Fall 2013

Ghost Hunting

pants. He reseated his dark blue cap on top of his head, revealing a shock of white hair underneath it. “Let me go over the checklist with you. I just finished up the installation of your system.”

“Okay,” said Miranda, following the man into her living room.

“Now, here is your keypad. There is one here at the front door and one at your kitchen door. Here is your instruction booklet. It will show Editor s note: We are proud to run this chilling chapter from Kirsten’s exciting you how to program your security system for the delay so you can get new novel, Inside Dweller, due out in 2014. through the door and disarm it, how to program your code, etcetera.

You don’t have to program both of them. You program one, the other “Are you sure the police checked the whole house?” Alison spoke programs as well. We recommend you change your code at least on speaker phone as she packed up boxes in her living room. every month.” He looked down at his clipboard. “Now you have a “Yes, for the fortieth time, they have checked the whole house,” camera in every room. The larger rooms have cameras at every angle. said Miranda, sighing exasperatedly. She shook her head as she looked at Steven, rolling her eyes and pointing to the phone receiver. The smaller rooms have cameras covering all the doorways and windows, so no one can get in or out of any of those rooms without Steven put his hands up, shrugging his shoulders, and smirked. being recorded.” He led them to Miranda’s work space in her living “Maybe I should come over and check it myself,” Alison said. room. She had a big desk with her computer equipment, her filing “No, no. Steven is here with me at my house. The police did a walk cabinets, and a laptop sitting in the middle of the desk. “All the through with us. We checked every single nook and cranny of this house. I promise. And they’re almost done now putting in the security cameras are hooked up to this laptop, which you chose to be dedicated to the security system, and the program we installed on it system. You do not have to come over.” records for twenty four straight hours. Once the recording is “Okay. Only if you’re sure. I trust you. I trust Steven too. This has completed, it automatically files it for you in a folder, and you can been nerve wracking.” view them at your leisure.”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry I’m such trouble.”

“Great.”

“Oh, honey. You’re no trouble at all. You never have been,” said “We suggest you keep the laptop out of sight, so if anyone does Alison warmly. “It’s everything else in life that’s troublesome.” breach your security system, he won’t be able to access the Miranda smiled and shook her head. “I can only aspire to be as recordings of himself.” good as you are.”

“When I checked into getting this system, the salesperson told me “Oh, honey. You’re already there.” the only case you had of the person breaching the security system “Okay, enough sweetness, before I need an insulin shot.” was someone who was familiar with the house and saw the person “Ha ha, yeah. So, when are the ghost hunters coming over?” put in their code.”

“Ugh, don’t call them that. They’re paranormal researchers.”

“Yes, this is true. However, we always try to prepare for every “Yeah, those. When are they going to be over?”

“Tonight, actually. The brothers who run the organization know my possible scenario. Okay, Miss Sheppard, unless you have any other questions, just sign here. And remember you have a year warranty on doctor. They rearranged their schedule to come over when Dr. any of the equipment, but the service is nonrefundable.”

Gallagher told them about my case.”

“I understand. Here you go,” Miranda said, signing the page and “What time? I’ll come over.” handing it back over. “Your name again?”

“You don’t have to. It’s okay.”

“Harry.”

“Yeah, you really think that’s going to work? I’m coming over,” “Okay, thanks Harry.” Miranda stuck out her hand and shook Alison said firmly. “What time are they going to be there?”

Harry’s hand.

Miranda rolled her eyes and sighed. “About eight.”

“I’m just going to collect my tools and I’ll be off. Have a nice day.”

“Fine, I’ll see you at seven. And quit rolling your eyes at me.”

Harry nodded and exited through the front door.

Miranda laughed.

“Well, there goes taking a trip or buying another Corvette for a “Yep, can see you right through the phone. See you at seven.” while,” Miranda laughed and shook her head.

“So, Alison’s coming over to check through your house, isn’t she?”

“Yes, but the fact you’re going to be safe now is priceless,” said Steven said, smiling when Miranda hung up.

Steven, circling his arms around her waist.

Miranda laughed. “Yeah. You’re starting to get her, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I guess so,” she said, smiling and kissing Steven on the “Was she always like this?” lips.

“Well, for the first couple of years after my parents died, we were Steven smiled back. “Oooo,” he said as he kissed her again. both just walking around in a fog. It didn’t feel real, you know. Then “Helloooo,” they heard as Alison rapped on the kitchen door. She when I was thirteen, I really started to act out. I got really angry. You saw what I went through, dying my hair, looking like death. I was just turned the knob and let herself in.

Miranda and Steven laughed. “She has a knack for interrupting at tired of having to go on with life, having to pretend that everything the wrong moments, doesn’t she?” Steven said. was just the same when it would never be the same again. I wanted “You really are starting to get her.” Miranda said smiling. my old life back, and I was just so pissed that I couldn’t get it. It “Hi, guys,” Alison said, setting down a couple of big paper bags on wasn’t fair. That’s when she figured out how to step up. Then I was the counter. Steven and Miranda walked over to the kitchen. “I pissed because she was doing that skydiving. For years, every time thought it would be nice to have some dinner together. I stopped at she went up in that plane, I would think she wasn’t coming back and your favorite Chinese restaurant.” she’d leave me alone. But she kept at me. She wouldn’t give up.”

“Hi,” Miranda said, walking over and kissing her on the cheek.

“I guess her leaving you alone was something you never had to “Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you. It smells delicious. How worry about. It almost seems like she set out to prove that to you.” did you get over here so quickly with all that food?”

Miranda laughed. “Yeah, ain’t it the truth?”

“I called ahead, of course. I brought all your favorites.”

“Miss Sheppard,” said a man as he peeked into the kitchen. He “Yeah, I’m pretty hungry,” said Steven, trying to peer over wore a dark blue collared shirt, which had Secure Home and Business Miranda’s shoulder into the bags. embroidered on the shirt pocket resting over his heart, and tan “Good, I brought plenty. So, why don’t you give me the tour and

by Kirsten Schuder

10

FALL 2013

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

show me this security system on steroids you got?”

“I’ll get the food ready,” said Steven, getting out the plates and silverware.

“Alison, if you want to check out the house for yourself, why don’t you just say so?”

“Miranda, I want to check out the house for myself.”

Miranda rolled her eyes, blew out air between her lips, and shook her head. “Fine, go nuts.”

Alison clapped her hands and smiled. “Yay,” she said excitedly, took off her jacket and gloves, and scurried down the hallway.

“Just, don’t touch my stuff,” Miranda yelled after her, her voice trailing off.

“I see this family has strong headed women in it,” Steven observed.

He took the plates, napkins, and silverware over to the dining room table.

“More like bullheaded,” Miranda laughed. “Yes, me included. I guess you have your hands full.” She helped Steven set the table.

“It’s funny. When you meet Alison, she doesn’t really seem like that.”

“Yeah, I know. When you get to know her, though, you start to realize she always gets her way. She won’t nag, and she won’t argue.

She’ll just keep at you, always with a smile. Unless you know her, you don’t even realize what’s happening.”

“What do you want to drink?”

“Just water.”

“Alison brought soda.”

“Yuck. That’s okay. I don’t like the bubbles, or all that sugar. It gives me a headache.”

“More for me,” said Steven, smiling.

The front doorbell rang. Miranda walked to the door and opened it.

“Dr. Gallagher, hello.”

“Hi, Miranda. Sorry, I guess I’m early. I was at a store nearby, and it didn’t make sense for me to go all the way back across town.”

“Not at all. Come on in. It seems to be the trend for today,” Miranda said, smiling. Dr. Gallagher stepped inside. “Here, let me take your coat.” Dr. Gallagher handed Miranda his coat and baseball cap, which—to Miranda—appeared to be as out of place with his suit as his beard. NESP was sewn onto the front of the hat. She took his coat and hat, hung them on a hanger, and put them into the closet opposite the front door. “Would you like to have some Chinese food with us?” she asked as she led Dr. Gallagher to the dining room.

“No, thanks. I just ate.”

“How about something to drink.”

“No, I’m fine, thanks. I’ll just keep you company.”

“That sounds nice,” Miranda smiled.

Dr. Gallagher was careful to mentally note as many details as he could about Miranda’s house. The front door was not in the middle of the front like most houses. It was off to the left corner of the house.

The path leading to the front door started at the middle of the house, then veered off to the left. There was a little overhang area where he had rung the doorbell. When he walked into the front door, there was just a small vestibule and the hall closet. Just beyond was a large living room. Through the living room, one could see a small dining room just large enough for the table and chairs. The tiny kitchen lay directly behind the dining room, and behind the kitchen, a hallway that lay diagonally to the entrance of the living room, where he imagined was a small bathroom and stairs to access the second story.

The décor was simple. White walls, tons of photos, shelves with knickknacks, a few plants, the couch, a couple of lounge chairs, a television with a small stand right off the kitchen, and her workspace in the corner by the windows. In the dining room, he saw Steven preparing the white cardboard containers from Lee’s Chinese Restaurant in the middle of the table with serving utensils.

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“Dr. Gallagher, this is my boyfriend, Steven,” Miranda said when they reached the dining room.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, shaking Steven’s hand.

“Likewise. Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat? I’ll set another place for you.”

“Thanks, really, no. It smells great, but I’m full.”

“Okay, more for…” Before Steven could finish his sentence, Miranda took one of the cloth napkins and threw it into his face. Steven laughed. Dr. Gallagher smiled. Miranda narrowed her eyes at Steven.

Alison walked into the dining room. “Dr. Gallagher, this is my sister, Alison,” said Miranda.

“Oh, nice to meet you,” said Alison, walking over and shaking Dr. Gallagher’s hand. “Now I have a face to match the phone voice.”

“Yes, nice to see you too,” Dr. Gallagher smiled.

Miranda looked at Alison. “Are you satisfied now?” she asked her with her arms crossed.

“Yes, quite. I didn’t find any hobos living in your attic or anything, no secret passageways. Nice security system.”

“Good. I’m glad you feel better.”

“Yes, I got to see for myself.”

“Dr. Gallagher, why don’t you have a seat?” Miranda asked, pointing to the dining room chair next to him.

“Thanks,” he said, sitting. “So, the police didn’t find anything?”

“Nope, and Alison didn’t either,” Miranda said, pushing out her lips and scrunching her nose at Alison as they all sat down. Alison and Steven laughed. Dr. Gallagher smiled politely.

“I just wanted to see for myself,” Alison explained, looking at Dr. Gallagher and putting her napkin on her lap.

“So, are you nervous about tonight?” Dr. Gallagher asked Miranda.

“Yes, a bit. I have no idea what to expect. I’m nervous that they’ll find something, and I’m nervous they won’t find anything. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I think we’re all a little nervous,” said Alison, accepting containers of food as Steven passed them around the table from himself to Miranda and Alison. “Here, Miranda,” she said, passing a container to Miranda.

“Thanks,” Miranda said, spooning a little and putting it on her plate.

“So, Dr. Gallagher,” Miranda said. “You seem like you work with your hands a lot. Do you have a hobby outside of listening to other people’s woes?”

Dr. Gallagher mentally noted Miranda’s intention to shift the focus of the conversation off of her. “Yes, actually. I like to rebuild old cars and work on my motorcycle.” Dr. Gallagher smiled as he glanced at the small cuts and the telltale traces of black grease on the back of his knuckles backyard mechanics can never seem to scrub clean.

“Oh, you mean like muscle cars?” asked Steven between bites of food.

“Yes, those, and all sorts of classic cars. I’m rebuilding a Camaro now.”

“What year?” asked Steven.

“1980.”

“Nice. What did you pay for it?”

“It wasn’t running. It needed new bearings, so I got it for fifty bucks.”

“Wow. Next time I need to buy a car I’m going shopping with you,” Alison said.

Dr. Gallagher laughed.

“So, you restore the cars, then, for show?” Steven asked.

“No, I like to take them to the track and race them.”

Steven raised his eyebrows. “Oh, around an oval track?”

“In a straight line. Drag racing.”

“Nice,” said Steven.

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“Well, Dr. Gallagher, you are certainly full of surprises,” Miranda said. “I have another question for you.”

“Yes?” “What do those initials stand for on your baseball cap?”

“NESP? The New England State Prison.”

“Oh? Did someone you know work there?”

“I worked there for four years when I was in my twenties. My hired position was officially a correction officer, but because of my training and background in counseling, I eventually took over the night shift counseling, since I was on third shift, and the hired counselors would turn their beepers off at night. After a while, they were calling me at home to handle a lot of the counseling because many of the inmates didn’t want to talk to the hired counselors. That’s when I decided to go back to school and get my Ph. D. in Clinical Psychology.”

“Wow,” said Alison, her eyebrows raised. “Dr. Gallagher, is prison really as bad as it’s portrayed in the movies?”

“No. It’s worse.”

“Worse?” asked Steven.

“Yes. Worse. Just imagine what it’s like being in hell. That’s what being in prison is like, and then some.”

“Is that why you only worked there for four years?” Miranda asked.

