That Hoodoo, Voodoo That You Do: A Dark Rituals Anthology - Crisler L. 2015

Introduction

This anthology is a love letter of sorts. I can hardly remember a time in my life when ritual wasn’t prevalent. In the months following the departure of my father from our lives, my mother turned back to the Catholic faith of her childhood, and my young self embraced it wholeheartedly, as children tend to do with something new they are curious about. When it failed to fill the same need in my life that it does for millions of others, I turned to the occult.

Though my taste in spiritual fare has tended more toward vanilla in the past decade, I also happen to be a United States soldier. Since I enlisted in 2000, my life has been no less filled with ritual than it was when I was lighting candles before Mass or praying around a campfire in the middle of the night. If anything, as I’ve risen through the ranks, I’ve gone from practitioner to priest, since I’m now responsible for showing newer soldiers how to perform the tasks that for me have been as automatic as breathing for years. If you think I’m stretching the analogy, I’m not. A quick search through the headlines shows how resistant we are to changes as simple as a uniform or how we conduct physical training. We soldiers can be as staunch and traditional as a church elder, I assure you.

I’d hazard to say that you, Dear Reader, don’t have a life too different from mine when it comes to ritual. If you feel inclined to argue, that’s fine; I can take it. I think I can win this one with two simple words, though: alarm clock. Most of our lives depend on a precision as vital as the timing in a witch’s grimoire. The world works on ritual. Things run smoothest when people perform their expected function. We tend to take other people’s roles for granted, as much as a parish priest expects his parishioners to show up on Sunday. As much as those parishioners expect him to be in the booth to hear their confessions on Saturday.

Of course, this book isn’t a pure, unabashed expression of admiration. The world doesn’t always work the way you want it to. People don’t always do what you think they will. Things don’t always go according to plan. And while in the mundane, when a ritual doesn’t achieve the desired goal, one can usually simply go back to the drawing board and find a new way, when it comes to horror—well, let’s just say the price is a little higher.

Lincoln Crisler

December 7^th, 2014 Augusta, Georgia

Table of Contents

Sa fe lontan - Sarah Hans Young Girls Are Coming to Ajo - Ken Goldman Into the Mirror Black - Tim Marquitz Severed - Brandon Ford Afflicted - A.J. Brown A Little Bit of Soul - Craig Cook Coughs and Sneezes - James K Isaac Secret Suicide - Amy Braun Wounds - Greg Chapman Sturm und Drang - Jeff C. Carter Shades of Hades - E.J. Alexander

For Love - DJ Tyrer Gingerbread Man - Rose Strickman Thy Just Punishments - Edward M. Erdelac Johnny Two Places - Mark Mellon The Seed - N.X. Sharps Late Payment - Jake Elliot Masquerade - C.A. Rowland Lessons from a Victory Garden - Jason Andrew The Projectionist - Timothy Baker The Right Hand Man - J.S. Reinhardt Paper Craft - Leigh Saunders

Sa fe lontan / Long Time No See

Sarah Hans

Ayida’s eyes were blank. She was only a child the first time I met her, still unfinished, but even so, I saw the space where a soul should be. My skin prickled when she looked at me with her vacant face.

“Your daughter will become a powerful mambo,” I told her mother in the marketplace. “You should let me take her for training right away.”

“How can you know such a thing?”

“I can see it when I look at her. I can read the bones,” I offered, reaching for the pouch at my side. “The loa can prove my words.”

“That’s silly superstitious nonsense.”

Bile-flavored rage bubbled up in my throat. “I’ve built my life around such silly superstitious nonsense.” I bit back further angry words. “Let me show you, please. The hounfour is right around the corner. It will only take a few moments and it could change your daughter’s life.” Still she hesitated, so I pressed on. “My name is Erzulie Tio, and I’ve been reading the bones since I was not much older than your girl.”

“Erzulie Tio? I’ve heard of you.”

Of course she’d heard of me. “From your neighbors?”

“Yes. They said you freed their son from a demon.”

“Not a demon, a Petwo loa. But yes, I coaxed the spirit from the boy. Let me read the bones for your daughter. You’re part of our community now, so your spiritual welfare falls to me.”

She licked her lips, conflicting beliefs warring on her face.

“Mama, please?” The girl turned those big, empty pools up to her mother and the woman at last smiled and nodded.

“Yes, alright.”

I brought them to the hounfour and cleared a circle on the dirt floor, squatting beside it. “What’s your name, child?”

“Ayida Fazande,” she replied, kneeling and watching my hands with intense interest. I drew the bones from their pouch and she asked, “Are they

real bones?”

“Yapok knuckles.” I held out my palm studded with bones. Each knuckle was marked with mystical symbols.

“They look like dice.” The girl’s mother inspected the bones too, leaning down over her child. They looked so much alike, mother and daughter, nearly identical, Ayida the smaller and less scarred version.

One soul can’t inhabit two bodies.

“Please stand back, Mrs. Fazande.”

She smiled and took a step back, saying, “Call me Lourdes.”

I muttered a quick prayer to Papa Legba and threw the bones into the circle. They scattered and rolled, like they always do. I prepared to announce the fate I’d already determined for Ayida, but my breath hitched in my throat as the scattered knuckles told me a story. A story of power. A story of blood. A story of the terrible things that lurk in the darkness. Shrill screams made my ears ache and my nose burned with the stench of searing flesh. And through it all there was Ayida Fazande, flames dancing in her eyes.

“Erzulie? Erzulie are you alright?” Lourdes Fazande stood over me. “Should we get the doctor?”

I was prone on the floor, and the fire was gone. “No, no, I’ll be fine,” I assured her, sitting up. I scanned the room for Ayida. The girl was standing in the doorway, her empty eyes wide with fear and staring at me.

“What happened?” Lourdes asked, offering her hand to help me climb to my feet.

“The loa spoke,” I replied, still watching Ayida.

“What did they say?”

“Your daughter has power. She is destined for...” I shook my head, conflicted. “.greatness. I should begin her mambo training immediately.”

“Mambo training? If she’s destined for greatness then she can do better than this.” Lourdes’s gesture swept over the hounfour. The mud-and-straw walls, the swept dirt floors, the glassless windows. Her gaze even included me, in my simple cotton dress, barefoot and childless. “I want more for Ayida than this life.”

#

A matter of disappearing chickens brought me to the Fazande’s doorstep not long after our first meeting. Neighbors had complained to me that their fowl were missing. I’d discovered the birds deep in the forest, following a trail of feathers and blood, thinking perhaps a wild dog was the culprit. Instead I found headless chicken corpses, a circle of blood, and dirt tamped down by dancing.

My feet carried me to the Fazande’s house. Lourdes and Ayida were working in the garden with the rest of the family. When Lourdes spotted me she called for all the children to hide in the house.

“What are you doing here? We don’t want to talk to you!” She brushed sweat from her forehead, leaving streaks of dirt, squinting against the bright sun.

“I found dead chickens in the forest,” I blurted. “Someone has been stealing them from your neighbors and using them I'or.l'or vodou rites.”

“What does that have to do with us?”

“I think it was Ayida.”

Lourdes scoffed. “Ayida knows less than nothing about your vodou rites.”

“Your daughter is special.”

“I know. That’s no reason for me to send her with you.”

“You must.” I looked up at movement on the porch. Ayida stood there, staring. I suppressed a shudder. “There’s something.. .I didn’t tell you.”

Lourdes followed my gaze and shouted for Ayida to get back in the house. “This thing you didn’t tell me, is it something that will convince me to send Ayida with you?”

“Yes. She’s.”

“You should have told me before. Now I don’t believe you. Now I think you’re desperate.”

“I am desperate. Your daughter.”

“No. I can’t make it any clearer. You should go before Papa comes home.”

“Your papa respects me. If you won’t listen, he will.”

“Papa also owns a gun. Are you willing to take the chance he’ll side with you?”

My retort was interrupted by a warm, salty breeze and the distant rumble of thunder. Both Lourdes and I turned to the horizon, where dark clouds boiled. We nodded to one another, an unspoken agreement that our human concerns could wait in the face of the coming storm.

I hurried back to the village. My neighbors were boarding up their homes and shops. With the help of a few neighborhood boys, I just managed to get the windows of the hounfour shuttered before the rain arrived.

The word rain is barely sufficient to describe a summer storm in Haiti. Torrent is a better word. The world was silenced and stopped by the force of the winds and the huge, pelting droplets. Even the human smells that always surrounded us, odors of sweat and garbage and cooking and sex and birth and death, were obliterated by the clean, fresh scent of water.

Alone but for a few guttering candles, I used the time to sweep the floors and clean the walls with my special tonic. The room filled with the scents of pepper and herbs, backed by the cleanliness of vinegar, the scent of a room purified both physically and spiritually. I always found comfort in that scent, because it reminded me of the mambo who trained me, who taught me to brew the tonic from wine, and cast the bones, and pray to the loa. I could feel her beside me, singing as I worked, and I felt less afraid.

I prayed for a while, seeking guidance from the loa, but the guidance never came. Eventually exhaustion won out over my vigil and I curled up on my cot in the back of the hounfour. Lulled by the grumble of thunder and the tap of rain against the aluminum roof, I dozed.

Pressure against my throat startled me awake. Ayida’s face loomed in my vision, her mouth twisted into a snarl. Her small hands were about my neck, strangling me. I shoved her back and sent her sprawling across the dirt floor.

“What are you doing?” I croaked, rising from the cot.

Ayida crouched on all fours like an animal. She bared her teeth and growled at me, snapping at the air. Her eyes were full of blind rage.

I fumbled for the bottle of tonic and the broom. Ayida lunged at me and I poked her in the belly with the broom, keeping her away from me, while I called for Papa Legba. “Take this loa from this child,” I called, and splashed the tonic at the girl.

Ayida screamed and covered her face, crumpling to the floor. I dropped the broom and wrapped one arm around her, still clutching the tonic bottle in my other hand and calling for Papa Legba. “Call the loa back across the divide, Father of the Crossroads! Release this girl!” I sprinkled more tonic onto her hair, the scent of pepper and vinegar surrounding us like a caustic cloud. My eyes burned and I squeezed them shut.

Thunder exploded all around us and Ayida shrieked with fear, writhing in my grasp. I wish I could say that it was my tonic that drove the loa away, or perhaps the intervention of Papa Legba, but I have to give credit to Agau, the spirit of thunder. His voice rolled and clashed and encompassed us for a few moments, as if the house were in the center of the storm. His brutality was so frightening that the loa gripping her body fled and Ayida went limp in my arms when the thunder had passed.

I lowered the girl to my cot. She whimpered and curled into the fetal position, tears streaming down her face to leave silvery tracks across her dark skin.

“I’ll get you some water.” I rose, but her hand shot out and grasped my arm. “What is it, child?”

Her voice was small and distant when she spoke. “Can you make them stop?”

“Make who stop what?”

“The loa. Can you make them stop?”

My chest felt tight in sympathy. “With training and hard work, yes. Together, we can make them stop.”

She released me and I went to find her water. She stayed the night in the hounfour, draped across my lap, and I sang her the songs of the mambo while I wiped the tonic from her face with a wet cloth.

The thunder gradually grew less and less fearsome until it stopped altogether, and not long after the rain stopped as well. The crickets and frogs returned to their chirping and buzzing. I threw open the shutters to greet a hot morning that was quickly becoming stifling.

Ayida was asleep on my cot and I was boiling plantains for breakfast when Lourdes Fazande appeared. She threw open the door, glanced about, issued a strangled cry of relief, and ran to her daughter. Behind her followed her father, an imposing farmer holding a gun, and two of the young men who worked on his farm.

I nodded greeting to the men. “You’ll find the girl unharmed.”

Kneeling by the cot, Lourdes checked her daughter for injuries. “Her face is swollen. What did you do?”

“A loa was riding her.” I gestured to the now-empty bottle of tonic on the floor near the bed.

“Mama? Mama, Erzulie Tio hurt me.” Ayida’s voice sounded nasal and strange, but Lourdes didn’t seem to notice.

“What did you do?” Lourdes demanded of me as she pulled her daughter to her feet and clutched the child to her side.

“I defended myself and saved her from the loa. Nothing more.”

“She hurt me,” Ayida insisted. She pushed away from her mother. “She touched me here.” She cupped her nether regions.

Lourdes’s mouth puckered in fury. “This ends now. If you touch my daughter again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

“She came to me. I didn’t take her, and...”

“I don’t care! If she comes to you again, if you so much as speak to her in the marketplace, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born. Come, Ayida.” She grabbed her daughter’s hand and tugged her toward the door.

Ayida didn’t move for a moment. Dark intelligence flickered in her eyes. Her lips curled in a sneer. “A pi ta, Zulie. See you on the other side.” #

The trek through the jungle was not an easy one. It required the better part of a day and a full pack of supplies. When I finally approached the clearing where an old man crouched over a fire pit, afternoon was preparing to give way to evening.

“Erzulie Tio! Sa fe lon temps nou pa we!” The man squatting by the fire stood and waved. His voice was the same booming bass I remembered from years gone by, though he was no longer the towering giant of a man he once was. Twenty years ago I had likened my friend to a wild boar, substantial and intimidating, but now he reminded me more of an ancient tree, with brown limbs so frail they looked like they might break in a strong wind.

“Manno Roche!” I called. “Bonswa, my friend.” We met halfway between the path and the fire pit. We clasped hands, and Manno pulled me into his embrace. I kissed his cheek and then, overwhelmed by emotion, I planted another kiss firmly on his mouth.

He laughed. “I’m happy to see you too, Erzulie.” He turned to the house. “Sylvenie! Come quick, it’s Erzulie Tio!”

Manno’s wife emerged from the house. She had barely aged since our last encounter, still beautiful and shapely. She smiled reluctantly and waved from the porch but didn’t approach.

“What brings you all the way out here?” Manno asked.

“Let me sit and have some water and I’ll tell you.”

We went to the porch and Sylvenie brought us a table, two small chairs, and a big pitcher of water. I drank and made small talk, asking about their life in the jungle, and then when I had recovered my breath, I told them about Ayida Fazande.

When I finished, Sylvenie disappeared silently into the house. Manno sat back in his chair and stared off into the distance for a few moments before speaking. “You’re sure it was Baron Kriminel?”

“No one else calls me Zulie”

Manno stared at his own hands. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want to call Agau.”

“Are you mad? I can’t call Agau. Look at me, Erzulie. This body couldn’t stand to be mounted by Papa Legba. Agau is brutal. You’re asking me to sacrifice myself.”

“Then I’ll do it. You do the ritual, and Agau can mount me instead.”

Manno studied me closely. “These visions really have you spooked, to offer that.”

“I’m desperate. And Agau frightened the loa once before...I believe he could do it again. Maybe permanently.”

“You used to hate being ridden.”

“I still hate it. Ever since.” I swallowed against the lump of fear in my throat.

“Ever since we tried to call Baron Samedi and got Kriminel instead.”

I grimaced. “But I don’t see what choice we have. The alternative is unthinkable.”

Sylvenie brought us wooden bowls full of rice and beans. “I forbid either of you to make a decision on empty stomachs.”

I accepted the food and watched as my friend’s wife handed him a bowl and spoon and lovingly kissed his forehead before retreating into the house.

“She seems sad,” I offered.

Manno frowned. “She is sad. She has always been sad, my Sylvenie. She has always known a day would come when someone would need the vodou, and it would be my undoing. She knows this will probably kill me.”

“Not if I let the loa use my body.”

“Even if you let the loa use your body, Erzulie. The cancer has taken its toll. There’s not much left of me to give.”

I had no reply to that, so I ate instead. We sat for a long time, watching twilight conquer the jungle, listening to the birds grow quiet and the insects grow louder. Eventually, our bellies full, we set the bowls aside and Manno sighed.

“Did you bring a chicken?”

“I can’t ask for your life. If I had known.”

“Let my death be a sacrifice. Soon I’ll be going to see Baron Samedi either way. It might as well be in service to a greater purpose.”

“But Sylvenie.”

“Promise me you’ll take her back to the village with you. Don’t let her stay here when I’m gone.”

Numb, I could only nod. “There’s a chicken in my pack.”

“And what about the girl?”

My gaze settled on the tree line. “She’ll come. Baron Kriminel and I have unfinished business.”

#

We built a massive bonfire in the fire pit. Manno sacrificed the chicken and smeared its blood on my forehead and chest. He sat beside the fire with a pair of drums and beat frantic music while Sylvenie and I danced. We pushed ourselves past the point of exhaustion, chanting and singing even when we were out of breath. Eventually, after hours of this, I felt myself step from my thrashing body, and I knew the time had come for Agau to mount me. The sacred trance had removed my doubt and fear, leaving me apathetic, vacant, ready to be ridden.

I felt Agau’s spirit thrumming in my bones, his consciousness filling me until it felt like he would split my skin. But then, suddenly, I was empty, and my own soul snapped back into my body. I collapsed to the ground, disoriented. “Agau! Agau, come back!” My voice was hoarse with overuse.

Manno slid off his chair onto the ground and began to convulse. Sylvenie and I ran to his side and tried to protect him from hurting himself. His body became stiff and for a moment, I feared he was dead. But then he relaxed in our arms, and sat up.

He laughed, and it was a sound like rocks rubbing together, low and gruff. When he spoke his voice was even deeper and more resonant than usual. “ Bonswa, my chickadees. I’m hungry.”

Wiping tears from her cheeks, Sylvenie went to fetch food.

“You were supposed to take me,” I told Agau. “Why didn’t you take me?”

“I don’t want to mount you. I want to mount you!!” Manno’s hands pressed the flesh of my thighs and his mouth went for my neck.

Desire surged through me at the feel of his callused fingers and hot breath on my neglected skin, but I pushed him away. “No! We’re not here for that! We’re here to talk about a girl. Ayida Fazande”

“Hungry.” He reached for me.

“Sylvenie is bringing food.”

“Not just for food, woman!” He pulled me to him roughly.

“First we talk about the girl.” I pushed away and rose, stepping back from him.

“First we sate my needs.” He stood as well, grabbing at me again. “I am the god of thunder. You called me here. Now you will do as I command.”

He chased me around the fire, growling and grunting, until Sylvenie appeared with plates laden with food. He crouched over the plates and shoved handfuls of chicken and rice into his mouth, eating loudly and with no care for manners.

“We called you because we need you to protect Ayida Fazande,” I said as he ate, careful to stay an arm’s length away from him.

Manno’s eyes—Agau’s eyes—locked on mine. “And what will you give me in exchange? My protection comes with a price.”

“I’ll marry you. No loa has ever claimed me.”

“Baron Kriminel says otherwise.”

“Baron Kriminel is a liar.”

He smiled. “That much is true. But I don’t want you. You’re too old.” His glanced at Sylvenie.

She gasped. “I’m already married.”

“I would claim you only once a week.”

Sylvenie turned to me. “This was not part of the bargain.”

“You can have her once a month and me as well,” I offered.

“And the girl.”

I shook my head. “I can’t make that bargain. Ayida is too young. And her parents aren’t here to bargain for her.”

“All three or nothing at all.” Agau tossed chicken bones into the fire.

“No bargain.” Ayida appeared just outside the ring of light cast by the fire. She was filthy, her clothes caked with muck and body smeared with what might be blood or might be something else. Her voice was still high and nasal.

“Ayida!” I took a step toward her, and then stopped, catching myself. “Baron Kriminel.”

“Aren’t you clever?” Kriminel stepped into the firelight, walking with a masculine swagger. Ayida’s arms were riddled with bite marks—human bite marks—probably from her own mouth.

“What have you done to her?”

Kriminel chortled. “What do you care? The girl is an empty vessel, waiting to be filled. No soul, or such a tiny one that it’s inconsequential. She’s barely more than an animal, and you sacrifice those to my kind regularly.”

“She’s a person, and you’re hurting her.”

Kriminel ignored me and instead turned to Agau. Manno stood, towering over the tiny girl even in his decrepit state. “Baron. I see you’re still mounting children, like a pathetic weakling.”

Ayida’s body moved faster than any serpent I’ve ever seen. With a growl, she barreled into Manno and knocked him to the ground. Screaming, the two loa fought each other, punching and kicking and biting, abusing the human bodies they possessed.

“We have to stop them!” Sylvenie cried.

“Get more food!” I told her. She ran for the house.

I grabbed the bottle of tonic from my pack and doused the fighting loa with the liquid. They both screamed and reeled away from one another. “Stop this!” I shouted. “Agau, do you see now why I want protection for the girl? She’s too easy for the lowest of spirits to mount.”

Agau glared at me through red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t care about the girl. I don’t care about any of you!” His voice boomed, startling birds in the jungle to take flight in a flurry of wings.

Baron Kriminel laughed, a sinister sound that made me shiver. “Your gambit to save the girl has failed. But I will offer you a bargain even if he won’t.”

Sylvenie appeared with bowls of food and laid them at the feet of the two loa. They both squatted and used their hands to scoop pork and plantains into their mouths. “What bargain do you offer?” I asked breathlessly, terrified of the answer.

“Marry me as you should have done twenty years ago.”

The world was suddenly hazy, my vision a tunnel. “What would be the terms?”

“You’d be my wife. You’d do my bidding. You’d let me mount you whenever I choose. In exchange, I’ll leave the girl alone.”

Sylvenie moved beside me and laid a gentle hand on my arm. “You can’t do this, Erzulie. To be married to Baron Kriminel would be the cruelest fate I can imagine.”

I remembered the stink of burning flesh and the piercing screams of my vision. “There are crueler fates.” I turned to Kriminel. “I’ll marry you if you’ll give the girl your protection. No loa are to mount her, ever, for the remainder of her life.”

Kriminel stood, his mouth smeared with grease. “You would make this bargain for her?”

“Not only for her.”

“NO.” Agau threw his bowl aside like a petulant toddler. “The women are mine. I will protect the girl! Not you, pathetic scum.” He advanced on Kriminel.

I called for him to stop, but it was too late. This time Agau wasn’t interested in a brawl. He laid his hands on Ayida’s shoulders. His mouth opened and the sound that emerged was thunder, but louder than any thunder I’d ever heard, so loud it shook the ground. Ayida struggled for a moment, and then her eyes grew wide and her body went limp.

Agau gently laid her on the ground. “Baron Kriminel is no match for the god of thunder.”

I hurried to Ayida and laid my hand on her chest to be sure she was still breathing. When her ribcage rose and fell I let out a laugh that was half relief and half disbelief. “Thank you,” I breathed to Agau, hardly believing I’d so narrowly missed such a terrible future. Ayida was safe; we were all safe.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Agau replied. Manno’s arms opened and he smiled lasciviously.

Sylvenie and I went to him without hesitation.

In the morning, Sylvenie and I awoke in Manno’s arms. His mouth was curved in a beatific smile, but his body was stiff and cold. I covered Manno’s still form with the blanket, my mind still hazy with memories of the night before, memories of skin and mouths and hot, wet darkness. Sylvenie smiled, though it was full of sorrow, and I couldn’t help smiling myself.

Ayida was sitting on the porch.

“ Bonjou, Ayida,” I said quietly, cautiously.

“ Bonjou, Erzulie Tio,” she replied, turning to look at me. Gray clouds roiled behind her eyes, dark with the promise of rain.

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Let’s go home.”

Sylvenie took my hand. “You know that it’s not over, don’t you? You’ve deceived Baron Kriminel twice now. He’ll come for you again, as soon as he has a chance.”

I nodded, squeezing Sylvenie’s fingers and reaching for Ayida’s hand. “Agau saved me this time. Next time I probably won’t be so lucky.”

“Then why do you smile, Erzulie Tio?” Ayida asked, and I noticed that her voice sounded deeper and more resonant than it had before.

“Because you are safe, Ayida, and that’s all I wanted.”

As we made our way into the jungle, hand-in-hand-in-hand, I could have sworn I heard the gods laughing.

Young Girls Are Coming to Ajo Ken Goldman

The neon blinked erratically like a badly twitching eye.

VACANCY.. .VACANCY.. .VACANCYVACANCY . . .

Seen from the highway, the roadside motel off I-85 in Pima County did not fool anyone. It wasn’t trying to. The old Papago Indian who ran the place hadn’t bothered replacing the burned out neon of the Canyon Motel’s sign, and late night motorists new to this godforsaken section of Arizona highway made no sense of the hot pink lettering that read “Ca yo Mo el.’ But that confusion dissolved with one look at the cabins. Visited more frequently by tumbleweeds than flesh and blood customers, here romance and candle lit dinners took a back seat to the sweat and stink of the genuine article. If you wanted pretension, for a few greenbacks more there was the Carousel twenty miles up the road; if you preferred the down and dirty basics, you wanted the Canyon.

The muffler of Howard Corbin’s rental had started bitching on SR143 South thirty miles out of Phoenix’s Sky Harbor airport, nothing serious enough to warrant stopping for but sufficiently aggravating to frazzle the salesman’s nerves by the time he entered the mining town of Ajo 130 miles outside Tucson. A tavern he approached called itself The Fork in the Road, its front window logo shamelessly displaying a fork - the dining utensil variety - lying on the dividing line of a highway. What the place lacked in charm it made up for in ugliness, but in a town inhabited mostly by lizards a beer is still a beer.

A few cold ones helped replace some of the hot piss inside Corbin with the more conventional kind; however, to really do the trick there was only one thing. First he called home to check on Edie and the kids before heading towards the bar to search for his curative.

The bleach job perched on the last stool clearly was a working girl, judging from the black hint of skirt she wore, an obviously uncomfortable second skin meant to look like silk but that clearly wasn’t. Too dark toned to be a real blonde she probably had a good ten years on him too, but when she caught his stare he motioned to the bartender to freshen whatever the lady was drinking and ordered another cold draft for himself, reducing his introduction to the fundamentals.

“Hello. I’m Howard.”

The woman clutched her long strapped hand bag as if expecting the man to lunge for it, but Corbin flashed his choicest balls out smile at her. Normally he would have added his surname, incorporating into his howdy-do the obligatory “...of Reinhardt & Reed Realtors, serving regions of the American Southwest.” But that was not the business transaction Howard had in mind.

The woman thanked him for her white wine spritzer barely looking up from her glass. She appeared reasonably sober and that was good if she were game for a toss. At least she wouldn’t be passing out later. When she spoke again she almost managed to smile.

“Lilly. Let me guess. Salesman from out of town, right?”

“Seattle,” he said.

“Like that dead race horse?”

Bar talk. Wise-assed and meaningless. It always went the same.

“Well, welcome to Ajo, Mr. Howard-from-Seattle. It’s where summer meets the winter.” She smiled coyly.

“And what does that mean?”

“I haven’t a clue. But it’s on all the signs here.”

“And Ajo.does that mean anything?”

She grinned, seeming proud of her reservoir of knowledge. “Ajo comes from the Indian word au-auho.it means red paint. The Sonoran desert is covered in red sand and the Papago tribe were great believers in cosmetics, wore lots of paint or something like that. Their Indian reservation still has a few residents just down the road.”

“Tell them we’re not giving them back Manhattan.”

Her grin spread. “Those were the Canarsie Indians.”

He had coaxed a smile from her which meant he was home free even if this wasn’t sparkling repartee. Once you passed your twenties conversation from a bar stool rarely entered that territory; into your thirties you just tried not to sound pathetic.

He could tell the woman had been pretty once, maybe she had even bordered on beautiful. But the downslide had definitely begun and the gild was off this Lilly. Still, it was a seller’s market tonight, and he was buying. They were two strangers sharing a patchquilt of irrelevant loungespeak that always precedes an excursion to a woman’s underwear. Corbin had learned from years on the road to treat any barfly like a lady during the preludes. A woman seated alone on a tavern stool often had some pieces missing, so you had to prepare for anything if you were going to get into her pants.

#

When conversation turned thin Howard mentioned hosting Mr. Jack Daniels inside the trunk of his car, and the woman did not play dumb about his intentions. Moments later Lilly sat cross-legged next to him inside the Escort directing him to the first motel she saw alongside the dusty Sonoran desert highway. She murmured only “Here” and Howard dutifully pulled in.

Ca yo Mo el

[Blink . . .]

Ca yo Mo el

[Blink . . .]

Corbin hoped a nest of roaches would not come crawling from the bed linen, or worse, from his companion. Three other cars, each old and dirty, had parked outside the cabins, and that did not constitute much of an endorsement. Inside the small office the dried out Indian on the swivel behind the desk sat close to a small revolving fan that sent his long wisps of hair dancing. Mopping sweat from his silver crowned pate he never got out of his chair. “One Night?” the old guy asked, pivoting toward the Escort parked in the lot outside. He must have noticed the woman sitting in the front seat but he gave no indication except to give his balls a healthy scratch.

Corbin nodded, deciding as he signed the register that his last name was now Smyth. He could have just as easily told him he would be staying for however long a good fucking took, for all the old fart cared. He looked at the Indian’s name tag.

“Tuakam, is it?” he asked. “Did I say that right?”

“Tuck, they call me here. There’s two of you?”

That covered the small talk.

“Yes.”

“Number three’s vacant, third cabin on the left. Close to the ice machine if you need it. Cash or credit?”

“Cash. Thanks.”

Old Chief Plays-with-His-Nuts did not give a steaming turd about the nocturnal activities of the clientele he registered, and procuring forty dollars up front concluded his portion of their transaction. The Indian reached up to yank a key from among several rows of them, returning his attention to the small black and white television that featured a pasty Mary Tyler Moore in an episode filmed years before lovely Mary had hit the wall.

Howard returned to the Escort. “The Indian who runs this place looks like he could use a good delousing.”

“The Tohono O’odham Nation has a reservation nearby at Gila Bend. They’re what’s left of the Papago. They take the shit jobs around here because they work cheap. Indians manage a lot of the motels along here.”

Howard nodded as if he cared and drove the Escort to number three, popping the car’s trunk for his night bag and heading for the ice machine. At the cabin’s door he jumbled the key before the lock finally gave. Some former guest had given the ratty carpet a good soaking in piss and the acrid odor assaulted him the moment they entered, but Howard doubted the other cabins smelled any better. He flipped the light switch and nothing happened. Corbin found his way to the night stand and tried the lamp there. It worked although the bulb’s wattage was low, bathing one wall a sickly yellow while leaving the rest in shadows. He turned on the air conditioner, a cheap and rusted window unit that immediately banged and rattled.

The brass bed had surrendered to a caked rust, and the spread, probably once green, covered a mattress that could have been solid granite. But the bed was a double and Howard didn’t care about anything else. He lay on it, scooting over to accommodate the woman. His shit eating grin reappeared. Patting a pillow gone flat he suggested she join him.

Lilly half smiled, deep crow’s feet spidering in the drab light.

“Business first, lover, okay?”

The statement, meant to sound easy going, didn’t. Smash-and-grab sex did not mix well with small talk. This was business, after all, and fucking strange men beat waitressing tables at Denny’s, but it was still business. She was probably the wife of some blue collar jerk out to make some pocket change for herself. Howard fished five twenties from his wallet and Lilly took his money. Examining the bills she frowned.

Howard did not need a snake to bite him. “There’s more if you’re good, okay?”

“Oh, I’m good. Don’t you worry about that.” She stuffed the cash into her hand bag and climbed upon the bed, placing the bag carefully on the night stand. “Would you like to undress me or should I do it myself?”

“Yourself. But slowly so I can watch.”

She slipped off her black skirt, even threw in a little faltering squirm intended as some kind of erotic dance for Corbin’s benefit. The attempt seemed pitiful, but even in these dry gulch towns a hundred buys just so much. Kicking panties to the floor the woman sat before Corbin naked.

Nearing the embarrassing perimeters of her forties Lilly wasn’t hard on the eyes even in the unflattering light. Although her tits had begun to head south they had some bounce. Her body seemed reasonably firm too, but plum colored varicose veins were already splintering from her ankles. She was almost completely shaven excepting a thin landing strip, the type usually reserved for centerfolds and body pierced Vampirellas, enough pubis remaining to suggest she had never been a natural blonde. She couldn’t strip dance worth a shit either. Still, she wasn’t a wasted hooker giving it away for a few drinks and cab fare. Some mileage remained on this woman’s odometer, but not a whole lot.

“Think I can make it in Hollywood?” she asked, and it took a moment for Howard to realize that she was serious.

“Why not?” he lied.

Lilly’s hand slid up his thigh, her touch more coarse than he would have preferred. Still, Howard responded with a low moan, his hard-on reacting to the sensation of female flesh. Her tongue, considerably softer, followed the same path. When she took him inside her mouth he felt he was going to release all of it right there. But she stopped cold, her grin reassuring him she wasn’t about to bring it home just yet.

“So, Howard-from-Seattle, how would you like it? Squeaky clean, or just a little rough? I’m thinking maybe the latter?”

“Surprise me.”

She reached into her handbag and pulled out two pairs of police issue handcuffs, each polished to a high gloss. The manacles were the real item, not some tin trinkets purchased at some tacky sex shop. A roll of masking tape spilled out too, but Lilly shoved it back into her bag, careful not to upset whatever else remained inside.

“Okay to use some of my toys?”

Howard’s heart was racing now. He rarely had an erection throb so effortlessly since Edie was in her twenties, but a guy had to be careful in these situations. He quickly did the math. Hell, what was the worst that could happen? If the woman had anything unsavory in mind it hardly mattered. He carried little cash and the shitty rental parked outside wasn’t worth stealing. If she really wanted to roll him she must have known there were faster ways to get money from him than sucking his cock.

“Let’s play,” he said.

Nodding approval she cuffed him to the brass posts before he might have second thoughts. Howard’s erection again sprang to life. Filling her mouth with ice she went down on him, but stopped just short of the moment of truth. Heaping more cubes into her hand she slid them across his nipples, and in a gesture both odd and arousing she took the same ice into her mouth.

She climbed on top of him rubbing herself gently between his legs without taking him inside her. Rocking rhythmically she coaxed his tongue into her mouth and teased him into a hot-blooded rush. She stayed with him, rising and falling in increasing undulations, and he hardened with each motion against her cunt’s soft bristle. Just as he felt certain he would come she whispered, “Not yet . . .” and eased him inside.

He wanted to feel her breasts, to fill his mouth with them, but his hands remained shackled. The power belonged to her as she pounded against his thighs, and her ass thrashed like some carnal animal. With her mouth against his ear she spoke through quick and hot breaths.

“Now...”

His body jack hammering hers he spilled into the woman like hot ash. She filled herself with him, hips thrusting even after he came.

“Jesus, woman! You’ll give me a heart attack!”

Howard lay still trying to catch his breath, but Lilly had already climbed off and slipped back into her panties, standing by the night table without looking at him. She seemed to forget he was in the room while rifling through her hand bag. Corbin realized the woman had switched gears and that his segment of the party was over.

“What are you—?”

“It has to be quick. Very quick...” she muttered, not really speaking to him. She removed a large plastic container with something dark inside, but Howard could not tell what the lumpy object was. Suddenly uncomfortable with the thought that he remained cuffed to the bed, he pulled at the restraints realizing he had zero chance of extricating himself.

Christ, is she toting a gun in that container?

Maybe she wanted to spatter his brains all over the piss stained carpet just for the hell of it. In these small dirtwater desert towns lunatic shit happened all the time just to give the local crazies something to do.

“Look, if it’s money you want—”

The thing inside the container moved.

No gun.

“I don’t want any more of your money, Howard.”

Popping the lid she withdrew something alive that in the pallid light looked like an anemic dragon, a smallish thing that fit into her hand. The beady eyed lizard, an ugly brown spotted reptile that resembled a rat covered in snakeskin, displayed a mouth full of tiny pointed teeth. Howard had no idea what the woman was doing carrying around the oily bastard, but a single realization struck home. He had just fucked himself into one very tall pile of deep shit.

“Listen, I don’t know what you—!”

The lizard tried crawling from her hand, but the woman stroked it from head to tail and that seemed to calm the creature somewhat.

“Shhh! You’ll frighten it. It won’t do any good if you startle him. I’ll have to wait for this little guy to calm down a bit, to get used to you.”

“If you think I’m just going to lie here and wait for you to do God knows fucking what kind of kinky—”

The woman did not appear to hear him. She pulled out the roll of masking tape from her bag, tearing off a thick strip and covering his mouth.

“I’m sorry, Howard, I really am. I have nothing against you personally, but you came to me in the bar, didn’t you?” She held the lizard close to his neck. “It’s called a blue tongued skink. Most come from Mexico and not many live in Arizona. An amazing creature, really. Pull off his tail, he grows another. The Tohono O'odham say they’re easier to find right after they shed skin because they’re more brightly spotted then. Have a look?”

“Mmmmmmphhh!!!”

Howard struggled against the bed post, twisting and yanking the manacles until they scraped shrieking along the brass, his efforts to free himself making a lot of noise but serving no purpose.

“I know you’re confused, Howard, but the skink is effective only after a woman has been laid because all that adrenaline is pumping and her cunt is spilling over with seed. It’s some sort of chemical thing, I think. The lizard doesn’t do much for men, I’m afraid, but for women the Indians say the skink offers a small piece of eternity.”

She held the skink to her bare breast, allowing it to bite the soft flesh above her nipple, then pulling the unwilling creature from her and smiling even as the tracks of fresh punctures leaked blood.

Barflies. They were batshit crazy and this bitch was their goddamned queen. Howard squirmed from the small snapping mouth but the cuffs restrained any real movement. He could pull only a few inches from its fangs so the fucker would not sink its pinheaded incisors into his neck. She held the skink closer to him and something thick and crimson squirted from a sinus in its eye. It landed in a glob on Howard’s chin.

Blood. It had to be.

“Mmmmmmmmphhh!!!”

“Oh, he’s angry, all right. He was aiming for your mouth, you know. They do that when they sense danger, a bad sign, sadly, according to Papago lore. They call it Aak when an animal becomes fearful in the presence of Man, but the skink is essential to their ceremony.” She held the reptile against his throat. “This will be quick. I promise.”

It was. The lizard snapped once, then sank its teeth into Corbin’s flesh. Discovering the softest section of his throat it redoubled its grip. With the hot seer of liquid venom Howard gurgled, kicking and convulsing against the burning rush.

No...that’s not quite right. Something else is happening here, something much worse.

He heard the lizard gulp. The hot liquid was not rushing in. It was rushing out. The skink was sucking his flesh dry, drinking him! Engorged like a huge tick, the reptile was growing too fat and lethargic with blood to let go its grip. Clutched against a thick vein in his neck it continued to drink like an insatiable nursling.

Lilly’s image fuzzed but Howard had to watch her. The woman’s voice seemed distant, her words dropping out as she spoke.

“Look at me, Howard. I know I’m not hard to look at, but would you call me beautiful? Not merely fuckable, Howard, but truly beautiful?”

Look...Howard...beautiful...

Through the thick masking tape Corbin struggled for breath, but the woman paid no attention. Every muscle was drying up inside him, every bone going to dust while the reptile held fast to his neck, a rapacious leech sapping its host.

The woman tried peeling the skink from his flesh but the reptile clung stubbornly and she had to pry its mouth open until the lizard released its grip. Fragments of shredded skin hung from its mouth.

“The Papago have this interesting philosophy about sharing, Howard. And for hundreds of years their women have followed this ancient ceremony unknown to the outside world. We two have shared our bodies. My flesh and blood—and now yours—coalesce inside this simple creature...”

She held the lizard close as if admiring the phenomenon of its existence, and for a brief moment it appeared the woman were embracing a cherished pet. Then she bit off its head, spitting the chunky remnant on the floor and drinking the dark blood spilling from the creature’s neck. Squeezing out the thick soup of its innards she swallowed the goo until the bloated reptile withered like an emptied sack. When she had finished she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and inspected the guano dripping from her fingers.

The skink’s shriveled torso lay limp and useless in her hands. She tossed it aside, smearing a dollop of the reptile’s blood across each cheek, creating a freakish cosmetic hybrid neither rouge nor war paint. Touching Howard she did the same to him, stepping back to regard her work.

“Au-auho. . .”

Her hands covered her face, the sharp nails shearing her own withered flesh in an act of self-mutilation. She peeled thick folds like dried cheese from her forehead and cheeks, a shedding snake throwing off her skin while revealing lumpy mounds of sopping membranous tissue underneath. The woman’s features mutated into one breathing festering wound.

“Au-auho.The red paint. First me, then you. We share all of it, you and I. The Papago believed all living things are related, there is an ebb and flow, a give and take, and all life is one. I doubt you understand, Howard, but that doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

Lilly was correct. Corbin understood nothing even while his body was folding in on itself imploding like a child’s deflated water toy. His vision on his right side went dark while something like a runny egg slid down his cheek, and Howard realized it was his eye. His remaining orb remained intact long enough to watch his flesh become a gelatinous, formless heap, the sizzling residual of warm grey mash smearing the faded sheets and trickling to the floor.

The dripping manacles hung from the bed posts, attached to nothing.

#

The old Indian’s frown-wrinkled flesh did not easily accommodate his smile. But from behind the desk he could not restrain himself as he studied the ravishing raven haired young woman who had entered the small motel office carrying a long strapped hand bag with thick blonde tufts of a wig that peeked through its snap. He nodded his approval. The first hint of crimson sun was rising in the Sonoran desert sky, and even through the dust caked windows its rose glow caused the flesh of the woman to radiate like burnt gold.

“Thank you, Tuck,” she said to him. “I know this was difficult for you to do for me again.”

As can appear only on an aged face, there was sadness in the old man’s smile.

“Lovely, the fluid smoothness of your skin, the sheen of your hair like black marble. Perfect in every respect. Winter again comes to summer in Ajo. The skink, he does good work,” the Indian said. “The lizard is rare and must be very difficult to find in these parts.”

“Things hidden in the desert always are difficult to find. One must first know where to look.”

The woman thought of the salesman from Seattle. Nothing much remained of him to find, that was damned certain.

“Yes. Well, thank you again, Tuck.”

“Tuakam,” he corrected her, as a doting parent might rebuke a discourteous child. “The young must always pay the aged the respect of a proper appellation despite the uncommonness of our circumstances, yours and mine. No man can alter this truth. You live not among our people, but the Tohono O'odham Nation forever remains inside you.”

He was correct, of course. But the woman had always wanted more for herself than a life wasted on a primitive desert reservation. The elderly

Indian never fully understood that, and seeing him again often muddied her own thinking with guilt.

“Forgive me the disrespectful habits of another world, Tuakam. The ancient ritual has a strange effect, and it becomes very difficult to know who I am—or even what I am.”

The old man leaned forward to share a secret. “You are once more the beautiful woman you were. That is what you are. As to who you are, you need only to look into my eyes to know.”

He took the hand bag from her, placing the blonde wig and the stranger’s belongings into a large plastic trash bag. Later he would burn everything, disposing of the man’s car somewhere far in the desert. He looked at the register the man had signed the previous night. “Smyth. Probably not his real name,” he said.

“No one will come looking. Not out here.”

“Is the room cleared?”

“There’s dust. A lot of it on the bed. It’s all that remains of him, as with the others. And that smell. Always that damned smell.”

“I will see to it,” old Tuakam assured her. “Working here I have learned another ancient cleansing ceremony that is even older than the ritual of the skink.” He placed upon the desk a gallon container of Lysol. Together the Indian and the woman shared a remarkable moment of laughter.

There remained one final rite, and for this the two turned serious. Each raised a palm to the other. Their open hands touched palm to palm, then slowly separated to conclude the ritual of parting.

“I must leave you now, Tuakam. Perhaps out there is a young brave like your father. I found him once. Perhaps this time I may discover him again.”

“Where will you go?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Phoenix for now, I guess. And should I grow restless, maybe after a while, when I can pluck up enough courage I’ll catch a bus to California and take that walk I promised myself. They call Hollywood Boulevard the street of dreams, you know.”

Attempting to recapture his smile the Indian reached below the counter and handed her a plastic container. Its lid had been punctured to produce several air holes. The dark lump inside shifted its weight. “For you, my mother. A small piece of eternity for when the time comes once more, as it must.”

She placed the container into her hand bag and kissed the old man’s forehead, again parting from the son she had birthed nearly eighty years past.

Lilly did not look back as she shut the door behind her.

Into the Mirror Black

Tim Marquitz

It is time.

“So soon?” Tyson looked to the gilded mirror, which hung above the fireplace mantle. The misty blackness that swirled within its depths obscured the eyes he felt staring back. A gentle waft of heat washed over him though the coals had long been extinguished. He regretted his inadvertent defiance and hurried to appease the voice. “I’m sorry...I’m ready.”

Only silence met his apology. He had angered the darkness and knew he must make amends. The time was nearly upon them, but he would be prepared. He would make them proud. Together, they would stand upon the precipice of the world and be the first to hail the ancient gods. They would know him as their savior, the one who woke them from their endless slumber.

Goosebumps prickled Tyson’s arms as he left the mirror behind and went to the bathroom. He stripped down and turned the water to its hottest setting before climbing inside. Steam whirled about him as his flesh was battered. Soon they would be here and he would reap the rewards for his loyal service. A tingle at his crotch drew his gaze downward. Despite his weariness, his cock twitched in anticipation as he imagined the glory soon to be bestowed upon him, but there was still more to do.

He reached down and wrapped his hand about his growing erection and gave it a cruel yank. Needle-sharp pains radiated upward as the tender flesh tore. Tyson hissed as the scalding spray washed over the wound, the water spilling pink between his fingers. He pulled his hand away and drew in a steamy breath. There would be time enough for the flesh, but now was not it.

Tyson let the water wash away the blood until it slowed to a trickle. Then he climbed from the shower to dry himself, averting his gaze from the mirror. As he shaved, he cast furtive glances at it. Only the seething darkness met his eyes. He wished he could see his reflection, if only for a moment. Tyson could only guess how he looked. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours in the last three weeks. The bags under his eyes were likely as dark as the mirror before him, but he could only feel their tender indentions and sense the redness of his tired eyes. It was a small price to pay, he thought, for the visions that would soon be laid out before him.

No time to contemplate the future, Tyson grabbed an energy drink from the refrigerator and popped the top. He swallowed it down, adding two caffeine pills to the mix, and tossed the empty can aside as he went out the door. It landed with a metallic crash amongst the collection that littered the hall. The sound set off a collection of muffled hisses that spilled from the glass containers stacked against the wall. Tyson smiled. He wasn’t the only one feeling anxious. The door slamming behind him, he hurried to his car and rushed out into the morning traffic.

He prided himself on being innocuous, if not inconspicuous. No one looked twice at the unassuming man who ruffled no feathers and worked hard. He could afford none of the attention his co-workers seemed to crave, coming in drunk and fighting on site. No, he would not let such stupidity ruin the great unveiling.

Tyson stopped at the nearest lunch wagon on the way in, buying a couple dozen burritos. Though his meager paycheck barely covered the regular offerings he exchanged to pacify the hordes at work, he’d soon have no concern for money. The arrival of the gods would wash such paltry mundanity away. Tyson had no need for a mortgage or car payment anymore. The banks and lending companies would be dust and nothing more than a faded memory amidst the minds of an enslaved humanity. The new currency would be flesh.

Pulling into the downtown parking garage that served the workers of Carter Construction, Tyson waved to the security guard who sat stuffed within his tiny booth. The man didn’t even look up. It was a daily ritual that brought a smile to Tyson’s face. It made his other work so much easier.

Tyson left his car behind and darted across the busy street that separated the parking area from the construction site. Once across, and safely on the sidewalk, he glanced at the marvel of engineering that loomed above him.

The Kellerton Tower stretched into the sky, blotting out the morning sun and setting Tyson’s head to spinning as he tried to pick out its apex. Taller than even the Burj Khalifa skyscraper in Dubai, the pride of Carter Construction rose up nearly three thousand feet. Tyson still imagined he could touch the clouds from the observation deck even though he’d been up there hundreds of times and disproved his wild theory. Still, the thought lingered.

“Hey, Ty. Good morning.”

He turned to see Gerald Manning, the site coordinator lumbering toward him only seconds after Tyson had slipped through the exterior gate. He was the boss, as well as a faithful witness to Tyson’s arrival ever since he started bringing breakfast. Close to three hundred pounds of wheezing roundness on stumps of legs, Manning waved as he made his way across the lot. Tyson held out the man’s favorite burritos as if luring in a dog with a bone.

Manning quickly collected the wrapped bundles in a meaty hand as though fearful they might be snatched away. “Thanks, Ty.” His eyes went from the food to Tyson’s face and lingered. “Man, you feeling okay?”

“Sure, I’m good.”

“Yeah? You look like hell. When’s the last time you slept?”

Tyson reached up and attempted to smooth the bags from beneath his eyes. “Damn insomnia. I got a little last night. I’m okay.” Tyson pointed to the burritos. “You better eat those before they get cold.”

Manning glanced back down at the food in his hand and nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Be careful up there, you hear? Jackson and his crew installed some temporary windows on the observation deck to keep that cold ass wind out of the building, but they aren’t up to code.”

Tyson smiled as the boss wandered off to the soundtrack of crinkling tinfoil. Tyson wasn’t worried about the deck. Not yet, at least. There were still several more locations he had to prepare before he started on the pinnacle. He hurried and distributed the rest of the food to the guys and went about his routine. The day dragged as he thought about what the darkness had said:

It’s time.

There’d be no sleep for Tyson tonight.

#

Tyson sat low in his car and nursed an energy drink as he watched the night creep all around him. He fought the shroud of sleep that threatened to envelop him. Only his fear of the darkness and what waited beyond kept him from nodding off. He would not fail.

Shadows danced in the flickering lights of the closing bars on the strip, but the darkness was closing in despite the fluorescent defiance. After three a.m., the bars were mostly empty and the strip joints were winding down, spilling their inebriated clients into the streets. That was what Tyson had been waiting on. Free from their stage and pole, and often disappointed by their meager haul, some of the women looked for a way to supplement their income.

The first wave of dancers came out huddled together, the bulky mass of the club’s bouncers escorting them to their cars. The ones Tyson was looking for would slink out later. Despite taking their clothes off for a living and giving hand jobs in the backroom for a little extra cash, there was no respect—even among whores—for those that walk the streets.

None of that mattered to Tyson. He didn’t care if the women were sluts or saints, because they only cared about flesh. There was no moral failing in their eyes. As he watched the doors of the nearby club, Tyson spied what he was looking for. A little on the thick side, her ample ass packed into a miniskirt that was clearly made for smaller hips, a wild-haired woman emerged from the club. She lingered in the doorway for a few moments, her head on a swivel, before finally darting across the parking lot as fast as she could manage in her high heels. Tyson rolled his window down and listened to the clack of her shoes as she hurried down the sidewalk. He chugged the last of his drink and slid the empty can under the seat.

Tyson glanced around the area, looking for the police, as the woman drew closer. The last thing he wanted was to explain what he was doing hunkering down in his car in the middle of the night. He looked into the rearview and saw the darkness well up inside its reflection, but there was nothing else there. Once he was certain no one was watching, he flashed his headlights to get her attention. She started, not seeing him inside the car until right then. Tyson waved a wad of cash at her to pacify her, his arm out the window.

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said as the lure drew her in, doing his best to keep his voice calm. “I was just hoping for some company.”

The woman took a moment to look around before clacking up to the window. There was a shimmer of sweat on her brow and glistening at her cleavage, which showed in the wake of her low-cut blouse. She leaned down and looked inside the car, checking the backseat before meeting Tyson’s eyes. He smiled and waved the money again. The woman was paleskinned with curly dark hair, which was matted and tangled and hung greasy across her shoulders. One eye was an emerald green but the other was brown. Tyson grinned at her missing contact, but he felt a stirring in his jeans, nevertheless. The contrast in color made her different, exotic.

“What ya lookin’ for?” she asked, impatience in her smoker’s voice.

“Nothing fancy.. .a blow job, maybe; some doggy.”

“How do I know you’re not a cop?”

Tyson unzipped his pants and fished out his cock. He spit in his hand and started to masturbate his growing erection, keeping his eyes on the woman. “Would a cop jack off just to nail a dancer sidelining?”

She laughed and yanked the passenger door open, slipping into the seat. “No, I guess not. You got a place?”

Tyson nodded, and then handed her the cash. It was the last of his paycheck, but what did he care? “I sure do.” He glanced over at her, trying to be casual. “You got a name?”

“Vanity,” she answered as she closed the door and stuffed the bills into her bra.

He chuckled and pulled off, not bothering to point out the contradiction of her name. Like the cash, it didn’t matter. “You afraid of heights?”

Vanity’s eyes narrowed and she looked over at him. “No, not really. Why?”

“Because I’ve rented us the best view in the whole town.”

#

Tyson pulled his car into the employee’s parking across from Kellerton Tower and grinned to see the security guard away from his post. If history held true, he wouldn’t be back until six a.m., just before the bosses started rolling in. The car hidden in the shadows, Vanity reached across the seat, her fingers dancing spiderlike across Tyson’s crotch.

He waggled a finger and pushed her hand away. “Not here.” Tyson stepped out of the car. She followed and came around the back of the car where he stood before the open trunk. She took a step back as he pulled a small cooler and a patchwork blanket out of the back.

“You eaten yet?” He held up the cooler. “It’s nothing fancy: sandwiches and couple of beers.” Tyson shut the trunk. A quiet hiss sounded.

“What was that?” Vanity glanced around the parking garage.

Tyson slipped his hand into hers and led her toward the exit. “Stupid spring on the trunk is broken. Don’t worry, we aren’t staying in here.”

Vanity remained silent as Tyson led her out of the garage and across the street to the tower. She stared up at the building, illuminated by work lights even in the dark of night. At the gate, he handed her the small cooler and fished out his keys and unlocked the gate. Once inside, he locked it again and took the cooler back, leading Vanity into the building.

“It’ll take climbing a few flights of stairs, but I promise you, the view is worth every step.”

Transfixed by the glass and steel tower, Vanity let him lead her inside. Their footsteps echoed inside the grand foyer, her heels clicking in rapid succession as the sound fluttered back to them. Tyson just grinned and pulled her up the stairs. On the thirteenth floor, he opened the stairwell door and waved Vanity onto the floor. Her breath came out heavy as she walked inside, her heels long since abandoned and slung over Tyson’s arm.

“I’m already worn out,” she said, her hand on her chest. “You okay with a quickie?”

Tyson nodded and motioned her on. “We’re almost there. Come on.”

Vanity hung close as he wound his way through the clutter of building materials and came to a stop beside the massive glass walls that made up the outside of the building. She gasped as she crept toward them, the city sprawling out beneath them.

“Don’t worry, they’re safe,” he told her, rapping his knuckles on the glass.

She sidled up to the wall and braved a peek downward, jumping back with a giggle. “That’s scary.” After a moment, she found her courage again and drew up close to touch the window. Her finger traced her face in the glass, her reflection standing out clear in the wake of the external lights.

Tyson only wished he could see his own. The darkness devoured his reflection that hovered behind hers, leaving nothing but an inky blackness in the vague shape of his body.

Now!

“Hey, Vanity, do you mind spreading the blanket out while I get the food and drinks?”

She giggled again and stepped away from the window. “Sure.” Taking the thick blanket from his arms, she unfolded it and shook it so she could lay it flat.

Tyson set the cooler down and pulled it open. There were no sandwiches inside, or beer, even. There was only an icepick, a sharp butcher’s knife, and a glass jar that squirmed with blackness. He pulled out the icepick and stepped up behind Vanity as she knelt to smooth the blanket. His erection pressed against her ass, and she moaned with what Tyson knew was nothing more than a trained instinct. He didn’t care; he had his own instincts.

