They were scared of their own shadow. A line you’ve heard often when referring to someone scared of many things. But little do you know that phrase has truth in it. Shadows are dark, empty, and unknown. People fear the unknown. I grew up being able to see the shadows as they truly were. The dark twisted versions of ourselves. Our desires, our fears, our hatred. Despite what you may think, they do serve a purpose. The reason they exist is to hold those dark attributes so that that darkness doesn’t reside fully in us. But they’re always trying to escape the bodies they’re bound to. That’s where trouble occurs. It was a chilly October day when I learned what was happening; Mason Armon’s little sister had gone missing, and Mason hadn’t shown up to school. Quite rightfully, but the problem was that no one had seen him for over a day. “It’s just awful what happened.” “I hope they find her soon.” “That poor little girl.” So many whispers among people that morning and afternoon at school. No one was focused on lessons and homework, that was for sure. In a smaller town like Endwood, word travels fast among the locals, and there had been a new word that someone supposedly spotted Mason wandering the outskirts of town, but they couldn’t find him since. No one knew what had happened to him or how Emi had gone missing. But I knew what had happened. His shadow had escaped. Shades, what we Hunters call them, weren’t immediately dangerous. They begin by causing simple mischief, but slowly they evolve into more harmful acts and if not caught, will eventually destroy the life of the person they were bound to. Which meant I had to act fast. Seeing as Emi was taken somehow, I’d guessed that the Shade has been loose for about a couple of weeks, so I was running out of time. I had to go out tonight. I couldn’t let this last any longer, or else something worse could happen. I looked up at the sign above the dark red awning before me. END-RADIO stood in dark bold lettering. The radio was owned and run by Mason’s father, and Mason often came here after school to help him run things. I’d heard him managing the stream a few times on the radio when stores would play it over their speakers. Mason’s father had to have some information that could be useful in my understanding of what had happened before this and where I might be able to find him now. I’d babysat Emi lots of times the past year when Mr. and Mrs. Armon had to work and Mason had sports tournaments he had to attend, so it would luckily not be too odd for me to be asking him questions. I pulled open the door and climbed the narrow stairway up to the top floor of the building where the studio resided. The walls were the same dark red color as the awning outside and lined the walls to the END-RADIO studio door which was black stained glass with simple framing and an average metal handle. There was a faint reverberation of a drum beat from inside. I turned the handle and pushed open the door which stuck a couple of times on the carpet that was placed right inside the doorway. I could hear the muffled noise of music coming from the back left corner where the radio room stood. The rest of the main room was an open space with a few colorful couches, a coffee table set in the middle of them, a table against the back wall with coffee machines and kettles, and a long soundboard against the left wall below the window that looked into the radio room. “Mr. Armon?” I spoke out, my voice filling the small space easily. I heard a shuffling sound and then Mr. Armon appeared at the open radio room door. “Hey, Cassie,” he said, stepping out into the main room and walking towards me. I could hear the exhaustion in his hoarse voice, and his eyes had deep circles beneath them. “How’s it going, kid?” “It’s fine,” I smiled, linking my hands together. “I heard what happened though, I’m so sorry.” He glanced toward the floor and nodded slightly. “Who hasn’t heard,” he chuckled under his breath. “Nice and hard thing about living in a small town like us, everyone comes together to help you, but there’s not much privacy either.” I nodded softly. “I’m positive they’ll find her. Emi’s so smart, I know she’s fine.” Mr. Armon nodded again and gave a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah. All we can hope for.” I shifted on my feet, judging the best approach to this conversation. “I heard that no one’s been able to find Mason, is that true?” “Yeah, we have no idea where he is either,” Mr. Armon ran a hand through his hair, “last time Leah and I saw him was two days before Emi...” he paused, then continued, “he was with his friends and was going to spend the night at one of their houses after the football game. And he hasn’t shown back up at home, or texted, or called us, just nothing.” Mr. Armon’s voice was low and hoarse like he was trying not to get too emotional. “Did he spend the night with his friends?” “At least for a time, his friends said when they woke up, he was already gone, his bags and all. They can’t reach him and haven’t received any signs either.” He let out a shaky breath. “And then the next day Emi was gone too.” He turned around and I saw his arm raise to his face. I was silent for a few moments, noting all the information in my head. “Do you know any place he might’ve gone to?” “No clue, I only ever knew him to go to one of his friends when he was upset, or something wasn’t going right. I can’t think of anywhere else he might run to.” “Had he been acting weirdly at all before he was gone?” I asked, cautiously. Mr. Armon gave a small nod, still facing away from me. “He was much more irritable than he usually was, snapped at us a lot. He started to ignore us for the most part, including Emi, which was the strangest thing. You know how close those two are.” I nodded. Even being eight years apart in age, those two were as close as if they were the same age. “Emi was concerned about him, tried to make him feel better from whatever seemed to be going on, but he only blew her off every time.” There it was. The most out-of-character thing someone could do was oftentimes a sure sign of trouble when their shadow was loose. It didn’t automatically mean a Shade had escaped, but if a Hunter knew of a Shade’s disappearance and then it occurred, then it was improbable of being anything else. “I’m sorry, Mr. Armon. I’m sure they’ll both be back in no time, they’re both smart kids.” Mr. Armon nodded again, and turned back to me, his eyes beginning to redden. “I had heard a rumor that someone had spotted him by the train tracks outside town, but no one’s been able to find either of them out there.” The train tracks . Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of it first? I thanked Mr. Armon for talking with me and gave one more condolence before exiting the studio and jogging down the stairs, racing to get back home. I knew what to do now. When night fell, I stood over my desk, gathering my things. I glanced out the window at the full moon, it would make searching a lot easier. I stared down at the small dark dagger laying before me. It was time. If I didn’t finish this tonight, then it could very well be too late. Who knows what might happen. I took in a sharp breath and stuffed the dagger into the side of my boot. I turned off the lights in my room and slid through my window, closing it softly behind me. I left a note for my parents in case they came looking for me, but I didn’t want them to worry about me handling this Shade. The bright moon lit my surroundings enough for me to navigate through them. I was heading to one spot. The train tracks. Since someone had claimed to have seen him there, that was likely the last place anyone else had seen him, and I knew from sharing an art class with him that his favorite place to sketch was the tracks. Even if he was taken over by the Shade its actions would still be influenced by Mason’s memories and emotions. I trekked over the crunch of leaves as I finally reached the tracks. I quietly followed them, listening and watching for any noise or sign of movement. It was eerily silent. No crickets, birds, or animals. Even the wind was completely still. Which made my presence there that much more noticeable. I waited for what felt like forever, just listening, and watching the open land before me, the moon to my back. My shadow was cast long against the old, splintered wood of the train tracks, following any minute movement I made. I scanned the darkness of the woods to the left and right where anything could be easily hiding, the moon made the glow of the area easier to see, but it was still night, nonetheless. I glanced down at the tracks again and I froze. I could see my shadow straight ahead of me, but next to it was an inky darkness, resembling a shadow, that spread out just behind mine. And then I heard the sound of a foot on old wood. I whipped around, grabbing my dagger and holding it out at Mason’s tall figure. Despite the brightness of the moon, he was shadowed and dull compared to the rest of the area. “Hunter,” the Shade hissed in a low, static-like version of Mason’s. “I’m going to make this quick,” I muttered and lunged. The dagger sliced Mason’s upper arm, but instead of blood, inky shadows leaked through the cut. The Shade hissed and raised a clawed hand. It struck down but I jumped back before it raked my face. I swung again and cut the edge of his face. “Leave him or I will tear you apart,” my low voice rang out loud in the silence. The Shade snarled and the inky darkness of Mason’s body sank into the earth. Mason’s body dropped and I caught him, dragging him to the side and laying him down against a tree. I moved away from him and searched for the Shade. The wind had now started and blew hard and cold through the trees. I finally heard a crunch behind me, and I turned and threw my dagger. It struck the tree behind and lodged into the bark. My breath caught and then I was thrown to the ground. I gasped for air and turned my head up to the Shade looming above me, his head cocked. It lunged at me, and I rolled but felt it catch my arm and I yelled in pain. I backed up against the tree and stood, dislodging my dagger and gripping it in my now-injured arm. My arm shook and I scanned the trees hastily. A hissing laughter rang out in echoes and my heavy breathing matched. It was toying with me. I realized instantly what I would have to do. I sucked in a breath. It was risky. I stepped out into the open, the moon shining down brightly, casting a shadow of myself and the trees surrounding. I listened. And I waited. The wind picked up in an instant and the Shade appeared from the shadows and threw me to the ground. My back slammed against the hard tracks and ground, and I gasped for air. I tried to find my dagger somewhere next to me. The Shade raised an arm and swung at my head, but it missed. Until I realized what it was aiming for. My throat seized up and I let out a cry of pain as the Shade began pulling at my shadow cast by the moon. I thrashed, trying to roll away, get out of its grip, anything. I cried out as it ripped harder. My vision was blurring, and my breaths were sharp and ragged. I had to finish this now . With a shaky hand, I tapped around the cold ground, and finally, my fingers felt the hard handle of my dagger and I gripped it as tight as I could in my fist. I let out a yell and swung the dagger at the Shade’s face. Everything was still for a moment. Then it fell beside me with a thud. I gasped and sat up, painting. I watched the Shade as it melted into the earth, leaving no trace of it behind. Signing in relief I stood shakily to my feet and walked over to Mason, who groaned and regained consciousness. He was confused and dazed, but he was alright. I helped him and we retraced the Shade’s steps to where he had hidden Emi. Once they were both safe, I returned home and collapsed into bed. In a few days Mason’s shadow would return, he would only really remember everything as a dream, and everything would go back to normal. The next day I stood outside the radio station. People walked past; their shadows as clear as crystal. Everything was normal again. It was a regular sunny October day. Or it would have been. If I hadn’t noticed it. A bright sunny spot where my shadow should have been.


