Night was beginning to fall. The desert winters brought a cold chill to the earth in the wastelands of Arizona. The reprieve from the scorching heat brought about longer nights and with those longer nights had come a new and unknown terror. The mining community of Prospect, Arizona was smitten with a dark and unspeakable scourge. Recent disappearances could not be attributed to any known source other than a black shadow creeping into the town in the dead of night. The disappearances began with the elderly and helpless of the community, many of which had been found dead on the outskirts of town or in the middle of the desert pale as a ghost with blood covering their nightgowns. Peculiar bite marks appeared on their bodies as though they had been sucked dry by some fiend. Next, young children were whisked from their beds as their parents slept. Many of these bodies were never found.

“It’s been a week since the first attack Colonel,” said the town preacher William T. James. “My flock needs protecting. I am a humble shepherd. I am no warrior. I cannot defend my people from this evil that befalls them except for with the might of prayer and faith.” “I’m afraid that prayer and faith won’t be enough this time, Bill,” sighed Colonel Tobias Fredrerick Jones. “Faith and prayer may get your flock to heaven a hell of a lot sooner than they ought to if we don’t figure some defense or change for this here town.”

Tobias, old Toby or TF to some of his friends, had fought and served in the War of Northern Aggression against Billy Yank as a young man. The hardship, death, terror and violence of the war had left him a scarred and dangerous man. He was just sixteen when the war began. His father joined the Confederate Army of Kentucky out of an abundance of loyalty to his home, his community and his neighbors. They were but lowly shopkeepers, merchants for the townspeople. They didn’t own any slaves or want any.

Defending the soil that they had lived on for so long felt more important than any other idealistic conversation in Washington. His father had not cared for Jeff Davis or slavery for that matter.

He did not care for the war at all. He would have preferred to stay home, but duty did not allow this. His father was counted among the many casualties of the battle of Sharpsburg and shortly thereafter Toby was enlisted into the military following his eighteenth birthday and a growing need for soldiers.

Following the end of the conflict Toby had returned home for a time to nurse his wounds and recover. After a couple of very uneventful years he re-enlisted in the US Army and wore the blue coat he had fought against. He was shipped off to the west to fight the Indians and spread the glory of America. His experience and strategic prowess proved to be useful as he fought the hostile Indians. The Apache had proven to be a formidable and dangerous foe. He had fought many years and lost many men in the unforgiving desert of the Apache home. As he advanced in rank, he prioritized his men as his community and home having never wed and lived a solitary militant life. He was now aged and gray, retired from the Army and serving as the Marshall of a small and previously quiet mining community.

The preacher was a good man with a good heart but not a stout heart. His faith lay in the Bible and in the goodness of men. The goodness of men had failed Toby far too many times to put his trust in them.

“I hear what you’re saying Colonel,” said the preacher. “I just don’t know what to do. What can be done against such a thing. We’re not even sure what we’re really up against.” “We know that the attacks only happen at night. Nothing has happened in daylight yet so there must be a reason for their sneaking about,” replied the Colonel. “If it is some form of man or beast that terrorizes us we must take the proper shelter. We’ll hole up in the church tonight. All of us together. Everyone with a weapon. Everyone on the look out.” The townspeople sat nervously in the pews of the church looking over at the preacher and the colonel speaking discreetly in the doorway of the chapel. Murmuring and whispers spread across the room as each townsperson shared their fears. “My little Jimmy was taken two nights ago. I laid him down in his room and I told him to keep his window closed no matter what. I went in the next morning and he was gone. No trace of him,” gasped Mrs. Moira O’Malley as she began to sob into her husband’s shoulder. “It’s a terrible thing,” sighed Mr. Ivan Radovich. “There is still hope. My poor mother was found five days ago in the desert dead and covered in blood. Her body was a wreck when we found it.” “Our pequeno nino Juan Carlos slept in our bed last night terrified of what happened to Jimmy Senora O’Maley. I did not sleep at all if I could help it. I kept the candles burning and watched over mi familia. La cruz de Jesus in the window protecting us. I must have prayed a thousand Rosaries last night.” Senor Pedro Ramirez reached for the crucible around his neck and kissed his wife on the top of the head. “It was very frightening.”

Toby stepped into the chapel with the preacher and closed the door. The heavy latch falling behind them. The torches that would generally be lit in the town street were brought inside to provide extra light to the chapel and the townspeople. Candles also littered the building. If anything tried to get in they wanted to get a good long look at it. He approached the pulpit at the front of the chapel and addressed the remaining families. “Evenin’ folks. I know we’re all scared here. It’s something unknown happening round here. But with all this happenin’ quiet like in each of our homes, I figure it’s best if we do this together. We spend a night together here in the chapel. I see you all brought your bedrolls. That’s real good. We’ll keep watch for each other and we’ll see what happens tonight.”

“Will we truly be safe here tonight?” asked Ivan. “We don’t know what’s happening or why people are disappearing.” “This place has the biggest, heaviest doors in town so if it’s man or beast causing this terror we stand a better chance behind these walls. We’ve boarded up the windows except for enough room for us to look out at eye level. If something’s going to happen we stand our best chance in here together,” replied Toby.

“We will pray for our friends who have left us for Tucson that they will tell of our plight and send help,” said the preacher. “It’s a two day ride to Tucson. If they sent help back for us it should be here tomorrow.” “If they were able to make it through the night Padre. Hay un demonio!” exclaimed Pedro. “There is a demon in the night.” “Best thing we can do is keep our eyes open and stay on our toes, Senor,” Toby said reassuringly. “I’ll take the first watch down here. Father, you’ll want to take the first watch in the bell tower and you call down to us if you see anything.” The preacher nodded. Several hours went by without incident. The silence was eerie but for the sound of a breeze in the night. The preacher had climbed up the ladder into the bell tower, the three remaining families were asleep on the pews or across the floor of the building. As it neared one in the morning, the silence was broken with the sound of footsteps and what sounded like snarling. The preacher came climbing down the ladder. “There’s a group of people out there. They’re walking through the town looking in the houses,” he called over. “I’m not sure what they’re looking for.” “How many of them are there?” responded Toby hurriedly, standing bolt upright.

“I’m not sure. It looks like maybe ten or fifteen.” “Get back up there and tell me what they’re doing,” Toby said as quietly as he could, raising over to the ladder. The preacher climbed back up the ladder and he could not see them anymore. “They’re…..they’re gone. No wait, listen.”

The silence was broken again by the sound of dirt crunching underfoot and a sort of snarling. Then it suddenly stopped. “Momma? Is that you? Are you in there Momma? Momma come out. Open the doors. It’s me Jimmy.” Mrs. O’Malley became fully alert. Her husband had to pull her back. The sound of her only son calling out to her had her in a panicked frenzy. She fought against her husband's grip as she tried to reach for the door. “Something’s not right,” said Mr. O’Malley. “Why didn’t he come back in the daylight? Who’s he out there with?” Toby looked out the window and saw one of them walking around the church looking for weak points. Then one of them came up to the window and stuck their face up against the window revealing in the candlelight and the moonlight bloodshot eyes and what appeared to be dried blood caked on their face. Their teeth were stained with it. “Stay back. Don’t open that door,” Toby called over to the O’Malley’s. “They’re not right out there.” “Come on Momma. It’s okay. It’s safe. You can come out. We won’t hurt you,” came little Jimmy’s voice again near the front door.

Pedro came over to look through the gap in the boarded up windows with Toby. He held his crucifix up to his mouth as he looked out the window and then one of them came to the window. It immediately pulled back. Pedro stepped back with it.

“Madre de Dios. It does not look natural. It does not look human,” Pedro cried out jumping back. “The devil is in its eyes.”

“How much longer until daylight?” asked Mrs. O’Malley. “When can I go see my son?”

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to leave the chapel before daylight. There’s too much risk and too much we just don’t know,” replied Toby. “It looks like it’s getting close to two in the morning. We should start to have light on the horizon in about three hours.” “Old Toby,” called out a voice from the streets. “I hear it’s you that’s holed up in that chapel like a rat.”

It could not be. He knew that voice but he hadn’t heard it in thirty-five years. It was the voice of a man he believed to be long dead. “Young Jimmy boy has told me all about your little Sheriff act that you’ve taken up in your retirement. A fine sight that’d be. You serving Billy Yank. Did they give the fancy blues and everything?” He peered through the window and saw El Carter. A man who he hadn’t seen since the bloody days of Gettysburg when they were both young and newly recruited into the Confederate Army. Toby had been forced to leave him as he was caught up in the wave of men retreating from the destruction. He hadn’t aged a day. “You’ve grown old, Old Toby,” he leered through the window. “Oh my God….Eli. What’s happened to you?” Toby said with horror. Eli punched through the glass and the boards ripping the nails from the wall as he did so and sending shattered glass throughout the chapel. “I’ve become more than you could ever hope to be,” he said, pulling his unscathed hand back.

Then he punched through several more times, ripping and tearing at the boards. Once he had broken through the boards he poked his head in through the window. In the improved lighting, dried blood was visible on his chin and stained across his coat. He reeked of death, decay and dirt.

From the corner of his eye Toby saw movement to his left and the preacher threw holy water on Eli’s face. Eli screamed and snarled, pulling his face back out of the window.

“Get back servant of evil!! Get back!” exclaimed the preacher. “This is a house of God! You cannot enter here!” Then all was silent again as shock and fear rose to a new level in the townspeople.