Dr. Gallagher paused, looking steadily at Miranda. “Correction officers typically have a shelf life of only four years. That’s the average rate of burnout. Four years in prison time is more like forty for any other profession.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean…” Miranda started.

“No, nothing to be sorry about. People just can’t understand unless they go through the experience. And that experience, my dear,” Dr. Gallagher said warmly, “is something I pray you never have to live through.” Miranda smiled slightly as she felt her cheeks getting warm.

“You certainly are an interesting man, Dr. Gallagher,” said Alison.

“Nah, not really,” said Dr. Gallagher, waving his hand.

The doorbell rang. “Could that be them already?” Miranda asked as she got up from the table and jogged to answer the front door.

Miranda opened the door to see two gentlemen. “Ms. Miranda Sheppard? Hi, I’m Mike Cavanaugh, and this is my brother Joe Cavanaugh. Sorry we’re a little early.” Mike stuck out his hand to Miranda.

“Hi,” she said, shaking Mike’s then Joe’s hands in turn. “Come in, please.” They smiled and nodded, stepping into the foyer. Stamford Paranormal Research Society was embroidered into their baseball caps and jackets.

“When Dr. Gallagher told us about your case, we moved some things around in our schedules to come right away,” said Joe. “We thought we’d get an early start and get our equipment set up to see if we could get some extra time in because of the extreme nature of your situation.”

“We consider your case to be a high priority because of the threat of physical harm,” said Mike.

“Well, thank you,” said Miranda. “I really appreciate you coming here so quickly, and it’s okay you’re here early. Everyone has been showing up early all day. I think we’re all really excited to get some resolution to this problem I’m having. Come on in.” Miranda led them into the living room.

“Hey, Joe, Mike,” Dr. Gallagher stood up from the table, walked to the living room, and shook their hands. “Thanks for coming so quickly.” Alison and Steven stood up and walked into the living room.

“Mike, Joe, this is my sister, Alison, and my boyfriend, Steven,” said Miranda.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” said Mike as they all shook hands.

“Here, please sit,” Miranda motioned to her living room furniture.

Mike, Joe, and Dr. Gallagher settled in on the couch. Miranda and Steven sat down in the recliners.

“Hey, may I get anyone some drinks? Do you want some Chinese food? There’s plenty,” Alison offered.

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“Oh, no thanks, we’re good,” said Joe. Mike nodded in agreement.

“Dr. Gallagher, Steve, Miranda?” Alison asked.

“No, I’m good, thank you,” said Dr. Gallagher.

“Me too,” said Steven.

“No, thanks a bunch,” said Miranda.

“Okay, I’ll get the table cleared off and the food put away then.”

“Aw, thanks so much,” said Miranda, smiling after her sister as she started the task.

“Miss Sheppard,” started Joe. “Miranda, please.”

“Okay, Miranda. We have a procedure we follow for each site we investigate. First, we’ll interview you and any witnesses to hear first hand accounts of the activity within the home. Then we will have you take us on a tour of your home, and we’ll set up equipment in the hotspots, places where there seems to be concentrations of activity.

Then we’ll conduct our investigation. We’ll be here for the evening probably into the early hours of the morning. Does that sound okay?”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

“Okay, if you don’t mind, would you please share with us what happened?”

Miranda sighed. “Yes. A couple of weeks ago, I was on my way out, and I saw a man with his face shadowed over, brown leather jacket, and he said something to me that sounded like a growl, like lights out, and he hit me in the head with a wine bottle.”

“Oh, no,” said Joe, a worried look on his face.

“Well, no need for concern. When I awoke, I was in the hospital, and my doctor ran some tests and checked me out, and there wasn’t any sign of an injury at all.”

“What?” said Joe and Mike with shocked looks. “Get out,” said Joe. “The reason we’re calling you is Dr. Gallagher helped me realize I wasn’t the only one that experienced something in the house.”

“Who else experienced something here?” asked Mike.

“Alison did, my sister. Ali,” Miranda called.

“Yep, coming,” Alison said, wiping her hands with a dishtowel and walking over. She sat on the chair opposite the easy chairs on the other side of the coffee table and couch. “Yes. Miranda had gotten into a really bad car accident. We weren’t sure she was going,” Alison paused as her voice broke. “Sorry, it’s still hard for me to talk about,” she said as she wiped tears from the corners of her eyes.

“That’s alright,” said Joe. “Sorry to hear about it. That must have been difficult.”

“It was. We weren’t sure she’d pull through. When I got her home from the hospital, finally, I was here taking care of her. We had both fallen asleep here on the couch. I got up to bring my bag to her spare bedroom and wash up a bit. While I was in the bathroom down the hallway over here,” she said, pointing down the hallway behind the kitchen, “I heard something, a rustling sound and a banging. I ignored it. Then I heard it again, so I walked out into the hallway. I saw a figure, a man or something, and I took the lamp in the hallway out of the socket to use as a weapon, just in case.”

“Sounds a little scary,” said Mike.

“It was a little creepy. I started slowly down the hallway, then Miranda turned on the light.”

“So, you don’t think what you saw was Miranda, then?” asked Joe. “No, it couldn’t have been.”

“Why is that?” asked Mike.

“Well, the build of the figure I saw would tower over all of us. Her hair is long, the person I saw in the hallway, and you can tell his hair was short. I could see the bulk from his jacket, and I knew Miranda was sleeping and she didn’t have her jacket on.”

“Oh, so you could actually see the form of the person?” Mike asked.

“Yes. But when Miranda turned on the light and absolutely nothing was there, I thought I just imagined it and I put it out of my mind, until now. I didn’t even really remember it happened until Miranda brought it up. Then it all seemed to fit together.”

FALL 2013

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

“Plus, you should know, I saw the same man a couple of hours before he hit me and at the hospital when I just woke up and recovering,” said Miranda.

“Really?” Mike said with his eyebrows raised.

“Yes. When I was in and out of consciousness, I saw him standing over me. I thought he might have been part of the hospital staff or something, but he had that same leather jacket on. I had forgotten about it until he confronted me in my kitchen. I saw him earlier that day too, in the mirror of my bathroom, but I thought I was just seeing things because I had a migraine that day.”

“I never heard of a case like this,” said Joe. “But we’ll see if we can get some answers tonight.”

“Why don’t you show us where the three incidents occurred, and we’ll get our cameras and equipment set up,” said Mike.

“Okay, let’s go to the kitchen,” said Miranda, standing up. Everyone stood up and followed her to the kitchen. “It was right there, right in front of the door,” she said, pointing.

“Was it still light out?” asked Mike.

“Yes, and his face was still shadowed over. I still couldn’t see any distinctive features.”

“Huh,” said Joe. “So, he just appeared out of nowhere?” asked Mike.

“Yes. As I was leaving, he was right here where we are standing now. He grabbed an empty wine bottle I had on the counter, right here.”

“And it’s really narrow, so you couldn’t get past him,” said Joe. “Yes. And then he said ‘lights out’, then hit me over the head.

Steven found me and rescued me. I was unconscious until later that evening, when I woke up in the hospital.”

Joe shook his head. “God. That had to be scary.”

Miranda nodded.

“Steven, can you please tell us what happened?”

“I wish I knew,” he said. “When I arrived and looked through the window here, I saw her in her jacket on the floor. I had to break a window to get in, through the living room.”

“Did you see or hear anything unusual in the house? Smell anything?” asked Mike.

“No, nothing. No signs of forced entry, no smells, nothing.”

“Just to let you know, the police have been through the house, twice now, and they haven’t found anything,” said Alison.

“Huh,” Mike said, shaking his head. “Well, why don’t you show us where you had your experience, Alison.”

“Yep,” Alison said, as she turned and walked down the hallway. “I was in the bathroom when I heard a noise in the living room. As I said before, I thought I was just hearing things, so I ignored it. Then I heard it again, and some rustling noises, some footsteps, sort of like heavy footsteps, like someone had on a pair of boots. I know Miranda didn’t have boots on. When I came out of the bathroom and looked down the hallway, I was very concerned, because I saw what looked like a guy, right here,” she said, pointing down to the floor. “As quietly as I could, I took the lamp out of its socket, and I tried to sneak down the hallway. Then the light turned on, and it was Miranda.”

“Did you hear Miranda get up or anything?” asked Joe. “No, I didn’t, actually.”

“But, you heard the footfall of boots, though?” asked Mike.

“Yes.” “Well, that is unusual, considering there is wall to wall carpeting in the living room and dining room,” observed Joe. “Yes, that’s true,” said Alison.

“Is it possible you heard the footsteps in the kitchen, and it just sounded like they were in the living room?” asked Mike.

“Well, I’m not sure,” said Alison.

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is occurring, and sometimes, we can’t explain the phenomenon,” said Joe. “But we’ll be testing out this situation to see if we can recreate the phenomenon. We call it debunking. If the phenomenon can be recreated, then we have provided a reason for the phenomenon to occur. If we can’t, we’ll let you know,” said Mike, looking at Miranda.

“Okay,” she said.

“Is this the bathroom where you had your experience, Miranda?” asked Mike, pointing down the hallway.

“Yes.” “I think all the activity is centered right around here on the first floor, in this half of the house,” said Mike to Joe. Joe nodded. “We should set up the cameras here, here, and here,” said Joe pointing to the three spots they covered with Miranda, Steven, and Alison.

“I see you have a major security system here. I suggest you keep your eye on the footage and look through it every day to see if anything shows up on the video system,” said Joe. “We have come across some very good evidence of the paranormal with security cameras.”

“Alright. That sounds like a good suggestion,” said Miranda.

“Would you like to show us the rest of the house, and we can get started?” asked Joe. “Sure,” said Miranda, leading everyone to the other parts of her house. * * * Miranda sat on the couch with Alison and Steven and watched as Mike and Joe set up their cameras in front of the kitchen, the bathroom, and the hallway. As far as brothers went, they did not resemble each other very much. Mike had light skin, a stocky build, blue eyes, and was completely bald. Joe was thinner, had darker skin, brown hair, and brown eyes. When Miranda made this observation, Mike laughed. “We get that a lot. Joe is the spitting image of my mother, and I look just like my father. Irish side,” he said, pointing to himself, “Italian side,” he said, pointing to Joe. Miranda smiled. “Ah, I see.”

“Wow, look at all this equipment. How does one afford all of this?”

Alison asked.

“We do this out of our own pockets. Our wives aren’t very happy about it,” said Mike.

“Yeah. Mine constantly asks me if I could just take up building model airplanes in the garage instead,” Joe laughed.

Alison and Miranda giggled as the men chuckled, all except for Dr. Gallagher. Miranda looked at him and smiled. “You’ve been very quiet,” Miranda observed.

“I’ve just been trying to pay attention. I’ve only been on one other outing with these gentlemen. I’m always very interested to see the equipment they’re using, the features it has, what it does.”

“Yes, that is very interesting. You have an interest in gadgets?”

“More like photography, originally. I think it’s fascinating there has been such an influx in capturing images of unexplainable figures, orbs, mists, and things like that.”

“Me too.”

“Oh, yes, I saw all the photos you have on your walls. What is your favorite subject to photograph?”

“I take trips around the world every year. Or at least I did before my accident. With the security system, now,” she said, sweeping her hand towards the security cameras, “it’ll be a while until I can get back to my hobby. I guess my hobby is expensive too,” she smiled.

“Oh, believe me, I know all about expensive hobbies,” Dr. Gallagher smiled.

Miranda laughed. “Yeah, racing isn’t exactly cheap.”

“No, it isn’t,” Dr. Gallagher smiled.

“Okay,” said Mike, standing up from the floor when he was done

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running the wires and positioning the camera. “All the computer equipment is set up, as well as the cameras. Since this is such as small place, we suggest you all go somewhere for coffee for an hour or two so we can run all the equipment in all the rooms. We have cameras on tripods on all the hotspots, and we will have hand held cameras with us as well as our other gadgets in all the rooms. We are going to do a sweep through and record as much on audio and video as we can. Having no one in here but us ensures that the noises we hear are not from anyone else, and other people’s movements in the house will not contaminate any possible evidence we can obtain.”

“Mike is going to do a run through of the house, then I will. Then when you return we’ll do another run through with Miranda. Then we’ll review all the evidence and get back to you in a few days,” said Joe. “It usually takes us a week, but we are going to step it up so we can get it to you sooner,” said Mike.

“Thanks for that, really. I appreciate it,” said Miranda. “You guys up for coffee?” she asked Steven, Alison, and Dr. Gallagher.

“Yeah, a cup of joe, that sounds good,” Alison said. Joe stood up and smiled at her. “Oh, um,” Alison said, blushing and giggling.

“Yes, a cup of coffee sounds great,” Steven said, smiling wickedly at Alison. Alison scrunched up her face and stuck her tongue out.

“Do you mind if I stay behind?” said Dr. Gallagher. “I think it will be useful for me to see first hand if they experience anything.”

“Yes, just like the last one,” said Mike. “It’s up to Miranda, though.”

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea,” said Miranda.

“Enjoy your coffee,” said Dr. Gallagher.

