About The Tale of the Timekeeper What is the difference between a storyteller and a liar? Maybe there’s no difference at all. As long as you make your story a good one and stick to it. What’s the difference between innocent and not guilty? Maybe there’s no difference at all. As long as people believe your story. But you know the difference. And so do they. Trigger warning: This story contains dark themes including allusions to mental and physical abuse, frank language relating to LGBQT characters, fat shaming, and descriptions of violence. The Tale of the Timekeeper By Katherine Tomlinson Copyright © Katherine Tomlinson 2024 The Time Before… It had been a good day. His dad was out of town on business, and it was a weekend, so for once, Robbie could just sit in his room, listen to his music, and make his art instead of attending Saturday services and then getting up early for the three-hour Sunday service at the church where his father was a deacon. A dick-on Robbie often thought. His mom, who was just as happy his dad was gone, left him alone, retreating to the little nook she’d carved out of the kitchen to sit and read while she waited for the cookies she was baking to come out of the oven. She hadn’t made them from scratch, but the store-bought frozen dough she’d bought was almost as good, she said. Robbie had to take her word for it. He couldn’t remember ever eating a homemade chocolate chip cookie. Treats like chocolate chip cookies were forbidden when his father was home—he dubbed anything with sugar “empty calories”—but his mother had bought the container of dough the day his father left for Des Moines. She’d throw away the empty container in a dumpster she passed on her daily walk with their dog, where she’d also discard the disposable baking sheet she’d used for the illicit activity. She’d wash the spatula clean of crumbs and store it back in the neatly organized drawer where the cooking utensils lived. She’d make certain that no trace of her little act of rebellion remained, obsessively mopping the floor in case a random crumb had fallen during the transfer of cookies from pan to plate. Nothing got past her husband’s eagle eyes, although she had grown adept at fooling him in small things. Misdirection was the key. It drove Robie’s father crazy if he thought his wife or son weren’t “making good use of their time.” They were not allowed to watch anything but news and nature documentaries on television, and he’d installed child locks to make certain neither she nor Robbie sneaked a look at any inappropriate content. His mother had argued baking shows were not only harmless but potentially educational, but he said that such shows were irresponsible delivery mechanisms for diabetes and other illnesses. “Do you want to end up dying of diabetes like your mother?” he asked her. Robbie’s grandmother had actually died of breast cancer, but she’d been a substantial woman before her illness whittled her down to a shrink-wrapped skeleton. For nearly a month after that conversation about diabetes and its dangers, Robbie’s mother had endured daily lectures on nutrition and their meals had been especially bland, heavy on kale salad and fish. Robbie fucking hated kale salad, but at least it was tastier than collard greens boiled without any fat or seasoning. He wasn’t a big kid, and he was active, so the occasional candy bar a big kid paid him to suck his dick didn’t cause him to pork up. His dad was clueless. He didn’t even know Robbie could drive. He thought it was good for Robbie to walk the mile and three-quarters route to school, no matter what the weather. In truth, Robbie didn’t mind it that much. He relished the alone time. But he needed transportation for errands that were time-sensitive and needed to be finished before his father got home. For those, Robbie stole an old bicycle off a porch, fixing it up so no one would recognize it. He kept his new bike in the woods behind his house, camouflaged so well that he was pretty sure no one would just stumble across it and stell the bike from him. He’d also boobytrapped it. If someone did try to take the bike, they’d be sorry. Also, on his walks, Robbie could pick up aluminum cans and empty plastic bottles along the route where other kids discarded them. People were such fucking pigs. Robbie turned the garbage into cash at the recycling machines in the parking lot of his school. He could have given the money to his mother, but he kept it for himself. There were things he wanted to buy, and nobody was giving him an allowance. Robbie knew people felt sorry for his mom, but he didn’t feel sorry for her at all. Actions have consequences and she was the one who had married his father, mostly because she was pregnant with him. She had never blamed Robbie for that, but his father sure did. Whenever he was mad at Robbie—which was most of the time—he brought up the unfortunate timing of his arrival. Like it was his fault or something. He hadn’t asked to be born. His mother thought they were a team. “Just you and me against the world,” she would often say. Robbie let her think that, but the minute he turned 18, he was going to be gone, baby, gone. But it was the weekend, and his father was out of town, and Robbie didn’t want to think about him or his mother, or any of the other bad things in his life. Before his thoughts took a dark turn, his phone beeped. It was a text from a new friend, wanting to know if he felt like getting together and hanging out. Robbie had to think about that for a minute. He knew his mother wouldn’t mind. When his father wasn’t home, she was all about her “me time” and she wouldn’t begrudge him going out and getting some “me time” too. He texted back that he’d be over in about an hour. He hoped his friend had some weed. The Time Just After Riley was exhausted. She hated working night shifts because they played hell with her sleep cycle, and for some reason Ben—who was usually a good kid—had decided to start acting out whenever she left him in the care of her mother, who had moved in with them to help save money. She blamed Ben’s behavior on her ex. Ben was always a little hard to handle after spending time with his dad. Part of it was that Alex had remarried and his new wife was now pregnant with what Ben referred to as, “my replacement,” and part was that the disruption was always jarring in other ways. Alex and his new wife--my replacement, Riley thought—lived well. Beyond their means, she often thought. Or at least, beyond what Alex had been able to afford when he was married to her. And the contrast between their place and the cramped apartment where she lived with Ben and her mother was stark. She made a decent salary, and if she’d been single and childless, she would have been fine. But right after the divorce, she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer, and although they’d caught it in time, she’d been left with almost a million dollars in medical debt for the surgery and chemo and radiation and hospital stays. Alex hadn’t offered her a dime. She was pretty sure he would have been fine with her simply dying., although that would have meant he'd be stuck with Ben, which would have been inconvenient for him. Just as marriage had been an inconvenience. When they’d split up, Riley hadn’t asked for spousal support—she had a job—but she had asked for child support. Alex had lawyered up and his attorney had successfully convinced the court to award her the absolute minimum. Two hundred a month barely covered a week’s worth of groceries. Ben had hit a growing spurt, and he was always hungry. It used to be one medium pizza would feed them both. Now, he could demolish a large meaty-meaty-meat pizza on his own and eat half of her small one as well. Two hundred a month was a joke. She might not have minded it so much if Alex ever acted like he even cared about his son. It seemed like his weekends with the boy were not just obligations but annoyances. And heaven forbid she asked him to help take up the slack when she was on night shift. Her mother Ada supervised homework, cooked meals, and made lunches for the next day, and then retreated to the living room to watch television until she was ready to go to bed. Lately, though, she’d started getting snappish. She’d bought a small TV just for herself and was going to her bedroom earlier and earlier. Riley wasn’t sure if her mother wasn’t feeling well or was just getting sick and tired of being responsible for another human being. Ada had taken care of Riley’s invalid father and that had gone on for close to seven years. Seven years of putting up with a cantankerous man who was old beyond his years, suffering from early-onset dementia, and a slew of physical ailments including fecal incontinence—it was enough to wear anyone out. Ada had spent a lot of time cleaning up her husband’s shit. Literally. Riley had been very grateful she was already married to Alex and caring for Ben when her father started to decline. She sent her mother money when she had extra, which wasn’t often, and she tried to check in by phone once a day, but her days were long too, and her parental situation put a strain on her marriage long before it fell apart beneath the weight of Alex’s infidelity. Once Alex had left, her mother had moved in. Her social security money and her husband’s pension made a big difference in Riley’s household budget. She tried not to feel guilty taking money from Ada. Ben had adored his nana when he was younger, probably because she was quick to reward him with cookies and kisses whenever he did anything remotely praiseworthy. But now he was in middle school, Ben had taken to avoiding his grandmother, flinching at her touch, avoiding her embrace, and spending nights at other people’s houses when Riley was working so he wouldn’t be alone with her. Some of the parents had complained to Riley that they liked Ben but that he was imposing on their hospitality. Riley didn’t want to question the situation too much, but when she brought it up to her partner, Petrofski had just gave her that look. “You know what’s going on Riley,” he said. “Or you suspect. You need to have a talk with your son.” “He won’t talk to me,” she said. “Not if it’s about what I think it’s about.” “You have to.” Riley knew her partner was right, but she couldn’t wrap her head around the idea that her mother might be hurting her son. But Ada’s behavior had changed, and not for the better. “Okay,” she said, deciding she would have a talk with Ben at breakfast, making pancakes to ease the way. She hadn’t made pancakes in a long time. But then she and Petrofski got a call that chased all thoughts of food out of her mind. *** A security guard on his way to work had noticed an open door on a house sitting on a weed-choked lot in the middle of what had once been a nice neighborhood. He’d stopped to investigate and found a horror show inside. By the time Riley and Petrofski arrived, the street in front of the place was already filled with emergency vehicles and a couple of mobile news vans. The security guard’s first call had been to his girlfriend who worked as an intern at a television station. He figured if he got on the news, it might somehow help him get a better job. *** The smell hit her even before she got out of the car. Her partner smelled it too. “Oh yeah,” he said. “This is going to be a bad one.” “They all are,” she said, which was true, but most crime scenes weren’t as bad as the one they’d just walked into. And unfortunately, the m.o. fit a number of murders that had occurred in roughly the same area. Nobody wanted to say, “serial killer,” but there was a pattern. All the victims had been partially skinned, and their faces sliced off. Riley wondered what the killer was doing with those faces. Taking them as trophies? Wearing them in some weird kind of cosplay? Riley was pretty sure the killer was male. Statistically speaking, most serial killers were. The relationship between the skinned males and the skinner was not yet apparent—it was one of the things their profiler was working on—but Riley was inclined to think the connection was sexual. The three victims so far were all gay men in their late forties, and all were users of the same dating app, although none of their phones had been found so far. There was a lot of DNA spattered around the various crime scenes, but it didn’t match anything on file. And so far, the killer had been careful about fingerprints. Riley was afraid that unless they got very lucky, they weren’t going to solve the case. And it was also clear that her boss wasn’t all that concerned by the deaths of people he considered degenerate. As far as he was concerned, the victims were to blame for the situation. “Drugs are part of the homosexual lifestyle,” her boss opined, pursing his lips all prissy-like. “It would be easy for a sex partner to slip someone a mickey and then do whatever they wanted.” He had thought for a minute after delivering that opinion before adding, “And don’t they all love rough sex?” Jesus Christ. There was a difference between liking it rough and liking it homicidal, which told her that her boss probably hadn’t had sex in anything but the missionary position ever. If at all. Riley picked her way through the living room, which was pitch dark and choked with furniture. “We need to bring some work lights in here,” she said as she scanned the area with her flashlight, trying not to recoil as the light revealed the victim with a gory mask where his face used to be. She was processing the sight when something heavy scraped across the floor. “Jack,” she said in a loud whisper. “I heard it,” Petrofski said. Communicating with hand signals, he directed her to go left while he went right. The scraping sound came again. She was already so nerved up that when she saw the moving shadow, a deeper black than the dark in the room, she pulled her weapon and yelled, “Freeze. Police." Instead, the shadow moved, and she fired, the bullet ricocheting off the metal pendulum of an antique grandfather clock. “Congratulations, Riley,” Petrofski said. “You’ve killed a clock.” And indeed, the clock’s case had been shattered. But the carnage she’d inflicted on the wood and metal was not what was holding her attention. It was the tattered scrap of flesh that was plastered to the elaborate clock face, glued there with blood. That’s new, she thought. “I found the victim’s face,” she said. But her partner didn’t hear her, he was already barging toward a fleeing figure. Heart hammering against the bone cage of her ribs, Riley followed. She heard a crashing in the backyard and the distinct thud of flesh on flesh. Her partner had caught up with someone. The murderer or an unlucky would-be squatter? She rushed out of the house, her flashlight held at shoulder level while she brandished her weapon in her other hand. The full moon cast sharp shadows on everything, but Riley was surprised to see the perp Petrofski was trying to cuff was young. She was moving toward them when the boy managed to slip out of Petrofski’s grip. He shoved him hard, and then sliced him with the bloody knife he held, the one he’d likely used to remove his victim’s face. Petrofski made a soft sound as he stumbled to his knees and even in the moonlight, Riley could see the dark stain spreading across the pale blue dress shirt he wore. Torn between her partner’s need and the imperative to catch the little bastard who’d cut him, she hesitated a moment too long. “Freeze,” she yelled, for the second time that night, but the kid was already slipping through a hole he’d cut in the chain link fence. She took a huge step forward and faceplanted, having tripped over a bicycle. By the time she looked up, he’d vanished into the night. Damn, she thought as she felt warm blood start trickling down her leg. She wondered when she had last had a tetanus booster. The only bright spot in the whole shitty night was that the bicycle offered a clue. There had been so many fingerprints inside the house she knew they were practically useless, but the fingerprints on the bike handlebar were clear and they were already in the system. They matched a kid who’d been fingerprinted after he punched a classmate on the nose and his victim’s parents went to the police, who’d let him go with a slap on the wrist. Riley was pretty sure this time nobody would turn him loose. How did his prints not ping the system earlier, she wondered aloud to Petrofski, who was still on desk duty, and bored out of his mind. He shrugged. “Hard to get good help these days,” he said. He was two years from retirement and coasting ‘til he got his pension. Petrofski did not give AF. “I still don’t like this kid for a serial killer,” Captain Pace said to Riley and Petrofski when they went to him to lay out their case. “If he went over there to kill this guy, then why didn’t he wear gloves?” “He’s a kid,” Petrofski said. “He’s an idiot.” “Profiler says whoever killed those other three guys was organized,” the captain countered. Riley didn’t say anything, but the captain had never been married or raised a child. He knew squat about what children were capable of. And