Right after we got engaged, before we ever got married, my groom-to-be and I went shopping at a discount department store, and I found these darling ceramic drink coasters with gold “H’s” painted in the middle. H for Harp, our soon-to-be shared surname. They were one of the first things I ever purchased for us. For our life together. He told me they were silly and that “no one uses coasters anymore.” But *we would,* I thought. I used to daydream that we would be the kind of couple who lounged on the couch together on Sunday afternoons, noses buried in books, with our teas or coffees or what have you placed neatly on our personalized coasters on our coffee table before us. We would be that couple that everyone was envious of, because down to the last detail, down to our coasters, you would be able to sense how strong our bond was. How committed we were to each other as people, and how committed we were to each other’s dreams. I loved those coasters, and what they represented. We were stylish and cool, with better, modern versions of old stuff that “no one uses anymore”. We were the better, modern versions of our parents, committed for life but with a sleek new spin. We had that old school love but with fresh, new, gold paint. When I bought the coasters, we were in college. Freshly engaged and sketching plans for our lives together. So full of dreams for ourselves we were rarely present in reality. We had it all figured out, and I had my coasters packed away in a box in a closet in my mother’s basement, tucked away from the clumsy carelessness of everyday life. I remember when we moved out of the dorms and into our first house, a trailer in the woods outside of our college town. The coasters were transferred, coming out of the box and into a cupboard in the kitchen of our new home, a black ribbon still tied around the four glass disks, still with the price tag attached. We were busy working on our degrees and were rarely home. The calm afternoons of coffee and reading would have to wait. The coasters gathered dust. Over the next couple years, big changes happened. We had jump started our lives and were running beside them, trying to keep up. We went from a trailer to an apartment with lofted cathedral ceilings and a big back deck. He graduated and got his first job. We started hunting for houses. I was chipping away at my degree at a steady pace, counting the days till graduation. We were talking about kids. So much was happening, our afternoons were the furthest from calm, almost hectic, with no end in sight, but we were excited and in love and blinded by our dreams igniting into reality before our eyes. We were busy, but so happy. And the coasters stayed tucked away, in the spare room, still with the ribbon, still with the tags. Still with my dreams attached to them, and every time id pass over them while looking in boxes for something else I needed, I would smile. Because I knew my calm days were coming. 2015 was a big year for us. We purchased our first house. We moved in on the evening of my 22nd birthday, and spent our first night in our first house. It doesn’t feel real, saying it now. How perfect that moment was, like something from a movie. I remember we slept on an air mattress on the floor, exhausted and covered in paint. We were so tired, but we were happy. Sometime in the following weeks, I unpacked the house, including the coasters. I proudly displayed them on our cheap particle board coffee table from Walmart. They were the only thing besides the remotes I wanted sitting there. I remember setting it up, and taking a step back to just take it all in. It was mine. I was building my space and this is what it looked like. I happily went back to work decorating and unpacking other parts of the house, making it our own. It strikes me now how organic that moment in our lives was. We created a home from some walls and some paint. We grew into our environment, and expanded, and reproduced, and made it our own. It really was a beautiful thing. But in our growing, we made messes. Got careless. Our coffee table turned into a dining table, a work table, a counter, and with as much stuff as we were constantly putting on and taking off of it, he must have moved the coasters to the desk in the foyer, because one day I just didn’t see them there. But, what you don’t see cant trigger memories, and such the coasters slipped from my mind just as they slipped off the table and into a quiet, undisturbed space, pushed back against the wall behind his computer monitor that collected dust and blocked them from view. The dream I had for us slipped silently from my mind. Our daughter was born, and suddenly things like glass coasters wouldn't have been okay to have around her anyway, so the thoughts of the golden crested coasters never crossed my mind, until the day that he accidentally knocked them off the desk. He was moving the monitor over to make room for something on the desk, most likely his printer, and in the commotion, the disks slid off the desk and onto the hardwood floor. Immediately he started apologizing, and as he picked them up and turned them over in his hands one by one, he discovered that one had chipped. A perfect “V”-shape out of one of the coasters. He clicked his tongue in slight disappointment, turned to me and said “Sorry” again, before discarding the chipped coaster into a plastic trash bag on the floor. I don’t know why those coasters meant so much to me, and I realize now that I finally understand why he wasn’t as silently devastated in that moment it broke as I was. I kept searching his face for a mirror of what I was feeling, but all I saw was sheepishness. I never told him what they meant to me, I’m sure to him they were just cheap coasters we never used. But to me, those coasters represented how uninterested he was in utilizing the space we built for peace, how little he cared about the small details. The worst part of this story is that there isn't a happy ending. Sometimes in life, you plan your future down to the very last detail. These dreams you build for yourself grow and change second to second, and small details get left behind. But when you grow up and realize that what you thought was a small detail at the time actually turned out to be a big, significant detail, and you can’t get closure on it, what you're left with is a disappointed hollow feeling. Sometimes, in life, you will work your ass off to achieve a dream, and all you will be left with is a broken coaster. And you have to learn to be okay with that.


Well, Halloween was cancelled 2 weeks ago in our small New Hampshire town. This Covid 19 crisis was taking all the enjoyment out of the holidays. I don't want to even think about Thanksgiving and especially Christmas. My mother says I was being selfish and if we do not follow the guidelines then we won't have a life to enjoy anything. Blah, blah, blah I hear as I walk away. Halloween is my favorite holiday, and my best friend Soosie too. We cannot let it slip by and not celebrate it, and no, not by ordering a pizza and watching a bunch of scary movies on TV, as my mother suggests. Soosie comes over and we decide to think of something really spooky to do. We google scary things around town and besides boring stuff we see something about 'Blood Cemetery' it is really called Pine Hill Cemetery, in Hollis. I have heard the stories of this place but never been there. The ghost of Abel Blood haunts it. Supposedly Abel's gravestone changes at night so the finger on the stone points down instead of heavenward. It says it is closed dusk till dawn, and the police patrol regularly especially at Halloween. We decide to drive by it anyway, I call Soosie and we make plans for the next night, Halloween. Our parents already think we are sleeping at each other's house, so our secret plan can not be deterred by our meddling parents. I fill my backpack with snacks, drinks, a flashlight, fill my gas tank and make sure my phone has a full charge just in case we get lost on the dark unlit back roads. I'm the most cautious of the 2 of us. If Soosie was in charge we would be stuck in a ditch in the unholy darkness, right in front of Blood Cemetery. I shiver at that thought. I tell my mom "I'm leaving" she waves bye never looking up from her phone. I feel slightly guilty lying to her, but more excited about the fun and scary night ahead for Soosie and I. So I text Soosie, "On my way" and back out of my driveway and the song 'Thriller' comes on and I laugh out loud. I wonder if we will see any zombies come out of the graves. Soosie is already outside waiting for me when I pull in her driveway. I just love her purple curly hair she must of dyed it today for she had her natural red hair yesterday. She is tall and skinny as opposed to me. I'm short and fun sized, my stupid brother says. But I hate my too straight brown hair. The door opens and we both start talking and laughing about our Halloween adventure. Wow, pitch black is a great adjective to describe this night. As we approach our destination the fog gets thicker, where did that come from. My hands tighten around the steering wheel as I listen to Waze direct us not to our deaths I hope. Soosie is oblivious to our surroundings, thinking all this is so cool. "You have reached you destination on the right "Waze whispers. I pull over onto the leave covered grass and we try to see thru the fog that seems to arise from the graves. Soosie puts down her window like that will make a difference. We squint and the fog magically thins out and we see the old crooked grave stones. Now that we are here I think we are both afraid to get out. Soosie senses my fear and locks her door, forgetting her window is half way down. Soosie turns to me pretending she is glad we are here, I ask her "wanna get out, we came all this way? It's suppose to be spooky." She answers bravely "It's just the fog that makes it so spooky." I reply "and the dead people," as we open our doors slowly, and try to walk quietly into the den of the dead. I hand a flashlight to Soosie and we feel a little braver. We are not alone for an owl spooks us. We look around with our high powered flashlights and spot him high up on a long thin leafless branch, he stares back at us. We keep scanning our surroundings, there are lots of trees and nothing else. Not a light of any kind for as far as we can see. It starts to lightly mist and it gives the air a smell of the woods just beyond this graveyard. We are starting to feel a little at ease and start taking selfies with the gravestones as our backdrop. There is some very old gravestones here, as we search for Abel Bloods grave. I hope we are not disrespecting the dead, we decide to turn off our flashlights and enjoy the natural environment we are in, but we hold onto each other for comfort. Just then we see a light in the distance and then hear the sound of a truck. We duck down instinctively, I say "someone had the same idea as us, unless the police have a truck." Soosie nods and we wait very quietly to see if they drive by or stop. They stop and we slowly raise our heads above the grave stone we ducked behind. I tell Soosie be quiet for we don't know who they are or what they are up to. She nods as she squeezes a tight grip on my arm. As we watch we see 2 people, male voices we know, but not what they are saying, for we are too far away. The rain is coming down in a steady stream, but we stay where we are waiting and watching. Soosie says she feels like we are on a stake-out, obviously excited by the events. Not me, I am wary of what they are doing here. We keep watching and one of them opens the back gate of the truck, they grabs shovels and start digging. "Are they grave robbing?" asks Soosie. We watch which seemed liked a long time and we are soaked to the bone, but we are not leaving till we see what they are up to. Just then they stop and one of them jumps into the bed of the truck. He is doing something we can't see, I grab my phone and open camera and zoom in, I see the other man grab something and it must be heavy for the other man jumps out of the truck. I relay what is happening to Soosie, she grabs her phone to see it too. Just then an arm falls out of it's encasement. We can't look away even though we are traumafied. A word I just read in a book, describes this scene exactly. We continue watching when they uncover their secret, a dead body. It seems a woman by her long hair. Just then Soosie takes a picture, her flash is on and the flash of light attracts the attention of these 2 grave diggers and probably murderers too.. They look our way, "What have you done Soosie, run." We get up as fast as we can and start running for the car, too afraid to see if they are giving chase. I can here Soosie behind me crying and I reach for her hand. As we see my car I reach for my car keys and I can't find them. I stop backtrack a bit, but it is so dark and everything is wet. I look up and I can see 2 figures getting closer, I turn on my flashlight to see my lost keys or it is certain death for us. Soosie is screaming by now wanting to know what I am doing. As I bend down searching, I look up and see the shovel aiming for my head. I wake up with such a headache, Soosie shaking me asking "you ok?" I realize I am home in my room, "what are we doing tonight for Halloween Jenny, Blood Cemetery still?" I instantly reply, "no Soosie, let's stay in and order a pizza and watch scary movies." She looks confused, I tell her you are not going to believe the dream I just had. She smiles and we live another day by listening to my mother.