“Okay. We’ll be back,” said Miranda. “Let’s all go out through the front. We’ll just walk around to our cars, so we don’t disturb the equipment.”

“Yeah, we should,” said Steven as they walked towards the closet.

“You are such a flirt,” Miranda teased, pinching Alison’s arm lightly.

“I am not,” Alison frowned, moving her arm away and brushing off her sleeve.

“And you’re spoken for too.”

“Shut up.”

“They are kind of cute.”

Alison rolled her eyes and blew out a sigh. “You’re such a child.”

“Hello, boyfriend, standing right here,” Steven said as he helped Miranda and Alison on with their coats. “I can hear you, you know.”

Miranda’s eyes were alight with glee. Now she had something to tease her sister about relentlessly. Best of all, she wouldn’t have to think about what Mike and Joe would find in her house while they were away.

“Oh, I’d love, a cup of jooooeee,” Miranda exaggerated in a high tone, batting her eyes at Alison. Miranda cackled as Alison sighed loudly and stomped out the front door.

“Sisters,” Steven murmured to himself, shaking his head and following Miranda to her car. * * * When Miranda, Steven, and Alison returned from the diner, Miranda had long given up on teasing her sister, and they had settled into a quiet contemplation of what information they would be encountering upon their return.

“It’s been completely quiet,” said Mike when they entered the front doorway. “That doesn’t mean we won’t find evidence on the audio and video. We just haven’t experienced anything while we did our run through of your place.”

“Oh,” said Miranda as she and Alison and Steven took off their coats and put them in the closet.

Alison took her arm and put it around her sister’s shoulders.

Anxiety started to pinch Miranda’s face. They were no closer to knowing what attacked her than they were before. Alison could practically feel the tension building in her sister.

14

“We would like to do the walk through with you now, if you’re up to it,” said Joe as they walked into the living room.

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” Miranda said, relaxing her expression. “I was just hoping for an answer when I got back.”

“I know,” said Mike. “Not knowing is much harder than knowing, being able to identify what it is. We are very lucky with all this technology, because it gives people something tangible they could either accept, if the entity doesn’t pose any harm, or to fight. But,” Mike smiled, “we aren’t finished yet, and don’t despair. Our walkthrough gave us a good base line of what to expect in your home.

From what you told us, the entity seems to be focused on you, even following you from place to place. It’s possible it won’t show itself unless you’re here.”

“Now, we’ll just walk through with you with the video and audio.

Dr. Gallagher, Steven, Alison, would you all like to monitor some of the equipment, and we can all do this together, if you like,” said Joe. “Here, Dr. Gallagher, why don’t you hold the K-2 meter? Alison, would you like the thermal camera? And Steven, how about the EVP recorder?” said Mike, handing out the equipment in turn.

“EVP?” Alison asked.

“Electronic voice phenomenon,” said Steven and Joe at the same time. Steven shrugged. “I like watching those paranormal shows.”

“Yeah, well, now you get to live it,” Miranda said wryly.

Steven looked at Miranda softly and put his arm around her shoulder with his free hand.

“Well, what do we do now?” asked Miranda.

“We can start in your foyer, if you like, then work our way back,” said Mike.

“We are going to walk through the house and see if we can speak with the entity and encourage it to communicate with us, said Joe. “This thermal camera is trippy,” said Alison, pointing the camera around the room.

Joe laughed. “Yeah, it’s strange at first. It’s registering everyone’s heat signatures. Every person and animal will show up as a red to orange color, to indicate a live, physical presence. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve investigated a house for unexplained noises and we found it was because of rodents in the walls. One time, we found a family of squirrels in the attic. Also, if there is something paranormal occurring in the room, it will show up as red or orange.

For instance, once we investigated an attic, and there was an orange heat signature on a chair, and we couldn’t explain why it was there since no one touched or sat in the chair.”

Alison grinned as she focused the thermal camera on Joe while he was speaking. The red and orange colors moved as his mouth was moving. She walked backwards a couple of steps to see everyone’s heat signature.

“Hey, Mike, is this running now? What do I do with it?” asked Steven.

“Yeah, it’s running now. We’re being recorded. Dr. Gallagher, you okay with yours?”

“Yep, I’ve done this before,” he said.

“Oh, yeah, that’s right,” said Mike smiling.

Alison frowned. “Um, Joe, you said everyone should come up as a red or orange, right?”

“Yes, with some blues and greens, occasionally.”

Dr. Gallagher walked over to Miranda. “Are you ready for this?”

Miranda took a deep breath and blew it out. “Yeah, as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“We’re all right here to help you if anything happens,” said Dr. Gallagher in an encouraging tone.

“Yes, I know, and I do appreciate that. I don’t think I could do it without you all.” Miranda took a step closer to Dr. Gallagher until she was right in front of him. “Thank you for setting this up. You’ve really gone out of your way.”

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he Moulton Family Ghouls

y Charles E.J. Moulton

as a family ghost. Or so they say. And when the sounds creep up behind you as if someone is lurking in your hallway, is it the family ghost lurking about? Do you wake up in the middle of the night with a strange face screaming at you in the darkness? When you turn on the light ... is that specter not already gone? And so, we are left with a mystery. It is a mystery that is baffling and sometimes even irritatingly cryptic. On the other hand, that enigma makes us love the unknown. It keeps challenging us to keep discovering our own life as it unfolds, meter by meter, moment by moment.

In the case of the Kronzell-Moulton family, that is: ours and mine, the family ghost was a woman named Mildred. Apparently, this lost but peaceful soul had died in an apartment that my father, Herbert Eyre Moulton, occupied for a short time. Mildred decided just to stick around for a little while longer. I guess she liked my dad. She stuck around long enough for me to write this article.

Accordingly, every proverbial family mystery was blamed on Mildred, every bump in the night and every missing object a friendly reminder from our invisible friend. We even imagined Mildred having a one-legged boyfriend in the other world. Why else would only one sock be missing when we emptied the washing machine?

Mildred, however, is not the only ghost that has honored our family with its presence. During his seven years as an actor in Ireland, my dad had several supernatural encounters. All of them… unexplained.

As a guest at the Eyre Family Mansion somewhere on the spooky Irish west coast, he was awoken at 4:30 one morning by the clanging of pots and pans in the household kitchen. He awoke his great-aunt, asking what that noise was. The woman just answered: “Oh, those are just the ghosts of the kitchen staff. They make a racket at this time of the morning! Nothing to worry about!”

It gets more intense, though. Other than the occasional psychic dog foreseeing an upcoming crisis or my father meeting a long dead local gypsy, his most ghoulish encounter took place one New Year’s Eve in the year of 1963, somewhere close to his ancestor Baron Eyre’s Eyre Court Castle.

That evening, my father’d had a few pints and maybe a few glasses of whiskey. But he was still sober enough to walk home. The performance that evening had “taken the Mickey” out of him and so Herbie decided to saunter off home. After all, it was just a ten minute walk across the field to get there.

“No, no,” the host exclaimed. “Don’t walk across the fairy-field. The bushes that grow there are haunted. If we cut them down, the cows die and our crop turns rotten. Walk around the field, Herbie, or you will get lost and we will never find you again.”

Well, Herbie was tired and longed to sleep in his own bed soon enough. That was why he actually ignored his friend’s advice that night and walked across the field, anyway, when he came to it.

Soon enough, he got lost as promised, wandering about in the darkness. He kept seeing women in gala-dresses, waiters in tuxedos serving champagne and even hearing a pianist playing Cole Portertunes.

After growing desperate, Herbie passed out in the ice-cold snow and first woke up the next morning in the local hospital. His friend, the host of the party, had found him laying unconcious in the snow.

The epilogue of this tale remains as mysterious as it odd. That March 17th, 1963, Herbie was back in Dublin, living on Grafton Street and working at the Gaiety Theatre. St. Stephen’s Green was in full St. Patrick’s Day celebration, when he met an old lady-friend, who seemed to be worried about him.

“Herbie,” she cried. “What were you doing in our Dublin house on 16

New Year’s Eve? You appeared out of nowhere, looking really pale and sick. You stood out in the crowd, being the only one not wearing a tuxedo. I even wandered up to you in my blue gala-dress and tried to convince you to sit down. But you disappeared out of sight and we couldn’t find you after that.”

My father’s soul had been lead astray by the fairies, for one moment travelling over 130 miles to the other coast, just to see his lady-friend.

All of that seemed to have been forgotten later that autumn. He was on a concert tour in Ireland. One night after a late concert, he had talked a friend into giving him and his Irish Sheepdog Fred a bed for the night. The problem was that the husband alone knew Herbie was coming. The wife didn’t and that could become a problem.

Everyone asleep, Herbie still tiptoed inside with his dog. He found his bed, snuggled up and almost fell asleep.

Fred started whimpering, begging for some food, and so the snooze was interrupted. Although my father was unwilling, he slipped into his nightgown, he lit some candles and found a pocket-knife in his bag.

He then wandeed down the stairs toward the kitchen. The sheep’s heart the local butcher had sold him could serve as proper food for the canine. It was the only thing he had with him, anyway. At that moment, the woman of the house appeared on the stairs.

Imagine the horror she felt when she saw the strange man in the nightgown holding a knife and candles ... and a dripping heart.

“It’s all right, Madam,” my father said. “I’m a friend of your husband’s. I’m just going to the kitchen to cut up a heart!”

The woman screamed in fright.

“It’s okay. It’s my dog’s!”

Needless to say, the woman rushed into her bedroom again and was never seen again. At least not until my father left the house.

Ghoulish tales are not only present in my father’s family. Even my mother Gun Kronzell’s ancestors can sport a spectre or two. Her childhood neighbors at Nygatan 16 in Kalmar were the Bobeckerfamily. Valter Bobecker, the family father, was a local journalist, who specialized in researching supernatural tales. He travelled the region on a regular basis, interviewing locals and letting them talk about their encounters with fairies, trolls, goblins and ghosts. One day in 1939, Valter even met an old lady way out on the countryside who claimed that the devil had come to visit her late one night. In the end, however, the demon turned out to be the headlights of a car. There weren’t many cars in the countryside back in 1939. Or had it been a demon?

My mother’s hometown of Kalmar, though, is still a real meltingpot of ghost stories. Not only that. East Sweden’s top tourist attraction presents a lively cultural life, amusement parks, exquisite gastronomy and wonderful nature.

Kalmar’s most prominent landmark is, nonetheless, Scandinavia’s most well kept Renaissance castle. Due to the city’s former position as last bastion before the Danish border, the castle has been elevated to achieve cult status. It was invaded 22 times and protected by over 287 cannons during the high point of its career. Up until 1648 the border lay only 25 miles away and this gave the city its nickname: “The Kingdom’s Key”. Whoever wanted to invade Sweden had to crush Kalmar Castle first.

Needless to say, the 12th century fortress, rebuilt during the Renaissance, is also the home of many spectres and apparitions. This palace was my summer vacation childhood playground. I climbed the cannons, pretending to be a pirate. I wandered about the castle walls, peeking into the gigantic storage towers, calling out the names of the giants my father and I imagined lived there inside: “Brambambus, Trenucheeya,” we called out, “come out!”

In 1982, we also saw a small whirlwind at the corner of the castle moat. Naturally, the two giants had sent the whirlwind to catch us.

Seven years later, working as a trilingual tourguide and inspired by

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“There,” she said and pointed to the ground in front of their tree.

“The quills did that.”

He was stunned. That bloated, steaming, oozing blob could not be his father. Then his mother pointed at their upstairs windows. Two The next two stories are from a writer’s promp: Put your hero up a tree. drooping, glowing red eyes peered out at him through the open window which was right next to a limb from the very tree in which he had taken refuge. Oops. His mother had been right.

“Maybe they’ll go back inside and then you can make a run for it over here.”

“What are they? What’s going on?”

Jimmy was late. Curfew was sacred to the minute in his house and “Your Dad said they were zombies.” he was about to miss it. He released his seatbelt for a quick exit and “Zombies?” whipped the car into his parents drive, then stood on the brakes to “Yes. He said it was his fault. Something he has been working on for avoid hitting the most pitiful creature he had ever seen. He peeled the military. He said there was an accident last week. Somebody got himself off the steering wheel and stared at the drooping red eyes careless and some chemical got into the ground water of a small town peering back at him. It was a porcupine, he thought, but not like any he had ever seen. Of its many thousands of quills, only a few were left by the base. He said it turned every human and animal into zombies.

They thought they had it contained, but a porcupine escaped and sticking up here and there, broken and bent at odd angles. It’s infected other porcupines. He said he thinks the human zombies are normally cone shaped face was swollen and peeling chunks of flesh, its now bulbous nose oozing something orange. The porcupine turned controlling the porcupine zombies, but he doesn’t know how. That’s all he had time to say before they invaded the house. We were lucky and limped into the bushes. to get out. They were everywhere but seemed to home in on your He turned off the car but left the headlights on making sure father and that gave us time. We thought we could outrun them, but whatever that was did not return or at least he would see it if it did. they had a perimeter set up and several came after us once we got to He heard muffled sounds and, thinking it could be more of those things, he decided it wasn’t that far to the front door. He should make the end of the drive, so we opted for the tree. That was four hours ago. Your Dad tried to follow, but he was full of quills and collapsed a run for it, and the sooner the better. He had missed curfew and there would be hell to pay. Best not to make it worse. He opened the down there. “ “Mom, you know porcupines can climb trees,” he yelled back. “Why door and got out fast, the muffled sounds becoming intelligible. He aren’t these?” was stunned to recognize his mother’s voice yelling at him from “They can? I didn’t know that. They have left us alone for hours somewhere behind the car. now.”