she knew from looking at the suspect’s file he was a smart kid. He probably figured that because he was a minor, his fingerprints were under seal, and no one would know what kind of mischief he got up to. Except that Prue Hawley, the officer who’d dealt with him on that juvenile assault case, hadn’t like him. At all. And she’d “accidentally” and anonymously left his file on Riley’s desk. The kid’s bleeding-heart lawyer had cried all kinds of foul, but since 17-year-old Jared R. Nelson had stabbed Jack Petrofski, he was going to be tried as an adult. The psychologist who’d examined Jared after he was arrested told Riley that the boy fit all the criteria of a malignant narcissist along with a co-morbidity of antisocial personality disorder. “So, he’s a broken toy,” Riley said. “You don’t rehabilitate people like that,” the psychologist said without actually agreeing. “You get them as far from society as possible and hope they never, ever get released.” “He’ll never get the death penalty,” Riley said. “Even if he did, he’d be eligible for social security before the appeals process was exhausted.” *** Riley testified at the trial, which only lasted three days. The judge, a political appointee who was notoriously soft on juvenile crime, had chosen to send the killer to a psychiatric facility instead of prison, where he belonged. Or a cemetery, where he really belonged, Riley thought. She didn’t believe in God, but she sure as hell hoped the devil was real. The psychologist’s words had depressed Riley. She’d been a cop too long to believe in justice, but she liked to think that there were consequences for actions. If not in this world, then in the next. *** The boy’s father wanted nothing to do with the little monster he’d spawned, but Jared’s mother was in court every day. His lawyer had done the best he could with what he had. He’d kept the kid off the stand, which was a good move because Jared’s perpetual smirk was already annoying some of the jurors. With his dark eyes and high cheekbones, the defendant attracted a lot of attention of the “hot felon” kind. Everybody loves a bad boy, she Riley thought, disgusted. She figured it was only a matter of time before the modelling offers began. The killer had freely admitted targeting older gay men on a dating app, men who often paid him for his “visits” and offered him “presents” of drugs. “My client is not on trial for his lifestyle,” the boy’s lawyer stoutly declared. Riley almost felt sorry for him. Of course, he was on trial for his lifestyle. His lifestyle involved murdering people who just wanted to have sex with a beautiful boy. Sending a killer to a hospital was just coddling him. Or at least, that was Riley’s opinion. But nobody asked her. The Timeless Robbie didn’t belong at the Woodcock Clinic. He hadn’t done anything bad enough to warrant being there. But the court had disagreed. He’d been released into his parents’ custody pending appeal and from the time he got home, his father made it clear that if Robbie so much as farted without permission, he’d find himself waiting out his appeals somewhere much less comfortable than his bedroom. In truth, Robbie hadn’t paid that much attention to his father’s threats. He’d been hearing them since he was a little kid. “The minute you turn 18, you’re out of my house,” his father had told him on his fifth birthday. To his father’s surprise, the statement had not terrified his son or made him cry. Robbie already spent as much time away from the house as he could manage. He’d considered running away, but already understood—in a vague and childlike way—that without money or a plastic card he could stick into a money machine—he wouldn’t get very far. When his father couldn’t make Robbie cry, he made his wife cry. Robbie’s mother blamed her son for her husband’s constant bad mood. And in a way he was. Because Robbie was not like his mother. He didn’t care if his father hit him. The pain just made him stronger. He didn’t care if his father beat him every night of the week and twice on Friday. *** It had been a Friday when the men had come for him. One minute Robbie was in his bedroom, half-asleep with his Air Pods inserted, just listening to his music, and the next, scary people in black clothes and body armor were kicking down the door and shining bright lights in his face and yelling at him to freeze motherfucker. Robbie didn’t know if his mother heard them, but he hoped not. She didn’t like anyone using bad language in her house. He wondered if the men had scared her. She was there alone with him because his father was teaching a men’s bible study class at church. Robbie was pretty sure he knew all about the assault and had made arrangements to be out of the house when it all went down. By the time he returned home—on the dot of 9:15—all the excitement would be over, and he’d have plausible deniability. His father had missed quite a show by not being there, Robbie thought. He would have enjoyed it. Robbie had been so disoriented by the yelling and the bright lights he’d pissed his pants and that was bad because it was hours before anyone got him clean clothes and he had to sit in his soggy, smelly underwear without any way to adjust it because his hands were flex-cuffed behind his back. Tight enough that they were cutting off his circulation. He’d been hustled out of the house barefoot and tossed roughly into an unmarked van. The van was padded inside, so at least he didn’t break any bones when the men he landed. It was freezing cold inside the vehicle. Robbie knew there wasn’t any point in complaining. *** All the way to wherever they were taking him, Robbie was disoriented. Although he usually had a good sense for how much time was passing, Robbie’s time-sense had been distorted by the incident in his bedroom. But away from his father, he did not feel the urgency of keeping to a schedule. His fucking father. He’d heard about kids being kidnapped and taken away to places where they were abused and starved, and sleep deprived until they grew compliant. He wondered if that was what was happening to him, if his father had finally made good on his threats to “teach him a lesson,” but he couldn’t quite believe that his father would have involved so many other people in what was a private, family affair. His father didn’t like sharing anything private. Of course, that privacy had been shattered by the trial. His parents had disavowed him but only his father had remained above the fray. His mother had been dogpiled in the media, reviled for her inability to see that her bad mothering had created a psychopath. Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me, Robbie thought. But of course, that depended on who was doing the talking. The judge had rebuked her from the bench, but he’d still remanded gun to his parents’ custody. He’d had no choice in the matter. Just as he didn’t have any agency in the back of the van. He was just along for the ride. At first, he’d thought the guys who grabbed him were cops, but the longer they were on the road, the more he thought there was something else going on. There’d been a lot of people attending his trial who thought he might know where their missing loved ones were. As if they’d ever given him their real names. The court watchers had brought pictures of their missing—sons, and brothers, and even a husband or two. Some even tried to confront him, but his lawyer was pretty good at blocking them. Maybe one of the victims’ relatives had hired the guys in body armor, but Robbie was inclined to think they were just friends of his father, people he knew from church who thought Robbie’s lack of respect for mindless authority, and his unwillingness to follow his father’s rules meant he was damned beyond all redemption. “You’re going to hell,” his father promised Robbie often. I’ll see you there, he thought. Robbie was surprised no one had gagged him when they trussed him up. He’d gotten a perfect score in the English portion of his SATs and had been in honors English classes since he entered high school. Thanks to all the unsanctioned reading he’d done, he had the vocabulary of a college professor and knew a lot of words his father didn’t, although his father was an educated man. Robbie was small for his age and spindly, so he couldn’t fight him “like a man,” but in an argument, Robbie always emerged the winner until his father simply started slapping him around to end the debate. His father didn’t like it when Robbie defied him. He preferred it when his son was silent and cowed. Like his mother. To be fair though, as Robbie sometimes told himself, when his father started to bluster about finding solutions to Robbie’s “bad behavior,” she sometimes found her courage. She’d sigh and say him something like, “Can’t you just try to get along with him,” a question he always dismissed. Robbie figured that sooner rather than later, his father would make good on his threat to send him away if he could just find a place that was cheap enough. What he couldn’t figure out is why he hadn’t done it years sooner. But then he figured it probably came back to money again. His father was obsessed with money. “Time is money,” he would say. “A penny saved is a penny earned.” Robbie had once muttered, “And two cents isn’t worth anything,” and his father had nearly taken his head off. His father didn’t mind spending money on himself, but he was a total skinflint when it came to anyone else. He’d made his mother quit her job when they married, and they had a joint checking account, so he would know about any money she made on a side hustle if she’d been stupid enough to try to put anything in the bank. Of course, he didn’t allow her access to any of the funds except when grocery shopping. She kept her “pin money” in a place she knew he would never look, in a hollowed-out niche in their wedding scrap book. There were never more than a few dollars in it, so no telltale bulges ever gave her hiding place away. Sometimes, if she was in a mood, Robbie’s mother would indulge her husband’s musings, encouraging him to try various remedies to cure Robbie of his imaginary ills. “Ice baths in salt water,” she would suggest. “Drain cleaner enemas. Mustard plasters.” Once she even suggested stuffing Robbie in the oven and turning on the heat to bake the sin right out of his brain. Robbie’s father liked that side of his wife and encouraged it, but truth be told, she didn’t like being mean and often felt sick to her stomach afterwards. After all, Robbie was her little angel, her dear sweet child. *** Robbie’s reverie about his mother came to an abrupt end when the van lurched to a stop. He’d been curled up on the mattress floor like a stray dog trying to conserve its body heat and it took him a moment to catch his bearings. Rough hands pulled him out and half-dragged into a large waiting area with cracked linoleum floors and walls stained brown with blood and other bodily fluids. A faceless man—literally, a man without a face—sat behind a glass window and looked up with anticipation as Robbie was dragged into the waiting room and sat in a chair. No one bothered to remove the zip ties. His arms ached from being locked behind him but in way, he welcomed the pain, embracing it as if proof that he was still alive. He had no idea what was going to happen next. All he knew was that he did not belong at Woodcock Clinic. Eternity in an Hour Robbie never found out the name of the man behind the intake counter but that was okay. He was pretty sure he was never going to see him again. He’d been checked in, his cuffs cut, and then, still wearing his reeking underpants, taken to the office of the doctor who was apparently in charge during the night shift. Robbie was not impressed. The doctor was almost ridiculously average. Everything about him seemed washed out, from his straw-like hair to his colorless skin. His name, he told Robbie, was Moebius. Robbie tried to make it look like he was interested. His only hope of getting out of the clinic was manipulating bozos like Dr. Moebius. “Sit down,” the doctor said, not looking up from Robbie’s file. Robbie thought that studied inattention was a mistake. He saw at least four weapons within reach he could use to kill Moebius if he was a killer—beginning with the ornamental pen set with the marble base. The doctor finally looked up from the folder in front of him. “I know who you are,” he said, “so maybe you should know who I am. I’m the man who says when and whether you’re ready to rejoin society. I’m the one who’ll oversee your treatment. And if you do not cooperate, then I’m the one who’ll send you to the special floor.” He said “special floor” like someone might say Butyrka, or some other notorious place. “Is that where you send the patients who’ve flown over the cuckoo’s nest?” Robbie asked. Dr. Moebius smiled. His teeth were unnaturally white. “You liked that movie?” “I read the book, and I’m not crazy.” The doctor shrugged, not terribly impressed by the statement. “McMurphy wasn’t crazy either,” he said, “and look where he ended up.” It was a not-so-subtle threat that Moebius could use electroshock therapy on him; or lobotomize him altogether. Robbie was pretty sure the older man was bluffing, but he didn’t want to find out. “I was just trying to be friendly,” he said. “Sure, you were,” the doctor said. “We’ll talk again.” And although Dr. Moebius didn’t press any buttons that Robbie could see, an orderly suddenly appeared in the doorway. He was a muscular man bulging out of his scrubs, and looked like he could deadlift a tank. “Lamar, would you show our new arrival to his room?” The orderly nodded his bald head and grabbed Robbie by the bicep, yanking him out of his chair. “And get him some clean clothes. He stinks.” The orderly nodded again. “Come along,” Lamart said to him as if Robbie had any choice in the matter. It had taken something like five cops to subdue Robbie at his house, Lamar seemed to have everything under control with just one hand. He wore a taser and a gun on his utility belt and in desperation, Robbie reached for the gun and managed to jerk it out of its holster. They always go for the gun,” Dr. Moebius said to Lamar, “so predictable.” That annoyed Robbie, who didn’t think either he or Lamar were taking him seriously. “Back off or I’ll shoot,” he said, waving the weapon at the big man. The behemoth cocked his shiny waxed head--Like the head of a penis, Robbie thought—and studied him with his beady black eyes. “I can’t convince you to believe in Jesus, but I can arrange an introduction.” What the fuck, Robbie thought. “Lamar’s a God-fearing man,” the doctor said. “He leads the men’s Sunday school group. You’re welcome to join.” Robbie started to say something snotty but stopped when he saw the look in Lamar’s eyes that he sometimes saw in his father’s. A look you’d see as a bird of prey stooped to unalive a mouse. People with bird eyes were unpredictable. They were likely to do crazy things. And Lamar was so huge, he could unjoint him like a fried chicken. “When’s breakfast,” Robbie asked the orderly as he unlocked a metal door with a number on it. “New arrivals fast for a week,” the orderly said. “It’s part of the process.” What the fuck? *** “I’m not crazy,” was the first thing Robbie said to Jared, the roommate he was stuck with. “I don’t belong in a room the size of my bathroom back home, sharing a bunkbed with a psycho roommate.” He had added, “no offense,” at the last minute in case Jared was the kind of guy who held a grudge, but the other kid had waved off his apology. “It’s not so bad here,” he said. “Have you seen Nurse Lili? Total smoke show.” Robbie wasn’t exactly sure what Jared meant but snickered anyway. He’d learned the hard way how to blend in around people like Jared—self-assured to the point of arrogance and heavily invested in being the alpha male. “You won’t see her that much,” Jared said. “She works on the ‘special’ floor.” The way Jared said “special” made Robbie shiver. “What’s so special about it?” Jared didn’t answer, just gave him a lopsided smile. Robbie hated that kind of passive-aggressive bullshit. He shrugged and turned away, inspecting the bunk bed that took up more than half the tiny room. Jared had likely claimed the top bunk for his own, he reckoned, so he lay down in the bottom bunk, wincing as his bony butt sank into the thin mattress and made contact with the wire slats holding it in place. Robbie ached all over. It wasn’t just the beatings and the blows to his head that had left their marks. The restraints had left deep bracelets of bruise on his wrists, and he knew if he could see his back that it would be more purple than the usual pinky-beige. Even the soles of his feet ached, although he couldn’t remember being beaten there. Bastinado. The word came to him out of nowhere. That’s what they called the torture where someone beat on the bare soles of feet. He’d read about it one of his history books. They’d used bull penises to do the damage, as he recalled. That was so very meta. “You hungry?” Jared asked him. “No,” Robbie said. “Liar,” Jared said, but didn’t offer him any food. “The food here’s