 Believing by Lorah Jaiyn Copyright © 2024 Lorah Jaiyn All Rights Reserved My upper arms burned from the death grip of Mina’s fingers pinching my skin as we clung to each other and tried not to scream. We barely dared to breathe. I could taste blood from where I bit my tongue when that… thing… first swiped at the tent. The top of the tent, not the side. Straight down on top. If I wasn’t so terrified, I could laugh at the situation. A tent. The only thing that protected us. A flimsy piece of material that provided an extremely weak barrier against whatever was out there. Whether it was the top or side, we were going to die in a tent. I strained my ears to filter out the howl of the wind and the creaks of the trees to listen for any sound that didn’t belong so we would have some warning that it had returned. Not even the normal swamp sounds of mosquitoes, gators and bullfrogs could be detected. The longer I listened to nothing, the worse the fear rose until all I could hear was my own heart beating so hard that I was sure it could be heard twenty miles away. A creature was out there. The one I had seen take Larry. Take? That didn’t quite fit the situation. Eat was a better word to use. My stomach heaved, and I swallowed hard. My eyes squeezed shut and I tried to forget those sounds but they echoed in my mind. The last ones that Larry made. Details I would never outlive. It was my fault. All of it. I had planned to film the episode on Halloween, the scariest day of the year. I was the one that wanted to come a day early, before the camera crew and actors arrived. Just me, Larry, and Mina. I liked working with Larry, but I would have been happier if Mina had come up with the film crew instead of with us. Not my favorite boss. But she had insisted, so afraid she would miss something. I wrote the scripts, Larry did everything set wise, and Mina produced, which basically meant she supervised me and Larry. A reality show that required careful preparation and set up. Scripted reality. The irony was never lost on me. The trudge that brought us to this now-Godforsaken location had been easy. We only carried enough stuff to spend the night. I loved the outdoors and had grown especially fond of this swamp on all of my visits to scout the area and conduct interviews. The still, quiet beauty that blanketed the slime-covered water; the cypress knees rising above the surface of the stagnant pools, just perfect for fairies and trolls to rest on; the majestic trees mirrored against the sky on the surfaces as yet unmarred by algae. The delight of the occasional armadillo as it scurried about. But this story is about the Florida Boar Beast. Here’s a little backstory. With so many shows searching for Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster, Mina started a series that featured local lore; obscure and offbeat local legends handed down generation to generation, those not always searchable, even on Wikipedia. The stories where no one outside the immediate community actually believed the hype, but the tales were fun. I admired her concept, but she was a real beast of her own to work for. Her idea was perfect for the shows that people love and watch, even as Larry hid speakers to make noises and created “natural” signs that a beast lurked. It made for better reality. The Boar Beast legend was simply that he ruled the swamp. The few witnesses who had escaped the beast swore it was half man, half wild boar, with tusks of bone that tore flesh from bone. The beast’s hands came with razor sharp claws to hold its prey, and its snout was tough enough to gore a man and suck his insides out before the victim had time to die. Locals claimed the Boar Beast was more ferocious and had a vicious temperament that far exceeded the actual wild pigs that roamed the entire state. * * * My first witness has been combative. “But Willard, wild boar have hooves, not claws like a cat,” I told the homeless old man who sat outside the local grocery day in and day out, allegedly too afraid to continue living in his house after a run in with the Boar Beast. “I don’t give a damn what you think, lady. I is telling you it had claws like a god damned bear and with one swipe, it took ol’ Hank’s entire neck plumb off his shoulders. It used one of them there claws to skin that sorry bastard, and then it ate Hank’s innards like it was a buffet on Sunday.” I resisted the desire to roll my eyes. “But they never found his body. His wife says he just ran off with the girl from the cable office.” Willard’s eyes had almost glowed with passion as he remembered his friend. “I hightailed it outta there before I was dessert. But you know sumthin? His wife hated that man’s guts almost as much as the Boar Beast loved them. And everyone knows that pigs don’t leave nuthin’ uneaten. How would they find Hank’s body when there ain’t nuthin’ left?” He leaned closer. “You listen to me. You go out in that there swamp and you ain’t comin’ back.” Despite the stories I heard, while Mina had loved the passion of the small town’s story tellers, I had already fallen in love with the swamp that surrounded it. * * * Another gust rattled the tent. Mina whimpered; the tiny cry sounded much louder than it was. I grabbed her head and used my hand as a gag as I squeezed her face. The howl of the wind died down, and the sudden silence roared in my head. Craaack! A branch on a tree or a stick underfoot? It echoed in the tent like a gunshot and the pitch black amplified the sound. It was toying with us. I could feel it. Mina’s throat vibrated as she tried to cry out again. I squeezed harder. I’d strangle her and offer her body in tribute if I had to. Each woman for herself. I waited, but there was just silence. Maybe it was just a tree branch, but I didn’t move or let go of Mina. We didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of living if that...thing...actually wanted us. But that simple piece of material that blocked my view of certain death gave me false hope. I clung to it like a drowning man holds onto a buoy. * * * My second witness was unwilling and not a fan of reality television. Gertrude, the self-appointed town mayor, didn’t want us doing the segment. “It’ll give our little piece of heaven a bad name.” The town consisted of the small grocery where I’d met Willard, a convenience store, a liquor store, and a bar. Even those were run down and trashy looking. A post office and cable office sat on the outskirts of the town’s boundary and both looked more like old shacks. Not exactly a piece of heaven. Maybe Gertrude meant the small airboat outfit run out of a man’s house that took people out into the swamp. That would be heaven, at least to me. I explained. “It’ll probably bring in some tourist revenue when people come out here to search for the Boar Beast themselves.” The talk of money quieted her for a moment, but she was still adamant. “That’s exactly my point.” Gertrude leaned in close. “Do you have any idea what that monster does to people? We’ve lost a good plenty of fine men who tried to hunt it down. My own Leonard was one of those, rest his soul. I don’t know why anyone would want to go out there now and search for it on purpose. Your show would just be encouraging suicide.” “How do you know it got your husband? According to Willard, there’s nothing left behind by wild pigs. How do you know your husband didn’t just run off?” That just pissed her off. “Oh, hush your mouth and don’t be listenin’ to old Willard. Hank’s wife wants to believe he done run off ‘cause she hated her husband. But I loved mine. Leonard was a wonderful family man, bless his heart. He would never have run off with some hussy.” * * * After camp was set up, I’d taken my camera and set off on my own little adventure. I had purposely chosen this segment to be filmed on Halloween eve, just for the spook factor, and while I had a good lay of the area, extra hours exploring would not hurt to be sure to give a good show and to be sure to capture the scariest parts. And while I work for Mina, today was mine. I just needed to hurry before she wanted to join me. I left her by the campfire going over her notes, while Larry donned his hip waders and set out to do his thing. Being a snake enthusiast, he’d been looking to come in close contact with a water moccasin while he scouted the best hiding places for sound effects. I headed in the opposite direction from Larry. I have this thing where I like to be alone and pretend that I’m in my own little world. No stress, no demands, no people. Just me and nature. My opportunities for these adventures are slim, so I had every intention of taking advantage of this one. I was photographing a dragonfly on a cattail when I felt…it. The sun was low behind the trees and the Jurassic Park-sized mosquitoes were making themselves known when the icy-cold prickles traveled up my back. That feeling of being watched; the one that makes the little hairs on the back of your neck rise. I had wandered quite a way from camp and suddenly questioned my intelligence. Just because the show was fake didn’t mean that the dangers of the location were. But this wasn’t the feeling of sighting an alligator or tripping over a snake. This was a presence; something sizing me up. My body convulsed in one helluva cold chill. I listened to my heartbeat as I took a long, slow look around. Nothing moved. I searched the higher branches of the cypress trees for any predators looking down. Nothing. Not even a cricket made a sound. Had it always been so quiet? I took a step back toward camp, then another. I had no idea if I should watch in front of me or behind me, but it was out there. Was that a movement by that tree? I strained to see around it; watched the branches to see if something climbed. Over there. Did something duck? I watched but saw nothing. Anxiety riddled my body with pins and needles. I hurried back toward camp at a fast walk; I wanted to run but wouldn’t allow myself to do it. My breath came short and fast as I focused on my feet. One step. Two steps. Don’t run. I could see Mina in the distance when the first screech echoed on the wind, one that didn’t sound quite human, but also didn’t sound quite not human. It quickly turned into a bloodcurdling scream, guttural and raw. Definitely human. And male. Mina stood as I joined her, and like in every horror movie cliché, we moved toward the sound. I was in front of her when I saw...it...over a palmetto bush. The Boar Beast. Instinct took over and I raised the camera. I heard Mina’s sharp intake, but whether it was for the scene before us or me taking pictures, I had no idea. I was on autopilot. It had Larry’s head firmly gripped in one hand; its claws impaled in the flesh of his shoulders. Larry let out a final cry that ended in a wet gurgle as the powerful talons crushed his skull. His arms flailed as a strip of skin was ripped from his back, muscle and tendons snapping as blood splattered the ground. A final twitch and he was still. I lowered the camera after watching the gruesome act through the lens. I had recorded the first proof of a local legend. And a murder. The creature grabbed Larry’s thigh with its free hand and lifted his body like it weighed nothing. A wet, crunching noise sounded across the swamp; it was like watching the Boar Beast eat an ear of corn. Mina grabbed at me, eyes wide, mouth open. Her strangled cry made the creature freeze. It slowly turned toward us. Blood dripped from the huge tusks. True reality snapped me back to the situation. I shoved her to the ground behind the bushes. “GO!” I didn’t have to tell her twice. We left a trail of DNA samples from our hands and knees on the briars and rough ground as we crawled back to the tent. The cracking of bone and grunting slurps assaulted our ears the whole way. * * * I thought of my dad while trapped in that tent; we had plans for the following weekend. Will I be dead? How