You call out for help and it never comes, so you seek it directly, and it answers that it will not help fix what is not theirs, their time is far more important to be spent on you. So you turn and face it alone. And you lose, and the powers that be chide and scold you for your choice of solution. But you had no choice but to guess the solution. You knew you wanted help but you rememberd how you were pushed away. It comes again, you call for help, again a denial, a wave of the hand, you turn and face you problem alone. Again. Stronger you think. "I can do it this time." But this too fails. Another scolding. More chastising. The problems come again. You dont call for help. You're on your own. You know this now. Surely the powers that be have been clear that you must do all of this alone. You fail. It's worse. You should have come to us they say. But you know they would not have done anything differnt. They've trained you to value their time as they do. So you face them down alone. A few successes, many more failures. And something changes. In you? I the world maybe? You're for is batted away with ease. Still some foes leave you defeated, a few more scoldings and comments on your choices. You persevere. The powers look not down but at you admonishingly, proud they say they are, so much more mature, but you feel none of the praise, or the pride. This was no accomplishment to you. It was a war, a war you fought alone, no glory no reward, words are empty now, what once would have made you beam with pride, is now shrugged off for the hollow words they truly are. You know now. You were forced to know, you will not forget for their sake, what have they done to help but turn you into a weapon. A weapon against problems, against yourself. And a new day comes, you meet others that are not like the powers, they are like you, and they look to you to help them, and you know it is your new duty not just to yourself, but to these equals, they need you, and you will not let them down. You know better than that. Something tells you you do not know why such a duty burns within you like a furnace to power your resolve. You turn to the powers, perhaps they know, but you turn away. What good would it truly do. Time passes, you feel welcome for the first time in a very long time, these equals turn to you in times of need because they trust you. And you trust them, but ask nothing of them, it seems wrong you think. And another new day Dawn's, and you must move on again, and it hurts. Many of these equals have helped you when you needed it. Far more than the powers ever have. But one felt closer than any of the others. Even the sibling equal you met who did not stand behind you when you faces your foes, but beside you. This one got to your heart, and had to leave it, and a new pain appears you do not understand. Another trip to the powers, that ends as soon as the thought enters your mind. I have a duty. That is what will get me through this. And it does. But a wound is a wound. And this one bleeds... You begin a new journey, many equals left behind, some still promise to be beside you in spirit, and for the first time you believe that you are still not quite alone when they are not near. You meet new equals, and even some beyond your own, some gravitate towards you, as if they know what you are. What you can do if need be. And you feel welcome again. Your duty is needed here. This journey is different, the powers are not close. It is truly your journey, and you force yourself to face this alone. You must you tell yourself, this is your time to prove what little they could do for you. And the worst part is. You are correct. You make fewer visits to the powers, they change before your eyes each time into something, less powerful. And yet another new day arrives, and you realise that the powers, had none. They should have but they did not, you are baffled, confused, "but surely" you tell yourself, "there is something that I'm missing." But you are not. A higher power reveals itself, but this one reveals only truth. This power is to be trusted, the wisdom of it is powerful. And they reveal an inconvenient truth. Your powers that you sought help from, are incapable of it, this higher power apologizes to you, for you were never to have faced those foes alone the way you did. You were let down. You trusted something that had nothing to give. And you are livid. Why? you ask this higher power, "why did I have to face everything alone?" And they comfort you as best they can, "Because you proved to us you could." And they needed no more excuse to leave you to the world yourself. They failed you. They were lazy. They left you for their own sake not yours. So you clench your fists. "But the credit is mine you say." And the higher power agrees. "Yes it is yours. And you are right to keep it from them." "But you are not supposed to fight these battles alone." You turn to your equals your freinds, your siblings in arms, "what am I to do?" you ask them. And they have no answer that eases your new pain. So you continue on with your duty. It's all you feel you have left. Alone now more than ever. Your friends are there but do not share the pain, they cannot truly lessen it. Your old wound still bleeds. More so from newer wounds to your heart. You ask yourself "what will I have left of myself for me?" And you do not know. You yearn for a new equal not to care for your wound, but protect it while you heal. Proof. That is what I need you say. I need proof that I can trust someone to protect my wounds. So that I may heal. But a few wounds from your back remind you, that some equals took advantage of all you had to give, and left you bleeding. But I will not break, I will not change who I am, another blow into your back. The wound bleeds again. You stand and face your foes again, they are stronger than ever before. You grit your teeth and say to yourself. "I will not betray my duty and who I am Even if it leaves me open to be betrayed." "My back is mine to protect." But you want someone to trust. Someone to be behind your back forever and always. But trust you remember. Is something that has never once been promised to you. It was the only job the powers truly had. It was the thing your closest equals betrayed. Between the battles you drop to your knees, beaten, tired, always so tired. "How, How am I to truly trust someone with my heart?" When not even my parents could make me trust them? Those few true partners left me bleeding. A few freinds stabbed be squarely in the back. I face the world alone. Hurt. Scared no one wants to have the back of someone who cares too much for those who need him. Tired. And they tell you to give up. And ignore it. And you refuse. "I have stood here before. I will stand here now. And I will die here if necessary." "But I will never change what I am standing for.


Past 2am. He was awake, again. While his corpulence always exhibited the inadequacy of his duvet, tonight his sweat had also soaked it. He reached out for the glass of water by his bedside. The glass had a thick curved bottom, ornate on the top. It rested on a table with a surface of pure silver. He loved shiny things. A voice of some late TV presenter was ranting. Pictures of a massive processions interlaced with that shriek of a voice. He knew exactly who the presenter was, he knew all of them. His life centred on TV as much as TV centred on him. He pressed the power off button. "How dare they...", he said in a tired, almost morose manner. He had given his listeners a new lease of life and they used it to destroy him. All his life he sought to serve the people around him. Favours, deals, everyone being happy. Everyone that mattered of course. You can't make EVERYONE happy, that would have killed him. \- "How is your wife?", the blank TV says. His own face starring back at him, with an eerie translucence that flat screens are experts on. His own eyes piercing right back at him. Oh... \_He\_ was also awake. "Still angry with you?" the translucent figure says. \- Beads of sweat formed around his forehead. His voice crackled, "No... Please leave me alone tonight... please! I have barely slept this week". \- "I sensed you needed me. I sensed you being weak again. Let me comfort you. Forget that ungrateful bitch." \- "Yes... she is so angry... Until this gig is over I can't even divorce her..." \- "She is not the only angry with you, you know", the figure on the TV now smiles a golden smile. "The whole world is. Actually... the whole world despises you" \- "No. They love me! I woke them up! They hugged their little pillows until I showed them that they ruled by darkness. I brought the light!", he retorts. \- "You brought fear. You brought loathing. You brought power! It's not light that you gave them. You didn't wake them up to lead. You woke them up to destroy them. For me to destroy them", the figure smirked. \- "Yes... and now... who is left in my corner? Constant bickering. I'm so lonely". His fingers played with each other. Weaving an imaginary web and promptly dismissing it. \- "What about your friend, Vladimir was it?", the figure on the TV now smiles a golden smile. The figure on the TV is patiently waiting for his reply but he stared down. His lips tremble. "I have not heard from since...". He missed Vlad. When Vlad was around - physically or even in his thoughts - he felt the world was no longer a land of wonder and opportunity but of certainty. Yes. He was the dealmaker and thrived on opportunity but in this new gig... they wanted him to certain. About everything. The whole fucking time. \- "He was never your friend, you know." \- "What?!" The figure on the TV leaned in to whisper, as conspirators often do. \- "He is like a russian doll, layers upon layers. He showed you what you wanted to see. What you wanted to hear. He manipulated you in this misery so HE can look strong.". \- "No. NO!", his face became red. \- "Oh yes my friend. HE isolated you. He is loved. You saw the the news. That was a procession in his honour.". \- "That... Is... Ugh. Yes. I saw". His sweat had evaporated. His eyebrows closed in as he processed all that information. He had been so caught up in his emotions to see the obvious. Not only he had been played but he was being played now as well. Images and sounds. Images and sounds... he had listened for too long. \- "Yes you saw and listened. Now listen to me, I can guide you through this if you just... oh shit...", the figure in the screen opened its eyes wide as the image got distorted and then were no more. There were shards everywhere now, the remote control embedded into what remained of the flat screen TV. \- "ENOUGH! I had enough!", he shouted with vigour. He had to do more than just deal with this the figure in the screen. He had to resolve this permanently once and for all. All images and sounds would have to be silenced. TV boxes, radios, the Internet. All the LIES would have to surrendered. There was only one way to ensure that. Only one thing could disrupt all of the lies. He saw it in a movie. An electromagnetic pulse from a nuclear explosion. A lot of nuclear explosions. But he couldn't do that. No... Someone else will have to be "inspired". He acted on that thought and put his phone away. Peace was upon him. The kind he had rarely felt before. Filled him in every hair of his being. That and confidence. Soon. He would be loved unconditionally by everyone on the side of good. Past 5am. Reconciled, Donald fell asleep, wrapped around with his own arms. The rest of the world was stealing a few extra moments of slumber before being confronted with the New World he had just tweeted into creation.