probably not what you’re used to,” he said. “Baloney sandwiches on white bread with mayonnaise.” Robbie nearly gagged. “I’m a vegetarian,” he said. “Not here, you aren’t.” Robbie didn’t find it hard to skip meals, but he’d have to eat sometime. Maybe he could swap his baloney for someone else’s bread. Much as he had in the van, Robbie curled up in his bunk and tried to get warm. There was a thin blanket lying on top of the mattress made out of coarse wool so scratchy it immediately raised welts on Robbie’s skin. And while it was heavy, it wasn’t warm at all. He wrapped it around himself like a shawl anyway. Robbie managed to fall asleep shortly before the lights were turned back up to maximum brightness and a mousy woman wearing a starched nurse’s cap on top of her messy blonde hair came into the room, accompanied by a man with a heavy ring of keys attached to his belt. She handed a paper cup of pills to Jared. “Thanks Bertha,” he said, dry swallowing the pills. She moved on to Robbie. “Your meds,” she said. “What are they?” he asked, eyeballing the pills in the little white cup. “Vitamins,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I need water to take them.” “Tap’s run dry,” she said. “We’ve called maintenance.” She shook the cup of pills. Robbie looked at them—two white oval-shaped pills and a small, triangular purple pill. She shook the little cup again. “You need to take them,” she said calmly. “If you don’t, Hal will stuff them down your throat.” Robbie assumed the guy with the keys was Hal. “Doctor doesn’t like it when patients aren’t compliant,” she said. “There will be consequences.” “Take the pills, kid,” the orderly said, and his breath was so rancid, Robbie could smell the rotten eggs and ashes clear across the room. “I’m hungry,” he said. “Eight hundred and twenty-eight million people go hungry every day,” the nurse said. “That’s roughly ten percent of the world’s population. You’re not that special.” “He doesn’t care about other people,” the orderly said, “or he wouldn’t be here.” “I didn’t ask to come here,” Robbie said. “Oh honey,” Bertha said. “No one asks to come here, but here you are. Take your pills and it’ll make everything better.” Robbie took the pills, mainly because he wanted Bertha and the orderly to go away. “Who’s that guy?” he asked Jared later, when they were alone again. “That’s Hal, he’s harmless. But watch out for Bertha. She steals things.” “I don’t have anything to steal,” Robbie said. “Not even shoes.” “I took the disposable slippers they left for you,” Jared said. “Mine were getting worn out.” “Give them back,” Robbie said. “Make me,” Jared said and smirked. Robbie knew he’d never be able to force the other kid to hand them over. He resigned himself to going barefoot on the filthy floor. As Bertha had promised, the pills made him sleepy. He decided to go back to sleep. His dreams were horrible, but at least when he slept, he wasn’t hungry. *** Eventually, he thought it might have been near the end of his week-long fast, Robbie went back to see Dr. Moebius who noticed he was still barefoot. “Your feet are filthy,” he observed as Lamar delivered Robbie to his office. “Want to lick them clean?” Robbie asked. Lamar smacked him in the head so hard his ears rang. “Ow,” Robbie said. “Don’t try me,” Lamar said. Robbie turned to the doctor to see if he was going to intercede, but his nose was buried in Robbie’s file again. “Sit down,” the doctor said. Robbie slouched into the chair. He was so hungry he could smell the fruit flavor of the hard candies in a glass bowl on the doctor’s desk. He wondered what the man would do if he lunged for it. As if reading his mind, Dr. Moebius slid the bowl to the edge of the desk, close enough for Robbie to take a few pieces without stretching out his arm. “Help yourself,” he said. Robbie, sensing a trap, reached out and took one of the hard, round candies. It smelled green. When nothing happened, he popped it in his mouth. Oh my god it tasted so good. “Don’t blaspheme,” Dr. Moebius said, making a note in his pad. Did I say that out loud? Robbie wondered and was almost sure he hadn’t. Dr. Moebius pulled out a crinkly plastic bag containing a pair of disposable slippers and threw them at Robbie, who dropped them on the nasty carpet. They were “one size fits all” which meant they didn’t fit anyone very well. But they were better than going barefoot. Barely. That was the only thing that happened in the session with Dr. Moebius. Robbie felt like time had looped in on itself. And it didn’t get any better. The patients’ days were highly regimented, with half hour and hour blocks of time scheduled and marked off—the only sign that time was still moving forward at all. here was therapy time and contemplation time. Mostly it was quiet time. Reading material was limited to inspirational books and collections of fairy tales like the Bible and the Qur’an. Even though Robbie had always preferred a quiet life, life at Woodcock was just too boring. “They used to bring in animals for us to pet but someone strangled a kitten and that ended that,” Jared told Robbie. “Was it you?” Robbie asked. “Nah, I wasn’t here yet.” Unlike Robbie, Jared was completely at home at Woodcock. “I was always going to end up in a place like this,” he said. “I knew it from the time I was little.” “How do you stand it,” Robbie asked. “I’m going nuts.” “I just go away in my mind. Haven’t you ever done that?” Yeah, Robbie had done that. He’d been away when the scary men had shown up and he wasn’t real sure where he’d been. Dr. Moebius wanted to talk about where he went when he went away and how he managed it. “I wish I could get away that easily,” he said to Robbie, expecting a chuckle, but he was disappointed. Sometimes, the hot nurse sat in on the sessions with Dr. Moebius and took notes. Robbie could tell they were fucking. He could tell Nurse Lili liked to hear the stories he told the doctor, the kinkier the better. She really liked the fantasies he had, especially the ones about his mother. But outside his therapy sessions, life at Woodcock was one long string of boredom squared. “I’m in hell,” he complained to Bertha one day as she came around with his cup of pills. She didn’t care. Just told him to take his pills and quit complaining. After about six weeks, Robbie began seeing things. He was convinced Orderly John was a horse masquerading as a human. Jared seemed intrigued by that. “He has horse teeth,” he agreed. “I’m having a hard time thinking straight,” Robbie said. “It’s the drugs,” Jared said. “they let you see people’s real faces.” “Nurse Lili smells like blood,” Robbie said. “Blood and roses,” Jared agreed. “I’d like to open her up and smell her insides.” That admission freaked Robbie out and for a while, he pretended he was alone in the room, so he didn’t have to listen to Jared’s weird fantasies. At night Jared slept the sleep of the innocent while Robie lay wakeful on the bottom bunk. Sometimes Jared snored. But that’s not what kept Robbie awake. At night, when the quiet was only broken by the howl of other damned souls trapped in their rooms, he saw the shadows of beings who slipped into his room. “If it’s dark, how can you see their shadows?” Jared asked reasonably when Robbie told him about the winged shadows and the sounds they made as they whispered. “They’re darker than the dark,” Robbie said. Jared nodded, considering that. “Demons are dark angels,” Jared said. “You can tell because they have red wings.” Robbie thought that sounded kind of pretty. He had once seen a painting of an angel with multi-colored wings in a book about Hearst Castle. He told Jared that’s the kind of wings he wanted, but Jared told him humans couldn’t have wings, only angels and demons. That doesn’t really sound fair, Robbie thought. Jared told him life wasn’t fair and that he should get used to it. He sounded like Robbie’s dad when he said that. But Robbie admired Jared. He seemed to have all the answers. Even the day the orderlies came for him. *** “What do they want with me?” he asked Jared when Lamar and Orderly Jim just showed up at their door and stood there, looking ominous and not saying anything. It was unnerving to Robbie, but Jared just ignored them. Eventually, they heard the squeak of Bertha’s orthopedic shoes as she strode down the hallway to their room. She entered the room--without unlocking it first—and gave Robbie a look that made him shiver. “Time to go,” she said. “Where?” Robbie said. “Upstairs,” she said. To the special floor. “All right,” Robbie said. He wasn’t going to be a little bitch about it. And besides, he was so bored that going anywhere new sounded like an adventure. As he followed the three staff members out of his cell, he noticed Jared was following him. “Where are you going?” “With you,” Jared said. “You’ll never survive the special floor without me.” Robbie shrugged. “Okay,” he said to Jared, “thanks.” The End of Time To Robbie’s surprise, the room where he was taken was bare except for an ornate metal chair sitting on a raised dais. Seated in the chair was Nurse Lili, wearing a hooded black robe. Kneeling beside her was Dr. Moebius, who was naked. Robbie found the sight disturbingly erotic. Lili smiled when she saw the boys but did not invite either Robbie or Jared to sit down. “Thank you for coming,” she said, as if Robbie had had any agency in the decision. “This tribunal is now in session.” Robbie felt a stirring of alarm. “Tribunal,” he said. “I’ve already had a court case.” “Yes, and it was a travesty, wasn’t it?” “His lawyer was an idiot,” Jared said. “Shut up,” Robbie said, because he knew grownups didn’t like Jared. “I want you to tell us your story, Robbie,” Nurse Lili said. “Us?” Robbie repeated, a little confused. He’d already told all his stories to the doctor and didn’t think Moebius wanted to hear them again. Lili smiled again and this time her mouth stretched impossibly wide, and Robbie could see several rows of pointed teeth inside. “We are legion,” she said. “We contain multitudes.” “I’m just one person,” Robbie said. “Really? Didn’t your lawyer claim that you, Jared Robert Nelson, were not guilty by reason of insanity.” “My name is Robbie,” he said, looking around for Jared, but he’d disappeared. “Jared Robert Nelson,” Nurse Lili said again, sounding bored. “We want to hear about the Timekeeper.” “The media made up that name,” Robbie said. “It’s catchy though, isn’t it?” Nurse Lili said. “I don’t know what to tell you,” Robbie said, or maybe it was Jared. “Yes, Robbie, you do,” Nurse Lili said and when she spoke, there was a timbre in her voice that hadn’t been there before. “We want to know what made you kill.” “Make it a good story,” Dr. Moebius said. “And we’ll be merciful.” Robbie looked at the doctor again and saw he’d misread the power dynamic in the room. Dr. Moebius was not submissive at all. Robbie liked the sound of mercy. And he had kept his secret for so long, had kept it all through the questioning at the jail, kept it all through the trial. “It was Jared’s fault,” Robbie said. “He wanted to kill our father, but I convinced him that we’d be caught if we did that, so we needed to kill some surrogates.” “The men you killed were all relatively young men, and gay,” Nurse Lili interrupted, “how were they like your father?” Robbie was confused. “I would choose them, but when we met, they always rejected me.” “So, you were looking for rejection?” Dr. Moebius said. “Yes,” Robbie said. Or maybe it was Jared. He was no longer sure who was speaking. “And did you always take their faces?” Nurse Lili asked. “Yes,” Robbie said. “Because they looked like your father?” “They had the same stupid round face, like a clock,” Robbie said. He had told the police that he’d had nothing to do with the stupid murders they were investigating, but he wanted to brag about the circular beauty of time and the exquisite minutes and seconds it took his victims to die. All of them had flat round faces until he peeled them off so that people could see what they looked like underneath. “Tell us,” Nurse Lili said. “Tell us what it felt like to peel off their faces.” Robbie didn’t really know where to begin but he could feel a strange excitement building inside. “The first time I did it, the skin tore, and was useless for display.” “That must have been disappointing,” she said. “It was a waste. Dwight would have made a lovely clock.” “Dwight?” Nurse Lili asked. “I don’t remember him being one of the victims.” She turned to Dr. Moebius to see if he’d ever heard of him, but the shrink shook his head. “Nobody ever found him,” Robbie said with Jared’s smirk. “How clever of you,” Nurse Lili said. “He is a clever boy,” Dr. Moebius agreed. He leaned forward, his red eyes seemed to pierce right through Robbie’s heart. “Not to your heart,” Lili said in his head. “But right to your pathetic soul.” “You have to understand,” Dr. Moebius said paternally, “we are here to judge you, but you are not being tried by a jury of your peers.” “I can tell you’re not human,” Robbie said, beginning to feel the first stirrings of fear. “What are you?” “Show him,” Nurse Lili said. The doctor bowed his head and when he raised it, dark radiance gleamed. Suddenly the medic didn’t look so harmlessly comical. His skin seemed to be glowing and Robbie found it hard to focus on the outline of his form, which was somehow taller, more slender, and rather androgynous. The same thing was happening to Nurse Lili. What. The. Fuck? And Nurse Lili’s beauty was morphing into something far more dangerous and exciting than she had been a moment ago. “Call me by my name,” she whispered into his head. “Lilith.” “Lilith,” he said, stumbling over the name. He’d heard it before but wasn’t quite sure where. Wasn’t she one of the singers his mother listened to? The one who whined about stray dogs? “You’re stalling,” Lilith said. “We hate being bored.” ‘The boy has no talent for storytelling,” the doctor said. Robbie was offended by that comment. “I’m great at storytelling,” he said. “I tell the best stories.” “You tell lies,” the doctor said, “that’s not the same thing.” Robbie looked at the doctor with scorn. “You work for Lucifer, right?” The two demons didn’t answer, which was answer enough. “Don’t they call Lucifer the father of lies? Maybe he’d like to hear my stories.” Dr. Moebius smiled. “Are you volunteering to be his court jester?” “Lucifer lacks a sense of humor,” Nurse Lili said. “You’re better off with us.” Robbie felt his frustration rise. “Fuck this,” Jared said, and Robbie felt a great sense of relief that he was back. “They can’t keep us here.” “That’s where you’re wrong,” Nurse Lili said, so of course, Robbie had to try to flee. He was very surprised to find that he was rooted to the floor. Literally, with roots growing out of his feet and anchoring themselves deep below the yellowed and cracked linoleum. “Jared,” he said, but there was no answer. “Jared,” he said again and this time, he yelled it. “He’s not here,” Robbie,” Nurse Lili said. “He’s gone away.” “What do you want from me,” Robbie said. “We had hoped for entertainment,” Nurse Lili said. “But really, you’ve been a disappointment.” Robbie looked at her face and saw no trace of mercy there. “So, what happens now,” he said, trying very hard to sound tough like Jared would have. “Annihilation by immolation,” said Nurse Lili, who wasn’t a nurse at all. Bitter laughter bubbled up out of Robbie. “At least it’ll be a quick death,” he said, with a bravado he really didn’t feel. Dr. Moebius looked at him and shook his head sadly. “You’ve been dead since the moment you arrived,” he said. “You just didn’t know it.” And before Robbie could draw another breath--did he even need to b breathe if he was dead—he found himself at the center of the sun, surrounded by incandescent plasma that should have turned him to ash and cinders in a heartbeat but didn’t. The pain swallowed up every other thought Robbie might have had. “The sun will burn out one day,” Nurse Lilith whispered in his mind. “But you will suffer every second until it does.” Robbie would have let out a howl, but the flaming sun-stuff filled his mouth and throat and lungs. At last, he felt regret for what he had done, but not repentance. *** As for Lilith and Moebius, they forgot about him as soon as they had pronounced judgment. For there were always serial killers arriving at Woodcock Clinic who needed their attention. Nurse Lili passed a file to Dr. Moebius. “This case might be interesting,” she said. “He’s younger than our usual visitors.” Moebius scanned the file. “Divorced parents. Molested by his grandmother.” He looked up. “Killed 13 people with his mother’s service revolver, including his mother and grandmother.” “Yes,” Nurse Lili said. “He had to reload.” “I think we should talk to Ben,” Nurse Lili said. “I’m sure he has a story to tell that will help pass the time.” Katherine Tomlinson is a former reporter who prefers making things up. A screenwriter and novelist, she is also an award-winning short story writer and a Pushcart Prize nominee. She has published several collections of short fiction, including the upcoming Scar Tissue.