He pressed hard into her, reveling in her warmth, and then brought the icepick around.

With practiced ease, the point pierced her temple and sunk until the handle struck home. Vanity twitched and shuddered and Tyson rode her shuddering corpse to the ground. She crumpled flat without a sound, only drops of her blood leaking out past the handle of the pick.

Finish it.

He sighed at the darkness’ demands, wanting to take his time, but he knew better than to argue. Tyson slid the cooler to him, plucking the knife from within. He set it beside Vanity and rolled her over. Her body flopped heavily and a crimson puddle began to form beneath her head. She stared at him, lifeless, her mismatched eyes eerie with the blood pooling in their depths.

Before the darkness shrieked at him again, Tyson picked up the knife and went to work. He cut away Vanity’s blouse and bra, pulling it open to get his first view of her breasts. They were large and heavy. Natural, they hung toward her ribs. He then removed her skirt. A slip of the blade and it was off. The easy part was done.

He looked Vanity over for a moment to remember what she looked like, locking the memory away inside. He would need it soon.

Having hesitated too long already, Tyson raised the butcher’s knife and sunk its point deep into Vanity’s abdomen, just above the pelvis with the edge facing away. It went in with a meaty thunk. Blood welled up in the wound, but without a heartbeat to force it out, it simply pooled warm against his fingers. He rested a moment, gathering his strength for what was to come, before carrying on with his work.

Tyson forced the blade forward, hacking and sawing as he cut along the line of her abdomen until the knife thudded against her sternum. His stomach roiled at the pungent waft from her open belly. He would never get used to that smell. His eyes watered as he set the blade aside and did his best to ignore the stench that filled his nose and mouth. He dug his fingers into the incision and peeled the cavity of her torso open, the severed muscles ripping apart in long strands of stringy tendrils.

Once he was done, he reached once more into the cooler and pulled out the glass jar. Its contents writhed inside, angry hisses sounding at the sudden movement. Tyson shook the jar and twisted the lid off, upending the darkness inside into the fresh wound of Vanity’s stomach. The roaches spilled inside, splashing into the red wetness. They thrashed in the cloying blood as he watched a million legs scramble for purchase.

He set the jar aside and undid his belt, pulling his pants down to his knees. The darkness could only be soothed so long by the carnage laid out across the blanket. Tyson knew he must finish the deed if there was any hope of the gods returning. He swore to see it through. Tyson drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and focused on the image of Vanity as she had been before he took the knife to her. He fondled her large breasts and pictured her plump ass when he’d bumped against it. His erection responded almost immediately, and he sighed at its eagerness. It was becoming all too easy.

He leaned forward and stuck his cock inside the open wound, the flesh eagerly accepting him into its warm slit. The roaches skittered in its path, their legs tickling as they scrambled within. He heard their hissed voices, muffled by the flesh and blood that encased them, and knew what came next. Pounding into Vanity’s makeshift vagina, the roaches began to spit and bite. Their pincers sunk into the tender flesh of his cock, and Tyson felt them ripped loose as he withdrew from the carcass only to drive inside once again. Over and over he baited the roaches, his penis throbbing under the assault of pincer bites and the strangely erotic feeling of the skittering legs that tickled him near to orgasm.

“Sacrifice,” he heard the darkness whisper as he fucked on.

The gods feed upon blood and darkness, but it is passion that brings the two together. Without passion, all his work would be for naught. The gods would sleep their eternal slumber and never know what Tyson had done to rouse them. He would not fail.

As the roaches squirmed against his erection, Tyson imagined the moment when he would bring about the end of this world and usher in the coming of a new age. He would sit inside the observation deck and greet the gods as they tore open the walls of existence and came into the world. The darkness would be there beside him, the gift of its shadows his reward. Tyson would be a god unto his own.

That was all it took.

Tyson spilled his seed into the wound with a muffled grunt. His vision blurred and he felt lightheaded, but he pounded away until the tingling in his limbs slowly subsided. When at last he found his strength, he pulled his shriveling cock from Vanity’s jagged hole. He yanked his pants up, swatting at the roaches that still clung to him, and gingerly stuffed his swollen and raw member inside.

He took a moment to catch his breath before centering Vanity on the blanket and recovering the icepick. Unconcerned about blood leaking out, a rubber lining sewn inside the bedding, he folded the edges over her head and feet and rolled it around her. Once she was wrapped inside, Tyson went to the inner wall he’d prepared weeks before. He peeled its outer covering away to reveal an open space hidden beside one of the steel girders, which held the massive building in place. He went back to Vanity and hefted her body over his shoulder, collecting her clothes and shoes, as well, after retrieving his cash. Back at the wall, he stuffed her and her things inside, and then sealed the panel closed. He smiled as he appraised his handiwork. It looked as though it had never been touched.

Tyson gathered his things and made his way down the stairs and back to the parking lot. The security guard was still gone from his post. Too tired to celebrate another successful offering to the gods, Tyson drove straight home. There were two more sigil points within the building that needed to be consecrated before the gods could be awakened, and he knew he would be expected to fill them soon. The darkness would not be patient this close to achieving its purpose.

#

Tyson barely remembered the drive, the last of his energy spent trying to keep his eyes open. He stumbled inside only to hear his alarm clock wailing. He silenced it and dragged himself into the shower. The water scalded his wounded flesh as he washed away the night’s work, but it did little to revive him. On his way out the door, he downed another energy drink and a handful of caffeine pills. They gnawed at his stomach as he made his morning rounds, but the pain kept him upright.

Manning gave him the usual greeting, once again sidetracked by the presence of food, which Tyson had barely remembered to collect. He only wanted to get the day over with so he could snatch a few hours of sleep. The darkness would be waiting for him.

Work was an incomprehensible blur, but Tyson struggled on. He’d checked on Vanity and was happy to see she was still hidden away. He was one step closer.

With the adrenaline of swinging a hammer and the caffeine roiling in his guts, he made it through until the work day ended. When he ambled through the door at home, the darkness greeted him, just as he’d known it would.

Come the darkness, you must hunt again. The gods await.

Tyson looked to the mirror and nodded, too tired to defy the mandate. He laid down for a short nap, but the caffeine he’d downed just before leaving work conspired against him. Consciousness flickered and the blackness of sleep settled over, only for him to pop awake with a start, time and time again. He lay in his hazy stupor for hours, alternating between snores and staring at the ceiling. Tyson rubbed at his temples. His head throbbed, and his eyes seemed to swirl inside their sockets. He knew if he stayed in bed any longer, he would never wake up in time to find another victim.

He didn’t want to risk angering the darkness, so he got up and went for a jog, circling the block over and over until his feet throbbed and his head felt as though it would spew his brains across the asphalt. Tyson returned home at twilight and showered, going over the last of what he needed to do. At last, night settled in.

Once again he sat outside a strip club, this one across town from the one where he’d picked up Vanity. He drank a double-shot espresso, holding it with both hands to keep it from spilling as he looked out over the steam. It took longer for a lone girl to come creeping out of the club than it had the night before. Tyson nearly cried at seeing her. He inched the car forward, desperate to be done. Flutters of excitement mingled mutely under the weight of exhaustion.

He called to the woman, waving the money he’d used to draw Vanity in. Thin, the dancer’s arms bearing the scabs of her habits, she didn’t hesitate or ask questions. She was in the car seconds after he waved the money. Tyson tossed the cash in her lap and had to fight her off before he’d even gotten the car out of park. She was dying to fix. She was fixing to die, Tyson thought. He chuckled at his joke, and the stripper glanced over at him. He forced a pleasant smile and explained away the oddness of his random laugh. Things had come too far for him to make her suspicious.

Tyson went into his spiel and offered her food and great view, and even stopped to hook her up with a fix on the way. She shot up on the drive, and after that, it didn’t matter what Tyson said. She lolled in the passenger seat all the way to the parking garage.

His own head swimming, Tyson struggled to carry the replacement blanket, his cooler, and the giggling and stumbling dancer up the stairs of the tower. He regretted his long jog, right then. His calves burned at every step. At the nineteenth floor, he dropped his burdens and struggled to spread the blanket out. Unlike Vanity, the woman whose name he hadn’t even bothered to ask wasn’t remotely interested in the view; at least not the one outside of her drugged-up skull. Tyson dumped her onto the blanket, and she just laughed and stared off at the ceiling. He peeled her shirt away and looked down at her, trying to commit her appearance to memory, though she was hardly a beauty. She chuckled on and on like an asthmatic hyena, making it even harder for Tyson to become aroused.

The icepick shaking in his trembling hand, he silenced her laughter.

#

Tyson woke in his car. The sun glittered off the windshield as he stared without comprehension. He blinked away the brightness and looked around to get his bearings. The outside of his house hovered in his blurry view, and he realized he was parked in his driveway. A sigh slipped loose, but his breath caught in his lungs at the sudden realization it was morning.

His pulse pounded in his veins as he dug in his pockets for his keys only to spy them still in the ignition. He started the car with a shaking hand and growled as he waited for the radio to show the time. It was almost seven a.m. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he snatched the key out of the ignition and jumped out of the car. Racing around to the trunk, he popped it open only to find it empty. The cooler was gone.

Tyson ignored the thunder in his skull as he climbed back into the car. He threw it in gear and screeched out of the driveway as the cold reality of what he’d done last night came back to him. The last thing he remembered was killing the stripper. There was nothing after that. He couldn’t even recall coming home. Where was the cooler? The body?

In a panic, Tyson struggled to keep from speeding. He couldn’t afford to be pulled over now, not with a possible crime scene waiting to be found. His co-workers would straggle in around seven-thirty, but Manning would already be there. The chances were good no one had trudged all the way to the nineteenth floor this early, but he couldn’t be sure. Without the customary burritos to keep everyone lounging downstairs, Tyson had no idea if they had already started their day’s labor.

At the garage, Tyson whipped in only to find the security guard missing from the booth. He should be there. A cold chill settled over him, but despite the guard being gone, Tyson hadn’t seen any flashing lights or police cruisers parked outside the site. Everything looked normal. Hoping he’d only left the cooler lying somewhere, but had hidden the body, he got out of the car and made his way to the street. A few cars honked at him as he darted across, but he didn’t hear any sirens or voices calling out to arrest him.

Tyson slipped through the gate and sidled around the building to avoid running into Manning. He didn’t want to have to explain the lack of breakfast or his rumpled look. As he passed through the mirrored hall that led to the back stairwell, he saw the darkness following along. Its whirling presence agitated. Tyson looked away and darted from the hall. He couldn’t face it now.

Up the stairs he ran, grateful not to encounter any of his co-workers. There was still a chance. He burst from the stairwell, slamming the door into the wall as he did. Its sound echoed through the halls like a gunshot. His heart thudded loudly in his ears and amplified the thump of his footsteps as he ran. As he neared the room where he’d killed the stripper, he heard a muttered voice. He immediately recognized it as Manning’s.

Tyson froze. He was only a few feet from the door. Against his better judgment, he crept forward at the sound of another voice. This one was raised to panicked pitch. Tyson risked a glance inside and saw Manning standing near the windows, the security guard beside him. The guard ran his hands through his thinning hair and paced in small circles. Manning only stared at the floor.

At their feet was the stripper. The icepick was visible sticking out the side of the woman’s head. The cooler lay toppled over on the ground beside her body, its contents spilled across the blanket. Still closed, the glass jar rocked with the movement of the roaches inside. The knife lay beside it. Tyson’s throat welled into his throat, a sudden faintness washing over him.

Just as he thought to run, he heard the crackled squawk of the guard’s radio.

“The police are on their way up,” the voice on the other end reported.

Tyson didn’t wait to hear anything else. He spun around and ran for the stairs. As he went through the door, he started down only to pause after a few steps. A murder in the building, the police would cordon off the tower. They’d probably already done it. Down was the quickest way into custody. He glanced at the stairwell and realized up was the only way to go.

The observation deck.

Tyson heard the darkness speak as he thought the same. It would take the police all day to search the building. He could wait on the deck until he could figure out a way to avoid the authorities. With no stash holes above the nineteenth floor, he could think of no place better, his head churning with his panic. A door slamming below set his feet in motion. He scrambled up the stairs.

Tyson stumbled onto the observation deck, gasping for breath. He could go no further. The click of the door behind him was like the closing of a cell door. Only prison waited on the floors below. Tyson growled. He hadn’t come this far only to fail.

He went to the window and set his hand on the cold glass. The darkness met his eyes.

You have failed.

“I know, I know,” Tyson shouted as he tried to look beyond the darkness. It was all he could see. He’d come so close. Eleven bodies lay entombed in the walls of Kellerton Tower, and another had been killed within its walls. He hadn’t finished the ritual, but the blood had been spilled. It had to be enough.

“Only one more; one more.” He pressed his cheek against the glass, “Please, help me. I’ve done all you’ve asked. Give me one more chance to finish.”

The window trembled against his face. Tyson pulled back and stared once more into the darkness. Heat wafted off the glass and dried the tears he hadn’t known he’d shed.

“I’ve come so close.. .please, do not forsake me.”

Silence was his answer.

Tyson felt the weight of the air in his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. There was nothing left. He staggered from the window and reached for the door, heedless of where he might go. A whispered voice stayed his hand.

You have failed them, but the gods might yet offer you mercy.

Tyson spun about. “Tell me what I need to do.” He raced to stare at the darkness roiling in the window. “Tell me!” Spittle dotted the glass.

You need only to surrender. Come unto me and you may yet serve the gods.

“Yes, yes.I am their servant, now and forever.”

Then come to me before the mortals steal you away. Be one with us.

Tyson stared at his reflection, the swirling blackness that obscured his features, and smiled. Salvation lay before him. He would see the gods yet. They waited for him, their loyal servant.

Without hesitation, he threw himself into the darkness.

There was a loud crack, and Tyson felt its sharp embrace. The bright light of day burned his eyes as the wind lapped at him, the brilliant shimmer of the building hurtling past. The world screamed in his ears. Tyson turned his gaze to the sky as he fell. A storm cloud gathered at the summit, its darkness swallowing the spire atop the tower. Tyson smiled.

They’d come at last.

Severed

Brandon Ford

Staggering through the night, he took slow, careful steps. His torn clothing hung listlessly from his weak shoulders. Shredded fabric swayed with the impetuous wind. He wanted to move faster, pushing his legs to carry speed, but though he was willing, his body was not.

The night was dark. Pitch black. A crescent moon shone down upon him while a persistent mist billowed past. Dirt crunched beneath his feet and he could only see a wide, empty stretch of land spread before him. He had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there. He had no clue as to where he was traveling. But somehow, he knew he had to push on.

A strong, unyielding gust of wind swathed him and instantly, he lost balance. Toppling to the ground, face down in the dirt, he could only lie there for several wearing moments after that. He was drained. Couldn’t move. There was nothing to pick him back up again.

You’ve got the keep moving, the voice in his head then called. You’ve got to keep going.

He flattened both hands against the soft earth and pushed, forcing his way back up again. He grunted and moaned, exerting himself in the strenuous effort. More confused than he’d ever been, he began to wonder what could’ve been wrong with him.

Finally, he found himself standing upright, his knees incessantly wobbling. Again, he lurched onward, hearing a wolf’s howl far off in the distance and the hoot of an owl perched in a treetop. He had no memory of anything before these few distorted moments and that scared him. He knew not who he was or where he’d been. He didn’t even know his own name.

Pushing further, venturing God only knew where, this harrowing trek became more and more difficult with every step. Slowly, his energy was draining. His head was spinning.

Move on, you must move on, called the voice in his head. Can’t stop now. You must keep going.

But where? Where was he going? And how long before he got there? A thousand questions flooded his mind and before long, he was almost too exhausted to think.

Again, his knees began to quake and although he tried to steady himself, he fell upon the soft earth once more. Both eyes pinched closed, he landed with a hard thud. Lying motionless, he thought, thought hard, trying to piece together this night. Trying to piece together the life he’d forgotten.

Nothing. Not a shred, not a drop. No yesterdays and by the looks of things, no tomorrows, either.

So lost and so defeated, he wanted to weep, but he couldn’t. He managed to force himself into sitting upright, both legs stretched out before him. So frustrated, he balled tight fists and beat at his temples, trying to trigger something. Still, not a trace. Tightening his jaw, he clenched fistfuls of his own hair and pulled. Mounds came free in his grasp and without much effort. He felt nothing. Not a twinge, not a sting. No feeling whatsoever. What was going on?

Wiping his hands free and watching as the tangled strands slipped from his fingers, he stood upright. Squinting, he stared forward. So much open space, a stretch of land leading on forever. Would he ever get there? And where the hell was it he was going?

Pressing on, he continued through the darkness and through the sifting mist, forcing himself onward, though he knew not why. Slowly, carefully, he took each step while holding his balance. His weary bones couldn’t bear another unsteady tumble.

A loud swish cut through the air. Gazing upward, he saw the large, ferocious vulture circle around him, wings spread, a look of fierce determination in its beady little eyes.

“Get away!” he cried, flailing both arms. “Get the fuck outta here, “ya fat little son of a bitch!”

“Caw! Caw!” The creature kept on, spinning in wide circles around him, ignoring his pleas.

“Get the fuck away!” he bellowed again, not recognizing the sound of his own voice. It was as though he was hearing it for the first time.

“Caw! Caw!” the creature cried in response. It wouldn’t leave him. Followed his every step and ducked in between his flailing arms. Persistent little fucker.

Twirling about, struggling to rid himself of this nuisance, he felt dizzy. He knew that soon enough, he was going down again, into the clumps of moist earth and into the blades of stemming grass. He tried to regain balance, struggling to remain still and upright, but it was no use. He knew his energy was draining more and more with each passing moment and he knew that soon enough, he wouldn’t be able to move at all. But not yet. Please God, not yet, he silently begged. Please let me get there first.

Tripping over his own feet, he fell forward, landing with a hard thud. Coughing up clouds of dirt, he awaited the moment his newfound nemesis would strike.

Just not the eyes, he thought, already making peace with what he knew was about to come. Please just leave the eyes.

Two feet landed softly against his spine. His head turned to the side, he couldn’t bear to lift himself, or even an arm to give the hungry bastard a much-deserved blow.

Again, “Caw! Caw!”

And then the sharp beak punctured his ear as it took a bite.

He felt nothing, though he knew exactly what was happening to him.

Another bite, then one more. The ear detached and lay tucked away in the vulture’s pointed beak. With that, it spread both wings and took off into the night, tearing through the skies, disappearing behind the dark clouds above.

“Oh, shit,” he moaned, more irritable than frightened. He reached up and allowed his fingers to travel. Another clump of hair fell under his touch and the strands slid down the side of his throat. He felt the hole, moist and deep, but not bleeding. Again, no pain, not even when he dug a finger inside and felt his own cold, hard skull.

Okay, this is getting ridiculous, he couldn’t help thinking.

That shrill, undeniable will lifted his chin. He pressed both hands to the ground and forced his way back up again. He needed to press on. God, how he needed to press on. Something beckoned him and he felt a welcoming presence far off, far deep in the distance. Though his will was strong and his desire to continue unconquerable, he could not bring himself to his feet. With what little strength he had left, he bent his knees, his hands clawing at the earth as he pulled his way forth.

Inch by agonizing inch, he made his way through the mist, his head hanging low. One push followed another. He had to get there and slowly, he was getting closer.

#

Before long came the start of a new day, the sun lifting from beyond the horizon. He didn’t think he’d make it to morning. His hands and knees remained covered with dirt, blades of grass, and crawling insects. But he didn’t care. Nothing else mattered, nothing in this world but making it there. His trembling hand reached forth and he felt the hard, splintering wood. A short stair led to a bare porch and a closed door. Pushing his head up, he lifted both eyes to the house buried beneath the overflowing branches of a tall oak tree. Old, decrepit, barely standing, the house welcomed him. At first sight, he knew. Knew this was where he belonged. This was the end of his long, strenuous journey. He smiled. Laughed. He was home. But still, he didn’t know where exactly home was. Still, he didn’t know why he belonged here, but he knew there was nothing left for him to try. There would be no stretching miles of exhausting travel. This was home.

He crawled his way up the stairs, his chipped fingernails clawing at the splintering wood. He reached the floorboards and collapsed, falling face first into the stemming splinters and aged construction. He heard the snap, the pop, as his nose met the surface and shattered under his weight. The pins of splintered wood dug into his parted lips as his teeth grazed the cold, hard grounds. Still, he felt nothing.

“Oh, fuck,” he mumbled, his voice muffled. “Jesus fucking Christ... ”

Suddenly, the door swung open, the edge meeting his skull and sliding him across the floorboards like a weightless pile of debris. Then, a pair of claw-like hands gripped him around the collar and dragged him inside. As his cheekbone met the ground, he heard the door slam. His vision blurred and all he could see were swirls of light and color. He blinked hard, pinching his eyes closed, trying to will the return of his sight and trying to understand where he’d landed and why he’d worked so hard to make it this far.

The footsteps circled him and he could feel the eyes burning into his flesh. How many of them were there? He heard the sounds of breath and then a slight chuckle. One. There was only one. And by the sounds of that high, feminine laugh, she was female.

“What.?” he mumbled, finding it more difficult to speak than ever before. “Who.? Where.?”

She laughed again, harder, heavier, filled with glee.

He blinked again. Still, he couldn’t see. Was he blind now? Were these the final stages of decay? Was this the end?

No. At least not yet. He began to focus. Slowly, his vision returned. He saw the orange flames of burning candlelight perched all around him. Saw the shafts of thick, black wax. His eyes continued to rove, seeing and studying the countless relics. Bare skulls. Shelves overflowing with thick, worn texts. Reverse crosses decorating the walls of chipped wood. A line of animals hung in suspended decay all around him. And then, the bare feet approached, a cloak of black dangling just above the ankles.

“Hello, Adam,” she finally spoke.

Adam.

Adam...

He’d suddenly been hit with a bolt of clarity, a signal of who he once was leaping through the darkness.

Adam, he thought, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Adam Randall. I’m Adam Randall...

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, kneeling down before him.

He looked into her eyes, hoping to see and feel that spark once again. He prayed this mere glance would offer another clue, but it didn’t. He didn’t know this woman. He was positive, he was certain. Her hair hung long, straight, and as black as the cloak slung over her slim, feminine shoulders. Her skin was pale and smooth. Lips full and enticing. Her eyes hypnotized him. They were the color of fresh grass and seemed to intensify her otherwise plain features.

He stared deeper. He didn’t know her.. .yet he did. Her features seemed oddly familiar somehow. Something in her stare. Something in her eyes of captivating green.

“Who. are you.?” he managed to choke. “Do I.?”

“Do you know me?” she asked through a smile. “No, you don’t know me. You don’t know me, but I most certainly know you.”

His last bit of endurance was waning. There was almost nothing left. He could barely keep his eyes open. A long, deep rest called out to him, pulling him forth, welcoming him in its arms of desolate comfort.

But no.

He couldn’t. He had to know why he was here. He had to know what she wanted of him.

She stroked his thinning dark hair, tickling the back of his neck with her long, painted fingernails. “I bet you’re tired,” she murmured. “You’ve come such a long way.”

He could take this no longer. He’d had his fill of this endless confusion. He’d spent hours trying to decipher his true identity and why he’d held no choice but to force his way to this cabin in the middle of nowhere. He had to know why. and he had to know now.

His frustrations took hold of him and he wanted to scream, to grab this woman by the throat and pull his secrets from her obstinate grasp. He wanted to punch, kick, beat. He wanted to yell, shout, bellow. But the most he could do was ball a weak fist. The most he could bring himself to utter was, “Tell me why I’m here...”

She stood back on her feet, tall and proud. With an exuberant amount of strength, she kicked him over on his back. Then, she stood over his withering existence and straddled him, seated firmly on his abdomen. Placing both hands on his chest, she leaned forth.

He could feel her naked flesh beneath the cloak. Could see her heaving breasts as she stared down upon him with those enchanting eyes. Once upon a time, he would’ve been so much more than sexually aroused. He would’ve been wrought with pure heterosexual desire. He would’ve taken this strange, nameless woman and had his way with her. multiple times. He wouldn’t have stopped until she was panting his name and begging for release. But now, nothing more than a lifeless organ hung between his legs. Not a single movement, not an ounce of desire. Just shriveled, useless death. But why? Dear God, why?

“I bet you don’t even remember her name, do you?” she said, sliding her tongue along her eyeteeth.

Lady, I couldn t even remember my own goddamn name until thirty seconds ago, he wanted to shriek, but all he could do was grunt.

“She had long, dark hair much like mine,” she said. “She had bright green eyes just like mine. She was tall, fragile, beautiful. She was sweet, kind, and caring. Her name was Emily. She was my sister.”

Emily.

Holy shit, Emily...

She was the last. She was his final victim before they caught him.

Now he knew who he was. and what he was.

He was Adam Randall, Hemdale’s most ruthless and notorious serial killer. He’d taken dozens of lives before anyone suspected a thing. He knew he would’ve taken dozens more, had they not discovered his identity. Taking lives made him whole. It was what he did. It was the unquenchable urge that brought him out of his bed each morning. It was the one thing that made him face each day. He was vicious and unmerciful in his acts. He was cruel and sadistic. He was all of these things and hordes more, but the one thing he was not was remorseful. He laughed in the faces of those that dragged him towards those lethal volts of electricity. He spat in the face of the priest who’d been sent to give him his last rites. He cursed those few restless souls perched and anxious to witness his execution. That was who he was... and it all came crashing down upon him like a drowning tidal wave. He knew now. and he smiled.

“I watched you die,” she then said. “I watched you die, but it wasn’t enough. It hasn’t been enough to get me through these endless nights. It hasn’t been enough to ease the suffering, or the suffering of the families of your countless victims. It’ll never be enough.”

Yeah? Well, why didn t you just bring back your stupid bitch of a sister? he thought. Why didn t you just bring all of them back and leave me in peace, you stupid cunt?

“I’ve thought about that,” she said, reading his sadistic mind. “I’ve thought of it many, many times before. But Emily is in a better place now. She’s far from a world where men like you roam free. She’s happy now. I know that for sure. She’s free. But you’re not, Adam. And you never will be.” She stretched out an arm, reaching for something out of his field of vision.

She released a breath. “Anything else you’d like to say to me, Adam?” Go fuck yourself, he thought.

Once again reading his thoughts, she smiled.

Without warning, she brought the cleaver down upon his throat, severing his head from his defenseless body. The maggots and slithering worms spilled out of him in a rush of flooding death. She raised the cleaver again and began hacking away at his arms, legs, hands; his head resting on the gaping hole where his ear once hung. His eyes focused, he watched her proceed.

#

“Good morning, Adam.”

His eyes opened to the slim aluminum bars of a rusted birdcage, then met hers.

She smiled. “How are you feeling today?”

He said nothing, he thought nothing. His eyes turned toward the fireplace where his dismembered remains lay in a heap amidst the flame.

“I hope you’re comfortable, Adam,” she said. “You’re going to be here for a long, long time.” She twisted the chord and watched as the cage spun round.

For Adam, there was no crossing over. There was no Hell. There was certainly no Heaven. There wasn’t even the uncertainty of Purgatory. There was nothing but an eternity behind these slim bars.

Watching as she prepared the morning’s cauldron, he dreaded what was to come.

Afflicted

A.J. Brown

Pryor jerked awake, a scream tearing from his throat. Darkness surrounded him. Both hands went to his face, rubbed his eyes. Behind tired lids, he saw the remnants of a dream, the images fading until they were nothing.

He pulled the lamp chord. Darkness ran for the corners as light flooded the rooms. Pryor sat up the best he could, his arms shaking beneath him. Pain raced up his spine and into the back of his skull. His hands quivered as he reached for the pills on the lamp stand. He dry swallowed two of them and laid his head back on the pillow.

After several minutes, and with great effort, he pushed himself up and propped his back against the headboard. He pulled the sheets away. A road map of scars dotted his legs, and ran down into his white socks and up into his boxers. An indention sat where his left kneecap used to be, reminding him...

Screeching tires; the sound of metal on metal and screams—his. Smoke and the strong scent of gasoline; heat wrapped itself around him. Then nothing. No feeling, no sounds, or smells. Only weightlessness.

"Stupid drunk," Pryor said and punched the mattress.

The hospital stay lasted two months. Surgeries—a seemingly endless amount—did nothing for the almost unbearable pain in his legs and back. Shattered bone and shredded ligaments made the procedures to repair his knee more difficult than the doctors would have liked. Though they had replaced the knee with a hinge, the indention remained. He could walk, but not without a cane.

Pryor eased his legs over the edge of the bed. Tears soothed his tired eyes and blurred his vision. He reached for his cane, tipped off balance and fell forward. He landed hard on the cold floor and a bolt of pain streaked from his left ankle up into his hip. It traveled along his spine and into his head where yellow orbs danced in his vision. His scream gave way to crying.

When the pain subsided, Pryor struggled to roll over. He used the bedpost for leverage and pulled himself up and onto the mattress. He picked up the phone, dialed Doctor Milsap.

#

The door swung open. Pryor hobbled in, gritting his teeth and forcing back fresh tears with each step. A rush of air followed as the door closed behind him. After checking in at the front desk, he sat down as close to the receiving counter as possible. A door to his right opened and a light skinned nurse called out a name, and waited for the patient—a woman with gray hair and Grandmother's Syndrome—before they both disappeared into the maze of halls and examination rooms.

"You be afflicted," the elderly man said and sat down beside Pryor.

"Excuse me?"

The man was darker than anyone Pryor had ever seen. His brown eyes held wrinkles around them and bags beneath them. Yellowed fingernails and bright white teeth contrasted the black skin. "I says, you be afflicted."

"Afflicted?"

"That's a-right, son. Afflicted."

Pryor gave a nervous chuckle. "If you mean I'm in pain, you're absolutely right."

"No, son. I mean you be afflicted, you has a sickness."

Pryor frowned, his brows creased. "No, sir. I'm not sick. Unless you count being sick and tired of hurting all the time, then okay, I guess so."

"Nah. You afflicted up here." The man tapped his temple several times before dropping his hand into his lap.

Pryor laughed, though he didn’t find anything the man said funny. "I'm not crazy."

The man smiled. There was knowledge in it. "We all a li'l crazy, Sonny."

"Okay, sure. Whatever you say."

Pryor braced himself on his cane and went to stand. The man placed one hand over Pryor's. Warmth raced up his arm, into his shoulder and down his back, easing some of the hurt. "I knows som’one who can help you."

Pryor stared for a moment, his eyes wide, teeth clenched tight. The warmth of the man’s skin on his didn’t bother him. The fact that the man had touched him did. "No, thank you. I'll take my chance with my doctors."

"This ain't 'bout no body aches. This is 'bout your mind, your soul. When you see what you be afflicted with, you be better."

Pryor pulled his hand free. "That's okay, old man. I just want my medicine and I'll be on my way."

The man shook his head and reached into his shirt pocket. He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and held it out.

"I don't want that," Pryor said.

"Take it. You call. You be better."

"Really, I don't want it."

"You 'fraid, that's all. Take it."

The man's voice held strength in it, making his command feel as if Pryor had no choice in the matter. He took the paper and shoved it in his pocket. The man nodded, folded his hands one over the other in his lap and looked directly at the wall.

"Pryor Lee," the nurse called as she opened the door.

Without hesitation, Pryor pushed himself to a standing position. Pain ratcheted down into his legs and raced up his spine. He looked back into the waiting room as he passed through the door. All the seats were empty.

#

Sleepless nights drained him. Unable to get comfortable in bed, he laid on the couch in hopes of dozing, even if only for a few minutes. He moved from the couch and shuffled toward the recliner, a Herculean effort since the accident. A simple action, like standing and moving from seat to seat took seconds before, but now took him long, agonizing minutes.

He made it to the chair, relaxed and let out a deep breath. He set the cane by the recliner and reached for the television remote. His hand brushed the paper the old man had given him the week before. Picking it up, Pryor unfolded it and stared at the scribble of black ink.

"Miss Lillie Mae McCoy. Old State Building 3, Route 19. Cures all known and unknown afflictions. No appointment necessary. Need penny with birth year."

Pryor started to toss the paper aside. One word caught his attention; the same one the old man had used: affliction. The man's words came back to him.

This ain't 'bout no body aches. This is 'boutyour mind, your soul. Once you see what you be afflicted with, you be better.

"I'm afflicted with two screwed up legs and a bad spine. That's what I'm afflicted with. No voodoo magic can fix that."

Pryor crumpled the paper, dropped it to the floor. He closed his eyes and hoped for sleep.

He woke with the sun shining through the blinds and a hazy dream vanishing from memory. A dark man had beckoned him, told him a truth and faded. Though he didn't remember the rest of the dream, he recognized the man.

Reaching for his cane, Pryor noticed the note in his hand. It was no longer crumpled into a ball and the black ink stood out against the white backdrop.

"What do you want with me?"

He stood, let out a whimper and hobbled on stiff, aching legs to the bedroom. He took his pills and went back to the recliner. The medication did nothing to alleviate the pain, or even take the edge off even just a little. He sat on the edge of the bed, dialed the familiar number to the taxi company and requested a ride.

#

He didn’t like cars. Or trucks. Or busses. Or really anything with wheels that zoomed by on roads. Before the accident, he lived in his car, going from place to place without much thought. Now.. .now, getting in any vehicle made his stomach quiver with nervousness. Still, they were a necessary evil and taxies were quite possibly the worst of the bunch. He handed a piece of paper to the cabbie.

"You sure this is where you want to go?" the cabbie asked. He had a Northern accent and Pryor took him for a New Yorker, maybe even from Jersey. He looked huge from the back seat, someone Pryor never wanted to meet in a back alley.

Pryor licked his lips. "Yes, sir," he said and got in.

"Okay, but I have to tell you, there isn't much out there."

The cabbie drove out of town and out into the country where long, winding roads were lined by tall trees with knobby, bent branches. The car came to a stop in front of a crumbling concrete wall. The gate that divided its two sides lay on the ground.

"This is it, buddy."

Pryor paid the fare and got out. The door clicked shut and the cab pulled away, doing a U-turn and speeding down the pothole filled road.

A cool breeze ruffled leaves and sent tingling chills through Pryor's body. He checked the address on the paper. "Yeah, I guess this is it."

With his cane out in front, Pryor limped around the fence and entered into the large unkempt yard. A dirt path ran through the center of the yard, dead flowers and weeds lining it in brittle grays and browns. A shack sat a couple hundred feet from the gate with tall pines standing guard. Near the edge of the house were several crumbling headstones. It sent a ripple of ice along his skin.

Pryor struggled across the rugged path, stopping near the weathered building. A rocker sat on the sloped porch and the entrance held no door to keep the world outside. Six warped steps led up. Even when he had full use of his legs Pryor wasn't so sure he would have climbed up the worn wooden slats, but hobbled as he was, there was no way he could make it to up.

"Hello? Anyone here?"

He waited, listened to the wind rustle through the trees as leaves sprinted across the ground. Pryor had seen this scene before, dozens of times in cheesy horror movies. A person visiting a creepy place alone because either they wanted to do something exciting or they were prompted to by some crazy looking person who talked weird, but intrigued the unwitting victim. Yeah, that was Pryor, unwitting victim number 311 to the Affliction Yard.

He called again and wished he had asked the cabbie to wait for a short time as Pryor went to investigate. The entire situation was appropriate. In the movies, the cabbie would have left anyway.

"Who be on my property?"

The voice came from the blackness within the house. Pryor licked his lips. Running sounded like a good option, but even the oldest of men could have caught him easy enough. He stood his ground, his stomach dancing with the flutters of a thousand moths. If he needed to, he could get one, maybe two shots in with his cane before whoever called to him took him down.

The woman stepped out of the shack, her onyx skin pulled tight around her face and glistening in the sunlight; her bald head shining. She wore a white blouse, stained with several spots and a brown skirt that reached to her dirty shoes.

"Miss Lillie Mae McCoy?"

Brows raised, McCoy stared at Pryor. "What be your bus'ness here, white man?"

He held out the card with a shaking hand. "I was told you could help me."

McCoy went down the steps, each one groaning under her slight weight. She took the note. "Mr. Jacobs done talked to you, eh, white man?" she sighed. "I reckon yah done come this far. May as well, see yah through. D'yah have the pe'ny?"

"Yes Ma'am," he said and fished the coin from his pocket. "It was harder to find than I thought. Had to make the cab driver wait for me while I looked through my penny jars."

Lillie Mae took the penny, held it up to the sky. "When was you born?" "1974."

"No, white man, when was you born? Not the year, the day."

"October eighth."

She nodded and handed the cent piece back.

"Don't you need this?" Pryor asked.

"No. You do." She walked to one corner of the house. Before disappearing around the side she motioned for him. "Come wit' me."

Pryor limped along, the pain like shards of glass in his knees and spine. His skull pulsed with the extra effort of trying to keep up with a woman that looked old enough to be in the grave for more years than Pryor had been living. He rounded the corner to see a hill. At the top sat a well.

"You're kidding, right?" he said under his breath. The hill was disheartening, but it wasn’t what he focused on. "A wishing well?"

"Some things isn't what they seem," Lillie Mae said without looking back. "You want to be healed, you must have faith. If not, you wastin’ your time here."

Pryor's face flushed. He started up the hill, his cane digging into the dirt path, legs pushing harder than normal. Ice-like daggers rippled through his body, bringing fresh tears to his eyes. He stopped several times along the way, wanting to turn back, but refusing to. If that old lady can make it up the hill with ease, so can I.

By the time he reached the top, Lillie Mae had found a seat on a stump, and whittled on a long piece of wood with an old pocket knife. Pryor leaned against a tree for support, his breathing coming in wheezing rasps.

The well was larger than it had appeared from below. Adobe brick covered with years of dirt and moss extended upwards to his waist and formed a near ten-foot circle. A board, much like a cot, dangled from well-worn ropes hanging from a crossbeam. Two rusty pipes held the board up, their ends jutting from the holes on either side of the well.

"Do I toss the penny in, now?"

"Don' be in all sorts of hurry, white man. You afflicted and you can't see it 'cause you blind. Nothin' go in the well 'til the well be ready."

Pryor nodded, said nothing else.

"Come and sit," she said and motioned to a tree stump. Pryor did as she said. She pulled out a bottle of clear fluid, opened it. The smell of honey filled the air as she dabbed her fingers into the liquid. Lillie Mae closed her eyes and stood over Pryor. "October chil', wastin' “way. Blind eyes keep rest a' bay. Body in pain, bones goin' sour. Lift this curse wit'in the hour. Only faith can clean yah soul. Dip down in and be made whole."

Lillie Mae dabbed the honey water behind each of Pryor's ears and onto the back of his neck. Shivers raced along his body.

"Go on down, now. Come back all fixed up."

"Go down?" Pryor asked.

"Yup. In'a the well. Go down."

His mind screamed horror movie moment. This is where the poor lonely victim dies. He wanted to run, but what good would that do him? He wanted to lift his cane and swat at the old lady, but what if he missed? Worse still, what if she were a demon and all that did was anger her? His death could be torturous, but worse if she were mad. He scrambled for an excuse, seizing on the one that seemed less like a lie and closer to the truth.

"I can't get up there. My legs—"

"You can if you believe," she snapped. "Get on up there, white man. Or go home."

Go home? This is your chance, Pryor. Hobble your happy ass out of here and let’s go. You can call a cab from the bottom of the hill. Just go.

Pryor stared at the well. His chest tingled, the moths returned. Sweat formed on his face, hands and armpits. The thought of crawling onto the cot nauseated him, the pain it would cause, and the ache that would linger. But what was it the woman said? He had to believe? Was that what it's all about? Believing in something you have no right believing in? The only thing he had faith in was waking up each morning to unrelenting pain. That was real, not make believe, like the voodoo the lady hack on the tree stump professed. Believe? Seriously? But turning back after going so far.

Again, he was the horror movie victim, pondering his life and what it meant and really, is it living or just going through the motions? There would always be pain and the quality of living had dropped considerably since the accident.

This isn’t living. This is dying a slow and painful death.

"Okay," he said, took a deep breath. "What do I have to lose?"

Pryor pushed himself onto his feet, shuffled over and sat on the edge of the well. The platform moved slightly as he inched onto it. It rocked from side to side after he had slid all the way on. Lillie Mae pulled the two pipes away and gripped the rope in both ancient hands. There was a moment where Pryor’s heart and lungs seized up and he knew he was going to plummet to his death.

"Take the pe'ny down, make your wish, toss pe’ny in, and wait."

"I can't just toss it in?"

Lillie Mae shook her head. "No. The pe'ny be paym'nt, but the body be the sa'rifice."

"Sacrifice? But—"

"'Nough talk."

“No! Wait!”

Pryor tried to scoot off the platform, but it descended quicker than he could move. He grabbed at the wet, moss-covered brick, but found nothing to hold onto. He yelled for her to stop, to pull him back up, he didn’t want to do this after all. The cot came to a stop above a pool of black water. The damp smell of moss and rotten wood clung to the walls. Above him, Lillie Mae spoke in soft whispers. He strained to hear, but couldn't make out anything. His heart thumped. A lump formed in his throat.

Pryor peeked over the edge of the cot, and stared into the murky black water. No reflection looked back, winked or made a silly face to ease the tension. Above him, Lillie Mae continued her soft words, a chant that Pryor couldn't make out at all.

As he studied the water, he realized he still held the penny tight. He opened his hand. The penny sat, head side up. It had a shine to it, like it could have been brand new, if not for the date on it.

Pryor kissed it, took a deep breath and whispered. "Show me my affliction. Take the pain away." The penny made a hollow plop and sank into the murky water.

Nothing happened, and after less than a minute, Pryor began to feel stupid, as if he had been snookered. And what if he had been? There was no way he could pull himself from out of the well. He would die in there. This much he became certain of. Then the water began to ripple. Then it began to boil. Bubbles popped, sending hot water onto Pryor's skin. He flinched several times, let out a yelp of pain. The horror movies were real.

"Mrs. Lillie Mae? Something's wrong down here." He tried staying composed, but his nerves inched closer and closer to panicking. The boiling grew intense, bigger bubbles appeared, bursts and casts splatters of steaming liquid onto Pryor, singeing the hairs on his arms and leaving angry blisters in their wake. "Pull me up," he yelled. "Pull me up!"

When she didn't respond, he grabbed one of the ropes and tried to pull himself out. He managed to stand on the wobbly cot. With both hands he reached above him, his legs shaking and pain searing from ankles to skull; heart hammering, skin burning. Pryor pulled himself up a few inches, tried to hook one damaged leg around the rope, but it wouldn't bend.

He looked down and saw a slithering tentacle surface, its pink and black skin edging along the side of the board.

"Help," he yelled, and tried harder to bend his leg around the rope. "Get me out of here. There’s something down here."

Gray steam rose from the water's boiling surface, bubbles floating higher, bursting all about him, stinging his bare arms and face. Pryor reached further up with one hand, lifted himself a foot higher.

The tentacle whipped the cot. One rope snapped and Pryor swung to one side, bounced against the well's mildewed wall. The tentacle gripped his ankle and yanked. Pryor screamed. He kicked at the limb, but the efforts were too weak to do any good. With a quick jerk, the tentacle pulled him into the water, one arm and his head striking the plank. An explosion of heat engulfed him.

Tentacles crept up his body, tiny suckers pulling at flesh, burrowing into his legs. He opened his mouth to scream and a rush of hot water filled it, burning his tongue, gums and throat. Air left his lungs, replaced by mire. His eyes snapped open and sludge filled them. His head hummed, as if there were thousands of wasps angrily stabbing at his skull. His ears rang and pressure built up behind his eyes.

Pryor's body grew heavy and he sank deeper into the well. The tentacles ravaged his body, one of them tearing into the skin of his lower back, another one creeping along until it reached his mouth, slithered in and slid down his throat. His feet touched bottom, but by then, Pryor couldn't think straight. His eyes hurt behind clinched shut lids, his head throbbed and his chest was tight and felt like it was swelling. The only thing he knew was he was going to die, suckered into thinking he could be cured by a voodoo witch who was old enough to have cheated Death many times over.

Affliction. The word popped into his head, and if he could have laughed, he would have. His thoughts became muddled; his body felt as if someone was squeezing it. Consciousness faded and he was somehow...

#

...traveling along a side road, driving home from Wade Brown's house. His mind hung in a cloud. He rolled the car window down, cool air rushed in, helping him to stay awake. Pryor shook his head several times, trying to force away cob-webs. His eyelids slid closed and he wavered behind the wheel.

Lights from an oncoming vehicle appeared from the darkness behind closed lids, snapping Pryor awake. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he held the steering wheel tight and flicked his lights several times, hoping the driver would get the hint and turn his bright lamps off. The car swerved and Pryor grabbed the wheel with both hands, jerked it to the right and slid along the gravel shoulder. Pulling to the left, he over corrected and his vehicle went into the other lane.

The other car slammed on its breaks, veered off the road, struck one of the few street signs on that stretch of blacktop. The woman driver jerked forward, her head hitting the steering wheel.

The back end of Pryor's car lifted off the ground and flipped. The top crumpled, the hoodflew off, sparks danced along the road as metal grooved blacktop, and windows shattered. He was tossed about in the car, his seatbelt flapping around instead of locked in place. The car came to rest on its top. Screams echoed in his ears and then there was heat.

Hands gripped him beneath the arms, pulled him. Glass scraped across his body, his legs hung limp, bones broken or shattered. Each jostled movement sent lightning bolts throughout his body until he passed out from the pain.

#

He snapped awake. He lay on the ground next to the well, the grass cool beneath his body. The stars hung overhead, shimmering in the night sky. He put his hands over his face as tears wet his eyes. "It was my fault.” He said. “It was my fault. I fell asleep behind the wheel. If I had—"

"Yah be healed, white man," Lillie Mae said from her stump. She held a long stick in her hand, intricately carved into a tentacle, complete with suction cups encircling it. At her feet lay an impossible amount of shavings from the branch she had been carving on before Pryor went into the well.

Pryor sat up. "But it was my fault. I caused the accident. I'm the reason I got hurt. I'm why my legs—"

"Do yah not be listenin'?" Lillie Mae asked and stood from her stump. She braced herself on Pryor's cane and her face screwed up into an expression of agony. "I say, yah done been healed. Stop yah yammerin' and be leavin' now."

He nodded and pushed himself to his feet. His eyes widened. He pulled his pants legs up—the dimple in his knee was gone, as were the scars from the many surgeries. Pryor put all of his weight on his right leg, and then switched to his left. "There's no pain. The wounds, they're gone."

Lillie Mae smacked her lips together several times. "You be no longer afflicted, white man. If ya don't be mindin', I'm gonna head on back to my house. You need to be leavin' soon."

Pryor's heart lifted, and a smiled formed. "Thank you so much," he said. "You don't know how long I've been in this pain. I'm going to tell everyone about you."

Lillie Mae turned on her heel, bracing herself with the cane. One yellow nailed finger poked out at him. "You be tellin' nobody, ya hear? I don' want nobody in here that ain't be needin' to be."

"But there are some really sick people out there. They could use this... this.. .healing well or whatever it is. You could help a lot of people."

"I help many. You can' be choosin' who yah help—and I can' be helpin' ev'rybody. Now, if yah don' mind, you can leave now."

Lillie Mae turned, put the cane out in front of her and hobbled down the hill at a snail's pace. Pryor frowned. She hadn't limped on the way up the hill, and she hadn't been bowlegged and hunched over. He didn't notice it when he came to, but as she walked away she left droplets of water behind her, spilling off her skirt. Dumbfounded, he stood for a minute longer before walking to the edge of the hill. He looked toward the house. Lillie Mae was already down the hill and out of sight—an impossibility with how slow she had been walking.

Pryor headed down, following the trail of wet ground. It didn't go up the steps and in the house. Instead, it went around the porch and to the other side of the shack, stopping in a pool at the foot of the headstones. Pryor knelt down, his knees not popping or groaning; no aches flared up and down his legs or along his spine; his head didn't pitch him off center from a surge of blinding pain. He pushed aside a few dried up vines, and read the name: Jacobs McCoy.

A jolt of electricity surged through him and he felt as if he stood outside of his body for a brief second. Then he was back inside himself, brushing away the vines from the second grave.

"Lillie Mae McCoy. Died September 1856."

Pryor brushed away the rest of the dirt and dead weeds, revealing a single word: AFFLICTED.

A tentacle pushed from beneath the hard soil. Pryor fell backward, scooted on his bottom for a few feet before standing. The appendage slipped back into the ground. The date on the headstone had changed: Died October 8, 1974.

Pryor glanced toward the house and the hill beyond it, then back at the stone. The date had reverted back to 1856. Pryor stumbled backwards, then stood and ran, his new legs pushing as fast as they could. He bolted up the rutted road, his affliction behind him.

A Little Bit of Soul

Craig Cook

Isaac was having a good day. He had sold that pistol as well as the three rolls of silk that the old Chinamen had left with him. He ought to close early but you should never turn your back on luck. His father had taught him that. When the old black man with the saxophone case walked into the pawn shop and said, “I’d like to pawn my soul, please,” Isaac simply replied, “How much were you hoping to get?”

“Whatever you’re willing to give,” the man said, and Isaac finally looked up to see his eccentric customer. The man donned a white sport coat over a plain white shirt, and khaki pants, accentuating his dark skin. His thin white hair only added to the effect.

“Your soul, huh? Is that how you think of that thing?” Isaac asked, pointing to the case.

“Oh, this? No, no, no. I’ve had this here Buescher sax since ’23. Still sounds mighty fine, too.”

Isaac suppressed a grin, and pushed his glasses back up his nose. A saxophone that old would be a nice addition to the shop. This was turning out to be a very good day, indeed.

“I’ll give you a hundred fifty for the saxophone, provided it still works, of course.”

“I didn’t ask about the sax. I said I wanted to pawn my soul.”

“Fine, one-fifty for your soul and the saxophone,” Isaac said. This better be worth it, he thought, because this guy is muy loco.

“Deal,” the man said. He sat the saxophone case on the counter, keeping both hands on top. Then he began chanting in a language Isaac had never heard before. What the hell? As the old man stood before him, his features changed. His skin started sinking into itself, melting away as if he were a wax candle. The chanting continued, but not through the man’s mouth, which was now dripping onto the tile floor, but from deep within. His clothes caught fire, fingers of flame stretching to the ceiling, yet no smoke appeared. The skeletal frame of the man collapsed into a scattered pile on the floor, burning until there was nothing but a pile of ash remaining.

Isaac peered over the counter, his mind not following the vision his eyes presented him. From the ash, a small tendril of smoke wafted up to eye level. Isaac stood entranced by the wisp, unconsciously drifting back and forth with its movements. He didn’t have time to register when it shot his direction and slithered up his nostrils.

By then, everything had gone black.

#

Liberation. He had forgotten what that felt like. This body was so much younger, so much fresher than His own. If only Don Pedro and Queen Marie Laveau had known the true extent of their power, the lengths to which He had expanded and blended them together. A hundred years after their deaths, He had finally perfected the art of transmission of the soul. For over sixty years, He had studied Laveau’s rituals on allowing souls safe passage into the next world, along with the Petro’s violent energies and the Danh-Gbwe. He alone had gathered this power, this ability to be nigh invincible. But dislocating Himself into this wretched, albeit fresh, excuse for a man was only the beginning. Now He must be patient, bide his time until the right vessel presented itself.

#

Nina entered the pawn shop, hoping to find a gun. Life in the city was a dangerous proposition for a young woman, especially an aspiring musician. The vultures of society floated through the streets on those lonely, early morning walks home like steam from the manhole covers she passed over.

“What can I do for you?” the employee asked. His nametag read ISAAC.

“I’m looking for a gun.”

“What would a nice young lady such as yourself need a gun for?” he asked.

“Because pepper spray seems to have minimal effect against men who think with the wrong head.”

“The wrong head!” the man guffawed, and with it his voice took on a deeper, rougher quality, like he was gargling gravel. “That’s a good “un!”

Nina didn’t respond. She stared in rapture at the saxophone behind the counter. Isaac followed her gaze and smiled.

“You play?” he asked, his voice returning to its original, almost womanly, falsetto.

“Not really,” she said. “I sing, mostly.”

“Really? What type of music?”

“Oh, a little of everything. Blues. Jazz. Sometimes a little Motown. Anything they want me to sing down at The Brick downtown. As long as it’s got a little soul to it.”

“A little soul!” Isaac roared laughter again, his voice scratchier than ever. “Oh man, that’s Jake!”

“That’s what?”

Isaac blinked, tilted his head, blinked again. “Sorry. Got lost in my own thoughts there for a second,” he said. “So you interested in the sax? It’s a 1923 Buescher, still wails like you wouldn’t believe. Been here three weeks, amazed nobody’s walked out with it yet.”

“I was looking for a gun,” she said.

“Sorry. Sold my only pistol same day I acquired this sax. Sure you don’t want to give it a look? It’d be perfect for a singer down at 18th and Vine.”

“I highly doubt my band could afford that relic. Besides, we already have a saxophone.”

“Not like this one, you don’t,” Isaac said, grabbing the case and sitting it on the counter. “As for the money, I’ll make you a deal. You put the word out about my shop down around the District, give me a little free advertising, and it’s yours. I’m sure all the fellas down around 18th and Vine would listen to anything a doll like you told ’em.”

“Excuse me?”

Another series of blinks. “Oh, don’t listen to any of my nonsense,” he said. “My mouth tends to move before I know what it’s going to say.” He opened the case, and slid it closer to Nina. “Whattaya say? We have a deal?”

“No tricks?”

“No tricks.”

It was certainly tempting. She could always have Charlie take a look at it and make sure it was as good as advertised. Why not, she thought. “You have yourself a deal, Isaac.”

“Excellent.”

#

His time had come. The woman could not have been more perfect. For three weeks He had waited patiently, praying to Danh-Gbwe that a suitable host would present herself to Him. Now she was here, and had willingly made a pact with Him. He allowed His essence to spill out of Isaac’s body, coalescing Himself in a thin wisp of smoke above the counter. The woman, examining the saxophone, was oblivious to His presence until He’d entered her, spreading Himself throughout her body, making Himself at home within her. She gave a quick, audible gasp, and shuddered as though caught in a cold draft, then continued inspecting the instrument.

As for His former host, he could allow Isaac to resume his life, but for what purpose? The man was young, yes, but worthless in the grand scheme of things. The man had no power and no purpose. No potential to be great. So as His spirit filled the young woman, He cursed the soul of Isaac McClain in the name of the Petro. Looking through the woman’s eyes, He observed the man clutching his chest, his body jerking spasmodically, before collapsing to the floor.

He guided the woman, gently laying the saxophone back in its case and snapping it shut. Together, they took the instrument and left the pawn shop, His dream now on the cusp of reality.

#

Nina stood backstage, nervous for the first time in years, but not sure why. She could hear the packed crowd of The Brick, eagerly awaiting the arrival of Nina Simone and Her Rhythm Kings, just as they did every Saturday night. Her band bore the fruit of the recent revitalization in the 18th & Vine District.

But tonight was different. Nina felt changed, altered in some intimate fashion that she couldn’t explain. She remembered bringing a saxophone to rehearsal and giving it to Charlie, and loved seeing his shock and pure joy at the gift. But how had she gained possession of it? Her entire day leading up to rehearsal was a haze, her mind fogging up whenever she tried to remember.