many people can this thing eat before it’s satisfied? Hysterical laughter threatened to bubble up at the question. I released Mina face but dug my fingers into her arm in warning. I hoped that she could read my mind in the dark that next time, it was an instant throat punch. Does it really matter? It knows we’re here. I tasted blood again as I chewed my tongue. A new scratching noise filled the tent, but the sound was different. It sounded like a fingernail along the material. I felt Mina slump over, but I didn’t care if she had died or just passed out so long as she was quiet. Was that a claw testing the fabric? Would a Boar Beast bother to check? Your heart is beating. It knows right where you are. Mina stirred and sat up. I dug my nails into her arm without looking up, and she stayed quiet. The sound of her breathing made me itch to perform that throat punch. Another branch cracked. I wrapped my arms around my knees and tucked my head, eyes closed. What I can’t see won’t hurt me. My lungs burned from not breathing, so I let in a little air. Shallow breaths while she hyperventilates. Slow your heartbeat so hers is more appetizing. My skin itched from overactive nerves; blood rushed in my ears. Scratch. Scratch. Snuff. A huffing sound enveloped us from the bottom of the tent. Something scratched the ground, its breath snorting through its nose as it tried to smell us. We’re hiding from a monster just to get eaten by a bear. Who would believe us? Had the bear interrupted the Boar Beast? Did the Boar Beast get scared off by anything? Indecision ran through me and competed with the rising terror. Do we scream and scare it off? Whack it with the Maglite? Will the beast eat the bear? I clawed at my chest, trying to force my lungs to work. I didn’t need to pass out now. How long can we stay like this? I had no answers but I also knew that we had no more time. * * * My final pre-segment interview had been with a one of the few witnesses, a woman who lost her husband and son to the Boar Beast. “He shanked my little boy with that tusk and lifted him right up off the ground. Left him hang there while he ripped my husband’s chest open.” I saw the pain in her eyes. “And you watched this? You saw this happen?” “I was in my husband’s tree stand looking down. It was almost dark, and we knew we shouldn’t be in there that late, but we needed the meat so we was waiting for the deer.” “Why did you think it was too late to hunt? Most prey comes out at dusk.” She looked at me like I was stupid. “Everyone knows the Boar Beast only hunts from twilight to sun up. He sleeps during the day.” “Fair enough. Was the law able to help you at all?” She shrugged. “Sure. They put me in a looney bin for a few weeks. They ain’t sending no one into that swamp to hunt that thing.” She leaned closer. “It wouldn’t matter. None of ‘em would ever come out of there again. Nothing comes out of that swamp after dark.” * * * The memory leveled out my breathing; my pulse slowed just a little. All we had to do was make it to sunrise. Larry died in the dusk. I just needed a few more hours. At least it was something to cling to. The bushes crackled nearby but the huffing stopped. A moment of crashing in the underbrush and then nothing but a heavy blanket of quiet. The bear had gotten bored and moved on, or so I hoped. I felt Mina move her legs and slapped her to stay still so I could listen. There was another possibility. Had the beast come back and scared it off? I held my breath again as I listened. Everything was silent. How can silence be so loud? Whoomph! Out of nowhere, something big grabbed the tent. I fell sideways as Mina launched herself at me to get away from whatever it was. Riiiiipppppp! I froze as cool air burst in as the material was torn away. Mina tried to crawl past me but I held her tight, still half underneath her and almost using her as a shield. She suddenly stiffened and writhed wildly. “Get off me! Let me go!” It had her by the ankle. Her cries of terror echoed in the dark. I tried not to grunt as she kneed me in the gut with her flails. Her kicks weakened with each scream of pain. A sudden yank and her weight lifted off me. “No! NOOOO!” She tried to hold on to me, but I backed away as she struggled to free herself from the beast. In the sudden illumination from the moon, I could see her being dragged. I couldn’t make him out clearly, but I knew who it was. Almost as if watching in slow motion, Mina’s arms extended toward me as she was pulled along; her eyes wide and pleading. I turned away as she disappeared from sight. I had never been a fan of horror movies and this certainly fit the ticket. Aren’t you glad you’re not missing out on anything now? Karma was going to kick me hard for thinking it, but nonetheless, I had the thought. Crunch! One loud crack and her screams were cut short before the deafening silence settled back in place. If Mina hadn’t been worried about missing out, that would have been me. That sucking, smacking noise reverberated through the night as I wrapped the remnants of the tent around my shoulders and over my head. I curled into a fetal position and rocked myself on the ground. My lungs gave way and I could no longer breathe. I let the world go blacker than the night. * * * When I woke up, I struggled to open my eyes against the bright light. The events of the past night flooded through my mind, and I bolted upright. I was still alive. A new day had begun. Halloween morning. I tripped when I stood up and stomped my feet to free them from the ruined tent. The swamp lay before me, as beautiful and serene as it had been the afternoon before. The breeze blew, birds chattered, cicadas brrrrrzzzzzed, frogs harumphed. All was as it should be. How do I come back from this? Because now I know its secret. And I know the answer to my own morbid question. The Boar Beast eats two people. Two lives per feeding. I don’t even bother to look for Mina before I glance around the campsite. I'm not taking anything with me except my camera. I am numb from all that happened, but I am not about to lose those photographs. Even if I never show anyone in order to protect lives, I will keep them safe. If the pictures go public, others will come to face the beast, like I just did. Sometimes reality really is just that…reality. I will not be responsible when they die just to satisfy their curiosity. I have no desire to hurry on the hike out; for now, I'm safe. Until dusk. I want to enjoy whatever peace I can before the circus begins; just a bit to collect myself. Thinking straight is not an easy task. Processing the last twelve hours is impossible. But I do need to stop the camera crew and actors. The ones who still believe my recommendation that we film the segment about a monster in a swamp on Halloween night is a great idea and just another publicity stunt. I know better now, and I can’t let that happen. Pfft. I need to find a new job. Later. First, I need to report this fiasco. There will be a mock investigation; there has to be. Two people are dead. But local law enforcement will understand the situation and not waste any manpower hours to search for bodies they know they’ll never find. The locals will just have another story to pass down. I’ll give a statement and be on my way. Anyone outside the small town can make their own conclusions. But none of that matters. What anyone thinks doesn’t make any difference to me. Because now, I believe. In the Boar Beast and local lore. And I am done with reality television. And Halloween.  Lorah Jaiyn focused on her writing career after a nasty case of empty nest syndrome, followed by the dreaded absent-Gramma disorder, due to her daughter and Air Force son-in-law moving around the country. Lorah has the heart of a bear - sometimes soft and cuddly, and sometimes brutal and deadly. Her mood dictates her heart, which is reflected in her projects. Most all her works involve at least some element of romance – but not all.
Originally from Western New York, Lorah has lived in North Central Florida her entire adult life. She enjoys her grandsons as much as possible, as well as exploring the great outdoors and putting her camera to good use. Lorah is well known for her love of squirrels, which often find their way into her stories. A Merry Band of Freeloaders live in the trees in her back yard and stalk her patio for handouts. You can find Lorah at
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 Devil's Night Chapter One It was a dark and stormy night, the wind was howling around the house... With a harumph, the page was torn from the typewriter, slammed into a ball, and tossed at the trash can. "Fucking hell, crap, it's all crap!" Carl came out of the chair and began pacing back and forth, his pencil hanging from his lips like cigarettes used to. Running his hands through his hair, pulling it as each hand came to the end of each strand, he wondered when his hair got so long. He was always one to keep a neat appearance. He hated the idea of looking the part of the starving artist. His train of thought was interrupted by the old rotary phone on his desk ringing. He loved having a set phone for his agent, editor, or other people connected with his writing. This helped him keep things separate: work and home. Not that home was anything to brag about lately, not since Cheryl left him. The phone continued blaring, blocking out the image of his ex-wife. "Yes." Carl snarled. "Carl, it's Miranda, checking in. How's the story going? Will it be done in the next week? The publishers want it out while you're still hot." Miranda was his agent; for the most part, Carl liked her. Right now, he hated her. She was there pointing out that he was a failure. His first three books soared to the top of the best sellers list, creating an expectation of perfection. The reality was he wasn't sure he had any more books in him. He had poured his heart and soul into the pages of the first three. They were his baby, his legacy. Now, he just felt empty. Nothing was being written, nothing was being created, nothing was being done. "Hey Miranda, I'm not sure I will have it done by then. You know, life's been a bit hard lately with Cheryl leaving and all." "Carl, Carl, Carl, I know it was hard, but the show must go on. Your fans don't care about all that. They just want the next book. Do you hear me? Get it done. I don't care how, just get it done." Carl heard the click of the hang up before he could even think of a response. "Fuck!" the word echoed through his study as he slammed the phone back on its cradle. Carl had no idea how he would get an entire book written before the deadline. Of course, it didn't have to be good; that's what editors were for; it just had to be done. He sighed, turned off his desk light, and headed to his empty bedroom to crawl in his cold bed and dream of the life he had before he had become a bestselling author. *** Chapter Two Sleep was not Carls's friend; it hadn't been for a long time, but tonight, he could hear whooping and hollering in the street. He sighed as he tossed his leg over the side of the bed. He threw the curtains back to see what all the fuss was about this time of night, only to see teenagers toilet-papering trees, soaping car windows, and putting shaving cream under door handles. Devils night. The night before Halloween. Some parts of the country called it mischief night, but Carl always preferred Devil's Night; it had a much more sinister ring. Carl headed to the kitchen, knowing he wouldn't sleep anymore tonight; coffee at two in the morning was becoming a regular thing; if he were lucky, he would catch an hour or two of sleep in the afternoon before the trick-or-treaters came around. He headed into the living room with his cup and sat on the couch. The house was quiet, peaceful some might say, but Carl missed his wife's snoring. He wasn't sure when things had gone sour; his first book