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Copyright © 2024 V. V. Strange Chapter 1 “I’m telling you, she’s cursed. Like, big time.” Charles Saint-Aulaire interrupted the monotony of chopping carrots and celery for the dinner roast to glance up at his younger brother. “Give me a break.” “Bruh. Small dick energy, right there.” Louis pointed at him with an accusing stolen carrot. “Whatever she’s got, it’s bad crap.” A heavy sigh accompanied Charles as he dumped cubed vegetables and onions in the pressure cooker and contemplated the potatoes waiting to be diced. He would have liked cooking if everything was ready to, well, be cooked. But things being how they were, he was stuck on kitchen duty—chop and clean. “She wouldn’t be the first to be cursed, nor the last. And bad is a relative term.” Indignant, Louis arched an eyebrow and seemed to grow taller with outrage. “I may not have your full power, brother, but I can sense this shit. Grand-père is rolling in his grave.” “Did you talk to him? How’s he doing? God, I miss that man. He was almost as grumpy as you are right now.” If stares could kill, Charles wouldn’t have stood a chance. Eyes as blue as his stared him down. “You are a disappointment to the family name and to the city of New Orleans.” “Your words hurt, brother mine,” he said in a monotone, the ease of a man aware of what he did for the family name and the city of New Orleans on a daily basis–and had nothing to reprimand himself for. Charles added the potatoes into the pot, cleaned his hands with a kitchen rag, and set the timer muttering a curse. Because damn it, Louis was getting him intrigued, despite knowing better. So. Much. Better. Magic ran through him as it had run in his family for generations. Weak, powerful, white, black, and everything in between, he felt it, understood it. It touched him, whispered to him like the ghosts living with the Saint-Aulaires for hundreds of years. He knew how to reach to it, how to follow it on the other side and let it flow through his fingers in ribbons or streams, how to shape it. This power carried a responsibility, which he never ignored, but he’d also learned where to draw a line. Magic moved through Louis too, although on a smaller scale, and he’d never come to him asking, demanding, an intervention. He was doing just so, and it was enough to intrigue him. Louis folded his arms. “So? That’s it?” Charles rolled his eyes, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge as he accepted this was happening. He’d load the dishwasher after dinner, he decided, heading to the couch and saying over his shoulder, “Why are you pushing this so hard?” “Because I like her.” “Nope.” He shook his head while he got the remote. “Nuh-uh.” Louis sat on the armchair close by. “Not like that, you pervert. She’s young but, like, you young. Not me young.” “Remind me who she is again.” “Professor Hale. We both are part of the international student committee, and she was my biology teacher last semester. She’s good people. She backed John with coming out and all. You know how it can get ugly down here, and she was very cool, helped him deal with his family. They were not happy, and I’m downplaying the shit he went through. Miss Hale made a difference by doing what she didn’t have to do. Leaving her like that just seems wrong.” Louis looked at his hands as if they were a broken tool he couldn’t use, an upset frown pulling his brows together. “I can’t help her. I tried, but…” he shook his head. “It’s bigger than me. You, though, you can help her.” Aw, hell. “I don’t know man, I-” A tray fell from the counter and crashed on the kitchen floor. Only he and Louis were in the house; nobody was in the kitchen. Or anywhere else. “Great,” he muttered. “I see they have your back on this.” He was used to the shifts of energy, the touch of emotions that weren’t his own, and even the occasional sighting of the mansion’s former residents. But the ghosts rarely acted out, rarely interfered. When they did, there was a reason. One they never shared, of course. Charles was outnumbered, and besides, his brother wouldn’t come down on him this hard for some bullshit. All right, then. It was mid-July and low season, he could take some time off from the museum. “Okay, I’ll meet the woman. Everybody happy?” he asked to both the man standing in front of him smiling, and the ghosts he could feel so clearly. A light breeze that had no reason to be in the room carried the whisper of a cheerful yes. Louis raised his fists in victory. “Yes!” He clapped his hands. “What’s the plan?” Charles stared at his little brother. “I just agreed. I don’t have a plan.” “Make one.” “You want me to come up with a plan right this moment,” he said flatly. “If I leave it to you, she’ll be dead before you move.” “Highly offensive.” Louis nodded with solemnity. “As the truth often is. I love you but man, you’re a sloth. If what I sensed is right, she doesn’t have that kind of time.” Louis slapped his leg with the back of his hand when he didn’t get a reaction. “I’m serious.” Confronted with a stare unusually steady for his hyper brother, Charles rolled his eyes again. “Do you have a plan, then, smart ass?” “Obviously.” Louis perched on the edge of the armchair. “We’ll be at the international students’ party this weekend, she confirmed her attendance this morning. You can casually come by to say hello to your little bro and meet her.” “Not bad. Let me check with the board-” “You’re good. I cleared it with the board already.” “I’m impressed.” Charles crushed the empty plastic bottle. “Just so we’re clear, I’m coming to meet her. Even if there is bad magic-” “There is,” Louis pointed out. “Then I need to get to know her before I can do anything. I can’t meet someone and tell them they’re cursed.” “I understand. This will be, like, the scouting part. See that I’m right, and we’ll take it from there.” “Sure.” He got up, and threw the bottle in the recycling bin. It would take thirty more minutes for the stew. He was starving. He should have gotten a pizza. “You’re in for dinner?” “Sure am. And thank you.” “I did nothing yet.” “But you will, like always. So, thanks.” ~*~ Rebecca sat, eyes on the empty mug, wishing for a drink and too beat to cross the room to get a bottle of water or something. The welcoming party at Tulane University was in full swing, the room thermostat set at a cool 72. And yet, her dry mouth and sweaty back and neck would have sworn she was outside in the brutal Louisiana heat. It was not because the AC system was broken. It was not because she didn’t drink enough, because she did. A lot. It was her. All her. Always parched. Nothing took away the thirst. Always hot. Nothing cooled her. Always tired. Sleep came fragmented and disturbed. Her scientific mind kept spinning, searching for explanations and illnesses, yet her doctor had ruled out most options. Burnout, he had thrown out there. Fuck burnout. Rebecca wiped an unsteady hand on her beaded forehead. She loved her job, where she could put together her passion for science and teaching. She hated messy and hot New Orleans, but her classes, her students, and her involvement in campus activities made up for it. Would she have chosen somewhere north, where it snowed, and summer didn’t try to kill you? Yes. Could the location alone lead to burnout? Oh, hell, no. She was miserable and depressed because of what ailed her, not for her life. Louis, one of her students from last year, moved closer, his usually upbeat face trying to hide his worry. “You okay, Miss Hale?” “Yes, just tired.” “Sure.” He hadn’t bought it, but he was always smart. He was impulsive and always on the move, which didn’t always work in his favor, he’d been the brightest among an exceptional group. “I’m okay. Really,” she repeated. “Sure. Let me go get you something to drink, all right?” “That would be splendid, thank you.” And as he walked away, in a day full of energy and hope, she wanted to lie down and cry. ~*~ Charles walked into the conference room where the welcoming party buzzed, closed his eyes briefly when he was hit by a wave of powerful, dark energy. Bad, ugly magic hummed in the air, a thick, heavy undercurrent slithering around unsuspecting people, happily sipping on sodas. Well, okay. She was cursed. And, to quote Louis, she was cursed big time. It was so strong it took him seconds to track the murky power to its source, to her. He saw his brother on his way to her and waved a hand to catch his attention. “So?” Louis asked when they met. “Spot on.” “Damn. I kinda wish I was wrong. Bad as I thought?” “Maybe.” “She’s messed up. I’m supposed to find her water.” “I have something that can help her.” He patted his backpack. “Come on, introduce me.” They made their way through foreign accents and hopeful faces as the dark tide of the curse became thicker. “Miss Hale,” Louis called out. She looked up. Charles saw heartbreaking beauty in the big eyes, brown like changing leaves. A snub nose on a generous mouth. He also noted hollow cheeks and dark circles under her unfocused eyes, the hurried breathing, and the sweat despite the AC. He was a witness to magic working in its worst possible way, and he hated it. But because he knew better than to be shocked or to let rushed anger take over, he exhaled and smiled. Her eyes took him in, darting from him to Louis as she acknowledged the striking resemblance. Standing up to her full 5 feet 5 or so with a composure Charles imagined must have cost her some, she surprised him with a firm voice. “You have got to be brothers.” “So, they keep telling us.” Louis dragged close a chair nearby and perched on its back. “Charles, this is Miss Hale. Miss Hale, this is my brother Charles.” “It’s very nice meeting you, Miss Hale.” “Oh please, I keep telling everyone to call me Rebecca. And the pleasure is all mine.” “I was sidetracked and got no water,” Louis explained, “but he can help. She’s thirsty.” Subtle. Charles considered slapping his brother’s head, decided to do it later. Because Louis’ inability to do anything in a subtle way might, in this case, be for the best. At least now he had an opening. “Here.” He grabbed a plastic cup from the refreshment station and filled it with what he had brought. “Try this.” She eyed him, then the glass. “It’s herbal tea, the Saint-Aulaire recipe against the heat.” She raised an eyebrow. “Tried and true for generations.” ~*~ Why would her favorite student’s brother try to poison her? Rebecca wondered, eyeing the cup. Besides, a dash of poison might end this torment, so hey, all good. She smelled the brew, finding the aroma sweet and interesting. After looking at Louis, then at his brother, who gave a reassuring nod, she raised the glass to her lips. Even her confused mind noticed their eagerness for her to drink. They must feel very strongly about this family tradition. Southerners were funny that way, she’d learned. She sipped, tasted sage and something else, something sweet and... happy. Smiling felt foreign–she hadn’t smiled in so long. She was doing it now, though. Sluggishness drifted, the headache eased, and the heat she knew was not in the room lifted. She sighed with pleasure, the taste of pure relief on her lips. “Refill?” Louis’ brother asked. “Please.” She downed another glass and felt stronger than she had in weeks. “Better?” “Yes, actually. Thank you. I guess the heat got me more than I thought, but this thing worked like magic.” Louis’ brother cleared his throat. “Well, our family has dealt with heat and magic for generations now. We know what to do with both.” She smiled at him and…. okay, her brain must have been seriously foggy because he did look a lot like Louis but, wow. There was none of Louis’ fun and his surfer’s ‘tude. Forget also the tall, dark, and dangerous, the imposing figure and all that. This guy was the ultimate man-next-door, if that was a thing. He had nothing striking about him, but oh, how perfect normality worked on him. Brown hair neatly trimmed and sun-kissed, the shadow of a looked-after beard, piercing blue eyes. A straight nose tipped at the end and a gentle mouth. His voice was quietly firm. He carried himself with subtle authority, everything about him exuded warm purpose. He could be the poster child for easy charm and downplayed elegance, like some jeans-clad aristocrat from the old world. “I’m sorry,” she blubbered. “I missed your name earlier.” “Let’s redo the introduction. I’m Charles. It’s nice meeting you, Rebecca.” A pleasantly shallow conversation filled the next few minutes, until he glanced at his watch, sighing a little. “I’m afraid I must leave. But I’d love for you to come visit the museum.” What was she expected to say? They had just met. It felt a bit weird asking her to visit a museum. And then, what museum? Such an odd invitation delivered with such homey affection. He read her hesitation right and looked at her sheepishly. “I’m sorry. It was out of the blue. We own a private, small museum, the Slavery History Museum. It’s been in the family since the 1800s and we’re proud of it enough to show it off any chance we get. You’ve been in New Orleans for a year, Louis tells me?” “Yes, I have.” “Did you get the chance to know about it or visit?” “I’m afraid not, but.. yeah, Louis told me about it actually,” she added, trying to ease the guilt of her laziness. Stupid of her not to put two and two together. She had even researched it after Louis told her, and the reviews were great, but her slothful butt never acted on those. “I’d love to come for a visit.” “Then it’s settled. When you’re free, come to the entrance and ask them to call me.” His smell hung a bit longer, and she had nothing to complain about it. He smelled great, subtle and sweet, with a kick of spice somewhere. “I’ll make sure to have more,” he said, shaking the now empty bottle. “I’ll see you soon, then.” He slapped his brother’s flat belly. “See you home, yes?” He was gone, and she was left with the feeling she had been set up. What for, she was going to find out. Chapter 2 Rebecca swayed on the sidewalk, caught between the scorching heat of a mid-morning summer and the fire burning inside her. The trees in Jackson Square should have helped. Yet, she