time he could not pull himself together to look at her picture again. But one day, when he could bear her loss no longer, he switched on his camera for just a little look. The picture was still there, and as he looked at it zoomed to as much as it could be, he found himself captivated by those eyes again. It was just like in the past. The urging in those eyes controlled him, and he took the camera to a shop that made large-sized digital prints.

The poster was a standard 24" x 36" in glossy paper and he pasted it on his bedroom door directly, without framing it. Suddenly, the memories of the happier times came flooding into his mind, and he sat looking at it, oblivious to the passing of the day.

* * *

He was interrupted when someone knocked at his door.

The man outside was a foot taller than him and he at once spoke in a loud voice, "You did not tell me she is not with you?"

Orson vaguely remembered the face, but he could not place it. His vision was blurry of late, and he had difficulty in focusing his sight. "Sorry, I did not recognize you," he said in a faint voice.

"You do not recognize me, eh?" the man said, and held Orson by the scruff of his neck. "What have you done with her?"

The man held his face close to Orson, so close that his spittle flew right into his face as he spoke. The recollection of the face came back to him.

"Nathan?"

"You asshole... You scumbag... Where is my sister?"

In his pining, Orson had quite forgotten about Lonnie. But why had he forgotten about her? How could he forget her? It pained him so much.

"Lonnie... Where is she?" he stuttered.

"Do you want to play it this way, then? I warned her to keep herself away from your miserable ass, but she insisted on coming to live with you. I am not going to ask you again—what have you done with her?"

The blow on his jawbone was heavy. It made his entire skull ring and he felt the vibrations in his skull. The skin around the jaw had certainly broken, for her felt the warm dampness of blood oozing out of it.

"I don't know..." Orson spoke through his bloody mouth. "I had... I had... Forgotten."

"Forgotten? How could you forget your fiancée?"

This time the blow was right in the stomach. He felt as though a portion of his gut had been severed and he bent over in the pain.

Nathan locked the door and shoved Orson inside on the floor of his own house. "I am a guy who finds his own answers. No point in hauling you to the cops, because I know you did something funny with her. I am going to sit right here, in your house, and keep pounding your ass till you tell me what you did." He kicked him on the groin and he fell to the floor.

Night was approaching, but Nathan did not budge. Orson was on the floor, pinned by Nathan's heavy legs, who sat on his bed and smoked his umpteenth cigarette, frequently rubbing its burning end against Orson's skin.

Orson found himself to be within an inch of his life. The beating was slowly removing the spell that had been cast upon him, and he wondered where Lonnie was. The irony was that he was being asked to give answers when he himself could have done anything to find out about her.

When another cigarette was stubbed out on his bare, bleeding back, Orson gave another huge yell of pain and blacked out.

"Bloody shit!" Nathan exclaimed and squatted on the floor to check whether he was still breathing. "The bastard will live," he muttered to himself.

At that moment, something brushed past his leg. He suddenly turned to look and saw a fat, black lizard running on the floor. "Jesus," he exclaimed and stood up in disgust. "Filthy pigsty!"

That was the first time he started to look around the little studio apartment.

And he realized that lizard wasn't the only freeloader in this house. The sight on the floor made his head turn; he felt little ripples run through his brain as he saw the lizards on the floor. They were of all sizes; some fat and some thin, some sickly white and some horridly black.

He almost fell backward as his flesh began to creep under his skin as the clammy reptiles clambered all over him. For a person who had never dared to touch a single lizard before, here he was buried under a riot of them. The nauseating, soft skin of the lizards clung to his body, and he ran all over the place trying to get them off him. He stepped over dozens of them, squishing them on the floor, but more of them emerged, coming out of the cracks in the floorboards and the open window and even the bottom of the furniture, and vied for any inch of space on his body.

He began to pass out when they made for his face, and tried to wedge their soft paws into his mouth, but then he felt them retreat.

It was abrupt and unexplained, like most of the things that happened in this shabby coop of a house. He saw the mass exodus of the lizards move away from him, and while he was busy being thankful for being saved from their onslaught, he heard the song.

He remembered the tale he had read long ago—about the Pied Piper of Hamelin who lured the children away with his music. Only, here it was a song and the hypnotized losers were lizards.

Then he saw the Pied Piper.

All the critters were drawn to the poster on the wall. And when he saw the woman in the poster, even he could not escape the pulling effect. She was unlike anyone he had seen. He had no taste for women, but even he could not escape her bewitching beauty. He followed the lizards, now unmindful that he was almost racing with them in a bid to reach the poster.