By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. Piles of burning leaves lined the streets, sitting in front of each house. I was standing alone in the middle of the road, the only one seemingly curious about these fires. What time was it? Was it too late for anyone else to notice? I looked for the time, but it was nowhere to be found. I heard a soft beep that came from behind me as if someone needed to change the batteries on the fire alarm, but not the actual alarm signalling the fires. It was strange how quiet the street felt with this chaos. My fear was telling me to run, though my brain ignored the signals altogether. Suck in the middle of the road, my eyes stuck on this pile of scorching leaves. For a moment, I felt completely outside of myself as if I were a spirit observing the present day. There was a slight tapping coming from the window of our house. My beautiful wife and youthful daughter were standing next to each other staring at me from the window. The expression on their faces felt soulless. My daughter began moving her hand up slowly, placing it on the window. They didn’t move from the window, or instead, they couldn’t move from the window. I opened my mouth to call out to them, yet I heard no voice. I felt the hot air escape from my mouth, though there was absolutely no sound that followed. My screams merely trapped in my own mind and for no one else to hear. I tried to make any movement towards the door, but only my eyes made it. My front door appeared to be nailed shut with wooden planks. The wooden planks began to shake on the door like a zombie trying to break in. Still, my daughter held her hand on the window as my wife stood beside her. As I stared at them, though they were right there, I was somehow missing them. They felt so unreachable, and yet this was my house - our house. My heart was empty, while my mind was full of restlessness. There was that beeping again. What was it coming from? It certainly wasn’t coming from inside, it sounded as if it echoed from a speaker hidden in the skies. My neck finally loosened up as if it were unscrewing itself. I turned to see where the sound was coming from. Standing a few houses away, stood in the middle of the street, a dark stretched out shadow in the form of a person. The shadow seemed transparent and then concrete, like a flickering light. It stood utterly grounded, yet it’s apparitional feet nearly touched the ground. For a moment, it was still, as if it analyzing and questioning my presence. Soon it began to take its first step towards me. Something within me told me to fear it, and I did what I was told. It started taking more giant steps and moved faster towards me now. Then, it began charging at me. Without awareness, I was running. With every stride, the ground beneath me appeared as if I was moving with distance. When I looked straight ahead, there were rows of houses, each with a pile of burning leaves on their yard. Different persons each household appeared at the window as I ran by--each neighbour with the same expression on their face - soulless and hopeless, as one person from their family reached their hand up and pressed it against the window. I called out to them, but no one responded. My voice still confined way in the depths of my mind, feeling so distant. My breath grew heavier with each passing minute. The untouched leaves from the burning piles began to escape by the wind. As the leaves fell into my path, I heard crunching of the dry leaves with each step. Soon the whole road beneath me glowed of bright red leaves. I didn’t look back, I refused every ounce of my muscles not to look around. I have no clue why my body was doing the complete opposite of everything I wanted as if it were controlling itself on its own fate. My legs came to a complete halt, and I turned ever so slowly to face the darkness behind me. The shadow had its own dark glow, a glow darker than night. The air between me and the shadow felt warmer. As it grew closer, it became more sociable and harder to breathe. I felt suffocated in a sauna of sweltering panic. Instead, I was locked inside of a wooden chest and thrown into a hot tub to drown, with the chest nearly full of water taking my last chance at inhaling as much air as I could. Simultaneous to sucking what was left of breathable air, the shadow standing in front of me dissolved into my last breath. Its ice-cold essence slipped into my mouth, gliding my tongue and into the back of my throat like chugging ice-cold water. It stopped in the middle of my throat as if I were choking on an ice cube with sharp edges, scratching my throat as it forced itself further. I felt this piercing ice cube of darkness slipped further past my throat, melting into my lungs. However, somehow there was more water filling my lungs. Once again, I gasped for air. Only this time, I couldn’t exhale. A bright light began to evade my sight, and my senses were entirely cut off. Then, there was that beeping again--that irritating beeping. While still, holding my breath against my own will, a rubber hand appeared out of thin air gripped my arm that kept me in place. A single brightest red leaf floated gracefully above. I watched it slowly sway back and forth, dancing with the rhythm of the air around me. Another rubber glove grasped my chin, securely moving the back of my head to meet the end of my neck. The bright red leaf was soon floating downward right above me, landing delicately over my mouth. Immediately, the dark shadow choking me was liberated and flew out from my mouth. I took the chance at once, and with all my energy, I freed my breath with a vast cough and my eyes shot opened wide. ..... “You were quite shaken up, how are you feeling now, Stanley?” the doctor asked as she reached her rubber hand on my arm to comfort me. “I’m alright.” “Well, that’s good to hear. We had to assist your breathing while you were asleep. It seemed as if you were having a tough time. I’m glad to hear you’re doing alright now. Call if you need anything, Stanley.” The doctor walked away and moved on to check in on the next patient. The intensive care unit seemed to have grown by the hundreds. The nurse behind her approached my bed quietly. “Hi sir, your wife and daughter came in again earlier today. Your daughter wanted me to give you this, she said she wanted to bring the outdoors to you. They say they miss you and hope you’ll be able to come home soon. She also said she knows that Fall is your favourite season, and felt like this might make you feel better.” The nurse reached for her pocket and placed in front of me,... the single brightest red leaf.


“Snowy. It’s snowy. The ground is covered with snow. A cabin. A cabin in the middle of that distant place is decorated. There are Christmas lights-- Blue, green, red, yellow. A Christmas song can be heard from far away. A tree with red decorations inside the house. Steps. Hard steps due to the snow. Someone walks towards the little cozy cabin. Now, I see a car. A blue car covered with snow. It’s parked next to a garbage can. The door is opening. Someone is going outside. A woman. Middle-aged woman. Black hair, purple shirt, a leather jacket. She gets a cigarette. Smoking now. Into the cabin, a family. A small family. An old lady completes a puzzle. A very young boy plays with his smartphone. A couple kisses under the mistletoe. Happy. Everyone is happy... Now, they eat. Eat the food and smile and laugh.” I lose the old woman’s hand and clean my throat. In my front, Cynthia smiles. Her white hair contrasts with the light. The woman looked satisfied, she was bursting with joy. It’s so easy to make her happy, it’s just to say something good and let her imagine those things. “That’s it, Cynthia,” I say. “70 dollars” “Thank you, young lady. Thank you!” The woman gives me the paycheck and very, very, very, extremely slowly gets up. “Do you need help?” “No. I’m not as young as you but I can still handle it.” I fake a sympathy smile. Doesn’t she know that I have more clients? That more people want to know their “future”? I couldn’t believe it yet. I finally had a great job. It’s a scam but, who cares? People that are muggles to believe, I just enjoy it and get the money. “Are you sure?” I ask the old lady once again when I see Felicity coming. Felicity was a very loyal and good friend. She’s kind of crazy but...you know, nothing besides the common. With her redhead and short hair, I’ve met her a long time ago. She helped me to start this business. “Hi, girl!” She says. “Am I the last?” She asks. “Nope,” I say staring at the blue ring in my middle finger. “So, after you finish here, go to the bar in the corner of the street. I’ll be there celebrating my friend’s birthday. You’re very welcome.” “Yeah. Sure.” I “see” the future since I remind me as a person. I started with this “I’m a fortune-teller” bullshit when I was in high school. It was my biggest accomplishment. For sure. ... I woke up. Head is aching, I’m in a bed with a thin blanket over my legs. I feel a body next to me. I don’t remember anything from last night. I realize I’m naked. I scream. The man wakes up. “Who... are you?” “Can you stop screaming?” I scream more. “Please, you’re breaking my ears.” Quickly, I get dressed. I’m dizzy. I stumble and almost fall. The man says something, but I don’t listen to it. Pictures. Pictures of me were around the room. I felt like I was having a heart attack. Where was I? Where he had taken me? Who was he? “Where...where...?” I can’t say. It’s like there is a frog in my throat. “In...your place...?” I look around. The place was filled with pictures of me and animals, but it wasn’t my house. It isn’t my home. I don’t live here. My bed is not this one--it’s smaller. My walls are blue, not red like those in this room. I have a lampshade next to my bed and this room doesn’t. It isn’t my home. It isn’t my room. “I...I...it’s not- “Are you fine?” He asks “ You’re a little pale.” Everything is spinning. I listen to bells, see lights, snow, blood. Bells. Lights. Snow. Blood.....Bells. Lights. Snow. Blood... An image passes through my head. I know the images even though it is a little blurry. Scared. I feel scared. Something was wrong. I feel it. “Linda?!” the man says worryingly. I try to put those images away from my mind, but I can’t. They keep coming back. With a gasp, I fall. Hitting my head against a headboard. I feel pain. A lot of pain in my head. ... Bells were chiming. Lights were low. The room was filled with life. Christmas lights. Christmas songs and choirs. Presents surrounded the place, the tree was decorated. No one was inside the cabin. It was just me. What had happened to the others? The song was getting more intense and louder. Twinkle. The lights started to twinkle. The song was getting darker and rougher. A leak. There was a leak somewhere. I heard the sound of the water falling against the wood. I followed the sound in those flashes of colors and horrible sounds. I was getting closer. I could feel it. The bathroom’s door was closed but I just knew that the leak was there. It needed to be there. I saw a drop. One, two, three... I had found the leak. It was in front of the bathroom. I just needed to get a bucket an- A drop fell on my arm. Another drop fell. They kept falling. But there was something strange about them. The drops were different--they were dense and weren’t transparent nor colorless. They were red. An extremely bright red and it was warm. I looked at the ceiling and noticed that the drops were getting bigger and bigger. My body was filled with blood. My heart? I couldn’t feel it. Seemed that it had stopped. I entered the bathroom to clean my body. I washed it so fast that I barely could think about what was happening. Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out. My mind kept telling me, insisting that I breathe. Numbers. Murmurings. Sighs. Numbers. Murmurings. Sighs. Numbers. Murmurings. Sighs. I started to listen to numbers, murmurings, and sighs. Someone was there. Slowly, I started to get out of the bathroom. Scream. A painful scream. The shatter of glass. The end of the song. The lights were off. They weren’t blinking now. It was dark; very dark. But a weak light was coming from behind the sofa. There was a low light next to it. Destabilized, I walked towards the light. The white light in the middle of the room. Stop. The time stopped; I stopped. Blood. There was blood all around the cabin. I was walking on a lake of blood. Dark and light red blood. Brand new blood. I found the fountain; the matrix. It was coming from the body. It was so vivid, so scary. Someone had died there. Someone died while I was there and I didn’t know that there were people in the cabin. There was blood all around the place. I was covered with blood and I had just cleaned myself. The body of a girl was drowned in the blood. A dark-haired girl with a mutilated face. She was frozen, frozen in time. Her hands were tied and she was without one of her feet. It had been a recent amputation and most likely, against her will. And then, I realized. The dark-haired girl was familiar. I tried to untie her hands and, on her neck, I saw a tattoo. A butterfly with a glasses tattoo. That tattoo wasn’t common and I knew who had it. I had it. It was me. My body. My death. I was dead. Dead. Without breathing. Heard a noise. It was time. Time to die. Heart jumping. Body shaking. Someone was coming, chasing me. Steps. Loud steps. A touch on my head. Dark. Dead body. Blood. I was drowning in the blood. ... The blood was gone, the body was gone and the dark was gone. I was waking up, an awakening of death. Whispers. People are whispering around me. The glimpse of light doesn’t let me open my eyes completely because of vertigo. I raise my hand. “Linda?!” A familiar male voice says. The same voice from earlier. I see the shadow of the man. “Are you fine?” I don’t answer. Who was he? What he was doing here? Why did he have pictures of me? How did he know my name? The doctor approaches. Abruptly, he opens my eyes and throws a yellow light into my eyes. Hurts. It hurts. “What’s your name?” He asks. “Linda,” I say. “How old are you?” “32...,” I wasn’t sure. How old am I? I noticed the doctor and that man exchanged a look. “When were you born?” “19 of November of 1993.” “So, how are you 32 if we are in 2021?” I think, “You’re 28.” “No.” I was getting sick again. My head was aching again, my heart was jumping again. I was going to my death again, I was being thrown to it. Those images were stuck in my mind. I couldn’t forget it. It was so realistic and truthful. Everything in that dark and lonely hole. The lights, the sound, the body. My death. That was my death. I didn’t remember that man and barely knew what was happening in my life. But I was sure that it wasn’t 2021, right?! I couldn’t stay there. I passed out. Once again. ... Christmas carols were singing, snow was falling. The winter had arrived. Everything was different. I was in an unknown place, an unknown world. Who was I over there? Why was I in the middle of a street? What I was doing with a lamplighter? Nothing. No idea. I couldn’t remember the reason. I couldn’t remember. Though I remembered my name and my roots, I had lost my essences, I didn’t remember what moved me, what made me be me. I was simply following rules. Rules of a game. A game that I didn’t understand, that I didn’t know and that I didn’t wanna play. A car honked as it passed to me. The lights of the headlight made me uncomfortable. But there was something with the image of my death. That terrible vision of how I might die. Was it true? Was that my future? ... Someone was calling my name. I know the voice. A sweet voice with a gummy and pleasant sound. A calm voice. “Hey, darling. You’re opening your eyes again,” my mom said. She puts her hand in my head. "It’s okay. It’s just a scare.” My mom was there, I'd get better and go home. My real one. Everything would be just fine. I’d get out of the hospital and- Images. Images came through my head. A red Corolla in the middle of the highway. Three people inside the car. The rush to get to the game. The voice of a little boy saying “you’re too fast.” The red light of the traffic light. The crash. Violently, I escape from her touch. Her warming and comforting touch. She shouldn’t be there...she shouldn’t. And, before I had noticed, words escaped from my mouth. “You're dead,” I move further away from her, she stares at me with that worried maternal look. “No, hone- “You’re dead.” I interrupted her, “The accident... The accident. You died there. You and the boy....” I was mumbling and sliding to the side. I needed to get out of there. “Relax,” I fell out of bed and crawled to the window, “Sam, calls the doctor.” I just noticed that the man (apparently called Sam) was still there. I thought that he had left. Why he didn’t? What he was? A boyfriend? One nightstand? An ex? A friend? The world was spinning again. Everything was spinning. More images reached my mind. The pain was coming back. But this time is stronger. I yell. A lake; a frozen lake. A park. I walk in the park. Someone walks with me; a redhead woman. She talks. “Sometimes you need to jump; to go away,” I don’t say anything, I just pay attention. The park was strange. Just the two of us were there and it was the holiday period. Blinding sunlight passed through my eyes. “Sometimes people disappear,” she takes something shiny out of her pocket. Something sharp. “And, sometimes, karma happens.” The knife pierced my belly in a region just below the heart. I couldn’t talk. I saw the blood leaving my body. The woman wasn’t there anymore; she had gone. There were loads of blood coming out of my body. I couldn’t feel my legs nor my arms. A piercing pain hurt my belly. I was getting dizzy again. My legs give out and I fall. Fall into the frozen lake and into the darkness. The last thing I heard before jumping is a scream. A grievous scream. I was flying now. Floating in the magnificent sky. No more pain nor confusion. It was a dream and I was escaping from it. I’d wake. I’d wake at some point. I kept falling. Never hitting the ground. Never awakening. I fell into eternity and into the loneliness. I fell into a trap that I couldn't escape.


Most kids in high school spent their summers at the pool or on vacation, but I preferred to spend mine in a library. Mind you, this wasn’t just any library. This was a good old-fashion card catalogue extravaganza of county birth recordings, cemetery records, drawers of family archives, and an unholy number of biographies on Abe Lincoln. It smelled of must and brewing coffee, and the ceiling creaked like a ghost was moving in the attic. I loved it. It was there that I first encountered Cyril Aberforce. Years after the fact, I wondered if I remembered his name because it was so strange, but likely not. It had more to do with the words Murderer Convicted over his head in bold newspaper print. In April of 1838, this Mr. Cyril Aberforce was found in a pool of his wife’s blood in their kitchen, a butcher knife still in his hand. His wife Maggie, was Mr. Aberforce’s only relative in hundreds of miles. They had no children nor were likely to, being in their sixties. The fragile, yellowed newspapers read that it was the result of a drunken rage, for the man was prone to take moonshine in his bad harvest seasons, and the rain hadn’t shown many signs of coming, so maybe he was planning ahead. Other chronicles said a demon had come over him as punishment for his past sins. Unfortunately, I couldn’t precisely discover what these past sins were. That was understandable given that sixty years of not the best recorded history had preceded the murder, but I couldn’t help but question it all. I was reading a lot of romances at the time--Austen, Gaskell, Heyer--and I couldn’t believe a man would murder his wife. And of course, there was the fact that Cyril swore he didn’t kill her. He said he’d come in and found her lying in her own blood and was so upset he took the knife and laid beside her until one of the farmhands found him. I was still considering all of this on the drive home when a sudden thought struck me. I turned my mom’s car around and drove to the largest house in the town, owned by the brittle, tightfisted Julia Erford. I knocked for nearly ten minutes before the door was opened. The ancient creature herself answered, more than making up for her four feet seven inches with a stare like an iceberg and a voice as shrill as a crow. She wasn’t happy to see me, and I doubted she would’ve been happy to see anyone, but when I asked if I could look through her collections of old papers, her eyes lit up. Mrs. Erford had long since hoarded a collection of letters and other documents from her family, who had lived in the town for nearly two hundred years. She refused to give them up to the museum, saying those greedy Democrat monsters would photocopy them to high hell and sell them to the highest bidder. I let all this pass without comment, and the only account of myself I had to give was that I indeed was not what she considered the most deplorable of occupations, an academic, but merely a teenager interested in the past. Mrs. Erford’s study, where she kept all of the papers, might as well have been the library, as it smelled just the same. Still, an hour in I was missing the tidy card catalogue as I sat beside mountains of deteriorating parchment. I heard the click of her cane down the hall outside and she opened the door. “Find what you were looking for?” “No, unfortunately not.” “Might I ask what was so important that you threw off my dinner time?” I looked up guiltily. “I wanted to find out more about the Aberforce murder.” “Mmm, ah. Nasty business. My family preferred not to talk about it.” Cocking my head, I asked, “Why’s that?” She looked down at me like I was an idiot. “Because the Aberforces were my relatives! Erford is a derivative we took after the Civil War so people would stop banging on the door asking to see where Maggie died.” My eyes widened. “Maggie died here?” “Are you quite sure you’ve read about this? My family has owned these thirty-five acres since John Aberforce laid his claim in 1805. He was Cyril’s father, you know. The house was always in the same place.” “But Maggie didn’t actually die in this house? I saw the cornerstone on my way up the porch. It said 1847.” Mrs. Erford sized me up, new respect in her eyes. “Yes, so it was. No, she died in the original farmhouse. It burned down, and my great great great great great grandfather built this mansion.” For a moment, I was caught off guard, wanting to laugh at the thought that maybe there weren’t so many greats in between then and Mrs. Erford, but I controlled myself. “So the line’s been continuous since then?” She puffed out her chest a bit. “It has.” “Wait,” I said, holding up one finger. “How’s that? The papers said Cyril had no family, not even children. Did a family member come from somewhere else and take up the line?” Mrs. Erford hesitated. I could tell she was reconsidering the wisdom of letting me into her home. “Well, yes and no,” she said at last. “My ancestor, Henriette Aberforce, came with her husband and son, but they also came for another reason.” “Which was?” She sighed resignedly. “To care for Cyril’s child.” “But you said--“ “Oh child, how old are you, eighteen?” she snapped. “A man doesn’t have to be married to a woman to impregnate her!” I rolled my eyes. “You might have just said so. But that still doesn’t add up. Why wouldn’t the papers have given a clue to that as a motive? Who was the child’s mother?” “Twenty-year-old Beth Smith. A charity orphan turned nurse who’d come to take care of Mrs. Aberforce in her sickness. The baby wasn’t born until after Cyril had been hanged.” I cringed. “That’s disgusting! She was young enough to have been his daughter!” “Men are men,” Mrs. Erford said with a saturnine smile. “Now, I expect you’re going to be wanting the letters of Henrietta Aberforce.” “How would those help?” “How should I know? You’re the one playing detective, making free with my family’s history.” “It’s history in general, Mrs. Erford,” I argued. “And I didn’t ask for your opinion! Now do you want the letters or not?” Not ten minutes later, I was sitting at the study desk, unwrapping the dusty bundle. Lacking the latex gloves of the library, I had to be especially careful opening and turning pages. Making out the spidery, feminine script of the mid-nineteenth century was nearly impossible. I was on my twenty-something letter, nearly about to pack up and leave, when I caught sight of the date at the top, April 13, 1838. Not only was it the day of the murder, the letter was addressed to Maggie! Though most was of no importance, a passage caught my eye. What nonsense you are talking! You certainly are no longer in the prime of life, but I will not hear of you speaking of your death in this way. And stop saying Cyril will not miss you when you’ve gone, for I’m certain no husband could be more devoted to his wife! Did he not engage a village girl to look after you in your ill health? I look forward to meeting her, anyone who looks after my dear relatives so well is worthy of the highest respect! You may expect me only a few weeks from the time you get this letter! I looked up as the letter returned to domestic inanities. Maggie had known she was going to die? Did she know her husband had been chasing another girl? Had Beth or Cyril killed her to get her out of the way? “Did you find anything interesting?” Mrs. Erford’s voice startled me out of my morbid reflections. “Yes!” I said excitedly, repeating to her the passage and my thoughts on it. “Hmm. I wonder if the answer lies in Maggie’s diary.” “She kept a diary?” I asked, barely concealing my joy. “Supposedly,” she said. “No one could find it. If they had, no doubt it would have been key evidence in the trial. But my cousin Hetty’s journal of the goings on at that fiasco bears no mention of it. And before you ask, I’ve read them and there’s no mention of Beth Smith. I don’t think they wanted the scandal, and Hetty’s letters show she didn’t know the child was Cyril’s until it was a few years old. After that, she took it in as her own when Beth died.” “So the baby wasn’t used as motivation for the murder? Then