An orange haze envelops the small town of Republic, Missouri every year by way of the annual pumpkin festival. Pumpkins are bought, sold, carved, smashed, and baked into pies. The crowning achievement, however, is the pumpkin growing contest that promises glory and riches to whoever can grow the largest gourd. The winner is crowned the PumpKing and receives a $1000 cash prize. The champion from the previous year must relinquish the prestigious trophy to the new victor. “He only held the title for 12 hours or so,” Deputy Shannon says as he looks down at the deceased body of the newest PumpKing, Dennis Walker. “He won two years ago, though, and three years before that. Him and Harris usually go back and forth.” Sheriff Gordon squats down and inspects the knife protruding from the back of the corpse. He pulls a pen from his shirt pocket and pokes at a glob of orange goo stuck to the knife. “This what I think it is?” “Yeah, looks like one of the pumpkin carving knives from the festival,” the Deputy replies. He leans against the faded red barn wall and reaches into his coat pocket, retrieving a crumpled tobacco pouch. He watches a large, ominous dark cloud roll over the rising morning sun. He takes a pinch of the rich, woody smelling snuff and stuffs it under his lip. Though the temperature is warm and there is still plenty of daylight, Deputy Shannon feels a sense of foreboding pass over him and he shivers unconsciously. “Gotta be Harris, ain’t it?” The Sheriff tilts his head slightly in thought, “You think?” “Well, you heard all the hubbub about his crop of pumpkins this year, right?” “Aw hell, everybody heard about that. Harris came rip-roarin’ down to the Silver Dollar saying Walker had poisoned his crop. He claimed that him and his buddies had gone over and seen Walker’s entry pumpkin and could tell on sight that it was ‘scarcely bigger than a tom cat’ - his words- and then the very next day his own pumpkin started turning brown and smellin’ putrid and what have you.” Deputy Shannon grins, despite the morbid situation. “Well, that certainly sounds like him.” The Sheriff slaps his hands on his knees and stands up, groaning with the effort. “Guess we better load up and get on over to Harris’s farm and see what he has to say for himself.” ----- Gravel crunches as the old chevy police cruiser pulls in front of a large yellow house with faded blue shudders and a wraparound porch. Fat droplets of rain finally begin to splatter onto the windshield as the Sheriff and his Deputy open the car doors. White laundry billows on a clothesline in the steadily increasing wind, and Shannon notes the holes and stains on them. The front door is wide open, but the screen door is closed to keep the flies out. A portly woman in a well-worn red dress and a dirty apron bustles up to the door as they approach, wiping her hands back and forth and letting a cloud of white flour disappear in her wake. She is inherently likable, an excellent cook, and a passable weekday bartender when she isn’t busy tending the farm alongside her husband. “Gentlemen,” she says, smiling widely and opening the screen door. “I heard you pull up. I was just putting the finishing touches on one of my famous gooseberry pies. To what do I owe this pleasure?” “Marna, good to see you. You want help getting all that in?” the Sheriff gestures to the linens. “Oh lord, I forgot all about it. My head’s not screwed on right today. Yes, thank you kindly for your help,” Marna says and the two of them quickly get to work to beat the full force of the storm. The deputy stays back, peering surreptitiously inside the house through the screen door. The lights are off, and despite all the curtains being open and the early hour, the gloomy clouds cast the house in darkness. There’s a sweet smell emanating from withing - probably the pie - but there’s also the hint of something else he can’t quite place. Something unpleasant, rotting. There is no sign of Harris. He startles slightly when Marna speaks from behind him, “Can you get the door for me?” He obliges and watches her carry the large pile of laundry into the house and disappear behind the corner. After a moment, she returns. “Now then, what can I do for you?” she asks, stepping outside onto the porch. The Deputy notes that she closes both the screen door and the worn front door behind her. “Well first, let me ask, is your husband here?” Sheriff Gordon asks. “No, Harris didn’t come home last night. It ain’t uncommon for him to end up in the spare room above the Dollar on Saturday nights if he gets too deep into the bottle. Wish it wasn’t like that o’ course, but it is what it is,” she says, raising her chin defiantly. “I see,” Sheriff Gordon says, casting a glance at the deputy. “Well, I wish we were here under different circumstances, but there’s been a murder, you see.” Marna’s hand flies up to her chest. “A murder? Here in little Republic?” “Yes ma’am. I’m afraid Dennis Walker was found dead this morning by his son,” says the Sheriff. “Dennis Walker! Oh my, that is a shame,” she says fanning herself with her hand. “Well, you know our family never got along with the Walkers, but I hope you’re not here because you think Harris might’ve had anything to do with this?” The Sheriff casts another sideways glance at the Deputy. “We just have a few questions for him, ma’am. You say he’s likely at the Silver Dollar?” “Well, I should certainly hope so. Otherwise, he’ll have even bigger problems than the two of you,” Marna says with a scowl, indicating exactly who he will have problems with. The wind whips Marna’s greying hair around her face and the Deputy imagines that Marna can be quite like a storm when she gets angry. “Alright, well thank you for your time, Marna,” says the Sheriff. The deputy tips his hat to her and the two of them hurry back to the patrol car. ----- “Yeah, he was here last night, alright. Drunker than a skunk, and he closed the bar down at 2 am,” says Andy, the bartender, rinsing beer mugs as she talked. “You’re welcome to head upstairs if you need. Haven’t seen him yet this morning. Must have quite the hangover.” A man at the bar grins into his drink and nods his head at the two men. “Sheriff, Deputy. Long time no see.” Deputy Shannon gives the man a withering look. “Sure, Jim, if a day and a half is long. I see you’re straight back to business then. A martini at 11 am is an odd choice.” “Well, you know us city folks,” Jim says, shrugging, as though that explains the matter. “Don’t get into any more trouble. I’d hate to see you back in the clink again. Might be a new record, even for the locals,” the Deputy says. The man grins again and takes another sip of his drink, ending the conversation. Deputy Shannon and Sheriff Gordon make their way to the staircase leading to the room above the bar. “Guy’s weird, man,” the Deputy says. “Who drinks a martini at 11 am?” “You never like newcomers,” the Sheriff says, chuckling. “And you especially never like anyone from the city.” “Yeah well, can’t trust em, can ya? Says he moved here because a string of violent crime scared him out of the city, yet he gets locked up for petty offenses all the time. Vandalism, squabbles, public intox...” “Those are hardly serious crimes, and anyway the folks around here get locked up plenty,” the Sheriff says. “True,” the Deputy admits. “Still, you’d think after being in jail for five or six days that he wouldn’t go straight back to drinking before noon. It’s just trouble waiting to happen.” The Sheriff shrugs and knocks on the door at the top of the stairs. They hear a string of curses and shuffling. Finally, the door creaks open a few inches and Harris’s face peers through. “Whaddaya want,” he asks gruffly. “Are you decent? We need to ask you a few questions,” the Sheriff replies. “This isn’t exactly a good time. What time is it, actually?” Harris asks, going into a coughing fit. The room reeks of marijuana and stale liquor. “It’s 11 am.” “Shit,” Harris says. “Hang on.” The door closes and there are more shuffling sounds and then the door creaks open. “Let’s get this over with,” Harris says, walking into the room. “There’s like, privacy privilege or whatever, right?” The men walk into the room slowly. The Deputy waves a hand in front of his face, unsuccessfully diffusing the stench of the room. “What? Jesus Harris, it smells like a brothel in here.” The room is a complete disaster. Women’s and men’s clothes litter the room. Cans of beer crowd the nightstand and an empty bottle of wine lays near a tipped trashcan, its contents spilled onto the floor. There is an ashtray with a lit cigarette still burning inside. There are no windows in the room to let in fresh air. A bathroom fan is on, but the bathroom door is firmly closed. Suddenly, they hear a loud clatter from inside the bathroom, and then someone cursing. “Who’s in there?” Deputy Shannon asks, but no sooner has he asked the question than the bathroom door swings open. “Shit,” says Irene Walker, wife of the deceased. The deputy purses his lips, and his eyebrows raise, but he says nothing. The Sheriff coughs awkwardly as Mrs. Walker shimmies into a coverup and snatches the cigarette out of the ashtray, taking a long drag to fully reignite the ember. “Uh,” the Sheriff says, at a loss for words. Harris makes an impatient gesture, “Yeah, we’re fuckin’, so what? Whaddaya guys want? I gotta get goin’ before my old lady beats my ass for bein’ home so late. Can’t believe it’s almost noon.” “We’re here to ask you a few questions about last night. We heard from the bartender that you were downstairs all evening,” says Deputy Shannon. “Yeah, and so was half the town. I came here with my buddies to blow off some steam after the contest ceremony. Which was rigged, by the way,” he says darkly. “Drank some pumpkin brew. Came upstairs, et cetera,” he says, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Went to sleep. And here we are.” “So, neither of you are aware of the murder that occurred last night then?” Deputy Shannon asks, watching Harris’ face for his honest reaction. He is surprised when the man’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline in surprise. Irene doesn’t appear to care much. Her face is turned away and she is puffing steadily away on her cigarette. “Murder? Whose?” Harris asks, leaning back on the bed. “Dennis Walker.” Irene goes still but says nothing. “You’re shitting me,” says Harris. “I’m not.” Harris