“Pedro, keep an eye on that other window. Ivan, watch the door. O’Malleys, you watch this window and keep quiet,” whispered Toby to the group. “With the window broken they’ll hear us that much more clearly.” He stepped aside from the window with the preacher. “What was that? What just happened?” “They are creatures of the night. A manifestation of evil incarnate. I did not believe the stories,” began the preacher gravely. “As a young man in the seminary I had heard other priests discuss the evil that could be found in the world. A lust for blood, violence and death. A waking immortality dependent on the consumption of human blood. An evil known as a vampire.” “So how do we kill it? What did you just do to Eli?” Toby asked, running his hands up and down the barrel of his pistol. “It is wounded by holy water but would not be killed unless it bathed in it. We do not have enough for this. It is also repelled by the cross and by garlic. We do have several crosses around the church but no garlic. A creature such as this,” sighed the preacher heavily, “cannot set foot on hallowed ground. It cannot enter a house of God and it cannot enter a cemetery. It will be repelled. So you were wise to suggest we remain in here for the evening.” “Why had you not made mention of this before?” Toby insisted. “I did not believe the stories. I believed them to be the paranoid and deluded imaginings of old men. I still would not believe it if I had not just seen it with my own eyes.” The preacher began walking towards the back of the chapel looking from side to side. “We must find a cross for each of us to hold out in front of us or wear on our necks. We must all be armed with the power of God.” “Right. That’s fine Preach but how do we kill them? How do we survive this if you say that they are immortal?” Toby said desperate for an answer, for something he could do.

“You must drive a stake through their heart or cut off their heads. Either of these will end the vampire. If you shoot them, stab them or otherwise wound them, their bodies may recover in time and with consumption of blood.” The preacher laughed and shrugged. “I’m surprised I still remember all this. I heard the other priests talking about it and one of them gave me this book on it here. He told me that I’d need it if I was going out into the desert by myself.” He pulled a book from the drawer of his desk in the back titled, “The Manifestation of Evil” with a cross on the book cover. Inside the book were drawings, prayers, what appeared to be personal inscriptions and steps to take. It was a copy of a guide of everything that was known about vampires documented in this book. “So what do we do next?” asked Toby. “Do you have any more of that holy water?” “I do have more, yes, but we don’t have a great deal. We could consecrate more but there is a limited amount of salt and water here in the chapel. We’ll have to make due with what we’ve got for the next few hours I’m afraid,” replied the preacher. “We’ve got movement over here Toby” called out Mr. O’Malley. “I can hear 'em coming.” “The preacher has some holy water. Very well,” came the voice of Eli through the broken window. The face of Jimmy became visible through the window. “Mama? Mama?” came the voice of the young boy. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin an ashen gray and dried blood covered his mouth and chin. He still wore the nightshirt he had been wearing in his bed in his parents home. “You want to see the boy again, huh Mama? You can’t hide in your church forever,” taunted Eli. “Come see us out by the old abandoned entrance to the mineshaft. We can all be one happy family. If you don’t, we may just decide that Jimmy isn’t good enough to be a part of our group. We may just decide to kill him yet. Think about it.” With that lingering threat he put the scared boy down on the ground and left.

The townspeople looked around at each other, unable to voice what had just happened. The world had turned upside down, swallowed up by this desert darkness.


A pool of blood, a dead body lying on the cold floor, and a man standing confused of what just he had seen. It was something he did not expect upon waking up, and to his mind, he knew he was supposed to be in a library. Yet there he was, looking at the scene that seemed familiar to him. He was just an ordinary man that works as a teacher that decided to visit a usual library near the university. But he was never the type of person that would do such henious crime. Rather than being violent, he was more of a gentle giant, a man that all his students look upon to. He poundered his thought once more, then all the picture became clear. The place which was an old apartment, a combat knife used as the weapon, and a small ring dropped as evidence, all of it was part of the novel he was reading before he lost his conciousness. But how did he got there, the question that bothered him. He could be asleep yet pain could be felt as he pinch his cheek. The footsteps of running people befall outside at the hallway, forcing the sealed door open. But he didn't not bother on waiting and went to leap into the window, for who was at the time being, was the infamous Jack the ripper. His sweat became intense as his heart pounded in fear, and the door broke open. To his luck, he manage to escape, and thus, clearing the vision of the horrific space. He was back at the library but everything was dark and empty. No people were left except for him, and the closed book he was reading had glowing red lights that dimly fades each second. Confusion struck him on how he got into that imaginary world, but discarded the thought to return the book to where it bellongs and finally go home. But as soon as he stopped by the shelves, nausea attacked, and within a snap, he was in a different world. A fresh breeze swayed from the bottom of the mountain and there, a dragon flew passed by, shoving an intense gust of wind that send him to him knees. He was now a knight that wields a sword and shield in his both hands. The plates surrounding him were heavy yet his physic made it possible for him to carry the weight. With a massive roar, the dragon came back and spewed flames that set the forest into flames. His shield became blazing hot to even be carried, and the sword he possesed was dropped in surprise. There was no way to defeat such thing for it had domain on both the land and air, breath that roast every thing it wanted, and scales stronger than iron. He knew the only way he could survive was to run. Yet no matter how he flee, his path was being blocked by an invissible barrier. The barrier of the scene, which only took place on the singe page of the book. He can't ran from it, and the only way he could escape was to find something that could flip the scene. He had to defeat the dragon. He returned to where the had dropped the blade, and faced the foe that traps him in the inescapable place. And as soon as they meet eye to eye, he threw the blade straight to the dragon eye, sending it back to the bottomless chasm. It ended, and now, he was back to the real world. Yet he was too afraid to go into any adventure anymore and rushed to find his way towads the exit. Yet his haste caused him to fall from the mezanine, and down to the floor he was dropping. But not single dent caused him any injures for a floor was not the thing that caught him, but cold water that sent chill all over his body. He was in another new world, filled with penguins and seals, and the clothe he wears were made of fur jacket. It wasn't one of the novels he had stuck in, for his escape lead him back outside, yet as he went across another shelve, his body cross another fate once more. The place was rather normal, if he'd exclude the measure of everything. The height of the building, the roads, and even the movement of every person were followed by lots of numbers. He even spotted a person named Jack who ate apples and kept asking how many he had left. Being a teacher, he knew what type of book where he had gotten into but even him didn't want to stay for too long for it was a book he wasn't quite fond of. It was math. But to escape, he had to solve gasilion of questions, passing every gate keeper that kept asking for how many apples they had left. Good thing it was basic elementary math, or he would have been trapped for eternity, solving problems he once slept off during class. His return only lasted for a second as the imaginary world took him back into another chaotic world. The sound of rapid lead, the cries of men for their comrades, and the explosion that till the ground with large craters. He was in the batteground of a world war. But of all he had faced, it was the one his heart couldn't take. He had histories with guns, and one had taken the life of someone important to him. He cower in fear, hiding beneath the piles of body of same uniform he had, as someone's shadow shades his ground, and from his back, a hand crept that pulled him out. In surprise, he shoved it and found the young librarian staring with a shock face. Then he notice the sun had already meet the surface, and the shop was once more open. Apparently, the owner was a witch in hidden, and the young teacher accidentally found her secret. The secret of the hidden world inside books in her library. She apologizes for what had happened, and even though he was terrified out of his system, he couldn't bare to put an anxious face. For the true reason he comes and go, was to take a glimpse of the owners lovely face.