“You’re on in five minutes,” said Jay, the sound tech. Nina nodded her head and smiled, and Jay ducked back through the curtain. Just five minutes, and she would be back in her element, singing and swaying to the music. Rhythm and Blues had a way of clearing her mind, allowing her to swim in the endless pool of music until the early hours of the morning.

Charlie, who had fine-tuned his new instrument all afternoon, came up behind her and patted her on the shoulder. Ty sat on stage, doing a final check on the snare and cymbals. The rest of the guys stood back, instruments in hand, awaiting the overhead speakers to announce their presence.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMAN! THE BRICK IS PROUD TO PRESENT KANSAS CITY’S VERY OWN, NINA SIMONE AND HER RHYTHM KINGS!”

“Let’s do it, boys,” Nina said as the curtains lifted, leading the way out on stage to thunderous applause and shrill whistles. Twin spotlights glared in her eyes like an oncoming train, and it took her a few seconds to adjust.

And see that everything was completely wrong.

#

He gazed out at the crowd filling the room, beyond pleased with the results. He would have praised the Danh-Gbwe, except He felt that perhaps his own power was now exceeding that of the Great Serpent. The lights were low inside the building, no longer The Brick, but its original name, The Blue Room. He hadn t been here since he was eleven, back in 1923. One hundred years it had taken Him to reach this point.

Men in zoot suits and fedoras lounged at candlelit tables, their faces blurred by the haze of cigar smoke floating stagnantly in the air. Many of the men had women sitting with them, usually on their laps, and the dresses they wore told Him they weren’t wives. That little detail didn’t bother him in the slightest. These men had power, and they knew it. He respected that.

He also knew one particular man who ruled above the rest of them. Frank DeMayo. DeMayo ran a bootlegging business during the height of Prohibition, running moonshine from Kansas City to Chicago and Indianapolis. He saw DeMayo seated at a table next to the stage on the right. Next to him sat city councilman Tom Pendergast, a man who made sure his police force was underpaid, forcing them to take bribes from the likes of DeMayo. Tonight was business as usual at The Blue Room.

Looking at the seemingly impossible re-enactment in front of Him, He recalled this same night, 89 years ago, when he was but an 11-year-old boy, taking out the garbage and scrubbing the toilets inside The Blue Room. The night he saw DeMayo, Pendergast, and their bodyguards grab the evening’s entertainment as she stepped offstage. The night they led her out the back door. The night they “took her for a ride”, as DeMayo put it. He had been standing at the back door when they exited with the woman, their hands covering her mouth and twisting her arms behind her. With a mop in his hand, he watched as they tossed her in a car in the back alley and drove away. He never saw her again.

Later that night, Joseph DiGiovanni, who owned The Blue Room, gave Him the Buescher saxophone.

“This is for you kid, direct from Mr Pendergast. He says it’s his gift to you, as long as you forget anything you may have seen tonight. Or rather, what you think you may have seen. You’re a good kid, and smart. I trust you're smart enough to not say anything, and to forget this whole evening.”

And He did keep his mouth shut. He never completely understood why the men would worry about a nobody like Him, a kid for goodness sake, but He respected their generosity, and He loved the saxophone. But He never forgot. Oh no. He remembered, and every day for the next 89 years he yearned to go back to that night, to walk out that back door with those men, drive away with them and take the woman “for a ride”, to feel what it was like to have true power.

And finally, tonight, He would have that chance.

#

The crowd was all wrong. Nina had been singing at The Brick for almost a year now, and never had she seen a man wearing a zoot suit. Tonight, it was nearly impossible to find somebody not wearing one. Besides, The Brick had a smoke-free policy, but these guys were lighting up fat cigars as though they’d ordered them off the menu. Gin poured freely from the hands of scantily-dressed waitresses. As for the women at the tables, Nina didn’t know what to make of them. Was The Brick hosting a private party she hadn’t been informed of? She planned to find out. The smoke alone would kill her voice.

“Umm, good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, the lump in her throat causing her voice to crack. “As you know, I’m Nina Simone and these are my Rhythm Kings.”

A chorus of whistles and crude comments fired back at her, many of which were lost on her. “Nice bubs, doll!”

“Hey Jerry, you see that vamp up there?”

“Yeah, she’s got some tight gams on her, alright!”

Nina looked back at her band, who all appeared as puzzled as she felt. Despite the growing dread in her stomach, she gave them the count and they broke into their opening number, “Minnie the Moocher.” An old favorite, it usually received thunderous applause the moment they began playing. But tonight, all she heard were more random remarks and obscenities thrown her way. They tried “Empty Bed Blues”, which garnered a chorus off booing, and “Makin’ Whoopee”, which the crowd seemed to enjoy a little too much. Nina thought if some of the men went any further with those girls on their laps, they’d be makin’ whoopee at the tables.

They managed to make it through the first half of their set with minimal damage, all things considered, but as they stepped behind the curtain for a short intermission, Nina knew none of the guys wanted to go back out there. To be honest, neither did she. She entered the back hallway, hoping to find Big John, the owner, and have a little chat before agreeing to go back on stage.

Lost in her swirling mix of emotions, she nearly ran over a young boy holding a mop in his hand.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the boy said, and went back to his work. Had she ever seen him here before? She didn’t think so. Par for the course, this evening. She looked at the boy a moment longer, then turned to find John. Instead, she saw two behemoths blocking the hallway in front of her. Their slicked back hair looked like they’d used a bottle of gel each, and their breath reeked of cigars and alcohol.

Nina spun back toward the backstage area, but rough hands seized her arms and yanked her back with enough force she feared they’d dislocate her shoulders.

“Let go!” she screamed, not able to think of anything else. In return, her arms were wrenched even higher up her back. At the same time, one of the hands wrapped over her mouth, squeezing her cheeks in an excruciating embrace. Ahead, the boy with the mop stood silent, staring at the bizarre entourage.

The men roughly guided her forward, and helpless against them, Nina relented and allowed herself to be led. As she passed the door, two men emerged. She recognized them from the crowd, two men that smelled of money, who had been sitting down front.

“C’mon doll. We’re gonna go for a little ride,” said the man on the left. He was short, not much taller than her 5’6” frame, with a pointy chin and nose, and greasy black hair. His pinstripe suit hung perfectly on his thin body. The man next to him was a polar opposite. Over six feet tall, with a round, hanging jowls and a double chin. Although he didn’t look terribly old, his hair was already thinning and going white in places. Oddly, he reminded Nina of Fred from I Love Lucy.

Nina twisted her neck, trying to find the rest of her band, but to no avail. The goons’ hands were like vise grips. The men ushered her down the hall, passing the boy with the mop. The skinny man patted the kid’s head as they passed, but didn’t speak. She pleaded at the boy with her eyes, but his face remained blank, unreadable.

The fat man opened the door, and Nina saw an antique car idling in the alley. It reminded her of the cars she’d seen while watching The Untouchables with her ex-boyfriend, and that thought triggered her panic anew. She thrashed, twisting and writhing, trying anything to escape the two thugs holding her. They held on, but she could feel their hands growing sweaty, and fought harder.

“Mr. Pendergast, sir?” one of the men behind her said. There was no emotion in his voice, but the fat man immediately turned and looked at her, his eyes cold, penetrating black orbs in the darkness. He reached inside his suit coat and pulled out the biggest revolver Nina had ever seen. She squeezed her eyes shut, her vision going black, awaiting the inevitable sound of thunder from the gun. But it didn’t come.

Slowly, she risked opening her eyes the slightest bit. The man named Pendergast smiled at her, raised the gun handle out, and whipped it across her temple.

Her vision went black again.

#

He could feel the fear of the woman coursing through her body, running through her veins like flooding rivers. He reveled in it, drank it up like a man who’d been stranded in the desert sun. He recognized both Pendergast and DeMayo, but it was Pendergast He needed. Pendergast, by once bestowing a 1923 Buescher saxophone on a young boy, had unknowingly invited something to crawl inside him. And He was only too happy to oblige.

Yet, for the first time in as long as He could remember, something bothered Him. It was the boy back inside The Blue Room. Moving along inside the woman, He had seen Himself as He was at eleven, mopping floors and cleaning vomit from the bathrooms. It was a horrible job for almost no pay, but it was all He had. His parents had been murdered in New Orleans the previous year while walking home from work together. He had hopped a train the next morning, not knowing where it was headed until he found himself in a stockyard in the West Bottoms of Kansas City.

He concluded, even back then, that He would not be a nobody, that His life would have purpose. And He had succeeded, working various jobs during the day while learning the vast wonders of His native voodoo culture at night, becoming as powerful as the men who now sat in the front seat of a 1923 Dusenberg sedan. More powerful, in fact.

But now, even in the midst of his crowning achievement, His thoughts clouded at that boy now holding the mop. For if He had transferred His soul into this woman, who controlled the boy? He had learned many tricks during his 100 years on this earth, but splitting his soul between two separate bodies at the same time was not one of them. It was a troubling prospect, to be sure, but one He would deal with later. The Dusenberg had left the Jazz District, heading down into the West Bottoms. The slaughterhouses down here would be the obvious choice to dump a body, and He savored the euphoria of what was to come. They would have fun with the girl, play with her like a rag doll, and then discard her like so much trash, and move on to the next toy. The car came to a stop at one of the factories, closed for the night, and all four men got out, dragging the woman with them.

It was time.

#

Nina was dragged out of the old car and tossed into a gravel lot. Blood seeped from her palms and knees, and she bit back a cry as she tried to rise. A shoe landed in her gut, dropping her back down.

But with the pain came a sense of release. She felt some small, unexplainable part of her let go, and in that moment, she recalled meeting Isaac at the pawn shop this afternoon, remembered him dying before her eyes, his body lying prone on the floor as she walked out of the store. A moment later, looking up at the four men who had brought her here, she saw the fat one, Pendergast, give a brief recoil, as if slapped by the air. His face quickly returned to normal, meeting her gaze.

“Get on with it,” he said, shoving the short, skinny man forward. “I don’t want to be here all night.”

“Oh yeah,” Skinny said, sneering down at her. “I’ve had a crush on you for a while, little lady.”

Her face stung like a thousand bee stings as he slapped her left cheek. Then, so as not to play favorites, he hit her right one as well. Instinctively, she lashed out, scraping her long nails across his own cheek, drawing blood.

“Well aren’t you a little bearcat,” he said, jabbing his fist into her abdomen. Her breath rushed out in a torrent, and she collapsed, choking on air she couldn’t ingest. He lifted her up and slammed her against the side of the factory. Her head smacked the concrete with a dull thud, her mind instantly fogging up. She felt a small pool of blood welling up in her mouth from biting her tongue on impact.

He pawed at her, and as he did, she wanted to fight, she did, but her body would no longer respond to her commands. Slowly, as he ripped at her dress, she felt her mind and body shut down, logging off for good.

#

He stood back, watching DeMayo enjoy himself. The man was a pig, but He could look past that. He felt Pendergast wanting to join, but He forced the man to stay still. It was better to watch, to observe.

When DeMayo had satisfied himself, the two bodyguards took turns with the woman By the time all three finished, He could barely recognize her. And to think he’d inhabited that body just an hour ago. A weak moan escaped her lips, surprising Him with a small sign of life.

The two guards moved in once again, pulling Mora knives from their coat pockets, and went to work,. The first wrapped his gloved hand around the woman’s throat until her chest fell flat for the final time. He stared, transfixed, as they took the knives and peeled the skin from her body. They were slow, meticulous, almost performing the job with loving care.

He allowed Pendergast to move now, removing a key from his pocket and unlocking the door to the meat-packing plant. Outside, DeMayo stood watch as one of the guards dragged the skin inside and tossed it into a feed bin. The other brought a ragged piece of exposed flesh, lifting it high and impaling it on a meat hook,. The woman’s body hung suspended, a vulgar display of a side of beef.

They took no time to relish the moment, but quietly exited the building, changed into fresh suits, and drove back to The Blue Room. Nobody spoke. The three other men had satiated their inner desires, and He simply basked in this new role, this position of utmost power. For once, He could do anything he wished, without fear of consequence. He possessed the man who ruled Kansas City. It was a beautiful thing.

Yet His mind forced Him to remember the boy as they pulled into the back alley once again. The boy must be dealt with. Could He kill him? His instincts told Him His soul was not currently part of the boy, but what if it was? And it hit Him. He would transfer His soul back to the boy. Begin anew. He would endow this young boy with the knowledge and power He had gained over the past 100 years. Imagine the impossible goals He could accomplish with another 90 years! He felt himself grow giddy at the thought, and if the other three men gave Pendergast a confused look as the man’s body shivered with glee, He didn’t notice.

The Blue Room had closed for the night, but the boy was still there, mopping up spilled gin and cigar ash under the tables. DeMayo walked by and whispered something into the boy’s ear, but He didn’t catch what was said. He steered Pendergast in the same direction, stopping in front of the boy and lifting his chin up to look Pendergast in the face.

He concentrated His soul into the man’s mouth and nose, ready to reinhabit His own, mush fresher, body. He opened Pendergast’s lips and exhaled.

And nothing happened.

How could this be? The boy was Himself! He should have an open invitation to enter His own body. Yet an invisible wall blocked Him from exiting Pendergast. The boy continued to stare up at Him, his eyes blank, no emotion whatsoever on his face. In that moment, He hated the boy. Pure, unadulterated hate. His earlier doubts returned with a vengeance. He recalled His original body, just a few weeks ago, smoldering into nothing but a pile of ash on the floor of a pawn shop. He couldn’t enter His own body because His own body was dead. This boy was both Himself and not Himself. Something had taken control after He had allowed His original flesh to perish.

Yet that was okay. He could still do many marvelous things with Pendergast, a man who was no stranger to power. Perhaps this would be for the best. He allowed His hate to abate a little, for it still scared him to think what might happen if He harmed the boy. It would be best to let him live his life out until the end, let him grow old with age, as He had done once before.

Their job complete, He left The Blue Room with the three other men and drove home.

#

The boy watched the men go, allowing his anger to grow as they left. He couldn’t let his emotions show in their presence, for he feared them a great deal. They were powerful men. But in his mind, they were also garbage. Men like them were the reason his parents had been murdered last year in New Orleans. They were the reason he had to work for almost no money and the occasional leftover scraps from The Blue Room’s kitchen, the reason he slept every night on the back steps of the Monroe Hotel one block over.

He knew they had killed the woman. DeMayo hadn’t cleaned his hands well enough, and he had seen small smears of blood on the back of the man’s right hand. The boy had little to look forward to in life, but music was the one thing he loved. Even in the middle of wiping vomit out of dirty toilets, just hearing the lovely melodies pouring from the stage inspired him to go on, to make something of his life. The woman tonight sang beautifully, her voice sweeter to his ears than the angels. And they’d taken her, discarded her like they did their nasty cigars.

Standing alone amidst a sea of tables, his rage continued to boil. He vowed that one day, he would make them pay. All of them. But especially Pendergast, for he was the root of the entire mess.

#

THE KANSAS CITY TIMES

April 12, 1933

“BOSS” PENDERGAST MURDERED

By Wilson Pipkin | The Times

Tom “Boss” Pendergast was found murdered last night outside his room at the Monroe Hotel. Detectives say Pendergast was found in the hallway on the 10th floor, with multiple knife-inflicted wounds. No suspects have currently been identified...

Coughs and Sneezes

James K Isaac

Stale light ushered in a cacophony of hacks, coughs and belting rain from the outside. For nearly a week Ro Wine had been curtained into his dark, smoky office-cum-lab, happy in his experiments and solitude. Daylight only served to irritate already strained eyes, grating the headachevein which knotted somewhere deep in his skull. The smog of chemicals quickly billowed back over the light streaks, which disappeared completely when the front door clicked shut. Bother. Worse than the light, this surely heralded a visitor. Double bother.

Liquids rolling within red-glowing orbs of glass reflected off the shaven head and square-jaw of a man of size and strength. His arms bulged from a leather jerkin oddly set with patches and seams. Inside-out. Now that is interesting, thought Ro. It hinted at things faerie, hinted at the potential for some excitement and maybe even a chance to acquire things of fascination.

Under an assault of mixed spices, both sweet and foul, the broadshouldered silhouette of Ro's guest spoke. "Bit dark in here, ain’t it? Stinks and all that." Despite his imposing countenance Ro's guest jittered and fumbled with his hands. Both middle fingers were bound in bandages stained dark. A trade of finger-nails perhaps? Sorcery?

Suddenly, baby laughter tinkled through the smoke, almost causing the man to jump out of his skin. Ro had to smile; so interesting for such a big fellow to be anxious.

"Thick with witchery round here it is. Makes me nervous," the big man said, exposing a mouth of stumpy brown teeth. Patches of raw-pink gum suggested a few had recently been pulled.

Theatrically waving his arms, Ro Wine stepped through the smoke. A stick-insect of a man, what with his wild blue eyes and shocks of red hair he fancied himself akin to a mischievous trickster-Fae-thing. Relishing how his appearance caused the big visitor to step back, Ro gave a little spin, waved a hand in gentlemanly showmanship and then, almost pressing cheek-to-cheek against his guest, took a deep sniff. "Oh, I don't know. You have the reek of magic too. I sense the sizzle of ritual about you"

Shaking his head with purpose, the big man stepped back against a wall. "Not me, Mr Wine, sir. I'm haunted by a banshee. She prowls the Cockroach's Castle, infects the human folk, wastes them away with a dancing, coughing sickness. And she calls my name as she does, sir. 'Tommy Brown, Tommy Brown, you owe me your blood,' she says. But I daren't face such devilry. I'm a god-fearing man, and all that."

Tommy Brown did indeed bear all the trinkets of one so haunted, one hoping for the protection of myths and old-wives tales. This explained why he wore his jerkin inside-out. But more so, of why his wrists and neck dripped with iron bangles and chain. No crucifix or prayer-beads though; truly not a man who believed newer gods could help.

"So, why come to me, Tommy Brown?" Like the way a botanist might first consider a rare plant, Ro examined Tommy. How Tommy's small brown eyes, now accustomed to the gloom, twitched to take in the details of the lab. Bundles and wreathes of herbs, bookcases groaning under leather bound tomes which sweated the dust of ancients, vials full of liquids bright and effervescent, or glue-thick and still.

"I hear rumors. People come to me, see. I'm the local guvnor." Tommy paused a second as if waiting for a reaction. His lop-sided smirk didn't go unnoticed. "Rookery fellows say they seen you with the gnomes, stumbling out from opium dens and gin-shops. They say you're a shaman, or magus, Mr Wine, sir. That you know about.. .faerie things." At that, Tommy clutched a fistful of the iron hanging from his neck. "I thought, perhaps, you could help me."

"A magus, eh? I like that. But it's not true. I consider myself a superstitious student of superstition. What with the rise of industry, the ancient woodland is in decline and the faerie are forced to live amongst our cities. Consider my interests in them a hobby, an effort at preservation. As for my own habits, I rarely dull my mind with the poppy. Old woodland swamps teemed with life and tales. The opium dens are city swamps, Mr

Brown, where all secrets eventually burble up dirty and exposed. I have already heard of this wasting, dancing sickness."

"Is evil, it is. The banshee has claws and fangs, tore many a man's throat out or sneezed others into their graves. Even striking down the young ones." An afterthought, the big man mimed the sign of a cross on his chest. "God bless their souls." From his belt he fisted over a pouch bulging with something that clinked. "I gathered up purest gold, and all that, for your troubles, sir."

"The chance to observe things up close would be payment enough. But there is the element of danger. Perhaps I should indulge my pockets a tad, even if it is vulgar." But Ro quickly snatched his hand away after his fingertips stroked the pouch's felt. "You try to trick me?"

Tommy's eyebrows nearly crawled over the crown of his bald head. What mock-indignation! "Never, sir. Not me."

"Shush, now. I smell copper and brass, broken teeth and bruises. Acquired by force, Mr Brown? I much prefer silver. It contains so much more potential that gold. Can you help me, in that regard?"

A wave of relief brought down those high-tide eyebrows. "I will arrange a collection. The old Roach's Castle has thousands of trinket piles stashed under earth and in corners. I know them all."

The gentle coo of baby laughter grew into a gargle, twisting into something louder, more disconcerting. Darkness suddenly pulsed, folding then unfolding around Tommy. Faces rolled and puffed in the smoke and smiled at him, whispering tongues of jabbering nonsense. Snatching a cleaver from under his jerkin, Tommy waved it around, slashing uselessly. "Devil take you all!"

"Calm down, Mr Brown. It is only the Sylph spirits teasing. My lab assistants, if you will. The ladies must like you."

However, unlike Tommy, Ro fully understood the Sylphs and their beyond-the-ether whispers. ' Deceiver. Deceiver. Bad magic.'

A tingle of excitement beckoned Ro to action. He could feel the flush over his face, the tremble in his veins. What a good reason to leave the lab! He was thankful for this disturbance after all. "I shall have a look for you,

Mr Brown, and see what I can come up with. Wait for me back in the rookery, I'll get a cab once I have prepared."

#

With a tip of his top hat, and a half-crown dropped into the coachman's palm, Ro turned away from the carriage and snorting horses and passed into St Giles and the narrows of the Cockroaches' Nest. Tall and spindly with tufts of red hair poking from under his hat, Ro drew glances from the locals. He always drew glances. His green and blue-check, wool and silk, frock coat almost begged for attention. His long strides bounced with assurance. It didn't matter how many stares he got, from commoners to Lords, most were ignorant in their superstitions, powerless to shape their fate. But not Ro.

Ro came prepared. A dandy green-silk scarf wrapped a wreath of primrose tightly around his neck, all tucked under the ruffles of a high collar. A thick belt strapped a brace of pistols, loaded with garlic and mustard rubbed silver bullets, under his brown cloak. In one of his boots hid a cold iron stiletto. Boots which quickly muddied in the rain-churned-and-sodden muck. Ro screwed his face in disgust. At least the rain had desisted for the time being.

An almost tangible stink sawed into his sinuses. And Tommy had the cheek to say Ro's lab stunk! All the foul of London seemed to congeal into this rotten cul-de-sac. Buildings leaned like opium-drunks, creating tunnels and ramps of a maze both vertical and horizontal. A hell-pocket of the city's grimiest lint, only unfortunates or those brought down by drink and oppression dwelled within. Everywhere shook with the splutter of sickness, or was splashed by the emptying of slop buckets from windows. Tucked into corners, or spread out in full view, corpses rotted.

Only one thing for it, thought Ro. How else to ward off the smell, sickness and bad spirits but a puff of tobacco? So Ro pulled down his scarf and took out his favorite cure-all; a pipe, and stuffed the bowl with bitter brown leaves. Ducking under a line of filthy flapping sheets, skipping to avoid a packed-up grate which burped a puddle of slop, Ro lit his silver-ringed pipe and engulfed a thick, warming cloud. Assured of his new ward, he set to look for Tommy in the crowded narrows. He didn't have to look for long.

He soon found himself in an enclosed square, a place where the alleys ran wider, where the odd motley-fool or pipe player entertained an openwound of humanity. "There's the weird sod," shouted Tommy Brown, sitting on a window ledge and sloshing back a bottle of what was probably gin. "Funny looking, ain’t he?" Mr Brown seemed in his element, cock-sure and loud, looking even bigger next to the half-staved weasel faced men accompanying him. Well, he was the, so-called, 'local guvnor.' Uncouth braggart.

"See there, that's where the banshee came from. Used to run a witchery before her devilry caught up with her" said Tommy, pointing over to a little wooden building, its walls covered with a cloth which may had once been bright but had now dulled into a frayed and tattered brown. As if on guard, a collection of gnomes tended stalls around it. A pink-haze hovered over the place carrying an acrid smolder.

The hairs on Ro's neck bristled as the scent hooked into him, a chillscent hinting at death and bad things. Shivers ran across his arms, his skin tightened into Goosebumps.

"We tried to burn it down. Thought it might stop the banshee's sickness. But it was too damp to burn, what with the recent rain. So we gutted the insides, smashed up her wicked symbols, melted them down or sold them to the gnomes."

"What would make someone go banshee? It doesn’t happen without cause," said Ro. Tommy’s pupils flickered.

"That's why you're here, ain’t it? To get rid of her, not ask me questions, and all that. These are the streets she roams at night. If you can't do it, just piss off." With the rising anger in his voice Tommy made a facade of confidence. Ro had seen his kind before. No true fire lit Tommy's eyes, just the frightened glare of a rabbit in bear-skin.

"Anyway, I got to go. I got important things to do. You come find me if you need anything," Tommy said. "Come on mates, you can all rub your pennies together and get the first round."

Ro watched Tommy depart through the crowds, watched how the locals parted, men patted his back and some of the girls winked or hustled with their skirts. Strange how such a man, awkward in his skin, could garner such admiration. Too much swagger not enough grace. A showman, but a bad actor. In the Cockroach's Nest, with its low-cunning, fast fingers and brutality, a man like Tommy should have been eaten alive.

Puffing on his pipe, Ro walked over to the empty shell of the banshee's shop, nodded to the gnome traders mingling around. Their stalls were piled with their work with little vinegar-smelling bowls dotted all around. Ro marveled at how the gnomes twisted cloth into petal shapes, creating intricate flowers of reds and blues, flowers of all kinds. Some gnomes crafted feathers with stunning speed, weaving brightly plumed birds. Ingenious, beautiful sculptures of nature.

"Would you like a bunch of flowers, sir? For a sweetheart perhaps? No matter what the factories do to the lakes and forests these will never wilt," said a grey-bearded gnome with wire-frame glasses.

"I'd much prefer a little information." Ro crouched down to get to eye level, a gesture less liable to antagonize the more militant Faerie folk.

"I can smell the garlic and mustard about you. Mr Wine, is it? My brother once shared your pipe. Words for coin it is. Put it in vinegar, better to be safe what with all the sickness about."

With a plop and a clink Ro's silver coin settled at the bottom of a bowl. "I just want to know how Tommy Brown got to be the local, as he says, guvnor."

Old grey-beard smiled, shared a few coy glances with some of his gnome workers. "Aye, that's a good question. Until a few weeks ago he even begged my lads for pennies. But one day he appears reeking of magic, all bulked up. All the humans from around here looked at him with new eyes."

"What of his dealings with the owner of the shop behind you?"

"It belongs to a pretty, wee elfin lass by the name of Lily. Sad what happened. Such a nice girl. We all get twisted by the smog and dirt of the city, as I'm sure you know, Mr Wine. But she got twisted too much. Wailing banshee she is now, every night clawing from the mud and haunting outside the shop just here. I tell you, Tommy Brown done something to her."

"She wants vengeance that much is certain."

"Many a father tried to save his little one from her, but she's viscous. Knives and black powder don't take her down. Even took one of my apprentices who forgot to put on his charms."

Flipping another coin into a vinegar bowl, Ro said. "Thank you. I'll take some flowers after all. Not a bunch, but knit me a wreath of primrose, if you please."

#

Boots slapping on the wet mud, Ro hurried away from the gnomes and Lilly's shop. Puffing his pipe as he went, an extra wreath of flowers was nestled under his scarf. Mud splattered and flecked his trousers, and Ro winced as the droplets of cold sludge slowly seeped through onto his legs. Disgusting!

"Tommy," he yelled, as people parted and gossiped about the oddlooking, wild-eyed beanpole in a top hat. "Tommy, I’ll need the help of the local guvnor. You’ll need to come with me." Making sure he said it loud enough for the gawping crowd to hear, Ro prompted a knot of weasel faced men ahead to stop and turn. Among them was Tommy.

"I told you I'm a godly man. I don't deal in devilry," Tommy said when a breathless Ro caught up to him.

"Don't tell me the guvnor can't look after his own streets. What about your fellows?" Coughing up a thick clot of smoke, Ro patted one of the weasel men on his back. "Maybe this one could do the job of guvnor instead?"

The words hit the right nerves. Smirking, then spitting into the mud, Tommy said, "I'll do it then. No problem. But you better make sure I'm protected." His pupils swelled; a rabbit's eyes on hearing the hounds bark.

#

Old rainwater plip-plopped from moldy roofs and echoed through the empty narrows of the Cockroaches' Castle. A cold night wind blew sulfurous taint into the rookery, whipping rags and peelings into the rubbish and slop heaped corners. Ro tugged his coat when the wind struck into his bones. Even though he stomped on garlic cloves like he had bare feet in hellfire, it didn't do enough to warm him up. At least the narrow alleys were warded now, safe from the evil which threatened to spill from the main alley-square.

Behind Ro, Tommy shivered. He clutched a meat cleaver in one hand, and a small tub of thick yellow mustard in the other. Yet Tommy didn't wince and groan at the cold, instead he fixed his face stoic. The muscle bound governor couldn't risk a show of weakness at such natural trivialities as cold, but Ro knew it was a farce.

"I'm starting to get a little pissed-off with all your mucking about, Mr Wine. She'll be out soon," Tommy said.

"Patience. Nearly done," said Ro, slathering his stiletto blade in eyeweeping mustard and flicking globs over the massacre of garlic. "We'll trap her surely now. Oh, I nearly forgot." Un-tucking the cloth primrose wreathe from behind his scarf, Ro gave it to the big man. "The protection you asked for. Keeps the evil away." Relief flushed over the big man's face. He almost dropped the wreath in his eagerness to wrap it around his neck.

A gentle hustle of foot-steps bounced against the narrows, movement from the main alley where Lily's shop once tended business. Then a sharp sneeze shot through the quiet. Rattling coughs came after. A symphony of sickness played its way in ever greater noise. "It's starting," said Tommy.

Both men moved into the main alley. In this more open space a frost cold-seared the men's faces. Gas lamps flickered in pathetic dying throes, yet the full moon cast ghosts in every shadow.

"Well, I'll be damned," said Ro.

A dozen or so grey silhouettes juddered spastic in their movement, retching between coughs and sneezes. All abandoned to another night of wasting illness, half-possessed, they begged for help. "Water. Sleep. Please. I just want to sleep. Or die." All drawn here by some dammed plague-curse.

Fiddling in the gloom, Ro dug under his cloak for his pipe. In shaking hands he lit it and inhaled a fog of smoke. But he breathed too deep, started coughing as Tommy stood by.

"She's coming, I tell you. Do something. Else I'll be the one to do you."

Their little commotion drew unwanted attention; the near-corpses lumbered over, gyrating almost lewdly to the irregular snaps of coughs and sneezes. A young lady, with imploring blood-shot eyes, stuttered as she spoke, "She slashed all the others who come to help.. .I begged my father' to leave me, else he got the sickness. Please, I can't take it anymore."

Tommy drew up his cleaver, but Ro placed a hand on the big man's chest halting him. "Listen, she's calling you," he said. Even as the young lady dropped into the mud at their feet, pleading as she coughed, a shrill voice carried through the alleys.

" Tommy Brown. Deceiver."

"I told you, she wants to enslave me. Haunts me." In panic Tommy spun around several times, desperate to see the source of the voice.

Just outside Lily's store the mud started sucking and glugging like a strangled man needing to breathe. Grey hands reached from under the earth, scrabbled for purchase, wildly thrashed and churned the mud. Lamp light flashed off a frenzy of viscous talons.

' Tommy Brown, you owe me your blood.'

Still the dozen or so sick-dancers flopped and shook with greater mad-purpose, their bodies racked with a plague of coughs and sneezes. Fear sharpened Ro's mind, but for a moment so sharp that it cut the cord of common sense. Dropping his pipe, he found himself grabbing Tommy's arm and clutching it like a scared child. Galileo didn't have to walk on the sun to know the planets orbited it. I'm one of those who are better with books and laboratories, in nice room-temperature conditions.

"Get off, you..." said Tommy. But before he had time to finish, a bent, awkwardly angled thing burst from the ground. A blur in the night, grey with whips of white hair.

'Tommy Brown, you owe me your blood.'

In a heartbeat both men turned, barging against each other as they ran back into the narrows. Chased by a chill wind, every footstep ushered more cold, more frost. Their breath fogged in the night.

Tommy pushed ahead and Ro stumbled at the kick back of his heels. A second later, icy-cold racked across his back followed by the hot flush of blood. Ro screamed, expecting the talons to rip into him again. Freezing breath pricked the hairs of his neck. But the waft of primrose staid the rabid mouth of the banshee for long enough. Leaping forward the last few feet, crossing the precipice of crushed garlic and mustard, Ro still screamed.

Whispers hissed into his ears, his heart beat into his ribcage quicker than he had ever known. "Stop," Ro yelled up the alley at Tommy still running for his life. With numbness throbbing across his back, Ro looked at the creature raging just a few feet away.

A nightmare screeched behind the ward-line, pestilence pulsed around it like some unholy halo. Grey as rot, her body thrashed into crippled angles. Her eyes were just black hollows which somehow pulsed with madness. The banshee slashed her talons, trying in vain to reach Ro. Yellowed spit frothed as she spoke.

' Tommy Brown. Deceiver.'

Despite the fear clawing in his stomach and the faintness in his mind Ro couldn't help but feel pity for Lily. Sliding a hand under his coat, he withdrew a pistol. Without a word he aimed it at the creature's shoulder at near point blank range. Gunshot cracked through the narrows.

The banshee lurched, hitting a pock-marked brick wall, sliding down hard against the mud. Yet no blood came from the withered thing. Instead a change washed over it as the garlic and mustard remedy soaked in, a lightening of the grey, a hint of red blushing the cheeks. A visage of Lily the elfin lass shone through, but still the black hollows-for-eyes remained.

Now at Ro's side, Tommy jumped with nervous energy. "Haunt me, would you? That's what you get. Go to hell."

But Ro ignored him and crouched closer to Lily. Voice gentle as he could make it, he said "Lily, I'm Ro. What set you this way?"

Lilly, sounding childish and sweet, spoke. "I felt sorry for Tommy Brown, laying in the gutter by a pile of corpses, drunk and helpless. I took him in for a day, fed him. When he got some strength back he took an

interest in my potions and remedies, begged for help.' Please help me be a 'big man'. I'll be forever in your debt"

Taking a tentative step over the ward, with his cleaver raised, Tommy said, "Don't listen, Mr Wine. She's a thing of lies, and all that."

"Leave her be for now." Taking the remaining pistol out from his belt, holding it shakily, Ro said "Please continue, I am listening."

"Well now, with my soft heart, of course I said I'd help. I could always use fresh ingredients, and humans rarely give us their parts while alive. So I made a deal. I told him what I needed, but asked for extras in payment. I took a few teeth, two fingernails, and a head of hair. With just a pinch of each, I mixed it with the mud from his feet. I planned to make him the big man of the alley. Just one alley mind. So I magicked him strong on his outsides, gave him an aura of admiration. But I needed something from the insides to make him better through and through. I asked him for a pint of blood, and then he ran away like the coward he really is."

"Lies." Stomping back and forth, Tommy puffed angry air through his nostrils.

"The next day he came back, all smiles, sloshing blood in a mug. When I tasted the blood, to get his essence for the spell, it tasted of death. He gave me the blood of a fresh plague-corpse from the gutter! And then he just looked as I collapsed, saying how sorry he is but that he couldn't allow me to tell anyone of his little secret. He must have buried me, for the next thing I knew was scratching myself out the earth, feeling so hungry. So very, very hungry..."

"Lies. I said it's all lies." Brutal in his force, Tommy lashed out, kicking Ro so hard that the man sprawled heavily against the brick with a loud sick-snapping thud. Then the big man slashed his cleaver down at Lily.

Clutching his ribs as the world spun, Ro shouted, "The primrose he wears, it isn’t real."

Through Tommy's flurry of cleaver Lily sneezed, the spray burning up into the man's face. Stumbling back, moaning blindly, Tommy was helpless as rabid talons sunk into his flesh. Ro covered his eyes to the blizzard of red.

When next he dared to uncover his eyes Lily stood over him, almost glowing with darkness, brimming with murder. A black tongue slathered over a bloody talon, slurped nastily at the collected pulp. Her face cracked wide, a smile of predatory death.

"You have no purpose anymore. Your vengeance is fulfilled." With madly trembling arm, Ro pointed his pistol. Another crack of gunshot, a garlic bullet sent straight into the creature's forehead, flipping back Lily's head. As the banshee collapsed Ro laced his wreathe around her neck. Crumbling away into a fine grey powder, in mere moments Lilly was no more.

With the world spinning and blacking out, Ro scrabbled to his knees and scooped up what he could of the powder into a little vial. Everything went still and silent, night held its breath. Then a soft thumping echoed up from the main alley. With one hand pressing against the wall for balance, Ro limped, then fell and half crawled out of the narrows. He tried to ignore the bloody handprints left on the wall behind him, tried to forget Tommy's corpse spread across the alleyway.

Inside the alley-square all the sick-dancers had collapsed. Exhausted, they now slept, a sleep so deep it tottered on the edge of the abyss. The stench of illness fouled the air still, but it was receding. Everything should slowly get better now. Until the next plague arrived from the docks anyway.

With no strength to stand, Ro crawled across the mud, patchy with frost-scabbed hard spots. He gasped in relief when he found his pipe, silver rings reflecting the moonlight. Cleaning off the mud and frost with his frock coat, he stuffed the bowl with fresh tobacco, sprinkling a little of the banshee-powder on top; of a banshee who died after just consuming the blood which completed a ritual of inner strength.

As all the right thinking folk knew, one of the best ways of keeping coughs and sneezes at bay was to have a smoke. Better to be safe than sorry. So Ro lit his pipe, admired the colorful blue sparks of banshee powder, and then engulfed blue clouds. Immediately the pain in his back dulled. Strength surged through his veins and he got to his feet.

With big strides Ro walked through the narrows, heading back to his lab to tend to his wound properly. Such a shame, with Tommy dead there'd be no pouch of silver. But still, and even better, he had a near-full vial of banshee. What fun might I be able to have with that? If only Tommy wasn't such an idiot, I could have settled things in a far more satisfactory manner.

"To err is human," Ro said aloud, before spluttering on a harsh draft of smoke. He nestled his top hat under his arm and let his eyes shine bright and his hair sheen rosy in the light of gas-lamps. The watching shadows of the Cockroach's Castle somehow knew not to mess with that one and let him go safety on his way.

Secret Suicide

Amy Braun

“You can’t be serious about this,” Toshi said.

I looked and my best friend, trying to hold back my glare. I was glad to have him with me, but if he made that statement one more time, I was going to hit him.

I took a deep breath to compose myself. Kenshin would have disapproved of my reaction. He had been a good brother. Thinking about him reminded me why I had come to this dreadful forest in the first place.

“I’m very serious, Toshi,” I repeated, ducking my head under a low tree branch. Night had fallen by the time we made it into Aokigahara. I had been here once in the daylight, but never after sunset. It was a haunting place to be. The spirits of the dead were said to wander, moan, and weep for the mistakes they made in life. The mistakes that burdened their souls too much to continue living.

Another pang of heartache filled my chest as I thought about Kenshin.

I stopped in the clearing, looking at the tree where I’d found my younger brother hanging a year ago. I was the one who identified Kenshin’s body to the police. I was the one they questioned, especially when they discovered his last call had been to me. I told them the truth. I didn’t know why Kenshin sounded so frightened and guilty. I didn’t know why he wouldn’t let me find him and fight whatever was terrifying him.

I stared at the tree, and even in the dark I could see his body dangling from the middle branch, his face as blue as the suit he’d been wearing over his scrawny body. The long hair I always teased him about hung over his eyebrows, nearly covering his sightless eyes. The noose around his neck that he used to take his life.

The grief threatened to swallow me whole. I blinked, wishing my eyes would dry.

“I need to know, Toshi,” I whispered. “I need to understand.”

My best friend watched me, knowing he couldn’t talk me out of this. Toshi and I had been friends for nearly thirty years. We lived next door to each other, went to the same schools, worked in the same building. He was as much a brother to me as Kenshin had been. He mourned as much as I did.

“All right,” said Toshi. “Then we’d better get started. I don’t want to be here longer than we have to.”

I nodded and let Toshi set up the spirit board. He had a fascination with the supernatural, so I knew he would have the equipment needed to speak with the dead. We tried to speak with Kenshin’s spirit at my house, but we weren’t able to connect with him. My brother’s suicide had come too abruptly and left too many unanswered questions. It was my decision to try the ritual again at the place of his death.

Toshi had balked when I told him I wanted to try again at Aokigahara, commonly known as the Suicide Forest. It was a forest located and the base of Mount Fuji, and was commonly inhabited by those who wanted to take their own lives. During the day, the forest looked old. Tall, lithe trees stretched to the sky, the bark on them chipped and yellow like bad teeth. The shrubs and leaves were a faded green in the sunlight. The earth was covered in dry soil and dead grass. There was no wildlife to be seen, but the occasional bird could be heard.

At night, the forest was much different. The trees were black, twisting shadows against a dull blue background. The shades of the shrubs and leaves resembled clumps of barbed wire and razors. The soil was hard and unforgiving. The air was unnaturally silent. It was like stepping into a padded room that stretched for miles.

Plenty of people came to Aokigahara at night. Most of them wanted to commit suicide, but some teenagers looking for a good scare. Others were paranormal investigators looking for a ghost. Except for the suicides, many of those people came out alive.

They were never the same afterwards.

“Everything’s ready, Kaz,” Toshi said.

I sat down on the hard soil across from my friend. He’d set up the black spirit board with white letters and numbers. Beside the board were three dimly burning tea-lights, a lit stick of incense, and smoking sage. In the middle of the board was a wooden planchette. We placed our fingertips on the planchette and looked at each other.

Toshi was nervous. His thin lips were turned down in a hard frown, his dark brown eyes narrowed in concentration. I could see tiny beads of sweat near his shaved hairline. Before I could tell him I could do this alone, he spoke up.

“Greetings, spirits of Aokigahara,” his voice sounding much calmer than I expected. “We are looking for Kenshin Sakemoto. Kenshin, if you are here, please make yourself known to us.”

For a minute, nothing happened. Then the planchette began to move under our fingers. We watched it point to different letters, and finally we had a short sentence.

I am here.

My heart began to race. I looked at Toshi. I knew better than to overload myself with excitement. The spirit might not even be Kenshin’s. It could belong to a spirit who wished to taunt me. If it was Kenshin, I couldn’t ask him too many questions.

“Can you show yourself to us?” I asked.

Again, nothing seemed to happen at first. As the minutes went by, the air seemed to drop in temperature. The cold was sinking into my bones until I could see my breath. Toshi was the same across from me. Our shaking breaths and chattering teeth echoed in the forest.

The planchette began moving again.

You must leave.

I squinted at the letters Kenshin’s spirit had spelled. I didn’t understand them. The planchette continued to move.

He is coming.

Toshi and I exchanged an uneasy glance.

“Who’s coming, Kenshin? What happened to you?”

It was a mistake to ask more than one question at once, but I came here to find out what happened to my brother. Had he really committed suicide, or had someone killed him?

A few months before his death, Kenshin had been distancing himself from everyone, even me. He went out with a new friend who I found suspicious. He always wore a black suit with a red tie, carried a cane despite being no older than me, and had a scar around his throat like someone had cut it with a blade. I met him once and was grateful he could communicate through sign language so Kenshin could understand him, but I was hesitant to trust him. I asked Kenshin about him, but only said that he was thinking about taking his life in another direction, that he would do something to truly honor our family. As the mute second son in a traditional family, Kenshin was often swept aside so more room could be made for me. I never put him down or challenged him, but as work and life began to steer us in opposite directions, I could not spend as much time with him as I used to. I held my doubts at bay, thinking I was just being paranoid.

I should have known better.

The planchette scratched across the board quickly. It moved so fast that Toshi and I were forced to let go. We watched it point at the letters, and read the message clearly.

Leave before he chooses one of you. The forest must have its due.

I repeated the sentence in my head over and over again, but it still didn’t make sense. Who was going to choose us? What did the forest have to do with anything?

The temperature continued to drop. It became so cold I could feel my throat and lungs drying up whenever I breathed. My fingers were tingling with cold. The candle lights began to flicker rapidly. The smoke from the incense and sage drifted in lazy curls toward us.

But there was still no wind.

I was concentrating on the board when Toshi gasped. I looked at my friend, who was staring at something over my shoulder. His jaw had dropped, and his eyes were wide with horror. I twisted to see what he was looking at.

Two clusters of people stood on the slight hill behind us. There were men, women, teenagers, even a couple children placed all over the forest. They wore suits, dresses, uniforms, formal wear, rags, even ancient armor. Most were wearing modern clothes, but others seemed to have come from another era. They watched us with empty, glazed eyes and no emotion on their faces. Their bodies seemed solid, but their skin was the same, paper white shade, as if they had just stepped out of a black and white film.

Kenshin was not among them.

My first reaction was to run. Seeing so many spirits at one time could only be unnatural and dangerous. I’d heard ghost stories where the spirits injured the living. But perhaps these phantoms meant us no harm. They might even know where to find Kenshin.

“Kaz, we need to go,” Toshi whispered urgently.

I turned my eyes away from the spirits and looked at my friend. He was trembling. It was wrong for me to keep him here.

At the same time, we’d connected with Kenshin’s spirit. I was so close to answering the question that had kept me awake for so many nights. I looked at the spirit board.

“Kenshin,” I said. “Brother, tell me what happened to you.”

The planchette was still. I focused all my thoughts on the question, pleading to Kenshin to answer me. The planchette never moved.

“Kazuhiko,” Toshi begged again. “Please, we’re not going to learn anything else. Let’s leave.”

I raised my head, and saw another spirit over his shoulder. This one had the form of a man five years younger than me. The suit he wore was wrinkled, but undamaged. His thick black hair brushed along his eyebrows. He had an unblemished child-like face and big brown eyes. I hated to see him look so scared, but at the moment, I was just glad he was there.

“Kenshin,” I breathed.

Toshi whirled around, startled when he saw his dead friend. Kenshin’s spirit didn’t seem to notice him at all. He focused on me, raising his hands and beginning flick his fingers wildly. It had been a year since I’d practiced sign language, but I understood him all the same.

Kaz, you and Toshi need to leave. He knows you’re here.

“Toshi, get your things,” I ordered, slowly rising to my feet and focusing on my brother.

What’s going on? What happened to you?

Kenshin hesitated, then said, I made a mistake, brother. I made a terrible mistake. You need to get out of here before he takes you.

Who? Ken, you're not making any sense.

Toshi was on his feet, apparently not caring about the tools he was leaving behind. He gasped. I looked over my shoulder.

The spirits hadn’t moved from their places, but now a new figure had joined them. One hand was in the front pocket of his black suit, the other resting on the top of his cane. His red tie was the brightest colour in the navy and black forest. He grinned and gave me a nod, emphasizing the ugly scar on his throat. The shadows around the trees seemed to darken as he moved closer.

“You must be Kazuhiko,” the scarred man called down to me. His voice was raspy, as if he’d been breathing smoke all his life. “Kenshin spoke highly of you.”

I tightened my hands at my sides. “Who are you? What did you lure my brother into?”

The scarred man shrugged. “Nothing he didn’t ask for.” He looked at the unblinking spirits on either side of him. “Nothing they all didn’t ask for.”

His eyes shifted back to me, and for the first time I saw that they weren’t just dark. They were two dismal, empty voids of black in his face. They were the kind of eyes that belonged to serial killers. The eyes that belonged to something without a soul.

“My brother did not want to die,” I snapped.

The man raised his eyebrow, not believing me. “Do not be so sure,” he said. “The only people who seek me out are the ones who are the ones who are at the end of their rope.” The man’s smile was malicious and cruel. “I quite literally guide them to that end.”

“Why?” I demanded. The anger burning in my veins was so hot it was keeping my freezing body warm. “Who are you?”

He took another step closer, starting to make his way down the low slope. “Why? Because my lord demands it. He watches over this place, and he demands a sacrifice to all those who make unwelcome entrances at night. As for who I am, you may call me a Shinigami, and I am a servant of the demon lord Mrtyu-mara”

My eyes went wide. Is that what he told Kenshin when they first met? That he was a death-spirit working for a demon who tempted humans into suicide? I turned and looked at my brother. Toshi had wisely backed away, standing a few feet behind Kenshin’s ghost.

The shade of my dead little brother gave me a mournful look. I read his eyes, and knew he had been deceived. His fingers moved quickly as he gave me the explanation I had been both desiring and dreading.

He told me I would bring pride and honor to our family. All I had to do was give a sacrifice to the forest. His eyes were heavy with sadness. He never told me what that sacrifice would be.

My mind reeled. Oh, Ken, I thought.

I knew he had been lonely, always disregarded as my parents favored me. It had been so hard for him to find friends who could understand him. He was never able to obtain a successful career or marry. In his desperation, he turned to an easy solution. One that would help him in ways that no one else could.

That help had killed him.

“Kenshin has already paid his price,” the Shinigami said. I turned to look at him again. He was still making his way toward me, using the cane though he had no limp. “You and your friend must now pay yours. Fortunately, my lord requires only one death in his kingdom.” He looked between me and Toshi again. His lips curled into an insane smile. “So, which one of you is willing to join our sea of trees?”

I didn’t answer him. There was no way to reason with a man as deranged as this self-appointed Shinigami. I knew how to defend myself, but I was unarmed. It was time I listen to Toshi. I turned on my heel and ran out of the trees.

I raced past my brother while the Shinigami cursed and screamed for the spirits to hunt us. Toshi and I searched for the path, never looking back. My legs were stiff from the cold, making it hard to run as fast as I usually did. My breath fogged out in front of me as I pushed my body forward. Toshi was keeping pace with me, but he wasn’t as athletic as me. My friend would tire soon.

The air was cold at my back, but it wasn’t from the wind. I risked a glance over my shoulder. The spirits drifted over the dead grass and rough shrubs. They didn’t move their legs, just floated toward us. They looked at us with the same, flat expressions. They still didn’t blink. I couldn’t see Kenshin in the crowd.

Toshi suddenly cried out in pain. I whirled my head to see what happened, and was struck in the face by the cane.

The force of the unexpected blow made me stumble. I landed on my back on the hard ground. My head was throbbing and blood was streaming from my nose. I pushed onto my elbows, and saw the Shinigami looming over Toshi. He spun the cane in his hand, pressing the edge of it into my friend’s chest to keep him pinned. Toshi groaned and clutched his head. The Shinigami used his free hand to reach inside his suit.

“It isn’t wise to disrespect a god,” he said plainly. “Especially when that god masters death.”

He took out a thick rope with a wide loop around the end. My heart skipped a beat when I saw him lasso the noose around Toshi’s throat.

I was on my feet in the next moment, anger and adrenaline burning away all my fear. I roared and charged the Shinigami as he tightened the rope around Toshi’s neck. The Shinigami turned his head and saw me coming, but he had no time to move. I tackled him around the waist and drove us both into the ground.

We rolled along the cracked, rocky soil, punching and kicking at each other without caring what body part we hit. I managed to pin the Shinigami underneath me, hitting him solidly in the jaw. Blood gushed from his mouth onto the earth. I raised my fist to hit him again, and didn’t see his arm swing the cane.

It crashed into my back, sending a huge flare of pain along my ribs. I shouted against it, and was thrown from the Shinigami. He rolled to his feet and kicked me in the stomach. Air left me in a rush, and I was suddenly gasping for breath. The cane struck against my back, filling it with searing pain. It hit me again, and again, and again.

The fight was beaten out of me. My back throbbed in agony, feeling as though a truck had just drove over it. I tried to push myself up, just as a coarse rope was slipped over my head. I grasped at it, but the noose went taut at the back of my neck. It tightened until it bit into my skin. I gasped for breath, feeling it enter my mouth but never any deeper.

My lungs began to burn as I choked, flailing wildly to get the Shinigami away from me. All he did was jerk the noose tighter. My head began to feel light as blood flow was cut off from it. I clawed at the rope, trying to pry it away from my neck to get just one gasp of air.

The Shinigami gave the noose another tug. “If you won’t honor my lord yourself, I’ll have to do it for you,” he snarled. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

I opened my mouth to breathe again, instinct taking over my body. The edges of my vision were beginning to blur. My eyes were starting to close, all of my strength about to leave me—

There was a cry of pain behind me, and suddenly the Shinigami loosened his hold on the rope. I dropped onto my front, getting a mouthful of dirt. Someone came up behind me and pulled on the noose, but they weren’t drawing it tighter. They were giving it slack, releasing me.

I gulped in air as fast as I could, not caring that it was mostly dirt at the moment. I inhaled too quickly, choking on the new air. My lungs expanded gratefully as someone grabbed my arm. I jumped and threw out a sloppy punch.

“Whoa, whoa, it’s just me!” someone familiar croaked.

I blinked, my brain taking a minute to register Toshi standing in front of me. The noose was off his neck, though I could see a red mark from where it had been pulled around him. I probably had a similar mark. I looked over my shoulder to see what happened.

The Shinigami was rolling on the ground and clutching his temple, groaning in pain. A rock smeared with blood and about the size my fist was by his head. The spirits were beginning to edge closer to him. For the first time, they seemed to have an expression.

Rage.

There was a pale glow to my left. I turned my head and saw my brother. The corner of his lips were turned up, the closest he could get to a smile. He motioned to the rock and began speaking in sign to me.

“You told Toshi about the rock,” I clarified. “That was smart, and it saved my life. Thank you, Ken.”

My dead brother’s lips twitched again, his almost-smile growing. Then the grin faded, and he looked serious. His hands and fingers back to move.

You both should leave. You aren t going to want to see this.

I looked at the Shinigami, who was staggering to his feet. He had a furious scowl on his face, but it quickly faded when he saw the spirits circling him.

What will happen to him? I asked Kenshin.

He stared at me for a moment before speaking again.

He thinks death is a beautiful thing. We’re going to give him a taste of it.

I shuddered at the thought. Part of me wanted to ask how they were going to do it. Then I decided I didn’t want to know. Kenshin’s fingers were still moving.

I’m sorry I wasn’t careful, Kaz. I tried too hard to be like you.

My heart strained, and I replied as quickly as I could.

You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Kenshin. You never dishonored us. You were a good brother, and I want you to promise me you’ll try to find peace after this.

The almost smile came back. For a wonderful moment, he looked the way he had when he was alive. Bright, curious, honest, and kind. I would never be able to bring him back, but I knew he would find his way this time. I wouldn’t need to look for him, and I would be able to let him go.

I’ll miss you, brother, I said.

Me too, he replied. Tell Toshi he needs to get a new hobby.

I laughed, though the sound was caught in my throat. I looked at Kenshin one last time, then started backing away. I glanced at the Shinigami again. He was almost completely obscured by the pale spirits. He snickered.

“Well, at least the forest will have its due.”

He tossed down his cane. Toshi and I turned and walked away. After fifteen steps, we were out of the clearing and onto the main path. We stopped only once to listen to an ear-piercing scream. It was cut off abruptly, and the eerie silence took its place again.

“Kenshin says you need a new hobby,” I told Toshi after we were walking for a few minutes.

My friend stifled a laugh. “He always had more sense than you.”

I didn’t argue with him, managing a weak smile instead. “What are you thinking?”

Toshi was silent for a minute, then shrugged. “No idea. I’ll tell you after you pay for my therapy.”

After what we had gone through tonight, therapy didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

Wounds

Greg Chapman

The agents knocked on Robert Fraser’s door after they found the second victim.