“JIMMY! JIMMY! GET BACK IN THE CAR! GO FOR HELP! HURRY! “What are they waiting for?”

KILLER PORCUPINES! YOUR FATHER’S DEAD! HURRY! NOOOOO! “I don’t know. Your Dad didn’t say anything else. I don’t know LOOK BEHIND YOU!” anything about zombies. I didn’t think they existed.”

Jimmy looked behind him and saw three dog-sized bodies “They do Mom. They should leave by dawn. I don’t think they can scrambling in slow motion down the front steps, drooping red eyes stand the daylight.” glowing, orange matter dripping from their noses. These porcupines “Like vampires?” his sister asked. sported fully erect, ready to launch quills with bright orange tips. He “Not exactly. They can live in the light. They just don’t like it. Tires reached for the car door as a bevy of quills struck the back of his them out , maybe. I don’t know. Anyway, if we can last until dawn leather jacket. He felt the impact and reflexively jerked the remote maybe we can get away. Why isn’t the military here?” car door opener. A burning acrid odor reached his nostrils as he “I don’t think they know. Your father was shocked to see the grabbed again for the door and realized he had locked it. Frantically porcupines. He had no idea. He tried to call before the phone lines he turned to see the porcupines closer now and moving steadily, were cut, but they didn’t answer. I don’t think we can count on launching as they came. A giant quill took out the rearview mirror. them.”

Startled, Jimmy dropped the keys. More quills struck the front of his They stopped talking then, each trying to think of a way out. He jacket as the remains of the rearview mirror melted into the car door with a sizzle. He ran for the big oak tree in the curb strip, his mother’s kept an eye on the porcupine in the window. After a time, It disappeared. He hoped it would forget there was an easy path to him. voice once more coming through to him.

He didn’t understand why they didn’t climb the trees and finish them “NO, NO, NO! NOT THAT TREE! THIS TREE! COME TO US!” off. Maybe they could not climb in zombie form.

Too late. He was already at the first branch, forgetting in his haste An hour or so later he saw a multitude of porcupines teeter down to be higher and away than the porcupines could climb. Quills the porch steps and congregate on the front lawn. whizzing around him, his mother and sister yelling, he climbed “They’re coming,” he yelled to his mother and sister. rapidly, slipping here and there, sending waves of adrenaline to urge They moved from the lawn and formed semi-circles around the two on his tiring muscles. The quills stopped. Jimmy was as high as he trees containing humans. He waited for the quills but none came. The could go. He looked down and saw the porcupines were still sending porcupines sat. quills his way, but they could not reach his height. The trunk and “Jimmy, look down the street. Are those people?” lower branches were studded with smoldering quills. Impaled leaves He looked. He could make out human forms now that the moon turned white and then to dust, drifting down to softly coat the porcupines on the ground. The front yard was dotted by quills turning had risen, but they were on foot and moving slowly. Maybe help was at hand. Could they be that lucky? Doubt sprung up in his mind. This orange, the grass around them burning white and then black. The was a military thing gone wrong. Help should be coming from them, porcupines stopped launching but remained under his tree. He felt heat on his back and suddenly remembered the quills in his jacket. He in trucks and vans and jeeps and helicopters. This was a group of humans not in uniform walking slowly. The fear that had eased in the tore it off and dropped it, aiming for one of the porcupines, but the hours since he climbed the tree came racing back and dropped into jacket disintegrated before it reached the ground. his gut like a boulder crashing off a cliff. This was not good .

He looked over at his mother’s tree. “Where’s Dad?” he yelled.

“Mom. Can you see them clearly yet? Are they human or……,” “Did any quills stick you?” she yelled back. (bio on p33) “They’re zombies Jimmy. With axes. “ “No. Where’s Dad?

Night of the Zombie Porcupines

by Ann Robinson

18

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Bruno

by Ernest Hartford pond to his name. Sean called repeatedly from the back porch, but there was no sign of him. The fact that the dog wasn’t asleep under the pine tree—twenty yards away, and the farthest the dog had hobbled from the house in a couple of years—was mildly alarming.

Scrambling up a tree moments later to avoid his gnashing teeth was downright horrifying.

Sean shook the cookie can with his right hand while shielding his eyes from the sun with his left.

“Treat-treat, Bruno! Treat-treat! Here, boy!”

Nothing.

Sean left the porch and walked towards the tree. He peered around the side of the house and followed the fence line with his eyes from the back to the side gate, which was shut. The fence was in good shape all around—aside from one slat he had broken earlier that week, as he attempted to retrieve his football from the rear neighbor’s yard—and the ground was intact. He knew better: Bruno wouldn’t have been able to dig very far with his arthritic joints, and he would have chosen a nap under the shade of the pine tree to such an undertaking any day of the week, unless provoked by something far more alluring than a simple squirrel, or even a cat.

He let out a shrill whistle as he walked towards the front of the house, then once again as he returned without the dog. Could his mother have taken him for a ride? When was the last time Bruno was up to that? He thought.

As unusual as Bruno’s disappearance was, Sean discovered something even more disturbing. In the short time that he had searched for the dog, the sky shifted from a cloudless blue to a deep gray, as a giant rain cloud engulfed the backyard like a murky veil. He caught sight of a blue jay dive-bombing a crow overhead. Isaac Miller was playing handball against his garage door, while his little sister, Amy, and her friends played four-square in the street. He could hear none of these things. He leaned his head to the side, cupping his hand and pounding his ear, as if trying to clear water from the opposing one. Everything was muffled, like he was trapped in a vacuum tube.

He screamed for Bruno—more than anything to see if he could make a sound. His voice sounded tinny and distant, like the radio DJ’s did on his grandfather’s old Zenith. The temperature dropped significantly; Sean watched his breath form a white orb before his face when he exhaled.

He smelled the dog before he felt the bite.

The acrid aroma of sulfur and rot enveloped his head, forcing the air from his lungs. As he gasped he felt a giant tug on his right leg.

“Aaaahh!” he screamed, as needles of pain sank deep into his right calf. He grabbed for his leg and it was then that he saw Bruno, jaws splayed wide and wrapped around his calf, the shredded remains of his pant leg flopped over the dog’s face like strands of a banana peel.

It was Bruno…and it wasn’t. Not the Bruno he knew anyway.

This dog had the same markings—at least what fur that could be seen through the mud and filth that encrusted him—but it was there that the similarities ended. This dog was lean and defined, standing rigid on strong legs as he thrashed back and forth like a puppy with a chew toy. His nails were long and black, more like a bear’s claws than a dog’s, and he used them to bite deep into the hard-packed dirt for traction. Searing pain shot through Sean’s leg. He panicked, grasping the cookie tin with both hands and brought it down sharply over Bruno’s head. The first blow did little to even gain the dog’s attention.

The second and third strikes just evoked more thrashing, as the pain intensified. Sean bit into his tongue and renewed his VOL 8, ISSUE 7

grasp on the can. Fighting through the pain, he raised the can one more time and delivered the blow. The can dimpled and folded almost in half, sending the lid and its contents scattering over the ground. Bruno released and staggered back, shaking his head vigorously. Ropes of thick slobber shot from his mouth and wrapped his head in a gruesome hug.

Sean had to act fast. Running to the house was out—Bruno stood between him and the porch. The tree wasn’t far behind him, though on his damaged leg it would feel like a mile. He bent down, grasping a handful of dirt and cookies and heaving it at the dog. He turned immediately and ran for the tree, not waiting to see the outcome.

Bruno flinched as the cookies pelted his face. He rubbed at his eyes with his front legs, indicating that the dirt had bought Sean a little time.

Every pounding stride racked Sean with pain. His damaged limb was going numb, and he felt like a pirate trying to run on his peg leg. But the tree was drawing closer. The sole of one of his Keds was loose, and it flapped at the heel as he ran, like the mouth of a tormentor mocking him for his futile retreat.

Bruno had gathered himself back together. A dark scowl contorted his face. His jowls drew back to reveal rotting black teeth. The corners of his mouth curled into a hideous grin. He bowed low in the front as though he was stretching, then leapt forward like a frog. As Sean reached the base of the tree, Bruno reached the flapping heel of his sneaker.

As he grabbed for the first branch, Bruno latched onto the sole.

Panicking, he lunged for the next branch and pulled with both arms.

He made some initial progress, only to be tugged backwards by the thrashing dog. Straining, he pulled harder, trying to get a foothold with his injured leg as dry bark shavings rained down on Bruno. His grip was weakening as the dog tugged. His grasp began to open as the strength in his fingers gave out, and he would have plunged to his fate had the sole not detached completely, sending Bruno stumbling backwards. Sean wrapped his legs around the trunk long enough to renew his grip while Bruno shook the sole a few times and spat it out.

He yanked himself to the safety of the first stout bow, about ten feet from the ground, barely quick enough to avoid a fresh lunge at his foot. Centering himself on the bow, he pulled his legs into his chest until his knees met his jaw with a rattling clunk.

He took a shuddering breath, feeling a sharp stitch in his side. He spun his head back and forth, eyes wide, scanning the neighborhood for help. He could feel the chill intensifying; he could see the darkening clouds swirling overhead like batter in a mixing bowl. The Millers were not home, nor were the Castles, nor the Stetsons…nor his mother. A crude four-square pattern of pink chalk could still be seen on Howard Street, contrasting the cracked pavement, but Amy and her friends were gone. Isaac’s blue handball rolled lethargically towards the curb, but there was no Isaac. Sean was alone. Completely alone, save for his beloved dog, who had him trapped like a raccoon, leaning against the tree on his hind legs, a devious, guttural moan rumbling his chest and vibrating the trunk clear up to where Sean sat.

But was he alone?

The man stood at the back fence just beyond Sean’s immediate line of site, until he turned back to meet his eyes. He wasn’t wearing the khaki shorts and Bermuda shirt that Sean and his mother were accustomed to seeing him in when he cooked out on his grill, but rather a mechanic’s blue coveralls, liberally stained with some indiscernible liquid. His customary wool socks and leather sandals were replaced by heavy black boots. Despite the condition of his coveralls his hands and face were impossibly clean, and Sean could see the comb lines in his slicked gray hair from his position in the tree. In his hand, he held an odd blade which appeared to be a cross between a sickle and a paring knife. He was using it to clean the nails of his elongated fingers as he stared intently back at Sean.

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19

Till Death Do You Part

by Darren Wayne Hatch

Where coldness lies, the hollow can survive. The strongest attempts to prevail are smothered by defeat. Weakened by the blow, the strongest are left cold and alone.

Alone at his bedside lay several novels of interest; they were considered to be a passion, a means of escaping from the ordinary realm. The words of others had always been a comfort for Jim since he couldn’t obtain such security and compassion elsewhere. To journey into a world created by the thoughts of another man or woman, one not like his own, just to feel a sense of want and need was the standard justification in his eyes. Jim Wade Williams never had a chance from where he sits, parallel to his bed, his back pressed up against the cement walls with a single lamp adjacent to him, shining enough light to “hide” inside his stories. Each word drew a cold mist of breath, but within these stories he was warm.

Jim’s family, quite dysfunctional in nature, had him perpetually in fear. He took cover in his chamber, unsure of what awaited on the other side of his door.

Mary and Wade Williams had always taken their leisure in the family room, but unfortunately, it wasn’t the place they could escape from their faults and insecurities. Not once did they ever picture life to have taken this turn. They were high school sweethearts whose relationship had blossomed into that of the “prefect couple”—at least that’s what was presumed by friends and family. However, “prefect” had become diminishing in value over the years to where they had been struggling to keep their marriage afloat. Nineteen years together, through sickness and in health, for better and for worse.

Worse it had been. Nights that once raised the excitement and passion for once best friends and lovers had morphed into shouting matches and the throwing of vases bought a hundred times. There were cracks in the mirror, and the relationship was soon to shatter.

As the shouting intensified, the darker Jim felt inside. The noise banged against his bruised psyche. He often pondered the thought of why his parents were married if bickering and dissatisfaction had consumed their lives. Frequently, he would witness altercations that would conclude with nasty utterances, thought only to be heard by one, but Jim seemed to always get the leftovers. The behaviors his parents had demonstrated showed no positive consequence for them or for Jim (and everyone wonders why divorce is such a high commodity now-a-days). The scars he hid day-to-day had never been brought out in public or even revelaed to a trusted companion since Jim had been declared an outcast by his peers. The embarrassment of his family had Jim wishing for a do-over. He tried and tried again to find a way out, but the pain held him still. He was imprisoned inside his own Hell.