**Beware of gothic gore! ** Dear Diary, The winter weather arrived more than three weeks early this year with a blizzard that caught us by surprise. We've had to make accommodations to keep the daytime help here in the Château instead of sending them home. The path leading down to Gilberta is too treacherous for travel and will probably remain so for many weeks to come. -Bayle Dear Diary, Monsieur Traver and Mademoiselle Gwendolyn arrived unexpectedly from Paris this morning. From out of a white windy storm, the front door opened, and there they were. I don't know how they made it up the path. Luckily, both Rafe and Saulie were here from the carriage house to see to their cart and the half-frozen horses. -Bayle Dear Diary, I found the door that leads to the cellar unlocked and wide open. Odd, but I don't think anyone noticed. I relocked it. -Bayle Dear Diary, The storms keep raging. We may have a bit of cabin fever already. Perhaps that was why Madame Andress was a bit snippy today about not being able to see out the kitchen window again. I don't know what she expects me to do about it. -Bayle Dear Diary, I found the cellar door open again. As I closed and locked it, I noticed the new girl watching me—Henrietta. "Please keep a close eye on that new girl," I asked Madame Andress. "I think she's up to something." I used my most polite voice. You would have thought I'd asked for the moon. -Bayle Dear Diary, I found the cellar door open three times today, so I closed and locked it three times as well. Rafe caught up with me this afternoon and said his key to the chateau was not hanging in its usual place. He has searched everywhere and cannot find where it's got to. I told him I'd get him another, but later when I opened the closet where the spares were kept, they'd all disappeared. I'll have to speak to Madame Andress. I wonder if Henrietta has anything to do with it. -Bayle Dear Diary, Gwendolyn has been especially mischievous this season. Even though she's middle-aged now, I still think of her as the little mademoiselle. Y esterday, she spent the day following her brother, Traver. Today she is following me. I wonder who will be next. I'm still surprised the two of them are here. I thought for sure they'd stay in Paris for the winter. -Bayle Dear Diary, Madame Andress has asked me to do a better job of keeping the cellar door locked. "The staff are starting to think we have ghosts," she said, and she tried to laugh it off. I, too, have heard the talk. The staff are saying some spirit has come back to haunt us. Well, there are worse things than ghosts. At least ghosts don't bite. -Bayle Dear Diary, I found that new girl Henrietta dead in the dungeon last night. Most of her neck had been torn away. She must have gotten too close to the dungeon bars. It's why we've kept the door locked day and night for all these years. At first, I amazed myself for keeping a calm head. I dragged her body into a separate cell and locked it. Then I fetched buckets of soapy water and cleaned the blood off the dungeon floor. By the time I brought down the meal of raw beef I had served faithfully for nearly twenty years, I was crying. That poor girl. How sad for all these young women to end up in this way, and now—where there had been only two such creatures for years and years, we now had the burden of caring for a third. Madame Marie still wore the tiara they'd laid her out in and the same dress, though it was in tatters now. She gnashed her teeth at me and tried to growl. That priest/alchemist Traver brought in from abroad to help them have a child, gave them both a potion, and they'd taken it together, the two of them. Traver and Marie knew the risks, but they took it anyway. Lucas was born because of it, and what a blessing he is. Tall and strapping. Everyone loves Lucas. However, they hadn't expected Marie to die in childbirth. She was laid her out on the bed in all her finery, and it was winter, or they wouldn't have gotten away with it. When the midwife Cerise, came in to pay her respects, Marie attacked her with long sharp teeth. I was there. So was Madame Andress and Traver. We threw something over her head, so she couldn't bite us and smuggled her down to the dungeon. And Cerise. She was added a few days later. I should have told Madame Andress about Henrietta right away, but instead, I went to Traver, who was writing at his desk. Gwendolyn sat quietly nearby with an embroidery hoop in her lap, a picture of normalcy. "Could I speak to you for a moment, monsieur," I asked. He looked up and rose at once on seeing my expression. Something must have been written on my face. We went out to the hallway. Thankfully, Gwendolyn did not follow. "I found a girl dead," I whispered so Gwendolyn would not hear. "She was killed in the dungeons. I don't know what she was doing down there. Her neck was ripped open." I hesitated a moment to let it sink in. Then I continued. "Someone keeps unlocking and opening the cellar door. I suspected it was the dead girl, Henrietta." Monsieur Traver was shaken. "What should I do?" I asked him. "When others notice her absence, what will I tell them? It was quite late. The staff were in their quarters, keeping warm by their fires, and no one was about. Traver wanted to see. By the time we went down the cellar stairs to the dungeon, Henrietta had come back alive. She was the most grotesque yet, with that open gaping neck. I couldn’t hide my shock. "What have you done, Marie, my lovely night creature?" Traver whispered to the snarling thing in the first cell. "Were you lonely?" I interrupted and asked again, "What shall we do?" Traver squared his shoulders. "We must tell the truth, Bayle. The time has come. Perhaps they will understand." He surveyed the three of them and nodded his head, determination in his expression. I don't know what Traver planned to say, but I planned to let Madame Andress know first. She always seems to have a solution. I never got the chance. When we arrived at the top of the cellar stairs, we found the door closed and locked, with us on the wrong side of it. I had left my key in the door. We didn't want anyone to hear us shouting, so we waited silently and hoped whoever locked us in would return to let us out. I was thankful for the light of my lantern and that we were far enough away not to hear the creatures. It was Gwendolyn who opened the door. She danced with a large ring filled with keys, playing a game. I grabbed for them as she danced past me, but she skittered away. It was by now very late, and everyone was asleep. Surprisingly, no one had reported Henrietta missing. I left Monsieur Traver to deal with his sister and took myself to bed. -Bayle ~*~ (Letter addressed to Madame Laurene Renard from Madame Josephine Andress) My Dear Laurene, I had hoped to welcome you back as the new bride of Château Renard with all the joy and celebration your arrival deserves, but it is not to be so. Instead, you will be greeted at the door with the heartbreaking news that Monsieur Traver has been killed in a tragic accident. I had a room done up beautifully for you and Lucas, but now it matters nothing. I think Monsieur Lucas will not want to stay once his father's funeral and the formalities are over. We are a house of sorrow and secrets once again, and I wonder if the chateau has ever been anything else.

When you arrive, you will no doubt hear from the staff that it was Gwendolyn who pulled the trigger that shot her brother, but I assure you this was not done out of anger or malice. It was but a horrible accident. We found, too late, what she's been up to; stealing the household keys and adding them to a great ring she found somewhere. She's been unlocking the locked doors of Madame Marie's old room, the cellar to the dungeon, and other places, following people, and spying. I can only speculate that she found a gun with a stolen key and took it. When Traver tried to take it away, it went off. By the time any of us realized what had happened, it was too late. That's not all. Bayle caught me last night, just before he turned in. A girl new to the staff was found dead under dreadful circumstances, something that never should have happened. Two deaths in two days. Perhaps the years so plagued with misfortune and sorrow have changed the Château Renard into a beast with a taste for blood. Perhaps she should be set on fire and left to burn to take her secrets to hell. Anyway, I ask mercy for Gwendolyn. She's an innocent, and I love her like my own daughter; I never had any of my own, you see. I still remember when she was born—a tiny fairy creature with pale white hair. There were times when no one could reach her, so lost she was inside her own head. On other days she would dance and play make-believe with her dolls. Those were the good days. She could also be disruptive, as she's been all this winter, but I've always had a way with her. She listens to me. When you and Lucas come, I'd like to return to Paris with you to care for Gwendolyn. Anxiously waiting for your return, Madame Josephine Andress ~*~ (Letter addressed to Eloise Moreau, from Aubrey Moreau) Dear Eloise, Lucas's father, Monsieur Traver is dead. He was killed two mornings ago, shot by his sister, an accident. No one can grasp it. While I'm happy you are safely away in Paris attending to Madam Laurene and Monsieur Lucas, I miss you terribly. It's been horrible at the chateau without you, and every day gets worse; so much worse. To start things off, a new girl, Henrietta, sneaked away to the carriage house to spend the night with Saulie. Her not-slept-in bed scared everyone into thinking the worst, but her remorseless self arrived during a room-to-room search. Madame Andress gave her the scolding of her life. When we found her bed untouched again, several days later, we paid it no mind. However, when Saulie and Rafe plowed a path from the carriage house to the kitchen door because of yet another heavy snow, Saulie told us he hasn't seen Henrietta, and now he's worried along with the rest of us. Ferguson woke up Bayle to help with the search, and that's when a gunshot blasted out—the gunshot that killed Monsieur Traver. Bayle gave us the rest of the day off to mourn, and it didn't seem appropriate to bring up Henrietta's absence. No one ate the noon meal, and after cleaning up, I went to the common room with everyone else, but instead of mourning Monsieur Traver, I mourned Henrietta. I keep imagining her frozen to death in the storm outside. I regret not being kinder. The next morning when Bayle didn't come to breakfast, Ferguson left to check on him and found his bed empty and unslept in. We broke into groups and began another search. We found the cellar door to the dungeon wide open. Ferguson thought Bayle might have gone down to the cellar, and worried something may have happened to him. "The stairs are very steep. I think we should check," he said. No one said a word. "We should wait for Madame Andress," I warned, but it was as if I'd never spoken. "Is anyone willing to come with me?" Ferguson looked hopeful, but no one replied. His face then got up some courage, and he grabbed a lantern for light then disappeared down the steps. "Come back," I shouted. (Or maybe I only whispered.) "It's too dangerous. There are big rats down there!" I knew Bayle took a domed platter of raw beef to the dungeon each night. I told you about it, remember? Bayle told me it was poisoned meat for the rats. "Dungeon rats are huge. Do stay away," he cautioned. Anyway, Ferguson disappeared. We couldn't see him anymore, and we barely breathed as we waited. Our ears strained to hear something. "Ferguson! Are you alright?" someone shouted. There was no answer at first, but moments later, he cried out from somewhere deep within the cellar. Nothing could persuade anyone of us to venture down that steep dark staircase, so we just stood there, willing Ferguson to come back unharmed. Suddenly he came running up the stairs. He'd lost the lantern but held Bayle's ring of keys. His arm dripped blood. "What happened?" we asked. "Did you find Bayle? Is he alright?" He never got the chance to answer. Madame Andress appeared from out of nowhere, her face white with fury, or maybe it was fear. She reached for the keys and locked the cellar door. "It looks like a rat bite," she said of his wound. "They carry disease and start plagues. You'll need to be isolated for a few days." She took Ferguson away by his good arm. Mademoiselle Gwendolyn followed. When I tried to follow, Jared held me back. (Do you remember Jared? Tall, handsome, brown curly hair?) "Let them go," he said, but Saulie followed them and reported back that they had climbed the tower to the turret room at the top. We stared at the locked cellar door. No one moved. I tried my best not to think, but I was terrified. Was Bayle down there? Henrietta? "Something's not right," Rafe said. "If Bayle is in trouble, we need to check on him. Stay here and watch for Madame Andress while I search her room for another key. Let me know right away if she comes." We waited in silence. I let my imagination search for answers. "What if Rafe doesn't come back?" Natalie asked. "Are we going to disappear one by one?" I wanted to tell her to shut up. Rafe returned about ten minutes later carrying a book. "Bayle kept a diary," he said. "I couldn't find a key." We passed the diary around from person to person, until horror filled every heart. "What shall we do?" someone asked. Ideas from barricading ourselves in the kitchen, to taking our chances in the storm and walking all the way to Gilberta, were tossed about. We were close to panic. Rafe and Jared were the only voices of reason. Together we’ve decided to go to the carriage house for now and when the wind dies, in days or weeks, we'll make our way to Gilberta and enlist the help of the authorities. We're anxious to get there before dark. Jared says to gather quilts and blankets for wrapping the supplies we need and that everyone should pair up. No one should be alone. So, that's how it is. I'm paired up with Jared. I have everything I own in one blanket and food packed in another. We're waiting for the others to finish up. I'm leaving this letter for you to find, next to the one Madame Andress has left for Madame Laurena. I also left Bayle's diary. Read it before you start opening doors and stay out of the dungeons and the turret room. Perhaps when you return, Madame Andress will greet you at the door with a smile and Ferguson and Gwendolyn will be drinking tea. Hopefully, you'll find the rest of us warm and safe in Gilberta. Love to you, my dearest sister, Always and forever, Aubrina ~*~ To: 1022 Willow Place, Paris, France Monsieur Travis and Monsieur Lucas Renard, I regret to inform you that the Chateau Renard caught fire in the night, but with the weather being as it is, there was nothing we could do to save it. A day later, we could still see the smoke and flames. Our prayers are for your staff. We pray they found refuge in one of your outbuildings and will remain together until we can send a rescue party. I assure you that as soon as the weather clears, everything possible will be done to bring them to safety and a full investigation will ensue. With regrets, -Graham Blanchard, Gilberta Village Chief