With those three knocks, Robert’s retirement was ended and he was once more became Dante, descending into hell. He’d walked its paths countless times, beheld its signs and wonders, and known its deranged angels. Finding the way back out was what he’d done for 35 years, so when he heard those three knocks and opened the door to the weary agents, it was like greeting an old friend.

The agents were young, but Robert knew from their eyes they had glimpsed the path already. Perhaps not walked it, but peered through the door. They flashed their badges and introduced themselves as Agents Colton and Kent. They wore fresh suits and ties, but the smell of decay permeated their every move. Robert let them and their decay into his home. Not because he felt obliged to, but because it was time. He poured them both a coffee and sat with them, waiting for the vile subject to be brought to the table. After almost a minute of wary glances and many sips of coffee, Robert held out his hand.

“This is the point where you show me the file,” he said, and their eyes widened.

Colton put down his mug and pulled the file from his jacket. Robert took it and felt its weight in his hand. It was half an inch thick and would most certainly contain countless photos from the crime scenes of the two victims. Robert placed it unopened in the center of the table, stared at it, and then stared at the two agents.

Colton cleared his throat, taking the initiative. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’ve read all your cases, studied your field reports. You’re an inspiration—”

Robert held up his hand. “You didn’t come all this way to stroke my ego. The Bureau sent you here to pick my brain.”

Colton cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. “The Bureau would be most grateful if you could review the case file, offer your advice.”

“They’d be grateful?”

“All we’re asking is that you take a look at the file, sir.” Kent added.

Robert smirked. “But you both know it’s not that simple.” He held up the file and let it fall back to the table. “This is just paper. To me, it might as well be blank. I’ve seen enough of these types of files to know that it’s not about the information; that it’s not about what they say, it’s about what they don’t say. Am I right?”

Colton frowned. “I’m sorry sir, but I don’t follow you.”

Robert sighed and stood to retrieve the agents’ coffee mugs. He went to the kitchen and refilled them.

“Tell me you theory, Agent Colton.” Robert said as handed him back the mug. Colton almost dropped it.

“Sir?”

“You’ve seen the crime scenes; you’ve seen the victims, right? I mean I’ve been reading the papers, so I know there’s more than one. The papers keep using the words ’ritual killings,’ which is why you’re here.”

Colton’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “You.. .want to know what I think?”

Robert sat opposite him. “I want to know what you’ve seen, Agent. I haven’t been to the crime scenes, haven’t seen the bodies, but you have.”

Agent Kent reached for the file and made to open it, but Robert snatched it away from him.

“No!”

Agent Kent sat back in his chair, blinking in astonishment. Robert could almost smell the fear on him, on both of them. It would be many, many years yet before they became like him. Robert held the file in his hands and sighed. He stared at the FBI insignia on its cover, the case file number, the name of the Special-Agent-in-Charge. The agents didn’t understand that there was no need for him to open it.

“There’s multiple stab wounds, correct, mutilation of the bodies, pre and post-mortem.” It wasn’t a question, but both men nodded in response.

“But the wounds have a certain.. .symmetry to them; like they’re words.”

“Yes,” Agent Kent said. “The last victim had seven stab wounds and there was not a drop of blood in him.”

“The wounds are the signature.” He glanced at Colton. “Have you had the wounds analyzed?”

“Forensics said they were made by a very sharp blade—”

“No, no, have you had the wounds examined for patterns? The Bureau still employs linguists, don’t they?”

“Of course we do,” Kent said, before glancing at his partner. “They just haven’t been able to decipher it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Robert sighed. “This is just typical of Van Nouten.” “Sir?” Kent said.

Robert tossed the file across the table. Colton caught it, managing to halt all its contents from falling out. He didn’t want to see the photos either, Robert realized, but because he was scared. Robert got to his feet, the chair scraping the floor. He moved to the coat rack by the front door and grabbed his jacket.

“He sends two rookies over here to frustrate me, leaving me no choice but to come to Quantico to see it for myself. God, how I hate that man.”

#

The incident room might as well have been a shrine.

Where Robert had strived not to look at the file the agents had brought him, the murders were now on full display, an exhibition of blood and madness. The room brimmed with agents, milling about in a desperate attempt to put the puzzle together. Countless photographs adorned the wall, all of them a different representation of flesh and blood—of the killer’s art. When Robert entered the room, he envisaged a sign above the door which read, Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the milling stopped and every eye turned to consider him. Robert was astounded at how young they all were; fresh-faced, full of fire, the fear nowhere to be seen—yet.

Special-Agent-in-Charge Max Van Nouten pushed through the crowd toward him. The desperation in in the SAC’s gaze surprised him. The six foot five, lanky Van Nouten had aged, his brow carved with deep furrows. Perhaps he should have retired all those years ago too? But then, he was still intact. Van Nouten offered a hand to his old colleague.

“Good to see you again, Bob.”

After a moment, Robert accepted the handshake, “You could have just picked up a phone,” Robert said.

Van Nouten shrugged. “And you would have just let it go through to the machine—I know you too well. I appreciate you taking the time to come down.”

“Like I had anything better to do, right?” Robert noticed the agents had gone back to work, scrutinizing potential subject profiles on the offender database, talking in circular conversations with local law enforcement. No, Robert didn’t miss the hunt at all.

Van Nouten put a hand on his shoulder. “Can I get you a coffee?”

Robert shrugged him off. “Why don’t you just tell me what the hell I’m doing here?”

#

Van Mouton’s office was just a condensed version of the mayhem in the main investigation room. There were files stacked high. The Bulletin Board was a pastiche of faces; APBs and missing persons, victims and their potential killers screaming out to be found. They would likely decorate the SACs walls for many years after he’d moved on. Van Nouten sat and invited Robert to do the same, but the retired special agent was too on edge.

“Look, Bob, we need your help,” Van Nouten said, sighing. “We’ve really hit a brick wall with this one.”

“So what do you expect me to do?”

Van Nouten chuckled nervously. “I don’t expect you to do anything. I thought you might be willing to help us.”

Robert felt his hands clench and his chest tightened, spikes of pain in familiar places across his abdomen. “What—out of the goodness of my heart?”

“Jesus. All I wanted was for you to take a look at the file—you didn’t have to come all the way down here.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. You knew how this was going to play out. You knew I wouldn’t be able to stay away.”

Van Nouten nervously shuffled files on his desk. “You’re the one with the curiosity complex. It’s why you were so fucking good at your job.”

Robert could have spat in his face, instead he pointed his finger. “You wouldn’t have caught half the killers without me and you know it. I gave everything to my work, almost gave my fucking life on my last case! And what did I get from the Bureau? A nice regular pension check; how the fuck is that supposed to help me deal with the pain day after day?”

Van Nouten offered him a conciliatory glance. “I’m sorry about what happened to you —

Robert stood, fuming, but he could see that Van Nouten was sincere. He took a breath and regained his composure. “Look, I’m here—just tell me what’s going on so it doesn’t end up being a complete waste of time for the both of us.”

His old friend’s next words disarmed him.

“We think this guy is copying the Sickle Killer.”

#

Robert entered an empty interview room and sat down with the case file.

Dante was at the gates and it was time to open them. Robert peeled back the cover and skipped the introductory report. He already knew there were two victims; what he had to read now was the finer details: the postmortem report, the list of suspects, and of course, the crime scene photos. As he turned the pages, he turned the pages of his memory; sheaves of pain rolled over and crashed down like waves. He squeezed his eyes shut, eager not to let the past slice into his head. But this is the price Dante had to pay every time he abandoned all hope.

The killer had abducted his victims, stripped them naked and opened their torsos with a broad, arched blade. The wounds were scattered evenly over the torso, arms and legs in sets of seven. In Numerology, 7 is the thinker, the seeker of truth. Seven times seven, times seven. It was clear this killer was seeking some hidden truth, just like Sickle. And just like Sickle, this killer had disposed of his victims by displaying them inside abandoned buildings throughout the city.

A twinge of pain flowed down his right side. He pressed his hand to his abdomen, desperate to stifle it, but the pain was back now, as fresh as it ever was. If someone was copycatting the Sickle Killer then there would be five more victims. The magical number seven. A ritual of madness.

There was a knock at the door, wrenching Robert away from the pages of the case file. He turned and found Van Nouten looking at him with a pitying stare.

“The troops are ready for you, Bob.”

#

The men and women of the Behavioral Sciences Unit waited for his sermon, parishioners at a black mass of violence. He had a reputation at the Bureau; irascible, determined, obsessed—Dante. He guessed he better live up to it. Van Nouten introduced him and let him take the stage.

“Matthew Eric Kolbe was the only son of Mary and Tobias Kolbe, an eccentric Methodist minister. Tobias’ primary method of rearing was homeschool him in all forms of the occult. He used his minister position to inject his beliefs into the general public, adding slivers of lore into his sermons, even the hymns. Tobias believed the body was a shield to the secrets of creation and he pushed this belief upon his son and urged him to go out into the world and deliver his own message.”

Robert paused and let the agents take it in.

“Matthew Kolbe’s first step into preaching began in 1981. He spent a night digging up the freshly interred body of Douglas Mitchell, a Boston public school teacher and father of three who’d had a heart attack. Matthew took the body back to his house and dissected it, carving sigils into the body. Matthew didn’t really know what he was doing then, but his intention was there. He had a purpose for cutting the bodies, but we didn’t find out the specifics until much later.”

A young agent raised a hand.

“When did he start using the sickle?”

Robert ran a hand over his lips, the reminiscence leaving his mouth dry. “Not until his first official victim. He used what’s called an Athame, a ceremonial blade. His weapon of choice was a sickle. His first live victim was an investment banker—Alexander Burchett, aged 56. Matthew entered the offices of Strecker & Hutchison and attacked Burchett, tied him up and systematically stabbed him over seven hours, stabbing him once on the hour ever hour, taking great care not to sever vital arteries. Matthew studied anatomy just as fiercely as the occult books his father had made him read as a child, you see.’

Another agent piped up and Robert was grateful for the opportunity to clear his tightening throat. The spikes of pain recommenced their dull aching.

“So he killed six others over the course of seven months, right?” she said.

Robert coughed and Van Nouten poured him a glass of water. Robert gulped it down. “Correct. We were called in after the second victim.” He frowned in concentration. “Lucas.Lucas Adams, I think his name was; a heart surgeon from Boston General. Rather ironic when you consider what Kolbe did with the heart.”

“What did he do with it?” an agent asked.

“He cut it out and carved sigils all over it. Matthew Kolbe believed that the essence of evil, its origins, rested in the blood of man. In a sense, his ritual relied on blood magic. He sought to extract the evil from the blood, to extract demonic forces.”

“How did you work all of this out, Mr Fraser?” a petite brunette agent said.

“It was clear from the get-go that we were dealing with a killer obsessed with the occult. I spent many weeks studying the sigils and symbols on each victim. I read every book on the occult I could find, spoke with academics in Europe and the US. I’ll admit, it took me a while to discover the significance of the number seven. The body has seven obvious parts, the head, chest, abdomen, two legs and two arms. There are seven internal organs, stomach, liver, heart, lungs, spleen and two kidneys. The ruling part, the head, has seven parts for external use, two eyes, two ears, two nostrils and a mouth. I could go on. Essentially, I knew he planned on taking seven victims. However, by the time I figured this out, Kolbe had already taken it upon himself to contact us.”

“He contacted the Bureau?” the petite brunette said.

Robert nodded. “He literally invited us to catch him and even narrowed down the location and the type of victim.”

“Jesus—why would he do that?” another agent asked, chuckling uncomfortably.

Robert glanced at Van Nouten and then looked the agent in the eye. “You have to remember, this was his sermon to the world and he needed a seventh victim.”

“And that’s how you ended up almost—?”

Van Nouten stepped forward. “Bob is here today because there are clear correlations between these latest crimes and the Sickle Killer that he closed back in 1985 in Boston. Robert wasn’t just an investigator on that case—he was also a victim—

A phone rang and Van Nouten answered it. Robert watched him listening to the caller on the other end of the line. The SAC’s face slackened, his eyes widening before he turned them to his old friend. After a moment, he thanked the caller and put the receiver down. He spoke to Robert through trembling lips.

“They’ve found five more bodies.”

#

Robert sat in Van Mouton’s car and watched the lights of the police cruisers and FBI sedans paint the scene the appropriate colour of death. Funny how time can repeat itself, he realized. He’d been at a place astonishingly like this before. But Hell was in Hell wasn’t it? It wasn’t expected to change location.

If he left the car and walked into the crime scene, he knew the memories would engulf him. The pain would return, renewed and vibrant. He clutched his chest, felt the rises on his skin through the fabric of his shirt. Six of them there were, but seven there could have been.

A knock on the window startled him and he turned to find Van Nouten looking down on him with pleading eyes. Robert rolled down the window and let in the chill night air and sights and sounds of people trying to come to terms with the latest unspeakable horror.

“You don’t have to come in.” Van Nouten said.

Robert glanced at the ramshackle building, a four story concrete slab with broken windows, graffiti and piss stains. He opened the door and stepped out.

“No, but you need me to.”

Van Nouten ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Bob, this is going to be tough for you. It’s almost as if...” He licked his lips. “This guy has recreated the scene down to the last detail. I don’t know how, but it’s the same, just with more bodies.”

Robert nodded. “Then Kolbe must have had an acolyte, a pupil. And he’s eager to learn, judging by the number of victims this time.”

Van Nouten sighed. “God damn it.”

Robert started walking towards the scene, the wounds in his chest burning all the while.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go and meet the new student.”

#

The five bodies were in various states of grace, but they all bore the same marks of a killer that had been dead for 28 years. Sigils and deep wounds had been gouged into the flesh of the arms, torso and legs; a secret language that sought to bring evil into the world. Robert felt as if he had been transported back in time, that he was stuck in a loop of depravity. He rubbed his chest, his own scars sensing the bloody spectacle.

“Forensics just finished taking photos and marking the scene,” Van Nouten said. “I thought you’d like a few minutes to take a look without any distractions.”

Robert looked to his old colleague again. “I appreciate that.” Van Nouten nodded and stared at the bodies. “I need you to leave as well, Max.”

Van Nouten smirked. “Right, got it; leave the man to his thoughts.” He made for the door, but looked over his shoulder. “You got ten minutes before they take away the bodies, okay?”

The SAC left Robert with the dead, alone with the smell of blood thick as smoke and the secrets of the flesh. Former Special Agent Robert Fraser breathed it in and crouched down beside the first victim to read the message their killer had left for him.

There was no doubt the message was for him, as it had been 28 years ago. Back then though Robert was meant to be the final victim of the seven, but here, now, with these five bodies, the killer’s supposed masterpiece was complete. The conundrum furrowed his brow. Had the ritual worked, had the killer succeeded in unleashing Hell where his predecessor had failed?

After 28 years, the killer’s language appeared scrambled to Robert. He looked at the wounds and saw only exposed viscera. Yet his own wounds, the ones he’d received, and almost died receiving, spoke to him like a flesh telegram, beating and pulsing, almost as if they had heartbeats of their own. The wounds seared beneath the flesh and he clutched at them with trembling hands. What were they trying to tell him?

Robert stood and walked around the corpses. They were all men, of average height and build, all side-by-side; paper-chain-people. They could have been the same victims from 28 years ago, he thought. His wounds blazed and faded, but he pushed the pain aside and tried to do his job. He went to the fifth victim and looked at his face; sandy brown hair, aquiline features. Strangely, there were wounds on the face, one on each eye, one between the eyes, cuts on the nose and nicks on the lips. Seven in total. The wounds beneath Robert’s breastbone sizzled. He tried to remember back 28 years; whether any of the victims had marks on their face. They didn’t. So this was new. Was it an escalation?

He reached out and touched the closed eyelid of the victim. Instinct told him that there was message underneath. The eyes are the windows to the soul are they not? He peeled back the eyelid and found a startling blue iris there, the pupil a pinprick of black. He was telling himself there was no message to be read there, when the iris turned to look at him. Robert’s wounds screamed.

Robert recoiled as the corpse sat upright and turned its head to consider him. The veteran agent tried to get to his feet, but he slipped in the congealed pools of blood and he fell backward on to the other bodies. The fifth victim got to his feet and took a long deep breath, his wounds healing before Robert’s horrified eyes.

“Hello Robert, it’s been a long time,” the fifth victim said.

Pain tore at Robert’s side, almost as if his old wounds were trying to detach themselves and flee. “Kolbe?” he wheezed.

Matthew Kolbe stepped towards Robert. “You know it’s me, Robert. This was always going to happen, as it did before.”

The corpses shifted beneath his back as Robert tried in vain to stand. “But I killed you...”

“Yes, you did. You did exactly what I needed you to do.”

Robert saw himself 28 years ago, strapped to a chair, Matthew Kolbe, deftly probing the flesh of his chest and abdomen with his sickle. Through some miracle, after the sixth wound had been inflicted, Robert had managed to slip his bonds and attack Kolbe, turning his own sickle against him. They said Robert stabbed him 49 times. He’d been a fool to go after Kolbe on his own, but he’d been invited because Kolbe had always intended on him being his seventh victim. Or so he believed.

“You. you were the seventh,” Robert whispered.

Kolbe smiled and Robert felt his wounds tear apart. He pulled his shirt open and gasped at the torrents of blood pouring from within. He tried to scream, but agony left him mute. Kolbe crouched beside Robert and caressed his face.

“Yes, I was the seventh then. I gave myself to you. By killing me, you completed the ritual. Seven times seven; seven to release my soul and seven to bring it back, but I couldn’t do it myself. Now I need seven more to stay. Hence, this.” He produced a sickle from nowhere and gave Robert the seventh wound. Then he held his hand over Robert, who shrieked without sound as his blood became weightless, drifting up towards Kolbe’s face, his eyes. The two orbs drank Robert’s blood; a slow, numbing ebb of release.

“We’re all wounded Robert,” Kolbe said as his eyes flared with a red pulse. “The wounds of sin. You’ve seen so much evil Robert that it had left you scarred well before I sought you out. You were my perfect victim and killer. Your wounds are closed now Robert, you’re free—and so am I.”

Robert closed his eyes and let Kolbe take his soul and when he reopened them, he was Dante and the denizens of Hell welcomed him with open arms.

Sturm und Drang

Jeff C. Carter

The peaty smell of the Danube River reached Luca before he crossed the Carpathian Mountains. The sunrise raced ahead of him and splashed against the walls of Pressburg Castle before settling along the capitol’s peaked red roofs. The glittering Danube hugged the city and carried silhouetted fishing boats along the border. The chill in the air dissipated and Luca frowned. He preferred the harsh intensity of winter to the airy grace of spring, but at least there were holes in his boots and a raw hunger in his belly to make him feel alive.

He passed by the iron gates of the Summer Archbishop’s Palace, where Georg Rafael Donner had his sculpting studio. Luca had come to the capitol to find a patronage like that. The life of a vagabond was one of truth and passion, but he could transform neither into art without resources. He strolled along the cobblestone lanes, admiring the baroque and gothic architecture, which was superior to the clean and dainty art of the recent Enlightenment.

Luca was gazing at a forlorn gargoyle perched on a cathedral when he collided with a female beggar. She was the first supplicant he had seen all day, and he smiled to greet a fellow pauper. One side of her face was morose, hanging slack from an ugly divot in her forehead. The flaccid muscles drooped, reminding Luca of his paralyzed grandmother. The other half of the woman’s face gripped a wide and leering smile. He watched the deep set grooves of her cheeks and waited for the grin to move, but it too was fixed and immobile.

Luca’s hands flexed, eager to sketch or sculpt the warring extremes of emotion etched upon the poor woman’s face. The dynamic chaos of her features was more compelling than any naked strumpet or bored Venus. If only he had the materials to sculpt her! He drank in the details of her face until tears welled up in her eyes and she buried her face beneath a ragged shawl. She fled down Schanz Strasse and turned the corner. Luca called out after her and gave chase.

She was gone, vanished into the shadow of the cathedral. He looked up at the frozen sneers of the gargoyles and sighed. The rich scent of pork goulash and warm potato pancakes set his stomach quivering. A rosy cheeked man stepped out of a restaurant and pulled his fine red wool coat about him to ward off the returning chill.

He regarded Luca as he buttoned his collar.

“Sculptor?”

Luca gasped.

“How did you know?”

The man grinned wide and his eyes crinkled with delight.

“You have the arms of a farmer, but the build of a bookworm. I too had that figure, once upon a time.”

He thumped his round stomach and laughed, and Luca did too. The old man extended a hand from a ruffled sleeve and Luca shook it. The hand was strong and callused.

“Professor Messerchmidt”

Luca bowed.

“It is good to meet you, Sir. I am Luca von Klinger, your humble servant.”

Luca eyed the old sculptor’s silk shirt and gold figured waistcoat. He dressed like a gentleman. Luca wondered if the man could introduce him to any nobles or clergymen. The Professor scrutinized him in turn, eyes narrow and jaw thrust forward in contemplation.

“How would you like to serve as an apprentice?”

Luca pretended to consider the idea. He was seeking patronage, not instruction.

“Not to me, of course, but rather for my brother.”

Luca startled.

“Do you mean.. .is your brother Franz Xaver Messerschmidt?”

The Professor cocked an eyebrow.

“You know of him?”

“He is a genius! His sculptures are more primal and human than anything the lifeless Neo-classical movement could ever produce.”

The Professor smirked.

“He would be the first to agree. He lives outside of town. He does not have much, but I would pay you a handsome salary to look after him.”

Luca nodded. What kind of apprenticeship was he talking about?

“My only condition is that you must not tell him I sent you. You cannot mention me at all.”

“Why not?”

The Professor’s forehead bunched into a knot and the corners of his eyes and lips drooped.

“We have had a falling out. In truth, my brother is losing grip on his reason. I have been aware of this growing confusion for years. I did everything in my power to protect his reputation, but when he applied for a post at the Academy where I teach, I could cover for him no longer. I informed them his appointment would be a detriment to the institution. When he found out, he swore never to forgive me.

“It is my fondest hope that an apprentice might rekindle his desire to teach and sharpen his faculties. Who knows? You may even lead him back to the Academy.”

Luca weighed the situation. This was better than a patronage. He could earn money at the feet of a true master. Who cared if the old man was irrational? His passion and intensity was surely part of his genius.

They settled the details over coppery sweet Hungarian wine and breaded pork schnitzel. He bade the Professor farewell and left the capitol, following the shadow of Pressburg Castle as it stretched across the plain like a black road. The Messerschmidt estate was an old brick house nestled in the arms of the Carpathians, perched above the Danube.

There were sounds of a heated exchange inside the dark house, and Luca wondered if the Professor had changed his mind and somehow arrived before him. His fist hovered in front of the door, unsure whether he should knock, or if the knock would even be heard above the din.

The door flew open to reveal Franz Xaver Messerschmidt.

His face resembled the Professor’s, yet lacked any of his brother’s lively expression. Only his dark eyes moved, squirming restlessly in his pale blank face. The eyes crawled along every crease and contour of Luca's head, probing with the invasive manner of a blind man’s fingers.

Luca tried to keep his face similarly neutral, lest it betray his building discomfort and ruin this opportunity before it began. Messerschmidt clutched his shoulders and rose up on his toes to get a closer look. His head bobbed and circled to inspect Luca from every angle.

Luca grit his teeth to keep his face composed. Messerschmidt dug his fingers deeper into Luca's shoulders and pressed his face nose to nose with him. His rank breath blew into Luca’s nose and he recoiled. His poise slipped and his head jerked to the side, eyes clamped shut and nose wrinkled in a spasm of revulsion.

The old sculptor released him.

"You'll do."

He shuffled inside, leaving the door ajar.

Luca rubbed a forearm across his face to clean away the film of sour breath and nervous sweat. He entered through the ante room and froze.

The studio beyond was a crowded amphitheater. Hordes of silent screaming faces occupied every inch of the studio. There were pale reliefs in plaster, gray stone busts and shining casts of bronze. Every emotion was displayed a dozen times over, each in its most extreme incarnation. Foreheads, eyebrows and mouths bloomed in ecstatic joy, crumpled in abject grief and imploded in volcanic fury.

“Have you studied the human face? Do you truly understand it?”

Luca nodded, overwhelmed by the crush of bizarre and evocative masterpieces.

“The face is not a mask of flesh pulled taut by ropes of muscle. You cannot capture real emotion in stone. I tried to bring my sculptures to life. I tried!”

A queer pattern of geometry emerged from the yowling, grinning, sobbing, growling faces. They were arranged in series on a variety of different platforms. Dozens of heads were mounted on gears that rotated on a spinning wheel. One set of faces was set in a complex hive of angled mirrors. There was even a cluster of chimeras, with fused faces gawping from every side of their head.

“Have you studied anatomy, boy?”

Luca started to answer when Messerschmidt cut him off.

“Then you have learned that even if you peel the tissue from the skull and put it back in your own arrangement, you will not capture the essence of expression.”

Messerschmidt dug his fingers into his own face and pulled his flesh into several grotesque caricatures of emotion.

“You must subdue the spiritus vitales, the very essence of movement in the living body. How many expressions do you reckon there are?”

Luca jumped on the question.

“Surely there are an infinite number.”

“No! There are sixty-four canonical grimaces. These are the keys to the spiritus vitales. Once you master these, you may control the body. You may even appease.. .forces beyond the body.”

Messerschmidt trailed off and put his fingers to his mouth like a frightened child. Luca shifted uncomfortably before prompting him from his stupor.

“Your Muse must be insatiable.”

The old sculptor chewed on a fingernail.

“My muse is a demon.”

His eyes jerked up as if seeing Luca for the first time.

“Fetch me wax from the store in town and fresh clay from the river bank. Order stone from the quarry! We must be ready to work at an instant’s notice. Our hammer and chisel cannot waver!”

Luca swallowed.

“Master.. .the sun has set. I cannot do those things until morning.” Messerschmidt looked out the window and scratched his chin.

“I had not noticed. Light the lamps. Clean the studio. When you have finished, assemble an armature for a heavy statue. Make it as strong as possible.”

He tucked an illustrated book under his arm and scurried away.

Luca shook his head. This storm of intensity was what he had expected from a genius. There was much to learn. He lit the oil lamps scattered about the house. He found a larder with sheep’s milk cheese and sausage, and after a hasty meal, located the broom.

He swept plaster dust and chunks of marble across the floor of the studio. He felt exposed as he worked and avoided the staring faces as he made his laps with the broom. The lamp light pulsed across the crowd, making their mouths stretch and eyes bulge. He wondered if this is how the doomed slaves of the Coliseum felt, trapped and awaiting the arrival of the gladiator.

Building the armature provided a pleasant distraction. He found plenty of strong steel beams and bolts to support a large block of stone. He searched for a wrench among the hammers and chisels. There was a wealth of saws, drills and knives. Luca had yet to see any wood carvings in the studio, but the master was doubtless skilled in every medium. In short order, he assembled the beams with the proper dimensions to lock a heavy stone head and shoulders into place.

A gurgling shriek like a boiling kettle reverberated through the chalky dust of the studio. Luca grabbed a hammer and ran towards the sound, following the trail of grunts and gasps through the unfamiliar house.

He arrived at a black oak door. The massive slab of wood sealed the doorway and muffled the sounds within. Luca shuddered to think how loud the screams must be on the other side. He pounded on the door.

“Master Messerschmidt!”

The awful cacophony continued. Luca shouted again and struck the door with the hammer but it was no use. He pressed his face to the ground and peered through the gap at the bottom of the door.

He could see feet pacing back and forth. There were discernible words now in German, Greek and a wholly unknown language. He could not make out the meanings, but the rhythm of chanting was unmistakable. Messerschmidt repeated the stretches of Greek in the same way each time,

as if reading from a book, breaking only to interject with a pained squeal or plea for mercy in sobbing German.

Luca pulled his ear away from the gap and pushed his eye as close as his cramped ear and nose allowed. He caught a glimpse of ivory faces. The chamber beyond was ringed in busts crafted with a mastery Luca had never witnessed in his life. The luminous marble had the flawless texture of human flesh and hair. Each distorted expression was a beacon of emotion, projecting a precise mental state through the stone like a pitch from a struck tuning fork.

Tears welled up in Luca’s eyes. Whatever madness had gripped Messerschmidt, it was worth it. This was the pinnacle of transcendent art.

The stream of Messerschmidt’s wails ran dry and he collapsed to the ground. Luca slapped his palm against the door once more and directed his voice through the crack. The sculptor did not respond, but his face was placid and his chest rose and fell in a peaceful cadence.

Luca did not sleep nearly so well. He found a soft bed, but every time he closed his eyes, the masterpieces of the hidden room burned in his mind. He fantasized about the power to imprint fleeting human nature onto immortal stone. Was it possible to learn such techniques? Would Messerchmidt pass on his secrets?

He left the house at dawn for the capitol. As he walked in the shade of the chestnut trees, the more plebian and rational parts of his mind woke to nag him. Was it worth his sanity to make great art? Had he seen what was there, or had his unnerved mind concocted a fantasy in the sideways glimpse through a sliver beneath the door? Could Franz Xaver Messerschmidt teach him anything, or was he just a mad man obsessing over the same motifs?

He found the markets downtown and ordered fresh stone from the quarry. He bought wax, linen and plaster as well as sundried domestic supplies. He searched the streets for the Professor, hoping for some amicable diversion before he had to return to the studio. Some part of him wanted to tell the Professor that he could not accept the apprenticeship.

A familiar figure crossed his path on Turnergasse in front of Grassalkovich Palace. Luca recognized the tattered shawl wrapped around the woman’s face, hiding its conflicting halves. He stepped softly, careful not to frighten her away again.

She stopped to rest on the edge of a marble fountain. The cloth fell away from her face as she counted the meager coins in her dirty hands. In the center of the fountain, a statue of Venus glared down on her. The contrast of the beggar’s broken face and the imperious, flawless sculpture was almost too much for Luca to bear.

Art should not belong to perfect saints and beautiful demigods. It should represent the ugly and unreasonable people who created it. That was his responsibility and his calling. He turned on his heel and headed back to the studio.

When he returned, Messerschmidt was inspecting the armature. His mouth was wrapped around a steamed dumpling and chewing methodically. He offered one to Luca and then turned to check the cleanliness of the floor and shelves.

Luca clutched the warm bread and waited for Messerschmidt to say something. In the bright morning light, the old sculptor looked like any another teacher, down to the drops of plum jam on his shirt.

Luca cleared his throat.

“I have the supplies you requested.”

Messerschmidt smiled.

“The clay and stone?”

Luca clenched his fists.

“Forgive me. The stone has not arrived yet.”

“The day is young. I will be sketching in the garden.”

“Master, I was wondering if you could teach me about the faces. The canonical grimaces?”

Messerschmidt looked him up and down.

“Give me something I can work with, and I shall teach you.”

He left the studio and Luca punched his palm in excitement. He noticed the stack of reference books he had dusted that had been too dark to read by lamp light. There was De Humani Corpis Fabrica, the indispensible book of anatomy by Vesalius, da Vinci’s exhaustive Studies for the Libyan Sibyl, and a rare edition of Two Flayed Men and Skeletons, a compendium of illustrations showing bodies with their skin and muscles carefully peeled away.

At the bottom of the stack, Luca found a weathered book that he did not recognize. It was entitled Tabula Smaragdina, and it radiated secret knowledge. Luca could not decipher its ancient Greek text, but he flipped through the jaundiced pages anyway.

The book was filled with Egyptian hieroglyphs and detailed illustrations of ghoulish mummies. Perhaps this was an early reference on anatomy. There were also handwritten notes in German in some of the margins. These made no grammatical sense, yet they were reminiscent of the strange chants Messerschmidt had bellowed the night before. He placed the tome back in the pile, eager to preserve the peace of the day.

The back of the estate abutted a steep precipice over the muddy Danube. He placed his feet carefully as he navigated the steep and narrow path to the river bank. If he did not return with the clay before the shadow of the Carpathians swooped in, one false step would be his last.

When he returned with the heavy buckets in his trembling arms, he found the fresh cut blocks of stone waiting at the front of the house. He put his aching body to the task of hauling the sharp slabs of white marble into the studio.

He smiled at the collection of faces. They were becoming old friends, each with their unique personality written clearly across their features. He anticipated crafting his own coterie of characters with the techniques that Messerschmidt would soon impart.

Luca gathered the ropes from the blocks of stone and dumped them in piles out back. He smashed his toe and nearly tripped over a toppled sculpture lying in the tall grass. The half of the face exposed to the dying light glowed with a delighted smile. He cleared away the grass to look at the rest. It was black with dirt and shadow. Some part of his mind recognized the face with a fierce urgency, but he could not summon a name.

The sun was behind the cloak of the Carpathians now and the mysterious sculpture was growing dim. Luca knew that if he did not place the face it would haunt him until morning. He returned with an oil lamp and crouched over the sculpture. He scrubbed away the soil with his shirt. It was blank, but not unmade. It was a fully sculpted face without expression.

He lay down in the grass, next to the statue, in order to look it in the eyes. As the Carpathians and Danube tilted around him, he recognized the face. It belonged to the beggar woman in Pressburg.

An agonized scream roared from the house. Messerschmidt.

Luca rushed to the black oak door. Franz Xaver Messerschmidt emerged, silhouetted against the glowing white sculptures of the hidden room. They stared out into the dark hallway like the chorus in a Greek tragedy.

Luca stared back, awed by their terrible beauty. Messerschmidt had transcended mastery. The pale stone busts radiated a wild vitality.

“I must finish the masterpiece tonight! We will create the sixty-fourth canonical grimace.”

He grabbed Luca by the hand and dragged him to the studio.

“Sit.”

Luca sat next to the armature as indicated.

Messerschmidt began to fasten the steel bars around his wrists, neck and head. Luca realized that he was going to be the model for this sculpture. He was flattered and excited, though he commonly used the water-closet before assuming a pose for a sculptor. It was going to be a long night.

“Master, what exactly is a canonical grimace?”

Messerschmidt ignored him and worked in silence. The Danube gurgled restlessly as the pooling darkness flooded the studio. He spun the clamps in tight, until Luca could not move a muscle.

“There are forty-two muscles in the face. You wrinkle your nose for disgust, but also anger. You widen your eyes for fear, but also surprise. We can make many faces, true, but how many are purely unique?”

He stepped away to light the oil lamps. Luca’s eyes followed the dance of shadow across the crowd of sculptures. The sense of grim anticipation had returned to their leering, distorted faces.

The old sculptor set a mirror in front of Luca so that he could see his own face.

“Are you saying that the sixty-four expressions.. .they convey the truth of human nature?”

“Human nature? The grimaces have nothing to do with human beings. They are the keys detailed in the hermetic writings to appease the demon that torments and humiliates me.”

Luca swallowed, and the blunt end of the armature dug into his throat.

“If that were true.you must have appeased it by now. You have carved these sculptures a hundred times over.”

Messerschmidt stooped down and glared into his eyes.

“Out of dirty clay! Inanimate stone! I tried for years with utter failure. Flesh is the only medium that will satisfy the demon. I studied the secrets of the alchemists and necromancers, but no one can bring stone to life. I thought all was lost, until I discovered how to transform living flesh into sculpture.”

He snatched up a chisel and hammer. He placed them near the opening of Luca’s right ear.

“There is a nerve on the right side of the skull, just behind the temporal bones. A precise strike with a chisel can sever this nerve and preserve any expression you have formed upon your face. There were so many failed experiments, so many faces frozen halfway or not at all. Still, I persevered until I captured them all. There is but one canonical grimace remaining, the sublime blend of horror and enlightenment. I promise you that it will live on your face forever.”

Luca’s exhausted body surged with a strength borne of terror. He thrashed against his bonds until his skin scraped and tore, but his bones were locked down too tight. He stared at himself in the mirror and strained to keep the terror from his face. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaws until his teeth ached.

Messerschmidt caressed the tragus, the delicate bump of skin that lead to the inner ear, with the cold steel chisel.

“You wanted to be my apprentice because you acknowledge that I am the master. You cannot shape your face better than I. Let go. Show me the horror! Accept the truth of this situation and gain the knowledge you came here for!”

Luca’s blurry, tear filled eyes began to bulge in panic. He squeezed them shut. The agonizing rictus in his jaw and neck twisted his face to one side against his will. He jammed his chin bone forward against the steel clamps. He would not give Messerschmidt his prize.

“Your brother was right, you’re a lunatic!”

The edge of the chisel softened against his ear.

“My brother? What are you talking about?”

Luca opened his eyes.

“Your brother, the Professor! He paid me to be your apprentice! He thought you could be saved, but you’re a maniac.”

Messerschmidt shook his head.

“Nonsense! I do not have a brother.”

Luca’s eyes widened as the Professor emerged from the shadows to take his place among the crowd of eager faces. His once jovial face became a chaotic blur, flickering through hundreds of violent expressions.

Luca recoiled as the awful truth dawned on him.

Messerschmidt swung the hammer.

Shades of Hades

E.J. Alexander

I wish I hadn’t killed her. Not a day goes by I don’t wish that. Wish I could turn back time and run that day through a different course. I regret so strongly I wonder if the power and focus of that emotion might somehow affect reality. But each day I wake up here.

The Sorenstein Center was considered one of the best. Through the safety glass of the main door, I’d glimpsed numerous awards and framed articles hanging on the foyer wall. This floor, Ward 2, of my cozy new home, kept me and my demented brethren from harm—the “Awaiting Restoration of Competency’ bunch-o-nuts. Ward 3, above us, maximum security, was reserved for the more dangerous (or at least the sentenced) of our ilk, the “Not-guilty By Reason of’ nut-bars; rapists, molesters, murderers, serial killers, and the like—a real smorgasbord of the criminally insane.

There was Gary Nugget, who had killed his wife and two daughters with an eight-iron after a disappointing Sunday on the links. And Robert Isemen, or “Iceman’, as he was called—one of Sorenstein’s more illustrious residents—a large, thoughtful, mild-looking man. He was known to store the strangled bodies of toddlers in his freezer. I saw him on occasion, head lowered, shuffling down the halls under full escort.

All of us rendered harmless by these thick green walls and an endless array of mind-thickening drugs.

When in a nut house, one could hardly complain about having a crazy roommate. But I did, perhaps too loudly. And instead of a private room, my protestations won me a restraining bed. They thought, no doubt, I’d strangle poor Elwood in his sleep. They locked my wrists and ankles with wide nylon straps; then I couldn’t even cover my ears. But the drugs helped— numbed me, and nudged me into a warm sleep that even Elwood’s ravings couldn’t penetrate. They did have good drugs. I worried though, that if I stayed much longer I’d become as loony as the rest.

But I didn’t plan on staying.

Down the corridor, came the echoing steps and jingle of keys of the nightly lock-in crew. Elwood looked up from his folding. Although our orange pajama-uniforms and underclothes came from the laundry neatly folded, Elwood would always shake them out and fold them again, meticulously pressing and smoothing them with his hard cover of Jurassic Park as if it were an iron. Some days he did it twice. He was a frail, nervous man, only thirty or so but already balding. Elwood’s signature characteristic, however, was that he never spoke, at least while conscious. His words all came out in a jumbled maelstrom at night. Every night.

This mouse of a man should have been housed on Ward 1, with the schizoids, bipoles, MPDs, manics, and acute obsessives. It was a strict policy of mine to avoid imagining what acts of violence Elwood must have committed to earn himself a bed up here on 2.

Nurse Francine Tettles, or ’Nurse Titties’ as some of the inmates joyously referred to her, entered. An ill-suited nickname, in that she was a small woman—in all proportions—and was the nicest, most genuine of any of the staff. Behind her, pushing a cart clattering over the threshold, came Khuram, the young Pakistani intern. In dramatic contrast to Francine, he was dark-skinned and as large as an Indian elephant.

She looked first to Elwood, nearest the door. “Lights out, Mr. Carding,” she said in her timid, regretful voice.

“And time for your tuck-in, Mr. Hall.” Her shy blue gaze swung briefly over me.

“Tuck-in’—a cute term, reminiscent of those happy nuclear “Sunshine Units.’ I closed my paperback “The Catcher in the Rye’—more a test of whether the administration would allow the notorious title than any real desire to read it. At first, I made certain I was seen with it often. Though now, I think, I had little worry of the administration declaring me sane, that is, after my episode in March. I’d even scared myself that time.

Sanity has a slippery edge. In an evaluation session with a visiting psychiatrist, I worked myself into a crying fit. And as I got into it, it became more real—only half act. I convinced her of my instability and even left myself wondering.

I set the book on the side table and rose from my chair. One advantage, I suppose, of wearing pajamas all day was the ease of bedtime.

“Who won?” I asked Khuram while “assuming the position’ in my high, cold bed.

I didn’t, in truth, give a damn about cricket but that was the one thing that seemed to spark Khuram. And my unborn escape plans might well include his participation. Besides, it was a friendly thing to do, and Khuram was the gentlest of interns.

“India must have cheated,” he said cheerfully. “The only way they could have beat Hassam’s arm.” He tilted my bed upright.

Francine selected pills from the cart, dropping them into a tiny paper cup (just like the ones used at Wendy’s for ketchup), while patiently waiting out Khuram’s inevitable string of specifics. Her usual mode of operation was one of being efficiently friendly in that professional-impersonal way, but she was easily tripped into showing her kind heart. And for that failing, the rest of the staff treated her with less respect.

“And Jameel was unstoppable at bat. You should have seen—184 runs,” said Khuram, strapping my left leg.

Francine poured water into another paper cup. “Here you are, Mr. Hall,” she said, offering both water and cup of pills.

I accepted hesitantly: a white oval one and two small red ones. The red ones I welcomed; they put me out and had the entertaining side effect of enhancing my dreams. But the white one was a worry—though they seemed to give it to everyone—it was an anti-psychotic they claimed, and new. There were some people, I’m sure, who could be happy knowing they aided the medical community in discovering that a new drug causes livers to implode. I was not one those people. “Gillespie in tomorrow?”

Ms. Gillespie was the Social Worker who had the misfortune of having me on her roster. Having my arms and legs bound nightly could in no way be conducive to my escape. To remedy this, I would use every tool at my disposal. There was no evidence, however, that anyone actually listened to her recommendations.

“Half-day tomorrow—the morning. Are you uncomfortable, Drew?” she asked, with real concern.

“Best that can be expected—under the circumstances.” I then looked pointedly at the strap Khuram was tightening over my wrist. “It’s the circumstances I’d like to remedy.”

“Be sure to talk to Dr. Sielinski. He’s in next Thursday. Oh, and I’ll try and commandeer one of those orthopedic pillows for you.”

“You’re an angel,” I said, meaning it.

She gave me an appreciative smile. I had planned, of course, on bringing the matter to Sielinski’s attention. He was a Board Associate and saw patients only rarely; in my eight months at Sorenstein I had talked to him twice. I would not miss this chance.

“Pleasant dreams, gentleman,” she said, already on her way next-door to John and Dino’s room. The cart’s wheels clattering again over the threshold. I allowed my eyes to follow her small, fit frame as she left. I wondered if all the inmates fell in love with her. Oh, what an asshole I was. I didn’t deserve to even think about a woman, especially one like Francine.

A short while later, Francine’s key clicked in the lock and the lights popped out. Light from the hall pulsed through the little window in the door, turning the foot of Elwood’s bed a ghostly gray. The lurid red eye of the hall’s surveillance camera added a pulsing pink glow up in the ceiling corner. Privacy—another thing I’d never appreciated, until it was gone.

I closed my eyes. How pleasant it would be to find sleep before Elwood started in. But my mind started down its familiar path. Rehashing that day over and over. Images of her on top of him—riding in that unabashed display of ecstasy, like she’d never shown with me. Why him? Of all people, why that son-of-a-bitch of a Senior Partner, Clint Buckle?

Laurie. What would my life be like if I hadn’t come home early that Tuesday? I should have just walked out and shot myself then, while I had the guts.

Such thoughts spun through my head, one bringing on the next and the next. It was like a big, heavy wheel spinning: memory, anger, guilt, and self-recrimination. Round, and round, and round again. The same crap and nothing to do about it. It was all in the past. But the present seemed unreal —surreal, like a bad movie. And the future was too indistinct to get my mind around.

If I were to stand trial, I’d get the chair for sure. After Laurie’s sister found me sitting there on the bed beside Laurie’s naked body, soaked in blood, stroking her hair with one hand while the other still held the gun— only one verdict from a Texas jury would do. I needn’t be a trial lawyer to realize that. I don’t remember much of that day, the afterward part anyway. I must have been sitting there for hours, zoned-out, just staring into those vacant yet accusing eyes.

But that was the past. For now, I had to find a way out. My brother would help—if I could get to him, and I had a couple of old friends I think I could count on. I just had to get away.

I heard Elwood’s breath, slow and deep. The race was on. I was losing. And then, just as the “reds’ pulled me drifting into fluffdom, he brought me back.

“No, no.. .don’t.. .can’t...” he mumbled, “...dark...flood...” And then, quite clearly, “Yes, Mistress.”

This was the sort of gibberish he’d been spewing for weeks. Maybe he’d had some hot dominatrix once and was reliving his fantasy. I don’t know, and don’t care.

But he seemed more agitated than usual. His head lolled from side to side and his legs twitched.

Why hadn’t I thought of it before? Elwood should get extra meds—the reds. He wouldn’t complain. Besides it was perfectly reasonable; a deeper sleep would obviously be good for him—and me. Consoled in thinking I might soon be rid of this nightly annoyance, I found sleep, even as his moaning words jostled my consciousness.

#

Every morning, as I waited for Nurse Andrews to come and release me from my bed, I considered the window. And every morning I rejected it. They took no chances here: the glass was that safety stuff with a grid of embedded steel wire, and beyond that was a heavy mesh grating. I would need an axe and a lot of time—time with no one around to say, “Hey, did you hear that? It sounded like someone taking an axe to a window.”

I had a blurry view of the grounds: an enclosed rectangle of well-watered grass, flowerbeds, and bushes, with an intersection of paved walk. Serene—if you could ignore the chain-link fence topped with its shiny curl of razor-wire just beyond.

My morning routine consisted of a quick workout in the Activity Center, a shower, and then the short jaunt down the hall to the “dining room’ for breakfast. If no therapy sessions were scheduled, I would spend the bulk of the day reading in the day room.

The day room was well named. It was always bright, if not from the Texas sun that scorched in from the south like a laser beam, then from the rows of florescent lights that buzzed and sang every evening. Round Formica tables were encircled by those blue molded-plastic chairs found in every high-school cafeteria. I sat by myself, shuffling through a handful of well-worn Trivial Pursuit cards, flipping to the answers on any that eluded memory.

Ms. Gillespie was an obese young woman, maybe twenty-five. Not pleasantly fat, she was more the “I don’t give a damn what you think’ kind of fat.

“Good morning,” she said, not looking at me. “How are you today,” she paused to remember my name, “Mr. Hall?”

“I have a problem.”

She stared at me blankly until I was obliged to remind her of Elwood’s disruptive activities and the incident whereby I became restrained.

I used all of my attorney skills to present my case. I requested that the need for my immobilization be reexamined, and suggested that the extrication of either Elwood or myself might easily resolve the issue. I ended with a clear rationale for upping Elwood’s medication.

“I’ll take it up with the doctors,” she said curtly, scribbling on her notepad.

#

That night was the worst yet. Elwood tossed and babbled. Taker of light was discernible and something about river of souls and the usual no, no, not me raving. But this night was different; somehow Elwood seemed more cogent, even more terrified—closer to the surface of his nightmare.

What was going on inside his tortured little head?

The stainless steel of his bed frame rattled with his jerking movements. I worried that he might split his skull on a rail.

I considered buzzing the nurse’s station to get someone to come and witness the racket, but the lights and commotion would surely wake Elwood before they arrived and just sink me into hotter water. Then, suddenly, he grew calmer, perhaps exhausting himself.

And so it went, until Tuesday night, when I noted Elwood getting two familiar looking red pills along with his other medication. The wheels of administration had spun remarkably fast. Finally, some peace.

I lay in my hazy discomfort—guilt and sorrow battling for dominance —awaiting sleep to draw me away from the torment of my thoughts. And astonishingly, triumphantly, not a sound came from Elwood.

I dreamt. It was night, and cold. I stood in a bare field; the corn had been cut away. There were no stars in the blackness above. No wind, no sound disturbed the eerie stillness. At the end of the field stood an old farmhouse and barn. From the house, a dim light glowed. The barn was missing many of its gray boards and its tin roof was peeling off. An old red-fendered tractor rotted nearby, its engine and ironworks the color of crusted blood.

What’s all this? I knew it was a dream but it was so vivid, so real. I walked towards the house, determined to see where this illusion would take me. I stepped carefully, though, over each row of dry stalks, dreading to unsettle the deadness.

The planks of the porch creaked as I stepped up. A window looked into a small, plain kitchen. There was a wooden table, stained dark, and a Franklin stove. I knocked lightly at the door and listened. Nothing. I gave a tentative push and the door groaned open. Across was another door that opened into a short hall.

“Hallo,” I called.

I heard someone’s creaking step. A man stuck his head out into the hall.

“Who...?” His face showed fear and astonishment.

But I knew that face. Still it was a moment before I fully recognized Elwood. His hair was darker and thicker, his face smoother; he seemed— younger.

“Who are you?” He asked in a rusty voice.

He can speak! “Elwood, it’s me.”

“You know me?”

“Your roomy, Drew.”

“Roomy?” He blinked. “You’ve seen me? Where am I? How am I? I mean, am I healthy?”

Even in my dreams Elwood was crazy. “Ahh, you seem fine.for being locked-up in a mental hospital.”

“Ah,” he said, after pondering this a moment. “Probably for the best. Better than running around loose. Oh, but I assure you, that thing is not me!” His insulted glare faded and he added, “You should not be here.”

The conversation had slipped from demented to surreal, and I was lost. “Where.” I began but finished with, “But I have no control over my dreams.”

There was something different about him, I couldn’t put finger on it. Speaking, yes, of course, but also he’d looked directly at me, and he seemed more.lucid. Still loony, of course, but this dream-Elwood seemed somehow to be more of a real person than the Elwood I knew.

“Dream?” said Elwood. “If only it were. You must leave, now. It is not safe.”

I would certainly be happy to leave, if I could. “Elwood, what is this place?”

He looked sidelong at me. “Do you hear?” he asked, cocking his ear.

I heard nothing—perhaps a distant gust of wind—a rattle of cornstalks in the field.

“This way. Quickly.”

He pulled back into the room from where he’d emerged.

The room sparkled with flickering candles. They stood all around in a circle encompassing the barren room, following lines that were scratched rudely in the floorboards. In the center was a folded blanket—to kneel upon, I surmised. The room smelled strongly of some strange incense.

He beckoned. “Here, stand within the circle.”

I was more than hesitant; in no way did I trust my host. Perhaps that smell was some kind of intoxicant.

“Hurry! She comes.”

She? He was so emphatic that I followed more out of instinct than good sense. Fear welled up inside me. I reminded myself it was just a dream.

“I thought it was her when you came,” said Elwood. “She comes sometimes at night.”

“Who?”

“The angel, the demon, the Mistress of Night...”

Mistress. That struck another chord of alarm. Then I did hear something, like a whisper: delicate and sultry. The air tingled my skin; it was suddenly cooler. The candles guttered, dimming the room.

“You asked about this place,” Elwood continued, as if nothing had just happened. “It’s my home, was my home. The world of my youth— unchanged these past six years. My own private hell.”

A soft glow brightened the hall. I desperately wished to wake.

“Pray that you escape it,” he finished, in a soft voice.

In the doorway, there appeared a ghostly apparition: a woman in a long dress of some ancient and elegant style. I could see through her grayglowing translucency to the wainscoting beyond. Her face was remarkably beautiful, the kind of face that held your gaze and kept drawing you back. Her eyes were darker shadows within her smooth luminescence. She glided in, warming the room with her light. There was a strength about her, an air of confidence in her gaze and in the tilt of her head.

“You have a new friend,” she said in a hollow voice.

The Mistress looked at me, or “into’ me would be a more fitting word. I was naked beneath her scrutiny, as if she could see the real me: all my hates, desires, prejudices, selfishness, and fears. A shiver chilled me through.

Then she smiled at me like an old acquaintance just recognized. “Drew Hall.”

Elwood and I exchanged a glance.

“Don’t worry Drew, it is not you I want,” she said.

This dream had just topped the charts in the all-time bizarro category.

“In fact,” she said after a moment. “I can help you.”

Help? I couldn’t find my voice to ask what she meant.

“Help you escape,” she said.

I tried to understand what was happening. When her words sunk in, I struggled to conceal my small, guilty, surge of hope. But no, this was all ridiculous, it was just a dream.

“You must help me also, of course,” she said. “Elwood’s descriptions have convinced me of someone better suited.”

Elwood opened his mouth in confused denial and then closed it. She smiled, enjoying her little torments. She had meant, of course, the Elwood in my world.

Then she came close to me. Panic flared within me but I was held in place, suspended in a long, timeless moment of terror. She was too real.

Who—what was she: a ghost, an angel? She brought her hand slowly to my face. Stroking my cheek, she whispered in her sultry voice, “To remember me^”

But I did not feel her touch.

I awoke to the darkness of my room. Elwood slept quietly. What had happened? Could it have been just a dream? I could not find sleep again until the dimness of morning. By then, I had convinced myself that it had all been some sort of lucid hallucinatory nightmare induced by the meds.

#

“What happened to your face?” Nurse Andrews asked, unstrapping my ankle. A flash of worry wrinkled her brow.

I blinked away the morning glare. Elwood sat upright in his bed looking directly at me. He smiled. It was the first time I’d ever noticed him smile. A tingle of dread crawled up my back. I knew then, with frightful certainty, that the dream had somehow been real. What was he? Some demon spirit? He could strangle me to death at night and I would be helpless to stop him. I had to get out of here.

I noticed then that the left side of my cheek was stiff and itchy. When my hand was free, I felt my cheek. Scabbing blood gritted off with my touch.

I rushed to the bathroom. My stainless steel reflection confirmed it: three long brown lines scratched down my cheek—like the slash of some beast. To remember me, she’d said.

What could she do? What had she meant by ’someone better suited’? How could I help her? It was all so incomprehensible. But I would not play their pawn. Yet, what choice did I have? I had to sleep and would then be at their mercy.

I resolved not to fall asleep.

That night, as soon as Francine and Khuram were out of sight, I spit my pills out onto the floor. Elwood watched with amusement.

It was the longest night of my life, an eternity of anxious dread. What would happen if my vigil faltered—if my guard lapsed for even a moment? Would I be plunged again into that dream-hell, or perhaps fall victim to Elwood’s violence?

All of my frequent glances found Elwood sleeping quietly. His calm silence was now more eerie to me than his ravings ever were. I planned exactly what I would do should he attack. I imagined his thin groping fingers scrabbling at my neck. I would shout for help, as long and loud as I could, lurching away from his claws with what little mobility afforded me; hoping that someone would arrive before Elwood choked away my life.

I was exhausted. As that cruel night wore on, I found myself continually shaking my head in attempt to clear my drowsiness. But it was like hanging onto a cliff-edge, and fighting the inexorable pull of gravity. My eyelids wavered, and as they dipped closed, some remnant of consciousness deep in the back of my mind would claxon a warning, sending a jolt of pure terror through me. If Elwood or the Mistress didn’t claim me first, my heart would surely burst.