Her mouth in the poster was open. Or was it that only the lips were moving? The lizards climbed over the wall, reaching that beautiful open mouth in the poster, and willingly entered it. And he wasn't quite conscious of what he was seeing at that moment, but he did hear a slight munching sound interspersed with the sorrowful strain of the siren's song.

In his trance, he reached the poster and came so close to it that he did not leave any space for the lizards who had been tardy in reaching their destination. He was dazed and lost; the only thing he wanted was to be on the other mysterious side of the poster. He wanted to be in it.

His wish began to be fulfilled when her hands slowly emerged out of the poster and began to hug him tightly, drawing him inside it forever.

* * *

Orson didn't quite know what made his tormentor leave his side. When he woke up, he was aching and bleeding all over. His eyes were shut and he held his body like a fetus in a mother's womb. It was around the precise moment when he was again drifting into unconsciousness when he heard the laugh.

It was a melodic laugh, like someone was right in the room with him, looking at him, and he immediately turned to look. He only saw the shadows of the night forming and dissolving on the walls of his little room, but he could see little else.

Dismissing it as a trick played by his petulant mind, he turned back to sleep, but the laugh played out again, this time louder than the first. He woke up and sat upright, as much as his almost broken back could afford. He looked around and found nothing. But the laugh was distinct. He hadn't heard it before, but he had a faint recognition of it.

And then a thought entered his mind—this is the way Bessie would have laughed.

With that thought in mind, he hobbled onto his feet and went right up to the window which was still open. He hoped to find her back, sitting again by the window, just as he had seen her the last time. But his hopes were dashed to the ground as soon as they had sprung in his mind. The chair, devoid of any occupancy, mocked at his misery in the nocturnal silence.

He sat on his bed, puzzling over whether to lie down or not, nodding his head in disbelief at his easy credulity, when he noticed the slight movement out of the corner of his eye.

It was the poster—the poster of her.

He was sure there had been a movement in it.

And then, even as he was straining his neck in its direction to catch it again, it happened again.

This time it was sudden that he almost fell backward right on his bed. His eyes were fixed on the poster, which had now begun to exhibit a state of turmoil. The silvery white of her hair was blending with the blue of her dress, and darkening to an unholy color of sickness. Her white face was getting filled with warts, and the blue eyes were becoming blacker than the night. He saw in utmost fear the eyes blink and the face move, and then the lips, which were now burnt black, cracked and opened to reveal a most vile mouth inside.

He could even feel the stench.

The reality of Bessie had now chosen to present itself in front of him and this was a reality he could have done without. He tried to run away, but he could not. He found himself pinned to his bed.

Then the poster moved.

This was not just the flat movement that was happening up until now; this time the movement was three dimensional. It was first those breasts—they popped out of the poster—and he could see their bizarre inhuman shape. And then the face came out, and then one limb after another, and he saw how they terminated in the most perilous talons he had seen. The whole entity now popped out of the poster and began moving toward him.

It stood there, in the middle of the room, and he pinned on his own bed, could do nothing but look at it in amazement.

Then he felt the strange feeling. It was at once pleasurable and bizarre. It welled from deep inside him, and it was an erotic feeling, arousing him sexually, though he tried to stifle the feeling. But nothing was in his control now.

The creature in front of him did not touch him. It just hovered there, like some kind of holographic apparition, but he slowly began to moan with the pleasure of the most intimate contact he had ever had.

But he knew this should not happen. He knew this would be his last climax if he reached there.

And, just like that, with a big burst of energy, he pushed himself away from the bed and found the energy to flee from his house.

* * *

He did not stop running till he was on the beach.

He fell down in the sand and tried to get his breath back. When the sound of his gasping had receded, he realized that he was not alone. He sensed the hollow breathing of someone close to him.

He lifted his head.

Seated on the same bench as three months ago was another woman. This one was in pink, but she had the same white complexion, the same silver blond hair, and the same incomparable beauty. And he was again mesmerized; drawn toward her despite his best counsel.

"Who are you?" he asked her. This one was not crying, but she was brooding over something.

"Annette," she said.

"What are you doing here?"

"Looking for someone," she told him.

"Whom?"

"She is like me, but dressed in blue."

"Bessie?"

"Oh, you have seen her." There should have been rejoicing in her voice, but she said that in a very detached sort of manner. "Where is she?"

"Gone."

"Where to?"

"Don't know. Why do you ask about her?"

"I am her mother."

He stepped back from her. She did not look like a mother in the least. She looked youthful and beautiful; she did not at all have the matured appearance that a mother is supposed to have. And, when he stepped back, he saw something in the darkness behind her shoulder.

The house was just as he thought it would be—green walls, white paneled windows and a large red roof with a chimney atop it.

"Whose house is that?" he asked.

"Mine," she said.

"I have been looking for it," Orson said. "Where was it all this time?"