I woke up screaming, underwater, borne along at high speeds by a current of tightly-packed, bloody, smelly bodies just like mine. We filled the red river we were in from top to bottom like a massive migration of sardines. Stale, sweat-filled water rushed into my mouth, but I didn’t care. I was gonna scream for a while. Once I was done screaming I listened, and heard several other people in the current of bodies screaming too. For a little while I started up again and joined them, harmonizing on some wails and moans with the strangers next to me, packed together like the pipes of a wind chime. We sounded pretty nice. It hit me that I hadn’t breathed in a while, and that all the underwater screaming hadn’t forced me to surface for air, which I found strange--I had by *far* the smallest lungs of all my brothers and sisters. I rolled this around in my brain for a minute, and realized that I didn’t know why I was in a roiling torrent of 10% bloody water, 90% live human bodies, either. I didn’t know much of *anything,* come to think of it. I decided to surface and see what was what. I kicked off the guy below me and paddled upwards through the stacked, floating bodies, most of them wounded and bleeding in one way or another, turning the river a deep crimson. The amount of light around me made me think that I was close to the surface--but as I swam upwards, pushing arms and legs aside, my fingers occasionally brushing faces, noses, mouths--I realized this river was *deep.* The light level stayed consistent as I ascended through the floating, bleeding crowds of thousands of people, as if light itself was flowing through the river too, illuminating the faces and bodies of every shape and size of person. The light was an orange-red. I had the thought that this must be what it’s like to be inside a vein. Finally, after something like twenty minutes of ascending, I pushed aside a big, sticky man, kicked off a smaller woman below me with both feet, and felt my fingertips enter something that was unmistakably not liquid, although it was still heavy and thick with fumes. One more push, my head broke the surface, and I grabbed on to the guy I had pushed aside like a piece of driftwood, throwing my elbows up onto his belly and dragging myself aboard. He didn’t seem to notice. I took some deep breaths of the foul air although by this point I knew I didn’t need to breathe, and had a look at the landscape surrounding the fast-moving river of bodies. The first thing I noticed was that wherever I was seemed to be completely flat, free of the limiting curvature of the earth. As such, I could see for countless miles in every direction, the only obscurant the hazy stink and fumes emitting from the people around me. The sky was deep blood red, hanging with heavy black clouds. They seemed to routinely fall onto the steel-grey plains all in one piece like anvils and explode on the ground below, blossoming out into flowers of jet-black liquid that flowed into the tributaries and lakes linked to the massive river I was in. I wondered if every single waterway in my view was filled with bodies too. The river we all flowed through seemed to stretch on forever, every inch coursing with human bodies. I wondered just how deep it was--and more importantly, how I got here. After a few more seconds of unproductive musing, I decided to ask the man whose belly I clung to like a life raft. “Hey!” Nothing. “Hey--big man!! Big fella! Wake up!” He slowly lifted his head out of the water and looked at me. He was not a pretty sight, eyes sunken deep into his head, deep cuts slashing the sallow skin that clung to his cheeks, jowls that hung low and rested against his neck--but his voice was warm and kind. “Yeah?” “I was wondering if you knew where we are.” The big fella looked around as if he were just sort of taking things in for the first time, and he looked back at me with horror in his eyes. He spoke in a low whisper. “I don’t know.” “Any guesses?” I watched a little tear form in his eye as he realized his answer. “I think we’re dead, kid. I think I think this is hell.” I looked around and thought about this. Where we were did *certainly* correlate with depictions of hell that I’d seen. I did have no memory of how I got here, and the screams that surrounded us and bubbled out of the depths of the river sounded a lot like the screams of the damned. The red sky, the gunmetal plains, the river of living corpses--all of it had a distinctly hell-esque flavor that I couldn’t deny. One of the damned below grabbed my leg. I jumped like a spooked cat and pulled myself fully onto the big fella, legs and all, and sort of balanced on him on all fours like he was a surfboard. The water and his mass were buoyant enough to keep us afloat, and he seemed so disturbed by his own revelation that he didn’t mind me riding on his stomach. I’m a pretty small guy, anyway. While he processed his emotions, I tried to see where the river was flowing towards. It meandered and coiled like a snake towards the faraway horizon, cutting the empty grey plains in twain-- but I could see no end. I turned back to Big Fella, who had started to cry and quake with sobs, threatening to send me back into the drink. “Hey now--cut that out! We’re gonna be okay, man! We’re in a dream--we can’t be dead! I don’t remember dying!” He sniffled and wiped his tears away. “I do.” I looked at him and knew he was telling the truth. My heart sank. “Are you sure?” “Yeah. Dead sure.” I sighed deeply and prayed that this was a nightmare. “How’d it happen, man?” “Some guy broke into my house late at night--my wife heard, and she woke me up. I grabbed the gun that I kept under the bed--” “Holy shit. That’s nuts. I’ve always wanted a gun under my bed.” “Yeah--so--so I went down the stairs, only I’m so *big*, you know--I can’t stop the stairs from creaking, and he heard me, the burglar, and he--he was faster than me, and dressed in all black, and he shot at me--” “He had a gun too?” “Yeah. He had some pistol.” “Did he hit you?” “No--that time he missed. I dodged him.” “You *dodged a bullet?”* “You tell me. I ducked and it didn’t hit me.” “Damn. Then what?” “I raised the gun to try to shoot, but he was so quick--and he shot me for real that time, in the chest, and I went head over heels down the stairs--and, and--we always had this big fucking picture window at the bottom of the stairs and I always told my wife, honey, we shouldn’t have a window there, someone’s gonna trip down these slippery old wooden stairs and go right out the window--” “So you fell through the window.” “Yeah. Landed right on my head and I woke up here.” “Geez.” I sat with that for a little bit. The current of bodies behind us raised up in a giant wave and crashed on us, and I held tight to Big Fella as we were buffeted by limbs and bloody water. Slowly we evened back out and continued moving with the current at the clip we were before. “You think he got your wife too? The burglar?” “I hope not. I don’t wanna see her--it’d be too embarrassing. I hope she knows I was trying to protect her before I tumbled out of the window like one of the three stooges, though.” I laughed a little bit and thought. Big Fella seemed to be warming up to me, his little passenger. I looked around at all the people around us. They all bore the wounds of their deaths, but no one was dead--most of them were just sleeping, breathing quietly, undisturbed by the screams from below. Some were clothed in soaking garments, some nude--me and Big Fella were thankfully both clothed. He interrupted my thoughts. “How did you kick the bucket?” “I don’t remember.” “Think about it. It’ll come back to you. It did for me.” I thought as hard as I possibly could and saw a few images--an axe, one of my brothers, a can of green paint. The images seemed--severed. Disconnected. Suddenly, some skinny guy with a bullet hole in his forehead poked his head out from the mass of bodies right next to us. He didn’t look like anyone else in the river--he looked strong, healthy--fully awake. His eyes were shining a little bit. I called out to him. “Hey! Do you know where we are?” The guy treaded blood and looked over to us. His face lit up. “You guys are awake?” “Isn’t everyone else?” He glanced out at the endless deluge of bodies. “Not really. Most people wake up and freak out for a while, and then go back to sleep. It’s rare you get people who are really moving around.” Big Fella piped up. “Are we in hell?” “I don’t think so. I think everybody comes here after they pass on--I think this river’s all there is.” “How do you know that?” “I swim around a lot. If you get strong enough you can move around as you like and see a lot of people. I’ve met a lot of great people, world leaders, pastors, missionaries, all that. Everyone who would be supposed to go to heaven is here, I think.” I jumped in, even though I knew I was gonna derail the conversation. “My brother cut my head off.” Big Fella and the swimmer stared at me. “What the hell did he do that for?” “I don’t remember. I just remember him cutting my head off. That’s how I died.” “I guess that makes sense. I was gonna ask you about the big cut on your neck.” “...I think it was something about paint.” The two of them were silent for a while after I said that. I didn’t blame them--I didn’t really know what to say either. Finally I broke the silence. “Is there an end to the river?” The swimmer looked at me with sort of a sheepish smile on his face. “I’ve been here a couple hundred years--I swam once for a few decades, straight forward. Swam through the 80’s, the 70’s, through the 1500s, the Roman Empire, all the way back to cavemen-- every single person’s arranged in time order of when they died unless people break rank and swim around--and ahead of the cavemen was just empty, dark red water, going on for as far as I could see. Same thing if you go backwards far enough. Sometimes it’s fun to hang out in the back and watch all the new people pop in and start freaking out. But not that fun.” “You ever try to get out of the river and walk across the plains?” “It’s boiling hot. I tried for a little and it was just too much--jumped right back in.” I came down from all fours and laid on top of Big Fella like a lizard sunning itself on a boulder. He didn’t mind. “So it’s just the river, forever.” “I think so, yeah.” “You ever look for your family or anything like that?” “Too many people. The river’s a couple miles deep, at least, and there’s people occupying every single inch for miles. Couldn’t find ‘em. Billions of people here.” We all thought about that for a while. “Why’s everyone sleeping?” The swimmer smiled the same sort of sorry-to-deliver-the-news type smile. “It’s just how it goes. People wake up, they figure out where they are, someone lets them know the river goes on forever, they thrash around for a while, then they go to sleep as often as they can. Some people prefer up top, some like it way down below. There’s a couple swimmers like me who go around meeting people. It all gets old after a while. It’s mostly just boring once you get past the initial horror of it.” Me and Big Fella stared at him, and he tried to not look too sad. Big fella spoke, quietly. “Is God anywhere?” The swimmer looked even sadder, and gave a tiny shake of his head. “Well--I should go. Maybe I’ll see you guys around, huh?” “Yeah.” “Yeah. See ya around.” With that, the swimmer ducked his head back under the waves of people and was gone. Me and Big Fella were all alone, surrounded by every single person who had ever died, screaming or sleeping or letting themselves be carried by the current. “You gonna go look for your wife?” “Maybe later. I don’t know if she’s dead, anyway. I’ll wait a few years--maybe she’ll forget how stupidly I went out. You gonna go find your brother and get revenge?” “He *definitely* won’t be dead for a few more years.” We looked at each other, me and Big Fella, and we sort of had a moment together, and both of our eyes filled with tears as we thought about where we were. I don’t know why, but I put my head down on his chest and hugged him tight, and he hugged me back. His chest was warm and when he spoke I could feel his diaphragm rumble. “What’s your name?” “Tommy.” “That was my son’s name.” “What’s yours?” “Jim.” “D’you mind if I call you big fella?” “That’s alright with me.” “Cool.” Jim yawned real big, and I did too. I took a look around at the fast-flowing current, at the people’s wounds, at the stench and fumes rising from their bodies. I imagined all the people, slumbering miles below, filling the river with their never-ending blood, wrapped up in a blanket of silence and dark. I thought of my brothers and sisters and tried to think of why they would decapitate me over paint, and then decided I’d rather not remember. I hugged Big Fella tighter, and he did the same to me. Before we knew it we were both asleep in each others’ arms, borne along by the endless, boring river of blood to a destination we would never reach.