what was?” Mrs. Erford scoffed. “The story from the trial was that he had become violent from too much to drink and lost his head.” “So he took a butcher knife to his wife?” I asked incredulously. “I don’t care how drunk a person gets, that makes no sense.” “Well I don’t see how you can work it out now. The thing happened almost two hundred years ago.” “I know. It just bothers me. He swore his innocence.” “Mmm, yes,” she agreed, pushing up her wire glasses. “His innocence was always taken as gospel in this house, but that was because Beth’s child, my ancestor David, said his mother knew he was innocent.” “But did Maggie know about Beth’s pregnancy?” I asked, my mind working at fast. “Even if the court didn’t know, she might have, and someone killed her to keep her quiet.” “You think it was Beth?” Mrs. Erford asked, pursing her lips. “That’s who my money is on. If only I could find that diary!” “Good luck with that. None of the original buildings remain, save the old outhouse.” “Why’s that?” Mrs. Erford laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “It was the only building that greedy historical society could get the paperwork for before it was demolished! Everything else is gone.” “Could I look around there?” I asked hopefully. The old woman stopped laughing and eyed me curiously. “I’ve never seen a child so interested in the past.” “It just doesn’t sit well with me, a man murdering his wife or being hung for something he didn’t do.” “Hanged,” Mrs. Erford corrected me. “Well, I suppose you can take a look at the outhouse, but not tonight. Come tomorrow morning.” *** I was up bright and early the next day, barely pausing to grab breakfast before jumping in my car and starting for town. Before going to the Erford mansion, I briefly stopped at the library to check a hunch and, being right, arrived at the house ready to go. “The rains weren’t bad in 1838!” I practically shouted as the front door opened. “What the?” Mrs. Erford scowled at me. “Cyril had been a farmer all his life,” I went on buoyantly. “He would’ve know what the signs for a good season were. He couldn’t have been drinking because of that!” “Do you know how old I am? Do you want to give me a heart attack?” I grinned, wanting to suggest that I didn’t see her dying of something so pathetic, but I merely apologized and let her lead me through the house and to the backyard. The grounds consisted of a swimming pool, covered despite the season, and large gardens, overgrown from lack of care. The outhouse was precisely what I expected, a molding shack surrounded by weeds. The door creaked as it gave way to my determined pull, throwing light into the putrid square of blackness. “Ugh, it stinks like bad water,” I said, realizing the obviousness of the statement too late. “Maybe I overestimated your intelligence,” Mrs. Erford said flatly, also wheezing a little from the smell. “I’ll be in the house. Don’t bother me.” I looked around the exterior of the little shack, checking for anything strange on the walls. Then, I went inside, covering my face with the collar of my shirt and using my phone’s flashlight to look at the interior. The only other option seemed to be digging. Finding a shovel wasn’t hard, and I quickly took to the task, grateful that my early start was allowing me to beat the heat of the day. The soil smelled worse the deeper I went, and I tried not to think about what gases and other things had been released in hundreds of years from human excrement. Some time passed, and I was just regretting my decision to turn down going with a friend to the movies when the shovel hit something solid. Forgetting the smell for the moment, I knelt down and reached into the two-foot deep hole. A flat, smooth surface greeted my palm. I quickly dug around it and felt it to be some kind of box. Thankfully, lifting it out was not difficult as it was about the size of a shoe box and not heavy. I used water from a hose to clean away the filth and found a large MA was carved into the top. Unfortunately, the box was locked, and no amount of years had harmed its integrity. Despite her apparent indifference, Mrs. Erford’s eyes lit up when she saw the strong box in my arms, and she padded away, saying she needed to get something. She came back with an ancient ring of keys. “These have been passed to each head of the Erford family for generations,” she said, handing it to me. “Try them out.” We sat in what she called the breakfast parlor, methodically sticking each of the fifty or so keys into the lock. On the twenty-eighth, it clicked, slowly, reluctantly, but it clicked, and the lid lifted. Within was a single sheaf of papers, bound with a leather sleeve and cord. This too had an MA inscribed. My instincts made me go to the last page, dated the same day as the murder. Perhaps it was my excitement, perhaps because my eyes had become acclimated to old time cursive, but whatever it was, I made out the entry in a few seconds. My eyes widened. “What does it say?” Mrs. Erford asked nervously. “Does she guess at her killer?” I shook my head. “But she knew about the baby?” I nodded. “And she knew who her killer would be.” “Who?!” Mrs. Erford’s knuckles were white on the table. “Herself,” I breathed. The old woman blinked uncomprehendingly. “Maggie Aberforce killed herself,” I explained. “She says here, ‘I’ve planned it tonight, as that little slut will be gone, so Cyril will take the blame. When he’s hanged, hopefully the shock kills his Bathsheba and her spawn of the devil.’ ” I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath. “What a psycho.” A silence descended for a minute, as we each pondered this revelation. Then, Mrs. Erford, who had been so tense before hearing the truth, stood up and said in a calm voice, “I don’t know. The Aberforce and Erford women have been doing things to protect the family name for centuries.” “But this was so evil !” I cried, aghast at her rationalization. “You would never do something like this!” The old woman smiled and shrugged, saying nothing more.


I noticed the door a few days ago. It was bright yellow, nearly impossible to miss unless you were just blind. It had a sign on the front: “Caution: Active Construction Zone.” The rule was clear, and I wasn’t one to break the rules. I continued walking, noticing the faint sound of metal clanking coming from inside. It wasn’t disturbing or scary in any way. The sign was loud and clear, it was a construction site. The next day, as I was on my way to the bakery, I heard voices coming from inside. Echoing syllables that I couldn’t quite make out. It was as if they were almost words, but some piece was missing. Typical of a construction site to have workers, no need for alarm. Although, I couldn’t help but feel a bit uneasy about what I was hearing on the other side. The sounds, those strange grunts that were one vowel away from being a proper word, seemed to echo through my head as I tried to sleep that night, instigating curiosity. The enigma behind those disembodied grunts had me in its grasp. I had to know what was making such otherworldly sounds. As I walked by the door the following day, I noticed a bench across the narrow, brick paved road. It was vacant, and gave a perfect view of the metal door. It would be the perfect spot to conduct a little stakeout. I perched upon the bench, seating myself inconspicuously on the right side. The metal armrest gave me the perfect opportunity to appear nonchalant as I scrolled through my phone without purpose. My eyes would shoot up as crowds of people walked by the door, waiting for anyone to open it and walk in. After dozens upon dozens of pedestrians walked by without so much as acknowledging the yellow eyesore, I felt my curiosity burning. There had to be someone, anyone who worked at this so-called “active construction site.” After another half hour of sitting and waiting, and losing count of the pedestrians who walked by without entering, I’d begun to grow impatient. In the whole span I’d sat in that seat, from 10am to 12pm, not a single person entered or exited the door. Yet, I could still hear sounds coming from inside. A repetitive hammering of metal beating against metal coupled with those inconceivable sounds that had no place in the English language. What was in there? How were the people getting in and out? Was there a second door that I didn’t know about? Yeah, that had to be it. There was just a second door. If I went around to the other side of the building I’d find a metal door, probably the same color with the same sign. So I walked. I circled the block, going from Fourth Street, where I’d been posted up, over to Fifth. As I walked halfway down the block, estimating where the adjacent door might be, I was met with a brownish-red brick. No door. No, no, no this couldn’t be. This can’t be possible. There has to be somewhere for people to get in. Somewhere for them to get out. The door couldn’t exist without ever opening. The thought raced across my mind that, perhaps in the time I’d spent walking the block, a handful of people had entered or exited. Perhaps I was missing it! “No!” I shouted, bolting down the street through crowds of pedestrians. I received concerned glances, furrowed eyebrows, and mumbled curses as I pummeled my way through the groups of people. When I finally found my way back to the door, I hesitated. I didn’t know if I should be the one to tear it open. To be the one who discovers what is really going on. It felt as if I’d begun a descent into madness. My mind raced back and forth with possibilities. Perhaps it was just a construction site down there. Maybe I’d open the door just to find a crew of greasy men in white tank tops and yellow hard hats smashing away at something with sledgehammers. But what if it was more? What if whatever was down there was some sort of secret begging to be revealed. The Illuminati’s secret base of operations, or the remnants of the UFO crash in Roswell, New Mexico all those years ago. It was my civic duty to make it known to the world! I grasped the handle, smooth and cool in my hand, and slowly depressed it. As it fell in a counterclockwise motion until it was perpendicular to the ground, my heart began speeding. Blood rushed rapidly through my veins and caused my face to begin burning, ever so slightly. A bead of sweat formed on my brow. Anticipation and anxiety gripped me and my breathing became shallow. I pulled the door. “No...” I said, in utter defeat and disappointment. “No, no, no... NO!” I’d begun to shout, attracting the attention of passers-by. The constant drumming of metal on metal had grown louder, but what was on the other side of that door was nothing more than a brick wall. An identical brick wall to the one over on Fifth. That door that I’d grown so curious of was nothing. Upon closer examination I’d found that it was simply leaning against the wall, not attached to anything. It wasn’t at all possible. It couldn’t be. I could hear that droning. The sounds of people murmuring those strange consonants playing in my ears. A group of teens walked by, mumbling to themselves. The sounds seemed so familiar. They were like distant echoes of strange syllables that didn’t quite make words. I had no clue what was going on. Why were they talking like that? I needed to know. “Excuse me,” I said, stepping in front of the boy who led the group. He was a bit off-put, staring at me in contempt. Then I heard a sudden and extremely loud POP. I winced as the high pitched squeal echoed through my head. I grabbed at my ears, covering them tightly in an attempt to halt the static noise that accompanied the pop. I turned my gaze back toward the teen as he looked to his friends, appearing to mouth something followed by a silent laugh. His friends joined in. “What is going on?!” I shouted, unable to comprehend. Another group approached from behind me, silent. As an older man put a hand on my shoulder I jumped, startled by his sudden appearance. I stepped back, pressing myself against the wall as he silently mouthed words to me. Was I going crazy? Had I finally lost it? He pulled out his cell phone and dialed something, looking at me as he spoke on his phone. The words were void of any sound now. There weren't even the strange groans I’d been hearing before. All sound seemed to be absent. After a few minutes, I saw red flashing lights approaching. An ambulance. Two men jumped from the front cab, removing a small case as they hurriedly came toward me. Their mouths moved silently, and I assumed they were asking questions. I simply returned with a gesture of pure confusion, shrugging my shoulders and letting my jaw hang open, dumbfounded. They looked at each other, exchanging a look of disconcert before turning back toward me. One man, a burly guy with stylish hair, approached holding a medical tool. An otoscope, as I’d learned it was called. He placed the hammer-like tool in my ear. After removing it he looked at me and slowly, exaggeratedly mouthed the words “Can you hear me?” I shook my head. He nodded before removing a small memo pad from his breast pocket. He pulled a pen as well and scribbled something down. “Sudden deafness.