Tonight, he had enough with attempting to deal with the redundant manner his parents displayed. It brought nothing but agony to Jim’s soul. Though his scars might metaphorically bleed, he was optimistic that, one day, they would eventually heal. Strong in stride, Jim managed to walk out of his home while his parents, Wade and Mary, were bickering about some tedious misunderstanding—the typical bone of contention. As the door closed, Jim’s parents, without a pause, continued like they were in court, and Jim was no longer part of the jury.

Jim now had a new realm. Outside his home was autonomy.

Uncertain of his future destination, Jim became fond of apathy and took upon a random direction as the night was in its infancy, and the stars were Jim’s only guide to a sense of nirvana.

He walked along the sidewalk, avoiding cracks and various types of people walking the other way. At the local convenience store just VOL 8, ISSUE 7

down the road, Jim grabbed himself an energy drink, paid with a fivedollar bill he found in his back pocket, and sat down outside the store to reflect on his honorable discharge. He was free, but Jim still had to figure out the basics: food, water, and shelter. School had crossed his mind, though it wasn’t a main priority. He had learned more useful skills from the streets than in the classroom.

About halfway through his drink, Jim heard a sound, murmuring in the back alley behind the store where he would find refuge. Inside a cardboard box that was once occupied by a TV set lay a man.

“Hi,” Jim said, slightly anxious to approach the stranger.

“Hello, son,” replied the man. The grey in his beard portrayed a man of knowledge and wisdom. His gleeful crow’s feet suggested that he hadn’t been on the streets for very long. Comfortable he was, and he had no motivation to leave his homemade residence. “What’s your name?”

“Um,” Jim stuttered, remembering the childhood advice of never talking to a stranger, but he had disregard for that nonsense. To him, no one was a stranger anymore. Upon this new encounter came a new boy, “Jim. Jim Wade Williams. Who are you?”

“The name’s Baxter Alexander Hayes.” He reached out to shake Jim’s hand. “Millionaire tycoon turned homeless. I was once on top of society’s hierarchy. I could have almost anything I wanted. I invested everything, everything I had, and now I have nothing, expect my health.” He coughed viciously with a smile.

Jim wasn’t too confident in Baxter’s comment. He took a glance at the ground below him to see splatters and blobs of coughed-up blood. Baxter may have "had” his health but not as of late.

“So,” Jim began to ask the question everyone would want to ask, “What happened to you? How did you lose everything?”

Baxter let out another gross cough, resulting in another droplet next to his boot.

“Well, everything was fine, wonderful, as a matter of fact. I was married. I had a daughter, a beautiful blonde-haired princess. She’ll be nine in a couple months. My wife and I had a three-story ranch that sat on 200 acres with a huge fence, horses, and trees. Oh, it was grand! My family and I were able to vacation everywhere, whenever we felt like it. My father, Alex, helped with the start-up in my business. Partners we were and closer we became. He gave me the knowledge and skills I needed to succeed. He was such an inspirational man, a true influence to me.”

Jim interrupted, “What type of business was it?”

“Oh, excuse me. Since I was young, I had an idea, more like a new revolution in leisure activities. I came up with an idea to build small yachts, ones that could hold about five, six people maybe, something like a party boat but fancier. Each would have a small living room, kitchen-combined area, and a master suite that had a Jacuzzi. Some of the yachts came with large fire pits on the deck, prefect for those chilly nights on the water.”

“Sounds tremendous, Baxter.”

“It was sensational, Jimmy. Is it okay if I call you that?” Baxter asked, unsure of what to expect.

Jim had never thought about it. He was always “James,” “Jim,” or some variation of a curse word that his father was able to conjure up at the moment.

“Yeah, I don’t mind.”

“Well, Jimmy, first the business was going great. After months of booming success, we expanded to the point we had nearly a hundred people working for us. People were traveling hundreds and thousands of miles away to purchase one of my creations. Apparently, the word had traveled fast and far about these intriguing little yachts that were the new hot commodity,” he said with a smirk. “Business was blooming and my father and I quickly reached our first million within our first year.”

Jimmy smiled, impressed to hear such a successful, glorious story of

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Accomplishment. He was beginning to become optimistic about life and that everything could actually get better.

“Baxter, that’s incredible!”

“It was, certainly,” he replied, “until a year or so later when I found out that my father was taking a little more than his negotiated share—about thirty percent more. I was blinded by the joy of success and the dollar signs. I trusted him with finances, the product, THE COMPANY! I lost so much money so fast. Do you know what he was spending his money on?”

Jimmy shook his head, unsure about how to necessarily answer the question.

“ON ANOTHER WOMAN! SOME WHORE, or WHATEVER! He and my mom have been married for almost forty-five years, and he decides to stray away from her?”

The whites of Jimmy’s eyes shined with such hue at the reveal.

Finally, someone else with a horrendous, worthless excuse for a father.

“So,” Baxter continued, “I went to my parents' place to speak with my mother about the infidelity. She openly tells me that she knew about the other woman... that woman.”

“The ‘whore’?”

“Yes, Jimmy. That whore supposedly was to have married my father when he was younger, about your age. But he was young, nervous, and got cold feet a couple of weeks before the wedding. He met my mother a couple years later after he graduated from college, had me, and here we are. Not much to it all.”

“Did you ask her why she didn’t say anything to him?”

“Jimmy, she told me that she was fine with it. About thirty years ago, my mother had an affair with a neighbor of ours, and my father had no idea… at first. He found out and threatened to leave her, but then propositioned for an affair himself. Due to my mother's incompetence in intellect and skills, she couldn’t afford to have my father leave and have to survive on her own, so she complied and allowed him to ‘be with’ someone else. It just happened to be the woman my father actually loved. My mother meant nothing to him, but she didn’t think too much of him either. How they stayed together as long as they did was beyond me.”

Baxter’s face began to develop an acute twitch. Jimmy had noticed once Baxter’s eyes drifted elsewhere.

“Baxter, what’s wrong? What else happened?”

Tears of shame began to cover the rigid face of a man who had not shaved in weeks. Clearly, there were pieces missing from his story, and he knew he had to finish putting them together. What did he have to lose?

Baxter let out a sigh of guilt, one that had been brewing for some time now, “One night, my father was working at the office late. I used to think it was to organize the finances, take inventory and whatnot, but not that night. As I walked through his door, he was in his chair with both hands behind his head and his eyes closed. There was red hair in his lap, bobbing up and down, and I knew my father wasn’t carrying any apples. He saw me, stood up, and turned away from me so he could readjust his zipper without exposing himself to me. A redhead rose up to her feet, gave me this creepy wink, and walked out of the office. It happened to be the new intern we hired. She always tried coming onto me, but I’m a one woman man, so I disregarded her attempts of seduction. At this point, it was just my father and me. We were in a stand-down, like in the Wild West times, waiting for the other to make the next move. I yelled, asking what the hell he was doing. All he could do was shake his head in disappointment. I told him that I knew everything: the affair, mom’s promiscuity, everything. He screamed back, trying to justify his actions, and saying how he hasn’t been happy in years. I approached him. I was appalled and furious that he had the audacity to even try to talk his way out of such a situation. He too grew with anger and 22

slapped me across the face. As I rotated back towards him, I clenched my fist, drew it back, and popped him right in the eye.”

“I’d have to say, Baxter, that’s quite encouraging. I’ve always wanted to stand up to my father, the way you stood up to yours.”

“No, no, Jimmy. That wasn’t it. I saw him lying there on the floor, dazed and weakened by the blow with his eye swelling up to the size of a grapefruit. With his uninjured eye, he saw me picking up the lamp on his desk, and with both hands, THESE HANDS, I reached back and clubbed him right in the side of the head. I sat there on his beer belly, looking into his ‘good’ eye and noticed that he was still conscious. He put up his hands, begging for mercy. He must have asked me to stop a hundred times in a matter of a few seconds, but I was deaf to his words, and I continued to beat his head in. Bam, bam, BAM! The only reason I stopped was because I hit my elbow on his desk which shot pain into my fingers. As I shook my arm to find feeling, I stood up and hovered over the puddle of my father’s blood that his corpse now floated on. The room was black as midnight. The only light present was the brightness of the full moon peering in from the night sky. I dropped the lamp, took off my shoes, and threw any and all evidence into the fireplace my father put in just a few months beforehand. I started a fire and left, knowing that I was now a murderer.”

Jimmy couldn’t believe it. Astonished, both inside and out, he was speechless. So many questions and concerns ran through his head that he didn’t even have time to divide what he wanted to say.

Though this newly obtained fact about his new friend was shocking, he found joy in the tale. Finally, Jimmy gathered his thoughts.

“Baxter, all I can ask is, how did it feel? How did it feel to thwart the one thing stopping you, the one true evil in your life?”

Baxter exhaled, relieved of his story-telling, “It was horrific in the beginning... killing my father. But over time, I began to feel cheerful with a sense of achievement. Weeks later, I filed for bankruptcy, my wife left me and took my baby girl with her. Neither of them knows of my secret, and neither does my mother. But even then, I was happy.

Soon after, I heard that there was an investigation being done about my father’s death. Initially, I was a suspect. I was interviewed, but then left alone by the police and investigators. Since I had nothing left, I packed up what I could and walked the streets where I looked for a home and still am looking. I’ve been on the streets for the past few months, migrating… depending on the temperature and what’s available as a sustainable living area. Right here, at this very spot, I’ve been for almost a month. It’s convenient because the night shift worker at the store allows me to use the bathroom to freshen up once in a while.”

“Don’t you miss it? Any of it?” Jimmy asked. He was baffled that any human would truly enjoy living on the streets and with such a history, though he was mesmerized by Baxter’s bravery.

“Yes, I do, but the freedom I feel is enormously breathtaking. It’s the greatest feeling in the world. No longer am I a prisoner to the community, and no longer do I have to deal with the ways of my father. Once he was out of sight, he was out of mind. I was born again, able to start over.”

“I must say I have to congratulate you, Baxter. My parents are the same way—my father’s an ass and my mother an inadequate member of society. They can’t be in the same room without making some viscious comment to each other. They’ve been married for almost seventeen years, and—” Baxter didn’t mean to be rude, but he had question he had to ask.

“How old are you, Jimmy?”

“I’ll be eighteen in a couple of weeks.”

“See that?” Baxter asked. “She trapped him. Your mother trapped your father after she learned that she was pregnant with you. And now, if they’re anything like my parents, they bicker and argue over the most tedious things and have been for years, right?”

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“Yeah,” Jimmy started to put the pieces of realization together. His father resented his mother, causing them both to look elsewhere for comfort and compassion—Mary to her “friend” Mark and Wade to a bottle of Jack—though they stayed married. “I can’t believe it. It all makes sense now.”

“Jimmy, let me give you some advice: don’t take what I said in my own experience to heart. Go look for yourself at the couples who are struggling every day to find even a minimal amount of happiness in their marriage. Once you see it for yourself, you’ll understand my motive. I’m not proud of what I did, but I do not regret it.”

“It’s the least I can do, Baxter,” Jim said. “It takes a true man to stand up for himself. Thank you, Baxter. I’ve appreciated you and your story. I wish you nothing but the best. I hope everything works out for you.”

“You too, Jimmy. You too.” * * * As the night headed towards dawn, Jimmy strolled the sidewalk, kicking soda cans and rocks while looking for any pair still awake and active for him to observe according to Baxter’s assignment.

Each step brought upon the notion of failure, but the greater distance never weakened Jimmy’s motivation. He approached a home with curiosity. The neighborhood filled with ranch-style houses and grass neatly mowed but not by the owners themselves. The luminosity of the moon was at its peak as the owls took to the sky. Jimmy had finally chosen an example and began to creep towards the home, like an assassin, just enough to peer delinquently through the window He had finally reached his goal: a man and woman yelling at one another. Jimmy could formulate only bits of syntax from their lips. The woman got up in the middle of the night to wash the dishes because she couldn’t sleep knowing dirty ones lay in her sink. The man woke due to the accidental breaking of a plate. They were at each other but not enough for the neighbors to care as they dreamt about how they were going to kiss ass at work the next day. The fact that no one bothered to do anything about this occurrence was flabbergasting to Jimmy. He recalled the “Bystander Effect,” a term he once read in his psychology book from class: people are more likely to not help if they know other people are around. No one was “around” except for Jimmy. The anger built up from within. Memories of yelling and broken furniture came to surface and Jimmy was ready to make a valiant rush, but he halted at the sight of the woman holding a frying pan. With the man’s back turned, she struck him with a swing like Hank Aaron’s. The man was out. Now aware of the severity of the situation, Jimmy ran as soon as saw the man’s back rise from the ground and back down with the woman standing over him. Jimmy didn’t look back, but he now had a reason to move forward.

Could it be that there was no hope in the words of holy matrimony?

Those words had lost their meaning once bonded together by love, and now were replaced by the fears and insecurities of two souls simply coexisting. Jimmy knew the inevitable—it was time for salvation, and he wanted to be the hero.