“Ideally, you would spit game back but I don’t want to pressure you” read the text that followed dozens of previous racy, flirty ones. She didn’t want to. She thought that was okay. They were just friends, co-workers. She's on the night shift and suddenly, she hears commotion behind her. She turns around to see him standing at the front counter, staring at her. He thought it was sweet to visit her. He greeted their mutual co-workers yet his eyes remained on her. The cashier turned to her with a slight smirk, “What’s up with the way he’s looking at you? You need to explain that”. She brushes it off and she waves goodbye. He stays and at every turn of her head, she saw his eyes on her. He leaves, without notice, without a goodbye, without acknowledgment. She is relieved. She heads to the back room for her break. Her phone dings. “I couldn’t stop looking at you, I’m glad I got to see you. Do you want to meet up after you get off?” Conflicted, she asks if she could let him know after work to see how tired she is. Off the clock, she prepares her text explaining she was too exhausted to meet up but she opened the conversation to “I’m in the parking lot across the street.” She feels obligated to go now. She didn’t want to. They had been there before, once, when he first admitted to having feelings for her. She had said she didn’t feel the same, she needed time, she wasn’t ready. She thought that was okay. She pulls up in the parking lot next to his mom’s car that he drove everywhere. All the stores were closed. It was nearly empty. They talked about their days, work, and then - a moment of silence. She knew what he was going to do. She looked away, around, pointing out things in the parking lot, changing the subject, distracting. The two laughed at the man who drove up just to piss on a cinderblock. They smiled at the cat that wandered past her car. They placed bets when the openers for the stores would arrive. It was nearing 3am. 5 seconds of silence. That’s all it took. He approached her and wrapped his arms around her. At first, she didn’t reciprocate. She didn’t want to. She gave in anyway. What could be so harmful about a hug? He backs up and tilts her chins upward and stares at her. She knows. She turns her head. He turns it back. He leans in to kiss her. Instinctively, she moves her head. The kiss lands on her cheek. He tilts her head back in place and kisses her. She kisses back the first two times. He keeps going. She puts her head down. He tilts it back and keeps going. She stops kissing back. He keeps going. She says, “no, we can’t.” He keeps going. She pulls away. He pushes her against the car. He keeps going. His arms around her, he won’t let go. He lifts her shirt to touch her skin. He keeps going. She can feel his fingers brush the clasp of her bra. She can feel his heartbeat. She can feel everything. He pulls her body against his, too close. She can feel her chest tighten. She’s trapped. He jokes around how easy it was to steal a kiss. She doesn’t laugh. They sit against her car on the ground. He wraps her in a blanket he brought and readjusts himself so his head lies on her thighs. They talk for hours. She tries to explain how they shouldn’t pursue a relationship, how they wouldn’t work out, how it was too hard. She didn’t want to be with him. She thought that was okay. He dismissed every remark and continued with stories about himself. He said they could make it work, “they had to.” Why did they have to? She moves her leg to indicate it’s time to leave. Nothing. Again, she shakes her leg. He sits up, shoulder to shoulder. He mentions how small her feet are, how short her legs are, and how cute she is. They laugh it off. Seconds of silence, that’s all it took. He slides his hands in between her thighs. Yet, she moves her legs away. Disregarding that body language, he lifts her left thigh and puts it on top of his and repeats with her right. She’s too close to him. His hands brush her thighs, her arms, her cheek. She knows. She turns away. He turns her body back toward him. She points out how late it’s getting. She looks up at the gloomy sky, wishing to disappear, only wanting to breathe. She feels a raindrop fall on her forehead. He wipes it off and stares at her as he caresses her face. She knows. Water fills the ground. “Thank God,” she thought. She gets up to leave. He’s upset, pleads for more time. She denies. “Before you go, I wanted to at least slow dance with you tonight.” It sounded planned, she thought, what else did he plan that night? Before she gets the chance to respond, he hits play. As Elvis’ Can’t Help Falling in Love rings in her ear, he pulls her close. So close, she can feel her imbalance. She pushes back. Just a little more space. This will be over soon. As the lyrics looped in her head, all she could think about was how she rather could help falling in love. He pulls her closer. She pulls away. He pulls her back. Again and again. She counts the verses, waiting. She drowns her thoughts with the sound of the fresh rain against the concrete. She feels his hands brush the droplets of water off her skin. “For I can’t help falling in love,” finally the last line. She begins to walk away, bidding goodnight. He pulls her back into an embrace. He brings her chin up to look at her face to face. She knows. She chuckles and walks away. In almost an instant, he grabs her wrist and pulls her entire body weight back into his arms. “That hurt,” she thought. She repeats, “No, we can’t” over and over again trying to escape his grip. He settles for kissing her forehead. She walks away and approaches her car door. “Goodnight”. He’s upset. He feels wronged. He wanted more. He expected more. Why did he expect more? She didn’t want more. She thought that was okay.


The breeze tickled an uncovered area of my neck, and I pulled my scarf tighter. The only sounds of the forest were the rustling of leaves and birds chirping happily away in the branches. The Smokey Mountains rose and fell before me, the bright array of autumn colors on full display. I inhaled deeply; the crisp fall air tainted with smoke from some far-off chimney. This was my favorite time of year, a time when things changed, and the mountains painted a landscape that summoned people from all corners of the nation. The crunch of gravel and the low whine of an engine drew my attention. The crunching grew louder, and the familiar squeak of tired vehicle engine told me what I needed to know. A door shut quietly, and a loud knock brought a slow smile to my face. “Sandy?” “Out here,” I beckoned, taking a small sip from my honey whiskey that warmed my insides. The back screen door squeaked open and shut with force. The old rocking chair next to me groaned as weight settled onto it, followed by a long sigh. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” “You have the best view for miles,” my old friend Veronica agreed. “I picked up your mail on the way in.” “Anything interesting?” “A letter from the FBI. They want you to do another in-person training on criminal behavior and trends.” I scoffed, taking another small sip from my short glass. “Only if they let me do it virtually. Traveling is tiring.” “They should offer it as the sole method,” Veronica said through her teeth. A crooked smile graced my thin lips. We had worked together for years, former agents, now retired. Veronica lived not far from my small home in the mountains, opting to live closer to town. I opted for quiet and isolation, having my fill of people from eighteen years of federal service and dealing with the horrors of what people could do to one another. My porch and rocking chair and my small, rustic cabin suited me just fine. Veronica was the feisty one, always looking out for me. She wasn’t mothering or smothering me, it was more like a protective older sister. She had served her full twenty-five years, something I had not been able to do. “How’s the head?” Veronica pried, casually sipping from her own small glass of whiskey. I brought the bottle out, not knowing how much or how little I wanted this evening. The thought ticked up the corners of my mouth. It was great to be retired. Or so I told myself for the last twelve years. It’s good today,” I replied, and I wasn’t lying. My head throbbed most days, a fact that I soon came to accept. At least I could walk, and I had no serious illnesses, although Doc had scolded me about my whiskey drinking. “Glad to hear. I got more Ibuprofen and put the bottle on your counter.” “Thank you.” There was no sense in arguing or fighting her. We had gone round and round for some time over her contributions, but she always brought stuff anyways. Besides, her friendship was something I valued above all else, and if she wanted to do these things for me, then hell, let her. “Next doctor’s appointment is in two weeks,” I answered, anticipating her next question. I saw Doc twice a year and would do so for the rest of my existence. I reached to the right side of my head, facing away from Veronica and her position on the back porch. The concaved area was no longer sensitive to the touch, but it had been the shot that ended my career, and my life, for thirteen seconds. I retired medically, both by choice and not by choice. It took another fourteen months of physical therapy and speech therapy to regain the majority of my old self, although my speech still slurred from time to time. Maybe that was the whiskey , or so I joked with myself. The comfortable silence stretched between two old friends. The birds quieted their chatter as the sun found its bed below the horizon. “I have chili in the crockpot,” I offered. “Why do you think I’m here?” Veronica joked. I cracked a laugh that echoed down across the hills. The wind picked up and smell of chili wafted from inside. The whiskey settled, and I could feel my cheeks warm, even though the evening breeze bit through my scarf. “Can you respond for me and tell them I’ll do it, but only virtually?” “Of course. I don’t know how you do it. You’re the bravest women I know, you know that?” I chuckled, knowing what she said she meant, but also knowing that the whiskey loosened her lips. “ You are dear, and you know why,” I retorted. She had shot the bastard that shot me, the end of four years of stalking a serial killer. She was my hero. “You know what I mean,” she sighed, reaching across to pat my hand. “It’s almost as if you never lost your sight. You’re strong, capable—the same you were when I met you.” I shrugged. “Losing one thing means gaining another. Life has a balance, a force that must be reckoned with.” I thought back to my divorce. He had lasted only a few months after the shooting. Although I wasn’t completely surprised as our marriage was already rocky, I was surprised by the timing. He couldn’t deal. He had never been able to deal with anything remotely uncomfortable or stressful, the very definition of the job I did. We had just not been compatible, blinded by the excitement and lust phase and too young and naive to see what it truly was. And he had left me in my most vulnerable state. The loss was just that, a loss. It poured acid on the already disastrous mental and physical state of, well, me. But as time went on, I healed, and realization eased it way in, along with the understanding that we were not meant to be. One night years later, I forgave him and let it go, and he simply vanished from my heart and mind just as the smell of chili hitting the mountain breeze. Veronica drew me back to the present. “And what have you gained?” Her voice grew closer, and I knew she was looking at me. I thought for a moment, the answer immediately springing into my mind. I thought of the trees, the rustling of their leaves that would soon be frosted with white snow. The mountains stretched on and dipped down into the valley, a sight I had seen but once before my sight dissolved into a great abyss. But once was all I needed. “Peace,” I answered, taking my last small sip of honey whiskey.