exhales a puff of breath that could be a laugh. “Got what was comin’ to him, if you ask me.” “Interesting for you to say that,” the Deputy drawls. “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re implying.” “Didn’t say that you did.” There is an awkward silence. Sheriff Gordon eventually fills it. “Irene, your husband is dead.” She turns her head and looks at him. Her eyes are bloodshot. “And good riddance,” she says quietly, taking a drag on her cigarette that brings it down to the filter. “He beat me, you know. Every time he got drunk. Which was all the time,” She mimed a backslap into the air, not meeting anyone’s eyes as she did so. “We were wondering where you were this morning, Irene. Your son was the one who found the body,” Sheriff Gordon says. “He says he came over early to congratulate his old man on his win. Says he was sorry he couldn’t make it to the ceremony.” Irene covers her face with her hands. “My poor boy,” she chokes. “I was here with Harris the whole time. It wasn’t him. Or me. Check with Andy.” “We will be doing that,” the Deputy says skeptically. The Sheriff shoots him a look, as if to say, ‘let it rest for a minute, man’. “Who else closed down the bar last night, Harris?” asks the Sheriff. “Uh, lemme think. Lyle, Ben, Kevin, Jim, Courtney, uh, Claire, Irene and me obviously,” Harris says. “I think that’s it. You’ll have to ask Andy, things get a bit fuzzy around midnight. I don’t usually take shots, but I was pissed off last night. You know that dead bastard poisoned my pumpkins, right?” Deputy Shannon makes a few notes in his notebook and pockets it. This whole encounter was awkward at best, particularly having just come from speaking to Harris’s wife. “We’ve heard the accusations, yeah. What makes you think it was Dennis?” asks Sheriff Gordon. Harris gawked at him. “You mean besides the fact that I would have won the PumpKing contest if not for my entry suddenly melting? I’ll be honest, Lyle, Ben, and I went to the Walker farm and talked some shit on his pumpkin. I could tell by the sight of it that mine would win. After, what, 10 or 12 years doing this contest, I can tell on sight what a pumpkin will weigh. His was nowhere near my beauty. We went to the Dollar after and laughed about it with Jim and some others. I was so sure I’d win. And then the next day - the very next day - my pumpkin starts to get spots on it and melts? Seven days before the contest. I’d say that’s pretty suspicious, wouldn’t you, Sheriff?” “It is a bit questionable, sure. But what proof do you have?” “Don’t need any, I know it was him. And he didn’t even need the money. I need the money. Bastard knew that,” Harris says angrily. “Alright Harris,” says Sheriff Gordon. “We’ll be in touch. Don’t leave town until all this is settled, you hear? You too, Irene.” “Yeah, yeah,” Harris grumbles. Irene nods stiffly. The Sheriff turns to the Deputy and gestures towards the door with his head. “Let’s go.” ----- The two men close the door behind them and make their way back to the bar. The place is empty now, besides the bartender. The two of them sit at the bar and order a round of pumpkin ale. The Sheriff lets out a long sigh and rubs his hands down his face. After serving them, Andy heads to the kitchen, leaving them alone. “Okay, so who do we think it is?” the Deputy asks, straight to business. “Well, there’s Harris or Irene, obviously. Both have motive, and neither has a good alibi, considering they were supposedly together all night.” “What about Marna?” the Deputy asks. “Marna? Come on, man. What would she have to kill the guy over?” “I don’t know, the cash prize from the contest? They could use the money, Harris said. Maybe she wanted her old man to win... Thought maybe it would keep him around the house more?” “Maybe. Doesn’t feel right though,” Sheriff Gordon says. They are silent for a long time. Eventually, the Sheriff asks, “Who else entered the contest?” “Hang on, they posted that on the festival website,” the Deputy says, getting his phone out. After a minute of searching, he says, “Looks like the runner up was Kathy Miller, 3 rd place went to Kevin Calhoun, and 2 nd place went to... Jim Burleigh?” “Jim? City Jim?” the Sheriff asks. “I didn’t know he was into that.” “Me either. What’d he do before he moved here?” the Deputy asks. “Dunno. Let’s go have a chat with him, shall we?” He looks to where Jim had been sitting and sees a nearly full martini still sitting on the bar top. “When did Jim leave?” the Sheriff asks Andy as she returns from the kitchen. “As soon as you two went upstairs, why?” The Sheriff and Deputy look at each other meaningfully and stand. ------ Jim’s apartment door is wide open when they arrive. The men draw their weapons and call out, but they find that the apartment is empty except for an orange tabby cat who hisses at them from the shadows. There is only a folding table and single plastic chair in the living room which makes the place look eerie. There is mail on the table addressed to someone named Lyle Cornerstone. After a few minutes of internet searching, Deputy Shannon finds an article. “Look at this.” “String of Knife Attacks Shocks Locals” A series of seemingly random stabbings in St Louis, Missouri, has left residents shaken. Two men were killed and a woman was seriously injured when an unknown assailant stabbed them in the back with a knife. Based on cctv footage, a single person of interest, Lyle Cornerstone, was apprehended but quickly released from police custody due to insufficient evidence. Police have no other leads. The investigation is ongoing... There is a single piece of paper next to the letters. The Deputy picks it up and reads it aloud. Gentlemen, I have taken my leave, but I wanted to have a final word. Draino works remarkably well on pumpkins, did you know? I hoped that afterwards, Harris would take things out on his rival for me, but I forget sometimes that people don’t think like I do. If I hadn’t been ‘in the clink', I could have taken Walker out sooner and then I would have won. I do so like to win. Alas, I can see that the jig is up and must make my way. Please see that my cat is taken care of. Cheers “Jim”


There it was, at the corner of Linden and Mulberry, the Heishardt House, ripe for the selling. An 1839 mansion built in Gothic style. 6 bedrooms 1 bathroom, two floors, on a double lot. You can’t find beauties like this anymore. Just as I was about to get out of my car and walk the hundred feet or so to the house, I got a call from my boss. It was the usual thing: I’m $300,000 below quota for the quarter and If I didn’t make it... Hell, the house could be possessed by a demon for all I care, this has to be the one. As I got to the front door, it opened just a crack. A girl with bubble gum pink streaks in her hair poked her head out. She had big eyes which were accentuated by her excessive use of black eyeliner. “What do you want?” I was taken aback at that. “I got an email from Mr. Heishardt asking me to visit. I’m here to help him sell his house. Is he home?” “You mean, Dick? Yeah come in, but take your dirty-ass shoes off.” she said. I can’t say I’m the biggest fan of her attitude, but as long as the house sells, she can spit on my shoes for all I care. I walk inside to see an immaculate home. It looks like the kind of thing that Martha Stewart would have designed if she lived in the 1800. The ornate central staircase dominates the foyer. A grand chandelier seems to hold hundreds of real candles as well as thousands of pieces of delicately cut glass. This could easily be a half-million dollar home. Maybe more depending on what kind of renovations are needed. A woman with short silver hair enters wearing a polka dot dress and a red frilly apron that says, “Kiss the Chef.” “Oooooh!” she cooed. “I thought I heard someone enter. We’ve been expecting you. I’m Susan Heishardt, but you can call me Suzy. Stephanie, you haven’t been rude to our guest, have you?” The girl with pink streaks in her hair rolls her eyes, “Ugh, no mom.” “Well don’t be a stranger, come on in,” said Suzy. “I’ve just pulled out a fresh batch of cookies. Richard is waiting for us in the kitchen.” The kitchen looked thoroughly modern for the 1950’s. It would certainly need a new stove, fridge, and dishwasher. New counter tops wouldn’t hurt either. I was practically salivating as I sat down at the dinette kitchen table and handed over my very last business card to Richard Heishardt across from me. We made the usual small talk for a few minutes until the cookies cooled and Suzy placed a plate between us along with a tall glass of whole milk. I was in the middle of explaining the current housing market, and that’s when I heard it... A rumbling sound. Some sort of deep shudder echoed throughout the house. “What was that?” I said. “What was what?” “That rumbling sound. You didn’t hear it?” Richard looked confused. He looked to Suzy. They both shrugged and looked back to me. “I must have imagined it. Anyway, as I was saying-” I then went on to explain the best way to price a house in order to maximize profit. In my head, I was chanting, “This has to sell. This has to sell.” over and over. In the middle of my spiel, I heard... a thump. The plate of cookies jumped slightly off the table. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It sounded like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. “Did you guys hear that?” Richard looked to Suzy who looked equally confused. “Hear what?” they said to me. My Ex-wife always called me crazy, but not this kind of crazy. Maybe if I walked around the house I could tell where it was coming from. Maybe it was “water hammer” from someone turning the faucet off suddenly. “You know, I think I’d like to take a tour of the house.” “Actually, I don’t know about you Suzy, but I’m ready to sign the paperwork.” I was shocked at that. In all my years of being a real estate agent, I had never had a seller so eager. “I haven’t even told you what my fees are.” I said. “Oh, I’m sure they’re reasonable. I’m sure we can trust you. There’s no reason why we can’t trust you, right?” “No! No reason at all.” I said, perhaps a little too emphatically. I whipped out my briefcase and popped it open. I pulled out page after page and had them sign each one. It took about 15 minutes. The whole time, I had this bad feeling, like I ate something rotten, except it was all over my body. When we were finished, I insisted on a tour of the house. “Why don’t we start with the basement?” suggested Suzy. “Actually, I’d like to see the ground floor, then the 2nd floor, then the basement, because that’s generally how potential buyers will tour the house.” Suzy looked to Richard for his approval. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea...” Richard said hesitantly.” “It should be... fine.” said Suzy. I’d already seen the foyer and the kitchen. They took me to see the Dining room, Living Room, Parlor Room, the Study, and the Servant’s Quarters. The wood was polished so that the rich mahogany stood out against the moss green of the carpet. The rooms were filled with plush chairs and ornate tables. Ancient paintings adorned the walls, honoring the illustrious line of Heishardts throughout the ages. Back in the foyer, Stephanie was sitting on the bottom stair, playing on her phone. We ascended the stairs to the second floor and I admired the delicate pattern of the runner under my feet. It’s those little touches that bring a half million dollar house to a six hundred and fifty thousand dollar house. At the top of the stairs was the master bedroom. To the left was the only bathroom in the house. Adjacent to that was the second bedroom. A corridor led around the corner to the remaining three bedrooms. We toured them all and I was deeply impressed by the excellent condition of the house. I was starting to calculate the commission I would make, when I heard it again. That thump sound. I could feel it in my bones and it made me feel nauseous. Again Richard and Suzy didn’t seem to notice it. I told my hosts that I was ready to see the basement now. As we descended the stairs, I noticed something wasn’t right. Behind me should have been the Master bedroom, the bathroom to the left of it, and then the second bedroom. Instead the three bedrooms were behind me. But there was only one staircase in the whole house. I retraced my steps through the corridor to the Master bedroom, and there before me... was the stairs again. Stephanie was still sitting at the bottom and still playing on her phone. “Is something wrong?” asked Suzy nervously. “No no. I’m just... I think I ought’a sit down.” I said. “You don’t look well at all. Let’s go back to the kitchen. I’ll have Suzy make you some tea.” I sipped on some Earl Grey and felt much better and ready to see the basement. Suzy flicked on the only incandescent bulb that lit the stairs down into the deep, dark, basement. She led the way, then me, Stephanie, and Richard at the rear. I swear I could hear a munching sound, like a tiger gnawing on a bone. But no one else seemed to hear it, so I chalked it up to another imagination. Once we were on solid footing, I heard a deep grumbling, and a heavy metal chain dragging across the floor. It was still dark. The only illumination came from the single bulb upstairs. “You got him, Richard? I need to find the light switch” said Suzy. Richard grabbed me by the neck and one hand on my wrist. I was so shocked that I froze in place. I had no idea what was going on. “Gosh. It’s so hard to find. Sometimes it’s just easier to cast the spell.” Then she said something that sounded like Latin and Russian combined. A glowing white orb appeared out of nothing and floated a foot above our heads. Then I could see what was making those noises this whole time. An eyeless, hairless, grey monster. It didn’t have lips, just two jagged rows of vicious teeth that protruded outwards in every direction. A thick rope of saliva dribbled out of it’s hungry maw. It snarled and took a step closer. I tried to back away, but Richard had me firmly in his grasp. The beast took another step closer and Richard squeezed harder. It opened up it’s jaws, much wider than any human would be able to, and lunged at my face. A heavy gauge chain that was wrapped around the beast’s neck and tied to the wall snapped taught and saved my life. The beast snarled and chomped at the air hungrily. Suzy began chanting in that strange language. Stephanie interrupted, “Dick, I don’t want to go through with the ritual after all. “We already have a sacrifice. We should complete the ritual and then we can talk. Now help your mother with the chanting.” said Richard. “You can’t tell me what to do, Dick.” “I’m your father, and you’ll do as I tell you.” “You’re my step-dad and I’m 78 years old! I’ll do whatever the hell I want to do.” Stephanie said. She walked up to Richard and shoved him much harder than I would have expected from a girl her size. Richard let go of me and fell on the floor and I could hear a little, ”snick” sound. Richard grabbed his hip and winced like he’d been stabbed through the heart. Suzy was just as shocked as Richard and just as speechless. Stephanie grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the stairs. I didn’t need any urging. I raced up those stairs like my life depended on it. She walked me out the front door. “You forgot your briefcase in the kitchen.” “That’s ok,” I said as I wiped the sweat off my forehead. “I don’t think I’ll need it.”


There were wolves on the train from Kildare to Kilkenny and the noise of them was driving me mad. They weren’t real wolves, of course. Real wolves would not have been as obnoxious, or as drunk, or as stupid. No, these were humans in werewolf masks and gloves, six of them in total, dressed up for some Halloween party or other, and judging by their boisterousness and how intimidating they were, they’d been ‘getting in the mood’ for quite some time. Thankfully, for now, they were halfway down the carriage and weren’t bothering me, other than with their shouting and laughing and occasional howling at the moon, which just so happened to be full, which was more than a little appropriate, considering it was the 31st of October. When I’d entered the carriage twenty minutes earlier, I’d wondered why the top half was empty, and had gladly taken a seat inside the door. Now, having listened to and observed the antics of the costumed idiots--all of whom appeared to be male--I knew exactly why it was empty. It had taken all my willpower not to get up and leave, but I was on this train for one particular reason, and the presence of these wolves seemed fortuitous. I had a writing assignment due in two days, the prompt for which was ‘journey on a train’, and having failed to come up with a workable idea, I’d decided the best thing to do was just hop on a train and see what happened. I’d brought a book to read which I’d hoped would provide inspiration, but I’d only made it through a couple of pages before being distracted by the commotion further down. This, I knew from my creative writing teacher, was a better source of material, so I set the book aside and took out my notepad, the one I kept handy for jotting down ideas and possible lines of dialogue as I heard them. At the top of a page I’d quickly written: ‘Idea - idiots on a train dressed as werewolves, on their way to a costume party. Could there be a real werewolf amongst them?’ Well, it was something. Below that I’d scribbled some of the things I heard the idiots say, things that weren’t sexual innuendos and didn’t have anything to do with how pissed they were and how much more pissed they were planning to get, like: “Why the fuck are we going to a party in the arse end of nowhere, lads, could we not have stayed home and gone to Coppers?” “There better be some decent-looking birds in this town, man, not just a bunch of bleedin’ dogs. Oh, sorry, present company excepted.” And the most recent comment, which had been voiced just seconds before: “Hey, Blevine, can I have a howl at your moon?” Okay, that last one was a sexual innuendo, but I included it anyway because of the name Blevine, which I’d never heard before and which had instantly piqued my curiosity. It was piqued even further when a female voice responded, in as dry a manner as possible: “Sure. As long as you can howl out your arse, ’cos you won’t have a mouth if you try it.” I didn’t write that down, or the muttered “watch yourself” that followed, from a deeper male voice I hadn’t heard before, because by then I’d looked up from my notepad and leaned into the aisle, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious Blevine. I didn’t have to look hard to find her. The thin, pale-skinned and dark-haired girl in the loose-fitting cargo pants and baggy Nirvana t-shirt striding down the aisle directly towards me could only have been her, and her eyes locked onto mine as soon as she saw me. “Dickheads,” she said, reaching the end of the carriage and swinging into the empty set of seats opposite mine. She slouched back on the tacky, blue and green moquette-covered chairs, upper back and head against the window, one foot up on the seat, and continued to stare at me with amber-coloured eyes that seemed to deep-well drill into my mind. “What are you looking at?” she asked, spreading her arms as though I were checking her out. With shaggy, unkempt hair that hung to her shoulders, flat nose and thin lips, she wasn’t what you’d call beautiful in the traditional sense, but she was attractive in an earthy kind of way, and when I realised I was checking her out, I looked back down at my notes. “Nothing,” I said, waggling my pen over the page as if in preparation of writing. “Just enjoying the train ride.” “Enjoying?” she said, adopting a properly seated position in the aisle seat next to mine. “What’s to enjoy? A bunch of drunk losers in wolf masks thinking they’re off to the party of the year to get high or laid or both? I don’t think so.” Something about the way she said those last four words made me shiver and I couldn’t help but look at her again. “Really? I assumed they were off to a Halloween party, dressed like that.” “Oh, they are,” Blevine nodded, resting her forearms on her knees and placing her sharp-angled chin in her hands, so her face was mere inches from mine. Those eyes of hers, with their shimmering brightness and intensity of glare, were somehow piercing, comforting and unsettling all at the same time. “I mean, there is a party. I should know, I helped organise it, it’s just not what they think. They’re expecting a drink and drug-fuelled rave with loads of horny girls who can’t resist their ‘charms’, but they’ve overlooked the fact they were all told to dress the same way, so they’ve totally missed the point. But so what, suits me. “What are you writing?” Before I could think to ask one of my growing clutch of questions or answer hers, she’d plucked the notebook from my hand and was laughing as she read what I’d written. “‘Could there be a real werewolf amongst them?’ Some imagination! Are you writing a story? Do you believe in werewolves?” She was peering into my eyes again causing goosebumps to pucker on my skin. I shrugged, eyes flicking briefly to the moon that hung static above the treeline flashing past through the window, a moon that seemed to be watching the train with some amount of trepidation. “I wouldn’t say I believe in them,” I said, forcing my eyes back to hers, hoping she wouldn’t notice how nervous-or excited-she made me. “Not the popular fiction type anyway. But yeah, I am trying to write a story. Whether it’s going to be about werewolves or not I don’t know yet.” “Well, you’re heading in the right direction, if it is.” She said this as she placed my notepad on the table top before me and snatched up my copy of ‘Mythical Irish Beasts’, which was earmarked in places of interest. Flicking through the book, she stopped on one such page, which was heavily underlined, and read: “In his Topographia Hibernica, Gerald of Wales recounts the tale of a priest, who encountered on his travels a pair of speaking man-wolves, for whom he administered last rites. These wolves proclaimed themselves to be descendants of the Kings of Ossory, a mediaeval kingdom encompassing what is now Kilkenny and Laois, who’d been cursed by Saint Patrick for opposing his preaching of Christianity.” She paused in her reading and looked up, one eyebrow raised dramatically. “Doing your homework, I see.” “It’s kind of an interest of mine. Myths and legends, the supernatural.” She was staring again. Glaring again. Transmitting chills and half-smiling, though I wasn’t sure if it was in a mocking way or a pleasantly surprised one. “I’m impressed. You know about Ossory. Not many do. Fuck all do, to be honest. Those dickheads down there sure don’t. They think John Landis invented werewolves. John fucking Landis! Can’t even go back as far as Chaney. Think it’s all ‘body-morph transformations by the light of the silvery moon’. Dopes.” She said the word ‘dopes’ like she was spitting a slug from her mouth. “It’s cool you know the legend too,” I said, still trying to work out if I trusted this girl or was terrified of her. There was a touch of emo about her, or maybe it was grunge, I was out of the loop on subculture assignations. I also found it hard to guess her age, though she was definitely younger than me. “It’s nice to meet someone who shares the same interest.” She laughed, abruptly, startling me. “Oh, that I do! Sure, I’m from the area myself. Killeshin, in Laois. You won’t find it in your book, but local legends say it was a focal point of werewolf activity in the 13th century.” “No shit?” I said, perking up a little too enthusiastically. “Shit!” she replied, nodding eagerly and mimicking my excited tone, before glancing past me out the window, possibly to gauge where we were. “You know what? That’s where the party is. Killeshin. You know what else? It’s a werewolf-themed party. And do you know what else ? I’ve got a spare mask and I think you should come. I think you’d like it. You’d certainly appreciate it more than those chuckleheads my brother invited.” My throat was dry. My heart was thumping. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from hers. I opened my mouth and knew I was going to accept her invitation, even though I wasn’t sure I should. There was just something about her, an air of mystery, a sense of adventure, and I felt sure I’d regret it if I said no. But I never got the chance to say a thing. A hand appeared and tugged the book from her hands then he was there, one of the dickheads, the same one, I quickly established, that she’d scolded a minute before. He was wearing a t-shirt depicting an image from the film ‘An American Werewolf in London’. “What’s the story, Blev? Ditching me already? That’s not nice. What’s this shit?” Even through the latex and hair-covered head mask he wore, I could smell the alcohol on his breath, it wafted from his rubber maw to assault my senses. He was leafing through my book with the pointed, plastic fingers of his wolf-claw gloves, and I could just about see his eyes through his mask slits, shifting slowly from me to her and back again. “Nothing,” Blevine said. “Come on, we’re coming into Carlow, are you ready to get off?” “I’m definitely ready to get off, thought you’d never ask! Give us a kiss then!” He staggered forward and dropped his free hand onto her shoulder before jabbing the crumpled maw of his mask towards her face. I’m not sure what made me do it. Maybe it was a gut reaction to the abruptness of his move, maybe it was the stupid kissy noises he was making, maybe it was just the fact Blevine remained calm, staring at me past the big hairy head and pointy ear, waiting to see if I’d do something. Whatever it was, I got to my feet, curled my arm around his chest, drew him back. “Come on, man, don’t be a dick. Leave her alone.” He turned on me and lunged, dropping my book to wrap both his rubbery hands around my neck and push me back down into my seat. “Get the fuck off me, prick!” His eyes were full of rage inside his mask. He flicked his head and the tip of his maw caught my glasses, flipping them off my face. His fingers dug into my neck and he barked like a dog, moving his head closer, the smell of latex and alcohol overwhelming. I placed my hands on his chest to hold him back. “Jealous are ya, want me to yourself? Go on then, give us a kiss,” he said, and for a second he was all that existed in my world and the threat he presented was terrifying. Until it was removed, by another pair of hands that weren’t mine, big ones, with scratches and calluses on the fingers. “I told you to watch yourself,” came the same, gruff voice I’d heard before, and now I could see who it belonged to, a tall, gaunt man with sallow skin, sunken eyes, a mane of jet-black hair and bushy eyebrows. He pulled my attacker away and shoved him roughly into the door between me and Blevine. “You’ll regret that.” Fixing my glasses, my eyes were drawn back to Blevine, who remained seated a few inches away, staring at me between the two, circling her mouth with one finger. My cheeks flushed and I looked away, noticing the train had come to a halt in Carlow station while I was grappling with an idiot. His fellow idiots were lined up in the aisle behind the big guy, cans of cider and bottles of beer in their gloved hands. They were swaying from side to side, laughing and tittering, making fun of their friend. “Don’t ruin the night, Damo, ya big eejit.” “Sorry about that, lad, he gets a bit excitable when he’s out.” “Come on, what are we waitin’ for, where’s this bleedin’ party?” Blevine got to her feet and slid the door open, allowing who I assumed was her brother to shove Damo into the vestibule. “Calm down, Bleddyn!” she snapped, slapping his leather-jacketed shoulder. “No need to be so rough. This is a fun night we’re having, yeah?” The one called Bleddyn only grunted before stalking through the door after Damo, allowing the others to follow him out of the carriage in single file, bouncing and singing and whooping. When they’d all passed through, Blevine retrieved my trampled-on book from the floor and set it back on the table, leaning close to my neck as she did and seeming to sniff me. When she straightened back up, she was smiling. “Sorry about that. Like I said, dickheads. Hope my brother didn’t scare you. He can be a bit intense.” “It’s fine,” I said, with a shake of my head and a lick of my lips. “He was just looking out for you. And me, I suppose.” My face flushed with embarrassment at my failure to diffuse the situation. “Yeah, he’s grand, just doesn’t take any shit, you know? Anyway, about the party. I was wrong. You shouldn’t come. You’re one of the good ones. You wouldn’t like it, and you definitely wouldn’t fit in. Right?” “Oh. Yeah. Right.” “Yeah. For sure you wouldn’t. Just...keep doing what you’re doing. And good luck with the story. I’m sure it’ll be great. It should definitely be about werewolves.” “I think it probably will be now.” She smiled even wider and her eyes seemed to sparkle, then she patted me on the shoulder, winked at me once and was gone. From the platform outside I heard a ruckus, so I turned my head to stare out the window. The werewolves were there, jostling one another as they made their way into the small station building and struggled to get through the turnstiles. Bleddyn waited patiently at the rear until Blevine joined him, pushing herself up on her toes to whisper something in his ear. I saw him nod then enter the station, following the others into a dimly lit car park where a minibus filled with more werewolf-masked individuals was waiting. The whole encounter had left me feeling ill at ease. It wasn’t just that I’d been attacked by a guy in a werewolf mask, it was all of it, everything about it seemed off, especially Bleddyn, even Blevine. The way she’d looked at me, the things she’d said and how she’d made me feel, like I was losing control as she spoke. Had she really sniffed me? And what did she mean, I was one of the good ones? The train hissed and started to move. Blevine had followed her brother into the station. The others were boarding the bus. She was pushing her way through the turnstile. She stopped halfway through and looked back. As before, her amber eyes met mine and held my gaze, sparkling in the dull fluorescent glow of the station’s lighting. As the train slid forward and she dropped out of sight she flashed a smile, and I could have sworn her teeth looked as sharp as obsidian glass. But that had to have been my imagination. Later, when I’d have time to think clearly and investigate, I’d discover the names Blevine and Bleddyn were Welsh, and happened to mean the same thing--wolf cub. Even with that knowledge, which could only have been coincidental, even reading online about the mysterious disappearance of a number of teens on Halloween Eve a few days later, I’d never allow myself to believe what I witnessed that evening was anything other than it seemed. Nevertheless, from that day on, my research into the legends of the Werewolves of Ossory would become nothing less than an obsession. And I was sure I’d never rest ’til I saw her again.