Upon arrival at this home, Jimmy took a few quiet breaths before opening the screen door. In his mind he replayed the speech given to him

by Baxter, the constant verbal abusing he sustained from his father, and even a quick flashback to the woman hitting her husband. He quivered a bit, but he had to pull himself together now that he was in the presence of his father. Unsure of the possible events, Jimmy was ready. Wade was asleep on the couch due to his stubbornness. He was too arrogant to leave the house. Jimmy got closer to him, with a gaze of possession that had taken over his body. The bags under his eyes began to show more prominently. Then, like a hawk targeting its prey, his vision was clear. He could not fix the thoughts that were racing through his mind. This was it.

Baxter may have been unconventional in his decision-making skills, but he had the right intentions. He wanted freedom, and if no one was going to give it to him, he had to take it himself… so did Jimmy.

The corner edge of the counter in the kitchen lived a family of knives, one for every occasion, even the unmentionable. Jimmy selected a steak knife—one that the nefarious Michael Myers might have used. It would be more than suitable for his evil deed. He made a slight incision on his

wrist to test the knife’s quality. It was found to be to Jimmy’s liking. With knife in hand and blood dripping down to his fingertips, Jimmy was prepared to act—to begin the thrill that he had thought of for years and years but had been too much of a coward to consider.

He leaned over his father’s head, which lay awkwardly yet peacefully on the arm of the couch. Without a blink, Jimmy brought the knife to the highest point, and whispered softly, “Daddy.” Wade’s eyes opened, but not fully, to the sight of a knife above him. He was unable to plea for his life before Jimmy plunged the knife into Wade's chest. Gasping for air, Wade latched onto the hand of his son, trying to pry the knife out from his cold grip, but he was losing strength. The harder Wade tried, the more powerful Jimmy became. He twisted the knife once to make sure there would be a sustainable wound to mark his craft. His words, his emotions, his pain from years past spoke through the blade. Wade's plain white tee turned to the color of a rose. Wade got up, attempted to reach the phone, but Jimmy grabbed the wire and tied it around his ankles. Wade fell to the floor, motionless and defenseless. He moaned in pain, hoping to wake Mary. He begged to be let go. His face took on a bluish tint. For good measure, Jimmy picked up the ottoman Wade had had his foot on not ten minutes ago to hammer the knife deeper into the flesh of his father. Wade blinked once more and then never again. A few twitches then death did its duty.

Caught in his own cold sweat, Jimmy was shaken but not fearful of his recent action. Sweat dripped onto the corpse and was wiped away from his forehead with youthful hands that were now killers. Jimmy was on natural “E” and wasn’t planning on coming down. He cracked his neck with a smirk and licked his lips as he made his way to the master bedroom. In there was his mother, her eyes wide-open from hearing the commotion. She looked tired by the fighting with her newly-dead husband. Without hesitation, he jumped onto his mother’s torso. She screamed. Jimmy covered her month with one hand as he reached for his father’s pillow and pressed it up against her face. Like she did with her husband before, she tried everything to escape from the forceful hands of her son. This time, the killing was brief, for his mother was much weaker than his father. Those hands were killers and from now on would always be.

“Now you both can be free from one another. I love you, mother,” muttered Jimmy in a calm, quiet voice. He was genuine with his words. He gently took his mother’s hands and overlapped them. He covered her up with the blanket at the end of the bed, kissed her on the cheek while he caressed the other, then walked out of the room with the sensation of a job well done.

His father’s body sat up against the bookcase. Jimmy took one last look at him, as to admire the masterpiece that had now been created. Rigor mortis never looked so divine. Now, nothing had a schedule, nothing was set in stone, but Jimmy Wade Williams was indeed a cold-blooded killer. * * * Outside he found himself again. The dried-on blood stained his hands and most of his clothing. The richness of freedom he desparately wanted to share with Baxter. He headed towards the alley to find his new-found friend and fellow murderer. As he stood at the entrance, he froze. Where was Baxter? The box that was called home was still lying up against the brick building where Baxter was sitting just hours ago. Jimmy wasn’t sure of reality at that point but proceeded into the store to ask the night-shift worker if he had seen the man from the alley.

“Baxter? No, nobody by that name comes into the store,” said the Hindu man, who spoke English with melodic tone.

“No, the homeless man that lives in the alley behind the store. Where is he?” Jimmy was now concerned for the well-being of someone other than himself—someone who could relate to thecrime he had committed. This was a new feeling.

Jimmy ran back outside. To his disbelief, Baxter wasn’t there. He thought and thought. The abuse by both by his mother and father had tallied up, finally reaching the bursting point. What was he to do now?

Where would he go? Jimmy crawled into the box to get some muchneeded sleep. Alone, he closed his eyes, and birthed regrettable tears. (bio on p33)

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Deliberate

(The Beginning) From the collection of novellas,

Where Lovers Lie & Other Telling Tales

by N. Dorian Louis

Have you ever entered a house and felt a cold chill run up your spine? Perhaps you turned, fearful that someone might be standing behind you – that terrifying feeling of unseen eyes leering at you, studying you – and you wondered then, What is it about the smell of this place? Old books, an attic – maybe your grandmother’s house came to mind, and in that space of an instant, standing there, you knew you weren’t alone. You weren’t… They are watching… It wasn’t your imagination. Don’t turn your head from the page. They can see you are reading, and they are reading you…

What is it they want? you are asking yourself. Some never know or even sense they are present, but others not only feel them but can smell and touch them as well! I would suggest you keep your eyes on the page as though you may not be aware that anyone else is in your room. Be assured you are rarely alone even when you are all by yourself. They are everywhere, existing in a parallel world, and one so desirable you may one day choose to join them.

One thing I must tell you first, before you make any such decision or decide to invite them to your next soirée – beware of dead children, for they know not what they do. They are young, innocent, can be malicious and even quite deadly. Let’s hope that he or she who died in youth doesn’t sit beside you or in that chair across the room, for if so, you may not sleep very well tonight. You may not sleep at all. The young who have passed on have no conscience; they have no fear and they do not know right from wrong. They never learned these things, and they never will…

I would advise you heed this warning, for I do not say it to scare you, merely to prepare you. Look around – tell me who is there? Is it the spirit of a grown man or woman? If so, enjoy your company, but if not and the smiling child’s incandescent eyes that gaze upon you seem expressionless and cold – staring blankly through you as would a famished shark, you had better run and hope you run faster than death. For like a biting, winter wind, tempestuously lashing at your skin, just when you think you have made it safely to the front door, they will appear before you, and then… they will tear you apart! * * * “I saw the nicest steamer trunk, well, wardrobe really, the other day at Jonah’s Antiques,” Dora told her husband, Christian, as she folded the last of the laundry on their king size bed.

“Really,” Christian said with little interest, entering from the master bathroom to locate a pair of socks.

Dora smiled as Christian lifted a pair of socks from the pile on the bed and proceeded to put them on. “Yes, really, I think we should buy it for the guest room. It would look perfect in there, what with the rest of the Edwardian furniture. What do you think?”

Christian shook his head, placing his feet back onto the floor. “Sure, why not? We’re made of money, right? What’s one more bill, anyway?”

“Okay, okay, but honey, I thought we said we’d finish that room before Sal and Amy arrived.”

“I know,” he replied, looking around at all their recent acquisitions.

“I had no idea that moving into this house was going to cost so much, aside from the mortgage, that is.”

Dora sighed and moved a pile of neatly folded shirts to the other side of the bed. “I’ll call Jonah tomorrow and tell him to hold it for us.

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We can pick it up on Saturday, okay?”

“Okay, okay, Saturday.”

Christian rose from the bed and headed over to the closet where he picked out a crisp, white shirt and a yellow tie. Dora smiled to herself, excited about the lovely old thing that would soon find a home in their guest room down the hall. She stood and began to put away the laundry, everything in its place – everything neat and tidy, clean and folded as it always was.

Dora and Christian had been married for three years now, and the institution seemed to agree with them. This was their first home, and after saving since their engagement, had finally found the perfect house in the perfect neighborhood, complete with winding driveway and wrought-iron gate.

They had spent more than expected, but Dora had fallen in love with the old gal which had been built in 1909. The house reminded her of the glorious days of gilded rooms and lavish steamships. She had hoped to find such a magnificent home and Christian could do nothing but agree to purchase it. The look in her eyes when they first drove up to the gate was enough for him to know that she would never be satisfied with anything less, and he would want nothing less for his beautiful wife.

Christian put on a suit jacket and stood before the mirror. “How much is this trunk, may I ask?”

“Oh, not that much,” Dora reassured him, closing a drawer and glancing at her handsome husband.

“What’s not that much?”

Dora approached, placing her hands on either side of his face.

“Three hundred,” she told him, raising her eyebrows, hoping he wouldn’t change his mind.

“Three hundred… Okay; we’ll take it,” he said, kissing Dora on the forehead.

“Thank you, Christian,” she said, throwing her arms around him and glancing over at the clock. “It’s late. You’d better get going.”

Christian checked his watch and hurried from the room. Dora followed him down the hall and down the stairs before stopping in the foyer to grab his briefcase and hand it to him.

“I won’t be too late. Brent said the meeting will only last a couple of hours. Sorry to have to go out again,” Christian said sincerely.

Dora shook her head. “It’s fine, honey. I’ll be up when you get back.

See you soon.”

She kissed him and smiled, watching as he headed down the path and climbed into his steel-gray Mercedes Benz. Dora waved as the headlights turned on and Christian drove off to his late meeting.

It was a Thursday night. As she stood in the doorway, enjoying autumn’s night air, a couple of leaves were picked up by the wind and deposited in the foyer. They scud about the hall, searching for a place to rest and ended up being carried yet again out of the foyer and into the living room.

Dora inhaled deeply, enjoying the fragrance of her neighbor’s chimney, smiled and closed the door. She shivered. It was chilly… and it was October. * * * Dora headed into the living room and bent down to pick up the leaves that had come to rest near the antique coffee table that had cost way too much, but she just had to have. They made a crunching sound in her hand as she carried them into the kitchen and tossed them into the wastebasket.

She rinsed off her hands, wiped them on a kitchen towel and opened the refrigerator only to find nothing that appealed to her. She poured herself a glass of white wine and returned to the living room where she sat on a fancy, moss-green brocade settee, lifted the remote control and turned on the television.

As she flipped her way through the many channels, the phone rang.

Dora leaned over and lifted the receiver; the TV was tuned to the

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Discovery Channel and a program about haunted places, people and objects. She happened not to be paying attention. Perhaps she shouldn’t have turned her attention elsewhere, for soon, she too would be haunted, but not because her house was haunted or spirits were following her, but haunted by what would become the final addition to that guest room – that glorious thing of old she was so desperate to acquire…

“Hello? Oh, hello Amy… No, I wasn’t doing anything important, just sitting here trying to find something interesting to watch on TV. You are still coming, aren’t you? ... Great,” she said, smiling to herself as she lifted a piece of lint from her sweater. “What? Oh, no, everything’s practically finished. We’re picking up a fantastic steamer trunk on Saturday and that’s it – all done! … Wonderful... see you both then… Okay… Love you too. Bye.” Dora hung up the phone and redirected her attention to the television only to find a commercial advertising a life insurance policy.

She picked up the remote and changed the channel. * * * Christian arrived home just after midnight and apologized for the time. Dora loosened his tie and poured him a drink. They sat in the living room, side by side on the settee – the lights dim and a candle burning on the coffee table before them.

“Thank God that’s over,” he said, taking a large sip of his scotch, the ice hitting against the glass and making a festive sound.

“Did everything go well?” Dora asked, relatively interested in her husband’s latest case.

Christian was a criminal prosecutor, and a good one at that. Dora had always been fascinated by the law though her interests leaned more towards the forensic side of things.

Dora wrote children’s books and had made something of a success of herself in her own right though Christian was not as interested in her work as she would have liked him to be. He was, however, longing to have a child. Dora, who wrote very well and had received many an accolade from her readers’ parents and was often asked how many children of her own she had, was not as keen on the idea. Well, not yet, anyway.

“Yes, we’re all set for court on Monday,” he told her, relishing the last sip of scotch before handing her the glass, implying he wanted a refill.

Dora rose and poured him another, returning to her place on the settee and finishing her glass of wine.

“I’m beat,” Christian said, placing his tumbler on a coaster and running his hand down the small of her back.

“Why don’t we go up to bed?” Dora invited.

“Sounds great,” he said, exuberantly, rising and lifting his glass from the table as he headed out of the room.

Dora blew out the candle and shut off the torchiere lamp. Christian waited by the foot of the stairs and together they headed up the staircase and off to bed. Tomorrow she would call Jonah and prayed that no one had purchased the steamer since she had visited the store the other day. She had a very good feeling that no one had and looked forward to bringing it home on Saturday. Finally, not only would the guest room be complete, but the house, in all its old world glory would be finished! It was a satisfying feeling and she could now relax… * * * Jonah assured Dora that the trunk had not been sold and promised to hold it for her until tomorrow when they could come and collect it.

Christian overheard the conversation as he finished his morning coffee and shook his head, smiling at her.