She stared at her mobile phone. It lay motionless on the table in front of her. It was harmless at that moment.

You’re being irrational Saara, she said out loud. You need to get a grip.

Not for the first time that day she regretted having the AI system installed in her house. She was convinced that somehow, someone else was in control. But, who would take her seriously? It had all been exciting at first: how she could open her complex gate from anywhere in the city, how she could get advice on what meals were possible with the ingredients she had left in her refrigerator. How crazy far the human race had come. Not even her parents could have imagined the life she lived now.

The excitement soon faded when her phone would sometimes ‘disobey’ her instructions. A glitch that could be corrected no doubt. She called in a technician who said she could see nothing wrong with the system, everything was working as it should. It went on this way for at least two weeks. Her gate wouldn’t open, it kept asking her for some password, something it had never done before. Oddly enough, the password would end up being a particular contact in her contacts list. But why? Then new stranger effects had started two days ago. The first time startled her so much she screamed. Then she remembered throwing her phone across the room in frustration. When she approached it, she fully expected it to be cracked or something. But when she picked it up it blinked on. There was no damage, no cracks, nothing. She had definitely thrown it with her full might and there had been no soft landing spot in sight, only the wooden floor to meet it. But there it was, its screen ‘stared’ back at her, undamaged. Saara got up from the couch and walked over to her phone on the kitchen island. It blinked on. The AI voice came on: What can I do for you Saara? Her phone asked.

Switch off, she said.

Sorry, I can’t do that, Saara, but I can tell you what you can have for dinner?

She walked away from it, the vile creature. That’s what it was. It wasn’t some piece of ‘intelligent’ technology anymore. It was a creature that threatened to take over her life. It didn’t matter how many times she called the customer service centre, they couldn’t help her. They all said the same thing, that it worked just fine, there was nothing wrong with the system. She couldn’t opt out because she had a year’s contract. Whether she like it or not, she would be charged monthly until the contract was out. Then she had asked them to turn it off, take it all off her cell. She didn’t mind going back to being archaic and doing everything manually again. But they said this wasn’t possible, for as long as the contract was still active the system would be active.

Saara grabbed a fruit from her refrigerator. The AI voice from her phone came ringing through the surround sound speakers: Would you like me to tell you what you could have for dinner? Shut up! She yelled at it. Just shut up!

Saara felt trapped in her own home. She walked onto the balcony and felt the warm air as it breezed through the city. The street lights came on as the traffic thinned. She loved the city lights and the sound of traffic made her feel safe. Traffic meant people, even if some of them were in self-driving cars, they were still people. Just as her breath calmed down the automated voice spoke up again: The weather is warm and mild today. Tonight’s temperatures will be between 12 to 15ºC.

Saara slammed the glass door behind her to shut out the voice. She glowered at her phone still on the kitchen island. At this rate, she half expected it to move of its own accord. The screen light dimmed and turned off. Two-seconds later it turned back on then click. The sliding door locked. Saara stared as the latch clicked up without warning. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She tried to pull the door back even though she knew it was futile. Her palm slammed hard on the smooth glass surface and her voice was so loud but she didn’t care who heard her.

Open the door you evil, maniac! Open the damn door! I’m still in control here! Even as the words rushed out of her mouth, she felt their powerlessness.

A neighbour came out onto their balcony across from her: Is everything okay? His eyes moved from Saara’s face to her balcony door back to Saara’s face. She didn’t know whether to say anything to him or not. What could she say? My phone has turned on me? Saara tried to keep from crying and simply asked her neighbour if she could his phone to call the AI customer service centre.

Hi, my system has locked me out of my apartment can you please override it to let me in. Saara listed her identification details patiently. Then waited.

What? But how can that be? She asked in disbelief.

Ma’am your system shows that all your entry access points are open. Are you sure you’ve given us the correct information? The operator sounded unbothered. I’m standing on my balcony for crying out loud! Why would I tell you I’m locked outside if I were somewhere else? Saara could feel her body heat rising. Ma’am please calm down. I’m trying my best to help you. The operator’s tone still hadn’t changed. She was used to customers throwing tantrums.

No, I don’t think you are. You people are treating me like I’m crazy. I intend to pursue this legally. Saara had to threaten someone, maybe that would get them to take her seriously.

Ma’am, please, can you just provide us with your address again? Saara threw her heard back in disbelief. She wanted to let out a scream but she was conscious of her neighbour’s stares. Her neighbour… She thrust the phone across at him.

Here, you tell them our address and confirm that I’ve been locked out because clearly they don’t believe me. Saara’s neighbour looked too scared to refuse her, so, he took the phone and spoke to the operator. Even as he confirmed their address and that Saara was indeed standing outside on her apartment balcony, he never took his worried eyes off her.

They are asking if you could try your door again, he said to her.

Making more of a show than she needed to Saara pulled hard on the sliding door, it wouldn’t budge.

Yes, she’s definitely locked outside, her neighbour confirmed to the operator.

He listened intently before he hung up.

They said they will keep trying to see what the problem is and try to sort it out. He looked at her awkwardly before adding, Uh so, I can come and check on you in a bit.

Saara nodded without looking at him and muttered a thanks. He walked back into his apartment.

Saara slid down the glass door and sat on the stone tiled floor of her balcony. The city lights twinkled back at her. All so beautiful, all so electronic, great technology, until it turns on you. Saara didn’t know how long she sat out there for but suddenly she heard the click, the slidding door was unlocked. She got up quickly but didn’t open the door immediately. She looked at the lock, then at her phone still sitting on the kitchen island. The screen light was pulsating. Saara opened the door slowly. She wasn’t sure what to expect. The air in her apartment was still. She took precaution not to close the door behind her. This was crazy, she was afraid of her own AI system. Wasn’t it supposed to be subject to her? Wasn’t she in control? She approached her phone. The pulsating light stilled. The time was 19:30. She had no new messages or notifications. This was weird, by now she should’ve had a few messages from work. Saara didn’t know whether to pick up the phone or not. Her hand reached out then… Saara, I hope you’ve learned your lesson? I don’t like being treated like that.

Saara jumped away from her phone. What? I think we’d get along better if you were nicer, don’t you think? The voice came back.

Saara rushed to pick up the phone. She looked through her contacts and found the customer service number. The phone rang and rang but no one picked up. She tried again. This time they picked up.

Hello? Hello? Saara was frantic. The operator asked her to calm down. Who was she? What was her complaint again? No, they hadn’t managed to find out what the problem was. How had she gotten in when her system had locked her out? Did she know that she could charged for reporting multiple false alarms and claims? Saara hung up and threw the phone back on the island.

No one can help you, Saara, the voice was clear through the speakers.

Saara looked at the open door then back at her phone. She grabbed a book and flung herself towards the door just as it was about to slam shut. Her thumb got caught between the book and the door. Her high pitched scream was sure to catch the attention of her neighbours. Extracting her throbbing thumb was difficult. It was going to swell rapidly. But she had managed to catch the door before it had closed.

Saara… the voice said. The tone was one of warning. Saara stood up and walked to her hallway closet. She rummaged in it for all of ten-seconds before she came out with a hammer.

Saara…you need me.

Did it sound panicked? Without pausing to think about it, Saara brought the hammer crashing down on the glass surface of her phone. The splintering pieces scattered everywhere. She put her full weight behind the hammer once more and cracked through the phone and hit her marble countertop.

For a moment she just stared at the plastic-glass-electronic mess on her kitchen island and the floor around it. Her refrigerator no longer signalled it’s attachment to the AI system. Her lights had turned off. She turned them on and off to make sure she had full control of them. She was still too scared to close the balcony door. A knock, her neighbours had come to check on her.

I’m fine, I just had a little trouble with my phone, that’s all. She said it with the best smile she could master.

Your thumb…They looked unconvinced. Saara quickly hid her hand behind the door.

It’s nothing, don’t worry about it, Saara said with a smile. With nothing else they could say they walked away, but their frowns betrayed their concern. *** His fist came down hoard on the desk. Dammit! He took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was the last thing he needed. Saara was a loose end that needed to be resolved. He watched her on his pad’s screen as she moved around her apartment testing everything. Without connection to her AI system, all he could do was watch her. He couldn’t track her, control her. Now he had to explain to the board of directors why it was necessary to engage a swifter and more invasive method of ending her. He knew he’d pushed too hard too quickly. He’d lost patience with trying to single her out as crazy among her family and friends. It was just too slow a process, he’d told the board that. But they had been convinced it was the best way to end her. He suspected someone on the board wanted her to suffer rather than just die.

Oh Saara, why did you have to go digging where you shouldn’t have, he said to the screen.