had just hit best-seller status, and he had headed out for a book tour. Cheryl didn't want to leave her job, so she stayed home. The book tour was everything he dreamt it would be, hundreds if not thousands of people standing in line to meet him! The nights were long and lonely, and the meals were hurried, but he loved every minute of it. He would call home every morning and every night. Most of the time, Cheryl would answer; sometimes, in the evening, she would be out with friends. This was nothing new; even when he was home, she often went out while he stayed in and wrote. One day, the store he was supposed to sign at had a fire, postponing the rest of the tour, so he decided to surprise Cheryl and head home. That was when he found them. Cheryl and her best friend Anne, in bed. Carl shook his head to shatter the memory. He glanced around the room, trying to find something that would clear that image from his mind. His eyes settled on the stack of board games on the shelf; Cheryl and Anne had always said they were getting together for game night, but now he wondered what kind of games they meant. He slid off the couch and crawled over to the games to see what "games" they had been playing. Monopoly, Chess, Trivial Pursuit, and Ouija. Carl was intrigued by the Ouija board; he pulled it out. He had never been one to believe, he thought Cheryl had felt the same, so he was surprised to see it there. Of course, he had thought a lot of things about Cheryl that turned out not to be true. He opened the box. It seemed like the type of board that was a dime a dozen in the toy stores, which he thought was weird. A child couldn't get their ears pierced, but they could summon demons at the age of five. He chuckled as he set up the board on the coffee table. He sat cross-legged on the floor with the board in front of him at chest level on the table. "Let's see, oh great and powerful Ouija board, tell me the future!" He placed his hands on the planchet and closed his eyes. Nothing happened. "Maybe that was too open of a question, oh great and powerful spirit of the Ouija board, tell me if I will ever sleep." The planchet moved to yes. Carl dropped his hands from it as if it were on fire. "Alright, that was just my subconscious with some wishful thinking. Let's try again; oh great and powerful spirit of the Ouija board, will I ever be able to write again." Carl placed his hands back on the planchard and closed his eyes. He had never wanted anything more. He hoped with all his might that the answer would be yes. "Eventually, maybe tomorrow." The deep voice echoed through the living room. Carl caught his breath but didn't want to open his eyes. His heart was racing, and he was struggling to get enough air into his lungs. "Breathe, buddy. We can work on the rest tomorrow." *** Chapter Three The sunlight streaming through the living room window woke Carl. He sat up from the floor where he had spent the night and wiped sleep from his eyes. The Ouija board was still on the table with the planchard on the word YES. "Stupid game. I must have been more tired than I thought. I need coffee." Leaving the board where it was he stumbled to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. It was late morning, the sun was streaming through the house, and the birds were chirping from the trees outside. The coffee was a cheap Colombian blend, but Carl liked it. He took his cup and headed to his office to get a few words in before it got too late. He set his coffee down, pulled in his chair, and took the phone off its cradle so no one could bother him as he tried to write. He placed the paper into the typewriter and just stared at it. Nothing came to him. He sighed and took a sip of coffee, then continued to stare. "You can't start with 'It was a dark and stormy night' unless you are writing a parody." Carl shot out of his chair, knocking his coffee to the floor. There behind him was what carl could only describe as a demon. "wha..wha..are you?" "Why, Carl, you called me last night. You needed help, and here I am. Together, we can write the greatest horror novel ever known!" The beast was covered in black skin, his head was devoid of hair, and two large horns spouted from right above his ears. His eyes were a cold white blue, not what Carl had thought the eyes of a demon would be. He stood in the doorway in a loin cloth of sorts; he was well-muscled with long fingers and toes. Carl cocked his head at the demon's feet. "I thought demons had cloven hooves?' With an exasperated sigh, the demon replied, "That is a myth. Some do, don't get me wrong, but the majority of us walk on feet. The bullshit that is spread about us could fill a book, I'm telling you. But enough of that. Let's get to it." Carl did not move; he just stared at the demon. "Um, what? I mean, how does this work." "Oh, excellent. I thought you would be opposed to it. It's quite simple: we work out a payment plan, and then I help you write the greatest horror novel ever. It will be horror; I can't stand romance. Did that once, never again." A smile split the dark skin, and when he finished speaking, Carl noticed that just a few of his teeth were pointy. "What kind of payment?" The question came out more like a squeak, forcing Carl to clear his throat when he was done. "Like my soul or something?' "Oh goodness no! That's not my thing. Souls can get so tedious, then wail and groan, it's really just awful. I was thinking more along the lines of letting me lead the way, you know, make sure we get the research in for this to be the greatest book ever! Oh, and a few pairs of sweatpants and t-shirts thrown in. It gets rather drafty in just a loin cloth." Carl thought about it for a moment—the chance to hit best-seller again, maybe even get Cheryl back. Miranda would get off his back. He might be able to relive the joy of the book tour again. This seemed as though it were a no lose situation. How bad could it be to let someone else lead the research? It would be a huge load off to just get to write, to have ideas thrown at him, and to do what he loved. "How do we make a deal? Shake on it?" Carl reached his hand out, and the demon whipped out a blade and sliced the palm of Carl's hand before reaching out his own to shake on the deal. The blood was sucked into the demon's hand, leaving Carl's tingling. He felt lightheaded and tried to retract his hand from the massive one that held it, but the demon held firm, sucking every bit of blood into himself. "Ahhh, that's good stuff right there. Not a drinker, eh, Carl? That's nice." The demon looked almost high from the blood. He finally let go of Carl, and they both slid to the floor, one in ecstasy, one from lack of blood. They sat and contemplated each other for a good five minutes before either spoke. "What should I call you? I can't yell 'hey you, demon' if we're out in public." The demon chuckled before answering, "Names have power. I cannot give you mine, but we can come up with something that will work. How about Chris, like Chris Hemsworth? I like Thor; I could get into that name. Or just Thor." Carl looked at him, "Chris, it is." Then he got up and headed to get dressed before grabbing his keys. "Where are you going? I should go with you." Chris stumbled down the stairs, trying to head out the front door with Carl. "Nope, not yet. I'm gonna get you the sweats and t-shirts. I'm already not sure how we will keep people from staring. The last thing we need is you in a loin cloth. Is black okay to get?" "Blue, if they have it, I'll wait here." *** Chapter Four Chris was all gussied up in his new electric blue sweats and white t-shirt. Carl thought the contrast between the pitch-black skin and electric blue was a bit shocking, but it seemed like the demon was thrilled with the new outfit. "Okay, so the first thing we need to do is figure out a plot. I think it should be a paranormal horror. One where the demon hunts down the victims. I could chase a few people so you can get the full descriptions. What do you think?" Carl thought momentarily before replying, "There needs to be a reason for the hunting. It's stupid if all it is is blood and gore. We need a plot point." Chris sat back on the recliner to think. "Revenge? Maybe I... I mean, the demon was called up by a man who needed revenge on someone?" "Okay, good, but it needs to be like Halloween or something so the demon doesn't stand out as much. Otherwise, it's just cheesy." Chris thought for a moment, "Oh, that's good. We can go out tonight, you know. It is Halloween so people might think I have a righteous costume on." "Oh, that's good. We should definitely go tonight. So, revenge. I can get behind that. I can start with a back story right now, and we can head out when it gets dark, but I don't generally write horror; I write fantasy. You know, dragons, knights, that kind of stuff. How should I start?" "Pull from your real life; that's always best." The smile that crossed Chris's face was sinister. Carl swallowed hard but headed to his office and typewriter. He didn't think he'd be able to write a single word, especially with the demon standing right behind him. He sighed, placed a fresh sheet of paper in the machine, and placed his fingers on the keys. *** Chapter Five Carl didn't remember writing a single word, or the sun setting. All he knew for sure was his stomach was growling, and he had to pee. He slid the chair away from the desk; as he stood, he heard each bone crack. Chris was leaning on the wall, smiling. "That was amazing, Carl, you really are talented!" "What do you mean, nothing got done. I think I fell asleep, actually." "Look at your desk." There, sitting on his desk was a stack of neatly typed pages. At least one hundred pages looked ready to go. Carl stared in disbelief. "How?" "A little push was all you needed. Now, let's get to the real research!' Carl limped out of the room, his bones stiff from sitting too long, used the restroom, and headed to the kitchen where Chris was pacing. Carl took out some bread and cheese and started to make a sandwich. "We don't have time for that. Let's go!' Carl continued to make the sandwich, simply saying, "If I don't eat, I won't be able to stand, let alone research." A deep growl came from the area where Chris was. The hair on the back of Carl's neck stood up. For just a second, he had forgotten what he was dealing with. He grabbed the sandwich and headed out the door, making sure the passenger door was unlocked for his guest. "Now, where should we start? I think we should head over to your ex's house. You know, so that we can research those feelings for the descriptions." Carl was not thrilled with this idea; he wanted nothing to do with Cheryl and her new wife. "Didn't she leave you for a woman? Hmm, bet that stings." The demon smiled as Carl's face contorted with agony. "I don't think we should go there. I don't want to disturb them." "Oh, come on, Carl, what better place to analyze those feelings than at her house? Hmm?" Reluctantly Carl turned the car and headed to his ex-wife's house. The curtains were wide open; every light was on at Cheryl's house. Carl and Chris could see into every room. They watched as the two women went about their daily lives, cooking and snuggling on the couch together. Carl thought his heart was breaking into a million pieces. He had been the one to cook with her just a year ago. They would snuggle on the couch and watch her crime shows; even though he hated them, he knew how much she enjoyed them. "Wow, look how cozy they are. Bet that bites a bit." Carl side-eyed the demon in the passenger seat, "Are we done yet? I think I can get this story written." "Sure, let's head back to the house, and you can write a bit, but if you want to feel what it's really like to stalk and break-in, this is probably the best place. I mean, she knows you, so at least she should just send you away and not get the police