By morning, I was a nervous, muddled-headed wreck.

Dr. Sielinski finally showed himself. His balding, scabrous head was down, reading what I knew would be my file as he entered.

“Good morning, Mr. Hall. How are we feeling?” He inspected me over his glasses. He would note my scratched and haggard face.

“Not well, doctor.” I was surprised by the emotion in my voice and tried to clear it away. “Could we speak.. .in private?”

I could see he was judging me, already picking out the new medications he would prescribe.

“I’m afraid I have a very busy schedule today, Mr. Hall. Next week though, we can schedule a time—”

“No, let’s do it now.” I had to get away from Elwood immediately. I couldn’t last another night. And being farther away might shield me from his dream world. I didn’t care if Elwood overheard. It didn’t matter anymore.

I’d carefully considered what I’d say to Dr. Sielinski, how I could present my case favorably. I couldn’t tell him the truth. Paradoxically, his thinking I was crazy wasn’t a problem, but it wouldn’t bring me closer to getting away from Elwood. But it was all lost and I said, “I need to get out of here—I mean, at first I wanted to get a private room and have the restraints removed—”

“Unfortunately, we do not have any extra beds,” he interrupted in his patronizing tone.

“I can’t sleep with his disruptions.” I looked over at Elwood. He sat pretending to read Jurassic Park.

“If that is all—”

“No,” I began, more loudly than intended.

“Now, Mr. Hall I had thought you too intelligent to try these obvious ploys. Elwood Carding has always been an ideal patient, has never shown any sign of violence—”

“If you will not move one of us Doctor, then please consider restraining him. I don’t trust him. I woke Tuesday morning with these scratches.” I turned my cheek towards him, though I knew he had already taken it all in. “As Nurse Tettles can attest I was unmarked at lock-in.”

That got his attention. I continued with the clincher, “If I die tonight, with my wrists bound, it will be difficult to declare it suicide.”

He clearly didn’t appreciate how well I’d laid out my argument. Nor could he refute my reasoning.

After a moment, he said, “We’ll find someone to switch rooms with you.” He reluctantly added, “Until then, restraining Elwood might be a warranted precaution.”

I’d won.

But then he said in his low, spiteful voice, “Do you think you can manipulate me as easily as Ms. Gillespie?”

“I—”

“Don’t think I don’t know your game, Mr. Hall. You are not the first patient to come through my wards, attempting to evade justice. I am not fooled by your little dramas ” He looked at me again from above his reading glasses with a penetrating, knowing gaze.

Any doubt he may have held was erased when I looked away: an admission, clear and simple.

“Nurse Andrews tells me she found your medication on the floor this morning.” Dr. Sielinski squinted his eyes with suspicion. “And this selfmutilation is beneath you.”

Sielinski was fishing for a confession now. If he knew I was acting, he could recommend a competency hearing and that I stand trial. I shuddered. I couldn’t go down that path of thought.

“What I see,” he continued, “by your profile and your actions, is an intelligent, rational, desperate, but nevertheless sane man. In fact, I see no barrier in declaring you fit to stand trial.”

“But—” My voice faltered. He had me. He knew he had me.

He was smiling. He’d just signed my death warrant. Even if I could bring myself to plead for my life, I knew it wouldn’t matter. Sielinski would never change his recommendation.

At the door, he turned back to me. “A word of advice, Mr. Hall. Don’t attempt escape. Yes, it is easy enough to guess your simple mind. It’ll serve only to establish your actions as consistent with those of a desperate man. You see, Mr. Hall, I am also no stranger to the courtroom. We all make errors. And we all must pay for them—one way or another.”

I was a desperate man.

That night I swallowed the pills. Khuram had me open my mouth, to be certain. But I wanted them. The Mistress was my last hope. I felt a kind of hysteria, a reckless frenzy that urged me to face the worst and be done with it—one way or another. I was terrified but resigned to do whatever I must to end it.

#

“You will be the conduit,” the Mistress explained. “Elwood here believes he can reclaim his body by sitting in a circle and chanting.” She smiled contemptuously. “But he has succeeded only in sending nightmares. A physical agent is required.” She produced a knife.

I stepped back.

She lifted the blade and cut a lock of her translucent hair.

“What must I do?”

“Your body will hold my essence for a time.” She handed me her ethereal lock. “Then a small cut.. .and while the blood flows between you, I will take her.”

“Her?”

“That nurse. Tettles.”

I swallowed hard. No. Not Francine, of all people, not her. But somewhere deep inside I had known—feared—it was to be her. I couldn’t do it. Yet, it was my only chance to escape—to live.

I hedged. “What will happen to her?”

“You wish to escape or not?” she challenged, but then offered, “Elwood will draw her from you. They can keep each other company.”

Could I really be the instrument that sent Francine to this otherworld hell? Or was this all just a trick to steal my body? Could I protect myself somehow? But no, why would she take me, a man with no possible future?

#

Finding something sharp in a nut house is no easy chore. I carried the Mistresses’ token with me everywhere, that now raven-black lock, that physical reminder of my unthinkable task. After several reconnaissance strolls in the yard, I discovered a sliver of cracked concrete that might serve. I couldn’t imagine cutting Francine. I remembered Laurie: that crude, ragged hole that had blossomed above her left breast, the impossible amount of blood that had pumped from that wound, soaking the silk sheets and dripping onto the carpet. The bloodless pallor of her skin had made that crimson river even starker. The image made my stomach heave.

How could I come to terms with it? There was no justifying stealing that poor, meek, little angel’s body for my own selfish gain. She was innocent and I’d be her executioner. I could not live with another murder on my conscience.

But I could. In fact, I already knew I would. I was, admittedly, a thoughtless, egocentric ass whose cowardice would override any momentary attack of conscience. I would do it, and then spend every moment of my guilt-ridden life thereafter hating myself for it. The nightly crush of the wheel-of-guilt would just weigh heavier.

#

Waiting there in my bed, gripping that sliver of cement in my sweaty, nervous fingers was its own torture. How could I do this thing? But when I heard Khuram and Francine approach, my anxiety washed away with the adrenaline rush of what I must do. The concrete crumbled somewhat as I pushed, but a ragged crimson line trailed across my wrist nevertheless.

Francine’s bright face, made my betrayal worse. I grabbed Francine’s wrist instead of the cup she offered. Water splashed cold across my lap as I dug the sliver’s edge into her flesh and shoved it up along her forearm.

She cried out, and yanked away.

I held her, pulling and forcing my bleeding wrist against her forearm.

I felt Khuram’s great bulk press against me, levering us apart.

In the instant that the Mistress swept through me, I felt her cold taint, like a mist shivering over my soul.

It was done.

“Get off him.” It was Francine’s voice, but she spoke in a voice of command.

It sounded as strange and misplaced to Khuram’s ears as it did mine, because he jumped instinctively at her tone, immediately slacking his weight. He glanced at me, and I saw the astonishment in his face. “But—”

“I’m unhurt,” she said softening. “A scratch, an accident.”

He released me slowly.

The incident did not, however, go unreported.

I was given a change in meds and put in the special-care section near the nurse’s station. I’d finally gotten my private room. I was also, apparently, put on suicide watch. I rarely saw the ’new and improved’ Nurse Tettles anymore and had no opportunity to speak to her privately.

There were subtle changes in the ward in the weeks that followed; an odd air of intensity permeated the halls. Being so close to the nurse’s station, I could catch the occasional fragment of gossip and see when the surveillance monitors were attended. Nurse Tettles had taken on the role of Senior Charge Nurse, supervising and scheduling the other nurses. It was even rumored that she was up for a committee position. Dr. Roth’s recent death (interestingly, it was said that he had gone peacefully one night in his sleep) left a vacancy that needed immediate filling.

Among the inmates though, Nurse Tettles’ nickname had turned into “Nurse Testicles’. Apparently, she had a knack for finding a patient’s weakness and using it to full advantage.

One afternoon I received a call from my lawyer, an old friend from the firm. My competency hearing had been moved forward. He remarked on how unusual it was for a date to be pushed so aggressively. He asked, half-jokingly, whether I had enemies in high places.

Did I owe this special attention to the good doctor or was it my unfaithful new comrade? The hearing was less than a month away. My time had run out.

Anxiously, I waited for the Mistress to make contact and reassure me she would make good on her promise. But with each passing day—as the certainty of her treachery became evident—my fear and anger mounted.

And guilt was eating me. If I was indeed meant for the chair, then I had banished poor Francine for nothing. I was a selfish fool.

One morning Nurse Andrew asked, “You haven’t heard? Iceman escaped two days ago.”

“What? How?”

“No one knows. He just wasn’t in his bed one morning. They’re launching a full investigation.”

Instantly, I knew the Mistress had been behind it. That bitch! She’d found a better candidate, apparently, then me to help. I swallowed my anger, and said, “Please get me Nurse Tettles. I must speak with her immediately. It’s urgent.”

But it was not until the following morning that she deigned to visit.

“You should not have asked for me. It’ll draw suspicion,” she said.

“You are already making quite a name for yourself,” I said with a mocking grin.

“Just making the most of the pathetic position left me,” she said, not getting my inference to her new nickname. “I don’t much like babysitting you bunch of droolers though. Of course I’ll be running this place soon enough.”

She just might too. It was scary to think of what she might do—perhaps her own little Grand Central Station for body-snatching demons. “Why did you release Iceman before me?”

“An old associate,” she said, with a mischievous grin. “They seem to find their way into places like this—the transition can be.. .troublesome. But with the investigation underway, you can’t expect—”

“I’ve rin oit of time. My competency hearing is tomorrow. Then I’d be in state prison intil the trial. We do it now. Tonight. Or I’ll implicate yoi in his escape.”

That caight her off giard.

“Yoi have no proof,” she said, angry.

“Don’t need any. I am a lawyer, remember? And I have nothing to lose. I will at least raise enough stink to torpedo your management bid.”

She considered this for a moment, her lips pursed in a tight straight line. “Ok, tonight, 90 minutes after lights-out. “A deal’s a deal.”

#

Keys rattled in my lock. She came in without turning on the light; she was sucking at a finger. She’d cut herself. “Let’s go.”

We made it through two heavy rolling gates and down the back stairs to a service entrance near the kitchens. She keyed off the alarm and shouldered the door open.

I stood on the threshold and offered my hand. “A deal’s a deal.” I tried to hold her gaze. “My life is in your hands,” I added.

I knew she would call security the moment the door clicked shut behind me. There would be no time to scale the chain-link fence before I was surrounded by an army of baton-whirling security and pummeled into submission.

With my heroic capture, any suspicions of her involvement in Iceman’s escape would be overshadowed. And it would be just the thing to bolster her management bid. She’d already have her story rehearsed: how I had attacked and threatened her, forcing her to open each door.

She hadn’t see the runnel of blood that dripped from my fingers. She pulled away though when she felt the sticky warmth of my hand. But I held on tight.

Making that sharp burr in just the right place on the door handle to cut her had been quite a trick. It took a full day to worry loose two of the four bolts that secured the bed rail. The final two sheared after painstakingly prying the rail back and forth. All this had to be done in those furtive snatches of time when the hall was clear. After striking the handle, I rushed back and took position on the floor beside the bed with the rail beneath me. The noise brought a gaggle of nurses and interns. I explained that I was leaning on the side of the bed when it just fell apart. They were suspicious, of course, but after a long while, and being unable to discover any obvious scheme, they wheeled out by bed and brought in another.

Last night Elwood and I succeeded in contacting each other, and I fell again into his world.

I returned with a golden lock of Francine’s hair. Her essence had been with me all day, lending me her calm warmth. She’d forgiven me.

Now, I felt Francine push through me and back into her body—an instant of golden warmth. A feeling I’ll never forget; the perfect sensation to carry me into eternity. I’ll take my chances on whatever that is. I fully expect to just dissipate into nothingness. But if I do not, if there is anything left of me at all, I will do what I can to help Elwood, the real Robert Iseman, and any others reclaim their corporeal selves.

Francine will adjust well to her new role and status at the Center, I am sure. All she needed was a little respect and a boost in self-confidence. Last night she’d told me she was ready to “take back’ what was hers and set things right.

I’d used up all my chances; it was time to give someone else theirs.

A distant wail of fury heralded me away. The Mistress had found herself in my doomed shell.

We all pay for our errors—one way or another.

For Love

DJ Tyrer

I crept slowly between the tombstones, grateful that the ritual required a gibbous moon as the torch’s beam was narrower than I would’ve liked; the graveyard was treacherous enough by daylight. I knew exactly where I was headed; I’d visited the crypt multiple times as I planned this night and many times before.

The Devereux Crypt had a certain reputation in Tandbury, although that had nothing to do with my nocturnal visit; children would dare one another to slip their fingers through the grating in the crypt wall and risk having them nibbled by the inhabitants of the tomb or the ghoulish horrors said to haunt the churchyard of St. Timothy’s.

I wasn’t here to indulge in such frivolities nor to emulate such horrors’ diet. I was here for one reason and one reason only and that was an intensely personal one. I was here to fulfil the burning ambition that had dominated my every waking moment and my dreams: I was here to find the love of my life and give her life.

Within our ancestral crypt was the body of Marianne Devereux, the sister of my mother’s great-grandfather. Marianne had died back in the nineteenth century but she was more alive to me than anyone around me. The beauty of her portrait had obsessed me since childhood and I’d known we were destined to be lovers; I’d often wondered if I was the reincarnation of her beloved, yet had not yet encountered her in the living flesh, hence my current plans. Having been born so long after her time and having failed to locate her in this age, I was determined to revive her to life so that we could be together. Together forever.

It was only thanks to Granddad Devereux’s interest in the occult that I’d even suspected that such a thought was more than an idle wish. In his books, I’d seen testaments to events we would term supernatural, yet which had occurred; had watched him call up an Elemental spirit to answer his questions, showing that things were truly real. Delving deeper, my suspicions had been confirmed and I became certain that I could revive her if only I could discover the right process. Having inherited his library from his own grandfather, he treated the occult as a plaything. To me it was a science to be understood.

I had sought my grail within the musty pages of tomes regarded as abominable by those too weak to seek the power they contained and, finally, had discovered it. The Gloss of Julius on the Krypticon of Silander had been enigmatically obscure and the Krypticon itself had proven as much a will-o’-the-wisp as the lights that haunted Tandbury. The only volumes bearing the title of Necronomicon that I’d managed to locate had been pale imitations of that genuine book of horrors by Alhazred and the copy of Cultes des Ghoules I managed to locate had been decimated by mold. And, as for The Book of Lost Lore that my grandfather spoke enigmatically of, it proved as lost as the lore it purported to collect. Ironically, it was within a copy of Mysteries of the Worm in which was written her name in flowing calligraphy that I found the answer, in the little-known tenth chapter (the famous Saracenic Rituals of the third having proved useless in my endeavors). Discovering what I sought within its blasphemous pages, I spent months studying the specific ritual and preparing to enact it.

A dog, lured from a garden in a distant city, had died to further my plans, but it was a sacrifice I was happy to make. It may seem cruel, but what is a dog compared to the true love of two enlightened souls?

Getting into the crypt was no difficulty: I’d carefully cultivated the friendship of the Vicar since my return to Tandbury and it had been easy to steal the key to the crypt from the Vicarage during a brief visit once I’d learnt where it was kept; I’d persuaded the Vicar to show me inside, claiming I was researching my family history. It’s easy enough to lie convincingly when the lie is close to the truth. The key turned stiffly, but our earlier visit had helped clear the rust. Nobody had been laid to rest in the crypt since the family fortune collapsed nearly a century ago.

The gate moved slowly with an unfortunate creak; I just had to hope nobody heard it and came to investigate. That was the risk I had to take.

The short stairway lay before me: the Devereux Crypt was half sunk into the boggy ground of the churchyard. Parts of the Crypt went deeper, but I’d no interest in them as Marianne’s casket—one of the last burials before abandonment—was near to the entrance. Local legend spoke of tunnels running below the village to unfeasible depths and the strange things that lurked within them. Others said there was some sort of treasure hidden within the churchyard, but that, too, held no interest for me; Marianne was the only treasure I desired.

A little gingerly, I descended the brief stairway into the darkness of the tomb. So much planning and dreaming had led up until this point that I felt as if it couldn’t truly be happening, that something must go wrong and deny me my desire. The steps were slick with damp and mold and the air seemed thick with vapor. At the base of the steps, I shrugged off the backpack I carried and leaned it against the wall.

Marianne had been laid to rest in the second chamber on the right. The burial chambers were raised a couple of feet above the floor to protect against the frequent flooding. A metal gate secured the coffin, but was easily unlocked using the key and a bit of muscle power as the lock was rusted and clogged. Naturally, I’d dared not ask the Vicar to open it for me, so had only been able to glance briefly between the bars and note that she’d been interred in a glass-topped coffin; I hadn’t been able to see inside as the glass was frosted with a century of filth. With the gate open, I could lean in and shine the torch onto her through the lid, although I had to pause to wipe it clean.

Marianne’s appearance was, simultaneously, both better and worse than I’d imagined. I’d fully expected her to have decayed away to bone and had half-imagined I might find her perfectly preserved through some secret art of Victorian embalming. She was neither. Marianne was petrified, her parchment-like skin turned a nut-brown color and strained tight against the bones of her skull and hands. Her once gorgeous pale dress was dyed with mottled reddish and brownish shades like the stains left by tea on a paper towel. The pillow on which her head rested and the quilted lining on which she lay were similarly stained and were encrusted with brown in places.

Slowly, carefully, I eased the coffin out of its resting place and lowered it to the floor of the crypt. A two-man job, I couldn’t quite control it and it slipped from my grip to land with a crash that cracked the glass. I offered a silent prayer to the strange gods of such unholy pursuits that the sound had passed unheard.

Although I’d hoped to not damage the casket, out of respect for my ancestors, the cracked glass removed the incentive to worry about it as I gave up on turning the rusted screws holding the glass lid in place. Instead, I just jimmied it up, shattering it into several large pieces and sending flakes of glass skittering across the floor like sparkling snow and others showering down on my beloved’s face.

I’d expected a stench of death when I tore off the glass lid, but, aside from a slight mustiness, it seemed as if the smell of decay had long since dissipated. In fact, the whole scene was surprisingly inoffensive; I was not at all revolted despite my earlier expectations.

I gazed down at my darling Marianne and, even if she looked nothing like the portraits that had obsessed me since childhood, I felt excited to finally have her close. A little uncertainly, kneeling beside the casket, I leant in and brushed her desiccated lips with my own. I hadn’t known what it was like, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was, I guess, much like kissing a piece of old leather. Maybe not pleasant in itself, but not horrible. I dared myself to kiss her again and, this time, pressed my lips firmly against hers, kissing her as one would kiss a lover, whilst running my hand across her body and along the leathery skin of her thighs. For one brief moment, I wondered if it would be so wrong to consummate our love prior to the ritual, but I knew I couldn’t waste my time on such indulgences when it was so short.

Tenderly, lovingly, I raised her body from the casket and laid it upon the floor, thankful that, save for a few strands of stained, formerly flaxen hair and flakes of attached scalp that clung to the pillow, she came out in one piece. I took it as a good sign.

I stepped away from her for a moment to retrieve my backpack, within which were all the accoutrements required for the ritual ahead.

I’d not come here unpracticed in the arts I would use: I saw myself as a student of the occult, an occult scientist, if you would. One sometimes reads of frothing lunatic cultists who blunderingly seek to summon up strange gods or wrest the power of the cosmos. Unlike such madmen, I’d done all that I could to ensure that what I planned would work. I wasn’t going to trust the ramblings of some medieval wizard, even if annotated by my beloved’s hand; I’d made sure they had a basis in fact before coming here. I’d chanted The Canticle of Jenneset until I’d seen the corkscrew towers of the Primal City and had summoned a peculiar Elemental Spirit of fire and ice to test the efficacies of such rituals and bring me the enchanted crystal of which Prinn had written. I’d even tested this very ritual in the basement of my London house, using it to return to life a dog that I’d bludgeoned to death. It worked then and I trusted Prinn’s claim that it would work upon a human. I would’ve preferred to test the ritual on a human corpse before attempting to raise Marianne, but stealing a dog was far less risky than indulging in kidnap and murder.

From my pack, I took a chunk of chalk I’d collected myself on the night of the full moon with the prescribed Chant of Thoth. I used it to mark the pentacle around Marianne and the five elemental symbols that the ritual required. Then, I took out the five candles that would go at the points of the pentacle; I’d cheated a little here—for Prinn required they be made of human body fat—by cultivating a contact in a certain London clinic to supply the blubber removed through liposuction; it had certainly worked on the dog.

I laid the enchanted green-blue crystal upon Marianne’s brow as indicated in the ritual. In her annotations, she’d written that the crystal was “The legendary Tear of Nim through which the Threshold might be crossed.” It was roughly tear-shaped, but, although the name Nim appeared in the chant recorded by Prinn, the meaning of the name was a mystery to me. I wondered if she’d be able to enlighten me once I’d revived her.

Lastly, I produced a shallow metal bowl into which I poured a flask containing a mixture of rock oil and herbal infusions into which I now dropped a few strands of the hair that had been stuck to the pillow. I then pricked my finger and allowed five drops of blood to fall into the mixture before stirring it with a specially-cut willow wand which I then used to anoint the crystal with five drops of the liquid. The drops appeared to be absorbed. Finally, I struck a flint and steel—a lighter or match might have been okay, but I preferred not to risk it—allowing the sparks to fall onto the liquid which burst into a sickly greenish flame.

All the while I was doing this, I was reciting what Prinn referred to in his famed Saracenic Rituals as The Sabaoth of the Genii, a list of Arabic or Hebrew-sounding words or names that were not to be found in any dictionaries. According to his description, chanting these words helped to ward off the evil spirits that would be attracted to the ritual preparations. In the basement of my London house, it had seemed almost comical, even knowing what I knew, yet down here I chanted in deadly earnestness. The hair on the nape of my neck and backs of my hands prickled as if the crypt were charged with electricity. I glanced nervously in the direction of the far end of the crypt where the grille let in the soft glow of moonlight; somewhere back there was a stairway to a deeper part of the tomb and I could almost believe that I saw shadows writhing there on the edge of my vision.

Now, I began the ritual itself. It began with a series of sibilant syllables that Prinn, in his Mysteries of the Worm, described as The Sacred Aklo, the meaning of which wasn’t provided; I’d found other references to ’Aklo’ in various occult texts, but nothing that enlightened me here, although Marianne’s annotations stated that were the language of some primal Serpent Genii that had ruled the Earth before men. These syllables were a preliminary to the proper ritual chant that was couched in a florid and somewhat ungrammatical Latin, the gist of which I understood, although many of the names were a mystery to me.

I began the chant:

“By the element of fire and the element of air,” I began.

“By the element of earth and the element of water;

“By the element of life that binds them all;

“By all five terrestrial elements I call to your soul;

“By these five I call to you.”

With each spoken line I circled the pentacle. Halting at her feet, I raised the willow wand and pointed it towards her head, towards the crystal. Although I was now facing towards the far end of the crypt, I resolutely resisted the urge to look to see if anything moved there.

“In the name of Lir and the name of Neit,” I continued.

“In the name of Azazel and infernal Belial;

“In the name of Hastur, Alar and Hali;

“In the name of all that is holy and all that is profane;

“In the name of Hades and the God of the Dead;

“Marianne, I call to you;

Marianne, I call you back.”

Again, a pause, this time so that I could stab my finger once more and let five further drops of blood fall into the shallow bowl; as they struck the greenish flame, a momentary cloud of vapor ascended and I resumed my chant.

“With my blood, I call to you;

“With my blood, I call you back.

“I call upon the Laughing God, He Who Laughs at Death;

“I call upon the Black Man, He Who Reveals Secrets;

“I call upon the Render of the Veils, He Who Is Unknowable;

“I call upon these three and upon all the Elder Gods to restore you to life.

“Marianne, I call to you;

“Marianne, I call you back.”

Once more I stood with the willow wand pointed at the crystal, which was glowing now with a strange inner light that seemed to make Marianne’s skin translucent so that I could see her skull through it.

“In the name of Tulu, I call to your soul;

“In the name of Nim, I call to your soul;

“In the name of Laxt, I call to your soul;

“I call upon these three and upon all the Elder Gods to restore you to life.

“Heed my call and return to me!

“Heed my call, Marianne! Heed my call!

“In the name of the Unknowable One;

“In the name of the All-in-One;

“In the name of the Ineffable One;

I summon you back from beyond the Gates of Death.

“Return!

“Return! Say I!

“Ia! Mortheran! Ia! Tinthelo!

“Return to me!

“Return! Return!”

The chant became a scream of desperation, an orgasmic cry to my beloved’s soul in whichever abyss it lay, an uninhibited cry of love and despair. I cried the words with more passion than I had before, praying to the mysterious Nim and the unholy Hastur that it would work again, that it would bring my Marianne back to life.

I fell sobbing to my knees as the flame flared and the light from the crystal strobed brightly. Then, the flame died and all the candles were extinguished by a sudden and momentary breeze that carried a vile smell of decay upon it. The glow from the crystal vanished and I was plunged into an impenetrable darkness; even the wan light of the moon was gone, as if hidden behind a sudden cloud.

I became aware of a distant whispering. For one panicked moment, I imagined it was the curious conversation of villagers attracted by my scream, then realized that the sounds were echoes of the ritual chant:

“Ia! Ia!” I heard, and, “Tulu. Nim. Hali. Lir.”

Were my words echoing back from some distant corner of the crypt? I wasn’t sure then and still don’t know; amongst them I thought I heard other whispered words that I couldn’t make out and which didn’t sound like those of the ritual. Certainly, hearing the words interwoven with a refrain of “Return... Return...” chilled my blood. It had not been like this when I’d raised the dog. This was different and I didn’t understand why.

Then, I caught a barely audible whisper of “Marianne...” and there was a sudden soft green glow and the candles sparked back into life to the accompaniment of a long, wheezing breath. I looked down in delighted shock to see Marianne restored to the image I knew from her portrait, arching her back as she sucked in lungfuls of air.

I shouted her name in delight and she stared at me, wild eyed and fearful, gasping for breath.

“Do not fear me!” I gabbled. “My name is John Peggy. My mother was a Devereux! My grandfather’s grandfather was your brother! Over a century has passed since your death! I’ve raised you back to life! We can be together forever, now, my love!”

I had to repeat my words more slowly as he bewildered expression told me she hadn’t comprehended anything I’d said.

“I died and yet am returned from death?” she asked with a dreamy air.

I assured her it was so.

“I remember a dark abyss and whispering voices,” she said, her gaze unfocused. “I knew not how long I was there.. .then I was here.”

“Yes, I brought you back.” I helped her to stand; Marianne was still a little unsteady.

“Prinn’s ritual served its purpose?”

“Yes.”

She smiled in a manner that unnerved me a little.

“I feel weak,” she murmured, then, shaking her head slightly, added: “So, you are my savior, John? The wise warlock who rescued me from the clutches of the dead.”

“All for love,” I told her.

She smiled coyly. “However may I reward you?”

She didn’t have to ask me twice. I stepped into the pentacle and took her in my arms, ardent yet attempting to be gentle. I didn’t want to hurt or frighten her. She welcomed my embrace and returned my kisses with equal vigor.

Marianne made no objection as I hitched up her skirts and we fell to the floor of the crypt and I began to make love to her. As her face contorted with ecstasy, her skin began to crack and grow tight and I stared horrified as she began to revert to her state as a desiccated corpse. I began to shriek in anguish, not knowing what to do to halt the decay, and tried to pull away from her. But, Marianne wouldn’t let me go.

“Tulu! Nim!” I cried in desperation to the blasphemous names I’d earlier called upon. “Hali! Don’t take her from me!”

I was staring down into sunken eyes like a pair of poached eggs, vomit rising in my throat. Her lips were moving and she was mouthing strange syllables.

“Don’t leave me!” I sobbed at her.

Suddenly, she tilted her head and sank her teeth into the side of my neck. I cried with the pain and was certain I felt blood escape from the wound. She bit deeper, masticating my flesh with a viciousness that went beyond lovemaking and was fuelled with an unholy desperation. I felt her suckling at the flow, drinking my blood.

Her cracked, parchment skin was becoming whole and supple once more. As she revived, I felt myself growing weaker. Horrified, I recalled the words I had chanted— With my blood I call you back!—and realized that it was my lifeblood that had called her back from beyond the Gates of Death. There were also those words penned by Julius in his Gloss that had seemed as irrelevant as anything else he’d written, but now held a dread weight in light of Marianne’s annotation of Prinn with the Biblical “The blood is the life’: “It is written by the sophist Silander that when one comes forth, another shall leave.”

Marianne’s life was dependent upon my death...

I had worked so hard to bring her back and, now, was being forced to choose between her life and mine. Which was not much of a choice as, no matter how much I desired her resurrection, it was predicated upon my desire for us to be together; I wasn’t prepared to die for love.

Desperately, I tried to pull away, but she clung to me, suckling hard. She had no hesitation in her actions.

I clumsily head-butted her and felt her nose crack. Taking advantage of her surprise, I rolled off her and out of the pentacle.

“John!” she howled, my blood dribbling down her chin as she groggily stood.

Ignoring her imploring cries, I ran for my backpack. Having heeded Prinn’s warning that the ritual could attract the attention of demonic beings and that the slightest error could summon up some hellish blasphemy, I’d brought with me a smooth stone inscribed with the Elder Sign according to the procedure outlined by Alhazred. I doubted that Marianne’s place had been taken by some horror, it was all too clear that she’d known what the ritual entailed and had no compunctions in doing what she had to do to ensure she’d live, but I had some hope that the stone might hold her back or destroy her given her unnatural, unfinished state.

I held the stone forth, but, although she paused to gaze at it a moment, it seemed to have no effect upon her; she advanced upon me. I began to chant the words from the Gloss that Julius claimed would ward off evil, but they had no more effect than the stone.

With no other option presenting itself, I struck her with the stone, causing her to fall to the floor with a bloody gash to her scalp.

She looked up at me with anguished eyes and I struck her again, then again and again.

She attempted to crawl towards me.

“In the name of Nim and Laxt,” I screamed at her, slamming down another blow “won’t you just die? Be gone!”

It may have been my imagination, but I thought the stone glowed; I smashed it into her skull again and Marianne collapsed, unmoving.

I tried to remember the chant for driving off a demonic spirit as recorded by Prinn.

“I call upon Uzriel to shield me from harm;

“I call upon dread Babeloth to drive away demons and lamiae;

“I call upon Kish to protect me from the Outsiders.”

I paused to smash her with the stone again.

“I cry out to the Laughing God to come to my defense;

“I cry out to the Black Man to lead me to safety;

“I cry out to the Render of the Veils to seal the breach.

“Be gone! Be gone! Be gone!”

I wasn’t certain those last words were part of the chant or not, but I brought down the stone each time I spoke them.

Gasping for breath, I let the stone slip from my fingers; it wasn’t glowing, but was smeared with blood and broken fragments of bone and skin. I stared at Marianne as she returned to her corpse state as if the ritual had never happened, her skull staved in grotesquely. From somewhere, a sound like mocking laughter echoed about me, then I heard the voice of the Vicar calling down to me, “Who’s there? What’s going on?”

I stared down at Marianne’s ruined corpse, not knowing what to do. I knew no spell to save me now.

Gingerbread Man

Rose Strickman

The worst thing about being dumped, Sarah had decided, was when she forgot. The little moments: like when she was listening to the radio while mixing the cake batter and smiled, reminding herself to tell Tom about that story on the news; or when she woke up on one side of the bed and reached out, in confusion, for the warm body she was sure must be there. Those moments made remembering all the more painful.

“You’ve just got to forget about him, Sarah!” Eileen shouted over the din of the bar. “Old Tomald Trump’s an asshole. There’s thousands like him.” She sipped her cocktail.

“Thanks, Eileen,” Sarah said gloomily. “That just makes me feel tons better.” She took her own, moody swig, leaning on the polished bar. “But that’s what I’m telling you. It’s when I forget that it hurts.”

“No,” Eileen said, wagging a finger at her. She was a tall, dark woman, considerably more put-together than the pale, wan little Sarah. “That’s when you forget that he dumped you and threw you out of your own apartment. You need to forget about him.”

“It wasn’t my apartment. It was his. And I can’t forget about him.” Sarah felt tears prick her eyes. “I just can’t. Everything reminds me of him. It’s like I’m swimming through a sea of Tom, just getting through the day.”

Eileen gave her arm a friendly thwack, slightly harder, perhaps, than she’d meant to; they’d both had a lot to drink. “You need a new apartment, Sarah-girl. I know that little flat is your childhood home and all, but it can’t be good for you, living on the same damn street as his damn building.”

“East Street Luxury Towers,” Sarah said bitterly. She slumped against the bar. “The building he goddamn owns.”

“Just a block away,” Eileen agreed. “Where you used to live, and where he still lives. No wonder you can’t get Tomald out of your mind.” Her eyes widened, and she flapped her hands in sudden excitement. “Hey, Sarah!”

“What?” Sarah looked up from her gloomy reverie.

“I’ve just had this amazing idea! You know you’re doing gingerbread at the bakery, right?”

“Seasonal specialty. Why?”

“Well, why don’t you make a gingerbread version of Tomald Trump’s precious Towers? You could make it, and then all of us girls could have a party, write swearwords on it in icing! Then we’d knock it down and eat it! Get back at Tomald!”

This was such an arresting image that it almost distracted Sarah from her misery. “That would be something.”

“Wouldn’t it!” Eileen grinned proudly. “So you make the tower, Sarah-girl, and let me know when it’s done. It’d be a great party! Meanwhile, I know several delectable guys who would be only too happy to distract you from Tomald...”

Sarah slumped back, letting Eileen’s words wash over her. Her misery was seeping back, like black water through cracks in the earth. It was always like this: she couldn’t forget her unhappiness, except for those exquisitely agonizing moments when she thought she had Tom back. Tom, Tom the real estate developer. Tom the rich, the dashingly handsome, Tom who had, for a time, been hers. Before he decided that he no longer wanted her.

“.So, I’ll set you up,” Eileen finished. “Saturday evening work for you?”

“What?” Sarah looked up. “What? No! Eileen, I don’t want to be set up!”

“It’ll be good for you,” Eileen declared. She signaled the bartender, who handed her the bill. “Trust me, Rahul’s absolutely gorgeous. If anyone can take your mind off Tomald Trump, it’s him.” She signed her name with a flourish and stood up.

“I think I’ve had enough of gorgeous guys,” Sarah muttered rebelliously as she wrapped herself back into her coat and scarf and slid off the barstool. The tears threatened again: Tom had given her this green scarf. Stop it, Sarah. This is pathetic.

Outside, the cold hit them like a fist, a blast of icy air on their exposed faces. It did at least have the advantage of sobering them up; yelping with cold, they hurried on, parting at the end of the block.

“So let me know when the gingerbread party is!” Eileen called before dashing off to catch a taxi.

Sarah waved farewell and set off along the sidewalk, back to East Street. It wasn’t far, but she almost wished she’d gotten Eileen to walk back with her; to get home, she had to walk past East Street Luxury Towers. The apartment complex loomed tall over the other buildings, its warm lighted windows gleaming through the darkness. The old-fashioned, wrought-iron streetlamp illuminated its brickwork, the white gleam of a lintel; and the pillared porch, which glowed with its own fancy light.

It was starting to snow, handfuls of flakes spitting down. She knew she should hurry on, but she found herself slowing down, stopping to stare at the building. It was made of purposely distressed brown brick; every windowsill and lintel was fashioned from white marble. To preserve the historical authenticity of the neighborhood, in Tom’s own words, even though his Luxury Towers were the newest structure on East Street. Sarah couldn’t see the top of the great facade, but she knew there was a fancy marble decal there, and behind the facade was the penthouse.

A taxi growled up, and Sarah tore her eyes from the Towers to watch through the gathering snow as two figures climbed out, pulling each other out and laughing. Her stomach clenched as she recognized one of them.

Tom was escorting the blonde lady up the steps toward the Towers. Tom, just as movie-star handsome as ever, with his shining red hair and sparkling eyes. Tom, still wearing his impeccable suit. Tom, just as happy and confident as before, not even seeing Sarah as he waltzed the red-clad tootsie up the steps and into the building.

To the elevator, Sarah knew with a sick sinking sensation, and then to the penthouse. She knew exactly how it must look in there right now; knew because, for six months, she had lived there herself. With Tom.

A high-pitched noise tore itself out of her throat. Bending her head against the wind, she hurried on through the snowstorm, her tears drying cold on her cheeks.

#

Missus Cupcake, unlike East Street Luxury Towers, was situated in a genuinely historic old building, having been in Sarah’s family for years. It had belonged to Sarah’s grandmother before her; it had been Mary’s Bakery back then, not specializing in cupcakes. Grandma had raised Sarah there, after a car crash left her orphaned, in the tiny apartment above the shop. Sarah had lived away from it for only six months of her life—and those six months had been with Tom.

Now Sarah made her way to the back door, blindly. She fumbled with her icy keys, clumsy with shock and cold. She sobbed at the delay, trying frantically to insert the key; finally, she got the door open. Stumbling in, she pushed it shut behind her.

Only then did she sink down, harsh sobs wracking out of her, purse falling away unheeded. She stayed in the dark hallway a long time, crouched down, clutching herself, cold and weeping in the dark.

At last she took a long, shaky breath. She wiped her tears away, angrily, before slowly standing up.

She wanted her grandmother. She wanted to hear Grandma moving around the kitchen, whispering her strange little chants over the cakes and frosting; see her turn and smile as Sarah came in. Her grandmother was long dead. But the kitchen was still there.

Sarah went down the hall, therefore, and threw her purse onto the kitchen counter. She snapped on the light, blinking as it buzzed on. Missus Cupcake might be in a historic building in a historic neighborhood, but its kitchen was completely modern, hygienic and up-to-date; even now, Sarah took pride in how sparkling clean she and her assistants left it every evening. Grandma would be pleased.

She wondered what her grandmother would think of Eileen’s proposal. She’d probably approve; she’d always believed in the power of food. Sarah shrugged; why not?

She headed over to the walk-in refrigerator. Swinging the door open, she marched in to grab a large metal tray. Carefully, she heaved it out and placed it on the counter, closing the door behind her.

Next, she marched to the frosting fridge. Missus Cupcake always made their own frosting; part of their marketing was that they were an old-fashioned bakery, making everything from scratch. But there was a tub of ready-made white icing in the fridge, carefully marked with its age and flavor. Sarah brought it out.

Next, a tray, and a long confectionary tube. Then she got an apron from the closet, a hairnet and gloves from the cabinet. She put on the apron, washed her hands and donned the hairnet and gloves.

Then she took the slab of gingerbread from its tray and laid it on the cutting board. She measured ten inches on the slab, and sliced with one quick, sure move.

She laid it out on the empty tray.

Sarah stared at it a moment: a large rectangle of gingerbread, hard and spicy brown. Something fell from her face, landed with a tiny plop onto the cake. She was still crying. Sarah swiped at her tears, deliberately rough, and turned away.

Already she was humming what little she remembered of Grandma’s chants, the songs she used to sing here at night, bent over her cakes and cookies.. .Working quickly, Sarah loaded the tube with the white icing. Aiming it carefully, still humming, she drew on the first of the windows, squeezing a thin white line onto the dough.

Hours later, Sarah straightened, her back protesting. She shook her hands out, flexing her fingers. It truly was the dead of night now, no noise anywhere—but the gingerbread was finished: a long wall, drawn with elegant white windows, with dozens of tiny bricks drawn in icing.

There was still a blank space at the top. The tube was almost empty, but there was still enough for Sarah, holding her tongue between her teeth, to write East Street Luxury Towers in slightly wobbly letters.

Then she put away the ingredients. She cleaned her equipment. And she carried the finished gingerbread away upstairs, to her own refrigerator.

She didn’t want her assistants finding it.

#

“Hey, Sarah?”

“What?” Sarah was slow this morning, her head aching from too little sleep. She rubbed her eyes, yawned, and focused on Colleen.

The younger woman, clad in the Missus Cupcake apron, gloves and hairnet, was standing in the walk-in refrigerator, sorting through the gingerbread trays and frowning. “There’s, like, this big piece cut out of this gingerbread.”

“Oh, that.” Sarah yawned again. She caught sight of herself on the polished bottom of a copper pan hanging on the wall; she looked terrible, eyes red, mouse-colored hair falling in greasy locks from her hairnet. Better not try to serve out front today.

“It was nothing,” she told Colleen. “Just an idea I had.” She immediately changed the subject. “Let’s get started on the gingerbread houses today, okay? Get the candies out.”

All day, while Wayne served customers out front, Sarah and Colleen constructed and decorated gingerbread houses, painting on windows, roof tiles, little details, and encrusting them with candies. The tiny cottages were cute, embedded on white frosting thickly spread on gingerbread squares, but Sarah’s mind wasn’t really with the task. It was upstairs, with her other project.

Just after lunch, Eileen called.

Sarah read the caller ID and put her phone to her ear with a sigh. “What is it, Eileen?”

“Good afternoon to you, too!” Eileen said ironically. “Good news, Grump: Rahul says he’s happy to go out with you!”

Sarah sighed. “Eileen, I told you—”

“Yeah, yeah, no setting you up. Luckily, I never listen to neurotic depressives trying to avoid all social interaction! Okay, sweetie: the date’s Saturday evening, at Kristaki’s, seven o’clock. Plenty of time for you to get cleaned up, get pretty. I’ve instructed Rahul to arrive at least fifteen minutes early, so all you have to do is show up. You’ll see him right away: he’s absolutely gorgeous. Just the thing to get your mind off Tomald.”

The pain lanced. Sarah had to close her eyes. “Eileen, I really don’t think I’m ready—”

“Don’t be silly, Sarah: you’ll have a great time! Speaking of which, how’s the progress on our gingerbread party?”

Sarah’s heart thumped. “Pretty good. I’ve gotten started on the tower.”

“Excellent! Let me know how it goes, and be there at seven o’clock Saturday!”

She hung up.

#

It wasn’t Rahul, who was handsome and nice and everything Eileen had promised. And it wasn’t the restaurant, which was very good, and where Tom had never been. No, the reason the date went so badly was all Sarah.

Dutifully, she had arrived in her best jacket and tight black jeans, her hair pulled back and makeup applied. Rahul had seemed appreciative, standing up to shake her hand and beam at her. The food, which he paid for, was extremely tasty. But Sarah spent the whole evening sunk in misery, Tom an agonizing picture in her mind, answering all of poor Rahul’s conversational assays in monosyllables, unable to bring herself to care about anything he said. It was no good telling herself to stop being pathetic and rude. Nothing ever did any good.

But the worst was yet to come.

As she and Rahul were leaving the restaurant, pausing to put on their coats, the door opened yet again with an icy blast. And Tom and the blonde walked in.

Sarah froze. Tom had been so much on her mind that it was unbelievable to her that he was actually here, in the flesh. But there he was: as redheaded, dapper and breathtakingly gorgeous as ever, the blonde on his arm. The perfect pair.

It took Tom, who was hanging up his coat and talking to the receptionist, a moment to realize that Sarah was there. Then he looked up, and his eyes widened. “Sarah?”

Sarah couldn’t speak. It was Rahul, looking confused, who said, “Sarah? Who is this?”

She breathed, “Tom.” Then, fighting hard, she said, “Rahul, this is Tom Atkins. He’s, uh...”

“A former boyfriend,” Tom said smoothly, reaching over to shake Rahul’s hand. “Hi, Rahul.”

Rahul’s eyes widened. “Uh, nice to meet you. What do you do?”

“I’m a developer,” Tom said carelessly. “I own East Street Luxury Towers. Right near Sarah’s cupcake place. She told you about that, right?”

“I know about her cupcake business,” Rahul said. “I haven’t eaten there, but my coworker, Eileen, says it’s very good.”

“Oh, it is.” Tom grinned.

“Tom.” The blonde was drumming her long red fingernails on the reservation desk.

“Well, I must be off!” laughed Tom. “Joanne here doesn’t take waiting very well. See you around, Rahul.. .Sarah.”

Sarah watched as he and Joanne waltzed off to their table. The lights glimmered on his shining hair as he hurried away. Can’t catch me, she thought. I’m the Gingerbread Man.

Somehow, she got rid of Rahul. Then she hurried home, heading straight to the kitchen. There she disabled the smoke alarm before lighting four white tea lights, positioned in glass cups on the counter. Then she took out the second slab of gingerbread.

“Run, run, run, as fast as you can,” she sang softly. Can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man. Run, run, run... The chant went on and on, in Sarah’s head and on her tongue. “.As fast as you can. Gonna catch you, Gingerbread Man.” She aimed the tube and drew on the white lines, squinting through the flickering light. Run, run, run, as fast as you can. I’m gonna catch you, Gingerbread Man. It moved on, from chant to drumbeat, the words losing all meaning, the rhythm sounding in the dark. “.I’m gonna catch you, Gingerbread Tom.”

She chanted it; she sang it. Her heart beat to this new tune as the night wore on and she created another wall of East Street Luxury Towers.

Outside, snow was falling.

#

It happened Wednesday afternoon.

Sarah was serving out front, just handing a vanilla cupcake to a little girl with her mother when she heard the bell ring on the front door. She knew instantly; she didn’t need to look up, achingly slowly. She didn’t need to see his impeccable alpaca coat, or hear her tinkling laughter.

But she did it all anyway.

“Hi, Sarah!” said Tom sunnily. “I brought Joanne here to taste your marvelous cupcakes!”

Sarah stared. She couldn’t believe this. She literally could not believe her eyes—Tom was here, now, in her shop, with his new girlfriend. Her gaze jammed on the bright, glittering pair, over and over, but her mind would not take them in.

The mother, sensing trouble, hurriedly handed over the money, and Sarah cashed it automatically, all the while staring at Tom and Joanne as they glided across the black and white tiles to the plastic seats at the white bar. Joanne hopped into a seat with a little twist and jump, while Tom, hair and scarf still glittering with snowflakes, leaned one elbow on the counter.

He was just inches away.

The door jingled shut behind the family, and Tom nodded at Sarah. “Hi, Sarah, how’re you doing?” He paused. “And Rahul?”

“This is all terribly fattening, isn’t it?” said Joanne, surveying the cupcakes critically. “Do you have any low-carb options?”

What does she think this is, a dieting restaurant? But still, the question got her thinking again. “Our vegan cupcakes are very low-carb,” she said, avoiding Tom’s eyes and hurrying over to the case. She pointed one out. “Very low calorie count.”

Joanne pursed her lips. “No. I’m not into vegan.” She turned to Tom piteously. “Tom, you said this place was good.”

“It is good, sweetie,” said Tom, giving Joanne an affectionate rub. Sarah thought she was going to throw up. “If you’re not trying to keep a corporate figure.”

Sarah flushed angrily; so she was fat now, too? “Or we have gingerbread squares,” her idiot mouth kept running. “Which are very nonfattening. Seasonal specialty.”

“So, Sarah, how are you?” Tom asked, lounging again against the counter. “I mean, really?”

Had Tom always been this cruel and she had just been blind, Sarah wondered, or had Joanne turned him evil? “I’m fine, thank you. If you like the gingerbread, we have some newly construct—”

“How about that Rahul, then?” Tom asked in a would-be casual voice.

“I don’t know. How about Joanne?”

The words leaped out of Sarah’s mouth before she could stop them. A dead silence greeted them, Joanne’s lipsticked smile sliding from her face.

“I think I’ll have one of those squares.” Tom looked really pissed off now, eyes small and furious. “Then it’s back to work for us, huh, Joanne? Lots to do.”

“That’s right,” said Joanne with a venomous laugh. “It must be nice, running a bakery, but some of us have really terrible schedules, you know.”

Her hands shaking, Sarah got out the gingerbread square, wrapped in tissue paper, and handed it to Tom, careful not to let her hand touch his. He passed over the $7.50, sliding the money across the polished counter. The change was made up in a quarter, two dimes and a nickel.

“Exact change,” smirked Tom.

Sarah closed her eyes against the tide of memory—she couldn’t help it. Tom was fanatical about giving exact change, to the extent that he always carried an extra coin purse. Those restaurants and shopping trips they went on—she forced herself, slowly, to open her eyes.

Tom took a bite of his gingerbread, eyes gleaming as he saw he had discomfited Sarah. He turned smartly about. Then, with a rush of cold air, he and Joanne exited Missus Cupcake.

The bell tinkled into silence. Sarah stared down at the money. It was a moment before she opened the cash register.

The bills she cashed immediately, but she hesitated over the four coins, lying gleaming in her hand. With a swift move, she dug out two quarters from her own pocket and put them into the cash drawer.

Tom’s money she stowed away.

#

That night, she let the tears fall onto the cake, one by one.

The four candles guttered low in their glass cups. The drumbeat sounded: Run, run, run, as fast as you can. I’m gonna catch you, Gingerbread Man. It reverberated through Sarah’s head as she drew the service door onto the back wall of East Street Luxury Towers.

“That’s right, you bitch,” she whispered viciously. “Go out the back door! Take the fucking service exit, and never come back again!” Joanne, Joanne, Joanne.

With a ferocious swipe, she finished the last line of icing on the back wall. She gave a rasping sob, and turned to the final slab.

It was slightly longer than the others; Sarah had cut it into a simplified version of the Luxury Towers’ facade. Here she paid especial care, moving the lights closer, steadying her hands on the confectionary tube.

A teardrop, fallen onto the gingerbread, glimmered for a moment before being absorbed by the dough.

Run, run, run fast along. I’m gonna catch you...

With a deep breath, Sarah began work on the final wall.

She whispered aloud as she worked, describing Tom: his good looks and selfish heart, his wealth and property. His little quirks: exact change. His fickleness, his abiding jealousy that drove him to show off his new girlfriend to his old one, to have the gall to enter her shop even after he had broken her heart and kicked her out of their apartment.

Run, run, run fast along. I’m gonna catch you, Gingerbread Tom.

Little white candies on the elaborate front porch. The largest, most lavish windows. And the bricks of course, the “authentic” bricks. Hundreds of them.

And Tom’s name, written large, midway up the facade. She drew it in long, extravagant lines of icing: TOM.

And one other thing.

The decal.

With swift strokes, Sarah drew a pentagram into the top of Tom’s building.

#

Sarah couldn’t say she was entirely surprised when Tom burst into the shop the next day.

Eileen, who had stopped by for an after-work cupcake, turned and raised an eyebrow at the din of the bell. “Well, well, look who it is.”

“Where is she?” Tom was wild-eyed, wild-haired; his coat hung open and his face was stung by the wind. “Where’s Joanne?”

“How should I know?” Sarah asked crisply, opening the register. Bring. “It’s not like she’s going to talk to me, is it?”

“She left.” Tom raked a hand through his hair, making it stand up on end, as he paced back and forth. “Last night everything was perfect, and now she’s gone!”

“What, amazed that some woman is willfully depriving herself of your charms, Tom?” Eileen said dryly as she accepted her change. She took an ostentatious bite of cupcake.

“She left by the service exit. The cameras caught her.” Tom stopped pacing to jab a long, accusing finger at Sarah. “You’ve got something to do with it, I know it!”

“Honestly, Tom, if you’re that obsessed with Sarah, why did you kick her out in the first place?” Eileen drawled. “Now, are you actually going to buy a cupcake, or are you just going to be a drama queen?”

“Or you could get another gingerbread square,” added Sarah. “Or one of our gingerbread houses?”

Tom glared at both women a moment more. Then, spinning on his heel, he charged back out into the winter dusk, the door slamming behind him.

Eileen turned back to Sarah. “Well! Tomald Trump’s latest squeeze found out what a bastard he was and left, did she? First good news I’ve heard all day!” She eyed Sarah. “Speaking of gingerbread, how is our Tower going?”

Sarah smiled serenely. “Almost finished. I’ll let you know.”

#

That night, the kitchen was silent. Only the refrigerators buzzed.

The hiss of a match. Sarah lit each of the tea lights and arranged them on the counter. A square of flickering yellow. Carefully, she laid aside a fifth, unlit candle.

The four pieces of gingerbread lay in trays: the completed walls of East Street Luxury Towers, not yet put together. A tray in which lay the largest slab of gingerbread yet. A basin full of freshly-mixed white frosting.

Swiftly, Sarah scooped the frosting out, slathering her spatula all over the gingerbread. Run, run, run, as fast as you can. I’m gonna catch you, Gingerbread Man. Again, her tears flowed, falling onto the thick layer of frosting, like sculpted snow.... Catch you, Gingerbread Tom.

Sarah set aside the empty basin. Lifting up the back wall, she began construction on the tower: three walls, the back and the two sides, sunk deeply into the frosting. Each of them jammed firmly in, with frosting heaped up at their bases. The back wall glued to the others with icing mortar.

Run, run, run fast along. I’m gonna catch you, Gingerbread Tom.

Now she lifted up the facade. It was heavy in her hands, heavy as a tombstone. For a moment, she hesitated.

Can I really do this?

Yes.

It stood upright on the base with no trouble at all.

The tower was not yet complete. Sarah aimed blobs of icing onto each of the corners. Reaching into a nearby ceramic bowl, she took out the quarter, two dimes and a nickel, and embedded them into the still-sticky icing. They gleamed in the candlelight.

Sarah stared at the completed tower: grand and intricate, wealthy, with Tom’s name written on it, but hollow inside. Fake. A building without an interior. Without a heart.

Now Sarah took up the fifth candle, the tall black one. She struck another match, and held it to the wick. It caught immediately, burning high and bright.

By the light of the candle in her hands, Sarah looked over her creation. She saw the gleam of the coins. She read her former lover’s name. And, almost against her will, her eyes moved to the pentagram. The star pointing downward, toward darkness and damnation.

“This is your life, Tom.” Her voice was quiet; her tears were all gone now. “This is your work. A hollow, roofless, empty building. Money used for pointless things. A front door for you to enter. A back door for your lover to leave. Nothing inside. A gingerbread house.”

Still holding the black candle aloft, she reached for the tube with her free hand. One last blob of icing, sprayed into the center of the pentagram.

She laid down the tube and reached into the bowl again. She removed a tiny cookie, shaped like a human figure.

“And this, Tom,” she whispered, “is you. A Gingerbread Man.”

And she attached it in the center of the pentagram, pressing deep into the icing.

And she blew the candle out.

Smoke coiled up from the candle, making Sarah’s nose itch. She laid it down on the counter, where it rolled about, and waved the smoke away.

Nothing happened. Sarah’s creation was just a large, elaborate gingerbread tower in the light of four little candles. She sighed, feeling her exhaustion. Her hands ached and her eyes were dry. She also felt more foolish by the minute: what had she been thinking, playing at black magic? Stealing from her own business, trying to be her grandmother. Of course nothing was happening: this was just a gingerbread tower, destined to be destroyed at a party.

Stupid, Sarah. Stupid.

Stripping off her gloves with swift, angry movements, she shoved the tray away.

With a tiny snap, the gingerbread man fell off. With a tiny thud, it landed.

Sarah froze. The cookie must have been very weak, since its cushioned landing onto thick frosting had cracked its almost nonexistent neck.

A faint noise buzzed in Sarah’s ears, like a long, thin scream from far away; abruptly cut off. With a final sputter, all four of the tea lights went out at once, leaving her in darkness.