"It only shows to people when they need to see it," she said. "Would you like to see inside?"

He stepped inside with her. And the moment he stepped into the house, everything changed. It was another night, and suddenly the house was filled with children. There were at least four of them, all aged below ten, and the youngest could have been no more than three. He looked at her and was suddenly amazed. It was her—the little child was Bessie! There was no mistaking the hair and the complexion; he knew instantly it was her.

And then there was a commotion outside.

"Burn it down," the men outside were hollering, "burn all of them."

Annette, who was still dressed in pink, but somehow appeared younger, came up to a window and looked at the men spreading fires everywhere. She sent all the children away, and they immediately dispersed. Then she took the youngest—Bessie—in her arms.

"They have come for us, Bessie," she said. "They will kill us because they cannot understand us."

Bessie was too young to comprehend anything.

"What mumma?" she asked.

"We have to go," Annette said. "They have already burnt the rest."

"Where?"

It was a valid question. There was nowhere to go to, except the beach. She had no time to think. Cradling the little Bessie in her arms, she ran to the beach, leaving footprints in the sand. And Orson followed. The men with torches ran after them, many of them running right through him with their unseeing eyes.

But it was too late.

She was already in the water, with her child, lapped up by the waves.

And he turned back to look.

The house was burning down, with the little children inside trying to run away in the vegetation surrounding it.

The fires burned down and Orson was again enveloped by the darkness of the night with the woman in pink.

"They tried to burn us," she said. "I lost all my children, but I saved my Bessie."

"I saw you drown," he said without believing the scene that had just unfolded in front of him.

"But we came back. Bessie and I. To take our revenge on the men who tormented us."

And then he understood the seriousness of that statement. For her, he was just a man, one of the faceless people who had burned her house down. Blind vengeance is the worst kind of vengeance.

Not prepared to wait there any longer, he tried to move away. Annette remained sitting on the bench, and she let out her bloodcurdling laugh, but he had moved away from her range. "Bring her back to me," she yelled out. "She is trapped in your house. Bring her back."

* * *

Thankful for the sun that now shone above his head, he made way for his home. He knew what to do. He stepped inside and found the poster still hanging there, quite innocently, appearing once again like the masterpiece it was.

He came closer to it, intending to remove it from the wall. He moved his fingers around its edges, trying to find that one unpasted end from where he could rip it apart. But further shock awaited him—the poster was not just pasted on the door; it had become a part of the door.

He heard the laugh and this time it was a mocking laugh.

However, he had made up his mind to rid himself of this evil. Lonnie had warned him; she had seen something in her that he hadn't. Perhaps because she was a woman she had seen her true form? But there was no way he could ask Lonnie about it now. She had disappeared from his life, leaving no trace.

He came back with the strongest screwdriver that he could find. It did not matter if the poster had become a part of the door; he could remove the door itself. He began to work with the lower hinge. The door was old and the hinges had rusted; and it took him a great deal of effort to find the fulcrum. He used his muscle power to rotate the screwdriver. And when it did, a wail emanated from the poster above.

He saw the movement in the poster. The background had started to dissolve. Smoke now surrounded the face in the poster and it began to squeal like a pig being castrated. He accelerated the pace of his task.

The lower hinge was free, and he began to work on the middle one. The door had now begun to wobble very slightly, and that was heightened by the movement within the poster. He saw that the eyes had begun to turn their sickly pallor of red. It was coming alive.

At one point, his back was turned to the poster and he was focusing on getting a grip on the handle. He chipped away the age-old paint that had hidden the screws and began to rotate the tool he held. At the same time, the hand in the poster began to move. Unknown to him, behind his back, the hand wedged itself out of the poster. And it shook and shook until it popped out of the poster and became real.

It flailed this side and that, trying to get a hold of the man. But, just in the nick of time, the screw suddenly came loose and his screwdriver turned and he lost his balance. Even as he fell on the floor, he saw, with a rapidly beating heart, how narrowly he had missed the talon-ended nails from tearing him to shreds.

With only one hinge left to go, the door shook precariously. He did not have the strength to hold it again, and so he stood up, full length, and gave the door a powerful kick right at its center. The entire door came off, with its hinge breaking off its screws, and its splinters flying in different directions. The poster, which fell to the floor, face down along with the door, gave a last yelp as a puppy being kicked.

Sporting a mischievous smile that his work was accomplished, he proceeded to hack the door with an ax he had in his frugal apartment. He had made up his mind to take the poster back on the beach, to the mother. He had never believed much in the supernatural, but the occurrences of the past few days had changed his mind. He did not want to take any chances now. He would get rid of the poster once and for all, and that was his only hope of being done with it. He did not want a curse or a hex to be on his head for not doing the dead woman's bidding.