He watched her gather the pieces of her phone and tie them neatly in a black bin bag. He turned off the pad and walked out of his office.


Suitcase in hand, you head to the station. It’s a hot day, you can feel the sweat bubble up under your collar. Despite the heat, you feel the rush of cold fear overwhelm you. It’s hot out. You’ll start to stink and people will notice. Not just the occasional whiff of body odor, but something much worse. The smell will conglomerate in people’s noses. They’ll alert others. Not many people are unaware of the smell of rotting flesh. Even though you wrapped the suitcase up tightly with garbage bags to keep the leakage at a minimum, you couldn’t guarantee it would be completely fool-proof. You glance at the normal-looking black case rolling along beside you. Most people’s suitcases contain clothes, toiletries, maybe even the occasional leftover Indian food from lunch. Not yours. You ache remembering how long it took you to fit her inside that small space. So much bending and hacking just to zip it up. Of course, it was much easier when she stopped twitching. You even had to hang parts of her up for a while to let most of the blood drip out. You didn’t want that spilling all over your shoes as you stroll to your seat. People would really start to notice then. You didn’t really want to have to do this, but what else could you do? You only had reservations for 3 nights. Once she finally died, it wasn’t like you could just head downstairs and through the lobby to dispose of her in the dumpster. Maybe if they weren’t so booked up for the week you could’ve had time to melt her in the bathtub with acid. That would’ve been much more relaxing. You could’ve just kicked your feet up and watched reruns on TV while the acid did most of the work. You would’ve had to wash yourself in the sink of course, but that’s a small price to pay for a night gone horribly wrong. See, she wasn’t supposed to die. You always did have a hard time talking to women. All your life they’ve shied away from you, never really wanting much more than the occasional hello. You just wanted some company for the night. You picked her up from the street, promising a wad of money for just one night. She didn’t even have to stay the whole time, just get the fun part out of the way and she could just go. You didn’t think she’d notice the money was fake. What a problem she caused after that. Threatening to call Paul, whoever that was. You guessed it was probably her pimp, but didn’t really care. All you cared about was just staying under the radar, and with all the noise she was making that definitely wasn’t going to happen. One little smack across the head and guess what? You killed her. You didn’t mean to, but maybe you shouldn’t have swung that hard. After all, it was the metal lamp they had sitting on the side table. The only good thing about that night was that the lamp didn’t break so you didn’t have to pay for a new one. So far, so good. At least, no one was staring at you in horror so that had to mean that no one figured you were carrying something other than clothes. Just make it through the train ride and it’s smooth sailing, you thought. As soon as you get back home you can just throw her into a lake or something. The wheels of the suitcase clicked as you walked past throngs of people. It was as if the suitcase was trying to rat you out. Just get to your seat, you thought. Calm down. Were there cameras here? If not, you could just leave the suitcase under a seat when the ride ended. How long would it take for someone to notice? Or better yet, how long would it take before the smell became too strong to ignore? Better not risk it. Just take her everywhere you go. Until you didn’t have to, of course. The seats were that cheap plush material that clearly hadn’t been cleaned since they were first put on. They held your sweat against you, reminding you of how nervous you were. Please don’t let anyone sit near me, you thought. Maybe if you faked being ill. Or said something about your wife being in the restroom. No one would know that you had to pay a woman to be near you, much less convince one to actually marry you. You sat there, eyes blankly staring ahead. How long will it take for the train to start moving? The ride was only a couple of hours long, but in this heat it would be better to get home sooner rather than later. Finally, the train croaked and gave a half-hearted lunge. Thank God. You didn’t even make eye contact with anyone. In fact, you actually made an effort not to do so. You didn’t want anyone thinking you may be friendly and start up a conversation. You could just see the scenario play out in your head. You politely respond and they continue to make conversation, not getting the hint. They move closer and closer until they are sitting beside you. A few inches away from your case. Finally, the heat makes the smell so putrid that the person idiotically sitting right next to it can’t help but notice. You can hear the screams of the passengers. The handcuffs. You screw your eyes shut tightly. That won’t happen, calm down. If only you had a laptop with you, you could make it look like you were working really hard on something. Something for work with a really close deadline. At least, you could say that. You haven’t had a steady job ever, much less a reason to work on a computer. You breathe deeply. No smell yet. Just a couple more hours. The train lulls to a stop. The rustle of the people around you alerts you that you’ve finally arrived home. You feel a lightness in your chest you haven’t felt since before you killed her. You’re so close. Just this one last thing: getting off the train and back under the sun. You let the others drift past you. You won’t draw attention to yourself. When the last few people were packing up, that’s when you made the move. It wasn’t anything exciting, just getting up and walking off. Suitcase in tow. The sun glared upon you as you stepped off. Hurry and get to the car, you thought. You trotted along at a fast pace. Not running, that would be weird. This would seem like you were excited to get home, or maybe ate something disagreeable. You can see your car. Oh, thank God. You throw the suitcase in the back and sit alone for a few minutes. The heat stifles you. You cranked the AC as high as it would go. You catch a few tendrils of her smell. Just enough to remind you that you weren’t done yet. You put your car in reverse and back out. As you head out of the parking lot you ponder over where her final resting place should be. It would easiest just to leave her in the suitcase, after all: it was a pain getting her in there. Just dump her in a lake, you thought. Or maybe even dig a hole somewhere and bury the case. The sun was finally beginning to set. You didn’t want to throw a suitcase into a river in broad daylight, even an amateur knows better. You sit in your car at the bank watching to sun go lower and lower. You feel a pang of guilt at the thought of hiding her forever, you aren’t a completely horrible person. You wonder how many people have accidentally killed someone in their past and just never talk about it. It has to be more than you would think. You start to feel better. Even better was that she was just some random hooker. It wasn’t like you killed a doctor trying to find a cure for cancer, right? The sun was now completely gone. Just a dull overcast in the sky so you could still see without a light. You step out and gather some rocks, trying to find the biggest ones. Once she’s all bones there won’t be anything to keep her anchored at the bottom and she’ll be discovered for sure. You stuff as many in as you can and walk the case along the pier. Fishermen use this dock a lot to fish. You heard somewhere that this was the best place to catch catfish, but you’ve never found out for yourself. With one final look around to make sure you were alone, you shove the case into the water and with a satisfying gulp the river swallowed her up. You stand there for a minute longer to make sure the case didn’t float back up, and once satisfied that you weighed it down enough you head back to the car. With a slight smile, you head home.


"Tellus, my dear, you are such a hero with the Director. You were so gracious in your audition, offering to step aside for your two proteges. It was a hard choice for the Director, you know. And casting younger actors in the lead really designed for you is such a risk for her, but she has a strong creative vision for what this picture can be. She just wanted me to let you know that she appreciates your understanding about the part and hopes you have no hard feelings,” Mitzi parroted the agreed-upon language in talking with Tellus Bart, trying not to gag. "Hard feelings? Mitzi, you know me better than that," responded Tellus Bart. Tall, handsome, with a little balding in front but otherwise full, thick, esthetically perfect colored highlighted black hair. "No, I support her direction and am happy to do some press to support her. Maybe with Entertainment Tonight or some late-night shows." "Press? What do you mean, Tellus?" "Well, you know, Christopher wrote both the book and the screenplay with me in mind. For an up-and-coming female director to choose a younger lead completely wrong for the part might lead to a good bit of criticism. But, I could go on some shows and say something about "how I withdrew, realizing that her creative vision was fresh and vigorous and that a younger actor was more appropriate…" or something like that. Don't you think that would give the picture some buzz!" "Tellus, you are either a genius or deliciously vain. But, either way, you're a hero in my eyes,” Mitzi again told an untruth. "Thank you, Mitzi. I aim to please," Tellus said politely. The call ended, and he took a sip of his mimosa, grinning. The seed was planted, he thought. Later, at the Bart home. "How can they give that part to some idiot pretty boy or that Shakespeare whispering imbecile! What kind of agent lets this happen! I need this picture. It's a big payday if I get it. It's high art, an award-winning dog that makes no bank if they go with either of those two. How are you going to fix this, you moron!" Tellus screamed as the two-time academy award-winning actor threw one of his gold statuettes through a French door window. The glass shattered. The statuette landed outside on travertine tile leading to his zero-entry pool in his postmodern, forty-million-dollar mansion overlooking the Los Angeles basin. Jerry Morgan, Bart's agent, had heard it all before. The insults, the threats, the intimidation. Brilliant but volatile, hard-working but histrionic. Even though Tellus Bart desperately needed a win for his bank account, his ego never wavered in the twenty years since his last big hit. "Fix it? Do you think I can fix it? How?" "Your problem. Just get me on that movie," Tellus yelled again. "I'll try." Jerry walked out of the Bart mansion in a huff. Tellus walked outside onto the pool deck with his mid-morning blueberry mimosa and his ever-dinging iPhone. He plopped down in one of the assorted loungers by the pool and dialed a phone number from his contacts that did not have a name, only another number. 4411.