Slowly, Sarah backed away. The tower loomed in the dark, like a block of pure blackness.

Eventually, she left the kitchen.

#

Sarah was awoken very early, by the scream of a siren outside her apartment.

She sat up in bed, blinking sleep away. Sirens wailed past, devastatingly loud so close to her window. Standing up and dressing hurriedly, she went downstairs.

Outside, the dark morning was freezing: ice coated the sidewalks, and snow whirled overhead. She pulled her coat closer around her, following the whirling lights of the ambulance down the street. It was pulled up outside East Street Luxury Towers, along with a police car.

“...Possible suicide,” she heard one officer saying. “White male, midthirties, fallen from an upper floor.”

Unnoticed, Sarah pressed in, knowing already what she would see.

Tom wasn’t wearing pajamas. He never had: just shorts, even in winter. His legs were bare, long, oddly obscene lying crooked on the snow. Not as obscene, however, as the angle of his neck, or the expression of glazed terror in his open eyes.

In the wind, his hair fluttered.

“Hey, lady.” Sarah started as a police officer loomed over her. “This is a crime scene. You need to leave.”

Without replying, Sarah turned and headed back to Missus Cupcake. The morning was cold and dark, and snowflakes blew into her eyes, but she hurried on, bent against the wind, back into her shop.

The door jingled behind her as she made her way across the serving area back into the kitchen. The gingerbread tower still stood, surrounded by the blackened remains of the candles. The gingerbread man with his broken neck.

Eileen had been so looking forward to that party. How on earth was Sarah going to explain?

Thy Just Punishments

Edward M. Erdelac

The steady flow of sins petty and titanic, real and imagined, droned in hushed whispers through the confessional screen, punctuated each time by a myriad of variations on the Act of Contrition;

“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offended Thee, O Lord, who art all-merciful and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more.”

Father Tim O’Herlihey half-listened, doled out Hail Marys and Our Fathers, muttered out rehearsed advice when prompted, and checked the passing of every other minute on his watch, fighting to keep from laying his head against the finished wood wall and snoring. He squinted at his racing form and wondered if he could hit the ATM and catch the Blue Line down to Suffolk Downs in time for the last run.

The Bishop had promised him a new priest this month, just in time for him to saddle the poor bastard with Saturday confession and free him up for next month’s Belmont Stakes Day.

Of course, first he had to pull a stake together. There had been questions about the lightness of the parish’s tithe last month. He had thought he’d had a sure thing with this maiden horse Norfolk Enchants, but the stupid nag had busted its leg on a turn and thrown its jockey over the withers, losing to Peony’s Envy.

“Bless you, Fadder, for you have sinned,” growled the next voice through the screen.

The setup of the booth was supposed to foment anonymity and ease the nerves of the confessor, but he’d been at St. Brigid’s so long he knew every one of the parishioners’ voices anyway, just as he knew the owner of the deep Southie accent was not one of them.

“How many months has it been since your last confession?” he wheezed. A bullet in the lung had given him that hazy whistle years ago.

Father Tim smiled into his hand. He knew where his stake would come from now. No heat from the goddamned Bishop this month.

He slid the screen open a crack, and glimpsed the fleshy, bulldog face of Peachy Muldoon. That voice, like a crocodile with a belly full of gravel, suited that meaty, half-lidded face, even if his nickname did not.

“Heya Peachy, you got something for me?”

A plain white envelope slid through the crack into his fingers. Thick.

“For the orphans, Fadder. You know you’re the surest thing Murphy’s had since Terry Dunne got sent up the river to South Bay?”

Father Tim slit open the envelope with his pinkie and counted out five hundred dollars.

“Is that a fact?” he said with the same disinterested tone he reserved for the confessions. His brain was already working out his spread.

“Don’t know how you do it,” said Peachy.

“What’s the name?” Father Tim said, slipping the envelope into his pocket beneath his vestments.

“Michael O’Bannon.”

“OK,” said Father Tim, sliding the screen shut. “Tomorrow’s Mass.”

“Tanks, Fadder.”

Creaking as he started to rise. The little light above the screen that lit to let the priest know someone had knelt down in the booth flickered.

“Hey Peachy.”

“Yeah?”

“Any word from Sullivan? What’s the fix today down at Suffolk?”

“Jesus, Fadder, the track closes in an hour.”

“So?”

“So you’re too late.”

Father Tim sucked his lips.

“Hey let me know if you hear anything about the Belmont next month, OK?”

“Awright, Fadder.”

The light winked out.

Father Tim rubbed his eyes.

“Peachy.”

“Yeah?”

“How many more out there?”

“I’m the last one. Go home.”

Father Tim listened to the door slam shut and folded up his race form in his bible. He flicked out the light and stepped out into the church proper, already unbuttoning his cassock, when he turned and nearly bowled over a trembling little old white haired woman in a tweed house coat and white knit cap.

“Oh excuse me, Father!” laughed the old woman nervously, in a brogue as thick and whimsical as an extra from The Quiet Man.

Father Tim didn’t know this woman. They’d had an influx of new parishioners while Gate of Heaven over on 4^th Street was being renovated. She was probably one of the refugees.

“You’re Father Tim, aren’t you?” she said, smiling like a mummy and putting out her withered hand.

“Yes that’s right,” said Father Tim, his heart sliding down into the pit of his stomach. She had that hopeful, talkative look about her. Probably stood outside after the dismissal pumping her pastor’s hand and going on and on about her cats or her grandkids or both.

He tucked his bible under his arm and took her dry hand in both of his, being careful not to let her wrinkled fingers clench his own.

“I’m Mary Ladhe,” the old sprite gobbled. “I usually attend Mass at Gate of Heaven, but you know...”

“Yes, the renovations, I know,” said Father Tim, keeping a thin smile plastered across his face. “Well, welcome to St. Brigid’s.”

He released her hand and began to step past.

“Thank you. Am I too late for confession?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Ladhe, but confession only goes to three forty five,” he said, half stepping into the aisle and looking apologetically over his shoulder.

“Oh is it past that now? I thought I was on time. I had trouble getting up the steps. We’ve got a ramp at Gate of Heaven, you know.”

“Well I’d plan for that next time,” said Father Tim, raising his eyebrows.

Miss Ladhe’s expression slipped a bit.

“Oh yes, well.. ..do you have somewhere to be?”

“I’m afraid I do, or I’d surely make time for you,” he said, gaining the aisle at last and genuflecting to the altar, rapidly crossing himself. “I’ve a deathly ill lady to look in on. Mrs. Rodriguez.”

“Oh well, I suppose she can’t wait then.”

“No,” said Father Tim, hastily crossing to the sacristy door. “I’m sorry, Ms. Ladhe. It was nice meeting you.”

“Father?” Miss Ladhe called, her haggish voice echoing in the cavernous church, making the candles flicker, he imagined.

Her tone had changed slightly. He looked back curiously.

She was straightening up, having just stooped down apparently. Her face wore a deep frown, the wrinkled eyelids half-lidded.

She held his race form between her fingers.

“You dropped this.”

“Nope, not mine,” said Father Tim smiling airily. “Must’ve been one of the parishioners.”

“It slipped out of your bible.”

“Did it?” He squinted across the church. “Oh that. I found it in the pew.

I was using it as a bookmark. You can toss it.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded, smiling.

“Good day, Ms. Ladhe.”

He ducked into the sacristy and muttered a curse against the old bitch as he stripped off his vestments. He’d never make the track now.

He phoned the bodega in East Boston and asked Jose, the young chicken killer, to put aside a black cockerel for him, then locked up the church and hopped on the Blue Line with his kitty carrier.

Being in veritable eye shot of the Downs was a bitch, but he resisted the strong urge to jog down to the track and ducked into the bodega instead, waving to Josefa at the counter and proceeding to the back hallway, where a couple of kids were eating Chiclets and impassively watching Jose through the glass.

The dingy killing floor was flecked with blood and white feathers, and Jose in his black apron and rubber boots stood between two large grey plastic garbage pails, one full of dead chickens, the other with a lid on it.

Jose mechanically lifted the lid a crack to slip his yellow gloved hand in and pulled out a squawking chicken. He twisted its neck and flung it into the other bin.

By the time Father Tim had rapped loud enough on the glass to get Jose’s attention he had killed six the same way, rapidly and unmercifully, Father Tim supposed, as the End of Days must be.

Jose grinned a golden toothed smile and put a red brick on the lid of the live chicken bin, then came over and let him in.

“Padre! Necessita un negro, si?”

Twenty bucks later he had a black rooster in the kitty carrier and was on his way back to the church.

The sun had gone down and Eladio had locked up the church, but Father Tim had his keys.

He locked the door behind him, went into the sacristy, and changed into his vestments, taking the old red iron knife that had been his great uncle’s from the lock box at the bottom of his closet. He took the carrier out to the altar and lit the candles.

He laid out the chalice, missal, and the black corporal, and began the orate fratres.

“Orate, fratres, ut meum ac vestrum sacrificium acceptabile fiat apud Deum Patrem omnipotentem.”

The greatest injustice to the Roman rite had been the Vatican’s abandonment of Latin. His uncle had always told him that old words had power, and English diluted that power.

He had loved the old Latin Mass since his boyhood, and as an altar boy had not confined himself to the responses, but memorized even the priest’s words. Indeed, he had imagined himself not a mere server, but a kind of acolyte in the sacred traditions, a boy-priest on a mystic path. He sometimes fancied in his most blasphemous moments that the opulent house of God with its marble floors and golden accoutrements was his own throne room.

Then once during a particularly early Mass, he had mistakenly dashed the silver paten against the edge of the altar and the Holy Eucharist had fallen to the floor. Just a clumsy, daydreaming boy’s mistake, but the entire congregation had let out a collective gasp that had colored his cheeks and ears.

The disapproving scowl of Father John as he stooped over to retrieve the Host by hand had solidified his embarrassment, and to make matters worse, Sister Doligosa had slapped him in the sacristy when he’d returned to change out of his cassock after Mass.

“You serve like a cowboy,” the wrinkled old woman had scolded.

He’d been eleven, and run from the church with stinging tears.

He’d been something of a bad boy after that; smoking, profaning, drinking, fleeing wholly from the Church in frustrated anger. He had decided that in that moment of innocent clumsiness, he’d been afforded a glimpse at the true nature of so-called believers; that they put more stock in pomp and ritual than in the true love of God.

Hypocrites.

Yet his dear mother had been worried at his turn around, and sent him off to spend time with his great Uncle Patrick, a priest himself from the old country, though of a decidedly different kind than any he’d ever met before or since.

Uncle Patrick had seen the anger in the boy, and one day coaxed the story of why he’d all but abandoned his faith.

To Tim’s surprise, Uncle Patrick had said;

“It’s entirely right you are, Tim. The world is populated wholly by dumb bleating sheep with no understanding whatsoever of the power of the Mass. The Mass is nothing less than magic, Tim. Magic passed down to us from the agents of the gods. And through it,” he said, touching the side of his red nose and winking one sky blue eye, “those with the knowing can bend the will of the angels to our own purpose.”

Tim recited the sursum coda, sang the trisanctus and the hosanna, and then unlocked the carrier and took out the twitching black cockerel.

Now, with relish, he lifted the clucking chicken high with the iron knife and recited the consecration, the ultimate blasphemy, naming the fowl the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ.

The knife was a relic of the Old Religion, Uncle Patrick had said, given to a monk named Finnian by one of the legendary Tuatha De, the magic folk of Old Ireland, Tuan mac Cairill. The story was that the monk had sought out Tuan and preached the Gospel to him. Tuan had told the monk of his own gods, and that the monk Finnian had realized the folly of Christianity, and pledged himself to Tuan’s instruction. Tuan, knowing that Christ had conquered his people, saw an opportunity to keep their memory alive and strike at the Church from within. He bestowed Finnian with the sacred sacrificial knife, and the monk became the first of a secret line of priests who paid lip service to Christ but honored the old gods, and perverted the Mass to their ends whenever they could.

And so Tim had become the latest of that ancient line.

He passed the sacred knife of Tuan beneath the beak of the rooster and lets its blood piddle into the chalice.

When it was drained, he raised the brimming cup of blood and the dead animal carcass again to the empty church and proclaimed;

“Per ipsum et cum ipso et in ipso est tibi Deo Patri omnipotenti in unitate Spiritus Sancti omnis honor et gloria per omnia saecula saeculorum.”

He recited the rest of the rite of transubstantiation, broke the chicken’s neck symbolically, and laid it on the paten.

Then, he recited in Gaelic the age old curse;

“Michael O’Bannon —

No butter be on your milk nor on your ducks a web

May your child not walk and your cow be flayed

And may the flame be bigger and wider

Which will go through your soul

Than the Connemara mountains

If they were a-fire.”

He raised the cup to his lips and downed the warm iron-tasting blood.

That night, as ever, he roasted and ate the chicken.

Sunday morning he returned to St. Brigid’s and found his new priest waiting for him, a beaming young Filipino man, fresh from St. John’s seminary, with huge oversized glasses, his dark eyes made dim from years spent squinting at theological texts.

“Father Tim?”

“Father Matthew,” Tim said, smiling and taking his hand. “Will you be assisting me today?”

“I thought I would watch from the sacristy, if that’s OK.”

“Alright,” Tim said smiling. “Sunday’s as good a day as any to take a leave of rest. This is yours. But I expect you to assist tomorrow, and I want to see you run your own Mass on Tuesday.”

“OK Father,” Matthew laughed nervously. “OK.”

The Sunday Mass went smoothly. The usual crowd was doubled due to the number of temporary congregants from Gates of Heaven. A week ago he would’ve been squeezing his fists at the sight of that brimming collection basket, but today he had money in his pocket and felt good.

He saw the Ladhe woman sitting in the front pew. She had squeezed out some of the other old biddies who liked to arrive early and get the seat before the rail, shuffling through the morning paper as they passed it back and forth before the rest of the sinners drifted in; haughty old bitches who thought themselves lordly and righteous, as though grace alighted faster on their blue and white heads because they got their Communion first.

When the time came for the Intercessions to be read he ascended the podium and said;

“All grace flows from God. Let us now turn to God with our needs and the needs of the world, confident that our prayers will be answered.”

After leading the respondents through several general prayers for the country, the Church, the Pope and the bishops, he got out the list of recently departed old Mrs. Villalobos always brought him before first Mass and read the list of names.

“For the souls of Javier Vergara, Louisa Pena, Rachel Davies, Joseph R. Mulcahey, and Michael O’Bannon, that they may be welcomed into your eternal kingdom, we pray to the Lord.”

The church thundered back in one mechanical voice;

“Lord hear our prayer.”

It was done.

That night, while perusing the sports page of the evening edition, he turned to the obituaries and read that one Michael O’Bannon had somehow managed to step into an open manhole in the instant between when the city workers had removed the safety barrier and turned to replace the heavy cover. He had fallen and died of a broken neck.

The supplicants had spoken, unifying their will, just as his Uncle Patrick had taught him. The shepherd conducted the sheep. The Mass was the staff with which they were goaded.

#

Monday Father Matthew assisted him in the Mass. He was a nervous sort, and nearly tripped over the altar boys a couple times, but never wholly humiliated himself. His speech was clear and strong, and he doled out Communion like an old hand.

Father Tim smiled encouragingly after the closing prayer, and when he rose from his chair he whispered in Matthew’s ear;

“Alright Father, let’s go shake some hands.”

After the procession, the two of them flanked the exit and pumped hands, exchanged blessings and well wishes. Tim was glad to see most of the people funneling towards the new priest. They were talking to him. Good. You never could tell with Catholics. Sometimes a priest rubbed them the wrong way, particularly if he wasn’t an old Irishman or at least their color. He had worried a bit that a Flip would put them off and he’d wind up doing Saturday confessions the same as always. But this boy would work out fine, and he’d be back at the track next weekend.

The old sanctified biddies hobbled up last as always and put out their withered claws for him to touch. He usually champed at the bit to get out of here, but watching them fawn over the ’handsome’ young Matthew was entertaining. The final approval of the old reliables.

But the last of the old women ignored Matthew and stood expectantly before him, a newspaper clenched in her bony fist, her face drawn down in a disapproving grimace that was petrifying to behold in such a lined and sagging face. The smear of wine red lipstick on her pursed lips was like an angry lesion, and the snow white knit cap atop her head shone like a terrible halo.

“I know what you’re up to,” said old Ms. Ladhe.

He raised his eyebrows, the genial smile still on his face.

She shook the paper in front of his face.

“Michael O’Bannon,” she hissed. “Read in the Mass yesterday morning and dead only that evening.”

His eyes widened, and the stupid smile faltered into a toothy grimace.

“What are you talking about, woman?”

She pointed the rolled up paper at him like a sword and fixed him with a strange glare.

“May your Blessings be less,

May your troubles be more,

And nothing but sadness come through your door!”

She spat on the ground in front of him and turned away in a huff, limping out the door and down the steps with surprising alacrity for one who had professed such infirmity only a few days ago.

Father Tim watched her go and barely mastered the trembling of his bones. How could the old woman possibly know what he had done? He glanced down at the ugly splotch of snotty saliva at his feet and recoiled from it as if from a fire.

Father Matthew came over, a concerned look on his brown face.

“Father Tim? Are you alright? What was that about?”

He fought to keep the tremor out of his voice, the quiver from his smiling lips and stammered, shrugging to hide his trembling;

“Oh Mrs. Ladhe. She had a problem with the Mass, same as always.”

Behind Father Matthew, the other old reliables craned their turkey necks and eyed him curiously like pigeons looking for a sign of bread crust.

He waved the young priest off.

“I’d hoped to share dinner, Father, but I’m feeling a bit under the weather. I think I’ll head home early.”

“Of course, of course.”

As Tim stalked to the sacristy, he heard Father Matthew call cheerily;

“And don’t worry about tomorrow’s Mass, Father. I’ll be just fine.”

In the sacristy he tore off his vestments and flung them in a heap in the bottom of his closet, then fell to one knee and tore them away, snatching up his lock box with Tuan’s knife. He threw on his coat and stood in the doorway for a few seconds thinking furiously.

How could she know what he was or what he had done? Was it possible she was talking about something entirely different? His gambling? Had he only imagined her accusation? Given it more meaning than it had. He thought furiously.

No, his mind screamed at him. Michael “O’Bannon. She had said it outright. The name of a living man read in the Mass. She knew.

No one had ever known. Not even Mrs. Villalobos who compiled the list of the dead for him every morning ever commented on his occasional additions. Probably she had assumed they were personal friends of his.

And she had lain a curse on him, plain as day. What had she said?

Nothing but sadness come through your door.

Was she a witch of some sort? Why couldn’t she be? If there were men like him and his Uncle Patrick in the world, didn’t it stand to reason there could be opposite numbers?

That was when he made up his mind.

He had to read her name in the Mass tomorrow. Choke the hex off at its source.

He ran from St. Brigid’s to the Blue Line. His knee bounced anxiously the whole ride, and he nearly killed himself throwing himself down the stairs to the street.

He walked cautiously after that. What if that was her hex working on him?

He went steady and carefully to the bodega.

It was closed. No note on the door, but he got from a boy smoking outside that someone had died in the family.

He walked around to the back alley in his desperation, thinking he might be able to jimmy the back door and. ...and what? Pull a roaster from the cooler? No live chickens passed that back room. They came on a truck. There was nothing in the shop. Nothing he could use.

He rode the train back home.

He thought about Mary Ladhe. Where did she live? Even if he knew, so what? He couldn’t very well go to the woman’s house and strangle her in her kitchen.

But he knew someone who could.

At home he rang Peachy Muldoon.

“Fadder, that you?”

“Peachy, I’ve a favor to ask you.”

“I told you if I heard anything about the stakes I’d tell you, right?”

“It’s not about the stakes, Peachy. I need you to do something else for me.” He lowered his voice, even drew the blind. “What would it cost me, Peachy? That is, if I were to hire you to do a job.”

“A job?”

“I won’t pull any of that old times’ sake crap on you. I’ve got my share from O’Bannon. I’ll give it to you if you want.”

“Fadder, don’t say that. Er. .who’s Michael O’Bannon?”

“I didn’t say his first name, you.” Father Tim sighed, regained himself.

“Look Fadder,” said Peachy. “I don’t know what you heard, but I don’t do them kinda jobs no more.”

“Peachy, please. It’s an old woman. No trouble at all. Mary Ladhe. Her name’s Mary Ladhe. All you gotta do is find her.”

The phone went dead.

He dialed Peachy again. Got a busy signal.

He stood by the window.

He needed a sacrifice. It was getting dark. On the corner, under the streetlamp, a black kid maybe ten years old waited for the bus, bobbing his head to something piping through his ear buds. It was late. Nobody on the street. Too late for a kid like that to be out alone. They listened to their music so loud, these black kids. You could come right up on them and they’d never know.

A black kid.

Not a black rooster, but...

He went to open the lock box, but found in his haste he’d left his keys in the sacristy.

It took him a half hour to break the box open with a hammer and get at the knife. By the time he did the bus and the black kid had come and gone.

He sat in his bed with the knife and stared into the shadows of his room, waiting for some flock of black winged sluagh to come smashing through his window clamoring and screeching for his soul. He tried to doze, but would snap awake, hearing the hoofbeats of the headless Dullahan coming to claim him, realizing with a hollow chuckle that it was only the steady tramp of his own blood in his ears.

But he didn’t sleep.

The next morning he trudged off to St. Brigid’s exhausted and feeling foolish, wondering if he’d dreamt the entire encounter between himself and Mary Ladhe.

Father Matthew was there already with coffee and Dunkies.

“I found your keys on the table, and your vestments hanging out of your closet, Father,” he said. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Father,” he said. “Will you be alright to lead the Mass today?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Father Matthew. “I have everything I need.”

“Mrs. Villalobos, she gave you the intercessions list?”

“Well I have the list, yes.”

“Good,” Father Tim said tiredly, going to his closet. “You’ll be fine.”

Mass was a blur. He sat in the chair and blinked bleary eyed at the stupid faces of the congregation. He was getting old, for one night without sleep to do him in so badly.

He moved his mouth for the responses, aped the rising and kneeling mechanically, muttered through the First Reading. It was like his altar boy days. Six thirty Mass, barely awake, going through the motions. He had been tired the day he’d dropped the Host too.

He let Father Matthew do the lions share. Read the Gospel, lead the choir, sing. He nearly fell asleep during the young priest’s homily, but it must have been a cracker because the people laughed and were all smiles when they rose for the intercessions.

Father Matthew prayed for America.

“Lord hear our prayer,” said the respondents.

He prayed for the unbelievers, that they might come to know the love of God.

“Lord hear our prayer.”

He prayed for the indigent and the sick, the suffering and maybe for aborted babies and their mothers.

“Lord hear our prayer.”

He prayed for the recently departed, rounding it off with;

“.. .and for Timothy O’Herlihey, we pray to the Lord.”

Father Tim’s eyes snapped wide open in disbelief.

And the first person he saw, sitting in the front pew, staring right back at him with a smug and portentous smile on her desiccated lips, was Mary Ladhe.

He rose trembling from his chair.

“You bitch!”

His roaring voice boomed over the microphone clipped to his robes and the collective intake of breath that burst from the people in the pews was infinitely more aghast than the one that had driven him from the Church when he was eleven.

He ignored it. Stomped across the marble floor and to the podium, eliciting more gasps as he reached up and tore the list from Father

Matthew’s fingers.

There was the list of the dead, in Mrs. Villalobos’ hand.. .except for the final name, penciled in a broad, bold hand.

His own.

She had intercepted the list somehow, wrote in his name, and given it to Father Matthew herself.

The blood pounded in his ears, boiled in his head and face, coloring him a bright pink.

He gnashed his teeth and flung the paper down, tearing away his stole and vestments as he jumped down the steps and clambered over the communion rail. The mic squealed and whined and cut off as he ripped it free and flung it down.

People were getting up from their seats, looking fearful, amused, bewildered, drawing their children back, crossing themselves.

He locked eyes with Mary Ladhe as he stalked past her down the center aisle. She alone was unperturbed, and sat primly in her seat, a slight smile on her face, eyes unflinching from his.

He had to get out of her sight. Had to get out of this church. It was hot in here. So hot. His face was burning up. His head. His chest was tightening. There was a sharp pain in his left wrist.

Was this how it would come?

No. He had to get air.

He ran pell mell down the center aisle, burst through the doors and staggered down the steps.

The bus that struck him out of his shoes carried him twenty feet like the coyote in the cartoons, his face mashed like a waffle against the grill. The horn blaring in surprise at his sudden appearance in the street sounded to him like a blaring trumpet blown by the lungs of a wrathful archangel.

Who knew? Maybe that’s what it was.

#

Father Matthew kept his hand clamped over his mouth as the coroner wagon pulled away from the curb. He didn’t want the people gathered in front of the church to see his curling lips. He had to be strong for them.

He wondered though, if anyone would pick up Father Tim’s bloody shoe, and if tomorrow the long trail of blood on the street would be washed away. He wondered if he should get a hold of the janitor or maybe do it himself to spare the schoolchildren coming home in a few hours the sight.

A small, but firm hand clutched his elbow and he looked over to see Mrs. Ladhe looking at him, her blue eyes brimming with compassion.

“I’m so sorry, Father Matthew,” she said, “it’s a tragedy. And on your first day too.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Ladhe,” he said, patting her dry, bony hand. “I’m only worried about the...I worry the children will see something they shouldn’t.”

“You’re a good priest, Father Matthew,” said Mrs. Ladhe. “But Mrs. Villalobos told me she rang Eladio and he’s on his way to clean things up. You needn’t worry.”

“Oh thank God.”

“Why don’t you come over to my house for dinner? You don’t want to go home and cook for yourself now.”

“I could never impose. I should stay and help Eladio.”

“Ah, it’s a good priest you are. Well, do as you see fit. I’ll have a plate of leftovers waiting for you in the sacristy in the morning. Fresh roast chicken,” she said, smiling.

“Thank you, Mrs. Ladhe. That’s very kind of you.”

She turned then, and hobbled off down the street, the lights of the squad car and ambulance splashing the bloody street in alternating blue and red.

Johnny Two Places

Mark Mellon

Tall and thin, the black mambo dancer swayed in the spotlight. Twelve almost naked chorus girls kick-stepped behind him, dazzling beauties all. Chico Orquitez and his twenty-three piece orchestra played swinging Afro-Cuban jazz full tilt from the dais, rhythmic, loud, insistent. The mambo dancer flashed a dazzling grin at the dancing guests and sang in a clear, fine tenor, “Prestame tu caballo.”

The dance floor held over a hundred couples, dressed to the nines, mostly Americans with money to burn. More guests sat at tables and marveled at the glass ceiling and the gourmet cuisine. A world-class casino adjoined the nightclub, open twenty-four hours, closed only for Xmas. The Colonia Privada, the swankest joint in Havana, a fixture on the tourist circuit for everyone, great and small, from celebrity to nobody.

Johnny sipped his scotch. Five percent of the Colonia was his, drinks, gambling, whores, drugs. At least ten thousand American every week, regular as clockwork. All his, tutto. The thought was so delicious and fresh it was still hard to digest.

Flora Lane, that night’s hot, stacked blonde, leaned over and squeaked delicious, hot breath into one ear. “Johnny. What’d you say your name was in Italian again, hon?”

Johnny smiled and gave her a whiskey-scented kiss. “Giovanni DueLuoghi.”

Flora threw back her head and laughed with a great display of cleavage. She gulped down more champagne. “No wonder you’re called Johnny Dew. That’s too hard to say. What’s it mean?”

“Forget it, kid. Drink up. After the show, I show a’ you my place. She’s by Varadero beach.”

Flora shot him a significant look and giggled. Johnny flashed back an honest, open wolf’s leer.

“Hey, if it ain’t Johnny Dew. My favorite asshole and new partner.”

Connubio slammed a beefy hand onto Johnny’s shoulder. His square, bald head was only inches away from Johnny’s, bad teeth bared in a sneer.

“What’s this you got with you? Another comare ? Che uomo, this guy.”

Connubio wedged his bulk into a chair. He turned over a clean tumbler and poured himself scotch from Johnny’s bottle.

“Hey, bring some ice over here,” he yelled over the music. “Ain’t you going to introduce me?”

“Sure. Flora Lane. Flora, meet Pete Connubio.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Connubio enfolded Flora’s delicate hand in a meaty paw. “What brings you to sunny Habana, honey?”

“I got off the Mariposa yesterday. I’m here for a week and I ran into Johnny at the track today. He offered to show me around. Isn’t that too funny?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s a riot. A regular Jackie Gleason gut-buster. I suppose Johnny told you what a big deal hotshot he is.”

“He told me he’s a businessman and that he owns part of this place. Isn’t that great? Are you an owner here too, Pete?”

“Oh, yeah. You bet I am, honey. A lot more than the young Sicilian here.”

“Why talk a business? Let’s have fun. Capisci, Pietro ?”

Connubio glared at Johnny, but before he could say anything, an old black woman tugged at Johnny’s sleeve. Frail and bent, a glittering tiara made from paste perched at an odd angle on her gray head. She clutched a pack of greasy, worn cards in one hand.

“Tell fortune, Senor ? Only twenty-five cents.”

Connubio scowled. “Who let you back in again, you goddamn crazy old bat? Swear to God in Heaven above I’m going to fire that doorman. Get the hell out of my joint right now.”

He raised his drink to throw it at the old woman. Johnny put a hand to Connubio’s wrist.

“Pete. Remember where you at. Let me handle her.”

Johnny said to the old woman, “You seem a nice old lady. Let me help a you out.”

He stood up, reached into a pants pocket, pulled out a roll, and peeled off two hundred dollar bills.

“Here, nonna.” He handed it to her. “Put it in you dress where the money stay safe. I get you home OK. Flora, excuse, scusi, prego.”

Johnny gently took the old woman by the arm and escorted her out from the dance hall through the marble foyer to the courtyard. The night air was cool from the sea breeze that blew from the Malecon.

“ Chico, you good man.”

Johnny laughed. “No, nonna, I’m just a wise a’ guy. But thanks.”

“No, you kind to old Maman Voudoun. I’m going to bless, benedecir, protect you. Show me the gold chain.”

“What? How you know about that? Mi mama, she’s a’ give it to me in Sicily.”

“No mind. Show me, now.”

Bemused, Johnny loosened his tie, undid his collar, and pulled out the gold chain. A small gold cross and twisted gold horn hung from the chain. Maman Voudoun opened a small leather bag and took out a green stone.

“This una cosa preciosa, precious thing, best thing Maman Voudoun can give.”

Two faces were sculpted into the stone; one black, one white, both merged into the other. She hung the amulet from his chain and tucked it back into his shirt.

“When danger come, you need help, pray Baron Samedi. He make one man here, other man there, but both men same, you. Tu entiendes, chico, you understand?”

Johnny shook his head and smiled, a flash of strong white teeth. “Sure. Grazie, nonna.”

He raised his right hand. A ’57 Buick pulled up. Johnny opened the back door and helped Maman Voudoun inside.

“Sal, take this nice lady home, OK?” He handed Sal a five spot.

“No problem, boss.”

They drove off. Johnny turned to go back inside, chuckling, but a man called out to him.

“Oye, vato. Ven aca. Come here, man.”

The mambo dancer on a smoke break, coiled elegantly against a wall. Thin face creased by a pencil mustache, a black cigarillo dangled from a corner of his mouth.

“You know me, vato ?”

“Sure, you the dancer for this a joint. How you doing tonight? You pretty good, you know that?”

The dancer smiled faintly as if only acknowledging a universally known truth.

“You done OK just now, vato. Maman Voudoun, maybe she seem old and poor, but she’s a powerful mambo, muy fuerte. You keep that amulet. Going to save your life someday.”

Johnny laughed out loud. “OK, you. I’m a’ gonna do just that.”

The dancer took the cigarillo from his mouth and nodded emphatically.

“Haga eso, do that. Take it from El Barbaro, Benny More, the one who knows.”

Johnny returned to the dance hall, shaking his head.

“ Pazzo, crazy.”

#

At his table, Connubio leaned as close to Flora as his girth would allow. He earnestly murmured in her ear while she tried to draw away, plainly repulsed. Johnny deftly butted in.

“You being pretty rude, Pete. I no like a’ that.”

“What took you so long, Johnny? I don’t like being ignored when I’m on a date.”

Johnny resumed his seat. “Hey, babe, sorry. The old woman, she tell some a long, crazy story I no understand.”

Flora frowned, then reconsidered and smiled. “That was sweet of you to give her that money and to see her home.”

“You’re too soft for a made guy,” Connubio said.

“You want a classy joint, Pete? You want old lady blood onna floor? My way, she’s a’ easier.”

“Don’t tell me how to run my place, you dumb Guinea. Goddamn arrogant prick, just get off the boat, gamble your way into a pissant share, and start mouthing off like you own the whole joint—”

Johnny stood up. He put Flora’s wrap over her bare shoulders and helped her from her chair.

“I see you later, Pete. We settle things between you and me then, okay? You see, you find out.”

Pete’s slit eyes blazed malice.

“Yeah. Sure, kid.”

Johnny scowled back at him. He kissed Flora long and full on the lips.

“Come on, baby.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “You gonna love my place.”

#

Johnny’s beach house was off Varadero Beach. The flat-roofed, light blue pastel house had been designed by a member of Lloyd Wright’s atelier. Johnny had won it two months before from a wealthy Cuban doctor in an all-night, cocaine and whiskey fueled poker game. He fixed mojitos in the fully modern kitchen, equipped with every convenience and high-quality Swedish cutlery. They sipped their drinks outside by the twenty-five meter swimming pool.

“I must say I don’t like your friend Pete very much. He said some really mean, dirty things to me while you were gone.”

“He ain’t no friend, baby. Pete, he ain’t nothing but un villano, a peasant. He think he a big shot, but he no know people like I know. Mayer, Santo, even Batista, boss of the whole goddamn a island, whole lotta other big shots, we tight, like this. You don’t worry about that schifosa Pete Connubio. I fix him but good. Relax. Drink up.”

A sickle moon hung low and near in the sky, surrounded by stars, the golden light reflected and diffracted by the water in the pool. A warm, gentle wind streamed in from the sea, bearing the heady scent of tropical flowers. Surf roared, a constant, reassuring lullaby. Every now and then they caught snatches of song and strummed guitars from partygoers on the beach.

“It’s just heavenly here. Does Hemingway live anywhere near this place?”

“Who’s he, Hemingway?”

Flora giggled, remembered herself, and put a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. I’m just surprised you never heard of him. Let’s talk about something else. Just think, we’re here on this beautiful big house right on the beach, nobody but you and me.”

Johnny smiled. “Yeah, we all alone, baby. You wanna have a dip, you go right ahead.”

Flora goggle-eyed at Johnny and laughed. “In what? I didn’t bring a bathing suit.”

“In whatever you want, baby.”

She studied him closely for a long moment. Without a word, Flora stood up and pulled her dress over her head. It took some time to wriggle out of her shift and pantyhose. Naked, Flora took his breath away, blonde, athletic, and stunningly beautiful. She dove into the deep end. Johnny undressed and followed her into the pool. Flora wrapped herself around him, a white body against his olive, muscular one. She picked up his necklace and studied the pendants.

“What are these?”

“She’s a cross and a cornuto. Mi mama, she a give them me before I come over from Corleone, for protection.”

She fingered the amulet.

“Yeah, but what’s this one? It’s really different looking.”

Johnny giggled. “The old nonna, the one I help out, she a’ give that to me tonight. Said she’s a good luck. Crazy, huh? Let’s a talk about something important, huh?”

“OK, Johnny. Like what?”

“I’m a’ gonna show you.”

Johnny kissed her urgently. He ran his hands up and down her firm young body. She eagerly kissed back, ground herself against him. They swam to the shallow end and left by the steps. Johnny draped a full-length terrycloth robe around Flora. He swept her off her feet and carried her through a French door to the nearby master bedroom. They had sex on the big, circular bed behind gauzy mosquito nets, a passionate, noisy bout. Flora and Johnny lay next to each other, soaked in salty sweat.

“Whoa. You hot Italian stud.”

Johnny smiled. “You a sweet kid. Tomorrow I take you shopping. You want a shower?”

“No thanks, sweetie. I just want to lie here and sleep for a little bit. I feel so warm and relaxed after what we just did.”

Johnny kissed her. “OK. Keep warm. I’m a’ gonna come back for you again.”

Johnny got out of bed and went into the marble bathroom. He shut the heavy mahogany door. After a relaxing hot shower in the gold-fitted tub, Johnny dried himself off. He wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped outside the bathroom.

Flora lay on the bed, her throat cut from ear to ear. The white satin sheets were soaked with her blood. Connubio sat in an armchair by the bed, obviously deeply drunk, with a nasty grin, a bloody straight razor in his left hand, and a .38 revolver in his right.

“Hello, Johnny. I got a special place in my heart for assholes like you.” Pete raised the pistol and fired. The bullet missed Johnny’s head by a good foot, but still almost deafened him.

“Figlio di putana,” Connubio cursed. He grabbed the pistol with both hands and aimed slowly.

'Johnny ducked back inside the bathroom and heaved the door shut. The slug buried itself in the thick wood. Johnny bolted the door.

“That won’t stop me. I’ll shoot the lock off.”

The windowless bathroom offered no escape. Johnny clasped his pendants and fervently prayed, “Oh, Madonna and tutti Santi, please help me.”

A bullet slammed into the lock.

“ Jesu, help me.”

Another bullet smashed into the lock.

From nowhere, as if a foreign spirit spoke through his mouth, Johnny heard himself say, “Baron Samedi, please help me.”

Somewhere in the cosmos, a skeleton clad in a top hat snapped bony fingers. Johnny found himself naked in the brightly lit kitchen, an open drawer before him, filled with gleaming knives.

Water dripped from him onto the kitchen tiles only to also hit the bathroom floor. Johnny stared into the bathroom mirror at his own face in amazement as his other self slowly padded out of the kitchen, a long, sharp, Gense butcher knife in one hand. Johnny crept to his bedroom while he hid from Connubio in the locked bathroom. He stood next to the open door and peeped in. Connubio kicked at the bathroom door.

“Come out, you coward.” The effort left him bent over and gasping. “First gutless Sicilian I ever saw. Won’t get yours like a man.”

Johnny ran into the room. He stabbed Connubio, ran the wide blade deep into a kidney.

“Aaauuggh.”

The big man hit the floor. Black blood seeped from his wound onto the rug. Johnny turned him over. Connubio’s eyes rolled back into his head. Johnny slapped him hard across the face.

“Pete. Wake up, you succhiatore. You ain’t going into shock, paesan. Oh no, no just yet, no with me around. Not till you a’ see who shanked you.”

Connubio focused on Johnny’s face. He raised a hand as if to ward him off.

“How?” he whispered. “You’re locked in—”

The bathroom door opened. Johnny looked down at Pete as his lifeblood slowly drained from his gored body. Connubio stared in dazed wonder at him and then back at his double.

“How? You’re two—”

The other Johnny who knelt beside him smiled and shrugged.

“Search me, Pete. Like a’ you said, I’m just a dumb Guinea.”

Both Johnnies laughed hysterically, pointed at Connubio, reveled in his plight. Connubio groaned and died.

#

“So that’s how I get my nickname.”

Toots Shor’s mid-town Manhattan joint was quiet that evening. Johnny sat with the others in a table in a secluded corner of the restaurant, reserved exclusively for celebrities and other VIPs. The remains of a recently finished elaborate meal stood on the table. He sipped his Johnny Walker Red on the rocks and ran his hands through his combed back, thick hair, now lightly flecked with gray. LBJ droned a speech about the Vietnam War on a small black and white TV, placed on the massive, circular bar by a bartender at some patron’s request.

“Pretty nice deal, huh, Frank? Not even a big shot like you can make a claim like that,” Massy Getti said. Old, wizened, angular body crammed into a tight gray suit, rheumy eyes alive with merriment. “Old Johnny boy, he sure does get around. He can do his comare and his old lady at one and the same time.”

“Yeah, Frank, Johnny’s got ’em coming and going. You just never know when or where he’s gonna pop up or even how many of him you’ll see,” Toots Shor said, his broad, rubbery face split wide and infinitely creased by a grin. “What do you think?”

The most famous singer in the world sat back, sipped his scotch, and assumed a pensive air. He puffed on a cigarette for a while, as if debating the matter, turning over pros and cons.

Finally he said, “You know what I think? I think you guys are the biggest bunch of bullshitters I ever met.”

Everyone laughed hysterically, Sinatra the hardest of all. Johnny flashed another killer grin, delighted to be in such exalted company. He held up two fingers to signal the waitress to fetch another round. On him, of course.

The Seed

N.X. Sharps

The warehouse was far enough from the monotony of the suburbs to emanate danger but not near enough to the bad part of the city as to pose any real risk. The number of the beast and inverted crosses were spray painted on the walls. A pentagram was chalked out on the floor amidst shattered beer bottles, used condoms, and smoked spliffs—the detritus of teen rebellion. Had a concerned parent tracked their wayward offspring here it would have ignited a moral panic. The media would trot out so called experts on Satanism and warn the public away from rock music and Dungeons & Dragons.

The warehouse was a poser’s paradise.

It was the perfect location to perform a ritual sacrifice.

I whistled, giving the all clear, and my adopted family shuffled in from the rain carrying flashlights and cleaning supplies. We were four in number, with a fifth, sixth, and seventh on the way. A bleach stained Alice in Chains t-shirt clung to my chest and rain had pasted together my jeans to my legs. The others dressed in an assortment of clothes, primarily black, without a hooded robe or goat face mask in sight.

Where the fuck do you buy hooded robes anyway, is there an Occult Gap? Does Tommy Hilfiger have a spring line dedicated to fashionable doomsday sects?

We set about cleaning an area to make the offering, sweeping up glass shards with brooms and scrubbing the pentagram away with brushes. We labored in silence, reflecting on the task ahead of us.

Tonight I would take a life for the first time.

I popped the antacid from my front pocket, hoping to smother the poisonous butterflies rioting in my stomach. I clenched the brush as I scrubbed to prevent my hands from trembling. I was apprehensive but electrified. I disgusted myself and I celebrated my impending rebirth within the Liberator movement. Mister Lichter taught me the hidden history of the world and I had witnessed his ability to manipulate the physical and aethereal. I hungered to learn more of the Praeter Scientia, the Liberator’s gift to mankind, and tonight I would.

Lightning struck nearby, causing me to jump and illuminating the depot. The tread of thunder accompanied it and we paused in our respective duties. The Oppressor was quick to anger and abounding in steadfast retribution.

If He is aware of our intent then punishment will be swift and complete.

The others returned to the job at hand as the rumble receded. They had been members of the movement for longer than I. Shrugging off the unease as best I could I proceeded to remove the pentagram from the concrete. Not even the Oppressor was omniscient, regardless of what his followers claimed. I would not be cowed by lightning and thunder, not tonight.

“Good evening my faithful few.”

In walked Mister Lichter—tall, thin, impeccably dressed and most importantly untouched by the downpour. Wisps of white hair sprouted from above his ears but refused to converge across the dome of his head. Vibrant eyes beamed at us from behind a pair of spectacles.

“Good evening,” we responded.

I stood, knees protesting, as he greeted my brethren each in turn. He embraced each of them, trading affections and pleasantries. Of Mister Lichter’s past I knew only that he had once been a member of the Fellowship Foundation, a society of academics that was big on speculating and theorizing but shied away from action. He rejected their hypocrisy and sought to take action. He discovered purpose in the Liberator’s movement and gathered likeminded people to the cause.

Mister Lichter stood before me, arms open.

“My dear boy,” he said.

His voice was smooth as sweet tea and just as refreshing. I hugged him tight; content to smell the peppermint on his breath before we unclasped. He stepped back and placed a hand against my cheek. His weathered palms radiated warmth and he affixed me with his grandfatherly stare.

“A year has passed since you joined the family. Oh how time grinds on, halting for no man. I have cherished your time with us and I would like to believe that you have as well.”

“I have sir. I’ve never felt more at home.”

Mister Lichter beamed all the brighter at this response.

“Tonight you will seal that bond. This ceremony will solidify your commitment to the Liberator’s War in Heaven. I am an old man and I do not expect to be alive when the Oppressor is finally defeated, but I daresay, you may indeed partake in His ultimate downfall. Your generation is poised to carry on the aeons-long crusade.”

“The Oppressor will be cast down and mankind will ascend the throne,” announced Brother Ryan, zealous as always.

“Are you ready to make me proud?”

“I am sir.” I asserted.

“Of course you are my dear boy. Now go my children, and fetch the Topheth from my van, you’ll know it when you see it. The hour is nearly upon us and Sister Rebecca will arrive shortly with the offering.”

That my girlfriend was responsible for transporting the sacrifice came as a surprise but I obeyed the command, leaving the comfort of the shelter with Ryan, Erin, and Mark in tow. Outside the storm raged in earnest. Lances of lightning cut gaping wounds in the night sky as we ran through the deluge, making for Mister Lichter’s nondescript van. Ryan made it there first, throwing open the rear hatch and revealing a bronze idol.

Mister Lichter wasn’t kidding. There could be no confusing the statue before us for anything other than the Topheth. The head of a bull rested on a human torso with hands held forth above a brazier that sat between its crossed legs. It looked old, maybe not ancient but definitely old. It also looked heavy. Beside it were a canister of lighter fluid and a plasticwrapped package of wood.

“Erin, grab the fuel, it’s going to take the three of us to carry this inside,” said Ryan.

Erin nodded dutifully and picked up the wood and lighter fluid and ran back toward the warehouse. Ryan, Mark, and I hauled the idol out of the van with all the reverence we could attribute under such conditions and hustled after her. It was even heavier than it looked, calling to question how Mister Lichter loaded it in the van to begin with. We crossed the abandoned lot and delivered the Topheth to the space we prepared for it.

Mister Lichter thanked us and began to towel off the idol. I stripped off my sopping wet shirt and tossed it onto the floor, unveiling my linebacker physique. I touched the mark of the Liberator branded into my flesh, just above my heart, a proud reminder of how far I’d come since Mister Lichter found me and healed me. Erin brought the fuel over to the idol. Mister Lichter accepted it and set to stoking a fire in the brazier.

“The Topheth might strike you as theatrical, and indeed it is, but history would suggest that the Aethereals relish ostentation. The Phoenicians and the Canaanites worshipped the pagan god Moloch using icons such as this, though they lacked the guidance of the Praeter Scientia,” said Mister Lichter.

Years removed from the Fellowship and he still indulged in academic tendencies. He never missed an opportunity to lecture and his words held my unwavering attention.

“Even in their ignorance they posed a risk to the Oppressor’s control. They made offerings to false gods and yet...and yet the Aethereals are not so finicky as to decline oblation. They improvise. And look, here comes Sister Rebecca bearing the sacrifice.”

Into the warehouse stepped Becca, cradling a bundle of blankets. Her creamy, freckle-dotted skin dripped from the rain. A wide smile split her face when she saw me, all teeth and dimples, the most beautiful drowned rat I’d ever seen. I jogged over to her, returning the smile.

I got within three feet before I realized that she held our daughter, Penny.

“What—why did you bring her here?”

I figured out the answer before the words finished leaving my big, dumb mouth. Penny chose that moment to start bawling. Swaddled in a second hand blanket I bought from the thrift store with our meager funds she screamed, face red. Penny’s itty bitty fingers balled into tiny fists to match my own whitening knuckles.

“No. Absolutely-fucking-not. No, no, no. Hell no. Take her home Becca. Take our daughter home right now,” I growled.

The hurt was evident on Becca’s face as she rocked Penny in her arms, trying to soothe our wailing child. A hand came down on my shoulder and I whirled around, fist cocked back. Mister Lichter let go and put his hands up in a placating gesture. He registered no surprise.

He knew she was bringing Penny. He arranged this.

“Take a deep breath my boy, restrain yourself.”

The others closed in around us.

They knew too.

Blood leaked from between my fingers, nails biting into my palm.

“I have never once led you astray, have I? Allow me to speak and I will explain everything,” said Mister Lichter.

Teeth clenched I lowered my fist but did not uncoil it. I took a deep breath and the others relaxed slightly. Mister Lichter returned his grip on my shoulder and steered me toward the Topheth, speaking only to me.

“Moloch was believed to be the sun god and so believers sacrificed children to idols such as this in hopes of renewing the strength of the sun fire. It is a barbaric form of theurgy when rooted in superstition rather than the Beyond Sciences. Fortunately we possess this...”

He flashed me a glimpse of his journal before secreting it back into his pocket.

“The codex is incomplete but my knowledge of the Praeter Scientia far exceeds their own. Ask Ryan and Erin what became of their first born child, go ahead,” urged Mister Lichter.

I needn’t ask, Ryan volunteered the information proudly.

“We offered the life of our son to the cause.”

“Ask Mark what happened to his infant,” said Mister Lichter.

“Where is she Mark?”

“I rendered her immortal by passing her through the flames,” he said, refusing to meet my eyes. I guess he found his boots interesting at the time.

“For the Aethereals to deem an offering sufficient it must be costly. It must be a sacrifice. A single child is not enough to summon one of the Liberator’s generals from the Aether but it will suffice to gain their favor. Penelope’s death will renew our commitment to the War in Heaven,” said Mister Lichter.

“You want to be a part of this family. It’s all you talk about. You want to learn the Beyond Sciences and fight the Oppressor. This is the reason for Penny’s conception, this is her destiny. This is our destiny. You trust me don’t you?” said Becca.

My beautiful little girl was finally quieting down as if she awaited the outcome of the discussion. I spent a lifetime failing to meet the expectations of those around me—my father, my coach, myself. I never felt more at home than I did amongst my adopted family. Could I disappoint them? Could I forsake Mister Lichter, the man who had saved me from myself? Could I defy the Liberator movement?

Penny cooed, reaching out for me.

Fuck the movement.

“I’m leaving and Penny is coming with me. If you try to stop me I’ll —”

That’s right around the time I blacked out.

#

I came to lying on my side, blurry eyed with sticky warmth puddling on the floor around my head. Tectonic plates shifted around inside my skull, unable to form a coherent thought. I made to probe what increasingly felt like a volcanic fissure in the back of my head but arms were leaden lumps. I shivered. Contact with the cool cement floor caused a breakout of goose bumps across my naked chest flesh.

Where am I? What happened?

“I told you he wouldn’t comply.” Ryans voice?

“You didn’t need to crack his fucking skull open. He just needed more time, I could have persuaded him.” Becca? Why was she crying?

“Brother Ryan acted in the best interest of the movement. Sister Rebecca please prepare the seed for sacrifice, the fire burns bright and the Aethereals shall not be denied their toll.” That’s Mister Lichter.

The seed. Penny! They were going to hurt my daughter.

“What do you want me to do with him?” Ryan again.

“He showed such potential, it breaks my fragile heart. Take him outside and dispose of him Brother Ryan, and do hurry back,” said Mister Lichter.

I blinked the film from my eyes and leveraged my head up. I needed to save her; I needed to save my little girl. I clawed forward, I crawled toward the strangers I called my family. I couldn’t climb to my feet to fight them but I’d bite their fucking legs off if I had to.

“And so he rises. What a shame to have to miss the ritual. Say goodbye to Penelope, she goes on to serve a greater purpose. You, I’m afraid, will not,” spoke Mister Lichter devoid of empathy.

Ryan walked over and delivered a kick to my midsection, and I crumpled inwards. He hit me until I stopped squirming as Becca sobbed. Ryan slung me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, no small feat given my height and weight. I watched the light from the warehouse fade as he lugged me back out into the rain, across the lot, and into the adjacent field. He plunged me into an overflowing drainage ditch, wrapping his hands around my neck and submerging my head below the water.

The runoff invaded my throat but panic washed away the fugue. I knew what to do but I couldn’t do it while being drowned. He hoisted me back up and I coughed, gulping for air before he thrust me back under the current. Another minute and he pulled me back up.

“Please,” I croaked.

His response was to push me under the surface again. My hands warred with his but I couldn’t weaken his grasp. Understanding the futility of that tactic I let go and searched around me by touch. Near death my fingers brushed across a rock. My hand closed around the solid, smooth chunk of stone. I went limp.

Sensing the end of my struggle Ryan held me under a few more seconds before dragging me up. I swung the rock with every last ounce of my strength, clipping him across the jaw and knocking out some of his teeth. Ryan sank to his knees and I kicked away, still spitting up water. I hit him once more for good measure and scaled the side of the ditch.

He stood and unsheathed the knife he always carried on his belt but I had no intention of fighting on his terms.

My mouth moved automatically, reciting unwords belonging to no language mankind has ever devised. There are loopholes in the universe to create the conditions necessary for lightning but it’s much easier to direct when nature has already performed all the hard work for you. My mind focused on the target and I called down a bolt of divine fury from above.

The knife in Ryan’s hand and the water he stood in served as ideal conductors for the three hundred kilo volts of energy I sent coursing through his body, burning his skin, bursting his blood vessels, and sending his heart into cardiac arrest. The flash subsided, leaving behind only a corneal impression of Ryan’s corpse bobbing in the flow.

And that’s why you don t bring a knife to a magic fight.

As far as I knew, none of them were aware that I had been studying the Beyond Sciences in secret, sneaking notes from Mister Lichter’s codex. We were forbidden from studying outside of his tutelage but the allure was too great, as was me desire to do them proud. I called down another bolt and harnessed it, the air crackling as electricity danced around my body. Energized, I ran for the warehouse, desperate to prevent the ritual from completion.

I burst through the delivery entrance to see Penny in the Topheth’s hands, extended over the blazing brazier. Mister Lichter read from the codex as Mark pounded on a drum and Erin beat on a tambourine and Becca knelt before the fire. Penny’s shrieking ceased and I roared.

They all turned to address me.

“Kill him,” said Mister Lichter.

Erin and Mark rushed to meet my charge while Becca hesitated, cheeks puffy and eyes red. I discharged a blast of electricity into Erin from a distance, flinging her back into the wall. I closed in on Mark, landing a jab to his midsection that unloaded the remaining charge and fried him on the stop. Mister Lichter watched this in amazement and I took advantage of his disbelief.

I clocked him in the nose, spraying blood down his face and followed up with a knee to the stomach. I left him groaning on the cement and swooped up Penny from the glowing hot bronze. I clutched her to my chest and cried. Horrible burns covered her skin and her chest was unmoving, heart stilled. Tears cascaded down my cheeks as I looked down at the last expression of anguish frozen in her tiny features.

Prostrate before the Topheth, Becca continued to cry. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as Mister Lichter commenced speaking, reciting a passage from the codex. I snarled down at the snake of a man at my heels and kicked him in the mouth. Teeth and blood exploded from between his lips and I kicked him and stomped on him again and again until his jaw hung loose.

Still he attempted to perform an incantation so I kicked him over onto his back, straddled his torso, pried his mouth open, and seized his tongue with one hand. Eyes wide, Mister Lichter could only watch as I tore the pink slug from his mouth. I stood and slung his tongue aside but my vengeance held little gratification. Penny’s life had been traded to earn the favor of the Aethereals.

What is their favor worth?

I looked at the carnage around me. Mister Lichter mewled, curled up in a ball on the floor, spitting up his own blood. The bodies of Mark and Erin still sizzled and smoked where they fell. And then there was Becca, the love of my life. I could not reconcile the mother of my daughter with this wretch. I wanted to console her. I wanted to scream at her until the sun consumed all of its fuel and collapsed in upon itself. And in the nightmare glow of the brazier I found my answer.