Olivia woke up to the bright sun peeking through her half-opened blinds. She yawned as she sat up in bed and drowsily looked at the clock on her bedside table. It read 7:22 am. She took the sun’s early greeting as a welcome into the new year. Today was New Year's day. The realization struck Olivia and she rushed to get ready for work. For Olivia and Seek For the Better You, the company she worked for, New Year’s Day was the most important and busiest day of the year. She had completely forgotten about the early start time they had implemented to try and fit in as many people as they could and she silently prayed she wouldn’t be too late. Seek For the Better You, also known as S4BU, was a company dedicated to help people break their bad habits, find their true calling, and ultimately leave behind their unwanted and unenjoyable lives. Olivia could understand why the first day of the new year would bring the most customers. People used the new year as a fresh start. Most who came in looking to start a new life had been wanting to for a while and used the arrival of the new year as their final push. S4BU’s large white building loomed over Olivia, mocking her 10 minute late arrival as she rushed inside. She swerved a disheveled small woman who was standing inside the front entrance, oblivious to Olivia’s hasty entrance. She hopped in the elevator and set the destination for floor 3. As she traveled up, the glass elevator revealed a very full waiting room on the second floor. It’s what Olivia was expecting, but the large crowds of people guaranteed her a long and tiring day. The elevator door smoothly slid open and Olivia wasted no time heading to her boss’s office to apologize for her tardiness. She politely knocked and her boss, Miriam, called her in. When Olivia entered her boss’s organized and brightly lit office, she saw that Miriam didn’t look annoyed or mad, but exhausted. “I’m so sorry for how late I am,” Olivia blurted out. “I totally forgot about our early start-” Olivia was cut off by a wave of Miriam’s hand in the air. “It’s alright, Olivia. Your first customer should be waiting in your office as I told him you should be in soon,” Miriam quietly said. Olivia realized Miriam must’ve had a lot to deal with already that morning and she thanked Miriam and excused herself. She anxiously headed over to her office wondering who her first customer would be. The people who came to S4BU consisted of every possible type of person. There were young people in their early 20s and 30s who had no idea what to do with their lives and were seeking to find a purpose, there were those in their 40s and 50s who hated their careers and life choices and wanted a fresh start, and then there were those in their 70s and 80s who had lost a great amount and wanted something in their life to look forward to and to live for. The age limit of 18+ prevented youngsters from coming in. Olivia understood that it was because they were still legally under their parents supervision and needed to follow their rules, but she felt sorry for those who were born into a rough family environment and had to wait to change the bad hand they were dealt in life. She opened the door to her familiar office to see a large burly man sitting in front of her desk, his back to her as she walked through the door. “Good morning,” Olivia said to the man as she sat behind her desk. “Sorry I’m late. Let’s not waste any more time. You can go ahead and tell me why you’re here and I can outline the different ways we can go about finding a proper solution to your problem.” The man introduced himself as Bartholomew and his southern accent was strong as he explained the reason he was there. He took his time explaining his life as a farmer and how his constant working diminished his chances at finding love. “I really only became a farmer because my father was one, but I am not a fan let me tell you. Those long hot days, the constant prayer for rain, and lastly nobody really wants to marry a farmer. So I guess I just want to start over. Find a career I really want and give myself another chance at love.” Olivia nodded at the man and smiled kindly. She found it adorable that this huge rough looking man was so keen on finding true love. “Well the good news is this sounds like we can find an effective solution. I’m going to give you a few aptitude tests to find out what career would best suit you and I’ll do some research on great programs and groups you can join to meet new people who are also looking for a life long partner.” Bartholomew grinned at Olivia, his chipped front teeth not quite reaching his bottom set of teeth. “Thank ya so much! I am greatly appreciative of you and your patience.” “Of course!” Olivia said smiling. “I will send these tests off with you and once you send them back we can set up another meeting and hopefully you can start anew.” Olivia walked the man out and sat back down once he left her office. She smiled to herself. Bartholomew was a very kind man and although he was very chatty, it was a good start to the morning. The morning slowly turned into afternoon as Olivia worked with many different people, helping them through their life problems and offering them solutions to the various situations they were in. Olivia did not have a break from her appointments for 3 straight hours. And after her 50 minute break she was met with another endless stream of meetings. The clock hit 6 and Olivia received a message from Miriam telling her she had one last appointment. She looked up as a hunched over figure rushed through Olivia’s open office door and took a seat on the plush wooden seat. Olivia sat up in her seat and eyed the small person. They were wearing a large jacket, the hood pulled over their head. “Hello how can I help you today?” Olivia asked. She was a little suspicious of the strange figure, but she wanted to quickly get through this last appointment and go home. The person looked up at Olivia and she realized it was the woman she had almost run into in the lobby early that morning. “Ok well...” The woman paused and glanced nervously around the room. “Do you record these conversations? Or- can anyone hear me?” The small woman looked down at her hands, unable to meet Olivia’s eyes. “They are not, no. It’s a part of our mission statement to protect our customer’s privacy,” Olivia answered. She was even more suspicious of the strange woman, but this was not the first time a customer was hesitant about sharing their life story. “Mhm, ok.” The woman nervously shifted in her seat. “Listen,” the woman whispered, finally looking at Olivia. She motioned for her to lean in closer. “I’ve done some... not so great things,” she said, still whispering. “I’m... well... I mean.” She sighed. “I’m running from the police and I need you to help me change my identity or do something because I have a wonderful daughter at home who I’m not going to leave. And I’m not going to jail. So that’s why I’m here.” She leaned back in her chair and breathed out a sigh of relief. Olivia squinted her eyes at the lady and pursed her lips, thinking. “Well, that is certainly the... uh... the problem you have there.” Olivia had never had to deal with a fugitive before, but she was fully aware of the rules against aiding in anything illegal or withholding any illegal information from the company and ultimately the police. Olivia did feel for the woman, who mentioned she had a young daughter she needed to take care of. “Have you thought of putting your child in foster care and then turning yourself in? This might give you a chance of receiving a lesser sentence or punishment.” “I’m not leaving my daughter!” The woman practically shouted at Olivia, but immediately put her hand over her mouth. She took a deep breath before speaking again. “She’s so young, and she needs me! No matter what, I’m not putting her in some sketchy adoption center and allowing for the possibility of some horrible family to get a hold of her. Just- please. Please help me.” The woman quickly swiped at the tears that had begun to silently roll down her thin face. Olivia quickly typed something into her computer and scanned the results and nodded at the screen before turning back to the woman. “Ok,” she said. “There’s this very underground organization I know of. They may be able to help you. Give you somewhere to hide, take care of your child, and help give you a new identity so that the police can’t find you. It’s risky, but I believe they will be successful at helping you.” Olivia passed a small piece of paper over to the woman, an address and other important information scribbled on the front. The woman stared at Olivia and thanked her over and over again. Olivia just smiled. “It’s the least I can do.” The woman thanked Olivia again as she left the office. Olivia went home more exhausted than she thought she would be. It was tiring being a partial therapist, partial life counselor, and partial business woman all in one. The endless people’s lives she had tried to fix in one day was a great feat and was not something to be taken lightly. She was also not proud of what she had done to help the fugitive who had bravely entered Olivia’s office, desperate to find any possible way to not abandon her daughter. Although it went against the company’s strict rules, she had done what she felt she had to. She would probably never find out if it was indeed the right choice or not, but she felt in her heart that it was. That night, Olivia reflected back on all the appointments she had. All the people who had wanted to start anew, to leave their old lives behind, and who wanted to find their purpose in this confusing game called life. She was thankful she was able to help them, to play a part in their journey to a new successful life. Olivia knew this was her purpose and she slept peacefully that night knowing she had helped so many turn from their old habits and lifestyles and change for the better.