barely registered the difference. Only a little longer, she chanted. The museum was one block away. They must store water, right? A bottle or a fountain. She would gladly chug from a rusty spout at this point. And AC. Not that it made the difference, but hope was nice, and she needed a lot of nice right now. She should have stayed home. Curiosity had won, though, and she was making her way to the Slavery History Museum. More like stumbling her way there. She’d heard about it, Louis had mentioned, but she’d never taken the chance to visit, no matter how interesting it was. The museum was the place to go if you wanted an unadulterated, brutally honest account of what slavery had meant. She had researched it more after meeting Charles, and it wasn’t only what the museum and its owners stood for that touched her. It was all the work outside it, all the activities and studies, all the endless effort to uncover and dismantle every ripple slavery still caused today. The website stated, “It’s the Saint-Aulaire family’s responsibility to show the ugliest face of slavery, so we can build a better, and more equitable, future for everyone.” Almost like a mission to expiate the family’s past, as the Saint-Aulaire had been, at some point, one of the biggest slave owners in Louisiana. Rebecca wiped at a drop of sweat dripping from her forehead. It had been easier looking forward to the visit when she had felt better. The chance to see Charles again in a non-work-related environment played some role. Okay, a big role. Now, though, after three days of little sleep and her inexplicable crap back at full force, she wished she’d stayed home. But what could she possibly do, after all? Lock herself in the house, braving the exhaustion only for her job? No way. Screw this stupid… whatever it was. She’d taken a shower and headed to the museum. Rebecca almost wept with relief when it finally came into vision. Standing proud at two stories tall, the building embodied history and tradition with its cast-iron balconies and intricate railings, a striking contrast with the deep red brickwork. The door opened on a small hall for the ticket stand. Decorated in different shades of blue, it was uncluttered and felt a lot bigger than it was. The woman sitting at the stand smiled. “Good morning. How can I help you?” Water and a bed, please???? Of course, Rebecca kept it together. “I, well, Charles- Mr. Saint-Aulaire said to come over and, um, ask for him? I’m Doctor Rebecca Hale.” Unfazed, or maybe simply used to things like this, the woman nodded. “Not a problem. Give me just one second. You can take a seat. There’s cool water over there. It’s hot today.” Today, yesterday, and the day before, Rebecca grumbled in her tired mind as she sat, thankful for the chill drink. Summer in New Orleans was stupidly hot from start to finish, and freaking endless. She rested her head back on the wall and closed her eyes for a moment, wishing she could sleep like she used to. And, in what had become an annoying routine, a question popped up: what the hell was happening to her? Why couldn’t a doctor find anything wrong, even though everything was? “Rebecca.” His voice cut through the fog cushioning her brain. The way he came to her, hands extended to take hers, that gentle smile, made her curse her health even more than usual. He was perfect, damn it, while she was a pile of sweaty thrash. “What a pleasure having you here,” he said, helping her stand. She staggered, held on his hands to regain her balance, and points to him for not saying anything about her obvious state of weak messiness, but politely hooking her hand to his arm. “Thank you. I couldn’t wait to come.” Fuck, her voice sounded so weird to her, like if she had cotton in her ears. “Then, let’s go.” He smiled and, yeah, it got to her. Like, the smile reached her, past the cotton, past the exhaustion, past everything. He guided her, room after room, telling her stories of realities light years removed from her life, stories her brain could appreciate and understand only as much as the mysterious sickness allowed. Which was not a lot. No matter how she would have loved to truly see all the canvas on the bare walls, and read some of the terrifying stories written on tables beside each picture. Simply put, she didn’t have the energy for it. “We can’t change what our family did,” he told her when they left the last room, his voice stained with regret that quickly changed color, taking the steely shine of assertion. “But we can definitely work hard to make sure it won’t touch the present. It’s sad how our work doesn’t get any easier.” She wanted nothing more than to talk to him about the topic, but only followed. Like a thoughtless idiot. He led her to a table at the tiny coffee area and as he sat, his voice changed again, getting deeper, and tinged with worry. “How are you, Rebecca?” Lying crossed her mind, but she couldn’t muster the energy for it. “Like shit.” He nodded like he knew. No. Like he’d expected her answer. “Come with me?” “Where?” “My family lives here. The other wing of the building is private. You can take a breather, drink some water. My parents are not home, but Louis is studying in the library if it makes you feel safer. You okay with it?” “Yeah. Yes.” She followed him through doors and hallways that made her head hurt, which she was sure was an overblown reaction due to her fucking illness, until he got to what it looked like a bigger, thicker door. He opened it, invited her in with an elegant move of his hand. They reached and passed a living room, then got into a kitchen. She knew both rooms were refined in a comfortable way, but didn’t have it in her to comment on his damn house. She just wanted to close her eyes and disappear. She sat on the leather-covered stool and dropped her purse on the island, considered crying, then realized it would be too much effort and gave up. “My parents are in France, they wait out summers there. To quote my dad, New Orleans in summer is merde,” he said conversationally as he took a bottle from the fridge, poured something into a glass, and gave it to her. “Drink. It’ll make you feel better.” “Same thing you gave me last week?” she mumbled. “It is.” Fuck this thing, she thought as relief swept through her when she drank. It works. She gulped it all, closing her eyes against tears of pure relief. “I need you to give me the recipe for whatever this is, because it’s a miracle. And as a scientist, I absolutely abhor the term. But damn, man.” His smile really was something different entirely, she thought as he refilled her glass. Another miracle, almost. He circled the island and sat on the stool close to her. He took a long breath and doodled with his fingertips on the countertop, eyes averted as if he was looking for the best way to give her not-altogether-good news. “Something’s on your mind,” she pushed. “Just tell me if I’m wrong, okay?” “Okay. I guess.” Another pause. “All right,” he started. “You sleep, but in name only. No rest comes from it, and you wake up more tired than the night before. Nightmares you can’t quite describe, but you feel nonetheless, ruin what little you get. Yes?” Spot on. “Yes,” she said tentatively. “You see, or just perceive, things that are not really there. Nothing major, but sometimes you look over your shoulder because you sense someone’s stare. And it makes you wonder if you’re losing it.” Her throat closed. How did he know? She nodded as her hands gripped the glass she held. “You’re always hot despite the AC. Never really hungry, even though you barely eat.” She pressed a hand on her mouth as his eyes pinned her to a reality he had no way of knowing. And delivered the final blow. “No doctor can find what’s wrong.” “They say I’m burned out,” she whispered. “But you’re not.” “I’m not. How - how do you know these things?” He cleared his throat. “We, the Saint-Aulaires, were one of the biggest slave owners in the state of Louisiana. We were not kind. One of my ancestors struck a little boy, no older than three, and he–” Charles took a breath, then wiped a hand on his mouth. “He killed him. The boy’s mother was a high priestess of the old religion.” “Voodoo?” He nodded. “Okay. But what does it have to do with me?” “My family was cursed.” She would not have understood that even if she was still dumbed down by her health. “Come again now?” “The child’s mother cursed my family. Grief is powerful. Blood is too, and she used the most powerful magic she knew to curse all the males in my family. Firstborns seem to have it worse, but we boys all have a special something.” She chuckled. Then laughed. He did look too perfect with his manners, his looks, there had to be a catch, something wrong. He was nuts. What a shame. Standing on her now stable feet, she leaned in. “Look, man, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, but I’m not desperate enough to buy that crap. And even if I did buy it, which I’m not, what would that have to do with me?” If her speech touched him, Charles didn’t show it. He simply answered her question. “Because, amongst other things, I can sense magic. The good and the bad. As in curses. And you, ma chérie, scored a big one.” “All right.” She picked up her purse. “Thank you for the drink and the tour. Have a great day, Charles. I’ll see myself out.” As if he would have expected that too, he nodded. “You know where I am, if you need me.” ~*~ Lila turned away from the man sitting with her, smiling at the waiter as he placed the lemonade order on the table. Bourbon Street was never deserted. Tourists now cruised through it in the late afternoon heat, with temperatures over a hundred degrees and drenched in humidity. Her companion didn’t even acknowledge the young man. Although needing and liking a person didn’t always align, she had to steel herself and finish what she had started. He leaned back on his wicker chair, the brim of his light Panama hat shading his eyes. “What’s wrong, ma belle?” The nickname disgusted her, as did the whiff of sour garbage reaching her nostrils, but she schooled her face into a natural smile. “She met with Saint-Aulaire. The eldest.” He didn’t miss a beat. “And?” “You know what they say about him. About all of them.” He traced the shape of his black mustache with elegant fingertips. “Oh, I heard.” “Should I be worried?” “You don’t trust me?” He tzek-tzeked her, his slow smile anything but sweet. “You hurt my feelings.” She cleared her throat, trying to push her frustration down. He was a dangerous man, and she must never forget it. “I’m betting my entire career on this thing. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t trust you.” “That’s wise.” He crunched a peanut shell, then one more, and pushed the crumbles together with slow strokes, never eating the nut inside. “She’ll get lost in a place only a few can reach. Charles Saint-Aulaire is not one of those people. I’m too strong for him.” She nodded, feeling better, if not happier. Professor Rebecca Hale’s time at Tulane was coming to an end. After two decades of work, Lila would finally get what she deserved. ~*~ Rebecca tossed the sheets aside. Sweat rendered the t-shirt she slept in unbearable and disgusting. Three days. Since she’d met Charles and heard the most ludicrous story ever. Since he gave her a drink that always made her feel better, at least for a while. How can she possibly entertain the idea his words were nothing but deranged? Yet. How could he know exactly how she was? She was a scientist, for fuck’s sake. She even had a cup saying, ‘science is like magic, only real’. Magic, and curses, were not real. Come on, they were absolutely not. Humanity moved past that kind of shit after the Middle Ages for a reason, didn’t it? And yet. Doctors weren’t exactly lining up with solutions, and she was edging into madness. She closed her eyes in the dark, hating the heat panted on her skin and beneath it, like her head were a boiling teapot sending hot vapor through her veins. She palmed the bed until she touched the cell phone. It was 2:26 AM on a Thursday night. Desperate people texted their asshat ex-boyfriends at this time. She might as well hop on the misery train and text a man who said his family had been cursed for generations and she was, too. She was desperate, after all. After a long sigh, she surrendered to insanity and typed. It’s not like he was going to reply, anyway. U up? The buzz came after a few minutes. Well, shit, he replied. I am. R u full of bull No She scoffed. How I told you. That defines bull Not here in New Orleans, nor for my family. That’s a normal weeknight for us. She had to chuckle before his next text gave her pause for its thoughtfulness. How are you feeling? She tried to come up with something that wouldn’t tell him she was miserable, but her brain was sluggish and thinking took a while. His reply beat her. I mean, I know you’re struggling. It’s been days since I gave you the tea, but asking seemed less intrusive. What’s in that thing? I can make it Sage, rompe saraguey, wormwood, nettle, and other things you don’t have. Maybe I do No. No, you don’t. She yawned. Now I’m curious Listen, you live close to Tulane? Yes I can be there in 20 minutes with the tea. Are you comfortable with that? I guess. I’m texting my friend to tell her a wizard is coming to my place with a potion. If I die, she’ll know. I’ll send you the address I’m not a wizard. I’ll be there soon. ~*~ Charles suppressed another yawn and rubbed his eyes, then closed them and didn’t move for a minute, contemplating how comfortable the mattress was. Fighting a wave of sleep, he mentally listed what he was about to do. Get out of bed. Put clothes on. Yes. Clothes were important. Grab a bottle of the herbal tea he made for this exact moment, because he’d known she was going to call him again. A curse like that must be pure mystery. Laced with doctors’ cluelessness? He expected the call. Not at nearly three in the morning, but okay. Let’s go with two bottles to be on the safe side, he decided. Then get the car and drive the twenty minutes to her place. He could do it. And he did, despite sleep clinging to him like a tailor-made jacket. Suspense, paranormal, and fantasy author.