He hacked at the door in a neat manner, just as a creative mind would, but even so it left several jagged edges around the poster, which had by now considerably sunk into the door. And at one point, the ax hacked at the poster itself, at one of the fingers. At that, there was a most terrible groan from the fallen poster, like that of someone in deep pain; and when he peered closer to look, he saw blood oozing out of the broken region.

Orson then proceeded to wrap the poster in a bath towel, and tucking it under his arm, he proceeded to the beach where Annette would be waiting; at least he hoped she would.

* * *

With the poster firmly clasped by his side, Orson reached the beach. It was still dark, but she was not in sight. He combed the beach, trying to get a glimpse of her, and later sat down on the sand, and hoped that she would find him.

But when she did find him, he did not see her immediately. She crept up from behind, her pink dress and silver blonde hair flying away in the breeze and she stood looking at him in the most curious manner. It was a long time before he felt her presence and turned; and he was instantly scared out of his wits to find her presence so near.

He tried to greet her with an expression that he hoped came out as a smile, but he was not sure of anything anymore. He proffered the poster. "Here it is, the poster you wanted," he told her.

Annette proceeded to open the paper package with her sharp claws. She opened it as though it contained the last morsel of food on the planet and someone would snatch it away from her.

Then she saw her. Her maternal instincts came to the fore, and Orson even saw faint tears forming at the corners of her eyes. "My dear girl, my dear girl," she said and held the poster of her quite close to her bosom, now having broken into an emotional cry.

"My daughter—what did you do?" she yelled, and then she let out a scream that rent through the cool sea breeze of the night beach sky.

With a look of absolute revulsion and horror, she pushed the picture away from her; as far as she could take it, and flung it right on the sand on the beach. It went quite a distance, and got wedged into the sand at an obtuse angle. Orson first looked at the picture and saw that the person in the picture was now a monstrous, bizarre creature, and its lips were smeared with blood.

He looked at the pink woman. It was a moment of utmost horror.

The woman's chest was ripped apart, right at the breasts. They had been punctured by talons of great sharpness, and blood oozed out of them still. The blood fell all around her on the sand, where it was immediately absorbed and formed a dark patch, which was visible even in the darkness.

"She has not forgiven me," Annette said, as she collapsed on the sand, "for leading her into the way. She ran away from me all along, and when I finally got her..."

Orson saw the figure in the poster change. The colors of the background had started to blend.

"She wanted you to bring her to me," Annette continued. "Drown the poster. Take it to the water and dunk it. That's the only way—"

The woman could say no more. But even as her deliverance consumed her, the sand around her began to move, until it was almost a whirlpool. Orson stepped away, scared at the sudden violent movement in the sand. And then there was a gaping hole in it where she lay. Her body was taken into the hole, and then the sand covered it up and lay as innocent as it had been before.

The poster began to wail. It was so horrendous that even the dogs on the beach stopped barking and recoiled from it in fear. But he was unfazed. He had seen enough, and now was determined to put an end to it.

Even as the wind began to rise, even as the howl began to increase, he walked on. His feet burying themselves in the sand, he plowed on, till he reached the source of the ghastly uproar.

Grabbing it with both hands, he pulled it out of the sand. It was no longer a dead, non-living entity anymore; there was life in it, and it seemed to wriggle out of his very grasp. As he struggled to hold it tighter, the spirit within it tried to break free and reach out to hold him. He entered the waves, and they lashed at his feet, threatening to knock him down, but he had determined himself to carry out this endeavor. He wanted to bring the spirit back to the place from where it had sprung.

He had heard of vengeful sirens and rusalki—female spirits that seduced men and led them to their watery graves. Those faint snatches of stories seemed like fairytales back then. There was even a slight fascination that diluted their horror, but now he could not wait for the nightmare to get over.

At the first contact he made of the poster with the water, it began to squirm. It tried to break free of his determined grasp, but he held on. He plunged it deeper and deeper, and in doing so, did not realize how far from the shoreline he had gone.

He did not sense the claws that gripped his feet under the water. Even when he felt it, he thought they were the waves playing tricks with him.

* * *

The day had dawned.

He could not feel himself now. People had begun coming up to the beach, but no one could see him. Some of them came perilously close to him, almost walked through him, and did not flinch in the least.

He walked through the waves, but they did not make him wet. He had been walking tirelessly without placing his feet anywhere but he didn't feel tired. But he could see.

Floating over the waves, in the distance, he could see a 24" x 36" empty wooden panel that had a canvas stretched around it at some time, but now it was just a shredded rag clinging to it. Some boys playing in the waves reached out to get it, and when one of them managed to grab hold of it, he put it through his lithe body like it was a hula loop and put a performance for the others. Their laughs carried over the waves.