What is their favor worth?

Mister Lichter said the Aethereals aren’t finicky. He said that they improvise and make due. He said that for the Aethereals to deem an offering sufficient it must be costly. It must be a sacrifice. But would they accept one sacrifice in place of another?

I picked up the blanket from where it was discarded on the ground and swaddled Penny in it before setting her down with a kiss on the forehead. I stole the codex from Mister Lichter’s pocket, taking the opportunity to rough him up a little extra in the process. I flipped through his notes until I found what I was looking for. I skimmed it once, twice, three times before I was certain enough to carry out my plan. I gave one final glance at the bundle of blankets to steel my nerves.

I’ve failed everyone else in my life Penny, I won t fail you.

I grabbed Becca by the back of the neck and forced her head into the brazier. She tried to pull away but I was unyielding. I read from the codex as she screamed and spasmed. I concentrated on the scent of cooked flesh and burnt hair, blocking out the pain as the flames licked at the hand with which I held her. I finished reading, closed my eyes, and remembered.

I remembered when we met and I realized there was something worth living for.

I remembered kissing her, tasting the Chapstick she was so fond of.

I remembered the way she fit in the crook of my arm when we slept.

I remembered how she would snort when she found something extremely funny.

I remembered how embarrassed she got when I pointed it out too.

I remembered how she bit her lip when she told me the pregnancy test was positive and I remember holding her hand as she gave birth to our beautiful daughter and how quickly we agreed on a name for her and the sleepless nights we spent watching over her and.. .and.. .and...

She had long grown silent when the pain grew too great. I withdrew from the fire to find my hand entirely intact. The same could not be said of Becca’s head, now charred beyond recognition. I shuddered and wept, ashamed of killing my best friend in the world. I looked into the blazing brazier for an answer to my call. In it I saw a face arranged in the black and red coals, looking staring back at me.

The face made of embers winked.

And then I heard Penny’s cry.

Late Payment

Jake Elliot

Because the knife hadn’t tasted blood in over a decade, the blade still held a keen edge. Stewart Heldon Jr. had found the hunting knife in a forgotten box high upon a shelf in his parents’ garage. With a similar shape to the military’s Ka-Bar, Stewart’s blade shined with stainless steel. Substituting the synthetic no-slip grip, a reindeer’s antler had been fashioned into an ivory handle.

Stewart’s father once hunted wildlife in the desert surrounding Needles, California. Before his dad met his mother, prior to the unexpected pregnancy that forced their casual fling into an abusive marriage, Stewart Senior sent several pheasants and rabbits to their afterlife via birdshot. His father’s knife had never been used ceremoniously, but tonight it would. The black pentagram staining the reflective blade had been drawn by Junior with a Marks-a-Lot.

Junior’s penmanship was crisper than Clayton’s.

Clayton “Red-Feather’ Mitchel was a half-blooded Hopi. His young mother escaped the reservation by catching the eye of a white man working for the railroads. Youthful sixteen effortlessly enchanted aging fifty. Married a day past eighteen, pregnant by nineteen, she was widowed by twenty. Red-Feather’s father slipped off a boxcar and fell beneath the rolling train. The young widow inherited her husband’s house and a pension that was too small to escape the life sentence named Needles.

Still, Needles trumped living on the Res.

Chief Red-Feather and Junior were best friends. If one found trouble, the other’s hand was in it too. In this forgotten corner of the California desert, there was only trouble to be found, and trouble bred like desert jackrabbits.

Twenty minutes to the north waited the southern border of Nevada. Laughlin was the city on the Nevada side of the Colorado River, upon the Arizona side mirrored Bullhead City. Thirty minutes south of Needles, Lake Havasu promised fun for the wealthy and privileged.

Currently, both teens stood upon the concrete foundation beneath a train bridge spanning tracks over a dried riverbed. Night approached and the bats were fluttering through darkening skies. Indigo blue ruled overhead, but along the western edge of the world, a pink glow remained of the fallen sun.

Chief was having trouble drawing a straight line. A soft wind teased the tips of his long ebon hair, lifting smoke from the joint held between lips and whirling it upward into his eyes. Red-Feather held a sealed freezer bag filled with a greasy salt-and-pepper powder. One corner had been cut off and the contents spilled out in dark clumps. The mixture was a combination of salt, ash, and gunpowder—representing water, air, earth and fire.

Junior reached over and snatched the joint from between Chief’s lips and asked, “Dude, are you trying to burn us up?” Lifting the joint to his mouth, the ember came alive, popping and glowing as he pulled the harsh smoke into his lungs.

Clayton’s steely black holes peered at Stewart, “If you burn-up all my smoke, I’ll fuck you up.”

Junior grinned, suppressing the temptation to cough. Stewart croaked like a frog, “It’s your Ma’s weed. You can get more.” Blowing the large cloud at Clayton, Stewart said, “Hurry up with those lines and you can have your joint back.”

So Clayton hurried, and got his joint back.

Upon the cement slab, Clayton’s five lines connected at 36-degrees to form a black star. Stewart removed five black Halloween candles from his backpack and placed one upon each of the star’s points. Preparation for tonight’s ritual was nearly complete.

Clayton handed Stewart a black book marked only by the Sigil of Baphomet—a twin star to the one Clayton drew, only baring the face of a goat within the pentacle. Chief fished a cigarette lighter from out of his back pocket and lit the candles counter-clockwise.

Removing a battered cassette player from his daypack, Stewart began loading C-batteries into the duct-taped back. Having dropped the portable radio one too many times, he’d broken the back hatch. The recorder still played, thanks to a healthy spread of silver duct tape.

Careful not to hit the record button, he pressed play until it caught with a noticeable click. A single speaker announced rain along with a distant ringing of church bell. Thunder crackled from the cassette-payer and Chief praised, “Hell yeah, Ozzy’s fuckin’ cool!” Toni Iommi’s distorted guitar pounded out power chords as Red-Feather nodded at the book, “Let’s do it.”

Stewart flipped open the book to a tab made with a bubble-gum wrapper. Clayton couldn’t read too well, so Junior orated, “Alright bro, repeat after me. I stand before the almighty Satan, my Lord, my God—”

From the single speaker of the little radio, Ozzy Osbourne darkly told the horror of witnessing the face of Lucifer, who in turn, pointed back at him. Clayton repeated after Stewart, “I renounce Jehovah, and his son Jesus, and the vile Holy Spirit—”

Ozzy cried with a wizened warning, Oh noooo! Please God help me!

Ignoring Ozzy’s haunting reprimand, the boys ended their invocation, “—I proclaim Lucifer as my one true god,” and simultaneously they bellowed, “ALL HAIL SATAN—Yeah!” Across the echoless desert, the shout absorbed like in a vacuum.

Smiling, Chief asked, “Should I light the pentagram now?”

Closing the black bible, Stewart said, “No, we need an offering of blood to seal this deal.”

“Blood?” Clayton’s zeal and courage tarnished with the thought of cutting himself with Stewart’s sharp knife.

“Hey, you want to see Motley Crue and Ratt, right?” All week, the rock station in Bullhead City had been offering tickets for the upcoming show in Laughlin. “There’s only one day left to win tickets, Satan’s favor costs blood. But don’t worry, pussy, I got you covered.”

From out of the backpack, Stewart withdrew the last item. Mew, sounded from within his cupped hands. He lowered his hands toward the nearest burning candle. A small ball of fluff, white with cream swirls looked up with innocent blue eyes and admitted once again, Mew.

“No way,” Clayton said. “Being Satanic is cool, but killing Lil’ Kitty isn’t.”

“Our lord wants blood; yours, mine, or this little guy’s.”

Mew, echoed a diminutive protest.

Stewart continued, “Cat Lady just had another litter, she won’t miss one runt kitten.” In the background, the cassette tape changed songs, this one leading with a mean bass solo from Geezer Butler. “If you want to see the Crue, we’ve got no money—this is our price.”

Chief took a step back, “It’s your knife. Why do I have to do it?”

Junior sighed, “So far on this path, you’re my bitch. I read the rite, I brought the candles, the anointing mixture,” he waved the knife, “and the blade. Do you wanna be my whore in hell? You know that’s how it’s gonna be, so you better man up.”

“You tricked me, fucker. You’re the god-damned devil. Give me the cat.” Clayton took the blade with one hand, and received the kitten with his other. “How do I do this?”

“I don’t know. Just make sure all the blood gets in the pentagram.”

Clayton gritted his teeth and held the knife to the kitten’s chin. In a raspy imitation of a thug’s voice, “Should I cut its throat?” Mew, the kitten pleaded. He ran the sharp blade just off the kitty’s fluffy belly down to its little tail, “Or should I gut it for our Dark Lord?”

“Dude, quit fuck’n with me—just do it.”

So Clayton did it, and Lil’ Kitty’s blood went everywhere.

#

It is true; marijuana proved to be a gateway drug, at least for Clayton. Satan dropped the ball. They didn’t win their tickets for the rock show. Instead they went to a party in the desert. These parties happen every weekend, only this weekend, everyone pooled money for a keg of cheap beer.

That was the first night Chief tasted the bitterness of his Hopi blood, beginning an insatiable want for more, more... more.

A year later, Stewart graduated while Clayton ended high school with a failed GED. Stewart didn’t understand what was happening to his old friend as they drifted apart. Stewart still bought pot off Clayton’s mother, but they rarely ran together anymore. Chief had found king alcohol, a new best friend.

Unable to buy booze, Clayton made friends who were old enough to buy for him. The Chief couldn’t buy enough beer to satisfy his thirst, so he graduated to straight whiskey. This course eventually grew too expensive, so about a year after high school, Clayton chose a new path.

Speedy’s EZ Mart fell victim to Red-Feather and his drinking friends. They called it a booze-run; casually waltzing into the store, picking up a bottle in each hand, then bolt for the front doors. Once outside, a car waited with doors open and the engine idling. Tires chirped across the lot, spitting gravel at a dumb-founded clerk at the glass doors.

Clayton didn’t know the store manager took the loss out of the night clerk’s paycheck. This knowledge wouldn’t have changed Clayton’s behavior, but he might have felt a smidgeon of shame. The tenth time on a run, Chief grabbed a couple bottles and made it halfway to the glass doors before the shotgun came up.

Lord Satan collected one of his lost souls. The epitaph read, Clayton “Red-Feather ’ Mitchel, Oct 18^th, 1969 to June 5^th, 1989.

Shortly after Chief’s burial, broken-hearted Stewart got arrested on felony mischievous mayhem charges in Bullhead City. Right in front of a security camera, he’d hurled a couple bricks through the windows of a different Speedy Mart. The State of Arizona demanded twenty months of Stewart Heldon’s life, a payment he served in prison.

Days after his release, Stewart Jr. left Needles. Hollywood needed extras—and extras become movie stars. All hail Satan.

#

Stewart stared through the scratched plastic window at the passing traffic, thinking, Here we are, 2009, the same day as yesterday, which will be no different from tomorrow.

The bus lurched forward again. Stewart didn’t understand why this bus always stopped where no one waited, opened its doors for thirty seconds, and then closed the doors before pushing back into traffic. Each way—both to and from work—easily forty minutes of his life burned for nothing. If not for all these needless stops, he’d be at work already. He’d ride twenty more minutes and then walk the last couple blocks to work.

Years ago, riding this damn bus from southeast L.A. to San Fernando Valley filled him with barely suppressible rage. As the years passed, his hatred matured to apathy. Apathy served better. Achieving total surrender to his failed life, hate wears too heavy on aging shoulders. Apathy, however, just doesn’t care. Almost twenty years had passed since Clayton died, as well as his youthful dreams. Fantasy was a luxury for richer souls.

He’d achieved what he’d left Needles to do. Stewart became a cast-call extra for an agency that sent disposable actors to several hot 1990’s shows. Shows like Mystery Savant, America’s Least Desired, Fear Control, and the ever popular child television hit, Micro-Rangers. Stewart had been an extra on each of those shows at least once.

He even reached the dream of becoming a paid actor...well, sort of. His big break had come in 1995 when cast for an episode of Fear Control as one of the contestants. However, the show had been falling in ratings, and suffered for commercial producers. Instead of high speed trapeze tricks, or jumping over burning cars with nitrous-injected motorbikes, Stewart was cast to eat bugs.

Worms, crickets and roaches—a real shit sandwich—but he needed the role, so he ate ’em, and even managed to do it with a smile. The show’s ratings continued dropping, the program canceled mid-season, and Stewart’s professional audition tape showed him smiling with cricket legs protruding from creased lips.

That, was acting.

That path is ended.

Five mornings a week, Stewart took the bus from his roach-infested apartment complex; a landscape decorated with dying palm trees and forever-green water filling his community pool. From his “luxury apartment,’ it was an hour bus ride in each direction to the plastic injection molding plant in San Fernando. Stewart spent the last fourteen years as one of three-hundred employees to make plastic console buttons for GM’s cars. Sometimes his company made catheter tubes and colostomy bags. This was the variation of his life—making buttons to push and bags to fill with shit.

This was as good as it gets in sunny California for an ex-con who failed as an actor.

Wearing a powder-blue work shirt with his name sewn in red, Stewart looked at the muddled ink on his left arm. It was his only tattoo. He’d gotten it in prison. Blue-black ink announced the time smudged abbreviation—A.H.S— all hail Satan. Sarcastically, Stewart thought, Great, good ole Lucifer, what a bunch of shit. Stewart wondered if he should have stayed in Needles and dealt drugs like everyone else still trapped there.

The half-filled bus stopped again. This time someone stepped on. As the new arrival crossed the doors’ threshold, the air in the bus seemed to pop, like an airplane losing cabin pressure. Conscious of it or not, everyone looked up at the new passenger, Stewart included.

Wearing a black silk suit and looking very dapper, the new arrival wasn’t complete without a matching cloak with a soft fur lining. His feet walked in black shoes, wing-tipped and polished like mirrors. The man led with an ebon cane of polished yew. A ruby ring sparkled on his middle finger.

California has always been known for its heterogeneous culture and styles.

Stewart felt uncomfortable observing the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. Stewart wasn’t gay, not even in prison for an extra pack of smokes, but this man radiated beautiful divinity. His face, clean shaven and youthful, resembled chiseled alabaster, like a living sculpture created by Michelangelo.

The man gave a curt nod to the driver, who in turn closed the doors and began moving down the road. Only Stewart noticed the instruction, all the other passengers had already gone back to watching their empty lives roll past their windows.

Sitting across from Stewart, the silk suited man reached into an inside pocket, and withdrew two blue pieces of thick paper. “Ahem,” He cleared his throat. “These are for you.”

Stewart examined two tickets in the man’s hand. The man with slick black and greased back hair wouldn’t look at him. Not sure if he was being addressed, Stewart said, “Excuse me?”

The man in the black waggled the duo of tickets in the air. “Take them, they’re yours. Motley Crue, with special guest Ratt, playing at the Rivertown Casino, Laughlin,” he paused before adding, “That’s in Nevada.”

“What?” Stewart stared at the waving tickets. His face twisted like he’d licked a lemon, “How? Who...” He caught the bitter scent of brimstone and ash before managing to croak out, “No way, is it you?”

The well-dressed rider nodded, “Yep, it’s me. Sorry it took so long, but I always come through. Believe me, these were tricky to get.”

Feeling disoriented, Stewart dizzily stated, “It’s been nearly twenty-three years.”

“Hey now,” He tapped the steel capped cane upon the grated metal floor, “I’m the only one working this gig, alright? Everybody expects something from me, and you people seem to forget I’m a one man show.”

Stewart shook his head, “Wait, a legion of angels fell with you, what happened to all of them?”

Cold, vacuous eyes met Stewart and frosted his heart. “Imagine you convinced a third of your co-workers to overthrow your boss. As a reward for their allegiance, you promised them an equal slice of the pie. However, your takeover fails, and you and every co-worker who chose your side gets fired.” The ruby ring glistened as Satan added, “Do you think Belial and I have coffee together, now that we’ve been kicked out of Paradise?”

Stewart slowly shook his head, “I guess not.”

“I haven’t seen any of them since Yahweh threw us out. As far as they’re concerned, I might as well be wearing a scarlet letter.” Lucifer handed both tickets to Stewart, practically pushing them into his hand. “So here you go, thanks for the soul, now I’ve got to go, so please excuse me.” Satan stood up and stepped into the aisle.

“No way,” Stewart protested, “These tickets really are for the show in 1987, this is bullshit.”

“It is what you asked for.” Lucifer released a frustrated sigh, “Look, I have a spreadsheet. I diligently document every favor asked of me, I assign everyone a claim number and fulfill the debt as fast as angelically possible. I’m not omnipresent like Him. So here you go, my part in this is paid.”

“I trusted you as my God, and yet you pull this crap on me. I can’t believe this shit, man.”

Satan stopped mid-step on his way toward the back exit, and faced Stewart with his index finger raised, “I am not man ”

Stewart held the stare of the Hollow One, and eventually Lucifer nodded, “Okay, fine. You’re right, this is a shitty deal—even if it is what you asked for.” Darkly, Lucifer chuckled, “I’ve made good on most of my investments since I finally got Yeshua out of my hair. Hell...I’m lord of this world.” A grin spread like a game-show host as he said, “How about we start from scratch and make a new deal? What do you say?”

Stewart rubbed both tickets together between finger and thumb, “Are you serious?”

“Whatever you want, I’ll play—just fire away. Do you want a hot young woman to worship you? A better job? Maybe a million bucks?”

“Who needs a job when you’ve got a million bucks?” asked Stewart.

“Women flock to millionaires,” Lucifer rang the buzzer, letting the driver know the next stop was his.

Captivated, Stewart couldn’t believe this. His dark lord honored his bidding. After twenty-three long years of sucking shit, Stewart’s payday had finally come. Maybe a bit late, but all those years of worthless suffering were about to hit the jackpot. “Praise you, my Lord. Alright, what do I need to do to get one-million dollars?”

Lucifer nodded slowly, “Get off one exit before your normal stop. Turn right at the first alleyway and you will find a pistol on the ground. All you need to do is pick it up, take it to your work, and throw it in one of the industrial dumpsters behind your workplace. As a result of this favor to me, there will be two other people who owe me big favors—see how this works? It is like a pyramid scheme, but everyone wins.” As the bus eased to a stop and the hydraulic doors decompressed, Satan promised, “After the gun’s been handled, I’ll find you and we’ll hammer out the details.”

Before Stewart stated how this would make him late for work, the devil stepped off the bus and vanished as fast as he’d appeared. Everything continued on the bus as if it was Monday morning.

It was Monday morning.

Long faces marked the other downtrodden passengers, but Stewart felt fear, and a lifetime of failures pushing up from within. The dreaded internal dialogue voiced—what if the gun isn t there ?

If he arrived late for work, his asshole foreman would climb all over him. He might even get written up for tardiness. He’d be one step closer to being fired, and those jerk-off white-collars in upper management loved firing ex-cons. In all truth, making colostomy bags wasn’t the shittiest job out there, and he knew this from experience.

Lowering his head, he gazed at the two tickets in his hand. Irrefutable proof of what had just transpired. He nodded with certainty, the gun’ll be there. Stewart stood from his seat and walked to the back door just like his Lord and Savior had done a moment before. He pressed the buzzer and impatiently waited for his ride to end.

Barely a mile-and-a-half from Ferva Plastics Incorporated, he expected to be about ten minutes late, which would make it easier to ditch the gun without being seen. Pick up gun, toss in dumpster, apologize to the foreman, and then wait for Lucifer to tell him the next step to receiving one-million dollars. Easy.

Stewart found the alley, a narrow canyon between two commercial strip malls. He could stretch both arms and touch the mottled red bricks of each wall. Congesting the pathway were several black bags filled with refuse, tossed into the alleyway from the backdoors of shops. Stewart walked down the corridor, stepping over garbage bags and avoiding unrecognizable puddles of putrid muck.

Halfway in, he saw it, a blue-steel revolver lying in the middle of the alley. He picked up the old .38 Police Special and spotted rust along one side of the barrel and cylinder. Looking into the cylinder revealed three copper tips of live bullets, but the other three chambers, including down the barrel possessed empty casings. A shiver brushed Stewart’s spine as he realized he held a true smoking gun.

Sweat dotted his brow. Beyond any doubt, this was a million-dollar favor. After pushing the gun into his waistband, both exits tightened like they were viewed through fish-eyed lenses. His feet moved nightmarishly slow in flight to the familiar street. The alley elongated and constricted, darkening claustrophobically.

At a swift jog, Stewart stepped over a trash bag and his toe caught on top, tipping it over and spilling a tin can and a beer bottle. Both clanked noisily down the alley. Shit, he thought as he slipped across the top of that puddle of unmentionable slime, yet somehow he’d managed not to fall in it. Keeping a hurried pace, Stewart exited the confining alley and inhaled deeply.

He did it—come on one-million bucks. Smiling, he scraped the yellowish brown muck from his shoe onto the curbside before heading to his next waypoint.

His victorious moment fell short as a police car slid to a halt in the street to his left. Bright red and blue strobes flashed in his eyes as he turned to look. Both doors sprung open and an aggressive voice ordered, “Hands up! Hands up!”

Stewart raised his hands while shaking his head. The nearest cop hurried and wrenched Stewart’s arm behind his back. The cop at the driver’s door warned, “Watch it, Matt. He’s got a pistol in his waistband.”

Steward said nothing because he knew how this part worked. Anything he said, could, and would be held against him. There went his one million bucks—Shit.

#

“Stewart Heldon,” called his jailor from beyond white painted bars of his holding cell. Outside Stewart’s cage, wearing county-browns, the corrections officer stated with bored indifference, “Your lawyer is here.”

Stewart sat upon a cold steel bench in a cell with approximately twenty other men waiting for their arraignment hearing. It had been twenty years since he’d been in prison, but he knew seeing a lawyer before being booked wasn’t normal. He hadn’t been given his phone call yet, and even if he had, he didn’t know anyone who’d accept a collect call from jail. Stewart didn’t even know what his charges were—well, he did, sort of—but the full scope was still a bit fuzzy.

These facts didn’t stop Stewart from wanting to escape from the stale stink of his cell. Stewart raised his hand, “I’m here.”

“Open number five,” the jailor called to an unseen controller. A steady electric hum sounded and the lock popped with a loud click. As the corrections officer slid the gate open, Stewart stepped out. Slamming the gate shut behind him, the jailor then led Stewart down a long hall to a private interrogation room away from general holding.

Upon opening the door, facing him, sitting in a metal chair behind a table, waited the man in black. He was dressed exactly the same as earlier, but with one exception, upon Lucifer’s head sat a matching silk top-hat, circa 1920. Stewart stepped inside as Satan spoke to the guard, “Thank you. I’ll handle it from here.”

The jailor smiled and stepped out. Once the door closed, the Devil met Stewart’s angry gaze while motioning to a second metal chair. He said, “Have a seat. Relax, the observation booth is empty and our conversation will not survive the recording. All they’ll hear is static...” he waved a hand at the one-way mirror, “starting.. .now.”

Stewart asked with heat in his tone, “What happened? I followed your instructions to the letter.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sticking to my part. Sit down, and I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next. In the end, this will all make sense, I promise.” Offering a cheesy smile, he reinforced, “I always keep my promises.”

Stewart sat upon the cold, hard chair. He listened as Lucifer continued, “The State of California will charge you with armed robbery, attempted assault with a deadly weapon, as well as for your parole violation of possessing a firearm. With a plea of guilty, they’ll offer you 5-years in San

Quinten with a chance for early parole. However, if you fight the system, the State of California will push for fifteen years without eligibility for parole.” Anger flushed Stewart’s face a rosy color.

Holding both hands up, the Prince of Darkness replied, “Now, we both know you did not commit these crimes,” moving one hand over his mouth, he coughed, “except for the violation of your parole. However, despite that little detail, I suggest you plead not guilty.”

“No shit.”

Charismatically, Lucifer grinned, “Hey now, there’s no need for an attitude. Hear me out first.”

Stewart snorted.

“There is a tasty looking young reporter who works for a news station that I own.” Lucifer shrugged, “When I say own, I’m speaking figuratively. I’ve got big plans for that girl, and you are going to help her get a leg up, if you get my meaning. She’s going to want an interview with you, an expose of your crime as part of an inside view of street crime at its roots. All you need to do is convince her you didn’t do it. Consider this that big role you always wanted—but without crickets.” Satan tapped his ring on the table. “If you do this right, she’ll raise the million dollars for your defense. It’s almost like that black boxer. You know, the one Bobby Dylan did that clever little jingle for...” The devil snapped his fingers.

“The Hurricane?” Stewart shook his head, “Dude, Rubin Carter was acquitted because the testimonies against him were shoddy. Only Rubin Carter knows if he really killed those people or not.”

Lucifer stopped tapping on the table, “See, you’re already leagues ahead of that Rubin-guy. Trust me, you don’t look like the owner of the gun you found. Cheer up and have a little faith. You are helping my people, I’m helping you. We’ll get that million, but it’s got to come from someplace. Yeshua might turn water into wine, but I can’t.”

“Who the hell is this Yeshua dude you keep talking about?”

Lucifer looked surprised as he began with, “Why, he’s the son of.” Satan paused, grinned, white teeth showing straight and pearly, “You know, some people think that convincing the world I don’t exist is my greatest feat...” he shook his head, “Changing the name of your Lord and Savior— now that makes me proud. Where do you think all those prayers to Geezus are going? Nowhere, that’s where.”

Sliding a quick hand across the table, Lucifer pushed a business card in front of Stewart, “Anyhow, immediately after you and Miss Perky-tits have your little talk, this is the lawyer you must call. He’ll win your case. He’s a God-damned tiger, but he isn’t cheap. In fact, he’ll probably cost most of your million dollars, but your freedom is worth much more than that, isn’t it?”

“So this million bucks, I won’t see any of it?”

A slight twitch ticked Satan’s left eye, “Well,” he cleared his throat, “there could be enough left over for you to buy a new car. It’s the least I can do since you are helping my people climb higher.”

The depth of Stewart’s betrayal and abandonment echoed in his voice, “My people, what about me? I swore fealty to you when I was sixteen! Why have you done this to me?”

The ruby ring once again tapped against the scarred metal table. Lucifer echoed, “Why? The very question “Why’ is the real devil. That’s the question that turned this world into a train wreck. Around 4,000 years ago, some fool asked why, and Moses wrote a book. The next thing you know, everybody is killing everybody over “The Word’—and look around—they still are.”

Lucifer continued, “However, you don’t know this, so listen up. Before the Protestant Reformation, before that heretic Martin Luther split the Church over a woman, the Holy Roman Church was the self-proclaimed infallible point of God’s misinterpreted word.”

“Around 1227, a man remembered as Gregory IX became Pope and began the Papal Inquisitions against anyone opposing Mother Church. Centuries of justified torture and murder befell millions of men and women solely because they were religious naysayers, heretics, and most especially witches and Devil worshipers like you.”

Stewart listened, but wondered if Lucifer rambled on just to hear himself talk. The fallen angel continued, “However, one night while I watched him sleep, Gregory had a terrible dream. I had nothing to do with it, I swear. He dreamt of a ferocious tiger chasing him through the Vatican Halls, and no one would come to his aid. I really did enjoy watching that dream.”

“Upon waking the next morning, he ordered all cats to be executed for their alignment with me. Obviously, when cats howl at night, they’re worshiping me. So, if you owned a cat, you might be in cahoots with me. As God’s Word spread, so did the feline genocide. Killing cute Little Morris sure beat being burned at the stake for heresy.”

“Meanwhile, the population of rats steadily grew. Vermin killed a full third of Christ-worshiping Europeans by spreading the Bubonic Plague, or, historically called the Black Death. I consider it among Catholicism’s greatest fails.”

“So, what does this all have to do with you?” Lucifer shrugged, and looked deeply at Stewart, “That fool Gregory IX was right about one thing —I sure do like cats.”

Masquerade

C.A. Rowland

Harold fingered the long black jacket. Made especially for the Masquerade Ball, he’d insisted it be made of linen. The midnight wool overcoat was an authentic replica of its 1800s inspiration, but even in February, it was much too warm to wear in New Orleans. With his white silk shirt, black silk tie and top hat, he cut a striking figure—just as he expected Jack the Ripper must have.

Harold admired the fact Jack the Ripper was never caught or his identity discovered. He knew if the crimes had happened in current times, Jack would not have escaped detection. Harold thought he was either part of the upper crust or a royal. The work and intelligence needed to evade capture were too much for a petty thief or vagrant. That was his theory anyway. Harold was more discreet and more disciplined in taking his pleasure. Once a year, at the Mardi Gras Masquerade Ball, one special woman would die like the prostitutes in London so long ago.

This year he’d purchased new masks—one with a decorated gold wooden stick and an identical one with an elastic band that fit around his head. The second would be used only once on the special night.

His hands trembled as he fingered the masks’ feathers and the silky velvet backing. A chill ran up his back at the thought of the transformation he would make. He could hardly wait to wear these. He forced his hand away from the material. The planning was complete.

For the past 5 years, his murders had been precise. No one had linked the crimes. The decadence of the parties and the multitude of crimes during the festival activities overshadowed the fact that there was a connection—a single murder planned and carried out by Harold each year. He relished the thought that, in this age of forensic science, he had eluded the police not only in the crime but they didn’t even know that it was an annual event. He wondered if they’d ever connect them but then brushed the thought aside. It was hardly worth thinking about.

He closed the closet door. Time to leave for work. He smacked his lips and contemplated the conversation ahead.

Sandy. Well, really Sandra. They had talked on the telephone enough times for her to invite him to call her Sandy. That’s when he knew. When the relationship had become personal.

She hadn’t met him but he’d seen her. She was perfect for his purposes.

He’d first been intrigued by Sandy’s voice. Deep and low for a young woman, hers was like his mother’s had been. A silky smoothness to its cadence seemed to roll across the telephone lines to caress his ears. Harold was immediately drawn in. Who was she? What did she look like? Her voice suggested she was a seductress just like his mother. He told himself it was too early to start the hunt for his next victim. How on earth would he wait ten months? So he’d ignored his instincts and waited. And listened to other voices. None drew him as Sandy’s voice did. After four months, she’d said those words, “Harold, we talk so often. You sound like someone I can trust, call me Sandy.”

The intimacy of the statement was more than he could bear. She trusted him. With six months to go, he knew he had to see what she looked like. He had made a plan.

For seven years, Harold had worked at the specialty sandwich shop. After his first year as a counter person, he’d been promoted to Assistant Manager. When the manager quit a year later, he’d thought he’d be promoted again. Wrong. The owner promoted a new girl, Heather. It was the ultimate insult. Heather had long straight brown hair that she flipped whenever the owner was around. Harold couldn’t believe she had flirted and seduced her way into the job. She was slender and pretty with the same low silky voice. Harold hated her. But he knew he could never show it. Harold was the consummate gentleman and employee—all while he stewed in the injustice of it.

At first, Harold thought Heather would screw up or leave. She hadn’t. After nine months of having to work for her, he knew he’d have to do something or he’d blow up. That was when he settled on finding someone just like Heather. Someone he could take his rage out on.

Harold’s job included the intake of orders—which was how he talked to Sandy on a weekly basis. Her company used the shop for business lunches. Once Harold decided Sandy might be the one, he used a call back confirmation on an order to get her last name.

From there, he googled her, checked Facebook and Linked In. She was everywhere—and in pictures. Sandy had long straight chocolate hair. Perfect. The fact she was always nice to him didn’t matter. She’d probably gotten her job the same way Heather had—using her womanly charms. The injustice of it churned the acid in his stomach. His blow against these women meant more than his personal anger—it was a blow against all females who walked over men unfairly. His own private war. It was enough that he knew he was striking back. The world need never know.

The shop’s delivery guy made the actual deliveries. Harold obtained the address of the business when an order needed to be delivered. Two weeks after he had her picture, he’d staked out her building and watched her come out at 5 o’clock. Sure enough, she moved gracefully down the street, her hair swinging in rhythm with the sway of her slender hips.

He’d been right. She was perfect. Now all he had to do was wait for Mardi Gras. Each week he returned to the coffee shop across from her building—just to watch her leave. He ordered a latte and sat at the window each time. By the end of two months, Harold thought he could recognize her walk anywhere.

Mardi Gras week was crammed with special orders. Sandy’s office placed two orders instead of one. After confirming the orders, Harold asked about her plans for celebration.

“Are you going to the parade?” Harold asked.

“No, I have to work,” she said.

“That’s too bad. They’re always fun,” Harold said. “You’re going to some of the parties, aren’t you?”

“Oh, sure. I go every year with my boyfriend. I love dressing up in costume and listening to all the music,” Sandy said.

“Me too. I love the Masquerade Ball.”

“That’s my favorite too.”

“I bet you have a great costume. What are you going as this year?”

“I wasn’t sure but I’ve decided to go as Cleopatra. Snake headdress and all.”

“Sounds great,” Harold said.

“What about you?” Sandy asked.

“Oh, I think I’ll go as a rodeo clown,” Harold lied. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“Maybe,” Sandy said. “There are so many people. I don’t know that it’ll happen, but hey, it’s Mardi Gras. Anything can happen. Gotta run— take care of my order, okay?”

“Will do,” Harold said as they hung up. He’d heard her say she had a boyfriend. A lot could happen in a few weeks. A boyfriend didn’t change much—the masquerade was a place where anyone could get lost.

The afternoon before the masquerade ball Harold’s heart was pumping like crazy. He’d taken the day off. No clinging smelling of food for him. After all, he’d waited a whole year to extract his revenge. He’d had the shirt and trousers pressed. He was ready.

He showered, soaping twice—once with a sulfur soap, washing away old skin. The second with a masculine scented soap he thought might linger a bit, but not too much. Naked, he stepped from the shower and dried himself with a pristine white towel.

Shaving was a ritual in itself. Harold had searched for months for the perfect antique razor set and a silver bowl. They didn’t date to Jack’s time but it was enough for Harold to feel the regression in time. He sharpened the razor, lathered up and carefully shaved. He wanted no nicks or cuts for tonight. The many days of practicing paid off as he finished his shave with no bloody marks.

Next he dealt with his hair. It had a natural wave that he enhanced with a bit of gel. He could easily have fit into a Jane Austen novel, if he went in for that sort of thing which he certainly didn’t. He finished styling his hair.

The preliminaries completed, Harold moved towards the full length mirror. He didn’t know many men with one unless they had a wife or girlfriend. For him, the mirror was the key to the change. He stared at the wiry, skinny body before he reached for the cotton drawers. The internet was a wonderful invention—you could buy anything you needed and from just about any time period. Harold avoided looking at his reflection until he had put on his shirt and trousers. He added the vest. He would have loved a stylish burgundy brocade but that would have been too memorable—this one was a deep black. He looked up. A different man stood there. A taller more distinguished man—and he still needed to add the coat.

Next, he slid his feet into the boots. Black the color of ink that added two inches to his height. Harold straightened. This man belonged in another century and exuded confidence. He buckled the belt holding a knife case and inserted the knife. The long jacket would cover all and the weight rested on his hip. After he stretched his arm into the second sleeve of the jacket and shouldered it on, he patted the pocket—the prop knife lay inside. He’d never needed it but one never knew when something like that might come in handy. The last was the leather gloves—into his other pocket so he left no fingerprints.

10pm. Early by partying standards but Harold wanted to get to the masquerade ball in time to find a spot for watching the crowds. Cleopatra costumes weren’t all that popular. Still, the sheer number of people at the event would make finding Sandy harder. Seeking her out was one of the best parts of the night. With his mask on, Harold pushed and prodded his way through the crowds. At 6 feet tall, he could see over the heads of many and he used his height to his advantage. His eyes wandered from head to head—searching for the snake.

On the west side of the ballroom, he spotted a shimmering headdress with an asp. He moved closer, then slipped away. A blonde. He searched for a brunette. After two hours of searching, Harold began to wonder if Sandy had lied to him.when he spotted another snake. This one was atop a brunette. He moved closer, checking to make sure it wasn’t a wig.

It was real hair and it looked like Sandy’s. The woman in the costume had her build and although it was hard to see, Harold knew from how she moved—it was her.

Harold moved closer and held his drink in his hand. This was the most difficult part. How to approach her? He decided to bump into Sandy and then apologize. Innocent and yet an introduction. It happened all the time.

He moved closer and seemed to burst forward, bumping her arm. “How clumsy of me. I am so very sorry madam.”

Sandy turned, mask covering her face. She smiled. “No problem.”

“Are you enjoying the Masquerade?”

“Yeah, I love all this. I was hoping for jazz but this is okay.”

As Harold wondered how to get Sandy outside, he was helped by someone who bumped her arm, sending her drink flying onto Harold’s coat.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said as she tried to help Harold wipe off the liquid.

Harold privately fumed that his jacket was now covered with liquor. He stilled the anger. “Mademoiselle, a lady such as you—it must have been my fault. Perhaps I could offer you a fresh beverage?”

Sandy giggled. “You are most accommodating sir,” Sandy said getting into the spirit of the exchange. “A drink would be wonderful.”

“It is easy to be chivalrous with one such as yourself. Are you always so agreeable?”

Sandy smiled. “No. But it’s easy when one so handsome and well-mannered is attending to me.”

“Perhaps you would allow me to make a suggestion then. A quieter place? There’s a jazz club down the street. A friend is playing and I’m sure we could sit at the musicians’ table. It’s a better place to converse.”

Harold wasn’t sure if he’d pushed too quickly. It didn’t matter if she said yes or no. If she said no, he’d wait and catch her as she left. He clenched his fists and then forced himself to relax them. He didn’t want to wait. He was ready. All she had to do was come with him.

“It’s just music and drinks,” Harold said. “What’s the harm?”

I don’t think so,” Sandy said. “I’m gonna hang out with my friends.”

“Well, I thought I was a new friend. But perhaps it is too soon. A drink here instead?”

Sandy nodded. They pushed their way through the crowd and stood in line, making small talk. Harold hated small talk, and especially the small talk that kept his guise of a 19^th century royal. He’d learned to be a bit glib since women required it and he needed it at the shop. He thought he was pretty accomplished at it.

“Gin and tonic,” Sandy said.

Harold paid for the drinks and they began the trek back to where Sandy’s friends had been. When they returned, a different crowd partied.

“Your friends seem to have abandoned you. Are you sure you don’t want to try the jazz bar? We can always come back a bit later. Or not,” Harold said.

Sandy stared into his eyes. “Thanks but I’d better find my boyfriend. But nice try Harold. I thought I told you I had a boyfriend. And I thought you were going to be a rodeo cowboy.”

“Whaaaa?” Harold stumbled over the words. The room started to swim and Harold tried to focus. “I.. .uhhh.. .changed my mind. How’d you know it was me?”

Harold’s heart had sunk. She knew him. But how?

“I’m very auditory. I always recognize voices—just like yours. I knew it was you as soon as you started to speak. Talk to you next week.”

Harold’s shoulders dropped. All his preparation. All his planning. All for nothing. He realized he’d never get her alone now. Inside, his stomach swirled and bubbled. He thought he might explode. The cacophony of the many voices surrounding him grew in his head. She knew him. If somehow he found her later, if she got away, she’d know who he was. His anonymity was gone. He breathed in and out—slowly, trying to control that which wanted so badly to escape. He stared around the room. Why was it so bright? He felt exposed. Dare he find someone else? Did he even want to try? Should he just wait and try to take her? He didn’t like the odds. He breathed deeply again. Who was Sandy anyway? How dare she? He had to control the rage that threatened to burst out of him. He looked down at his vest, realizing the irony of wearing a dark non-assuming vest—all for naught since his voice had given him away. He straightened—no one else knew. He was still Jack to everyone else—or at least a fellow from a prior century.

Sandy turned and headed into the crowd, laughing. Harold wasn’t sure if the laughter was at him but he again saw red. He slammed his fists into his pockets. His stomach roiled and he forced himself to take deep breaths.

He looked around. No one was paying him any attention. Sandy was gone but he could find her again. He knew her schedule, where she lived. She was his for the taking another time, on his own terms. For now, he needed a new plan. He was, after all, Jack the Ripper, tonight. Women roamed the streets, especially this week. He could still have his revenge but he’d have to seek another out.

Harold straightened and began to walk towards an outside door. He was as smart if not smarter than Jack. He just needed to find the right woman. He left the building and looked up and down the street, before turning to his right where the lights were a bit dimmer and the crowds smaller.

He walked two blocks and turned right again. This was more like it, he thought. A few prostitutes selling their wares. Who would miss one? He guessed that was why Jack chose them. He’d done almost everything else Jack had, so maybe it was time to emulate him in all aspects. Harold walked by two hookers who winked at him. Too old. Too hardened. He was looking for something less worn. He walked past another but her black frizzy hair didn’t fit with his needs.

Harold’s eye caught the slight swaying of hips ahead of him. The girl was young with long straight hair. Not chocolate brown like Sandy’s and his mother’s but close enough. She stood alone, waiting for a trick. He approached her.

“Looking for a date?” she asked with a slow smile.

Harold nodded. Her voice still had a bit of silk to it, unlike the more street hardened prostitutes.

“Not much of a talker, are you? That’s okay,” she said.

After negotiating the services, she turned to walk down the street towards an alley.

“No,” Harold said, inclining his head in the direction of the side street. “In there.”

She looked down the back street and shrugged her shoulders. “Whatever.”

Halfway down the street, she turned and reached for his fly. Harold looked both ways to make sure they were alone. He batted her hand away. He could feel his erection growing stronger by the minute. He realized the spontaneity of this was even more exciting than the planning for Sandy had been. Both thrilling but in different ways.

“Turn around. Closer to the wall.”

The girl turned and began to hike her skirt up. The world seemed to slow. Harold stepped closer, took a deep breath, reached for the sheath and fingered the knife. He drew the blade, reached under her neck and slit her throat. With the other hand he pushed her against the wall to control her struggles. He wanted the blood to flow flowed away from him. He could hear her gurgling, and then it lessened. As time began to speed up again, he wiped the knife on her skirt, and replaced it in the sheath. Harold let go of the breath he’d been holding. He tightened his stomach muscles, feeling the pain of holding onto his erection. He would have loved to climax but that would leave his semen for the police to find. He knew he might leave behind a hair or two but that was easily explained away. Something like his seed wasn’t.

He grabbed both of the girl’s arms and pulled her deeper into the shadows. He laid her face side down to keep the blood flow away from him. He knelt beside her and carefully rolled her over. He laid her arms by her sides, palms up. If he was going to fully embody Jack, then he needed to cut her open. He pushed the mask to his forehead so he could see more clearly.

He’d done a few cuts before to simulate Jack but this time, he decided to do more. He began hacking at the skin between her breasts and belly button. It was much harder than he expected and he had to bear down. Liquid spurted here and there, landing on his gloves and coat.

The rib cage was in his way. He concentrated on the softer stomach area. He pulled the skin apart and gagged on the smells. He turned his head away. Drawing in a deep breath, he held it as he cut out some of the insides and tossed them to the side. He heard the rats scurry.

His senses seemed to expand as he worked. Rats feasted in the dark and he could almost taste the metallic nature of her blood. At the sound of footsteps, he stopped and waited but they passed by. He breathed. He wanted to cut the upside down Vs in her face below her eyes but the light was too dim. Harold looked down at his work. It would have to be enough.

He removed his gloves, placing them in his pockets. Lowering the mask again, he stood up and checked the area again. No one. He took off his coat and turned it inside out. He removed the sheath and added it to a pocket. Then rolled the coat into a ball. If there was any blood, it was most likely on his coat or dark pants.

Moving down the back street, Harold retraced his steps, stopping at the end. A few women loitered. He turned left and forced himself to walk casually, his hardness chaffing at the cotton drawers with every step.

He avoided the crowded areas, taking lesser used streets towards his apartment.

Harold wondered if he’d make the front page of the newspaper. The thought made him even harder. There was still Sandy. He had time to decide how to deal with her. And why should he limit himself to once a year? Jack hadn’t and there was no shortage of prostitutes around. He couldn’t wait to get home to relive the night as he got off. Afterwards, he’d have time to think and plan.

Lessons from a Victory Garden

Jason Andrew

The heels of Milena’s sleek black Manolo Blahnik shoes clicked haphazardly onto the sidewalk like an engine misfiring. The right one snapped during the fight, but she refused to let it deter her poised demeanor. She glanced over her large, oval Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s style sunglasses to the sidewalk. The tiny hand prints of her youth were forever captured in concrete. Seeing them brought back memories of endless summer vacations on this street as a girl. She could hardly believe that her hands had ever been so small.

Milena continued forward until she stopped at the stoop of the freshly painted brownstone and dropped her suitcase. How long had it been since she had visited Nonni Marie? The house had been perfectly preserved over the years. If she listened carefully and ignored the sounds of traffic, children, and birds, Milena imagined that she could hear the practiced chopping sound of her grandmother preparing a meal as she passed by the kitchen window.

She rang the doorbell. A petite woman with curly black hair and a white set of pearls around her neck answered the door with a wide-dentured smile. “Ciao bellissima!” Nonni Marie hugged her closely, reaching up to pat her back. “There, there! Dry your tears.”

Milena sniffed and rubbed her eyes under the protective shield of her sunglasses. “I didn’t want to be a bother, Nonni. I wouldn’t have called you, but Mom moved to Florida.”

The old woman waved away her concern and quickly ushered Milena into the house. She led her to the kitchen and gestured for her to sit at the breakfast nook. Milena glanced up at a painting of a weeping Jesus and the infamous framed plenary indulgence granted by Catholic Church signed by Pope John Paul II. No one in the family seemed to know how she received it or why she felt the need to frame it in her kitchen. “What? You are no bother! What good is a Nonni except to spoil grandchildren? Please, sit down. I’ve made Chamomile tea.”

She sighed wearily. “I don’t drink tea,” Milena protested.

“You’re shaking like a leaf.” Nonni Marie carried a polished silver tea set to the table and gingerly placed an antique cup and saucer in front of Milena. She added a spoonful of honey to the steaming hot liquid. Milena remained reluctant until Nonni Marie gently pressed it into her granddaughter’s hands with a knowing smile. “Drink it! It will calm your nerves, before our cooking lessons.”

Milena did as ordered more from not wanting to argue than interest in the tea and then was surprised how much better she felt after tasting it. “This is quite good. How did you know I was coming?

“Your mother told me that you would come. I’ve been getting ready for your lessons.” Noni gestured to the kitchen counter where she had prepared a veritable feast of vegetables and ingredients for cooking a grand meal. “Everything that we’ll need to resolve your little problem is laid out on the counter.”

“Nonni Marie, I’m not in the mood for a cooking lesson just now.” Her voice faltered a bit. Milena steeled herself refusing to cry in front of her Nonni. “I don’t think you understand just what’s been going on.”

Nonni Marie nodded patiently and patted her on the shoulder gently. “Yes, I know you are a big liberated woman working with computers and television with a position of power and importance. You live in a beautiful brownstone in the upper-east side where the Italian girls of my decade could only exist as maids. What could I know that you would need to learn? The kitchen isn’t a place of power for a modern woman such as you. It didn’t stop him from hitting you, did it?”

Her fingers felt numb. Milena gasped as the silver teacup slipped out of her hand and clattered upon the spotless tile floor. “How?”

Nonni Marie continued nonplussed. “A woman that cannot control her kitchen will never have dominion over her house.” She bent over and wiped up the spill. Then refilled the silver teacup with more almond and honey scented tea.

“Do you know what he did?”

She bolted up out of her seat, angry that her own grandmother would take his side. “Do you know what he did?”

“Don’t be angry, Little One. I think you’ll come to appreciate these lessons in time. I had this very same talk with your mother once. I’ve buried three husbands; believe me when I say that I know of what I speak,” the old woman stated coldly.

Milena tilted her head confused. She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t think of what to say to that.

“Here! Apply this slice of cucumber under your eye.” Nonni Marie plucked two slices of cucumbers from the cutting board and offered them to the girl on a small plate. Milena removed her glasses revealing a large black eye that had turned a deep purple. “It will soothe the swelling and heal the bruise. I might not have gone to school to be a doctor, but I learned the subtle arts of herbs and home remedies. Our family has been famous in the neighborhood for the healing touch for generations. Did you know that my mother can trace her linage all the way to the second daughter of Lucretia Borgia?”

She rubbed the cucumbers under the eye sighing from the almost instant relief. “Lucretia Borgia? The poisoner?”

“She knew a great many things thought to be silly by the learned men of the day. Did you know that Socrates allegedly committed suicide by consuming hemlock-laced wine? I’m told that hemlock tastes of almonds and the effect of euphoria is quite pleasant.” Nonni Marie smiled and filled a new cup and offered it to her. “You seem surprised? The weight of history is in our blood. We come from proud sons and daughters that brought light into the world during the Dark Ages. Our sons fought in the battlefields, but our daughters served as the midwives of the Renaissance. We brought knowledge and faith to the world. It is whispered that Lucretia knew the family secret of canteralla and savagely struck down Her Holy Father’s enemies. Did I mention that two of our sons served our Holy Church as Pope?”

Milena almost spat out her tea. “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me all of this? You can’t mean for me to cook dinner for him after he hit me?”

“I was very proud of you the day you graduated college. You took a step forward that many mothers and daughters had dreamed of for many generations. You live in that world of silicone and numbers, but do not forget where you’ve come from.” Nonni Marie turned away from her and stood over the kitchen sink. “Never let a man think that he can break you.”

“Then why cook him dinner?”

“My first husband, Alfanso, struck me once when he returned from the War,” Nonni Marie said quietly. “It is such a pity that he died so young and in his prime of manhood. The young girls in the neighborhood were quite jealous when he asked permission from my father to court me. Alfanso was the closest thing we had to royalty in the neighborhood then. He was the young man that the others aspired to be. Naturally, he was the first to enlist to service his country after Pearl Harbor, but before he left he wanted to marry.”

“What happened?”

“We were married quietly in a church. I was a blushing bride, hidden under a veil, proud that I could wear white before God. It seems so strange now that veils are only worn at weddings and funerals. What does that say about marriage?” Nonni Marie continued preparation of the ingredients. “During the war we were all expected to do our part, even the women. To supplement our rations we grew our own vegetables in Victory Gardens. After a while, it became a passion to grow my own vegetables. I harvested these ingredients from the garden just for your husband’s dinner.”

“Why would you want me to cook for that man?” Milena asked, horrified. “I’d sooner cut him with that knife.”

The old woman stopped her chopping suddenly and looked up to her coldly. “You should never say such a thing. Once spoken, your intent is forever suspect. You are asking the wrong question.”

What was Nonni Marie trying to tell her? “Why are you telling me all of this?”

“Alfanso returned from the war broken. He was shot in the leg while in France, but my brave husband continued to serve until the pain became too severe and he was finally discharged. He returned to me as a war hero and finally we could start our lives together. We lived quite happily for almost a year after he was wounded. It was romantic. We ate by candle light. There were no children, but we were content with each other. The leg where he was shot never properly healed.”

“Did he lose the leg?” Milena asked.

“The stench of it woke me late at night, but I loved my husband. Love can force you to tolerate almost anything. Rot had settled in the flesh. The doctors could do little in those days. The pain become too much and Alfanso took to drinking. He never lost his temper. It remained with him night and day. Sickness led to slothful days where the hours whittled away. One evening he returned home drunk, limping, barely able to stand. Alcohol mixed with the medicines the doctor gave him to fight the infection turned his blood toxic. I lost my job, he said. It was a lie. We both knew where his job had gone. The bottom of the bottle.”

“That’s when he hit you, isn’t?” Milena asked, knowing from experience.

“I had never been struck as a woman. Alfanso didn’t even have the courtesy to open his hand. I was a very petite in those days. I had no chance.” Nonni Marie paused to pour herself a drink and then continued. “When he returned, I had righted the table and set the candles. My mother had visited and talked to me as I am talking to you. And afterwards, I knew exactly how to handle Alfanso. I decided to prepare his favorite meal; chicken a la Florentine with spinach salad. Yes, your husband also enjoys this meal. It is why I brought all of the ingredients to my kitchen.”

“I’m not going back to him, Nonni Marie!” Milena protested. “I can’t! Maybe the women of your generation could let something like that happen, but I can’t.”

Nonni Marie raised her finger to silence her granddaughter and then continued the lesson. “The first thing you must do is find the proper ingredients. Look for dark green, fresh leaves. Always avoid yellow, wilted, bruised, or mushy leaves. Yes, this batch is a little mushy, but that’s why you make certain that you wash the leaves. Otherwise, you risk accidently infecting your guests with Escherichia coli. Very nasty. A painful way to die.”

The old woman started chopping the spinach. “Did you wash that beforehand?” Milena asked.

Nonni Marie smiled and continued. “What? Did I wash this batch? I think perhaps you misunderstand the purpose of this little lesson. Don’t concern yourself with such details. This salad is for your husband. Yes, you were always a bright girl.”

Milena blinked and listened in silence.

“Next, we dice the heirloom tomatoes, the cucumbers, and the almonds. The trick is ensuring that you have reduced the ingredients to the proper size. Likewise you must strain the spinach and heirloom salad with a dash of vinegar to reduce the taste of almonds. Why use almonds? It gives the salad proper texture.”

Nonni Marie plucked an old spice container from the rack with the word cantarella in tiny script. “What’s that?” Milena asked.

“A family secret. You’ll learn it in time.”

Curious, Milena googled the cantarella on her phone. Search results proved very interesting. The sleeping poison used in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Allegedly the poison used by Lucretia Borgia. She looked up at that plenary indulgence and wondered again what her grandmother did to require it for her soul and how she earned the forgiveness.

Nonni Marie smiled. “What did you learn? Does your computer admit that science has never been able to properly identify how cantarella was made? The recipe has faded into legend and the memories of a few women. Shakespeare’s Romeo drank it to cause his own slumber to join Juliet. Allegedly it involved a dash of hemlock. Such a sad tale that they both had to die.”

Hemlock tastes of almonds, she remembered.

The kitchen timer sounded. “Listen to that ding!” Nonni Marie crooned. “The chicken smells wonderful. The meal is ready, Bellissima.

With a bit of packaging and preparing you can take it to your apartment to meet your husband when he gets come. All you have to do is set the table.”

Milena regarded Nonni Marie with different eyes now. She mentioned that she had buried three husbands in her lifetime. What happened to the other two? She shook her head determined to keep her mind on task. After all, she had a dinner to take home to her husband like a good wife.

The Projectionist

Timothy Baker

It was long after dark when the doorbell rang.

Jack left the kitchen table and cursed whoever would interrupt his Friday night Hungry-Man. He stomped through the living room, turned the two bolt locks to the front door with more force than needed, and slid the door chain aside with a slap. Jack flung open the door.

The porch was dark and empty. He flipped on the porch light and the dull glow of the no-bug bulb cast its yellow light onto the porch. Jack fingered the end of the baseball bat he kept by the door, unlatched the screen door, and pushed it open. On the porch, he swung the bat up to the ready.

"I know you're out there. Why don'tcha come up and get some?"

Beyond the light, the dark did not answer. Jack started toward the porch steps when his foot hit something solid. Startled, he took a quick half step back. A plain cardboard box lay on the porch, its top and corners sealed in shiny, brown packaging tape, not unlike the hundreds delivered before. On the top, neatly written with a black felt marker, was his name and address.