Find me on your favorite social here: https://mtr.bio/mackade Newsletter: https://sendfox.com/lp/m4v5gv © 2021 Maria Vermisoglou The Plague I stumbled in the dark forest and glanced over my shoulder. The lurking shadows grinned at me over the patches of light, beckoning me in. My ribs and my legs ached from the long run, but I couldn’t stop now. I turned left, then took the next right and kept going deeper into the unknown. The Plague had sneaked in on our village one night, and many brave men tried to fend it off. One by one we watched in terror as it took the men first, then the women and children. It left no survivors. Locking doors and windows, we stayed isolated, but it found us there too and it attacked viciously. The Homen showed no mercy. With fear spreading throughout our village and no means of protection, I had decided to get my family to a safer place. Alas, when I returned to my house at night, I screamed at the frozen expression of their dead faces. I took off, with only my coat, some food and a hunting knife as my only possessions. My Beata and my Anatol still lived in my mind, their ghastly faces and white hair engraved in my memory. Glancing behind me, I pushed my legs to pick up the speed and heard the grinding of my old bones. Biting my lip, I tasted blood. An owl hooted, and I jumped, cursing the fat bird. The night had moved forward and the pitch-black sky showed no mercy for my poor eyesight. I took another left turn and came in front of a hut. Tears rolled on my cheeks, my heartbeat pulsating so hard my ribcage groaned. I had been in the forest all night and didn’t see another residence to seek out help. In my desperation, I had started to believe Homen had killed everyone. Such was my haste, I almost took down the door. With my heartbeat punching my throat, I pounded at the door. “Anyone there?” I screamed, breathless. “I need help! The plague is here.” I pushed with my shoulder and managed to crack it open. “I’m sorry for the…” My words hung in the musty air as I took in the dusty room, cobwebs strung in the ceiling and the absence of light. I cursed the gods and spirits. “No one has lived here and can’t help me!” I growled and fell into a rickety chair. My feet were holding me no more. I took some sharp breaths and stood. Dragging my aching body, I went outside and started collecting leaves and twigs. Seating by the fire was a pure bliss, but I could not rest. Rummaging my pockets, I found some bread and canned meat. The campfire’s crackle gave the false impression of security, and my stomach rumbled. I longed to curl up and gaze upon the stars before I fell asleep. But I could not. I cut the meat, laid it on the stale bread and stuffed it into my mouth. The bushes moved, and I grabbed the shotgun I had found in the empty cabin. Begging my shaky fingers to work, I found the trigger and lifted the weapon. A raccoon ran past me, screeching. I lowered the shotgun and waited to see the dog trailing him. His master could give me news and directions. But my hope fell into dead water. I stared at the majestic deer that leaped from the bushes, taking the same path as the raccoon. I scratched my beard. Something thrashed into the ground and I prepared to shoot when my weak eyes revealed a terrified squirrel. “Has the world gone mad?” My head snapped back and forth, watching the animals pass by, their fur standing on end, ignoring me. They run to escape from something, but what could it be that the wildest of animals would run side by side with their prey? When the bushes rustled again, I held the gunshot loosely in my hands, expecting another animal. It was a woman. The woman swayed, her white dress wrapped up like a bedsheet. As she approached, I noticed her milky complexion dotted with black blotches. When the moon shone over her, she grimaced. I lifted the shotgun to my chest. “Who are you?” I yelled. “Speak!” “I am only lost, farmer. Will you let me stay for the night?” she said in an alluring voice. I kept my gaze pinned on her papery skin. My wife, Beata, walked with a smile towards me. “Come on, dear. Let’s go home. Our son awaits.” Taking a step back, I blinked, my lip quivering at the sudden change. Was I hallucinating? Without lowering the shotgun, I shuffled, searching with my eyes at the quiet forest. The bushes stood ominous under the moon, the fire still burned in front of the hut, but the woman I saw moments ago had disappeared. “Where has that woman gone?” “What woman?” Beata quirked her eyebrows, smiling at me. “There’s only me.” My hoarse voice turned tight, and I winced as the information clashed in my mind. “But you were gone, Beata. I saw it.” My hands shook. It cannot be. Beata giggled, her gargling laughs out of tune. “Dear, were you having a bad dream? Of course, not. We were just strolling, and you wandered away.” She held out her hand. I rubbed my sweaty brow. “I wandered because of the ridiculous plague.” My wife’s face twisted, her eyes burning with a live fire. “The plague is not ridiculous,” she hollered. My wife’s figure melted into the strange woman. Rattling her claw fingers, she threw herself on me. I shot her. One, two, three bullets whistled, wedging themselves into her body. I retreated, watching the woman stand up, the holes in her chest shrinking until the metal casings fell off. “You idiot peasant!” Her voice froze my bones and reached my heart. “I am the Homen. No one can kill me. For every life I take, I retain my beauty. It's a small price to pay for the destruction humans have caused.” My arms trembling, I struggled to aim straight at the apparition. Patches of liquid skin gushed on the ground, the woman’s bones popping around her eyes. I shuddered. “I have found you now. You cannot escape your fate.” “So what if you’ll get me?” I glowered, ignoring the grinding of my teeth. “You’ll never be as beautiful as a woman. Now, you’re turning into a monster as punishment for the crimes you’ve committed!” I fired once more and reloaded. “You imbecile!” That terrible scream was worse than Hell’s demons. I pushed my fingers into my earlobes and despite that, I could hear her shrilling howl. Begging God and whoever was in charge to save me, I fired. But the bullets only seemed to irritate her as they removed more skin off her than harm her. The woman soared in the sky, screaming. I fired, having no other effective weapon. Begging the spirits of my village, I spoke the names of the deities. My wife was a believer, but until now, I only believed in blunt force. A howl cut the Home’s cries short. She turned her head the whole way until I was facing the back of her head. My eyes widened at the abnormality. It was impossible. But she was a bony ghost. A large dog leaped in front of me, its saliva dripping on the ground. The dog barked at Homen, who hissed. My heart that had been causing painful attacks in my throat and ribs relaxed some. Nothing could beat her and she seemed afraid of no man, but this dog made her crawl. I took the rope God tossed at me and pulled at my salvation. I clapped my hands and pointed at Homen. “Go get her, boy!” “Naah!” Homen’s strident voice lost her impact, and she dashed to the bushes, but the dog grabbed her ankle and sank his teeth to her bones. One by one, they cracked under the dog’s canines and she disappeared in a puff of smoke. I still live in that hut, guarding the woods with only my dog as company. I cannot see much now, nor hear the sounds around me. On chilly nights, I can hear the penetrating voice of Homen who spreads chaos. That’s when I take my shotgun and hunt. My suffering bones might not hold, but I will get her. One day I will. Acknowledgements Thank you for reading The Plague, which is part of the fairytale collection Quill & Dust. If you want to discover more of my stories, you can subscribe to receive monthly newsletters, or follow me on social media. Until next time, Happy Halloween! Boo! Maria Vermisoglou is an International Bestselling author of fantasy and paranormal with an obsession for witches. She loves throwing her heroes into impossible situations. Maria draws inspiration from books, travel, and…the ceiling. (So blame the ceiling!)
Maria started writing when the stories she read became too boring and the voices in her mind too loud. When she's not writing, she loves a good ride on the fantasy dragon, but a book can also be exciting, along with a cup of tea. Nowadays, you can find her in Athens, exploring the mysteries of the ancient world. A CODA OF CONTROLby Amir Lane Copyright © 2024 by Amir Lane All rights reserved. Patience. Controle. Jean-Étienne was under strict orders to keep his kills clean. This was not clean. It wasn’t the prey he wanted, either. Not that they always killed. They didn’t always have to kill, not every time. But Jean-Étienne liked the hunt. They were all, the members of Bloody Morningstar, hunters in their own ways. Predators. Monsters. At least, Jean-Étienne was. Brys liked to watch and wait, sniper habits ingrained into him. Elyes like to catch them from behind, still an ambush predator pirate. Tetsuro refused to be a coward and wanted his prey to see their killer. Jean-Étienne liked his prey to feel hunted. He liked them to know he was coming for them. It wasn’t always his fault. Not really. Not when they came to him, sitting too close or even touching him. Nobody could blame the way he was dressed tonight. Sure, his jeans fit well and the long-sleeve Kathedral shirt was cut a little low, but he wasn’t dressing for attention. Even his makeup was subtle. It was just enough to hide the scars. His hair was tied up into a loose bun. Even his earrings were small, simple gold hoops. He didn’t want attention tonight. He just wanted to sit at the back of the bar and listen to the deathcore band with a drink and a book. He had just started Les Désastreuses aventures des orphelins Baudelaire 3: Ouragan sur le lac. They might have been books for children, but it had taken him a very long time to be able to read at this level without sounding the words out loud. Reading was much more difficult than writing. Regardless of how behind he felt, especially compared to his more academically gifted bandmates, he was quite proud of himself, thank you very much. Jean-Étienne set the half-empty glass of Diet Coke back down on the coaster and flipped the page as the woman pulled a chair up to sit beside him at the small, round table. There was more than enough space elsewhere in the bar. The woman was too close, and staring in a way that made Jean-Étienne stiffen. It was an uncomfortably familiar look. Beneath the reek of alcohol and cigarettes was the smell of rotting fruit and old iron. Diabetic, maybe something else. Jean-Étienne ignored it, and her attempts to get him to talk, though his lips twitched in annoyance at her poor attempts at reading French on the cover of his book. She kept moving closer to him. She leaned in close against his side, one hand on his upper thigh to support herself, and yelled something into his ear. Her voice was muffled by the earplug and the sudden rush of blood in his ear. Jean-Étienne stiffened. His breath hitched, and his mouth went dry. He shoved her hand away and shifted his chair, inadvertently cornering himself against the wall. It reminded him too much of his days as a young dancer, with much older wealthy potential patrons pawing at him or treating him like show livestock. His eyes scanned the bar for Sean, who looked like vocalist of Emperor Immortal had become a bartender instead of a musician, but the man was occupied by the influx of metal heads coming in from another show. He stayed rigid, his heart racing as the drunk woman pawed at him, until the crowd thinned and Sean finally came over to suggest she give him some space. “We’re just talking,” the woman slurred. “Why don’t you come talk to me instead,” Sean said. “What’s this scar, huh? Under all this makeup.” “Come on, give the guy some space.” Sean’s firm tone might not have been enough to make her leave him alone, but the distraction was enough to give Jean-Étienne a chance to slip away. The brick wall was cold against Jean-Étienne’s back. He breathed heavily through his nose, grinding his teeth together. His nails scraped against the brick as he struggled to control himself. The freeze and flight instincts had passed. The feeling of being sixteen or seventeen and being treated like a meat lamb had passed. In its place was cold anger at being made to feel that way again. Frustrated tears stung the corners of his eyes. By the time the scent of fruit and iron passed beneath his nostrils again, the frightened teenager was long gone. The rational human was gone. All that was left was the predator. He followed behind her, sticking close to the shadows along the walls. It wasn’t difficult to stay just at the edge of her senses with how drunk she was. He could have been a foot behind her and she likely wouldn’t have noticed. Every now and then, she looked back over her shoulder, searching for something her dull eyes couldn’t find, and tried to walk faster. It only strengthened the predatory instinct. Her blood tasted awful. There was far too much sugar and not enough oxygen, with a greasy texture. He could have left her unconscious on the sidewalk with the deep tear in her arm. Even her blood had more than enough nutrients to satiate and sustain them. He didn’t have to kill her. He did it anyway. It wasn’t clean. He’d torn through far more than he needed to, her arm and throat and most of her face. He smashed her teeth in with the heel of his sneaker. If anybody asked, he might say it was because it would make identifying her more difficult. The truth was he’d done it because he hated her. He hated her for making him feel the way she had. But now, she was the one who was dead, and he was the one who was free to do whatever he wanted. It wasn’t until he’d returned home and washed the blood from his skin that he realized he’d left his book at the bar. ### Patience. Controle. They were the two things Jean-Étienne should have been best at. His body moved in time with the distorted guitars and rapid drumming coming through his earbuds. He didn’t understand a word of the angry Japanese shouting, but he didn’t have to. Even if Tetsuro hadn’t briefly explained that the woman was trash-talking her ex for constantly being thoughtless, he could understand the emotion behind it. He kept his movements sharp and jerky, almost overly precise. It was interesting to catch the familiar drum fills. There were a handful that Tetsuro always used no matter who he was drumming for, even with bands other than Bloody Morningstar. Japanese rhythms always bled into his playing. Unlike Tetsuro, Jean-Étienne didn’t play in any other bands. He had played in symphonies for a while, but he’d quit that when he hadn’t been able to shake a composer who constantly wanted Jean-Étienne to be his only soloist. It seemed the curse his mother placed on his blood was still in effect nearly two hundred years later. The reason he liked playing with Bloody Morningstar was that they let him cover his face. He didn’t dance in public anymore either. Three hours of practice should have left him feeling strained and exhausted. He should have at least been sweating. Other than a slight hitch to his breath and strain in his calf, he was fine. The alarm on Jean-Étienne’s phone interrupted the music. His evening class would be starting in 15 minutes. He sat on the floor with a sigh to stretch. Pain shot through his foot as he touched his right toes with his left fingers. When he peeled his slipper off, he found his second toe bent at an odd angle. Heat radiated from the joint. The nail was black from broken vessels in the skin beneath. “Putain,” he muttered under his breath. He finished his stretches before rising back to his feet, careful to keep his weight off the broken toe. His basic first aid kit was at the bottom of his gym bag in the back corner of the room. Pain flared through his foot again as he straightened the broken bone, then used medical tape to splint his first two toes together. The tape made his slipper feel a little tight, but not unbearable. His last feeding had been several days ago. It should have been enough to make him heal quickly, but unfortunately, his metabolism disagreed. The sound of familiar footsteps reached Jean-Étienne’s ears. It was followed by the equally familiar breathing and heartbeat, and an aftershave that must have been new. By the time Connor knocked on the open door, Jean-Étienne was back on his feet. Conner was almost always the first one here. He dropped his gym bag onto the shelf beside Jean-Étienne’s. Down the hall, Jean-Étienne heard the chatter of girl’s voices, including Madeline’s. They were standing about halfway down the hall, clearly taking their time catching up on the week while migrating to class. “Look at this bracelet he got me,” Madeline’s voice said. Jean-Étienne’s shoulders tightened and he clenched his jaw tight against the pressure in his gums. Patience. Controle. Jean-Étienne hated that part of him wished Tetsuro wasn’t touring Asia with a Japanese pop-rock star, or that Brys wasn’t back home in Wales, or that Elyes wasn’t on a boat in the middle of God knew where. He hated how much easier it was to be in control when they were around. He should have been able to handle himself without their help. He waited with patience and control for the evening class to filter into the studio as the clock ticked closer to 7. His reflection in the back mirror reminded him of an older woman, but he couldn’t quite bring her face to his mind. He’d forgotten what his mother looked like a long time ago, though he had to imagine that parts of her still lived in his face beneath the makeup that hid his scars. At the very least, she still lived in his posture. Jean-Étienne smiled at the group. There were seven girls and three boys, all between the ages of fifteen and nineteen. They all looked so young to him, even though he didn’t look that much older himself. He clapped his hands together to get their attention. The chatter and laughter ended, and they all turned their eyes to him. He pretended not to notice the bracelet on Madeline’s wrist or the way the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end at the deep scent clinging between the metal joints. He knew expensive jewelry when he saw it. “Bonjour, classe,” he said. “Bonjour, Mx Marin,” they said out of unison. “Did you all have a good day? Good. Then let us get started.” ### Patience. Controle. Jean-Étienne did not have Brys’ ability to wait and watch for days. None