If only they knew the story behind the panel.

He felt no pain though.

This was his new existence and he looked around to get used to it. It was then that he saw her.

In the distance, seated on a park bench, in the same blue dress as he had seen her first, she sat forlornly. He wanted to run up to her and throttle her, but he realized the futility of it.

She looked at him and smiled.

But no one else could see her in the broad daylight. No one could see her till she chose to show herself. Orson could only nod his head and walk away into the waves.

# Disease Demon

By Jenna R. Goodwin

Jagged metal cuffs bit into Aaron's wrists. His arms, suspended above his head, had lost all feeling and were like two hunks of lifeless flesh. He could hear the pipe organ wailing in the sanctuary upstairs; the monotone harmonizing voices of the choir. A rat the size of his boot was perched on a ceiling beam gnawing on something thick, white, and unidentifiable. He had to escape while all of his strength wasn't seeping out his body... Or before he became the rat's next source of protein.

Thirty-six hours had gone by since he woke up in a basement. He had a headache and the ghost of a stench that reminded him of old air conditioner vent lingered in his nostrils. In the basement the air was stale and cold, and strips of pale light strained through the slits of dust matted windows making outlines and shapes just barely visible. Aaron could make out the form of a curtained puppet booth and a box of the hideous puppets watching him like they wanted to each chew on one of his fingers. Spare choir robes and candles were shoved to one corner and yard equipment in the other. He wondered if there was an ax—

The basement door creaked open and feet descended the wooden staircase. Aaron's back seized him with violent shudders. He frantically grazed his teeth over the inside of his bottom lip. Was this going to be it? A woman with stringy brown hair and leathery skin stopped in front of him and grabbed his chin with her clawed hand. He hated her.

"You look sickly," she said. Aaron could only see the form of her features contorting as she examined him. "But still more life in you than not enough to waste."

Aaron silently cursed her, his lips pressed tightly behind a strap of duct tape. If he could get his hands loose for a few seconds—that was all he needed to wrap his fingers around the woman's neck and squeeze. He'd squeeze until the bones crunched.

"Avaleen's ready for you." She released his chin and the force swung his shoulders comically like a child on a twisted swing. His feet hovered inches above the concrete floor; his spine was like strained crusted rubber. Physical relief poured down his back as the woman stood on her toes and unlinked the chain hanging him in the air. "This is what you were created for. Think of it as fulfilling your earthly purpose."

The soles of his boots slapped the floor. The first steps he'd taken in almost two days and it was his walk of death. He didn't believe in destiny and any purpose of his life would be decided by him. Not some crazy rat lady.

She led him up the stairs, the planks of wood groaning with everything step. Aaron's mind was reeling. Time was running out. He could practically see the sand rushing down the hourglass; hear the roar of it in his ears. When they reached the top of the stairs the woman turned around and ripped the duct tape off his mouth.

He hollered, the skin above his lip scorching where peach fuzz was violently detached from the follicles. The woman cackled, her voice like a rusted iron gate.

"Let me go, you psychotic hag!" Aaron struggled to get past her out the door, but she back-handed him across the face. She pinned him to the wall with her hand clutching his neck, her sharp nails scraping along his jugular.

Her eyes darkened as she leered. "Go head," she said. "Make this hard. There's no one here that wants to save you."

Aaron flinched. Her breath smelled like rotten wood and tar. She leaned back and pushed open the basement door. "Keep to the center aisle," she said, holding it open with the toe of her shoe. She gestured for Aaron to get out. He hesitated, eyeing the woman like she was a snake with four heads, and then walked past her out the door.

The sanctuary was a long rectangular room with stained glassed windows lining the walls. At first Aaron thought he had stumbled into the morning church service. There were people standing outside the pews wearing dark blue choir robes, holding candles, all lit and flickering. They lined each side of the aisle like a morbid celebrity walkway, heads bowed and reverent. Who did they think he was, Jesus?

Aaron felt a rock slam into the pit of his stomach. Heels clacked behind him and a boney hand clamped down on his shoulder. His head jerked to the side; the rat woman was inches away from his face, her eyes watery and hazy. "Walk," she hissed in his ear. He reluctantly moved forward, his heart digging into his ribs. Each step he took was like willingly walking into Hell.

"This is a cult," Aaron spat over his shoulder. "You people are crazy!" He trudged up the carpet making sure to stay in the middle so as not to get too close to the robed people. His ears buzzed with a dull hum that vibrated throughout the room. Aaron cut his eyes from side to side at the robed cult followers; all he could see were lips parting and pressing together. He thought the people sounded like they were moaning, but the more he listened he realized that they were singing, a deep voluminous chant in a language he never heard before, something ancient, dark.