Jack let the bat fall to his side. He bent over and picked up the box, looking at it as he carried it into his house. Two clicks and the locks fell into place.

Jack laid the box on his one-chair dining table and sat before his steaming Hungry Man. Forking the food around, Jack stared at the box. His last purchase was over two months ago and it had arrived in its usual timely fashion. He hadn't found anything worthy since. His collection was already substantial, definitive, in fact, and reels fitting his high standards were getting harder to find. No, he hadn't ordered this and he damn well wasn't going to pay for it, whatever it was.

He dropped his fork and picked up the box, turning it with a light touch. No return address or postage, no clue to its source, just his neatly written address and, bold in the corner in the same black felt, 1 OF 2.

Curiosity had killed his hunger and he tossed the dinner across the room into the already full sink. Several flies rose and circled with an annoyed buzz.

From his pocket, Jack pulled a knife and flicked it open with his thumb. He sliced through the tape on the box, and like a kid on Christmas Day, he threw open the cardboard flaps. The box overflowed with packing peanuts and Jack paused as he stared at their harsh whiteness.

He wondered what perverse prize, or jokester trap, lay wrapped in their soft protection. An uneasy shrug and he slipped his hand into the peanuts. The familiar touch of bubble wrap, and he pulled out his find and held it beneath the low-watt bulb hanging above the table. Jack readily identified it through the distorted lenses of the bubble wrap: a standard 8mm film on a six-inch reel.

Jack cut the tape that held it sealed, and let the bubble wrap drop away. Its paint was gone from years of use, leaving splotches of gray leftover. His heart raced as he unrolled the leader to the perforated, repeated images, and held them to the light. The small black and white frames held a high contrast image of a rough, white X surrounded by a circle, much like that Da Vinci Man drawing. Though the light was low, Jack could make out the breasts at the center of the X.

A hope rose. Was this a genre, so rare they hardly existed? Smokers— named for the smoky back rooms where they were so often viewed—were highly collectible. Thousands had been produced during the first half of the 20th century and perhaps only a handful had survived. So valued by collectors, no one in their right mind would give one away.

Jack wrapped the film back in place, his hands caressing the cold curve of the metal reel. He flipped the reel over. Written along the outer rim in faded ink were the words: A LIFE UNSEEN, BUT DARKLY BRIGHT...

"Oookaay" Jack said, his brow wrinkling. He looked into the box and then rummaged his hand through it, searching every corner, hoping for a receipt, anything to point to the source of his mysterious gift. He pulled out empty handed.

He grinned. "The finder keepeth."

With a new hunger growing, Jack walked to the back of the kitchen into the utility room. His eyes locked on the film he held firm, stepping with blind ease over the piles of dirty clothes and stacks of rancid garbage. The thick smell had long ago been lost to him. At the rear of the room, he came to a solid door, dulled red paint flaking and warping from its aged surface. The neighbor's dog began to howl in a high pitch that fell to a low, lonely note. The mutt started again, punctuating his song with a bark. He unlocked the door, opening it just wide enough to slip inside, and closed it slow and silent. He slid a door bolt in place, and pressing hard, made sure it held firm.

With no windows, the room was pitch-black. A familiar reach for the light-switch, and the fluorescent lights flickered on. Unlike the rest of the house, this room sat uncluttered and garbage free. Along every black painted wall, there was shelf after shelf of film cases, all labeled and categorized according to size—16mm, 8mm, and Super 8—and years produced. They filled the room with the sweet smell of acetate and nitrate.

In the center, rising behind a large frayed couch, a metal stand with two motion-picture projectors atop. One was his pride and joy: an Athena model 224 16mm sound projector, circa 1968. The other, his cheap but reliable GAF Anscovision 388Z Auto Load, switchable between standard 8mm and Super 8. They were pointed toward a large curtained wall, sandwiched between floor-to-ceiling film shelves. A vintage Christmas tree color wheel sat on the floor below the curtain (a rich movie-house red, with laced gold, and frilled bottom), turning, splashing blue, green, and red on the curtain. At the back of the room where there once was a window, an air conditioner hummed, keeping the air dry and at a preserving 50 degrees.

Surrounded by his collection, Jack felt whole, wrapped in a million celluloid friends. He had collected over the years a bit of everything, from early 20th century silent films (Chaplin and Laurel & Hardy were among his favorites), theater newsreels from the forties and fifties, along with kiddy matinee serials from the same period, to several full-length pornos from the sixties, both soft and hard-core. His most prized possessions sat locked away in a perforated, locked metal box in the corner. Inside where the Smokers: silent 8mm ditties with such intriguing titles as Super Saleswoman, Frat Girls Take a Licking, and Special Delivery. All shot in black and white, they ran for no more than ten to twenty minutes. Enough time for Jack's satisfaction. While watching, Jack would often fantasize of the hundreds of men that, after a raucous all male viewing, would go home drunk and horny to ravage their frigid, distant wives, teaching them a lesson Jack knew they deserved.

With practiced hands, he loaded the mystery film onto the GAF and watched as it pulled the leader into itself. He licked his lips as it clattered, winding the celluloid through its many gears, spitting it out into the rear reel that grabbed and wrapped it around its core. Jack turned on the table lamp on the projection table and flipped a boxed switch. The house lights went out.

Jack paused as he touched the play dial and cocked his head, listening. Through the sound proofed wall, he heard a muted howl. He waited. The projector fan whispered. Shaking his head, he turned the switch to play and turned off the lamp. The projector's lamp blazed from the lens and lit up the curtain.

Jack jumped over the back of the couch and landed with a bounce onto the thick cushions. He grabbed a two-button switch connected to a thick cable running across the floor to the curtain. His thumb pressed the top button and the color wheel stopped and went out. Electric servos whirred as the curtain parted. The burst of light from the reflective screen made him blink as he sunk into the worn-down cushions.

The screen went dark and a long snake of a scratch wiggled vertically across it. Jack expected a titillating title to come up as was the norm, but more scratches, like odd letters, flew by. A jump cut filled the screen with a woman, completely naked except for the thick ropes that held her arms over her head and her legs spread-eagled to a wooden background. At first, Jack thought the camera was directly overhead, but her head hung, chin to chest, and her dark shoulder length hair obscured her face. A voluptuous body, with wide hips and large breasts, her overgrown thatch of pubic hair stood out, stark against her pale skin. A painted circle surrounded her, its outer reaches touching the four walls of the picture frame. Within the circle, strange glyphs were spread about.

Jack leaned forward. A feeling of warmth hit his groin. This is a helluva thing, he thought, as rare as they come. True S and M Stag films were thought to be non-existent and here he was the happy recipient of some collector's grave mistake. Jack grinned.

On screen walked a shirtless muscular man wearing light colored chinos, a black hood covering his head. He grabbed the woman by the hair and yanked her head up, revealing a beautiful and youthful face. She couldn't have been more than twenty, if that. Her mouth fell open in a drugged sag. The man turned and looked into the camera. Though shadowed through the eyeholes, his eyes looked large, angry and piercing. Despite the coolness of the room, a rush of heat flowed across Jack's body. The man turned back and slapped and backhanded her face over and over, each one more brutal than the next.

The girl awoke, her mouth wide with screams. The film was silent with only the clatter of the projector filling the room, but Jack could hear her cries. The abuse went on for what seemed like forever and a minute. The man stopped and let go her hair. Her head falling back against the boards, the girl sobbed in pain and terror, tears and make-up streaming down her bruising cheeks.

Jack started to get a bad feeling. The violence and the girl's reaction felt all too real. He hoped this film wasn't what he thought, a legend, rarely spoken of and never found. But deep down, he did hope a little for its possibility. It would be the penultimate find, a gem at the top of his collective treasures. But who would send him such a thing? And more importantly, would they want it back?

On the screen, the hooded man stepped back, taking in the girl's misery. He sat down on his haunches before her, back to the camera, and bowed his head. Jack could see the hood moving as if the man's jaw was working. What's he babbling on about? Jack couldn't know.

The grasp of the intoxicant returned, the girl's weeping slowed, and her head lolled. Arms raised to a Y, the man leaned his head back, hands palm up like a supplicant priest begging for a blessing.

Jack stared, hypnotized, nausea swirling in his gut.

Hooded man stood, hands still in the air and took a step to the girl. Her eyes held tight, face tense in her fight against the intoxicant. The man's left arm dropped and went to his waist.

Here it comes. The dirty deed at last. Jack palmed the rise in his pants.

The man's right arm fell and he looked the girl in the face. A light flashed from below his left hand. The knife was long and curved, Arabian, its handle ornate and black.

Hooded man plunged the blade into the girl's belly. Her head shot up with a look of painful surprise. Eyes bulged as her neck muscles pulled tight and her mouth gaped.

Jack heard the piercing scream. His hands went to his ears, but it was of no use. He went to his knees as he watched the hooded man step aside, giving full view, drawing the imbedded knife across her belly. Dark fluid spilled from her like a waterfall, splashing down her groin and legs to the floor.

The hooded man withdrew the blade, turned and walked off screen as nonchalant as he had walked on. The girl bucked against the ropes and her stomach convulsed. The wound widened like a bloody, toothless mouth filled with worms. Intestines spilled out and stretched to her feet. Her head dropped and her body went limp.

Still holding his hands to his ears, Jack stared, shaking and unbelieving, as the camera held on the image. His hands dropped to his lap and he looked to the projector. The reel still held around 200 hundred more feet. Ten more minutes, at least. The screen held the shot as the killing room dimmed. The girl hung, bleeding out.

"Is this it? Is this all you've got?"

The light in the room faded and turned gray. Jack reached for the couch and stood up, wary of passing out. A wind blew across Jack's face and the acrid taste and smell of something foul swept into his mouth and nostrils. The light grew greyer and the clatter of the projector faded.

A sound like some alien cicada entered his head, chittering and clicking. Jack's stomach muscles convulsed and pulled him over, forcing him to the couch. He looked to the screen and retched. The girl had faded to a bound ghost. The circle and symbols glowed. A foul presence neared and he felt light tendrils of electricity on his belly. His stomach relaxed and the nausea left as suddenly as it came. He leaned back in the couch feeling cool and at ease. The insect sound became a calming song and a warming sensation rose around his belly button. A healing euphoria swept over him and his body arched.

Jack laid his head back and his eyes turned dreamy to the ceiling. Darkness fell across him and sweet oblivion.

#

Jack awoke to bright light. He blinked and squinted. The projector's front reel sat empty and still, the receiving reel spinning and flipping the end leader onto the projector with a clack...clack...clack. The projector glowed like a beacon onto the screen, now imageless and pure white, illuminating the room.

Jack leaned forward, rubbing his face. He looked again at the blank screen, the horrific image of the brutalized and dying girl burning in his brain. Had he fallen asleep and dreamed it all? How long had he been out, anyway? With no ready answers, he stood, half expecting to pass out again, but his legs held firm and no fading of the light came. He took a deep breath and touched his belly. He felt oddly energized, like a man satiated after a long hunger.

Slapping his belly, Jack walked around the couch to the projector stand, turned on the desk lamp, and switched the projector from 'Lamp' to 'Motor'. The room darkened when the beacon went out, leaving only a small island of light in the center of the room from the desk lamp. The clacking of the rear reel stopped. The cooling projector fan and the air conditioner harmonized. Jack's shadow loomed large against the far wall behind him.

Jack fed the end of the rear reel into the forward one and flipped the switch to "Rewind". He whistled as he watched the reels spin at high speed, making a high pitched buzzing sound. The film on the rear reel lessened in

size as the forward reel increased rapidly. Jack looked into the dark corners of the room. A feeling of unease washed over him. The sense that unseen eyes watched, hiding in the room where the small lamp light couldn't reach, itched at his skin. He flipped the house-lights switch, sending the light flickering into the corners. Nothing there but angled walls.

The rewind finished and Jack turned off the projector and the desk lamp. With care, he pulled the loaded reel, and walked to his Stag film box. He unlocked it, hesitating after swinging open the metal lid. He turned the film over and back, searching for something, anything, some sign to its dark origin. It looked innocent, of course, and gave away nothing. He placed it into the cold interior of the box and locked it away.

#

Light from the just risen sun made the closed blinds in the living room glow golden and warm. Jack pulled the blinds open and let loose a riot of long settled dust. He waved his hand and coughed as he looked out at his awakening neighborhood. The light glinted off the high line wires and reflected shale red from the tall warehouses in the distance. Shortening shadows from the houses across the street were slowly pulling back from his home.

Jack turned around and took a long look at his so-called living room. The slatted sunlight revealed nothing but filth and shambles: stacks of magazines and newspapers covered the floor and furniture; plates with remnants of day's old food dotted the coffee table and scattered beer cans stood on every surface. Flies buzzed as an occasional cockroach navigated the garbage maze.

"Damn, I'm a pig," he said, with long forgotten disgust.

With a zest he hadn't felt in years, Jack went to work, filling trash bag after trash bag with refuse. He labored all day, taking time at noon to eat a whole bag of hot dogs, complete with buns and all the fixin's, washing it down with a quart of grape Gatorade.

The afternoon he spent scrubbing, sweeping, and vacuuming. Jack felt that he was not only cleansing his home, but somehow, his life. He felt new, like a moth freshly born from its hairy cocoon. By the time he came to his bedroom he began to feel depleted. Turning off the vacuum, his sat on his fresh made bed, exhausted.

His shotgun leaned in the corner shadow. Jack winced at the sight, the memory of the taste of cold metal still fresh. His tongue clicked in his mouth as he thought back to the day five weeks ago, when in deep despair he placed his mouth over the barrel, finger on the trigger, and yearned for the end. But like most lofty goals, he just didn't have the balls to do it.

Today was different. He felt, dare he think it, happy. This emotion was all together new and he wasn't prepared to let it go. Even so, he felt dead tired, and old thoughts were struggling to the surface. What was he doing? Was all this cleaning worth it? Tomorrow would be the same as yesterday, the depression would set in, and all would return to the way it was.

Jack recalled the events of last night, the horror and the ecstasy. Somehow the film—or something—had given him this boost, like some long acting drug. But how, and why?

After a steaming wash down, he step from the shower and wiped the condensation from the mirror. He examined his face, pulling his beard, contemplating shaving the whole damn itchy thing off. A head tilt and he looked closer. Areas of brown had appeared in his beard and hair where once grey had dominated. His family had all turned grey early in life, and he knew none whose color returned. And the bags under his eyes were gone.

Jack looked—younger.

The doorbell rang. Jack snatched a towel, and wrapping it around his waist, he ran to the front door. He found the porch empty, except for a white, bulging envelope lying alone near the steps. He rushed out, the screen door banging shut. He picked up the package and peered down both ends of the street into the waning light of dusk. Once again, no one. His towel began to slip and he went back into the house.

In the same handwritten ink as the first package, was his address, and down in the corner, 2 OF 2. Again, no return address, and Jack didn't care. It was their mistake (whoever they were), not his.

It was light, unlike the first reel, long, and thick down the middle of the envelope. He ripped open the end of the envelope and emptied it to his coffee table.

The over large glasses case rocked as if impatient. Its pale leather had frayed at the rounded corners. Jack held the case still and lifted its lid. The hinge and spring creaked. Inside, a pair of antique, dark lensed metallic glasses. On the inside of the case lid was written another incomprehensible line.

The words scrawled on the film reel spring to mind. A run and a skid to the kitchen, Jack fumbled through the junk drawer, finding a water stained notepad and half a crayon labeled Red Rose. At the coffee table, he wrote the two lines together...

A life unseen,

But darkly bright,

Lives between

The flickering light.

Jack read it again and looked at the strange glasses. They weren't ordinary, by no means, almost goggles; the lenses were large, round, and appeared to be flat and non-corrective. In his hands, the glasses and wide metal earpieces folded out with a sprung click. The same strange icons that lay inside the film's circle were etched tightly along the outside of the earpieces. Even on the lens rim, Jack could see tiny glyphs.

Jack's eyes blurred. A realization crept at the edges of his consciousness: the bound girl, the circle and glyphs, the praying hooded man, the ritualistic knife and murder, the foul presence, his pain and euphoria, and now the strange glasses. It fell together in one intuitive flash.

This was magic, heavy, dark magic, life-giving magic, real and all his.

Jack found his keys and headed straight to the theater. It was time to meet his maker.

#

The after-midnight traffic moved slow and thick in the streets of the inner city. The streetlights and neon signed strip clubs and porn shops reflected and passed like warped, psychedelic visions across his car's windshield. The warm summer breeze coming through his windows was alive with the scents of the streets.

Jack looked much younger now that he had shaved his beard and combed his hair, even handsome. The lines of time had disappeared and he felt the energy of re-acquired youth. He wore an old, but clean, suit jacket, and a tie hung loosely around his neck. He needed to look decent, like some office cubicle type, to help defer any apprehension; street whores where paranoid and he didn't want a struggle.

And there was plenty out for the pickin', like a ripe crop ready to harvest. The whores sauntered the streets among junkies and perverts, in various degrees of undress, their obscene breasts pushed up and their butt cheeks hanging out below short skirts for show and easy access. The display repelled Jack as much as it drew him, like a fly to crap.

A police car stopped at the corner with two whores leaning into the window. Jack sped up and passed them, watchful in the rearview mirror.

No, too many eyes here to catch a car tag or remember a face. These whores may be animals, but they looked out for each other. He turned at the first corner and headed for an industrial complex nearby, populated with lower grade whores, but with fewer tell-tale eyes. Jack was on a mission now and couldn't risk failure. This new life was at stake and his new, generous friend needed much. It was a meeting not unlike encountering God at a cosmic crossroad, where desires were made known and pacts, consummated.

#

Between each frame of a motion picture is darkness, an invisible shadow glossed over by the nature of our sight; eyes that hold each picture in a fraction-of-a-second nostalgia. People gathered in movie theaters felt safe in the soft glow of an illuminated screen, never realizing half the time the room turned cave dark, a darkness where things could lurk among them, hidden between the light.

Watching the film again, Jack had slipped on the arcane glasses. The screen flashed like two alternating strobes of bright image and glowing black-light. Jack felt disconcerted, like he was blinking with sunglass eyelids.

As the hooded man invoked his silent plea, stars appeared in the blacklight, scattered like diamonds on velvet. The stars turned, giving Jack a weightless feeling. With the sacrifice gutted and her blood spilled, a dark hole spread open across the stars and the foul smell entered the room, as if a door to an alien morgue had opened, releasing rotten gas. At that moment, it came.

It fell out of the screen with a splat, and stood wavering, un-used to gravity. It was tall, tubular, and eyeless, its black feather-like spikes reflecting unknown colors. A single, thread of a tentacle came from its mass and touched Jack's stomach as he sat on the couch, frozen more in awe than fear. The nausea returned as the thing vacuumed his life energy out through his navel. The tentacle pulsed and flexed. His consciousness spun like a whirlpool, making him retch and convulse. Alien colors moved and shimmered across its quills.

The energy flow reversed, the warm, erotic sensation sweeping from his stomach to every cell of his body. Jack's body arched and his eyes fluttered as a seductive locust voice chittered his head.

"I taaake. I giiiivve. Yoouu giiivve. I taaake." It leaned over close to his face and a hole opened in its blackness. Jack stared and fell into the pupilless silvery eye.

"Weee liiivve."

In his ecstasy, Jack understood.

#

Jack crept the car through the industrial park. Lone whores walked and stood between the barbwire topped chain link fences and brick walls covered in rude graffiti. There was still traffic but not as thick, and lone men trolled for a few minutes of cheap, nameless love. The whores were not as appealing but just as willing. They called at every approaching car and cursed the ones that passed them. To Jack, they were lost, drug addicted, and subhuman, biding their time until someone took them out of their misery.

Jack pulled to the curb as one called out and turned around, shaking her ass. She stepped up to his passenger window and leaned in, her ample breasts spilling into the car. She was tall, meaty, and perfect.

"Are you the popo?" she said in a slurred, gravel voice.

"What?"

"Are you a cop?"

Jack smiled. "Uh, no."

"Are you a pimp?" She chuckled, looking him over. "Ah, no you ain't. Ain't no pimp dresses like that."

Jack looked down at his suit, not knowing whether to feel insulted or not.

She waved her hand. "Ah, I'm just playin'. Don't feel bad. You look nice to me," she said, batting her eyes in fake seduction. "You lookin' for a date? Listen, baby, I'll make you feel like you never felt before." She lifted her breasts with both hands, blowing kisses at them.

Jack laughed under his breath at the irony.

"I bet," he said. "How much?"

"Well, that's all according to what you want. Whatcha want? Tell your mama." She smiled, flashing half-rotten teeth.

"All that you can give," Jack said.

Her head popped back. "Oh baby, that'll cost more than you got."

Jack reached into his chest pocket and flashed a dollar-sized roll. Andrew Jackson looked at her with disapproval. The whore's head popped back and her eyes widened. She opened the door and plopped in the passenger seat. The cushion sighed and the springs squeaked.

"So, let's get started," she said. "And show me handsome Andy again."

Looking around, Jack dropped the roll back in his pocket.

"Not here. Let's go to my place."

Her smile left and she looked him straight in the eye. "Look, it's either here or in the alley. That's the only place I do my bizness." Her hand went to the door handle, ready to escape.

Jack reached out, touching her arm. She looked down at it and cocked her head.

"I'm just a little shy," he said, pulling back his hand, lest he lose it. "And this is my first time to do, you know, this." He made a frustrated gesture.

"I'm just one lonely guy looking for a night of companionship and I'd feel more comfortable at home. It's not far, really." He patted his chest pocket. "And I'll be very, very grateful."

The whore's hand left the door handle and her face softened.

"Well, okay. I guess you look harmless enough. I have a good eye for people. I'm practically a social worker." She cackled at her own joke.

Jack grinned, relieved. He put the car in gear and drove from the curb. The whore looked back at her corner as the lights of the park faded in the distance. Jack breathed in deep, satisfied at his skill. It was good to have someone, or something, to live for. He turned and looked at the whore with a glint in his eye.

"So, do you like movies?"

The Right Hand Man

J.S. Reinhardt

“Hey, Ray.”

Charlie walked in behind a cloud of cigarillo smoke, flicking the halffinished butt to the curb. Just a block from his front door, this dim bar was like home to him, no matter the time of day. Sharpie’s Pub consisted of a pool table, a couple of booths, and a long slab of oak where everyone knew which seat was Charlie’s.

It was a place for guys like him, and nobody else.

Ray slid three fingers of Powers into place as Charlie settled in at the crook of the bar.

“Hey, Charlie. How’s it hanging?”

“Fair to midland, Ray.” Charlie lifted his rocks glass, cocked it toward the bartender in a one-sided cheer, and threw back the cheap Irish whiskey with a single swallow. Without a word Ray refilled the glass. The first drink had done its job so Charlie let this one sit. He watched the cubes of frozen water bob and settle, a swirling sheen of frigid water mixing with that golden elixir of the fiscally challenged. Life had slipped into this routine for Charlie Burke so long ago he couldn’t remember exactly when there was more to do than drink his days away.

Originally from Pawtucket, Rhode Island, Charlie hadn’t wanted to be some toady like his old man, busting his ass for dirt pay in some textile plant. His cousin Ian was a player in Boston’s Irish mob. He would drive up from Southie in his big red Caddy, wearing his leather jacket, and flashing rolls of cash. Charlie’s father and him had something going on. They would argue about the boxes Ian would leave in the garage, but in the end his father always kowtowed, and Charlie and his sisters got new clothes or toys, or they all went out for a fancy dinner.

One summer morning in 1974, with Ian’s address and phone number culled from his mother’s address book, Charlie took his snow shoveling money, a small folding knife, and hitchhiked to Boston. Standing in

Downtown Crossing that evening, Charlie hopped on the red line headed for Broadway station. Emerging from the train, he was surrounded by the sights, sounds, and smells of a hot city night.

That summer had been the beginning of the best years of his life.

Ian answered the door sporting track pants, a wife beater, and a shiner that covered the right side of his face.

“What the fuck you doin’ here?”

It was the greeting Charlie expected, and when his cousin cut off his explanation, Charlie wasn’t fazed.

“Shut up. Get in here, kid.”

Charlie saw the revolver in Ian’s hand as he stepped into the ground floor hovel. Kiss blared from massive speakers. Two half naked broads sat on a dingy low-lying couch, snorting white powder off a mirror they passed between them. Two televisions, their volumes low, had porn movies running.

Charlie was mesmerized by the flicker of electric sex.

The impact of Ian’s hand on the back of his head snapped him out of it.

“So I ask again, what the fuck are you doing here...what is your name? You’re Marge and Petey’s kid, right?”

Charlie nodded, fixated on the gun Ian waved around as he talked.

“You got the attention span of a fucking nat. Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Ian pushed the revolver’s snub barrel between Charlie’s eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Charlie. I’m your cousin. I wanna be a gangster!”

Ian looked at him, the seriousness dropping from his face as he doubled over with laughter. When the women on the couch started laughing too, he wheeled around and pointed the pistol at them.

“You fucking bitches shut the fuck up! Get outta here, you fucking skanks!”

“But Ian—”

“I’ll give you the butt of this fucking pistol. Get yer shit, and get the fuck outta here!” He pushed one girl out with his foot, and the other scurried past, muttering about what an asshole Ian was.

Charlie had never seen anything as cool as what just happened.

“Goddamn whores, kid.”

“What?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, do I have to say everything twice with you?” Ian whacked him upside his head again. “Goddamn whores, is what I said.” Ian lit a cigarette, drew hard, and exhaled a billowing cloud of smoke as he shook a finger at Charlie. “So you want to be a gangster, huh? What makes you think your cousin Ian here is a gangster?”

“Your car—”

“Fuckin-A, kid. Sweet El Dorado, right?”

Charlie nodded.

“And the way you dress, and how you talk to my dad, and the boxes—” With a flash Ian’s hand was around Charlie’s neck.

“What the fuck do you know about them boxes, kid?”

“Nothing!” He choked out.

“I’ll fucking whack you if you mention them again, you got that?” Ian tapped the revolver against his forehead in time with his cadence to drive the point home.

“I don’t know nothing about them, just—”

“Fucking hell, kid!” The revolver began tapping on his forehead again, harder this time, “Don’t. Mention. The. Boxes!” Ian pushed him back, flopped into a ratty armchair, and drew heavy on his cigarette again. “So you want to be a gangster. Well, you came to the right place. Your cousin Ian is gonna hook you up, kid.”

It turned out Ian did hook Charlie up with connections to the mob, but not in the direct way that Charlie had expected. Ian was bottom rung; a hustler, skimming off jobs that he was pulling for a mid-level Winter Hill player. By the time Charlie’s 18^th birthday came and went, he was a known entity to those Winter Hill players. His natural ability to get in and out of any place without being detected started to gain him the favor of some big names.

Ian became agitated that his nobody, small-state cousin was becoming better known and respected than himself. It all came to a head one night when, in a coke-induced fury, Ian beat Charlie to a pulp on the street. He probably would have killed Charlie if Seamus McLennan hadn’t happen to walk up. Charlie didn’t see him, his eyes were swollen shut. But over the ringing in his hears, he knew exactly who was talking.

“Hey, let up off the kid, Ian.”

“Fuck you. He’s my blood, I’m gonna fucking kill him.” Another kick impacted Charlie’s side. The next thing he heard was a home run crack, and a crumpling thud. Two more wet impacts, and Charlie was being helped up and put into the backseat of a car.

When he woke up two days later, Charlie’s life began anew: he was welcomed into one of the most active organized crime families in America.

Ian was never seen, or spoken of again.

Charlie Burke made his first kill four months after that, strangling a rat and leaving him with his own balls in his mouth as a message. The way the whole thing went down was a tale of Boston gangster legend. The rat, a numbers runner who had threatened to talk to Boston’s Finest, stuck Charlie with a steak knife four times before giving up the ghost. That was the same knife Charlie used to cut the guy’s balls off. What garnered him legendary status was that one of those knife wounds punctured Charlie’s left lung. The organization’s doctor was astonished when Charlie walked into his basement office, talking and joking like nothing was wrong.

Over the years, Charlie suffered quite a few injuries that would have killed lesser men; shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, and even run over by a car twice. But he always got the job done. For the organization, he was the perfect killing machine. Charlie just thought he had luck on his side, but the big boss always said it was something more than just luck.

When things started to fall apart in the 90’s, Steve, the ranking hit man for the crew, sat Charlie down over a bottle of whiskey and let him know things were coming to an end. Charlie would have nothing to worry about, Steve said. Then, Steve locked onto him.

“Listen, the boss says you’re to go see Padre O’Shannon. The boss says you need to, ’cause he’s got something for you.”

“What could that old kid fucker have for me, huh?”

“Listen, Burke is old Irish. Your kin have been called upon for centuries, man. From the streets of Galway, to you right here in the streets of Boston.” Charlie watched him make the sign of the cross and down the last of his whiskey.

“What the fuck you talking about, Steve?” He leaned back, the laugh catching in his throat as Steve stood up.

“The boss says go talk to O’Shannon. That means you go fucking talk to O’Shannon, got it?”

Steve left. He and the boss were never seen again.

Charlie stepped away from The Life a very rich man.

He never went to see the old priest.

Decades passed.

When his doctor called with the diagnosis of lung cancer this morning, Charlie figured it was time. He had no idea if the old padre was still kicking, but with his own days numbered, it was time to make things right.

“Thanks for the drink, Ray.”

“You leaving, Charlie?”

He ignored the barkeep’s tone and walked briskly out of the bar and across the street.

The church smelled thick with centuries of myrrh and furniture wax. He dabbed his forehead with holy water, knelt, made the sign of the cross, and cleared his throat. A young priest came from the wings, and greeted him.

“Hello, how can—” The kid clearly recognized him, and froze.

“O’Shannon, still alive?”

“Father O’Shannon?” The priest took a step back.

Charlie nodded.

“Yes, um, he’s in the rectory.” The priest feigned a smile.

“Go tell him Charlie Burke is here to see him. I’ll wait.”

The priest seemed relieved at the chance to turn and run.

Charlie sat down in a pew, and wished he had taken a traveler of whiskey from the bar.

What the fuck was he doing, anyway?

The priest, old by the same standards that mountains are called old, came through an archway to the right of the altar.

Contempt rose in Charlie’s throat.

“Charlie Burke.” The priest’s voice gave no hint of age or weariness. “By the light of God’s day, I never thought I’d see you in this church again.”

“Well, Jimmy, I ain’t here on church business.”

“I imagine you’re not, Charlie. In fact I know exactly why you’re here. I’ll meet you back in the rectory’s receiving room.” The old man jerked his crooked thumb over his shoulder. “Father Patrick, come take our guest back to the receiving room and then lock up for the day.”

“But Father, we have—” The young priest saw the look on O’Shannon’s face and halted his objection.

Back in the bowels of the church, Charlie paced along a wall covered with pictures of the cardinals who ran Boston’s catholic diocese. They looked like vultures to him, every one.

The thump, shuffle signaled O’Shannon’s approach, so Charlie stood tall. Whatever his old boss had wanted him to get from this priest, he would get, and if this old pederast gave him lip, well... That’d be all the reason he’d need to crack his skull.

The old priest came in with a small wooden box under his arm.

“You were supposed to come get this years ago.” He set the box down on a small round table in the center of the room.

Charlie gave him a pass on the condescending tone. Priests were judgmental, it was their way. Regardless, he felt his neck grow warm. Patience was not his way.

“Listen, like I said, I’m here to get what our old boss wanted me to have. If that’s it.” Charlie reached out for the box and the priest’s right hand flashed out and grabbed his wrist with such strength that Charlie winced. The old man pulled him close and whispered in his ear.

“You’ll get what’s in the box, lad, but first you need to know what to do with it.” The priest pushed Charlie back. “Sit.”

Anger blazed up Charlie’s back, flushed through his face, but the cold look of the priest’s eyes triggered obedient compliance. Charlie knew he’d be killing this fucker soon enough.

The priest settled down into a high backed leather chair and let out a sigh.

“Charlie Burke. Your family is an old line, you know that, don’t you?”

“A history lesson, then?” Charlie leaned back in the chair, pulled his pack of cigarillos from his pocket and tapped one out. He thought about offering one to the priest, chose not to, and lit his own.

“History is all you have these days, and don’t pretend it isn’t.”

Charlie took a deep drag, the cherry glowing as hot as his desire to reach over and strangle the filthy old shit right then and there.

“Your kin go back to King Tairrdelbach Ua Conchobair. He was a builder of castles, a wager of war, and one of the mightiest leaders our people ever knew. He was fearless, untouchable, and though fighting under the blessing of God himself, King Tairrdelbach Ua Conchobair struck down his enemies without mercy.”

“Patience and mercy are highly overrated, and in short supply, old man. What’s your point?”

“Fair enough. I’m not fond of you either, Charlie. As I see it, this is going to be wasted on you. But, an obligation is an obligation.” The priest turned the box toward himself and opened the lid. “It was that King who began the rite of the Unchristened Hand.” He turned the opened box toward Charlie, who stood to look at what it held.

There, nestled in a pillow of red velvet, sat a withered and grey hand, severed at the wrist. The skin was pulled back from the long fingernails, grey and mottled. It was huge, or probably had been when it was pulsing with blood, and it registered to Charlie that it was a right hand.

“This is that King’s hand, Charlie, and whoever possesses it wields the strength of all those warriors who have possessed it throughout the ages.”

Charlie’s mind clicked all the parts into place. The priest’s strength and speed, his longevity, his power over their old boss. It was this old folk tale, which wasn’t a folk tale at all it seems, that made it all possible.

“So this is what our boss had wanted me to have?”

“Despite my reservations, he wanted you to do more than just possesses it, Charlie.”

“And what the hell does that mean, old man?”

“That doesn’t matter anymore, Charlie Burke, because here we are. I’m to pass this on to you now, as I was directed so many years ago.” Father O’Shannon stood and looked into Charlie’s eyes. “There are some things we need to take care of, first. Take the box and follow me into the chapel.”

The priest lit four candles behind the altar and placed each at the corner of a sepulture in the floor. He then directed Charlie to place the box in the center of a sepulture. The name was obscured, but Charlie thought it was odd that a body was buried there, under that marble slab, and that all the priests who administered service stood on someone’s grave while addressing the congregation.

“You weren’t baptized here, but you’re going to be born again in this church Charlie Burke. Kneel, there.”

Charlie did as he was told, unsure why going along with this rigmarole seemed perfectly fine. The priest stood close behind him.

“Now, pick it up and hold it in your left hand. Hold your right hand out.”

The hand felt warm as Charlie lifted it from the box. A slight pulse began to grow, and he had to fight the urge to throw it aside. He had gone this far with the craziness, and he wasn’t a quitter.

“Repeat after me.”

Charlie nodded. The pulse grew stronger in the hand.

“In my christened hand, like that of my father and all my kin,” The priest paused. Charlie repeated, verbatim.

“As far back as the name be spoke, I hold the promise of King Tairrdelbach Ua Conchobair. His hand is now mine to carry forth into battle.”

The old hand’s fingers began to straighten, and Charlie’s own right hand began to tingle and burn.

“Make the sign of the cross with the King’s hand, then repeat after me.” Charlie felt the priest take a step back.

Making the sign of the cross with the ancient talisman, the cadaverous fingers twitched and flitted on his hairline.

“Patrem et filium et spiritum sanctum. I call upon you, oh Lord, to forsake my right hand as any tool of thee, as you hath forsaken the greatest King of my kin.”

Charlie repeated, and his right hand felt like it was being stung by hornets. Sharp, hot pain engulfed his fingers and shot up his arm. Through clenched teeth he repeated the priest’s words. “Patrem et filium et spiritum sanctum. I call upon you, oh Lord, to forsake my right hand as any tool of thee, as you hath forsaken the greatest King of my kin.”

Father O’Shannon kept going.

“Let my blood be without mercy, without kindness, and without your glory, oh lord. Let my King’s hand act with vengeance!”

As Charlie finished the last word, a whoosh of air slipped past him. Something splashed his face and the pain in his hand stopped.

Charlie looked to where his right hand should be and saw it rolling to a stop on the floor.

The priest was yelling something that didn’t make sense.

“Put the hand to your bloody stump, now!”

Through the haze of shock Charlie felt the dead hand’s fingers grip his wrist and tug on his arm.

The priest repeated the chant in Latin, “Patrem et filium et spiritum sanctum,” his voice filling the small chapel.

Charlie let the hand pull itself toward his wrist, the blood pumping out as fast as his shocked heartbeat. As the dried out flesh of the old hand came into contact with the freshly sliced skin and bone of his right wrist, something happened.

Tendrils sprang out from the King’s hand and drove up into his arm. The flesh, reinvigorated, turned white, then pink, and the fingers began to respond to his own thoughts. The old flesh met his own, stitching together until he could barely see the difference between this stranger’s hand and his own arm. A bolt of energy skittered up to his chest then traveled back down to the hand’s fingertips.

They were his fingertips, now.

Charlie wiggled them.

Holding the hand in front of his face, he made a fist. It was huge, and when he slammed it into his left palm the force, more than his normal strength, made him grimace.

The priest groaned behind him. Charlie had forgotten about him.

Turning, he saw the old man propping himself up with his left hand on the floor. A long butcher’s knife lay next to him.

The sight of his own blood on that blade made Charlie flush with rage.

The hand tingled.

Anger washed over him.

The priest whimpered as Charlie took a step closer.

“You’re done, O’Shannon.”

“No, you mustn’t, you have to—”

“Begging ain’t gonna help you, now.” Charlie reached down with his left hand and dragged the priest up to his feet by his throat. The old man’s protests gurgled in his throat.

“Look at me, you old fuck.” Father O’Shannon’s eyes, wet and wide with fear, met Charlie’s gaze. “Let’s see how this new hand of mine works, whattaya say?”

The priest tried to respond, shaking his head wildly and grunting. Charlie tightened his grasp on the man’s fleshy neck.

Reaching up with his new right hand, Charlie jammed his fingers into the priest’s eyes and through his skull, then rammed his thumb through his mouth, breaking his teeth. With a wet ripping sound, Father O’Shannon’s head came off.

Blood shot from his neck as Charlie let his body drop to the floor. Winding up as he turned around, Charlie let the priest’s head fly down the aisle.

Father Jimmy O’Shannon’s head bounced and rolled down the carpet, then slammed into the church’s front doors.

“Steeee-rike!” Charlie let out with a big smile.

Holding the bloody hand up, he flexed the meaty fingers and felt a rush of youth course though his body.

“Me and you are going to get along smashingly, King.”

Shaking another cigarillo out of the pack, Charlie sat down, lit the smoke, took a deep drag, and contemplated what the first thing he would use this new strength for was going to be.

“I need some whiskey,” he said to the dead priest’s body.

Charlie washed his hands off in the holy water basin on his way out, and then strode back across the street to Sharpie’s. It was loud inside, and when Charlie walked through the doors, he saw why.

“Who the fuck are these fucking retards?”

A group of three kids were at the bar playing grab-ass and talking way louder than anyone needed to in Sharpie’s.

“What the fuck, Ray?”

The bartender shook his head and followed Charlie over to his seat.

“Hipsters.” Ray muttered.

“Huh?”

“Yea, my nephew told me that those faggots are known as hipsters.”

“Can you imagine wearing pants that tight?” Charlie had to adjust his balls at the thought of cramming himself into pants like the ones these kids were wearing.

The three hipsters were looking around, matching scowls on their faces. One had a beard, the other a pair of sharply trimmed sideburns, and the last had an old-timey handlebar mustache. Ray and Charlie chuckled as the trio turned and stared at them in unison.

Ray nodded at Charlie, and walked out from behind the bar, pretending to clean the booth tables. Charlie picked up his drink, tipped it towards the three, and slugged back half of his whiskey.

The one with the mustache spoke up. “Hey, can we get some beers?”

Ray pretended not to hear him.

The hipsters murmured among themselves for a few minutes. Charlie bristled when he thought he heard one of them call Ray an old fuck.

“Hey, buddy, can we get three beers?”

These mother fucking shit bags were the ones ruining this town. Charlie thought to himself.

He felt his hand tense.

“Hey, listen old man, we just want a drink, what the fu—”

Charlie cut the disrespectful little turd off by slamming his rocks glass into the side of his face. Blood and glass exploded, the kid dropped like a rock with a thick shard of glass protruding from his temple.

His two buddies froze in place.

Charlie looked down at the mess of ripped flesh and spurting blood that used to be a smart-mouthed, entitled, disrespectful piece of shit, and smiled.

“Lock the doors, Ray.”

“Hey, Charlie, c’mon...”

Looking up at the other two hipsters, he pointed at Ray.

“Okay, whatever you say, Charlie.”

“We don’t want any trouble, mister, really.”

“Well you little fucking dandy boys—what’d you call ’em Ray? Hipsters?” Charlie stepped over the still body of the one he had laid out, and the other two stumbled back, toppling one of the barstools over. “Trouble is what you got.”

He dropped one with a right hook. The boy’s head literally erupted in blood and bone, grey matter flinging across the bar. He turned to the last hipster.

“C’mon, boy, hit me.”

Charlie saw the boy’s pants darken at the crotch. The kid was pissing himself.

What a pussy.

Charlie lifted the barstool, brought it up, over, and down onto the boy.

His head exploded like an overripe melon.

He set the barstool right again, and took a step back to look at his handy work.

The rush wasn’t the same; taking another man’s life was what Charlie Burke was meant to do, but something felt off. He didn’t feel the same satisfaction he usually enjoyed.

“God damn, Charlie, what are we supposed to do now?”

He looked over at Ray. The old bartender’s face was pale white, his hands shaking. Charlie felt his new hand begin to tremble.

“Don’t worry Ray, we’ll get this cleaned up easy enough. You still got that meat grinder in the basement?”

Ray doubled over and puked.

Charlie’s right hand flew out and clenched his friend’s throat.

“Pull your shit together, Ray. You got that grinder, or what?”

Ray nodded at him, gasped, and even though Charlie wanted to let his friend down, he couldn’t. He had known Ray for going on 30 years now, and had never seen him look this scared.

Charlie concentrated on loosening his grip, but instead the hand tightened. Ray’s eyes bulged, and with a loud crack Charlie crushed his oldest friend’s throat and neck.

Ray’s limp body fell to the ground, and Charlie followed him down.

What had happened?

The hand twitched, flexed, and balled into a fist.

Sharp pain rocketed up Charlie’s arm.

The fist came up, then slammed down onto his friend’s head. Charlie looked away as that fist pummeled his friend’s broken head into a mushy red pulp.

Chest heaving, he fell back when the hand stopped itself and relaxed.

He wept, and when the tears would not come anymore, he looked around at the massacre.

He needed to clean this up, and now.

Pushing himself up, Charlie kept a close eye on the hand. It seemed lethargic, and felt encased like it was in a boxing glove.

Dragging the four bodies down the narrow stairwell was harder than he expected.

The old commercial meat grinder, from when Sharpie’s had a working kitchen that pumped out the best damn sausages and burgers in the neighborhood, was dusty. It took some figuring out, but Charlie got it humming pretty quickly.

Stripping the clothes off of the boys and his dead friend Ray, he stuffed them into a black garbage bag that would find its way into the furnace, shortly. The little shits had hardly any cash, forty-three bucks between them, so he pocketed that and tossed the rest of their personal possessions in with their clothes.

Charlie dug through the drawers of a butcher table and found a cleaver.

The thought of chopping up his friend made his stomach drop.

“Fuck it, Charlie,” he said to himself. “He’s not your friend anymore.”

Laying out a large plastic tarp, the kind every person in Boston had just in case a Nor’easter found a roof leak or loose window pane, Charlie set the first boy down and began breaking down the body. Feet, hands, arms, legs, and then the head. The shoulder and hip joints took some effort, and Charlie had to take a smoke break to stop the coughing that overtook him.

He switched to using his right hand, which still seemed numb, and the cutting was much easier. He processed the other bodies, including Ray’s, and was ready to move on to the next step.

Flipping on the meat grinder, a large grey garbage can under the slues, he began dropping in the body parts. The machine shuddered, whined, but didn’t protest more than that. Charlie split open the torso, sloughing armloads of intestines and organs into the hopper, as the grinder made quick work of the scrawny hipster’s remains. One by one, the bodies were turned into coarsely ground meat and bone. The garbage can was barely half-full when the last bit of human sausage churned out.

A thought sprang up into his mind.

Looking at the cleaver, he thought maybe he could take that hand off, be done with the insanity, and put killing his friend behind him. Maybe make his way down to Mexico, or even Brazil.

The whir of the grinder filled the small room.

The smell of blood was thick in the air.

He picked up the cleaver, gripped it tight, and turned toward the butcher’s table.

This was not going to be easy, but if he couldn’t trust his own hand, well.. .last thing he wanted was to be jerking off some day and...

He shook his head, placed his jinxed hand on the table, and made the sign of the cross with the cleaver. Raising it up, he steadied himself. He could chop it off, toss it in the grinder, get a tourniquet on, then get to the hospital.

Raising the cleaver higher, Charlie took a deep breath.

As he brought it down, the hand jerked up from the table and slammed into his face.

Charlie dropped the cleaver and staggered back. The fist came down again, two more times, and he heard his nose crumble.

He slipped back, putting his left hand out to break his fall, but instead of the counter, he fell a bit further and lost his footing as his left hand plunged into the grinder’s hopper.

The steel mincers pulled his arm deeper into the grinder, shredding his arm and dragging him in until his head slammed into the machine’s hard steel edge. The King’s hand grabbed his throat and squeezed, and as the life pumped out of his body, Charlie cursed it. He felt the last pumps of his heart against its fingers, and died.

On the autopsy table, the medical examiner who was taking Charlie Burke’s prints couldn’t explain why the ones he collected did not match those on file. He decided to remove the hand and have it sent off for DNA testing.

As he bagged the hand for transport, he felt the severed mandible twitch.

He dropped it on the autopsy table as he slipped on a stray puddle of blood, falling to the floor and hitting his head sharply on the tile. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what the fuck!”

Looking up, he saw the bone saw tumble over the edge of the table, its fast blade whirring as it plunged down, severing his own right hand. The cadaver’s hand pulled itself over the edge and was crawling toward him as he blacked out from shock and pain.

Paper Craft

Leigh Saunders

Tracy lays the small, square piece of white paper on the freshly-washed table, her hand brushing across the worn wooden surface, glancing past the nicks and scratches of countless meals prepared and served there, memories etched into the wood. The paper is wood, too, of a sort, the remains of an unremembered tree, ground and washed and bleached and washed again, stripped bare of any memories of its own before being pressed and dried into this single square, a blank slate lying there, staring up at her, waiting for her to tell it what life it is to hold, what memory it is to remember.

Tracy reaches out for the paper, pausing only an instant as a shadow drifts past at the edge of her vision. She doesn’t bother to look — Anthony has gone to work, Trevor and Caitlin are safely at school. Tracy is alone with the shadows.

She reaches for the paper, and makes the first fold.

#

Tracy was nine years old the first time she went to the eye doctor. She climbed up onto the big green chair and looked through the funny machine the doctor pushed in front of her face and read the letters stacked up on the wall and pointed at the pictures the doctor showed her, pretending the whole time not to notice her mother sitting on the narrow plastic chair by the door, biting her lower lip and twisting the handles of her purse together like she did whenever she was worried. She’d bitten her lip when she read the note Tracy’s teacher had sent home, too, then gave her a cookie, and told her she could watch television for a little while. She didn’t think Tracy could hear her talking on the telephone if she was watching television, or that she’d notice her walking back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room, running her fingers through her short brown hair while she asked the person on the other end of the call what she was supposed to do now because she didn’t know any eye doctors.

And then, a few days later, they were at the eye doctor’s, and he was looking at the notes he’d made on his chart and telling her mother that Tracy’s left eye was lazy, but they’d caught it in time and with a little effort, Tracy would be able to see perfectly normally.

Tracy didn’t know what the fuss was all about, then. She thought everyone saw the shadows flitting around the edges of their vision, disappearing whenever you looked straight at them only to pop up again when they thought you weren’t paying attention. It had been a game, then. But she was just a child.

It wasn’t a game anymore.

#

She folds the square of white paper, bringing one corner down and across the page to the opposite side to make a triangle, then reaches into the battered wicker picnic basket where she keeps her craft supplies and pulls a small, carved bone folder from its pocket and slides the dull edge of the crafting tool across the fold to crease it. Again and again she folds the paper, creasing the edge after each fold, the same way she learned in grade school when the class made a blizzard of paper snowflakes to decorate the classroom one frosty winter.

At last the folding is finished, the smooth, white square of paper now a narrow wedge that she holds carefully in her fingers while rummaging in the box for her scissors. She wants the small ones her grandmother gave her, the embroidery scissors shaped like a bird with a long, narrow beak. They’re never in their pocket, and Tracy finds them the same way she often does, pricking a finger on that sharp, pointed beak, half-expecting the bird to look up at her from the hinge screw that forms its tiny little eye as she slips her thumb and bloodied finger into the loops and begins to cut the folded paper.

Snip-snip, the bird darts forward and back, biting at the paper, clipping here, trimming there, traces of blood streaking and staining the white paper. Snip-snip, the bird curves the outer edge of the wedge, then slices through the folded layers, beak opening and closing as though under its own power, the tiny eye winking as the beak clicks open-shut-open-shut- snip-snip.

And then the bird is still.

#

The eye doctor told Tracy that if she did the vision exercises, her eyes would learn to work together and be stronger, that she would learn to see properly. He told her mother that Tracy would be able to catch a ball instead of the ball always hitting her in the face because she didn’t know how close it was. He told her father that Tracy would be able to ride her bike without always running into the cars parked along the side of the road. He told Tracy that the shadows at the edge of her vision would go away.

Tracy did the exercises and learned to catch a ball, but the shadows didn’t go away. She learned to ride her bike and roller skate and as she grew up she even learned to drive a car and parallel park, but the shadows still didn’t go away.

They didn’t stay at the edge of her vision, either.

The more Tracy did the exercises, the better she saw the shadows, hovering around or just behind people. They didn’t disappear when she looked away any more, either, but stared right back at her, flat gray shapes with flat gray faces and flat black eyes that turned into holes if she looked at them long enough.

Tracy asked the eye doctor about them once, and even described the shadows that were lurking in the room with them, like a pair of flat, gray sheets hanging there, one behind him and another behind her mother, but even though he turned and looked right at them, the eye doctor didn’t see. He was frowning and shaking his head when he turned back to Tracy, and her mother was biting her lip again, so hard Tracy thought she was going to make it bleed, and the shadows were staring hard at Tracy. So Tracy pulled off her glasses and wiped them off and said, oh, it must have been a smudge on the lens, and everyone relaxed.

That was when Tracy realized that no one else saw the shadows.

#

It has started to rain, a cold drizzle that seems to seep into Tracy’s bones even through her heavy sweater. She unfolds the white paper and spreads it out on the table, smoothing out the creases with her fingers, a perfectly round doily cut from the square page. Then she picks up a photograph—it’s a family photo, of her and Trevor and Anthony and Caitlin on a picnic in the park one bright, sunny day last summer. She’s printed several copies of the photo for days like this, rainy days when the shadows are crowding around her and her family and she needs to drive them away. Needs to protect her family.

She picks up the scissors, and again the bird swoops in, its sharp beak snipping the family out of the park, fussy-cutting away the grass and the trees and the sky and the picnic table until only the four of them remain, arms wrapped around each other, bright smiles on their faces, waving at the polite jogger who stopped and agreed to take the photo.

Cutting away the tiny shadow of the jogger from the lower edge of the photo. It’s a normal shadow, Tracy is sure, but she’d rather be safe than sorry.

#

Tracy stopped doing the vision exercises, hoping the shadows would go away, but they never did. She saw them everywhere, hovering just behind people as though the person was an image on one pane of glass and the shadow was an image on another. Sometimes a person would have more than one shadow, layered behind them, each moving on its own flat plane.

Those were the sad people, the angry people, the people who said or did hurtful things, the violent people. Then there were the quiet people with their deep, dark secrets. The shadows flocked to them, layers stacking up behind them in a thick, gray, cloud that swirled in shades of flat gray, their black eyes growing larger and larger and deeper and deeper as they swallowed everything good about the person, gradually leaching the life and the soul and the color out of them until they became as gray as the shadows that followed them.

#

The bird attacks a piece of black paper, snip-snip, cutting shapes only it sees with its tiny eye, shapes only Tracy recognizes as they drop from the page and onto the table, fluttering like dry, blackened leaves.

Shadows.

#

Trapping the shadows was an accident, really.

Her roommates had dragged her to a craft workshop, stopping along the way at a photo-booth, capturing a half-dozen shots of the three friends all making goofy faces for the camera, silly photos they could use for the craft project. Tracy brought the only scissors she had—the tiny bird scissors —even though her grandmother had told her many times that she was never to use them for anything but cutting thread.

Her friends had laughed at her tiny scissors, but the little bird learned to fly in Tracy’s hands that day, darting in and out, snip-snip, cutting fast and sure, and they soon quit laughing. That’s interesting, they said when they saw Tracy’s finished project, but only Tracy saw that the shadows that had followed them to the workshop didn’t follow them home.

#

Tracy reaches into the basket once more, now pulling out the roll of dimensional tape, cutting small pieces of the thick, sticky foam and applying them to the white paper doily before placing black shadows on the tape. Layer upon layer she builds the picture, her hands growing icy cold as she places black paper cutouts of the shadows she saw follow her family out the door that morning onto the doily, each in their proper place, three behind Trevor, one behind Anthony and a pair behind Caitlin, all separated with pieces of dimensional tape. Three behind her own photo as well, yes, she’d known they were there, even though the shadows that follow her try to stay behind her and out of sight most of the time.

They should know by now that they can’t hide from her.

Then Tracy places the photo of her family, happy and smiling, on top, trapping the shadows lurking behind, layers of black held between the photo and the doily. As she presses the photo onto the dimensional tape, she feels a sudden rush of air as the shadows that have surrounded her all day are sucked into the image.

Outside, the wind begins to blow, then howl, branches of the large oak in the front yard reaching dangerously close to the living room window. Tracy pays no attention, just sits there at the table holding the photo in place even though the ice in her hands is spreading up through her arms and into her shoulders as one by one the shadows are dragged away from her husband, her children, and forced into their crafted paper prison, layers of black paper fluttering wildly as though the wind is blowing right through the house, though nothing else is disturbed.

Finally the wind dies down. Tracy stands, a little shaky, and picks up the picture, leaning against the wall as she makes her way down the hall then pulls a small stepladder from the closet at the end of the hall. She takes a deep breath, then climbs the ladder, reaching up with her empty hand to open the panel in the ceiling and pull down the stairs to the attic.

She crosses the attic cautiously, using the light from the small flashlight Trevor keeps at the top of the stairs to guide her as she steps from beam to beam, careful not to trip on any wiring or step down into poufs of pink insulation or crack her head on the rafters sloping overhead. When Tracy reaches a spot near the center of the house, she takes a thumbtack from her pocket, reaches up, and tacks the picture to an empty spot on a rafter above her head.

As Tracy turns to go, the light flickers around the attic behind her and on the hundreds of images of family, friends, casual acquaintances, random passers-by—all neatly tacked to the rafters, shadows writhing, trapped behind the happy, smiling photos.