The Migration Patterns of the Great Northern Pine Cabin Demetri spotted the 2 men in black wool suits at the bottom of his exceptionally long footpath leading to his house on the top of his exceptionally steep hill. Demetri estimated it would take them 45 minutes to reach his porch, where he had a pitcher of iced tea waiting for both of them. The two men in identical wool suits were men only in that their identical ID badges read Mr. Eric Carter. Unrelated, the two Eric Carters both found employment at Mooney Regional Bank as property adjusters. Both were lanky, with a strong brow line. Mister Eric A Carter had a much fairer complexion, and striking blue eyes. Mister Eric C Carter’s distinguishing characteristics were dark bristly overgrown eyebrows. Both Mister Eric A Carter and Mister Eric C Carter arrived exhausted at the stoop of Demetri’s cabin. Demetri stood with a sly smile and motioned noiselessly for them to help themselves to the tea. Both quickly downed a glass and poured themselves another. “Mr. Guster, I a-” Started Eric A. “Demetri, Call me Demetri.” “Demetri”, Eric A started again, “I am Eric A Carter, and this is my associate Mister Eric C Carter. We are here from the Mooney Regional Bank. Are you aware of the government's plan to install radio towers on this very hill? We can offer you a very attractive compensation pack-” “Let me stop you right there sonnie. I ain’t leavin for nothin so just give it a rest.” Eric C sat sipping slowly at his tea, avoiding having to say anything at all. Eric A tried again, “Mr. Jeremy said you would say as much. But me and Eric here have come up with a plan where you get to stay on your land. And the radio towers get to be built. The radio towers really only need to occupy the top of the mountain. Where your cabin stands now. If we demolish the cabin and build the towers, we are willing to purchase you your very own mobile home to place at the bottom of the mountain still on your very own property sir. What do you say to that Demteri.” “Have you studied the migration patterns of the great northern pine cabin?” “Well no sir I can’t say I have. But I fail to see the rele-” “The great northern pine cabin is a domicile constructed across North America. It can be built by one man in one year working hard every single day. Thousands of men have used the timbers of the Great Northern Pine forests to do exactly that.” “I see sir. And I take it you are one of those men?” “No. I am three of those men.” “I don’t follow.” “I’ve built this house three times.” “I see.” “No. You don’t see nothing sonnie. Do you have any idea what it took to build this cabin? To do it again, and again. To drag the timbers one by one up this God forsaken mountain.” “Well, no sir. I guess I don’t. But if you don’t like climbing up this mountain, why not move to the bottom like we suggest sir.” “Now there’s a bright idea! Don’t build a log cabin at the top of this damned hill! This ain’t my first rodeo boy. Like I said, I’ve built this cabin three times. “Can I ask what happened to the first two?” “The first cabin I built from white spruce. I bought the nails, a saw, and an axe at Seneca Trading Post. It took me two years truth be told to make the place truly liveable. But my wife didn’t mind. That cabin lasted until my daughter’s fifth birthday. That spring, floods washed it off its foundation and tore it to pieces.” “Sorry to hear that Sir, but modern mobile homes are built to b-” “So that night I started dragging the remaining logs of this cabin higher up this cursed mountain. Just below the tree line. I built the walls thicker and deeper, with an added attic space. We lived there happy for another 4 years.” “Glad it had a happy endi-” “That summer, a forest fire took my wife’s life and most of this cabin with it.” “I see sir.” “So I dragged the remaining logs higher still, to the peak we rest on now boys. And built this cabin for me and my daughter. It’s built deep into solid stone, far from the woods where danger could harm my family. And it’s walls are a foot thick to keep the winter cold at bay.” “I am sure your hard work was certainly appreciated by your daughter. Happy it all worked out for the be-” “My daughter died that summer from typhus.” “I see sir.” “Demetri, why don’t you just sell the land and go live comfortably somewhere far away from these troubling memories” offered Eric C Carter just now regaining the faculty of speech. “Erics, I’ve spent my life working against the grain. This mountain has kicked my ass for forty years. But I am still here, and this cabin is still here. I’ve fought flood, fire, and pestilence to sit on my porch and enjoy this cup of tea. The grass may be greener, but the sweetest tea is at the top of the mountain.


The pain was intense. As my driver pulled into the gravel driveway, I adjusted my position and winced. "Is everything alright, Miss Daniels?" said my driver, Weston. "Yes," I said. "I'm fine." Weston sighed. "Very good, miss. What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?" "I'll call you," I said, as I slammed the car door with my good arm. As I carefully made my way up the drive, I saw a white farmhouse with black shutters. I heard the front door slam, and a woman in her sixties jogged up to me and pulled my overnight bag out of my good hand. "Mercy!" she said, as she stopped for a moment and stared at the cloud of dust from the car. "Why did your man peel out of the drive like that? Did you two have a fight?" Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. "That's just Weston, my driver. He forgets how to drive sometimes." The woman's mouth hung open, just a little, and I saw that she had a cheap metal filling on the back of her right molar. "Oh," she said. "Well, you know men. Most of them don't know their rear ends from a hole in the ground." I laughed politely, and my new friend smiled. "Welcome to Blue Bate's Bed and Breakfast," she said. "My name is Twila." "Nice to meet you," I said, shaking her right hand with my left. "Is somethin' wrong with your right shoulder?" said Twila. "No, why do you ask?" I said. "Nothin' she said, as she rested my bag on her shoulder. "It's just that my husband, Ralph, was a doctor and he always said that you could tell a shoulder injury, down to the side, by the angle of a person's walk." "That's fascinating," I said. "Did Ralph pass away recently?" Twila's eyelid twitched. "How did you know that?" "Lucky guess," I said. "Right," she said, narrowing her eyes. "I'll show you to your room, then." I smiled. "That would be lovely," I said. ***** The door creaked open, and I smelled my new digs before I could see them. Mildew and rust, mixed with eau de manure. Great. Twila laughed, a singularly displeasing sound. "Is the room not to your likin'?" she said. I looked around and took stock. A shabby but serviceable bed was in one side of the room, and a large fireplace was located on the opposite wall. "It'll do," I said. "Does the fireplace work?" My hostess smiled through gritted teeth. "I just cleaned it myself this morning," she said. "You won't have to worry about a smoke smell on those designer clothes of yours, if that's what you're thinkin' about," she said. "Good," I said. "Great. As a matter of fact, I'd like to freshen up before dinner. Would you put my bag on the bed?" Twila muttered something under her breath, but placed my Prada bag gently atop the bed pillows. "Dinner's at 7 o'clock sharp ," she said. "I hope you like cornbread." I sighed, and lightly massaged the back of my neck. "It's my favorite," I said, "but like I said, I really want to take a shower before dinner." Twila's face softened. "Awww, you must really be tired. You take a nice shower or bath, and I'll have some hot food ready for you when you come down." I nodded eagerly, and closed the door behind the proprietor of the Blue Bates Bed and Breakfast. As I heard the sound of her steps fade away, I flung open the bathroom door and ripped the bandage off of my right shoulder. In the mirror, I noticed that yellow fluid was leaking from the wound. "Fuck," I said. I slowly opened my overnight bag with my left hand, and injected myself with enough cortisone to kill a horse. As the drug took effect, I took a hot shower (as hot as I could stand it) and laid down on the bed. As I fell asleep, I made a mental reminder to call Weston on my cell. I doubted the B and B had wifi. "Hey," said a kind voice. I coughed. "Is that you, God?" I said. There was a soft chuckle in response. "No, silly Billy, it's me," said Twila. "I brought your food upstairs on a t.v. tray that I used to use for Ralph, when he was sick. I hope you don't mind." "What time is it?" I said. "Never you mind," said Twila. "I can see you're sick and in pain, plain as day. Have somethin' to eat first, and then I'll be more than happy to tell you the time." I started to protest, but my new caretaker interrupted. "Eat first," she said, pointing to a dish of roast pork. "Talk later." My stomach growled, and Twila smiled. I reached for a spoon. "No, no, sweetie," she said. "You'll want the fork and knife for that pork." I grabbed the spoon, and drove it into her eye. "No, no," I said, gasping for breath. "I want the spoon. Easier to catch you off guard that way." Twila fell to the floor, clawing at her face. Blood and viscous fluid ran onto the wood. "That's going to be hard to clean up," I said, "but I am relieved that you don't have carpet." I grabbed the quilt from the bed--I believe in cleaning up as I go--and felt a white hot stab of pain in my right shoulder. "Oww," I said, as I whirled back around, screaming. "That really hurts, Twila!" "Goo!" she slurred. Then she fell to the ground and I heard the satisfying sound of a skull cracking. An empty vial of cortisone gently fell out of her hand, and I picked it up. "I really wish you had put up more of a fight," I said, as I fished my phone out of my trusty black bag. "Makes me feel less guilty about killing you." I called Weston. "Hello," I said. "I need to change the pick-up time. Can you be here at 3 am? Also, please call our client and tell her that the work is finished." "Excellent," said Weston. "She'll be very glad to know. How is your shoulder, and how did you get that injury? I am curious, you know." "I accidentally shot myself in the shoulder," I said. "Are you happy? I fucking shot myself in the shoulder." "That's what I thought," said my old friend, laughing. "I'll be there as soon as I can." ***** Weston and I watched the last of the blood swirl down the bathtub drain, and I gave the area one last swipe of bleach. "I think we've got everything clean," I said. "I'll check the rest of the house, one last time, to make sure." "Do you hear that?" said Weston. "Hear what?" I said. "Would you help me carry these trash bags? They are heavy, and I can't carry them by myself right now." "I know," said Weston. "If we had cut up the body like I said, instead of burning it in the fireplace, the bags would be lighter." "No," I said, shaking my head. "You're mistaken. Ash is always lighter than the human body." "Would you shut up for one second?" said Weston. "I will not," I said. In that moment, we both heard it--the faint but distinct sound of a human voice. "Shit," I said. "It's coming from the basement." ***** "I still can't believe Ralph was chained up in the basement," said Weston. "Really?" I said. "I can. Twila was a textbook sociopath. I'll bet she even tortured small animals as a child." Weston rolled his eyes. "You didn't torture small animals as a child." "Yes, but my father was a sociopath and taught me to be one. I am a different kind of creature, so to speak." "Exactly, Miss Daniels." "Are you being sarcastic, Wes?" I said. "Don't call me Wes," he said. Just then, there was a loud thump from the trunk. "Don't you think our client will be a bit upset that her beloved grandfather is in the trunk of our car?" said Weston. I thought for a moment. "No," I said. "She'll be happy that he's alive and well." "Right," said Weston, the man that I love. "I certainly hope that you are correct." "I am," I said. "I'm always right." "And you always have to have the last word," smiled Weston. "Yes," I said. "I do."