The rusty metal chair grinds noisily against the damp concrete as I take a much-needed seat. The outdoor patio of my favorite café is busy and bustling right now as it’s lunch hour. I drop my belongings onto the glass table before reaching into my oversized hoodie pocket, pulling out a pair of earphones, and sticking them into my ears. The lofi-beat begins to play as the anxiety in my chest begins to dull. The world is muted by more sound. Beside me, a woman types frantically into her computer. Her face is stern, and her attire makes me believe she’s having a lunch break despite not actually taking a break. Across the street, a group of men work on a streetlight. One drinks out of a metal thermos casually whilst another leans against the wall, watching the other two men work. A car horn can be heard above my music, drawing my eyes towards an angry man yelling at a young girl who was nearly hit by the rushing taxi driver. The world around me is vivid and alive. Yet, I am not. In this strange world where I know no one, everybody moves. There’s no sleeping, no stopping, just movement. People don‘t have time for one another, and they’ve grown accustomed to living that way. Once again, however, I sit here alone. I feel like I’m in an impenetrable bubble that no one attempts to pop. The closest I’ve been to a real conversation was with the barista over what type of coffee I wanted. Even then, the interaction was meaningless. Her day kept moving- as did mine. In this world, there are billions of little worlds. Every person I’ve passed today has a life I’ll never know of, just as they will never know of mine. They are the center of their own universe, and I am the center of mine. But I sit here just the same, waiting for one of their worlds to merge with mine. I turn down the volume of my music to listen to the world around me. Cars drive by busily, honking at one another occasionally. A man chatters loudly on his phone about a meeting behind me. At another table, a group of teen girls laugh and chatter about some event they won’t remember 10 years from now. People pass me by. Each from their own walks of life. A homeless man rides by on a bicycle. A businessman carries a shiny black suitcase. A woman in a bright red jacket laughs with a woman who looks like she’d rather be anywhere but next to her loud friend. A young boy watches the ground as he hugs his laptop closely to his chest. Pigeons line the powerlines and streetlights. Taxis blend together in one hue of yellow. The world moves. Yet, I sit here motionless. A cold wind blows from the North, reminding me of the upcoming winter. The world is to be cold and grey once again, and I’m afraid that with the snow piles and thick coats, the world will become even more reclusive to me. Leaning back into my seat, I begin to admire the measly maple tree resting near the side of the street. Its leaves have been painted an array of oranges and reds to match the Autumn scene before me. It blows gently in the wind, causing stray leaves to float gently to the ground. The tree stands solitarily in this concrete jungle. It’s the only sign of actual vegetation for blocks. It reminds me of me in a way. It’s the center of its own universe. It lives for itself, and though it’s alone and feels lonely, it can comfort itself. When the weight of this world gets heavy, that tree just releases its problems into the wind. I wish I could do that. I wish I had the ability to easily let go. The clouds overhead all look the same. Endless masses of ashy grey, hinting, but never expelling a drop of rain. A quiet contentment washes over me in that moment, looking up at that dark, yet bright sky overhead. It was the first time in this noisy city, that I felt a bit peace. “Is this seat taken?” Asks a woman loudly enough for me to hear her over my music. My contentment is disrupted as I shake my head. “Thank you,” she mumbles quietly before taking the seat across from me. I sit up awkwardly, wondering if I should leave before she speaks again. “My name is Lacy by the way,” she says as she sets her belonging onto the table. Her eyes never meet mine, and she tries to hide the frantic note in her voice as she introduces herself to me. “I’m Peter,” I say, holding out a hand. She smiles and firmly shakes it before pulling open a laptop. Just as quickly as our friendly interaction began, it ended. She went back into her own universe, and I went back into my own. If I had any more courage, I’d ask her for her number. Maybe we could become friends. She seems nice, I doubt she’d reject me. But, the more I look at her, the more I see. She already has a life, and I will add no value to her world. As she types frantically at her laptop and writes notes in her leather journal, she doesn’t need me. As I sit here, taking sips of my nearly cold coffee, I don’t need her either. I’ve realized that people are only asteroids. We pass by one another’s worlds, watching each other carefully. We wonder if we should interact. We wonder if we should meet. We wonder if we should step into each other’s lives. But we quickly decide that most things are more appealing at a distance, and we become too afraid to merge worlds. Maybe this is for the best. When an asteroid and a planet collide, both gets hurt- if not destroyed. So maybe, being a lonely asteroid in this void of space is a good thing. Maybe it’s why we feel lonely. All we want is that planet, yet, we float away, never to see the place we once loved ever again. But in the end, we realize it’s for the best. I gulp nervously as I glance up at Lacy. She wears a casual sweater with a button up underneath it. Her hair is in a bun and she continues to type frantically. “What are you writing?” I ask, wondering if I’m being too invasive. She glances up, wide eyed, “A thesis for this English assignment I’m doing.” “Ah, good luck,” I say with an awkward nod. She smiles, “thank you.” She goes back to typing, and I go back to watching the world. Minutes pass before she sighs deeply and shuts her laptop. “How old are you?” She asks, startling me. “21, you?” “20. Where are you from?” “A world I wish I could go back to. You?” “Same.” She responds, shaking her head. “I thought this world would be for me. I don’t think it is.” “Me neither” I respond, watching her eyes glaze over with the same emotion I’ve felt for the past year. “Do... do you ever feel like in this place, you’re completely alone? Like you have no one to talk to but you’re constantly surrounded by people to talk to?” She asks. “I know exactly how that feels,” I respond as she nods enthusiastically, looking just as relieved as me that there’s someone out there who understands. “I feel so confined. I know I’m free, and I know I can go anywhere and do anything, but I feel so trapped. This place borders me in like a caged tiger and all I want is to be anywhere but here. I know nobody and nobody knows me. Being who I am, I thought I’d like that but... It’s incredibly lonely you know?” “It’s like you’re part of a world that isn’t yours.” I say, sitting up. “Exactly! And then-“ before she could say anything else, her phone rings. She lifts a finger, telling me one minute. I nod and lean back into my seat as she answers with a bright greeting. Her face falls suddenly, and I watch with curiosity as the brightness in her eyes becomes a darkness. She hangs up quickly, grabs her belongings and stands up. “I’m sorry, I got to go, but it was lovely meeting you. Goodbye,” she says as panic crosses every feature on her body. “Goodbye Lacy,” I say as she weakly attempts to smile one last time. Then, as swiftly as the asteroid entered my solar system, it was too distracted by the stars beyond me to collide with my world. She left, and about thirty minutes later, as did I. The tree however, stood there. Watching the world with a contentedness I could only dream of in this city that never sleeps.


Alex and Sophia had only been seeing each other for a few months, at the beginning they kept it casual at the beginning but over time it turned into more. One of Sophia's friends was having a BBQ and invited them both over, Alex had met some of her friends already, but this was an opportunity for Alex to meet the rest. He mingled quite well when he had to, but crowds weren't really his thing. Alex had managed to escape the awkward introductions and dragged out conversations to head outside and get some fresh air. Sophia was across the garden talking to some of her friends. Alex couldn't take his eyes off her, everything about her made him happy. Sophia's friend April noticed Alex, and the way he was looking at her. She made her way over to him, "There's only one thing on somebody's mind when they look at someone like that" "And what's that?" He asked. "As if you can't be without them, your eyes show how happy you are.... You love her, don't you?" After a short pause he replied "Yes". He never took his eyes off her, and grinned as he responded. "How could you not. She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, her smile alone makes me happy. She doesn't know though, and I'd like to keep it that way for the moment if you don't mind. It's only been a few months, and I just want to wait until the times right, but yes, I'm in love with her." April was curious. "What makes you so sure?" She asked. "I knew from the first time I ever seen her there was something about her, I was drawn to her but I didn't know why. When we finally went out together, there was a connection straight away. It was overwhelming, and I had never felt anything like it before. I didn't know what it meant at the time, but I knew it meant something special. The more time we spent together, the more I was drawn to her. When I was around her I felt safe, and happy. Every time I'm with her it feels like it's exactly where I'm supposed to be in that moment. I've never felt anything like this before and quite honestly I didn't believe you could feel so strongly about someone, in the way I do about her. It's more than just attraction or desire. It's like everything I've ever done has led me to where I am now, to her. I'm in love with her, and no matter what happens between us I know I always will be. I'm connected to her now, and I always will be. That's how I know." April just looked at him and smiled. "You have to tell Sophia what you just told me." "I will" He responded. "When the time is right though. She's really important to me, and I want nothing more than to make this work. If the time isn't right for her then I have to wait until it is, even if it is hurting me not telling her." April could tell it was hard for him keeping this to himself, but she could see he really did love her and that he was probably doing the right thing keeping it to himself for the moment. "Go to her. You don't have to tell her what you told me, but go be with her" Alex just looked at April and smiled, "Thank you" he said.