Their hooded eyes followed Aaron as he walked up the aisle, their faces unmoving, heads roving and focused on his every move. The woman shoved him forward and let go of his shoulder. Aaron searched for her, but she had already disappeared through the wall of blue cloaks.

"What the hell do you freaks want?" Aaron shouted above the choir, his voice bouncing off the spired ceiling. "This is sick! What are you, a bunch of cannibals? Couldn't you just be satisfied smoking pot like other trippy people?"

A shadow like black wings spread across the floor at his feet. Aaron lifted his face and at the back of the sanctuary was an enormous black painted alter and standing at the pulpit was the priest, his glaring white robes fluttering like dying doves as he waved his arms.

"For this is my body and this is my blood," the priest said. His voice was hollow and projected silencing the choir. Aaron watched with a disturbing fascination as the priest lifted a cup that reminded him of the carved vases at his grandmother's house. "For by the cup you shall eat of my body and drink of my blood..."

Aaron narrowed his eyes. The priest sounded like he was quoting the bible, but something sounded a little off. He thought about the time his grandmother dragged him to church when he was a kid. Now he knew why the place always gave him the creeps. The priest lifted the cup to his lips and bowed his head. Aaron suddenly felt like he was standing at a funeral. **His funeral.**

The priest lifted his head and lowered the cup. He smiled down at Aaron. "My son, you are giving the ultimate gift." He gestured to a small lump of sheets laid out on the altar. "For this child to live you are willing to sacrifice your life. God bless you."

Aaron stared at the altar. Draped under a long velvet sheet was a small girl. How could he have missed it? She looked like she was sleeping, her body motionless and peaceful like a baby vampire. Under the ghastly lighting her skin and lips looked drained of color. At the little girl's head the rat woman was stroking her blond hair, muttering softly.

Aaron felt his mouth drop. These people really were insane. Did they think he was going to die for a corpse? "I can't bring her back to life!"

A chuckle passed over the choir. The priest still had the same patronizing grin plastered to his face. "Young one, you have so much to give, so much potential—"

"What part of me being chained," he lifted his hands, obnoxiously jangling the cuffs, "is a willing sacrifice? Let me go and I'll **willingly** not set you all on fire."

Whatever fake compassion was left to the priest melted from his face. His eyes burned like infectious sores as he nodded at the choir. "Drain his blood."

Aaron stiffened, adrenaline searing through his veins. Two men broke away from the wall of cloaks. Aaron spun around, the chains bending under his boots, making him tilt like an uneven chair. As they grabbed for him, Aaron picked up the chains and slung them at the men, catching the one closest around the neck. Aaron tightened his grip and jerked the man, choking and gasping to the ground. He turned to the other man. He was bigger than the first and was now suspicious of the chains. He lurched, catching the sleeve of Aaron's shirt and dragging him to the altar. Aaron whirled around on the man's back and sank his teeth into his shoulder. The man squalled. He threw Aaron to the ground and staggered against the pews, blood spewing from the tattered vein.

Aaron swung the chains like they were whips from Hades. "Come on you sons-a-"

A boot connected to the back of his leg and he crashed to his knees. He scrambled with his cuffed hands trying to get to his feet and tripped over the chains, smacking his face on the hard floor. Pain spread through his nose and cheek and something hot and wet smeared his skin. He wondered when the others were going to leap into action and tear off his limbs one by one. Maybe he'd pass out when the monastic psychopaths severed his intestines from his gut—

"I hope you all burn in Hell," he said, and was hit hard in the head. Excruciating pain lanced through his temples. He gagged at the pain. The sanctuary began to swirl and fade; his vision was filled with black dots. He reached for the edge of a pew and someone shoved him with their foot. The last thing he saw was a curtain of blue and then he was out.

* * *

Wet, sticky drops splattered his face. There was a dull ache in the back of his head, radiating from his ears into his neck. His clothes were damp and the scent of molded wood and overturned earth clogged his throat.

Aaron peeled open his eyes; it was like grinding sandpaper against his eyeballs. It was raining. The moon reflected in the muck, casting an eerie glare around him. He was outside, surrounded by clustered rows of outstretched trees. Their branches looked like witches' arms, craggy, and bent at odd angles.

The church freaks must have wizened up. This time his hands were tied behind him around a tree. Aaron shimmied his wrists. Instead of metal cuffs he was bound in stiff, coarse rope. At least he was sitting. He let his head fall back against the tree. How the hell was he supposed to get away from these people?