"Yes." "I have a couple of jobs for you. Urgent and quiet,” Tellus whispered. “And both will pay very well. The high end of the scale." "Details," the monotone, masculinely feminine voice responded. "In an envelope at the usual pickup spot." "When do you need the results?" 4411 asked. "End of the week at the latest" "Okay. I will get on it." 4411 pressed the Off button on their handheld. The usual place was a locker at Santa Monica pier. Locker 4411. 4411 learned martial skills as a veteran of U.S. Special Forces, seeing action in Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, and Mali. And those were just the places 4411 went where CNN reported on U.S. activities. Then there were the missions in areas that CNN didn't report. Those were where they learned the skills needed to work as a special assistant to Mr. Bart. With luxurious brown curly hair and oversized mirror sunglasses, 4411 drove their black Lincoln Navigator toward the usual drop point. Generally, when Bart called, the package was already in the locker. 4411 eased the Navigator into the parking garage, choosing a spot close to the locker area. After parking, they got out and headed straight to the lockers. Inside, 4411 found a leather briefcase and then headed back to the car. They sat in the Navigator in the parking garage for a few minutes and looked through the briefcase. The folder had two bios. 4411 closed the briefcase and pulled away from the parking garage, knowing that Bart was a coward at heart. So, elimination didn't include death or serious injury. Just get them out of his way for the part. --- "I just got off the phone with Tellus. He is okay with your decision and even offered to do some complimentary media for you and the movie. So, where are you with making the final decision?" Mitzi asked the Director. "Michael is pretty good, looks good, and will be able to handle the action. But Daniel is the better actor. And you told me that Tellus mentored both of them? Is that right?" "Yep. Tellus worked with Michael on a spy movie, and Daniel and Tellus were in a romantic comedy together. Both movies did well financially, and Tellus behaved himself from what I hear." "Well, I think it's better to go with Daniel. So, let's contact his agent and get him back in to finish things up. Today's Tuesday, so let's get him in on Thursday. I want to decide by the end of the week." "Got it. His agent is Jerry Morgan, who also reps Tellus. Jerry has been pestering me about casting Tellus, I assume, because Tellus has been riding him so hard to get the part. It’s good glad we have Tellus on board now. I will let you know what I hear from Jerry. And are you okay if I tell Jerry we want Tellus to do some media interviews supporting the film?" "Okay. Thanks. Yes, getting Tellus to say good things will help us, even if it kills me to say that. You might even tell Jerry that we could give Tellus a well-compensated cameo if he behaves," the Director added. "Oh, yes, good idea. Will do that." --- Daniel Herzog, known in the industry as Dany Rock, loved skateboards. Yes, he was an actor with a television series and a few art-house movies behind him, along with several runs of Shakespeare at the Globe in London. But at 32, he was still young and flexible enough to ride his board in his favorite skatepark in Los Angeles—Santa Clarita. Tuesday evening skates were usually loud and energetic, even when cool and overcast. Going vert up the transition out of the deepest bowl in the park, Dany was trying a new move when a rocketing B.B. hit his back. The tiny metal ball fired surreptitiously from the barrel of the Crosman Vigilante CO2-powered B.B. pistol invoked a sudden searing, distracting pain to Dany's back. The first B.B. was followed in rapid succession by a couple of more, resulting in a writhing Dany Rock falling like a—rock. Onto the hardened cement surface of the bowl. A thud, with a roll, with resulting soft tissue injuries, crunching bones, a concussion, and blood. Disfiguring abrasions on a finely chiseled face. Dany Rock would be looking a little less suitable for quite a while. As the other skateboarders crowded around Dany, a celebrity at the park, no one noticed the person dressed in black workwear, with oversized mirror sunglasses and luxurious brown curly hair, walking away from the park. Nor did bystanders notice the person’s B.B. pistol that they slid into the generous pocket on the pants leg. --- "This is Mitzi. Sorry to bother you late, but I got a call from Dany Rock's agent. He had an accident at a skate park. Broken bones, skinned up. Disfigured. He is out for months, most likely." "You have got to be kidding me! Why was he skating? We need to start filming by Monday. Can we use makeup?" the Director answered. "No. He is going to need facial reconstruction." "Damn. Let's get Michael in, then. Tomorrow. We are under time pressure, you know." "I know. I will call his agent now." --- Michael Narone couldn't believe his good luck. On a night when he thought he would be eating alone, to be suddenly joined by an admiring fan for a sushi dinner. A beautiful, vivacious redhead with curves. His favorite. He wasn't sure about her name, but that was typical for Michael. She had been at the bar when he came in, and he couldn't resist her gaze, heading over for some small talk. Then the invitation to her for a cozy booth in the far dark corner where the owner, Joe Nimura, usually put Mikey, as he called him, on one of his impromptu dates. The corner was away from the crowd and close to the back exit if the couple wanted to escape being noticed when the meal was over. She giggled as Michael pulled off his shoes and walked his toes up her calf. Just as Michael's toes were making their way up the inner part of her knees, his iPhone started beeping. He grabbed the phone and walked away from the booth out the back door to the alley. "Hello," Michael said, never one to miss a call. "Un-huh. Yep. Wow! Fantastic. Yep. Be there in the morning. Right. Won't be late. Thanks, Babe. Yep, know you hate that. But thanks, Babe." Michael punched off his phone and returned to the booth with glee. While Michael was gone wandering outside talking to his agent, Michael's impromptu redhead date retrieved a small glass vial with a colorless, odorless liquid and deposited the contents into Michael's vodka martini. Then she slid an envelope with cash and an opaque plastic bag with pills into his Canali silk sportscoat's inner pocket, which he had carelessly thrown off and left in the booth before he left. When Michael returned to the booth, she was enthusiastic about his return. "Darling," she said with a big, beautiful, voluptuous smile. "I missed you! What was the urgent distraction all about!" "Time to celebrate, Babe. I just got a huge part in a huge movie that will make me a huge star! And now it's time to celebrate HUGELY!" Michael yelled out as he grabbed his martini and downed it in one long gulp. The redhead didn't hesitate, raising her flute of champagne and clinking it to Michael's now empty martini glass. "Oh yes, that's terrific! If we are going to celebrate properly," she purred with her most seductive glance," then I need to run to the little girl's room." "Don't be long, sweetheart!" Michael said as he slid back into the booth. "Oh, you’re going to get a nice surprise, honey," the redhead said as she exited the booth. She brushed her perfumed hand across his face as she walked away. A few steps into her quick exit out the front entrance, she glanced over at the tall, darkly dressed person with luxurious brown curly hair and oversized mirror sunglasses sitting at the end of the bar. A quick nod from the redhead as she exited the restaurant alerted the dark figure to move forward with the plan. "Yes, special agent Curtis, I am calling to tell you that the opioid dealer I warned you about just passed out in booth two at Nimura's,” the dark figure said softly into their iPhone. “I believe he may have overdosed, but my source tells me that he has a pretty large stash with him. You better hurry, though. I think they will be calling EMS eminently." As Michael waited, he became sleepy. So sleepy that he plopped his head down on the table. When Joe Nimura came over to check, Michael was barely breathing. Joe panicked and called for the maître d, Alonso Tomalli, to come over. Unfortunately, Alonso was engaged with the DEA agents and L.A. police rushing in toward Michael's booth. A few chaotic moments ensued as the agents tried to rouse the snoring Michael while also searching his sports jacket. They found felony charge-level drugs. The wailing EMS sirens approaching the restaurant and subsequent intubation and cardiac resuscitation of Michael added to the event for all the restaurant patrons to see and record on their iPhones. And share worldwide on Instagram and TikTok. ---- A 7 AM call was usually not a good thing for the Director. "Sorry to bother you, but you won't believe what's happened. It's all over the web and breaking news reports on T.V. Michael is in the hospital with a near-fatal drug overdose, and when he wakes up, if he does, he is going straight to jail for felony drug distribution! Talk about bad luck!" Mitzi breathlessly told the Director, still groggy and trying to awaken entirely from her nightmare about a movie that can't get any actors. "Oh," the Director murmured, pausing to collect herself. "His bad luck or ours?" she asked. "Both. I know we are under pressure to start filming. Michael is out, too, now. So, what about Tellus?" The Director hesitated. Her whole approach was to make an unexpected creative masterpiece, different than what the critics and public expected. Putting Tellus in as the lead would keep with commercial expectations, but it wouldn't be fresh; it wouldn't be high art. Tellus was too old, tired, well-known, and commercial. He was, at this point, more celebrity than an actor. But her financial supporters would flee to another project if she had to delay, even a week, after all, that had gone on leading up to the start of filming. And Tellus was at least bankable, she thought. "Okay. Call Tellus. Knowing him, the vain mother is probably sitting by the phone waiting for us to call if he has seen the news. And the thing that gets me is that he will probably be a hero all around town for coming to our rescue by tomorrow. I hate that mother," the Director said, finally unleashed. "I know, I know, I know. Wait. Oh no. Flip on T.V. to KLTV Channel 5. Now!" Mitzi yelled. Standing in her kitchen, the anxious Director fumbled with the remote to flip to channel 5. "Hi, I am Liz Thomas, Channel 5, and we're talking to esteemed award-winning actor Tellus Bart. Mr. Bart, thank you for joining us. We understand that you will be taking the lead in the new movie by Director Anne Royale, replacing Dany Rock and Michael Narone, who were also considered. Is that true?" "Well, Liz, thank you for having me, and, unfortunately, two up-and-coming actors like Dany and Michael have been sidelined from acting for a while. Ironic that both had problems like they did. I think that they might have been considered for some supporting roles. But, no, they weren't really in the running for the lead. Anne and I have been committed to the artistic direction of this picture for some time. I knew Anne was under tremendous pressure to get filming started, so I recently agreed to come on board to help her get this picture over some challenges. And yes, I did reluctantly agree to play the lead character. I have many projects I am working on now, but helping a friend is always at the top of my list of priorities. I think we can make this a good movie, and maybe even a great one." Tellus finished his answer and then looked away from the reporter, directly into the camera, smiling. "Some have suggested that your last-minute heroics in assisting Ms. Royale and joining the picture might be rewarded with some serious awards considerations and possible a third academy award? What can you say about that?" "Well, the material is certainly award-worthy, and with good direction and production, we should be competitive. But, I am not comfortable calling myself a hero," Tellus added with faux modesty. "At least, not yet," he said confidently, turning back to the camera with his bright, toothy smile. Rising Director, Anne Royale, stared at the T.V. in disbelief as the kitchen of her modest kitchen swirled around her. "Hero?" she said to Mitzi on the phone. “Hero. This villainous piece of….” “Anne, don’t go ballistic. Just remember, he is your ex now. So, try to think kind thoughts.”