TW: Swearing Angela ‘Sneezy the Cat Lady’ Rhymes met the eyes of a billboard advert model through the classroom window. Three teenagers slouched in chairs with their arms folded, facing her whiteboard. One was on her phone. Angela sighed. “None of us want to be here at magic summer school so let’s get done what needs done and go home, deal?” Anna-May ‘the Animator’ Ghibli nodded enthusiastically, as the only one who wasn’t there through misdemeanors. Jesus Hernandez raised his hand. “Miss, how many classes do we have to go to before we can graduate?” “You have to be able to pass a test, Jesus. It’s not a number.” Miss Rhymes rubbed her forehead where a frown was working its way into a tension headache. The teacher rubbed the plastic chip on a cord around her wrist. “You can control cats, right?” asked Peter ‘the Pervert’ Parka, without raising his hand. “We need to begin the class for any of you to pass the test,” Angela said, ignoring Peter. “But you can, right? I heard you set a pack of cats on a kid for spitting on you.” Jesus smiled as if it was the funniest thing since he’d last looked at his phone. “Yes,” Angela said, hoping she could address their interest and move on. “I can control cats.” “That’s a cool power.” “Not really,” Miss Rhymes sniffed, reaching for a tissue. “How is that not cool?” Peter asked, “all I can control is clothes.” “Yeah, you suck, creep.” Jesus frowned at the blonde boy in the plain white T-shirt. Hernandez then stood up, knocking over his desk as he held the waistband of his trousers. Fighting an invisible force, his fingers lost their grip on the fabric. “PETER. STOP IT.” Angela felt her tension headache settle in for the day as she yelled at the boy who was giving his classmate the middle finger. “Why? He was being a dick. Why not show everyone his?” “Because that’s sexual assault, Peter. You’ve been told that a hundred times.” “More like a thousand,” Parka said as Jesus pulled up his trousers. “Then learn,” Miss Rhymes said, not holding back the anger in her voice. Her eyes caught Dalia DeWinter slouching in her chair. The girl had turned herself into a full sized doll with blank staring glassy eyes. “You’re just prolonging this if you don’t pay attention, Miss DeWinter.” Angela walked to the transfigured student and clicked her fingers in front of the girl’s unresponsive face. “What would happen if we pulled her arms off like that?” Peter asked, smirking as he eyed the plastic joints of Dalia’s bare elbows. “Prison or the chair, Parka. Don’t even think about it.” “I heard you’re an alcoholic, Miss.” Anna-May said, smiling the wide smile of a gossip laden teen. “Incorrect.” Angela rubbed the one year chip on her bracelet. One year, one month, two days , she thought. “I don’t drink anymore. Now I would like to start by-” She didn’t manage to finish the sentence as Jesus grinned an evil grin, pointing to her water bottle. “Want me to turn that into wine for you, miss? No charge. Maybe you could just say we all passed the test and we could go. Except Peter. He can go fuck himself.” Hernandez turned his stubble covered head to grin at Parka. Jesus stopped grinning as his purple letter jacket collar began strangling him. “Peter, enough!” Angel said, holding up her hand as if it would do something. “I SAID ENOUGH.” Her shoes clapped on the discoloured laminate tiles as she strode to her desk with purpose. Throwing back a glug of water she downed another allergy pill. Pulling her wand from her pocket, she chose the biggest book on the shelf and aimed it at Parka. “Owch. What the hell?” Peter looked at her with wide eyes and a red mark on his forehead. “You can't do that!” “I just did and I’ll do it again.” “You’ll get fired.” “I have tenure. If they could fire me they would have done it already. SIT DOWN. SHUT UP. LISTEN. I’m not asking you again.” She looked at Dalia, still as death in her chair. Angela rubbed her throbbing head. She pulled a marker from her pocket and began writing a spell they had to master on the board. Peter rubbed his head as his eyes followed her pen. Shimmering sparkles in the corners of his blue eyes hinted at tears he was fighting back. Angela breathed deeply, counting to ten in her head. “Look at that,” Anna-May said, pointing her black painted nails to the window. Despite herself Miss Ryhmes looked at the billboard outside. The handsome with the glass of wine in his hand was beckoning to Angela. The teacher turned to the student with hellfire in her eyes. “That’s not funny, Anna-May. Do you know how hard I fought to get sober?” A cat leapt onto the window sill. “I heard you punched Miss Banks from art class,” said Jesus, grinning the bully’s grin. Feeling her eyes itch and water, Angela opened the window. The striped moggy casually leapt through the window. A tabby leapt up behind it. The itch spread to Miss Rhymes’ throat as she went back to the whiteboard. “Repeat after me, or the cats will scratch the spell into your skin.” Hernandez and Anna-May recited the spell as Angela pointed to it. Peter pulled off his socks with his powers and had them dance in front of the cats to distract them. Felines poured in through the window, two at a time. Parka was in no time surrounded by moggies who had no interest in his socks. “Are you going to pay attention, Peter?” Angela asked. “Yes, Miss Rhymes.” “You’re not going to cause trouble?” Her voice was ice. Cubed ice floating in single malt whiskey. Something from Islay. Dammit, stop thinking about alcohol . “No, Miss Rhymes.” Parka shrank down in his chair rubbing his forehead. “Good.” Cats continued to floor into the classroom. Though her eyelids and throat began to swell she kept the cats there, watching each of the students as they repeated the spell with her. She wanted them to pass the test. She wanted to go on a holiday. Barbados , she thought. Sitting in a deckchair on the sand. An umbrella as I look out over the sapphire blue sea. Sangria in a pitcher on the table next to me. Fuck . Anna-May gazed out of the window again as Miss Rhymes wrote up the next spell on the board. Outside the window, the printed photograph of the beautiful man and woman were kissing. Teenagers . “Looking at the board everyone.” Angela was pleased with the rest of the lesson despite the fact she was slowly suffocating. Her airways were closing as the time passed. The breeze from the window was blowing cat hair everywhere. Without interruption she managed to note down and have them repeat every required spell. A week of that would probably be enough for them to pass the test. “Time to go, kids. Get out of my classroom.” “Woo,” Peter whooped, throwing his hands up. A ginger paw pushed his chest. He fell silent and nodded. The feline sea parted for Anna-May, Jesus and Peter to leave. “Can you walk on water, Jesus?” Miss Ghibli asked. “I can ice skate, yeah.” Hernandez had clearly been asked a thousand times. His delivery was slick and delivered with practiced confidence. He wore his letter jacket like a king’s cloak, swaggering. He’s not the messiah , Angela thought. He’s a very naughty boy . Their voices retreated down the corridor. Jesus and Peter insulting each other again. “Enjoy your evening with the cats,” Miss Rhymes said to Darla ‘Doll Face’ DeWinter. Locking the door, the teacher thought about Barbados again. Sun soaked bodies glistening with the sweat of mild exercise. DeWinter turned back to human form, expecting the teacher to be at the desk and the lights on. She leapt out of her chair backwards into more cats. Her perception of anything but the clock on the wall had vanished in her other form. Felines seemed to have appeared from nowhere. “What the hell?” asked Dalia as the cats she’d crashed into scratched her. On the board were the words: ‘See you again tomorrow Miss DeWinter, and every day until you learn the set spells. You only wasted your time.’ Pulling her phone from her back pocket, Dalia saw multiple missed calls from her mother. “Hi, Mom. Yeah, I did it again. Just gonna wait here. No, I'll be fine. See you tomorrow.” I’m going to be dealing with that Dalia idiot all summer , Angela lamented as she walked to the bus stop. The billboard for Welcome Wine leered down at her from the photographic eyes of the handsome man and the beautiful woman. Bitch . The bus pulled up, Miss Rhymes saw cats disperse from the school as the bus doors hissed shut. Catching the eye of a muscular young man with tattoos protruding from his gym wear, she smiled. He grinned back. Trading addiction to alcohol for sex addiction wouldn’t be so bad would it? At least I’d get some exercise . He flashed his teeth again as the bus turned a corner, arms bulging. Am I too old for him? Fuck it, he’s smiling. Come on, Angela, let’s do this . Just don’t sneeze on him .