of them did. His human training as a sniper had clearly carried over to his new life. Jean-Étienne was too restless for that. Tetsuro was going to kill him for using his good knife for cutting meat again, but Tetsuro wasn’t here. The cats sat at Jean-Étienne’s feet, waiting patiently for him to bend at the waist with gristle from the chicken thighs. Every time he did, pain shot through his foot. It was up to his ankle now, and stronger than the pain in his stomach. He gave the cutting board — which he was also not supposed to use for meat — a wry smile that came out as more of a grimace. At least he was dealing with one of those pains. Weighing and portioning the package of chicken into bags was a quick process. The slight excess was split between the cats, which was likely the only reason they stuck to his side when Tetsuro wasn’t home. He stuck the edge of the bag in the vacuum sealer. Whirring filled the apartment. Sushi let out a distraught sound and ran to hide under the couch, while Sashimi hissed at the machine. Jean-Étienne used the knife for its intended purpose to chop a few bell peppers into small pieces while the rectangular cast iron pan heated. He might not have been as quick or precise as Tetsuro with a knife, but it was good enough. He thought it was good enough, just like how Tetsuro thought measuring with his eyes was good enough. There was a very good reason they never cooked together, and it was not just because Tetsuro was vegetarian. A tablespoon of oil sizzled from heat. Jean-Étienne used the back of the knife to scrape the diced peppers into the pan. Just because he didn’t care about not using the tools for meat didn’t mean he wanted to ruin them completely. “Of course, it will be harder for him to stab me again if I make his knife dull,” Jean-Étienne told the cats in French. Sashimi’s meow was either agreement or a demand for more chicken. The vacuum sealer had finished, but Sushi was still hiding. Once the peppers were the way he wanted them, he scooped them onto the plate and returned the pan to the heat. Jean-Étienne had made these so many times, he didn’t have to think about it. Four eggs, soy sauce, mirin. He left out the sugar. The process of adding eggs, letting them cook, and rolling them was oddly grounding. He wouldn’t say he liked the Japanese style more than the French way. Obviously the French way was much better, but this was what Tetsuro had him do when he was starting to lose control, and it had become a habit. He wasn’t losing control now. Not yet. Jean-Étienne slid the rolled up eggs onto the plate with the vegetables, then set the croissant thawing on the counter in the pan with a touch of water, and put a lid on top to let it steam while he grabbed the bag of chicken from the vacuum sealer. Pain ran through his foot and ankle on each step. Even though there was plenty of space on the top shelf that was supposed to be his, Jean-Étienne set the bag on the bottom shelf. It was small and petty, but Tetsuro was the one always encroaching on his fridge and freezer space. He arranged the plate of food in the most photogenic way possible, rotating it a few times until he got the lighting he wanted, and snapped a shot. He typed out a quick caption with a small heart at the end before posting the picture. While Jean-Étienne was a fairly active poster, he wasn’t much for actually using social media. Tetsuro was the one who had to comment on every post he saw. Jean-Étienne scrolled through mindlessly as he ate. There were thousands of people following him, though he only followed a couple hundred. Someone had left a lovely comment on one of his quick makeup tutorials. He wasn’t sure how to respond to it, so he just hit the little heart. Most of the posts in his feed were dancers and musicians sharing their most recent performances. Tetsuro had shared some pictures of himself with fans and musicians from his tour with a Japanese pop-rock star. In all of them, he had at least one hand up in a peace sign, flashy makeup around his eyes, and glitter on his cheekbones. It was almost more like ballet stage makeup than his Bloody Morningstar makeup. His eyes were dark from contact lenses. Brys Darcy 22:17 glitter is a good look 4 u tets 1 Attachment im sure jeanetienne would lend u some The attachment was a screenshot from the Japanese pop-rock girl’s Instagram. Both she and Tetsuro were both covered in sparkles. 斎藤 徹朗 22:31 I’m pretty sure Jean-Étienne would rip my arm off if I tried it Brys Darcy 22:32 isnt it like 11am why r u awake 斎藤 徹朗 22:34 I am on pop star time Sushi crawled from his hiding spot and climbed onto Jean-Étienne’s lap. Jean-Étienne fed him bits of egg. He could only bring himself to eat half the meal. After jotting what he’d eaten down in a notebook Elyes had brought him from a trip home, complete with approximate calories and macronutrients, he packaged the leftovers into a container and stuck it on a shelf on the fridge. Unlike the cats, he wasn’t hungry for regular food. By now, it didn’t take him long to put his face on. Primer and foundation to even out his skin, concealer to cover the scars. Some needed darker or even green concealers. Most of the time, he would add eyeshadow or lipstick to draw attention away from the deformities. Tonight, he didn’t. He didn’t want to be memorable tonight. When he checked his reflection in a compact mirror, he looked more like himself than he liked. Jean-Étienne slammed the mirror shut before he could spend any more time looking at it. The apartment was enough of a mess as it was. If he had another meltdown so soon after the last, he would never get the place fixed. And Tetsuro would never leave him alone again. In all honesty, it was a bit surprising that Tetsuro hadn’t asked Brys to babysit while he was touring Asia. He doubted Brys would say no no matter what he’d been doing. Even Elyes would cheerfully agree to keep a very close eye on him. It was frustrating to Jean-Étienne sometimes, how often he had to eat in both senses of the term. He was an athlete, even if not everybody recognized ballet dancers as such. The amount of calories he needed to sustain himself was almost sickening. And then there was the blood. He was older than Brys and about the same age as Tetsuro, but spending the early years of his new life feeding on rats meant he needed to feed more often to keep from going feral, as his band mates liked to put it. That one was more of a nuisance than anything. Gone were the days when they could pick off whoever they wanted without worrying so much about being caught. Now, with cameras everywhere, he had to be more careful. Patience. Controle. He could handle it. ### His prey’s scent had clung to Madeline enough to become familiar to him, and she’d spoken enough about him that it wasn’t difficult to find where he liked to spend his evenings. Still, it had taken Jean-Étienne weeks to piece together the full timeline on foot. The man always went to the gym after leaving the law office he worked in. He always left smelling fresh and clean, though his hair would be dry by the time he reached a very expensive-looking home to have dinner with whom Jean-Étienne assumed was his wife and a daughter no older than Madeline. He would leave again not long after with his gym bag and a promise to be home in a few hours. After that was where it became difficult. He had a handful of places he liked to frequent, and a handful of women of varying ages, but there didn’t seem to be any set pattern. At least, not one that the intelligent part of Jean-Étienne’s brain could piece together. It was easier to track Madeline. A faint breeze rustled Jean-Étienne’s hair, tied back into a ponytail. His head was tilted toward Madeline’s house at the other end of the street. He listened carefully until a window creaked open, and he caught the scent of a perfume that was likely meant to smell expensive but only made Jean-Étienne think of artificially sweetened syrup. Jean-Étienne followed from a good distance, far enough back that he was sure Madeline’s glances over her shoulder were out of habit than any real instinct that she was being followed. He had to fight down the urge to rush ahead. He counted the beats of his footsteps in his head, like he was playing a part in a ballet. This was just another role he was playing. Dancer, musician, roommate. Hunter. The tree line gave both Jean-Étienne and Madeline plenty of cover. This trail wasn’t one she should have been going down so late at night. Farther down the trail and slightly off the path was the scent of a crackling campfire and the whispers of people who were clearly trying not to draw attention to themselves. At least he’d still be able to get a meal at this hour if things with Madeline’s date didn’t pan out. Jean-Étienne crouched low to the ground, resting all his weight on his heels. After several minutes, his thighs should have begun to ache but all he felt was boredom. Every now and then, he had to stop himself from getting up and walking away. He was here for a reason. He really could have used Brys’ patience right now. He wished he had his phone, but he’d left it on the kitchen counter so it wouldn’t be tracked. In and out. In and out. It wasn’t his body that bothered him. The worst was the pain shooting through his broken toe, but that was easy enough to ignore as long as he focused on anything else. Even if it hadn’t always been easy to step out of his own body, his muscles were so much stronger now than they’d been when he was all but starving in the streets. There was something uncomfortably familiar about this feeling. It was like he was waiting for a concertmaster or a ballet master to release him. He wanted to spring up from his position in protest. Nobody controlled him anymore. Nobody-- Jean-Étienne inhaled sharply and caught the scent that had been clinging faintly to Madeline for far too long. He ground his teeth together and sank his heels deeper into the dirt. He couldn’t lose control. Not yet. If he wanted to prove that he didn’t need to be babysat, he couldn’t lose control. Even Tetsuro would have been proud of Jean-Étienne’s self-control when he didn’t immediately rip the man’s face off when he arrived, or when he and Madeline embraced. His skin felt hot despite the cool breeze wafting the scent of perfume over him, and his heart sped up just slightly. Sharp claws dug into the tough skin of his palm. The steady in and out of his breathing sped up until he was nearly hyperventilating. He was in control. He was in control. He was in control. At least, until a large hand slid up Madeline’s skirt. Jean-Étienne tasted blood the same way he tasted the tub of black cherry ice cream he’d binged a few days after Tetsuro’s departure. It was less that he actually tasted it, and more that he was aware of it filling his mouth and stomach. Bits of flesh and fabric stuck beneath his claws as he tore through far more than was necessary. The tip of a claw caught the solid bone beneath an eye socket. His fingers curled around the windpipe and tore it out. He swallowed down mouthfuls of hot blood. It was so much more satisfying than ice cream. And his toe didn’t hurt anymore. The ringing in his ears wasn’t just ringing. Jean-Étienne wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It didn’t do much to clean himself. He usually took pride in being more civilized than this. At least with the ice cream, nobody had been around to see him eating like an animal. He licked his lips and swallowed before lifting his head. Madeline stopped screaming. She took a few steps backward, but stopped. Her hands fell from her face, and she stared down at him with wide eyes. “Mx Marin?” This was not clean. Tetsuro was going to kill him. The End About Amir Lane
Amir Lane writes supernatural and fantasy with LGBT+ characters. From the frigid and mysterious land of Northern Canada, Amir is obsessed with loud music and black magic. They spend most of their writing time in a small home office or doing the circuit of local coffee shops. They live in a world where magic is an every day occurrence, and they strive to bring that world to paper. When not figuring out what kind of day job an incubus would have or what a necromancer would go to school for, Amir enjoys visiting the nearest Dairy Queen, getting killed in video games, and watching cat videos. Halloween is a month away, so what better time to start our Halloween Event - Simply Spooky. For the next month we will have stories from multiple authors that fit our theme. I will be adding a short story of my own from my upcoming horror story collection - Chills & Thrills Vol 2. Available for preorder now.
Our posts will increase to three posts per week until the end of October. So settle back and prepare to be scared! Happy Almost Halloween! They Call it Dream-Tyme By Wendy Cheairs Ash tapped his fingers over the old desk, rapping to each tick of the clock, waiting for the bell to ring. It was nearly time for lunch, and he had skipped breakfast again. Escaping his house before anyone else woke was important. Any moment spent with his family members lasted a small eternity, and right now, he didn't have the time or energy for whatever drama continued from them. The teacher continued to ramble about the town's local history, like any town on the coast of Maine had any different history. They were fishers, crabbers, sailors, or, if fiction was to be believed, far more exciting thanks to Stephen King. Sadly, nothing happened here in Harper's Bay. The room of empty nods as Mrs. Jennings rambled on about history no one cared about. Ash pitied his fellow students. It was Friday, time to escape and enjoy the weekend, but each class took longer, draining the lives of the teens who had no interest. The bell finally rang, a student leaving since most, like Ash, had packed up well before the lecture finished as Mrs. Jennings told them to have a safe weekend. He shuffled and jumped the line of students to wrangle himself to the front for food and snacks to load up on protein and carbs before finding his friend Lynn. He made his way from the lines to outside, rain or shine. Lynn would stay out whenever she could, enjoying what she called nature. The school had a few spots of trees and old benches dedicated to students of the past who did something or died. He found her reading yet another dusty book from the 1950s, some of the science fiction pulp she read by the boatloads. Even her clothing seemed closer to the '50s than modern with her black and white Rockabilly dress. He found her vibe interesting since she never changed what she wore for fashion, ignoring the other girls trying to be modern and hip. He sat, handing her one of the pre-packaged sandwiches before unwrapping his to eat in a few bites. "Remember to breathe, Ashley," Lynn stated. Her white cloth napkin had come from her house, placed delicately on her lap as she took small, lady-like bites of the sandwich. Her lady of the manor manners were ingrained since her family was considered old money even if they hadn't been wealthy for years. They still owned the largest house in the bay, overlooking the ocean, and managed to keep hold of it. Her mother pretended they were still high upper class, teaching manners and rules to her two children. Her eldest son had already graduated and run straight for the Navy as soon as possible and rarely returned, while Lynn seemed to manage the balance of class, high school, and the realities of life. She kept her part-time job secret from her mother and father. "Really?" Ash commented, hating his name, but he let her get away with it more than others outside of his family. "I know, I just have a lot of my mind." She took a long pause before looking straight at Ash. "Are you ready for tonight?" "I am still impressed you could get ahold of some Dream-Tyme." "One of the perks of being who I am, besides if it works, is that we will be able to test the whole lucid dreaming to its true extent. I want to go somewhere, anywhere other than here." She dabbed the corner of her mouth, avoiding ruining any of her scarlet lipstick as Ash finished the last bit of his sandwich. "Hell yeah, ever since they got on, the whole pot is bad for everyone since all the adults want it for themselves. It sucks. This shit is supposed to be serious, best buzz out there." "Language darling, you know how I feel about everyone using swearing when there are ubiquitous phrases that can be used. But I agree with the sentiment. My father took my stash for his medical use and now won't let me get any for personal use. Thankfully, my mother is still just using good old-fashioned liquor. She will be out by nine." "You sure your place is the best? I mean, I live in a spooky old manor, vibe is totally on par, but wouldn't it influence the dreaming?" "I don't think so, but besides, who would look for us there? Your parents would think we are off having sex or something silly. My parents barely will notice if we are in the east wing, given no one uses it." "You have a point; I'll be at the creepy tower by ten." "But of course." Ash's parents believed he was heading out to spend the night with his friend Henri, never thinking he would sneak out to do drugs with his female friend. They did not wholly believe that it was platonic. He didn't care since he did want a girlfriend like most guys, but Lynn never felt like one for him. Probably because they had known each other since Kindergarten. He knew his way up to the Smith manor, avoiding the few security lights that still worked along with the cranky butler that stalked the main house looking for trouble. The east wing has been shut off from the main house after one of the massive storms tore through the roof and upper rooms, leaving a shamble of rumble behind that had just been cornered off and politely ignored by all. He jumped over the small rose garden wall into the back door that once was used for servants before he bothered with his flashlight. Taking the broken staircase two steps at a time, he could avoid the often flooded first floor and move onto the second floor, which they had made into a playground. Lynn kept many personal items her parents found inappropriate for a girl, and he kept some questionable legal issues borrowed from others here to pawn off before he left this town at eighteen. Still, they had another two years to wait until that freedom hit. Until then, they had to entertain themselves. Lynn was already curled up on the old couch in a long gown, once meant as a nightgown in pale ivory that now was demure enough to be worn in public. Her long hair was brushed