By the trees opposite him something stirred. His heart sped and beat in his ears. The muscles in his thighs ached and twitched to run for the hills. Did they leave him out in the woods to be devoured by squirrels? They'd do it. They were sick like that.

A small figure crawled from the ground—the girl—leaves falling down around her shoulders like water pelting in rivulets at her feet. She blinked a few times and then walked carefully to stand in front of Aaron.

"Hello, boy," she said. Her voice was deeper than he expected, rich and resonant. She bent down and poked him in the forehead. "I'm sick, you know."

Aaron felt like **he** was going to be sick. She was the little girl the cretin laid out and dead on the altar. He chewed mercilessly on his lip as she played with her blond hair. "I hate to tell you, kid," he said. "But y'all are all infected with something."

She seemed to ponder this and said, "But you're the only one that's going to die."

"Yeah, thanks, Captain Obvious," he snapped. He looked around at the trees, searching for some kind of miraculous thing to jump out at him and save the day. The more he squinted at the trees he noticed something wasn't quite right about them. The trunks were all deformed and lumpy with chains hanging off them...

"My name's Avaleen," she said.

Aaron rolled his eyes. "That's great, Avaleen," he said, still trying to figure out what was so wrong about those trees. "Now go throw yourself off a cliff."

She frowned and bounced off to play in the leaves. Aaron watched her for a minute, rolling up her leaf piles and then diving into them squealing. For a sickly, dead kid she sure was normal. He shook the thought from his head. **Nothing about this situation was normal.**

An icy wind blew through the woods showering down leaves and clanking the chains on the trees. A misshapen, white rock fell and rolled from one of the trees thumping to a stop on Aaron's leg. His eyes threatened to bulge from their sockets. The rock wasn't a rock at all, but a skull.

He glared through the darkness at the deformed trees. Now it made sense. All the lumps and shapes were left over dead bodies. Bile flooded his cheeks. He wasn't the first victim to be tied up in these woods and odds were he wouldn't be the last.

Avaleen was dancing around the trees, lifting the meatless arm of a skeleton and pretending to spin under it. "This boy was nicer than you," she said to Aaron. "He died faster too. You should learn to die fast."

Aaron didn't speak. He had to get out of there. The longer he waited the less time he had until the cult decided to come out and feed him to Satan. He felt along the threads of rope, mentally creating a picture of how to maneuver his wrists. The rope wasn't overly thick. With the right kind of friction he could weaken the bond enough to snap them. Aaron shot a glance at Avaleen—she was making a leaf angel—and started rubbing the rope against the jagged tree bark.

"What are you doing?" Avaleen had materialized beside him, her white bare legs covered in scabs and sores. She stared down at Aaron, her face stony. "Are you trying to leave?"

Aaron held still. How'd she move so fast? Maybe the others didn't get eaten by demon squirrels after all. He forced his stiff cheeks to move and lifted the corners of his mouth into a smile. It felt like a grimace. "I was scratching my back."

"You're a liar!" Her pale little face scrunched up. She picked up the skull and raised it over her head ready to hurl it down on Aaron's face.

Aaron clenched his jaw, his chest shook with dry panic. A child was going to murder him. The skull came down, slicing through the air. He closed his eyes waiting for the blow—

"This is not the way, Avaleen." The rat woman was standing over Aaron, her fingers latched and holding back Avaleen's arm. "This is not who we are."

Aaron looked from Avaleen to the rat woman. A few seconds before there was no sign of any life other than himself and the brat kid. What were these people, the ghosts of church goers who fell asleep during service?

Avaleen made a face and dropped the skull. "I don't want to wait anymore."

"You don't have to," said the rat woman. She pet the child on her greasy head and led her over to an arch in the trees where the priest appeared standing with a giant leather book opened in his hands.

Aaron wondered what would happen if he spit on the rat woman. The priest was glowering over his book, running his sausage fingers down the pages. He stopped and glanced at rat woman who nodded at his silent message.

They were plotting his death. Even Avaleen was standing on a fallen tree and hovering over the book like a little monster. He wanted to throttle her into oncoming traffic. Aaron jerked again at the rope. This time it gave an inch. Filled with rekindled hope he sawed it against the bark. He rubbed at the threads until the sharp splinters cut into his skin.

A thread popped loose. Aaron craned his neck, checking on the high and mighty threesome. The priest stood with his head titled back and hands rose heavenward. Rat woman was lighting candles lining them up in intricate designs on the ground. Avaleen sat cross-legged in the middle. She stared Aaron down like he was a piece of raw meat.

"I give thee life," the priest shouted, his voice thundering. He hunched over his book, collapsed, and then lifted his arms again as a massive wind bolstered through the woods. Leaves stirred into mini twisters, trees bent and snapped back and forth, their branches helpless and flailing.