The musty smell pulled Jethro out of his nap. A thin sheen of condensation coated his skin, residue of the muggy air that dampened his clothes and made his skin sticky. Sounds of dripping water echoed off of cavernous walls, turning small plips into cacophonous clangs. His old joints complained about the rigid, weathered wooden bench he was seated on, and he adjusted himself out of discomfort. He tried moving, only to feel himself rock with the motion in a way he hadn’t expected. He heard the swish of a paddle pushing through water, and he realized he was on a boat, floating down a river. In his eighty-six years of being alive, Jethro had plenty of strange experiences, but taking a nap and waking up on a wooden boat inside a cave was not one of them. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t really remember falling asleep, and waking up hadn’t really felt the same way waking up normally did. It felt more like coming out of a trance, like his consciousness was materializing after disappearing for a while. Across from him, he heard shuffling and murmuring from two people. After a few seconds of adjustment, one of them spoke up. “Where the hell are we?” He said. His voice was high pitched for a man, but he seemed to compensate for this by speaking more aggressively, over-enunciating every word. He directed that obnoxious voice ahead of them, demanding, “Who are you? What’s going on here?” There was another gentle swishing noise, this time on Jethro’s side of the boat, as whoever was guiding it pushed their paddle through the water. In an ethereal voice, somehow sounding like it emanated from the walls of the cavern as much as the man himself, he said, “Do you not remember your last moments?” “My...” the little man spluttered. “My what?” The ethereal voice became clearer as the ferryman turned to face them. “Your last moments on earth,” he replied, a condescending timbre to his words. “Before you died.” The woman screamed. The man tumbled off the bench and scrambled backwards. “What the fuck?” he spluttered. He turned to Jethro. “Are you seeing this shit?” he asked, in apparent disbelief. Jethro turned his head towards the ferryman, then back to the man. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.” “The fucking skeleton in a cloak standing three feet away from you?” Jethro tilted his head in thought. “Oh yes, quite spooky,” he said, “Although I suppose that’s to be expected after you die.” He turned back towards the ferryman. “Excuse me, Mr Skeleton. You wouldn’t happen to be the ferryman of the river Styx, would you?” “Indeed I am,” Charon replied, turning back and pushing the paddle through the water again. “I thank you for being polite.” “Yes, well,” said Jethro, chuckling lightly, “I imagine in your line of work people aren’t always very happy to see you.” “One of the hazards of shepherding the dead, I’m afraid.” The woman spoke for the first time since they woke, with a thick, nasally midwestern accent. “This can’t be the end,” she whimpered. “My kids, they won’t have a mother anymore.” “Very optimistic of you to assume they survived that car crash,” Charon replied, sounding bored with the exchange already. “Wouldn’t you know whether they died?” the woman said, her earlier whimpering tone transmuting into a more entitled whine. “You’re the Grim Reaper, aren’t you?” “I’m not,” he replied. “And if I did know, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.” In a voice that sounded like she was about to demand to speak to the manager, the woman said, “Why not?” “It would cause more trouble than it’s worth.” She huffed, apparently at a loss for words. Instead, the man spoke up again. “I have unfinished business too, you know,” he said, matching her irritated tone. “I’m twenty-nine. I had a future to live for, I wasn’t ready to die yet.” He turned briefly to Jethro, then back to Charon. “Not like this guy, anyway.” Jethro frowned. Who was this kid to decide when another person should die, anyway? “With foul manners like that,” Jethro replied, intentionally condescending him, “the world is probably better off without you.” “Shut up, old timer,” the little man barked. “There has to be a way out, right?” he said to Charon. “A way I can go back?” “The chances of surviving that kind of overdose are one in a million,” Charon replied. “That’s not a no.” Charon sighed, with undertones of annoyance faintly audible beneath it. He pushed and pulled the paddle more vigorously, until the boat landed on the river bank, sand crunching beneath its wooden hull. “Over there is a tunnel that leads back out to the world,” Charon said, his voice directed towards the cavern’s smooth walls. “If you can make it through there without touching the walls or the floor, you’ll be returned to life.” “How am I supposed to walk without touching the ground?” the man said, bordering on outrage. “You know what I meant,” Charon replied, still nonplussed. “Can’t put your hands on anything.” “It’s pitch black in there,” the man complained. “How am I supposed to guide myself out without using my hands?” “Have faith,” Charon replied, sounding like he was only half joking. The man snorted. “Easy,” he said. “I’m a Catholic priest. I eat faith for breakfast.” “And you believe God is the right person to put your faith into?” Charon asked, with a hint of a chuckle in his voice. A short silence passed, the contempt between the two as palpable as the humidity in the cave. “I don’t believe it, I know it,” the priest replied. Charon chuckled again. “Good luck.” The priest marched out of the boat so ferociously that it nearly rocked itself away from the bank. Jethro listened as his steps squelched through wet sand, then scraped through gravel, until eventually simmering into light taps treading on stone. The echoes of his footsteps changed their shape and tone as the priest ascended into the tunnel, then grew quieter as he traveled further down. Hardly a minute later, the sound of sliding and scraping echoed back out into the cavern, followed by a muffled curse, then the much louder sound of rocks collapsing and causing the ground to rumble. The priest began to shout, but it was cut off by the crunch of his own bones as the rockslide crushed him. Charon sighed. “Every time.” “I’m going to try,” the woman blurted. The boat rocked as she stood from her seat. Charon paused in the middle of picking up his paddle, then turned to face her. “You think you’ll succeed where he failed?” “I have to,” the woman huffed. “My children need me.” “You still think they’re alive?” Charon replied, sounding amused. “If they died in that accident too, they would be here with me,” the woman said. “You’re assuming they died at the same time you did,” Charon replied, a smile tinting his voice. “You’re assuming quite a lot, in fact.” “Or perhaps it’s faith,” the woman retorted. “Maybe I just have faith that my children are waiting for me.” “Putting your faith in other people rarely ends well,” Charon said. “But if you want to risk it, I won’t stop you.” The woman stomped out of the boat, almost as if she was trying to crack the ground beneath her. To her credit, it sounded like she made it a little further than the priest did. But--in almost the exact same fashion--she slipped, she fell, and she got halfway through screaming before the rockslide flattened her lungs. Jethro sighed, adjusted his suspenders, and grabbed his cane. “Well,” he said, “let’s give this a shot. Looks like a fun challenge.” “Why?” Charon said, something approaching bewilderment rising in his voice. “You’re old. Even if you succeed, you’ll die again soon after.” “Then I have nothing to lose,” Jethro replied. “Hm.” Charon tapped the end of his paddle on the base of the boat. “I suppose I can’t argue with that.” Jethro smiled, then pushed himself to his feet, ready to exit the boat. As he stepped up to the edge, he was stopped by a bony hand grabbing his shoulder. "Not so fast," Charon said. "Let me have that cane." A chill traveled up the back of Jethro's neck at the ferryman's spidery touch. He turned, letting Charon's hand slide off his shoulder and gripping his cane. "Why?" "Your cane is an extension of your arm, making the end of it essentially your hand," Charon explained. "If you use it to guide you, you'll fail the challenge." Jethro gave Charon a wry smile. "You would take an old man’s walking stick away from him?" Charon chuckled. "We both know you don’t use it to walk." It wasn’t that Jethro couldn’t see without his cane--he had other tricks up his sleeve. It was the principle of the thing. Charon was right. His cane was an extension of himself, it had been for eighty years of his life. Whether Charon was trying to help him or handicap him, Jethro couldn’t say. But if it was the latter, Jethro was more than happy to prove him wrong. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll have faith in myself.” He handed Charon the cane, then stepped out of the boat and began his march towards the tunnel. As it had with the previous two folks, his first footsteps here accompanied by the crunching of sand beneath his feet, the friction between grains loosened by the water soaking into it. The gravel--which was really just a louder and more unpleasant version of sand--was next, but it didn’t last long. When he reached stone, he instantly had a better idea of where he was. He faced the tunnel ahead of him, and clicked his tongue. The soundwaves went out, bouncing off of the limestone walls, then radiated back to Jethro. One was all it took, and the cavern told him everything he needed to know. The opening of the tunnel was small and winding, with jagged walls and plenty of stalagmites to trip over. Treacherous, certainly, but not impossible. As he ascended through the tunnel, clicking his tongue occasionally to regain his bearings, his mind began to wander. He wondered where the other two had met their end, and he clicked his tongue once more to see if he could find them. A yard or two ahead of him, he detected a softer texture, absorbing more sound than the limestone. Skin, he reckoned. He walked towards it, kicked it with his foot. The ball of his foot hit the pastor squarely in the nose--he reckoned it was the pastor anyway, unless the woman from earlier had a thick mustache. Of the six or seven stalactites that fell on him, the echoes indicated two of them standing up crookedly. It occurred to Jethro that they probably impaled the guy, and he decided to keep walking, having no desire to accidentally step in blood. The cave became smaller as he continued on, and he found himself having to click his tongue more often to make it out. As his stops became more frequent, he started to wonder if impatience was what caused most people to fail. It had certainly been the cause of the mother’s end--Jethro learned that pretty quickly after accidentally treading on her hair. The further he went, the more debris got in his way--everything from crumbled limestone to dry bones, snapping and crumbling beneath his feet. But unlike everyone else who had failed before him, Jethro had eighty years of experience taking his time while navigating. He knew what to do, and he did it well, all the way up to the end of the tunnel. As he stepped out onto the grass, breathing in the fresh air, he felt himself lifted up into the air. The sensation of being taken off of the ground was unpleasant, like a plant being pulled out of its roots. But it didn’t last long, and soon his eyelids fluttered open. He felt bedsheets around him--the scratchy felt ones that they always gave you in hospitals. He realized his daughter would be visiting later, and it cheered him up to know he’d been able to hang on long enough to hear her voice again. There was one more thing he had to check, and he reached to the side of his bed, feeling past the segments on the railing. When he found it, he breathed a sigh of relief. His cane lay where it always was, leaning up against the right side of his bed.