out from the updo she wore daily, and she was back to reading another novel while waiting. After short greetings, he changed into comfortable flannel pants and a tee shirt since sleep would happen shortly after they took Dream-Tyme. They each took a couch across from one another before eating the odd mushroom-shaped treat. It has been made into chocolate edible from the local dealer to hide it from the police cracking down on all new drugs. Both took their piece, devouring it before getting comfortable. Ash nestled into the pillow, wrapping the blanket over him to avoid the cold that crawled into places each evening, incredibly close to the water. The sound of the waves came in and out before he drifted off to sleep, shortly before Lynn dropped into a slumber nearby. Ash woke, still sitting on the couch wrapped in the blanket, soaking wet from the storm directly above him. The entire third and fourth floors were gone, and a storm cackled above him, churning out sweeps of rain and icy pricks. Jerking off the couch, he sloshed across the long room to get to Lynn, who was still sleeping, unmoving in the storm's rage. He shook her twice before picking her up in a fireman's carry. Water began to flood into the room from windows and the stairs, above and below. The wind laughed at him as he pushed against the water current, trying to drive him down the halls into the maw. There was a maw, a giant open mouth of teeth and tentacles just waiting for him at the end of the hallway, calling his name, singing his sins, all with the water pushing him towards it. He had to fight upward against the current of the water since Lynn couldn't help, and if he failed, they would both go tumbling down the path. Grabbing onto every handhold, foothold, and anything to push towards the weaving stairway, he would find a way out. The flood, the rain, the thing waiting to eat them. He had to get away. It was there, staring at him. It knew it knew. Jerking off the couch again, he was dry, the blanket dry, the room not swimming in the water, the ceiling where it should be. It was a dream. It worked. "Lynn, it worked. That was," he paused, looking for her sleeping form on the other plaid couch only to see the remains of a blanket that appeared torn and bloody. "Lynn?" he called out, taking careful steps to where she should be. Each step creaked against the wood floor, aching a noise of age, whispering lies about what he saw. He couldn't be seeing blood and rags. She was right there, wasn't she? "Lynn, what the hell?" He touched the edge of the blanket made of rags as it fell apart into dust and drops of fresh blood. Each drop hit the floor with a bang, a blast, an explosion of sound and fury. Clutching his head at the noise, he screamed for it to stop, anything to stop. "Do you have a kitten?" A whispering voice purred into his ear, sharp teeth biting his knuckle. The explosions had stopped, and only the whisper remained. "I need a kitten." Ash glanced up to see what was next to him, believing it could be Lynn, but the lie he told himself fell apart with a crash of something, a creature sitting on his hand chewing over his knuckles. Its bright yellow eyes gleamed in the candlelit darkness. Tiny tentacles held his hand to the ground as it ate through his hand. He should panic, he should scream, he had to stop this thing from eating him. He jerked his hand from the lightweight stuff. It skittered across the floor, laughing chuff from its teeth. It jumped onto the couch end, its blood mouth grinning wider than its tentacles-covered face and fur. "Feed me!" it screamed, it roared, deafening Ash. His hand began to bleed in the river of gore, and pieces of bones and cartilage began to float away. The river took his hand and wrist and began up his arm, all while the furry tentacles of a tiny monster screamed to feed its kittens. Ash ran, holding the remains of his arm as the laughing wind followed him into the next room. Slamming the door, he pulled off his tee shirt to wrap the remains of his arm to stop the bleeding from finding his hand, wrist, and arm back where they belonged, with a small rat-sized bite mark over the knuckles. Glancing around the room, the old bathroom on the floor had been renovated sometime in the 1920s and never bothered with again. The gilded mirror had silvered with age, but he could scrap enough away to look at himself. His dark blonde hair was soaking wet, dripping icy water into his pale skin and dark eyes. He looked like he had not shaved in days, growing a bit of dark stubbled that looked far darker, thicker than he had managed in the past few years. His tee shirt off was covered in blood from his hand bite marks. Over his chest, there were other marks, such as teeth marks of various sizes, claws, bruising, and just a crossroad of lines up and down. He barely could feel his body, and it felt used and abused, but in a haze of nothing, he didn't understand it anymore. It responded when he made his hand go up and down. The disjointedness brought him to look closer at his face. The stubble growing almost fast enough for him to see. It wiggled out of his skin, more worm-like than hair-like. He flipped the light switch on. The tiny worms were growing right out of his face. Everywhere his facial hair managed, they were crawling out of his face. No hair, just little, dangerous worms. Headless, bleeding where he had shaved that morning, cutting off the heads, leaving only the bodies to wiggle their way out of his face, ripping through the pores that kept them inside of him. They had waited to escape. With a yell, he dug through the cabinet nearby to find an old straight razor, rusted with age and water damage, before he started to cut through the inches of decapitated worms growing from his face. Dragging the blade over his skin, ripping through layers of flesh, pulling and destroying the bits of worms he could reach with each pass. Each layer of skin takes pieces of the wiggling masses with them. Each swipe dragged more, and more of them fell to the floor in soundless screams, for their heads were never coming back. His bloody face meets with the mirror; the layer has gone, but worms in pieces are scattered around him. He could smile. Finally, they were dead. He had killed them. Taking the blade, he folded it to put it into the flannel bottoms, still dripping with blood and water, before returning to the room. He was hunting now, the creature that was eating him, he could get now. Destroy. "Come here, little monster," he sang out; the room had taken on a red-hued glow from a fire he had forgotten or had he. He no longer cared. It was there and lit up the place that was looking better. The wallpaper hung in dark green vine patterns with flowers of long-dead ancestry that no one had seen in centuries. The furniture had turned from old, rotten, forgotten pieces into something that could be used. A couch in high back fashion with long tassels in shades of gold and brown, the wooden chairs appeared to gleam in the blood-soaked light, and he covered the ground to the center of the room. Blood dripped from his face; the rusty blade seemed to pull in the blood, adding a fresh layer of rust. Nothing came for him right away, but he kept crooning for the monsters to emerge, for the things he was waiting for, forgetting this was not real and nothing was there for him to hunt. The noise in the hallway took his attention from the shifting room. Vines opened the door before receding into the wallpaper they had blossomed from. Echoes of whispers, the conversation of the house curled past, meaning nothing, everything. He stalked out the door, hearing it close softly behind him, with the lap of ocean-tinted water dripping from the lights flickering between red and green, a Christmas flavor lost in an echo. He saw the odd small creature that had dared attempt to each his hand, eating what appeared to be the remnants of a little cat, a kitten, before Ash grabbed its head. The squeal rolled past. He crushed it with one hand, adding the blood to the water-soaked wood below him, taking a bit of the remains that tasted raw, unfinished before spitting it out. Dropping the creature, he was still unsatisfied, displeased with the answer he had been given. Kneeling in the water, he returned to shaving the worms digging out from his face. Scrapping across his cheeks, destroying the newcomers that dared to roam over his face, digging out from his skin, purging their new little headless bodies with his razor, his fingers digging where he couldn't reach. The fish in the water began to eat the bits of flesh and worms, and they followed him at dizzying speeds. He left the hallways of water and tears down the forgotten stairwell of the servants. Pictures of those who came before flickered over the picture frames, old, new, yellowed, aged, dead, and alive, with only a few static spots in the chassis. They who came before, those who would follow, left footprints over the stairs, his adding through blood and water. His footsteps were light over the new wood stairwell. The fish swam around his head, picking pieces off his face before he made it to the landing. He was in the front entranceway of the main house, forgetting the steps he should have taken to arrive, but arrived from an impossible angle as all angles could be once. They were imagined. The main entrance bloomed in candlelight over the luxurious white marble, fountains of champagne with miniature party-goers swimming through the waves of sparkling bubbles. He sauntered past, leaving his fish within the basin to enjoy eating the little party-goers as he entered the master ballroom to join the party. It was in full swing. The live brass band has joined the punk rock group in the balcony area, mixing and matching their musical styles for the people below. The people were all dressed in their finest, from the vibrant blue robes to the tuxedoes that had become men's regular formal wear. His outfit was mixed with his viewpoint: long black slacks, a bright green dress shirt, and a jacket. There are no ties or buttons, just a beanie covering his wet hair. He took one of the many glasses offered, seeking one that matched his shirt and mood—only shifting away from the dancers doing some waltz past him. He came directly before Lynn, who he remembered he was looking for. Her gown kept him grounded in that it was her in the 1950s fashion, still in her black and white, with a new hat in bright red with a little veil covering part of her pale face. "Where have you been?" he bothered to ask. "Lost, what happened to your face? Where did it go?" He touched the raw pieces of his jaw, feeling the muscle and bone. Nearly all of the skin from his face had been carved off with his small blade. His dance touched his face, looking for pieces of flesh to find his forehead still attached, but nearly everything else had been carved off. Even the remains again moved with the worms trying to dig out of him. He attempted to smile at her, feeling the pull of the muscle burning with pain. "I had to get out the worms. I had to kill them all," he replied, leaning closer to her face, looking for any movement of worms within her. He would kill them all there. He would get them all. She struck him with such force that he fell to the ground and landed in a pool of water outside the house. The rain attacked his raw skin before jumping up to get back in. She had kicked him out and removed him from the party. How dare she. He screamed at the door, pounded it, and tugged against the might of the gate with nothing changing. He was locked out, left alone outside. Outside with the shadows changing, shifting, waiting. He was no longer alone. He could see body shapes in the greenery, the shrubbery taking on a life of their mismatched forms. Things that went bump in the night crawled past him. Even the shells took on eyes to watch him, the gift they had been given. Something fresh. Something news. Screaming, he woke on the couch he had passed out on. The stuffy room had taken on water. It had dripped over his face as Lynn shook him until the screaming stopped. He was awake. He was home; it was a dream and a nightmare. Blinking rapidly as his heart pounded, he saw panic on her face with a cell phone asking what was wrong. "He is awake. Send help. Please," she yelled into the line, keeping her phone on. Ripping away parts of her once white gown, holding pieces along his jawline, he could see everything turning red, red from where he had been cutting his fingernails over his face, over and over. "What did I do?" he choked out, his lips spitting blood from the ruins of his face. "Don't worry, don't worry. It was just Dream-Tyme, it wasn't you." Her gown turned blood from her attempt to keep him with her. He was losing blood at such a pace she had to keep him with her until they arrived. His heart paused, jumping, and paused. She poured the rest of the Dream-Tyme down him; he might not live here but could remain there. She had little choice: he died forever, or a piece of him live within the Dreamland. She could visit. She could help him survive and learn the world. She would make him a new branch, one like home but better. He took a long gasp before nothing. His mind left, and he returned to Dreamland, where he would be with her forever. Laying his body in the water, she hung up the phone recording that would make him believe her when she explained what happened. She left the old room, closing the wing off, giving him the space to learn and explore the new world he would live in. The house would take his body—a new friend for the Dream-Tyme. About the Author
Wendy Cheairs lives with her husband and tailless cats, who all think they run the house. Now that she is writing full-time, her fiction runs the gamut of horror, fantasy, urban fantasy, and romance to whatever comes to mind in her over-caffeinated brain. Raised in the southwestern part of America, she hides from the desert sun in the writing cave, avoiding setting ablaze as a redhead. She also writes under W.M. Dawson and Sage Knight. Learn More about Wendy Cheairs - Here are a few more recommendations for vampire reads to keep you entertained. They are all available through Amazon and other book retailers.
Next week is the start of our Halloween Event! See you there. 1) Tell us about your book Illusion at Midnight is about a vampire named Andre who is constantly searching for his lost love Victoria each time she is reincarnated. In each life, he has to remind her who she is, which is his former wife from centuries ago. Each time, he can’t bring himself to turning her into a vampire or she refuses. Well this time, it’s now or never. Victoria, now known as Lily in this modern day, is a witch and expected Andre’s arrival. What she doesn’t know is this is the last life and she will not be reincarnated again, fully moving on to the beyond. Andre begins courting her, and starts to run out of time when a devastating hurricane comes to their small town, forcing him and Lily to make the decision of becoming immortal to stay together forever, or letting her die and move on. 2) Do your vampires have any special abilities? Other than the fact he’s immortal, not really. Although he’s become very savvy at money and investments over the centuries, and won’t glitter-bomb or die in the sun. 3) Vampires vs werewolves – who would win and why? Vampires. Totally. Werewolves to a point have many weaknesses depending on lore. You can do the whole silver bullet route, killing them as a human, yada yada. I think it’s much easier for a vampire because they can sort of hide in plain sight among humans more easily than a werewolf can. 4) Who is your favorite vampire on TV or in books? MAAM. Asking me that question, lol. It’s Spike from Buffy and always will be. that man will forever hold my heart since watching him as a child and getting me into the world of vampires. 5) Tell us what is next for you as an author Well, it’s a lot. I’m currently writing a PNR romcom deal about a Revolutionary War solider who becomes human again after being a ghost for centuries and needs to navigate life. But I have also 3 other anthologies due this year dealing with a sex-crazed gifted LGBTQ+ witch with healing powers through sexual favors, the sequel to Music of Seduction with Darius and Harmony, and my first spicy western Christmas romance dealing with a German shepherd rodeo man and a badass woman who has total Beth Dutton vibes. Ashley Brion’s ancestors hail from France and England and she has earned 3 degrees (BA, MA, and MFA) in English and Creative Writing. She is a cosplayer, college professor, actress, American Civil War reenactor, and gamer in her free time. She enjoys spending time with her firefighter husband and her pets. She is a proud autistic LGBTQA+ and POC advocate. Ashley’s favorite things are Batman, Lethal Weapon movies, Disney, and having a glass of wine or sake at nights.
1) Tell us about your book
This is the first book in an upcoming series. The main character, Roni, is a half vampire who goes looking for a vampire who tortured her. She wants revenge for what he did. She finds him at a supernatural academy that takes in vampires and necromancers. It does not go as she expected... 2) Do your vampires have any special abilities? She is actually weaker than other vampires because she is only a half vampire, but she can walk in the sun while they cannot. She does age, but very slowly. 3) Vampires vs werewolves – who would win and why? I am a huge fan of werewolves, I write about them all the time, but it probably depends on what kind of abilities the vampires have. So I'd have to say it depends on the circumstances. 4) Who is your favorite vampire on TV or in books? I love Damon Salvatore, even if he is evil most of the time! 5) Tell us what is next for you as an author I have been working on completing a series and after that I will be starting something new. My new series will have a fox shifter and a witch with unusual powers. STUFF YOUR E-READER DAY - SEPT 5th!
https://www.romancebookworms.com It's here! Over 1000 FREE books available now for one day only. Get over to the site and grab yourself some great books. My own book - Nowhere Left To Run - is FREE too! To save some time, here is a direct link for my book. https://books2read.com/u/mlzZEZ |
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About the Author:S. K. Gregory is an author, editor and blogger. She currently resides in Northern Ireland. “Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.” Archives
September 2024
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