“Great, then we’ll see you tomorrow – around noon, okay?”

“There is one thing I think you should know,” Jonah told Dora, getting her attention.

“What is it?” she asked, thoroughly curious as to the mysterious nature of his tone.

26

“It’s about the steamer trunk. There’s something funny about it. I don’t know exactly how to explain it, but… well, ever since it’s been in the store… Oh, never mind. I’m being silly. It’s nothing, really,” Jonah said, thinking better than to worry her with such superstitious nonsense.

“No, what, Jonah? Is there something wrong with it?”

“Nothing like that. It’s just… I don’t know. There’s something very strange about it. I always lock it before closing at night, but when I arrive in the morning it’s unlocked and fully opened.”

“Maybe the lock’s broken or the hinges are loose. I wouldn’t worry about it. I don’t plan on locking it anyway. We’ll see you tomorrow at noon,” Dora told him, twirling a thick strand of wavy hair around her right index finger.

“See you then,” Jonah said, hanging up the phone and turning his attention to the trunk in question. “What is it about you?” he asked the object. “I’ll be glad to be rid of you, that’s for sure,” he then said, as the first customer of the day entered the store. * * * “What was that all about?” Christian asked, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

“Nothing I can’t fix,” Dora told him, opening the refrigerator and removing a dozen eggs.

“I hope this thing’s worth three-hundred dollars,” he said, pouring milk into his coffee and stirring it with a spoon.

“Trust me. It’s more than worth it! You’ll see. It’s just what this house needs.”

Christian checked his watch. “I’m late. I’ll grab something on the way,” he told her, quickly finishing his coffee.

Dora walked him to the front door, handed him his briefcase, as had become habit, and kissed him, watching as he drove away, then staring up at the gray sky above her. Dora loved cloudy days and smiled to herself as she shut the door and returned to the kitchen to cook breakfast for one.

She wondered if Jonah could have the trunk delivered today instead of having to go pick it up tomorrow and decided to phone him back and ask if it were at all possible. To her pleasant surprise, Jonah’s brother, Jacob, happened to be bringing by a truckload of items for the store, and Jonah could find no reason the trunk couldn’t be delivered later that afternoon. He informed her there would be a small delivery fee, and Dora happily agreed to the terms. After all, she and Christian would have had to rent a U-Haul in order to get it home, and considering the cost was similar, she was certain Christian would have no objection to paying the delivery charge. Besides, it would save them the trouble of having to haul it home on a Saturday, Christian’s favorite day of the week. * * * The doorbell rang just after four in the afternoon. Dora ran to the door and opened it, finding Jacob and another man she did not recognize standing on the front porch with the steamer trunk beside them. Dora’s eyes lit up! She ushered them inside, leading them up the stairs and into the guest room where they placed the trunk against the far wall.

“Here’s the key,” Jacob said, handing it to her, as she placed a check in his hand.

“Thank you, Jacob. It’s very kind of you to do this for me,” she added.

“Not a problem. You and your husband have bought so many pieces from the store, I almost feel guilty charging you for the delivery.”

“Don’t worry about it. We all have to eat, right?”

Jacob and the other man laughed. Dora led them back down the stairs and out the front door where she stood with them on the porch.

“Enjoy it,” Jacob told her as the two men headed back to the truck.

“We will, and thanks again,” Dora said loudly, waving as they drove away.

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She headed back inside and locked the front door. Dora entered the kitchen and began to remove various items from the refrigerator in preparation for supper. Just as she shut the refrigerator door she heard a sound coming from upstairs. Dora stopped what she was doing and glanced from side to side. It must be my imagination, she thought. They hadn’t any pets nor was anyone else in the house – it must have been the wind, she decided. After all, it was October, and she recalled the leaves that had blown into her house just last night.

Dora began to wash a pile of vegetables when, yet again, she heard a foreign sound emanating from the floor above her – someone walking about – as if a child were playing, barefoot on the hardwood floor – as if that child her husband had so desperately wanted had suddenly appeared.

Dora shut off the water and walked to the doorway where she stood and listened intently. She thought it all so silly and actually felt quite ridiculous, but for some strange reason she believed what she was hearing and suddenly remembered what Jonah had told her about the trunk earlier that day. Dora shook her head and smiled to herself, the sound of footsteps now a thing of the past and the house quiet.

As she returned to the sink and the rinsing off of vegetables, Dora heard the laughter of a young girl and dropped the carrots and celery into the sink, quickly shutting off the water and rushing from the room and up the stairs.

Dora tentatively entered the guest room, at first merely looking around, finding nothing out of place. She turned to leave, then back again, and focused on the steamer trunk which had been placed against the far wall in a closed position. It was now open. Dora’s eyes widened as she slowly approached the beautiful thing she had been brought not more than twenty minutes ago. She reached into her pocket and removed the key that Jacob had given her, staring at it in her hand.

As she turned to leave the room the door suddenly slammed shut!

Dora jumped, her heart now pounding uncontrollably in her chest as she rushed towards the door and grabbed for the knob, pulling at it, desperate to return to the kitchen! The door, which would not budge, suddenly opened easily and she stood for a moment, staring at her hand on the doorknob, wondering if it was all in her mind. What else could it be, she thought?

Dora took a deep breath and quickly walked back down the hall and descended the staircase, placing the key to the steamer trunk back into her pocket. Christian would be returning home shortly and she wanted to get a head start on dinner… as always.

Dora prided herself on being a good housewife and truly enjoyed taking care of the house and her husband. Tonight she was preparing a rib roast with roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes. She was certain he would be pleased. * * * Christian arrived at his usual time, left his briefcase by the front door, kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie and suddenly turned his attention to the staircase, before heading into the kitchen to find Dora leaning over the stove, stirring gravy. “Hi, honey,” he said, running his hands through his mass of dark hair.

“I didn’t even hear you come in,” she returned, lowering the flame on her gravy and kissing her husband on the cheek.

“I thought I heard you upstairs, but thought to look in here first,” he told her, glancing around the room.

“You did?” she questioned, not paying all that much attention to what he was saying as she waved him aside and opened the oven door to check on her roast.

“Never mind,” he told her, opening a cupboard and removing a glass before filling it with ice and proceeding to exit the premises.

“Hey, wait a minute, Mister,” Dora said, playfully, reaching around and giving her hard-working husband a bear hug from behind.

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“Dinner won’t be ready for another half an hour. Why don’t I join you in that drink you’re about to pour?”

“Well, that’s good news,” Christian said, excitedly, as he turned and gave his smiling wife a big kiss. “I’d love that. You can tell me about your day… Oh, and what time are we supposed to go pick up that trunk of yours tomorrow?”

“Oh, that,” Dora remembered, as they headed into the living room.

Dora poured them both a drink and sat down. “Actually, it’s already here,” she told him. Christian turned to her with knit brows. Dora laughed and shook her head. “I know, I know,” she said. “After you left this morning I called Jonah and asked if it were possible to have the trunk delivered today, and his brother happened to be on hand, and well… it’s upstairs.”

“And how much did that cost, may I ask?”

“It didn’t cost much at all, just twenty dollars. It would have been more expensive to rent the U-Haul,” Dora reassured him.

“Yes, now I can enjoy my Saturday leisurely. Thanks,” he said, smiling and taking a healthy sip of scotch.

“I know how you love your weekends and thought it would be easier.”

“Actually, I’m glad it worked out this way. We’re invited to dinner tomorrow night at Stan and Leslie’s.”

Dora made a face. “Great. I suppose, if we have to…”

“No, we don’t have to. I just thought it might be nice to get you out of the kitchen for a night.”

“But I love my kitchen. Okay, we’ll go, but you could have just taken me out to dinner. I would have honestly preferred that.”

Christian smiled, finished his scotch and rose to pour another. Dora placed her glass on the table and rose to the occasion of her glorious rib roast! * * * Dora cleared the plates from the table as a satisfied Christian sighed and loosened his belt. “That was absolutely delicious,” he exclaimed.

“Why go out to a restaurant when my wife is a better cook than any chef in the county?”

“Thank you,” Dora said, smiling, as she removed the last plate from the table and placed it in the sink. She would do the dishes later, she thought. All she wanted now was to relax. Dora wasn’t sure just why she had become so tired so early, but she felt worn out somehow and hoped it would pass rather quickly. She had planned to get some writing done tonight and feeling as she did was not conducive to such imaginative plans.

Christian retired to his office, which was on the first floor of the house, to go over Monday’s court strategies as Dora slowly made her way up the stairs to the second floor, and her office, where she spun her childhood tales.

Her latest book was entitled, ‘Sleepy Time,’ and she hoped it would be as popular with children and parents alike as her last offering had been. Why she had chosen to write children’s books she could never understand. Dora had always been a fan of mystery novels and had originally set out to create the next popular sleuth in the vein of the great Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot. Nevertheless, her first book was such a success, and written on a dare no less, that she had continued down this particular path ever since. It was fun, but Dora still longed for the day she would write a book she, herself, would long to purchase and read.

As she passed the guest room the fear that had struck her earlier reclaimed its position in her chest, and with a swift glance into the guest room, Dora hurriedly headed down the hall to her office and locked the door behind her. Christian was sure not to disturb her – he rarely did. He was certain to be engrossed in all that dull paperwork and trial mumbo- jumbo that her time in ‘the sanctuary,’ as she liked to call it, was most certainly to be uninterrupted.

It was eleven-thirty when Dora heard a knock at the door. She

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27

looked up from her computer, suddenly afraid of who may be there.

The thought that Christian might be behind the door was close to unheard of. “Yes?” Dora asked.

“It’s me. Let me in,” came the request, and the voice of her husband behind it.

Dora stood and sighed with relief. “Christian, is that you?”

Who else could it be? she thought. The sound of her voice asking such a stupid question was even worse than the thought itself.

“Yes, of course it’s me,” came the reply, in a harsher tone now.

Dora smiled and quickly unlocked the door to find her husband, apparently shaken, standing before her. “What is it? You look white as a sheet,” she told him.

“I don’t know… I mean… I’m not sure. Were you just downstairs?”

“Downstairs? No, why would I have been downstairs?”

Christian wiped his brow and stepped inside the room, closing the door behind him. “I don’t know… to do the dishes, maybe?”

“No, I’ve been in here for hours. I’m trying to finish this book. What is it?” Dora asked with concern.

“I’m not sure. I could have sworn I heard you walking past the door.

I called your name, but you didn’t answer, and then I thought I heard someone laugh… only it didn’t sound like you at all! I know… I’m crazy, but that’s what it sounded like.”

Dora sat back down in her chair behind the computer and stared at the sconce on the wall before her and the two candles that burned in it. She concentrated on the dancing flames, yet she was not concentrating on anything in particular at all. She was thinking about what had happened earlier. She was thinking about what Jonah had implied over the phone and was determined to find out what he had been alluding to.

“What are you looking at?” Christian asked, glancing back and forth between the superfluous flames, and his wife who always seemed to be stuck in another century, one he was not either in accordance with or part of.

“Nothing,” Dora replied, sighing and diverting her attention from the flames, and the many frightening thoughts that swirled around her head. She smiled unconvincingly and gave him her full attention.

“Why don’t we go to bed? It’s been a long day,” she finally told him.

Christian nodded. Dora shut off her computer, and the two headed off to bed, silently. She had decided it was best to first ask Jonah about the trunk before alarming Christian or informing him that anything strange had happened. She knew better than to encourage his belief that someone had been walking past his office downstairs.

Dora didn’t believe in the supernatural, though certain friends of hers did – Leslie, for one – and she would not have any unnecessary ramblings going on over dinner about a steamer trunk of all things.

She believed there was always a logical explanation for everything, though as for Christian’s views, she was uncertain. The topic had only come up in conversation once before, and Christian had quickly changed the subject, though seemed to know something about it.

Come to think of it, he appeared rather spooked.

I merely love antiques, that’s all, she told herself, and old as they may be, ghosts did not come along with objects. If they had, her house would have been haunted long ago, what with all the fine old things she had purchased. Hell, the house itself would have been haunted! she thought. After all, it was built in 1909, and who knows what went on in here? Besides, I didn’t believe in ghosts, so why even give it another thought?

Dora chose to concentrate on her husband for the moment and forget about the strange noises in their home. For tonight, she convinced herself, it is all about Christian… and it was… * * * Christian awoke to the sound of footsteps running along the hall.

He glanced over at his wife, only to find her sleeping soundly.

Choosing not to disturb her and not sure as to whether he was 28

dreaming any of it, Christian slipped quietly out of bed, crept to the door, opened it carefully, and stepped out into the hall – the circular second floor landing. He found nothing but could swear he smelled lavender.

He leaned over the rail, glanced down to the foyer, then headed down the stairs to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. Ah, Saturday, Christian thought to himself. No work of any kind, and I didn’t even have to haul the steamer trunk home. He smiled to himself and removed a coffee mug from a kitchen cabinet, placed it onto the counter and opened the refrigerator to remove a quart of milk.