“Who let the dogs out? Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof.” The words whispered through Oshima’s lips. “Can you stop it?” Kelly’s words not as quiet but still in a hushed tone. “Who let the dogs out? Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof.” Kelly just shook her head and watched as Oshima’s mouth curled up at both ends. She never was very fond of Oshima, but she promised James that she would try to be nicer. She didn’t have much choice since James was her best friend and Oshima was his most recent prey. Kelly wasn’t jealous of Oshima as much as she was protective of James. And Oshima was not the first target of James attention, but he had kept her around the longest. “The party was nice the party was - “ Oshima’s words were cut short by a loud booming sound that seemed like it was right beside the two of them. They both froze as they stared at each other. The dislike that Kelly had in her head was gone. All she could think about was how if she sat still enough, she might just turn invisible. The two of them sat motionless for what felt like a hour. While they sat there, Kelly thought about how all of this even happened. It was the day before Halloween when Kelly saw James and Ohsima walking down the hallway at school. She gave James a little smile and a wave as she walked pass the couple. Kelly knew to give James his space while he was with one of his targets. She walked a few steps before she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see James smiling. “Hey, are you still gonna go with us to that party?” He always asked questions with such energy it was hard for most people to say no to him. Kelly knew him better than most. His charm didn’t have the same effect on her that it had on girls like Oshima. “Yeah, I guess,” Kelly said with a shrug. If for no other reason, Kelly had to be there to keep an eye on James. He could get a little carried away at parties. It was like that since they were eight. They would both go to a birthday party and James would find a way to break something. If it wasn’t another kid’s new toy, it was his own wrist or a window. One way or another, James seemed capable to find something that would take the attention away from the host and put the spotlight on himself. Most of the time, he didn’t even realize that he did anything until it was too late. More recently, he went to a party with a girl named Melody and left with a girl named Heather. The next day he met Oshima and they had been together for the past month. Kelly had a few boyfriends in her past. Most of them were James’s teammates. She would flirt enough and do just enough to get a ride somewhere or a quick meal. But there was only so many times that you can listen to a guy talk about himself or touch you with one of his six arms before it isn’t worth it anymore. She would ignore that jock and he would be feeling up some other poor girl the next weekend. There was one guy that Kelly would consider a boyfriend, but she would never tell him that. That guy was named Clarence. Clarence was not athletic, popular, or even very cute. But Clarence was putty for Kelly to mold as she saw fit. Not even James knew about Clarence. He was a complete nerd, minus the glasses. He would tell her how much he liked her, and she would make sure he knew that what they had was not like that. It was only for fun and practice. Kelly did like Clarence, but she would tell herself that she needed to keep it open so if another opportunity came along it wouldn’t get in the way. She had gone out with a couple other people while with Clarence, but they would eventually annoy her. When they did, she would go to Clarence to get out a little frustration and then continue with her day. Now here she was, stuck with Oshima in a impromptu stare down. A few seconds had gone by and although she was wanting to think about something happy or pleasant, all that was in her head was that song. “Who let the dogs out?” Kelly whispered the words as softly as she could, and it seemed to break the tension. Oshima cracked another little smile and blinked. Kelly thought to herself, “Ha! I won.” A second later they both looked up and heard little more than the typical sounds of the night. The night sky took Kelly back to the past few hours. It was Devil’s Night, October thirtieth, and there was a party at One of James’s friends. The name Chad, Brad, Brett, Chet, or some other douche name was hosting the party. And judging by the size of the house, he was probably Douche the Third or Douche Junior. Kelly walked up to the house and watched as every player of every sport was easily represented through the windows. She stood at the front door long enough to take in a deep breath, then she went inside. As Kelly walked through the house, she saw a couple guys that she went to first base with, three guys that made it to second, and the one guy who made it to third base. She kept walking through to the back yard and caught sight of James and Oshima. And standing right beside Oshima was Clarence. For a second, Kelly thought about turning around and started to before closing her eyes and heading back to the three most unlikely candidates. Once there, Kelly looked around nervously, pierced her lips, and gave nonverbal greetings, looking like a bobblehead on a bumpy road. “Soooo, how’s it going?” Kelly tried to look at all three of them while asking the question. “Hey, Kell, look who we ran into,” sarcasm was oozing out of James’s words. “I think Clarence here is in one of your classes.” “Oh yeah, I thought he looked familiar.” She tried not to look directly at Clarence, but when she did, a little smile crept onto her face. “How’s it going, Clarence?” Clarence gave a shrug and a crooked smile towards Kelly before turning away and looking into the darkness behind him. James was zoned out on the dance music that was playing through the entire house. Oshima, needing to be the center of attention, entered the conversation in her typical energetic way. “James, I forget something at my house, can you get me a ride? If not, it’s no big deal. I can just walk. It’s just through the cemetery. No big deal. “What?” James responded without looking at her. “I need to grab something from my house, can you at least walk with me?” “Kell, can you go with her? I’m waiting on something.” “I can wait her for your whatever,” Kelly responded with a quickness. “No, I don’t think that would be the best idea.” James started to shake his shoulders as the Baja Men were pumping. Come on James. I need you to go with me,” Oshima said. There was frustration in her voice. She turned and started to head towards the darkness. As she did, Kelly realized that Clarence had left. Clarence lived close to Oshima so Kelly decided to walk with her and take a little detour on the way back to check on Clarence. “Hey, Oshima. Wait up!” And Kelly jogged to catch up with Oshima. The two of them crossed a field that was before the cemetery. When they made it to the edge of the cemetery, Oshima stopped. “Maybe we should just go around,” Oshima said. A tinge of nervousness in her voice. She looked over at Kelly and Kelly glanced at her. If they went around the outside, there would be no way for Kelly to check on Clarence. “Nah, we should just go through,” Kelly had her brave voice on. “If you’re afraid, we could just run all the way across.” “I don’t know, Let’s just go around.” “We can run and I’ll hold your hand.” Kelly meant it as a joke. She never really wanted to make any connection to Oshima, but before Kelly could tell her it was a joke, Oshima grabbed her hand and began to pull her into the graveyard. Kelly wanted to shake her hand loose, but decided that it would be a few minutes of awkwardness and then she could check on Clarence. They bothtried not to step on any of the graces, but one would pull one way, then the other would tug the other way. They almost seemed to take turns stepping clear of the sacred ground as they ran. Then it happened, Kelly pulled one way and Oshima pulled the other way at the same time. Kelly’s foot hit soft ground and caused her to turn awkwardly, pulling Oshima even faster towards her. At the same time, they both began to fall, but instead of landing on someone’s final resting place, they fell in the future resting place of someone more recently departed. Oshima hit the ground hard, but Kelly was lucky and landed on something soft. She was fortunate enough to be the second one in the grave and fell directly on top of Oshima. And even luckier, Oshima was unconscious Kelly pushed herself off of Oshima and went to stand up. Her ankle did not cooperate, and it caused Kelly to fall back against the foot of the grave. Dirt sprinkled down on her head. She jumped and tried to grab hold of the edge of the opening, but the dirt slipped through her fingers. She landed on bother of her feet but the one still didn’t want to stand so she fell against the side wall this time. More dirt fell o her. She put her back against the wall and slid down ito a squat, placing both of her hands into her face. Kelly began to let out a few tears, some from frustration, some from pain. She did not know what she was doing. She was stuck in a hole in the ground with the one person that she never wanted to be alone with. It was another minute of solitude before Oshima came around. She pushed herself up from the ground and sat on the far side of the grave, brushing dirt off the side of her face. “What happened?” Oshima asked while shaking her head for some form of clarity. “I guess we shouldn’t have held hands,” Kelly said with a hint of anger in her voice. “or ran.” It was then that they heard it for the first time. A single pop of a sound. It wasn’t very loud, but it didn’t have to be. They both knew that they were the only people in the cemetery and the softest of sounds from anywhere would have caused the skin to crawl throughout their bodies. “Did you hear that?” Kelly asked. “I think so, but I thought it might have just been inside my head. I can’t get this out of my head.” Oshima said while shaking her head even more vigorously. Then they sat in silence for a few minutes before Oshima broke the silence with her own rendition of Who Let the Dogs Out. After the second loud boom and the Uncomfortable silence that followed, Oshima did the most curious of things. She crawled over the dirt, sat down beside Kelly, and placed one of her arms around Kelly’s shoulder. It was going to be okay. “Let’s try to get out of here.” Oshima had a kind voice that Kelly never noticed, or cared to notice, before. “You’re taller that me, so you should try.” “I did,” Kelly said in frustration. “The dirt was too soft. Plus, I hurt my ankle. I can’t climb out if I tried.” “Well, let me try.” And Oshima stood up and tried to jump, but the result was the same either way. Dirt falling down on them both. “Maybe we could work together,’ Kelly said before she could catch herself and stop. “You can climb up a little higher if you use me as a step. Then you might be able to get out.” Kelly pressed herself into the small side of the grave and Oshima fumbled her feet onto Kelly’s limbs and finally up to her shoulders. Oshima pressed against Kelly’s shoulders with force. It almost made Kelly fall, but Kelly caught herself in time to give Oshima a firm enough base to get her stomach on the edge of the grave. She started to flip her leg onto the grass when Kelly heard a loud high-pitched ting from above her. A second later, Oshima slammed hard against the ground. Kelly jumped up as fast as she could and looked at Oshima before turning to the area above her where Oshima was just a few seconds prior. Kelly saw a shadowy figure standing on the edge of the grave. In one had was a large metal pipe. His other hand tossed a pie tin into the grave that landed on Oshima's back. "Oh ladies," the man's voice was soft and cool. "Usually there is nothing that I like more than apple pie, but it's all gone now. I guess you'll have to do." The last thing that Kelly heard was the ping of the pipe and the thunder that accompanied the lightning that Kelly saw as the man brought the pipe down upon her skull.