all involved." Carl sighed; he didn't know how to break into a house or how to stalk. Not really. He had done a little bit of stalking when Cheryl left; that's how he knew where she lived, but he wasn't familiar enough with it to write it well. So, he sat there, with a demon at his shoulder, on Halloween night, waiting for the lights to go out. "Okay, let's go." The demon opened the door, gently closed it, and waited for Carl to do the same. "I'm not sure this is such a great idea. Maybe we should just get a book or something on breaking in." He was speaking to the demon's back. The two slunk around the back of the house, where they had seen a kitchen door through the open curtains, and stepped up the two stairs. "Check the doorknob; see if it's open." "Why can't you, I thought your whole deal was that you wanted to do the research." Carl hissed. "Because it's your book!" "Fine." He reached for the knob, not expecting much so when the door swung open silently, Carl stood there stunned for a moment. "Excellent. Let's go." Chris stepped into the dark house without hesitation. He glanced back and waved carl in. With a sigh, Carl stepped into his ex-wife's house. Chapter Six They walked around the house's first level, checking out all the nooks and crannies as quietly as possible. It all seemed so easy, if this was what it was like to stalk and break into a house, no wonder people did it. Really, what would happen? No one heard them; there was no dog to alert, and as long as they didn't knock anything over, it seemed like they had free reign. Chris was pilfering the hall closet when he popped his head out, "You should go upstairs. Feel what it's like to sneak up on them. That will give you real insight to help write that scene. It will be so well written. I bet no one's stalking scene will be better than yours. I mean, really, how many writers go through this much research." Carl didn't even hesitate this time. Getting in and rummaging downstairs had been so easy. He felt confident in his ability to stay silent and not wake them. He silently walked up the steps, no creaks or groans in the staircase. Carl thought it would have been ironic had he been discovered due to a squeaky step. Of course, that was so cliche; he was grateful it didn't happen. He would have felt compelled to include that in the book. He tried to make his fiction as truthful as possible, and just that one part would have put him in a category of writers who use buzzwords for reads. The second-story landing was dark; it seemed darker than the downstairs, even though there was a night light at the end of the hall. The shadows seemed to weigh down on him as he crept to the second door on the right. It was the only door that was open. He stood in front of the door, just breathing for a moment. He was afraid to push it open; what if the movement woke them up? "It won't." Carl jumped. Somehow, the giant demon had manifested next to him. He leaned down and whispered in Carl's ear, "You should see if you can get in. If you wake them up, well, there are a few things we could do." "I think I can run faster than them, and we left the back door open so easy escape.' "Totally what I was thinking, too." Carl couldn't be sure, but he thought he had detected a hint of sarcasm from the demon. Carl slowly pushed the door the rest of the way open, he could hear the women breathing. Something touched his leg, and before he could scream, the demon's claw slammed into his mouth, making sure no sound came out. "Cat" As he whispered the word into Carl's ear, the demon's breath smelled of rotten eggs. Carl nodded in understanding, hoping Chris would let him go and step away, taking the smell with him. The demon gently pushed Carl toward the open door, encouraging him to enter the room. He walked in on the plush carpet, not making a sound. He stood over his ex-wife and her lover, staring at them. "Imagine what it would feel like to plunge a knife into each of their throats. So much release from that! So much healing.' Carl froze, picturing it in his mind. Of course there was no way he would do that, but it would feel so good to finally let all this anger out. He ran his hand over his face, turned, and left the room. He walked down the stairs and out the door. Carl didn't remember the drive home; his next memory was the sun blazing through his office window. He looked down at a finished manuscript. As soon as he typed "The end," Carl crawled onto the couch in the office, pulled the old blanket over his head to block out the sun, and fell into a deep sleep. Chapter Seven The phone's incessant ringing woke Carl up; he stumbled over to the desk. "Hello?" "Carl, how's the manuscript coming? The publishers want at least a rough draft by the end of the week." "It's done. I'll get it in the mail today. I just need to grab some coffee and a shower." "Skip the shower, grab the coffee to go. You need this one to get there ASAP." The phone clicked in his ear as Miranda hung up on him. He would drop her as his agent if she weren't so good at negotiating top pay for him. He grabbed the pages and gently slid them into an already addressed envelope; he always addressed the envelopes as a way to motivate himself to get the book done. Carl then dragged himself down to the kitchen, got a cup of coffee in a to-go cup, and headed out to the post office. He wasn't sure what was in it; he couldn't remember actually writing it, but it said The End, so he knew at least this draft was done, and all they asked for was a draft. The walk to the post office was lovely; the air was crisp, and the Halloween decorations still dotted the yards. Remnants of candy handed out last night blew down the street in the breeze. Carl's steps were light as he entered the building. The transaction was quick; no one was in front of him in line. He signed the paper stating a signature was required and made sure he had all the tracking information; there were no other copies of this manuscript, so he wanted to make sure it got there safely. Carl took the long way home, just enjoying the freedom of having mailed the first draft of the manuscript in. He knew in a few weeks, it would be sent back with more red marks on it than he ever wanted to see, but for right this moment, he was free of it. Turning the corner to his house, he noticed a strange car in his driveway. Where most people would have hustled to see what was going on, Carl decided to continue to take his time; whoever it was could either wait or leave. A tall Hispanic man stood leaning on his front porch, looking at his phone as if he didn't have a care in the world. Carl was halfway up the steps before this man turned and looked at him "Carl Witherspoon?" "Yes, who's asking?" "I'm Detective Rousche. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions.?' Carl flashed back to breaking into his ex-wife's house. He thought he had gotten out of there unseen, but maybe they had a camera somewhere. "How can I help you, detective?" "I have some bad news, Mr. Witherspoon. Your ex-wife has been killed." Carl was stunned. He had just seen her last night, but he didn't want to say that. He didn't want them to think he had killed her. He sat down hard on the rocking chair. "How? When? Do you know who might have done this? Oh god." "That's why we're here, sir. We were hoping you might know who did this?" "No, no, I have no idea. I mean, everybody loved Cheryl." "Even you, Mr. Witherspoon?" Carl looked at the detective; he looked around the street; other officers were waiting by unmarked cars. It hit him; they were here to arrest him! "I think I need my lawyer." "I think you might. Carl Witherspoon, you are under arrest for the murder of your ex-wife." Chapter Eight At the police station, his lawyer advised Carl not to say anything, so he didn't. It all seemed to be going pretty well until they showed him the video. There he was, standing in the kitchen holding a bloody knife, a sadistic grin on his face. Of course, the footage of him leaving was not there; no matter how hard he argued that he had left, the video proved him wrong. As he looked at the camera and smiled, Carl could see the crystal blue eyes of the demon he had made a pact with. The trial had been a speedy one. It took less than a year for Carl to be convicted of two counts of first-degree murder. With the cameras in the house, the jury saw everything he had done, but there was no Chris the demon in sight. The thing was, when the footage was shown in court Carl could see clearly it was Chris standing there with the bloody knife. Carl had left. The demon had killed his ex-wife in such a way as to place the blame on Carl and there was nothing he could do about it. Once the book manuscript had been read, the description of the murder was so vivid and so exact that there was no way even the best defense attorney was getting Carl out. His lawyer had advised him to plead guilty and take the lesser time, but Carl knew he wasn't guilty; he had faith in the system. Of course, the system would only see what was there; no one saw the demon at his back, no one but Carl, that is. The court deemed him insane. It wasn't a not guilty, but it did get him out of doing time in the prison system. Carl spent his days alone in a small, locked room. They made sure he spoke to a doctor every day, and every day, they asked him who killed the women. Carl stuck to the truth; it was a demon named Chris, every day they wrote on their clipboard that he was still not sane enough for prison. Two years passed, and Devil's Night was upon them once again. The moon was full and the patients were restless, all except Carl. He sat quietly in his room staring at the wall, waiting and wishing for the demon to appear. Chris vaporized in front of Carl, wearing electric blue sweats and a white t-shirt. Carl stared at the demon. "You called me here. What time do you need it, Carl?" "I just have one question. You promised I would write the best horror story ever. Then you framed me for murder. Doesn't that go back on your promise? I mean, we had a blood pact." Chris let out a deep chuckle before answering, "Well, you see, Carl. For one, I am a demon, so I lie. And secondly, you did write the greatest horror story ever. I never promised you it would be published. Just written."  Terry Hooker is a freelance writer and editor, a Jersey girl from the shore turned Florida farm girl soon to be a Virginia farm girl. She has a BA in anthropology, an AAS in Culinary Arts, and an MA in Library science. She has worked as a congressional archivist, historian, teacher, and professional chef and has presented her research on the history and iconography of southern cemeteries throughout the Southeast United States. She has edited several children's books, full length novels, dissertations, and academic papers; Terry, herself, has published scholarly papers, magazine articles, fictional stories, and books. She lives with her husband, two kids, and a plethora of critters.
 Trapped beneath the sleeping child, Ellie’s numb arm burned with pins and needles. Determined not to endure another round of Bryce’s tearful insistence a monster hid in his closet, she carefully extracted her arm. Pale blue stars cast from a rotating night light lamp glided across the ceiling and walls. At the soft snick of a latch releasing, Ellie’s gaze flew to the closet. A moment passed. Then another. Chiding herself, she continued sliding her arm free. The door whispered open. Stars danced over the seven fingers curled around its edge. “Come play, Ellie,” a nightmare-drenched voice crooned. “Come play.”  When not daydreaming about plot lines and characters Andra practices yoga, reads voraciously, and drinks too much coffee. She loves road trips and going off on wild tangents. Andra writes in multiple genres—including but not limited to—urban fantasy, steamy romance, paranormal romance, and horror.