Christian turned to place the milk onto the kitchen table. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the blue coffee mug he had placed on the counter was no longer there. He glanced around the room but found nothing else out of place. He shook his head, wiped his eyes, and wondered if he had merely thought about taking out his favorite blue mug but had not actually done so.

Christian opened the cabinet only to find his blue mug right where it always was. He laughed to himself, removed it, and placed it on the counter. “I could have sworn I’d already done that,” he said aloud, as Dora entered the room and the telephone rang.

“Are you going to get that?” she asked.

“Yeah, I am,” Christian returned, appearing distant, as he lifted the receiver from the wall.

Dora shrugged and walked over to the counter, removed a yellow mug from the cabinet and poured herself a cup of coffee. She surmised from Christian’s conversation that Stan was on the other end of the line and resigned herself to the idea that they would all be dining together tonight. She liked Stan and Leslie, though had never actually spent much time with them aside from the twice a year dinner invitation.

They were Christian’s friends. Stan was an attorney, and Leslie, his somewhat eccentric wife. What she did in her spare time, Dora didn’t know. But she did know about Leslie’s interest in the supernatural, a subject she liked to discuss with anyone who was willing to listen. On one occasion, Dora was, and considering the way she was feeling, just may be willing to again share in such conversation this evening – well, perhaps not get into a long, drawn out discussion, but touch on the subject nonetheless.

Christian hung up the phone and came up behind his wife, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Good morning,” he said, reaching for the coffee mug that was no longer on the counter where he was certain he had left it. “What the hell?”

“What is it, honey?” Dora asked, turning to face him, placing her arms around his waist.

“The blue mug – I took it out of the cabinet twice already and…”

Christian’s eyes raced around the room.

“What are you talking about?”

Christian walked over to the kitchen table. He turned and looked at Dora who appeared confused. “Did you do this?” he asked, almost frantically!

“Do what, Christian?”

“Move my coffee mug,” he said, nearly accusatorily.

“You’ve lost me.”

Christian shook his head, turned and headed for the cabinet – the same cabinet he had visited twice already – but before he reached it, he spotted his blue mug on the small counter space between the stove and refrigerator, picked it up, and took a sip of what was the coldest coffee he had ever put his lips to. He quickly spat the coffee back into the mug and proceeded to toss it down the drain.

“What’s wrong?” Dora asked, sincerely concerned.

“Nothing,” Christian said, as he poured himself a hot cup of what he believed was the only thing that could get him going in the morning.

Dora shrugged and continued planning what would be her latest

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culinary achievement – breakfast. What should I make today? she thought. “Ah, French toast,” she said aloud, Christian forgetting about his strange experience with the coffee and mug and his stomach taking over, wondering how long it would take for the French toast to be prepared. “And bacon,” she stated as an afterthought with a flourish of her hand as she headed toward the stove.

Christian smiled and took another sip of his now hot coffee. He reached for the paper as his wife reached for the eggs in the refrigerator. This may be a good day, after all, he thought to himself… * * * Afternoon found Christian back at his desk – back at those papers of his, those he would have to make a case of by Monday morning in court. Dora also found herself at her computer, spinning tales for children she didn’t have—tales that others would find absolutely charming. Sometimes she detested what she did, and now was one of those times. She thought of how she would love to own a restaurant.

Now I’m dreaming, she thought to herself…

A knock was heard at the door as she began to type a line about bears and bunnies. Dora’s hands froze as she glanced upward. “Yes?” She waited patiently. There was no reply.

“Oh, what the hell is going on?” she asked, angrily.

Dora quickly opened the door to find no one there, but heard a child laughing and running down the hall. She slowly left the room and followed the sound, cautiously, yet not actually believing what she was hearing. “Who’s there?” she asked, as she proceeded along the corridor, glancing over the staircase to the first floor of the house.

“Hello!” she shouted. There came no reply. Then, just as she had heard the child laughing joyously, she now heard a child crying. The sobbing seemed to emanate from the guest room – the room that housed that precious, old steamer trunk.

Dora carefully approached the room and turned the doorknob. The door creaked as she opened it, something it had never done before.

She stepped inside, knit her brows, and stared at the object before her. The smell of lavender was prevalent in the room as was an eerie chill in the air. Dora inhaled deeply and sighed, suddenly overcome by a feeling of great loss, though she did not know why… She walked over to the trunk and kneeled down. Noticing an old label, she ran her hand over it as she read it aloud… “RMS Lusitania.”

Dora stood and removed the key from her pocket. “1915,” she stated, as she placed the key into the keyhole of a locked drawer. She turned the key. It clicked… and opened.

As Dora looked inside, she again knit her brows. She forgot about the child’s laughter and the child’s cries that had led her to this room and to this object. She slowly removed a young girl’s white dress and stockings and placed them on the floor next to her. Then, she removed a green ribbon that would have been worn in a young girl’s hair. The last item she removed from that drawer would be telling of her very fate, but she did not know it then, nor did she believe in what her husband had once referred to as ‘the Devil’s trick.’

Christian believed that should you come across an object that meant a great deal to anyone deceased and keep it as your own, you would suffer the same fate as they did, for they cannot bear that you have it, and you shall one day return it to them after death.

Dora removed a small gold locket that hung on a chain from the bottom of the drawer and held it in her hand. It was oval in shape and had the initials EMH engraved in a fancy scroll on the front. She opened the locket to reveal a photo of a young girl – no more than six years old. She was blonde with blue eyes, but the eyes were that of someone much older – knowing eyes – wise eyes – wide eyes!

Dora stood staring at the picture in the locket and turned, unaware of what she was doing, and headed for the door. She placed the locket around her neck, and as if in a trance, walked slowly back to her room. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She shut the door and

VOL 8, ISSUE 7

locked it behind her. Returning to her desk, she wiped the tears from her face and continued where she left off with the bears and bunnies.

Somehow, she recalled drinking tea on a boat deck long ago in the spring of 1915, and yet it did not worry her at all… for later that day she would not remember this… (Chilling conclusion in our next issue!)

Where Lovers Lie

by N. Dorian Louis

I see you at a distance From the corner of my eye I call to you with kisses, sent silently and cry —for this, you cannot know The chilling winds of autumn erupt Tempestuously lashing at my skin In a shower of orange and a shine of gold of which you stand within.

Can you smell the three alarm fire?

The horizon is but aflame.

And the sky is alive as the blue in your eyes It burns as my heart does, and longs for the rain.

Don’t fear, my love I, who have become this frightening thing For I wander your world, and rest at your side, ‘til the shadow of dawn has let itself in…

But not before holding you with transparent arms – oh wondrous love, a tear, for you must die In a shatter of red that rivals your sky You’ll never know this ache, or a spirit such as I Let me take you down where lovers lie…

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The Waiting

by N. Dorian Louis Winds are changing.

This season’s feeling wood I smell a burning ember and watch the autumn. Chill…

Any minute, you’ll be here I know you will.

I’ve waited just a month, or has it been a year?

The window has a tinge of frost.

I think the next-door neighbor’s moved…

I haven’t.

Maybe you got lost…?

I’ve sat here rather long now; I think…

Any minute, you’ll be here It’s just the snow that’s made you late – I’ll wait… (bio on p33) 29

Diary of a Female Serial Killer, Part 2

by John Novotny In Part 1, featured in our Tough Lit X issue, we learn the account of Sarah marshall, raised in an orphanage after the tragic death of her parents and adopted by a female serial killer named Tammy who posed as a nun to teach young Sarah the tricks of the trade. In Part 2, Sarah continues her saga of learning the ropes and honing her heinous craft.

When it got late out, Tammy told me to get dressed in black and meet her out in the car. I rushed and put on some black pants, shirt, and boots and rushed down the stairs, almost tripping down them out the door to the car. "I've got a present for you; open the glove box it's in there."

I opened the glove box and inside it was a long large serrated curved bladed knife. I grabbed it. It had one of those handles like a steel knuckled device, and it could also be used for that as well.( Hell, I still use this knife today.) It had a razor sharp blade. I smiled and gave her hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Oh, thank you, Tammy. I will always cherish this."

"I know you will. Now let's go find you a victim, shall we?"

My first victim in Tammy's eyes was a simple one. I pretended to be a lost, crying little girl abandoned at a bus stop, Then she came up, an older woman maybe forties or fifties, just got off work somewhere, "Are you lost child?" She asked me. "Yes," I said in a fake whimper.

"There, there, child. Just tell me the where about of your house or phone number to call your parents." She tried to soothe me to calm down enough to get what she asked for.

"Oh, thank you. You're so kind." I gave her hug. "It's okay now.

There, there..."

I pulled the blade from the sleeve of my jacket, and as I started to pull away I plunged the knife into the lady's stomach and pulled up.

Her flesh ripped easily from my blade, I stood up then slit her throat and then stood back watching the lady, all bug eyed, drowning in her own blood, trying to hold her intestines in, as she plopped to the ground… dead.

I wiped my blade clean on her dress and headed back to the car, full of excitement.

"Good job!" Tammy said. We then drove off. Tammy was full of pride that her student had made an excellent kill.

Ever since then, I would get a kill twice a month, as she'd get her kills, four a month. I would watch her kill by using her body as a tool as I used my young age for more theatrics then she. Now let's go ahead in the future a little bit…

Once I got to be a teenager and in high school and my body developed pleasantly… well, too well ‘cause now I got guys trying to go out with me and trying to get down my pants. When I complained about this to Tammy, she said. "Hell, girl, you've got a better and more well-developed body then I do. Use it now for your advantage like I do, sweetie."

I then lost my virginity to a guy named John Combs, some stupid jock. It was meaningless. I rode on his cock till we both orgasmed. I then slit his throat, and drove his car over a cliff. The car exploded as I turned and walked home.

"It wasn't even satisfying!" I yelled back at the flaming cliff.

I graduated high school and got a scholarship at the University of Illinois. As for my teacher/guardian, well, she never was caught. She had killed over hundred or so people before she died from a severe heart attack. By the time she hit the floor, she was already dead. I was at school when she died. They couldn't place me into a foster 30

home because I was already eighteen, so I buried her. She had left me quite a bit of money in her will… so much that I could live happily for a lifetime, but I still went to college anyways, satisfying my bloodlust once in a while either with some co-ed or some college jerk. I’d even go out of the college area to some suburb near Chicago to take care of my urges.

By the time I graduated from college, I earned my diploma in criminal science and psychology—kind of ironic for a serial killer who has two voices in her head, still talking to her, suggestion her to do things.

I had my first practice in New York City, I decided to move out there and try a different city out for my bloodlust. I set up practice with two other female psychologists and bought a condo in the downtown area. After I was established, I studied maps of the city so I could know the layout of the place and its more isolated areas. I was getting edgy. I needed to satisfy my bloodlust, so right after work I put on dark clothing and trench coat, placed my knife into my pocket and headed out to Central Park where I got my first victims of New York.

Yes, I got two at once! It was two Hispanic men who were following me. I walked under the bridge into the darkness and hid in the shadows. I understood Spanish, so I understood what they were saying.

One stated to the other that I came in through here, that I must have spotted them and took off running. “Let's hurry and get her!” the other suggested. As the first one that talked started to run off, I grabbed the other by the mouth and slit his throat wide open. I let him go and hid once again into the darkness. His friend heard him plop onto the ground. The guy rushed to aid his friend. The bleeding man tried to speak to his friend but couldn't speak. He pointed in my direction as I sneaked up behind the kneeling concerned friend. I then sank my knife deep into his spine, snapping it in half. The man instantly fell to his face, screaming in pain. I then told him in Spanish.

"So you thought to make me your victim, but you were the victim all along, asshole." I then grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back and stuck my knife deep into his eye socket. I plucked his eyeballs out one by one and laughed, full of excitement. With one final blow, I stuck the knife deep into his skull. I then wiped the blood and brain off my blade and headed back to my condo to take a hot shower.

I would kill about fifteen people or so before moving to a new town where I would do my quota of slayings there before moving on again.

As I got older, I got wiser about my killings. I would wait days, weeks, even months before I killed again. My bloodlust had declined as I got older. By the age of thirty-five, I had killed over two hundred people or so. Then I fell in love with a brilliant doctor by the name of Kevin Willis. I met him at the practice I had in this one small town. He had a doctor's office in the same building where I had mine. We would bump into each other now and then. He would ask me out for dinner every time I'd see him.

So one day, I finally said yes. A year later I said yes to marriage, then a year after that I was having my first baby, a boy. We named him Kevin Willis Jr. My hunger for blood disappeared once I fell in love with Kevin. My two old friends, the voices in my head, Thomas and Melissa, were still there, but weren't as strong as they used to be, I had another baby when Kevin, Jr. was two years old. This time it was a baby girl, which we named Melissa. Then it came that horrible day—the day that brought me back to my bloodlust—but vengeance came along with it. My husband of eight years was driving my children, now six and four, home from school, I was at my practice when he phoned me and said he was going to a burger place and asked what would I like for dinner, I said I would like a cheeseburger, fries, and an order of onion rings. Once he had gotten my order, he said, “I love you. See ya at home.” That was the last time I heard his

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