Aaron couldn't see rat woman anymore, but Avaleen still crouched in the center of the circle, her hands dug into the dirt clinging to the earth. Aaron continued to tear at the ropes, the wind battering his body, icy pricks of rain stinging his exposed skin. He could feel the rope giving, the threads fraying to the quick. He strained against the tree and pulled as hard as the bones in his wrists would allow. There was a tight snap and then he was free.

The storm was beginning to calm. Aaron scrambled from the ground just as the trees behind the priest parted. His breath caught in his chest. A creature that looked like it was once a human with charred flesh hanging off its decaying bones crept out of the trees. Its face was contorted into a rictus grin with tentacles slithering out it's hollowed out eye sockets. Strips of black cloth dangled from the bones.

Aaron gagged. The creature was coming for him. He searched frantically for whatever instrument of destruction he could find: rocks, pinecones, twigs. He remembered the previous victims planted against the trees and picked up a set of old chains. They were rusted and crumbling and snapped off under his boot.

"All right, you ugly bastard," Aaron said, swinging the chains over his head. "Bring it!"

The creature lurched at his neck. Aaron leaped aside. He kicked at the creature's skeletal ankle bones and it roared, its hot sour breath hitting him in the face. Aaron hurled the chains at the creature's fleshless torso, but they tangled in its hooked fingers.

There was a savage scream and the rat woman launched herself onto Aaron back. Aaron staggered, his knees giving out and crashing to the ground. "Take him!" Rat woman shouted. "And heal my daughter!"

The nebulous thoughts in Aaron's head finally cleared. Avaleen wasn't dead, she was sick. The only reason she was still alive was because the priest and rat woman were summoning some kind of disease demon. And it needed one thing: **Blood**. There had to be a source of transference in order for the creature to make the switch.

Aaron wrenched back his elbow and planted it into rat woman's sternum. She rolled off him groaning. The creature was inches away and taking its time. It watched Aaron like it was gloating over his impending death.

Aaron turned around and ran. He didn't care if the thing chased him down—it was after him anyway. He slid to a stop at the circle beside Avaleen. She screeched an incoherent mixture of words, clawing at Aaron as steadied himself on her head.

He needed something sharp enough to rip through skin. He remembered the priest saying something about draining him of blood. There had to be a knife around somewhere. There was a terrible noise like a dying cat. Aaron spun around and the creature had rat woman in his arms, its skull buried into her gut. It lifted its face, bits and pieces of skin and intestines hanging from its dull squared teeth.

Ignoring rat woman's outstretched hand, Aaron ran for the arch in the trees. He skidded to a stop. The priest was gone! He felt around on the dark ground for the priest's book, but came up with hunks of dirt and leaves. Behind him he could hear the fading screams of rat woman and then a sickening thud as her body dropped to the ground.

Aaron turned around just in time to see the creature trudging forward, its hollowed gaze fastened on him. Hair rose on the back of his neck. There had to be a way—

Something jerked him up from behind. Aaron struggled as the Priest dragged him towards the opening in the woods. There was a giant wooden cross in the middle of the yard behind the church. Aaron kicked back and the priest held a knife at his throat.

"Do this for your seat in Heaven, son," the priest said. Aaron felt the cold sting of the knife kiss his throat. The creature was dragging forward—he was at the opening of the woods now, Avaleen in her little circle looking after him. "A life for a life," the Priest shouted at the creature. "For thou hast taken thy diseases—"

Aaron shoved his head into the priest's face, the knife dropping and burying pointed side down into the ground. The priest staggered back, a trail of blood running down his chin. Aaron didn't waste any time. He fell to the ground and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the knife just as the creature lunged for his hair.

He ducked, rolling to the side and diving around the wooden cross. The priest was pawing at Aaron's shirt trying to force him up, but Aaron was stronger. He stood, gripping the priest around neck and shouldering him into the cross. He sank the knife into his chest, pinning him to the cross.

The creature stopped dead in its tracks and changed its direction to the priest. Blood was bubbling and gushing up around the hilt of the knife and spilling down the cross staining the grass. The creature leaned in close enough that it looked like he was whispering in the priest's ear. The priest let out a terrified yowl as a giant tear opened up in the earth beneath them. Aaron started backing away. The creature didn't spare him another glance as he took the priest down into hell. The ground closed up with a slurp.

Aaron hesitated and then walked over to the cross where the knife was still embedded in the wood. He tightened his fingers around the hilt and jerked it out. He thought about going back and killing Avaleen, but he figured without rat woman or the priest she would die on her own anyway.

He started walking back to the highway and turned around one last time, moving his hands over his chest in the sign of the cross. "Rest in pieces."