 Killing Loneliness USA Today Bestselling Author Copyright © 2024 Lily Luchesi “Thank God you’re back!” I fling my arms around my girlfriend, Amy, the second she walks in the door, smelling like the autumn breeze outside. “I hate it when you’re gone for a long time!” “It was five days, babe,” Amy replies with a laugh, kissing me before prying my arms from her neck. “Can I at least take my shoes off before you strangle me?” I nod, blushing as if we are brand new partners instead of together for almost a year. “I saw the news,” Amy continues as she walks into the apartment. “The Lonely Hearts Killer got someone again.” She shakes her head. “I guess that’s why you get nervous now?” My shoulders rise in a shrug. “I miss you a bit more than I’m scared.” She takes her phone out and I bring us both some wine. “Seven murders in seven months. All women whose partners — gender notwithstanding — are away for at least a full night. Like … how does the killer even know? Do they pick someone and watch their house? Stalk the partner?” She shivers and I put my arm around her in a non-strangling manner this time. “I worry about you. Our small town having a serial killer is no joke. Especially since you fit the profile of the victims.” I won’t say the thought hasn’t crossed my mind that I am exactly what the killer looks for. “Seven for seven. It’s impressive,” I comment, earning me a strange look from Amy. “I’m not sure ‘impressive’ is the word I’d use, but you do you.” She grins. “I showed my colleagues our picture. And then I told them your job. Nobody believed me until I pulled up your website.” “What? The girl with the Hello Kitty sweater doesn’t look like a horror writer?” I giggle. Maybe I don’t seem like the type to write thousands upon thousands of words about people being murdered and tortured in various ways. What’s even more amusing is how squeamish Amy is, despite being a Goth. She supports my work, well, my writing. But she won’t read it. “First person POV of how good it feels to kill somebody isn’t my thing,” she said before. I respect that. And I love that she supports me even if she doesn’t like what I write. Later that evening, I get back to my latest novel and Amy starts getting ready for bed; she must be jet lagged. “I watched her through the window for a few minutes. Curled up on the armchair, a romcom on the gigantic TV mounted on the wall, lights low. Her legs were covered with a black and white checked blanket. She looked like the picture of comfort, except the tears falling down her cheeks. “Her lover left earlier that day for a two-week trip abroad, and she was despondent, clearly. Poor thing. Her sadness called to me like a moth to a flame. I longed to banish her tears and replace them with something much more delectable: fear. “They never hear me enter their homes. They never have the cliche horror movie moment of calling out, asking who is there, walking into the darkness like children lured by candy. “No. They never know I’m there until I am upon them, striking my first blow, drawing first blood. Sometimes, sadly, I am overzealous and kill with my first strike. However, nights like tonight, as I stand behind the girl, I know it will be long and glorious “My first cut is to her ear, the knife so sharp I am met with no resistance as it flops off and lands on the arm of the chair next to her. She stares at it, shock not allowing her to feel pain yet. “Oh, yes. Tonight will be a long night of pleasure and death. And no one will hear her scream.” As I type the final period in that sentence, like in a bad B-movie, Amy screams. Please don’t let it be a rat, I think, wondering if I should put house shoes on. But that’s my girlfriend and she needs me. I can’t be scared of rats right now. Dashing into the bedroom, I don’t see her. Then I spot the light from the walk-in closet. She’s in there, the door nearly totally shut. “Amy? What happened?” I call, since she seems silent now. Carefully, I creep towards the walk-in and open the door, letting the light spill out, silhouetting me against the darkened bedroom. One of the shelves in the walk-in contains some older blankets we don’t use. In fact, we haven’t used these since we moved in together seven months ago. So why are they now all over the floor, as if they fell? And sitting on top of them is a bloodstained knife. “Amy?” My voice wavers as I say that single syllable. “I wanted to grab a thin blanket because you run hot and I always need an extra one,” she says, her voice monotonous. “I pulled, and something snagged. And they all fell and that…” She bends down to pick it up. “Don’t touch it!” I scold, not meaning to be so sharp. “Why not?” she asks, her voice still monotone and calm. “Because you shouldn’t get your fingerprints on a strange knife? It could have diseases? You don’t know where it’s been!” We stare at each other, back at the knife, and over again, as if we are in a silent film but don’t know the plot. The seconds tick by, and one of us needs to do something. Silence stretches, uncomfortable and thick, making my skin crawl. “How long?” I finally ask. “How long what?” “How long have you been killing people?” She shakes her head, her voice now back to its usual soft tone. “I don’t kill people, Jessie. Loneliness kills, slowly. I just end their suffering faster.” She glances at the knife. “But that’s not my blade.” Amy. My sweet, shy, precious Amy, a serial killer? The very one she warned me against earlier this evening? “Why do I always attract the crazy ones?” I blurt out. “I’m sympathetic,” she counters. “Because I am the one who always has to leave for a while, knowing how sad you are. I don’t want others to feel that way too. Now, stop deflecting and tell me where that knife came from!” “I thought I wouldn’t need it anymore,” I admit. “I should have thrown it away, but I guess I’m just … nostalgic.” “Nostalgic about what?” Amy wonders. “My exes. I really, truly thought you were the one. That you wouldn’t hurt or betray me like the others. But you did worse! You’re killing people for the same situation you put me in! How long until you felt sympathetic towards me and killed me?” Her silence speaks volumes. I pick up the knife, and her eyes follow me. “You won’t hurt me,” she says, her voice steady. She’s confident. “You’re just like me, right? You have blood on your hands, too.” “I have never harmed an innocent person!” “I’m saving them from misery!” “And what about the person they left behind? Who comes home to nothing but an empty house full of memories and ghosts?” “They deserve to suffer. I do too.” Her eyes are so wide, so innocent. She truly believes it. “So you’ll kill me, too? To make yourself suffer?” She holds a hand out. “You could work with me. And then I wouldn’t have to feel so bad about it.” Stepping forward, her eyes begin to sparkle and that smile I love appears. She thinks I am about to agree with her. Swiftly, I pick the knife up, and before she can register what’s happening, I slice the bloodstained blade across her throat. There is just enough time for her eyes to register shock as blood begins to pour from the fresh wound, and then she collapses. Her body twitches once, twice, then lies still. I sigh. “I could’ve come to grips with what you did, Amy. I really could have. But then you had to ask me to do it with you. I’m sorry. But I work better alone. And now … I suppose you don’t have to suffer anymore.”  Lily Luchesi is the USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of the Paranormal Detectives Series.
Her young adult Coven Series has successfully topped Amazon's Hot New Releases list consecutively. She is also the founder of Partners in Crime Book Services, where she offers a myriad of services, including editing. They were born in Chicago, Illinois, where many of their stories are set. Ever since she was a toddler, her mother noticed her tendency for being interested in all things "dark". At two they became infatuated with vampires and ghosts, and that infatuation turned into a lifestyle. She is also an out member of the LGBT+ community. When not writing, she's going to rock concerts, getting tattooed, watching the CW, or reading comics and manga. And drinking copious amounts of coffee. Lily also writes contemporary books for adults as Samantha Calcott, and dark/taboo romance as S.L. Sinclair.  HAG STONECopyright © 2024 S. K. Gregory 1 Is it wrong to despise you own grandmother? It was something I had been grappling with a lot since I arrived in Elk Cove three days ago. I barely knew the woman, but after she took a bad spill out of the shower and injured her hip, it was decided that I should look after her. I tried to protest, but my mother insisted. She was busy with the trial and I had finished up college so I had some free time. She didn't seem to understand that I needed to use that free time to try and find a job. I didn’t have time to look after an old woman who hated my guts. Something she didn’t even try to hide. In a bid to escape her, I made my way down to the beach about half a mile from her home. I’d been coming here a lot just so I could breathe and get some peace and quiet. It was a chilly day despite the time of year, so there weren’t many people on the beach. Moving as close to the water as I could get, I stared out at the horizon wondering how long it would take for her to get better. How long before I could escape her? Don’t let her get to you. She’s just a bitter old woman. This morning I made her breakfast - tea and toast - but apparently, I didn’t do it right. There wasn’t enough butter on the toast and too much sugar in the tea. She had a criticism for everything I did. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and tried to push all thoughts of her from my mind. This was my time. The short window while she took a nap and I could escape and do what I wanted. Opening my eyes, I tried to enjoy the scenery. I used to come here as a child when my mother would visit and I would explore the beach. It used to be so much fun collecting seashells, looking for crabs and building sandcastles. Definitely the best part about coming here. I needed to try and recreate that. Slipping off my shoes, I dug my toes into the sand, enjoying the feel of it under my feet. So many of my friends had gone off on trips around the world, but I didn’t have the money to go with them. This would have to be my vacation so I was going to make the most of it. Carrying my shoes in one hand, I made my way down the beach, stopping every now and again to pick up some seashells. I put them into the pocket of my windbreaker to keep for later. I wondered if the coffee place was still open at the other end of the beach. They used to do a really nice hot chocolate and I could do with a treat. Plus it meant being away from the house longer. I had already tidied up and had Gran’s pills ready for her when she woke up. Beyond that there wasn’t much I could do. An old man walked by on the path above me. I raised my hand to give him a wave, trying to be friendly, but he just glared at me and kept walking. Rude. Were all the old people in this town like that? It was home to a large retirement community so there were very few people my age here. So far, I’d only met a couple of Gran’s friends and they seemed just as mean as her. I hoped I wasn’t going to end up like that when I got old. Hiking up toward the path, my foot came down on something hard. Looking down, I find a smooth round pebble under my foot, with a hole in the middle. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand. I’d heard of these before. Was it called a hag stone or something? The memory of an old fairy story came back to me that my uncle used to tell me. About how if you looked through a hag stone you could see into another world. I used to love those stories when I was younger. Raising it up to my eye, I looked up and down the beach. It all looked the same. Shame. Escaping into another world sounded like a good idea right now. As I turned my head, I caught sight of the old man who was just up ahead. My breath caught in my throat as he turned to look back at me. Through the stone he no longer looked human. His skin had taken on a leathery look, his eyes were black and two horns protruded from his head. Quickly pulling the stone away from my eye, I saw the image change and he went back to looking like an old man. He scowled at me for a moment and then walked on. What the hell did I just see? 2 Still shaken by what I saw on the beach, I decided to give the hot chocolate a miss and head back to the house. I still had the hag stone in my pocket. What on earth did I see? It had to have been my imagination. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night especially with Gran banging on the wall every five minutes with her cane. First she wanted water, and then a snack, and then of course she needed my help to get to the bathroom. In the end, I kept jumping awake at every little noise thinking it was her. That had to be it. My mind was playing tricks on me. Deciding not to mention it to anyone, I arrived back at the house to find that not only was Gran up but she wasn’t happy to find me gone. “Where the hell of you been?” she snarled the second I walked in the door. “I’m sorry I just took a quick walk. I thought you would be asleep longer.” She scowled at me from her armchair. “Well, you thought wrong. Now where are my pills?” With a sigh, I picked up the pill dispenser from the table that was right in front of her and handed them to her. “Do you expect me to swallow them dry?” Fighting back a retort, I smiled and offered to get her glass of water. As I made my way into the kitchen I thought of a thousand different things I could have said to her but wouldn’t dare. If I said anything she would speak to my mother and my mother would get at me and it just wasn’t worth the bother A few more weeks and I’ll be out of here. I just have to learn to ignore her. “Where is that water, Claire?” “Coming,” I called. Carrying the glass back into her, she practically snatched it out of my hand. Staring at me she popped one pill into her mouth and took a drink of water. She continued to stare at me as she took all the eight of them. Uncomfortable, I tried not to meet her gaze. She had been acting so weird these last couple of years. Worse than usual. Mom thought that she might be in the early stages of dementia but I doubted it. She seemed as sharp as ever, just nasty. When she was done with the water, she thrust the glass back into my hand. “I have some friends coming over soon for backgammon. Set it up for me on the table.” “Of course,” I said. There was never a please or thank you, it was always just do this, do that. She was really getting on my nerves. I did as she asked setting up the board on the table across the room. Her two friends, Ethel and Linda, came over a few times a week to play. They used backgammon as an excuse to gossip and drink gin. Technically Gran wasn’t allowed any alcohol at the moment but she didn’t listen to me. She drank whatever she wanted and if I argued with her, well there wasn’t really any point in arguing with her. After I helped Gran to the bathroom, I helped her get dressed before settling her at the table. “Bring me my drink.” With a sigh, I grabbed a glass and poured her a measure of gin. “More,” she demanded. “Gran…” “I said more.” She brought her cane down hard on my foot and I yelped yanking it away. Ignoring the throbbing in my toes, I poured a little more gin into the glass. Then decided to just leave the bottle. It would be empty before the day was over. When the doorbell rang, I answered it to Ethel and Linda. Ethel was a tiny woman with grey curly hair and large glasses. Linda was tall and wiry with a pointy nose. “Good morning, ladies. Gran is ready for you.” Ethel muttered something under her breath as she passed me, while Linda stared at me like a huge bird. When they were set up at the table, I grabbed my sketch pad and went on to the porch. It was better to stay out of the way, but close by in case they needed something. The window was open and I could hear them talking amongst themselves. Every now and again, Ethel would let out a loud laugh, usually because one of the others had insulted someone. They really had a lot to say about their neighbors and what they were up to. It seemed so depressing. Living your life that way, so full of hatred and vitriol. Trying to tune them out, I opened my sketch pad to a fresh sheet and started drawing. It was a good spot to sit as I could see the cliffs in the distance, so I decided to draw them. I loved drawing ever since I was a kid. I even considered becoming an artist but Mom talked me out of it. He said I needed to learn something that would make me some money, so in the end I went into business and finance. I found it incredibly boring, but Mom insisted that it would pay off in the long run. She was a hot shot attorney so she expected me to follow suit and get a good job. I had given up trying to get her to listen to me years ago. That was why I was having such a hard time in finding a job. None of them appealed to me at all. While I had sent off a few resumes, I actually hoped that I didn’t hear back. If I had the money I would have gone off with my friends, travelled for a while and given myself a chance to really think about the future. But instead I was here looking after an old biddy who hated my guts. Setting the sketchpad to one side, I pulled the hag stone from my pocket. Nervously, I raised it to my eye and looked out toward the coast. It all looked perfectly normal. Of course it did. I just imagined what I saw earlier. Scanning the horizon, I looked for a person just to be sure but there was nobody about. Another laugh came from behind me. Twisting in my seat, I looked through the window with the hag stone at the old ladies at the table. My heart nearly leaped out of my chest. All three of them no longer looked human. They looked like monsters. Ethel had horns, while Linda’s eyes were three times the size they normally were and her nose was curved into a hook. But Gran was the worst of all. Her eyes burned a deep red, and spikes protruded from her skull. “Claire!” Gran’s voice cut through the air and I dropped the stone. Oh God, what are they? 3 It took everything I had to force myself to walk back inside. Gran glared at me. “Get us some snacks,” she demanded. “Of course,” I said heading for the kitchen. My heart was threatening to beat out of my chest. They all look normal now. So what the hell was going on with that hag stone? Why did people look different in it? It has to be some kind of trick or hallucination or something. With shaking hands, I poured some nuts into a bowl and brought them back to the table. When no further demands came, I headed outside to the porch again. I desperately wanted to forget what I had seen and pretend it didn’t happen, but I needed to be sure that it was just my imagination. Where’s the stone? I remember that I had dropped it. Getting down to my hands and knees, I searched for it under the chair. It was lying at the back behind the leg. Snatching it up, I got to my feet. The stone just looked like a normal stone. There was no obvious trickery and it couldn’t create an illusion like that, could it? I knew the old stories about how you could see into another world but I thought that meant like some kind of fairy world. Unless…the fairy realm was hidden from the real world, what if that’s what it did? It somehow revealed things that were hidden. If that were the case then that would mean Gran and her friends weren’t…human? Well that was insane. Lowering myself back into the chair, I peeked in through the window at them. They all looked completely normal as they hunched over the board. Just to try and prove myself wrong, I raised the stone in a trembling hand. The second I brought it to my eye, the three women changed into those monsters again. I even tried my other eye just to see if it made a difference but they look the same. What the hell? This was insane. I mean that was my grandmother in there. Wasn’t it? Unless something had replaced her. What about those old movies about aliens and body snatchers? With the doubles running around of people and nobody knew any different? That couldn’t be the case here. All of that stuff was fake. I wondered if there was anybody who could give me some answers. There was no way they were going to believe me and I had no desire to be locked away for spouting nonsense about monsters disguising themselves as old women. But I needed answers. Picking up my sketchbook, I raised the stone with my free hand and started to draw the women. Or what they look like through the stone. I tried to stay low so they wouldn’t see me. Something told me if what I was seeing was real then they wouldn’t take too kindly to being spied upon. When I was done, I studied the image trying to work out what they were. Demons possibly, aliens, something else that I’ve never even heard of. But were they just disguising themselves? Or had they always been that way? Was Gran dead? Or worse was she my actual grandmother? The thought terrified me. I wasn’t one of those things. But just to be sure I raised the headstone and looked at my own hands and arms to try and see if there was anything amiss. I was relieved to find that I looked perfectly normal. I needed to speak to someone about this to try and get some answers, but who? Maybe I could find something at the local library. Some books or something. Getting to my feet, I put the stone into my pocket and then tore the sheet of paper from the sketch pad. Folding it up, I put it in my pocket too. Moving to the door I called, “Gran, I’m just going to grab some dinner from town.” She waved the dismissive hand at me. Leaving them to it, I walked a mile into town. The library was located just past the school. That was another place I liked to visit when I used to come here as a child. Heading inside, I stopped at the desk not knowing where to start. The woman behind it give me a smile. “Can I help you, dear?” “Yes, I’m actually looking for some books on local history.” “Of course I can show you where those are. Is it for a paper?” “Yeah, I’m studying history.” That sounded perfectly reasonable. “Well if that’s the case you might want to try talking to Malcolm.” “Who’s Malcolm?” She pointed to a man in his late thirties who was seated across the room, his head bent over a book. “He teaches at the high school and history is his subject. He knows all about Elk Cove.” “Thanks, I’ll ask him.” I started to walk across the room and then stopped. What if he was like Gran and the others? I couldn’t take that chance. Taking the hag stone out of my pocket, I checked that no one was looking and then raised it to my eye. I breathed a sigh of relief when Malcolm remained normal. Just to be on the safe side, I scanned the rest of the people in the room as well. All normal. So it was only some people and not everybody. It made me feel a little bit better. Heading up to the table, I cleared my throat. It took a moment for Malcolm to look up, he seemed absorbed in his book. “Can I help you?” “I hope so. I’m sorry to bother you but I’m actually doing a little bit of research on the area and I wanted to ask couple questions. The lady behind the desk said that you were the one to ask.” “Yes, of course, please sit.” He moved some papers out of the way and motioned to the chair across from him. I took a seat feeling nervous. I couldn’t come right out and say what I wanted to know he would only think I was crazy. “What is your paper on?” “Well, I was looking into local myths and legends actually, anything strange that’s happened in town.” He stared at me, waiting for me to go on. “For example, do you know what this is?” I held up the hag stone. His brow furrowed. “I believe it’s a stone.” “Well yes, but it’s called a hag stone.” He took it from me and turned it over in his hands. “Yes, I believe you can find quite a few of them at the beach, the water wears the stone away. But in the olden days they did believe that hag stones were used by people to view the Fae realm. It’s an old wives tale of course.” “Of course,” I said, taking the stone back from him. “But it made me think about other myths and legends in the area about people who weren’t what they seem, who looked one way but underneath they were different?” I could tell I was losing him. I sounded like a lunatic. “Do you mean like changelings?” “What’s a changeling?” “Well it’s another story about the Fae, where a Fae child was left in the place of a human child. The child would then start acting strangely but as far as the parents knew it was their child.” Interesting. Kind of similar to what was happening with Gran but he was talking about children. “And are there any stories like that around here, any legends?” “I’m sure most places have their legends like that, unfortunately, I deal with actual history. The only thing that springs to mind was a story about a cave somewhere near the town that was said to lead to another world.” “Another world?” “Yes, one filled with demons.” 4 “Demons?” Malcolm nodded. “Yes, but of course it’s just a legend. What college are you in?” “Huh?” I was still trying to come to terms with the word demon. “Oh. Uh, the local one. I have to go.” Getting to my feet, I headed for the door before he could ask anymore questions. It was only as I left the building that I realized there was no local college. Whatever. I had a lot to deal with. While I didn’t want to go back to the house, I had nowhere else to go. But the idea of staying there terrified me. True, I’d been there a few days already and nothing had happened, but that could change. I need to figure out what they are and why they’re pretending to be old ladies. What if they were eating local children or something equally horrible? Why would you pretend to be an old lady if you could look like anyone? It made no sense. Or I’m just crazy. Maybe. But I needed to be sure. I actually hoped I was crazy. Because the alternative was that monsters were walking around Elk Cove as pensioners. Wait. All the monsters so far had been pensioners. Was that a coincidence? Moving down the street, I looked at the people passing me. It would be too suspicious standing with the stone out here. I needed somewhere to go where I wouldn’t be noticed. Moving to the promenade, I watched people passing by. When there was a lull, I raised the stone to check them out. A woman passed by and I quickly lowered my hand, trying to look normal. This was dumb. What must I looked like? I need to know. Raising the stone, I looked at each person as they passed by. They all looked normal. But then again, they were all young. Kids or people my age. I needed to find an old person. About ten minutes later, an old woman walked by on a walker, accompanied by her husband. I looked at her through the stone. Normal. “Come on,” the husband growled, walking ahead of her. I looked at him. He was a monster too. Damn. How many were there? Dropping my hand, I knew that this wasn’t a hallucination. It couldn’t be. I was really seeing something that I wasn’t meant to see. But does that make them evil? Nasty, certainly. But so far they weren’t attacking people. I just wished I could talk to someone about it. Feeling very alone, I made my way back to the house. When I reached the street, I spotted Ethel, Linda and Gran outside the house. They must be leaving. I hung back, not willing to have another run in with them. A kid was riding about in the street on his bike. He kept squealing as he rode around. I saw Gran glare at him. He whooshed by them, almost clipping Linda. “Stop that, you little jerk,” Linda snarled. The kid glanced back, looking startled, then he laughed. Turning the bike around, he headed past them again, whooping loudly. The three women all faced him, and I saw them join hands, their eyes fixed on the boy. All of a sudden, he started wobbling wildly on the bike. I saw him try to brake, but nothing happened. In fact, he seemed to pick up speed. “Hey!” he cried. A car pulled out of a driveway in front of him and the boy struck the back of the car with a thump. He cried out before he hit the ground. The driver jumped out to check on him. I looked back at Gran and the others. They looked happy at what happened. Did they make that happen? I knew they weren’t human, but I didn’t think for a moment that they might have magic. Because that was what I just saw. Right? I have to get out. 5 While I would have loved to have hidden in my room, I knew that I had to come out at some point. I emerged after Ethel and Linda had gone home and headed straight to the kitchen to start dinner. Gran was in her chair staring at the TV. She was usually quiet around this time so maybe she’d leave me alone. Pulling some ingredients out of the refrigerator, I decided to make something simple like a soup and salad. Gran didn’t really had much of an appetite anyway. At least as far as I’ve seen. Every little noise made me jump and I expected Gran to leap out at me and attack me. She hadn’t yet maybe she wouldn’t. If I hadn’t found the stone, I never would have seen what she was anyway. “Where’s my food?” she growled in the living room. “Be right there,” I called. I needed to watch her, try and figure out what she was up to. But more than that I needed to try and figure out a way to get out of taking care of her for the next few weeks. There was no way I would be able to sleep soundly under the same roof as her. When the food was made, I brought it to her. She grumbled about it taking too long but took the tray and started eating. I wanted to rub back to my room, but I needed to know more and above all else, act normal. If she suspected I knew something, she might do something to me. “So Gran, how was your time with Ethel and Linda?” I asked, tidying up around the living room. “Fine,” she grunted. They were all monsters, so there had to be something they had in common. What about the cave Malcolm mentioned? Could they have visited it? “Do you ever do anything else together? I mean obviously before you hurt your hip. Do you ever go for walks on the beach or explore?” She looked up at me like I was insane. “Do I look like I’m traipsing all over town? Who has time for that? I’ll tell you who. Lazy little brats who need to get a job.” My cheeks burned at her words. “Right. Well, I’ll leave you to your dinner.” There was no way I was going to risk making her even more angry. Hurrying back to the kitchen I grabbed some food for myself and took it into the bedroom to eat. She really was so nasty. They all seemed to be. Was that because of what they were or did they just think they could get away with it because they were old? My mind swirled with a million questions but the only one I cared about was how the hell am I going to get away from this house? Mom wasn’t available to take over for me not with her court case, and no one else lived close enough to come. Not that I wanted to risk their lives anyway. The only alternative was some kind of service but could I do that? Invite someone to the house knowing what she was? It seemed like a horrible thing to do but if someone was here from an agency, then people would know they were here and if anything happened it would only draw attention. So surely Gran wouldn’t do anything to them. Who am I kidding? I just don’t want to be alone in this house with her. Picking up my phone, I scrolled through local agencies to see if anyone was available. I found a number and called it. “Hello, I was wondering if there would be anyone available to take care of my grandmother? She fell recently and broke her hip. I’ve been taking care of her for a while and unfortunately I’m not able to do it any longer.” The woman on the other end of the phone took some details from me and said that she would get back to me soon. Hanging up, I put my head in my hands. It felt like I was passing the buck. I heard a creak outside the door. Getting up, I opened it to find Gran on the other side. “Gran. How long have you been there?” “Long enough,” she snarled. “You ungrateful little wretch. Try to palm me off to someone else?” I backed up, terrified she was going to hit me. I held up my hands. “No, no, of course not. I was just trying to see if there’s anybody available for when I go home because I have to go home eventually,” I babbled. She swung her cane out and cracked me in the kneecap with it. “I knew it. You’re evil to the core, girl. I'll be telling your mother about this.” She turned and hobbled back into the living room. Sagging against the wall, I felt my legs shake. What the hell? She was calling me evil given what she was? What is she up to? 6I came into the room about twenty minutes later hoping that she had calmed down. She was back in her chair staring at the TV. “Gran?” She didn’t even look up at me. “Gran, please I…” “I don’t want to hear it. You say you don’t want to work, you don’t want to look after me, what do you want to do?” “It’s not that I just…” But I had nothing to say. What could I say? I couldn’t exactly admit that I knew what she was or her friends. “I’m going to go for a walk,” I said. “Give you some space.” “You do that.” Maybe I had made a mistake. She seemed hurt by what I did. Surely a monster wouldn’t act that way. As I reached the door, I heard something smash close to my head. Jumping back, I saw the soup bowl in pieces on the ground. She had thrown it at me. I wiped some soup off my cheek. That was too close for comfort. Too scared to confront her, I hurried outside, heading for the beach. None of this made any sense. Apart from the fact that she was horrible, Gran seemed genuinely upset about the fact that I didn’t want to take care of her. Just like a normal woman would. But then she nearly took my head off with that bowl. Was she faking it? Keeping up appearances? Or did she want me around for another reason? Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the hag stone. This was where all the trouble started. If I had never found it I wouldn’t be any the wiser. Maybe I should just toss it into the sea and forget about it. Do my time here and then head home. I stared out at the water, the stone clutched in my hand. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. Right now it was the only thing that helped me identify one of those creatures. Assuming I wasn’t just insane. So I would hold onto it for now. But I would definitely be staying out of Gran’s way and locking my door at night. I walked the length of the beach, hoping she would have calmed down by the time I returned. Throwing the bowl was a step too far. She could have hit me. Did she intend to hit me? What if she did something while I was asleep? Of course I had already been in the house a few days and nothing that happened. God this is all such a mess. I wanted nothing more than to get on a bus and head right back out of town. But I couldn’t. The weather was starting to turn and I could see storm clouds moving in, I had to go back. Pulling my jacket around me tighter, I headed back up the sand toward the house. When I got closer, I saw a car outside. One I didn’t recognise. Did Gran have a visitor? Curious I moved up onto the porch and peeked in the window. Ethel and Linda were there but neither of them drove a car. What were they doing? They seem to be gathered in the middle of the living room looking at something on the floor. When Gran moved to the side, I saw what they were looking at. Ducking back, I slapped the hand over my mouth. There was a body on the floor. An old man. Oh God what are they doing to him? Bracing myself, I chanced a look. He seemed to be unconscious. No, wait he was moving. His body started to shake as if he was having some kind of seizure. Why are they just standing there? If he had fallen then they should be getting him help. I reached for my phone to call for an ambulance, but then he stopped shaking and sat up. The women smiled at him. Ignoring the phone, I reached for the hag stone instead. Sure enough, he was one of them. So is that it? These creatures are taking over the real bodies? It would explain why people hadn’t found bodies lying around the town. He got to his feet, a stern look on his face. They were talking but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Finally, he gave a nod and headed for the door. I quickly ducked around the side of the house to hide. The man came out, paused on the doorstep, and then got into his car and drove away as if nothing had happened. How can I stay here now? I didn’t want that happening to me. What if they took over the entire town? Moving back around the porch, I decided to just run for it. But I couldn’t. My purse was inside. I’d need money to get the bus. “Shit,” I whispered. Okay, I could sneak in the back, grab the purse and go. Moving around back, I prayed the back door was unlocked. Closing my hand around the knob, I eased it open. Pausing, I could hear them talking in the living room. I stepped inside, closing the door behind me as quietly as possible. Where did I leave my purse? It was likely in my room. Anywhere else and I could forget it. Before I got very far the kitchen door opened. I turned to see Linda in the doorway. “Where do you think you’re going?” I turned to run but a hand clamped down on my shoulder. I was dragged backward through the house. “Get off me,” I cried. “I don’t think so. We’ve got you now.” 7 I fought against Linda’s grip but she was impossibly strong for an old woman. The other two were waiting for me. Linda tossed me to the floor in front of them. “Look what I found.” “I knew she was up to something,” Gran said. “I could smell the fear on her.” “I’m not up to anything, I don’t know you’re talking about.” Ethel laughed. “She’s a terrible liar.” “Isn’t she just,” Gran said. She grabbed me by the hair and yanked me up. The frail little woman I had been looking after last few days seemed to be gone. “What do you know?” “I don’t know anything, please let me go.” “She’s lying,” Ethel hissed. “We can’t take any chances.” I struggled to get free, dropping the stone in the process. It hit the floor with a thump, drawing their attention. “What’s that?” Gran asked. Linda scooped it up, holding it up to the light. She looked confused for a moment, then seemed to realize what it was. “She’s been spying on us.” Gran’s fingers dug into my arm. “Who have you spoken to?” “No one, I swear.” “We can’t trust her. Let’s beat the truth out of her,” Linda said with a sneer. They were going to kill me. I had to get away. I tried to claw at Gran’s hand, but she didn’t seem to notice. “We’ll interrogate her. Put her in the basement for now.” Linda and Ethel descended on me, each grabbing an arm. They dragged me across the floor, as I kicked and fought against them. “Help me!” I screamed. Gran snatched up the remote and turned the TV on. She raised the volume to block out my screams. We reached the basement and they took me down. I was never going to leave here. “Please, I’ll do anything. Don’t do this,” I sobbed. “Shut up,” Linda said. “Grab that chair,” she said to Ethel. They shoved me into it and tied me up with some rope. Linda grabbed an old rag and shoved it into my mouth making me gag. “You can sit down here with the rats for a while. And when we come back, you better tell us everything we want to know.” I tried to scream against the gag but no sound really come out.. the two women made their way up the stairs and closed the door behind them. Heard the log click into place. Sitting in the dark I tried to think of a way out of this. I was alone in a house full of monsters. They’re going to kill me. 8 I sat in the dark for hours, trying desperately to get free of the ropes. Why did I come back inside? I should have run when I had the chance. Will anyone even miss me? Mom was busy, it could be days or weeks before she checked in. If Gran told her I had left, she’d probably believe her. I’d complained about being here often enough. She might think I just ran away. They might never find me. I heard the lock click above me and froze in fear. Was this it? Were they coming to finish me off? The door opened and Gran appeared. or what used to be Gran, I assumed. She made her way slowly down the steps. I tugged on the ropes harder, trying to escape. When she reached the bottom of the steps, she crossed her arms and looked at me. There was no sign of any hip injury. Did she really hurt her hip? If not why call me here? Was this her plan all along? With a heavy sigh, she reached out and snatched the cloth from my mouth. I spat on the floor trying to rid myself of the taste of whatever was on that cloth. “What are you going to do with me?” “That depends on you. who have you told about us?” “No one,” I said. And then I realized that might not be the best answer. If she believed me there was reason to keep me around. “Really? So you saw our true forms through the stone and you total no one?” “Who would believe me?” “You could have shown the proof.” She had a point. Why didn’t I do that? But I guess I was worried that if I did they wouldn’t see what I saw, and I find myself locked up. “What are you?” Gran smiled me, the first smile I had seen on her face and it looked malicious. “We are the old ones, we walked the earth long before you. We want it back.” “And my Gran? Where is she?” Gran cocked her head to the side. “Gone. Poor dear slipped in the shower. I was going to take her then and there but someone found her and called an ambulance. So I waited until she came home.” That was why I got called, we found out while she was still in hospital. “How many have you taken over?” She walked back and forth from the front of me. “Ethel was the first up. but we quickly spread. She went wandering in the cave.” “Can you just take over any bodies or how does it work?” I could feel the rope start to give on one of my hands. I needed to keep moving it but I need to keep her talking. And if she did kill me, I wanted to know why. “Yes. We push them out and take their place. Bit by bit the body becomes more ours. to the world we look like the person we took over, but you managed to see through that.” “Why her? Why an old lady?” She laughed at that. “Why not an old lady? Who would suspect us?” There was something in the way she said it that made me wonder if she was lying. Maybe they could only take over old people. Maybe they put up less of a fight. “What are you going to do with me? My mother’s is going to notice I’m missing. She’ll call the police and they’ll lock you away.” Gran threw her head back and laughed. “Really? If the police came do you really think they would suspect little old me?” No, they wouldn’t. Why would they? She was an old lady with a bum hip, and I was her wayward granddaughter who didn’t want to be here in the first place. “Are you going to kill me?” I had to know. Gran arched an eyebrow. “It’s yet to be decided. I’ll see what the others say when they get back.” The door bang shut above us. “Speak of the devil.” Linda and Ethel clattered down the stairs together. “Well?” Gran asked. “We’ve been speaking to a few people and according to them she went into the library. She spoke to some man.” Gran looked over at me. “Care to explain?” What was I going to tell them? I didn’t want to send them after some innocent guy who was just trying to help me. “I was just…I just asked about hag stones, that’s all. I didn’t tell him anything else.” They looked at each other probably trying to decide whether I was telling the truth or not. Gran motioned to the stairs and they made their way back up. No doubt to decide what happened to me. Shut away again in the dark, I started to cry. 9 I could hear the muted voices of the woman upstairs as they discussed what to do with me. I had to get out. Pulling harder on the rope, I managed to cut into my skin but I didn’t care. What they would do to me was worse. Finally, I yanked my hand free, taking off a layer of skin in the process. Hissing in pain, I cradled my hand to my chest for a moment. Then I started to untie the rope on my other hand. Once I was free, I made my way up the stairs. They locked the door. How was I going to get out? There was no other way out of the basement. I would have to wait until one of them came in and then try and make a run for it. But they were so strong. If they got hold of me… Heading back down the stairs quietly as possible, I looked for some kind of weapon. Granted didn’t have much in the basement. I found a gardening trowel, a few plant pots and a watering can. The trowel would have to do. Taking hold of it, I headed back up the stairs to wait. There was a space to the right of the door. If I hid there in the shadows I might just get a hit off. The trowel clutched tightly in my hand, I tried to think where to go if I did escape. I couldn’t go to the cops they wouldn’t believe me. What if I tried that Malcolm guy again? Or just left home as fast as possible? I have to get out first. The sound of footsteps filled the air as one of them headed toward the door. My heart beat loudly in my chest. This was it. If I screwed this up, I was never getting out. Pressing myself back into the darkness as far as I could possibly go, I waited. The door unlocked. “I’ll be back in a minute,” Linda said. She opened the door and took a step inside, her attention on the room behind her. Seeing that she was distracted, I launched forward swinging that trowel as hard as I could into her neck. I missed and hit her on the shoulder instead, but it went in, drawing blood. She shrieked in pain. I shoved her as hard as I could and ran for the door. The other two grabbed at me but they missed. I got outside and just started running with no destination in mind. Before I knew it, I was on the beach, where this nightmare started. If I could reach the end I’d hit town and then I could try and get to the bus station. It was a cold and wet night and there was nobody about. No one to help me. Glancing back, I screamed in fright when I realized that the three of them were chasing me. Not only that but they were gaining on me. How were they so fast? Throwing everything I had into it, I kept running, head down arms pumping. Please don’t let him catch me. The end of the beach was in sight. Just a few hundred yards more and I’d be free. Then they hit me from behind and I went down. Twisting in their grasp, I tried to get away, but all three of them piled on me, pressing me into the sand. “Help me,” I screamed. Ethel slapped her hand over my mouth. “What do we do?” she asked. “We don’t have a choice. Let’s use your body.” “It won’t work. We already know that the young ones don’t take as well. Most of them die.” Gran shrugged. “So what? We might as well try then.” “No,” I said from behind Ethel’s hand. They couldn’t do this. Someone had to be around. I kicked out, trying to get free. Linda held me down as Gran started to chant, raising her hands in the air. A rumble of thunder came from the distance. Please someone help me. Black smoke appeared above me. It circled me slowly and I knew this was it. Ethel moved back, removing her hand. “Please don’t do this,” I sobbed. The black smoke launched at me, rushing into my mouth, filling my body. And then I was gone. 10 I opened my eyes to find the others standing over me. Sitting up, my hands went to my chest, feeling my new heart beat. “It worked,” I breathed. “This is promising. Now we can take the young too,” Linda said. Getting to my feet, I tested out my new body. It felt strange, but also good. These mortals didn’t know how good they had it, walking in this world while we had been banished to another realm. We had been trying for years to get a foothold, but now we had more options. “We need more,” I said. The voice was strange, but powerful. “Of course. But we need to be careful. We can’t draw attention to ourselves. This body will be useful in drawing the young,” Ethel said. “Come, let’s get back to the house.” We made our way across the beach, while I scanned the horizon, checking that no one had seen us. If they had, I could claim I fainted and my kindly grandmother and her friends were helping me. Humans were so gullible. They bought whatever you told them. Back at the house, I surveyed the room. These old people lived in such squalor. Well, that would soon change. When our numbers grew, we would take over this pitiful town and then beyond. Moving to the mirror on the wall, I studied the girl’s face. Innocent looking. No one would suspect her, just like the old people. It made luring them so much easier. Some fought back and we had to be careful until we had the numbers. The others came into the room behind me. “How many?” I asked. “So far we have fourteen in place.” I hissed. “No. That’s not enough. We need to increase that quickly.” Linda stepped forward. “We have a couple lined up, but we advise caution. This world…some of the humans notice the change. We don’t want to alert them.” I spun to face them. Her caution made her weak. We were the superior species. “The humans are stupid. Even if some of them noticed, no one would believe them. I want a dozen new bodies by morning.” Linda backed off, but I saw Ethel balk. “Something to say?” I asked. Ethel cleared her throat. “We have been working on this plan for months, you can’t come in here and…” I threw out my hand toward her and Ethel stopped talking. She started to choke, clawing at her throat. The other two quickly backed away. “Does anyone else want to question me?” I asked. They shook their heads. I released Ethel and she fell to her knees. “If we increased numbers, we can take this town in days, not months. Especially now we know we can take the young bodies too.” “What if they start dying though? She might be a fluke.” I smirked at her. “That’s too bad. The humans have had this place long enough. We will take control. Let’s get to work.”  USA Today Bestselling Author S. K. Gregory writes urban fantasy, paranormal romance and horror stories. Rarely seen without a pen in her hand, she loves writing about supernatural worlds and the creatures that live within them.
An avid reader and chocoholic, she has been creating fantasy worlds since she was a child. When she isn’t writing, S. K. enjoys binge-watching her favorite shows and hanging out with family and friends. To preorder your copy of Chills & Thrills Volume 2, click the button below.  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.
 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! |
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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.” 
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