Stanley hates days like today. Days in which he will perform his job, but will never remember why. He walks down the bright white corridor, passing nurses and lab techs, on his way to the control room. The building, a bunker to be more precise, is a stifling white monstrosity. Bright, clean, and polished tiles make up the floors. White concrete blocks, devoid of any life, line the walls. The ceiling is just one bright light extending down the entire length of the hall, leaving not an ounce of darkness. Anything the facility could make white, they did. For colors of any kind could disrupt its main function. Stanley finally makes it to the door marked four-zero-four, the main control and observation room for today. Technicians dressed in clean lab coats sit at various consoles, awaiting instructions. Stanley walks over to his command chair at the back of the room, where he will observe and conduct today’s procedure. It is to be a complete wipe today, one of the hardest to achieve, but Stanley and his team are experts. Years of performing procedures has hardened them, and all but turned everyone in the room into machines. They have one job, and they will get it right. There will be no miscalculations, no errors, and no memory afterwards. Opposite the room from Stanley is a large one-way mirror looking into a pure-white, circular room. Surrounding the edges of the room is an array of iron bars, painted white. In the center of the room sits a raised platform about five feet wide, and one foot off the ground. The floor of the room is concrete that has been painted white. After a few moments, a small door carved into the side of the circular wall slides open. A man dressed in a plain white t-shirt, with bleached pants and socks walks in. His head and face recently clean shaven, nails trimmed, and freshly bathed. He walks over and stands on the raised platform, glancing at the metal bars surrounding him. The door from which he came slowly slides shut. Stanley studies him for a moment, burning the image of the man firmly into his mind, as per protocol. Six foot even. Average weight. Appears to be in early to mid-twenties. Green eyes, skin with a light complexion. The man displays no sense of outward emotion as he stands in the center of the platform. Stanley looks down at the piece of paper resting on his station, confirming that this is the same person who requested this particular procedure. Most go for lesser options; memory alterations, cognitive restructuring, or any other of the different options provided to the public. In each case, you always have to make sure the subject inside matched, most especially for a full wipe. Mistakes are not an option, not for something like this. After ensuring that the man inside did indeed match everything on the form, Stanley presses a button on his console. The door in the inner-chamber seals, emitting the sound of hissing of air as the room is slowly pressurized. He motions for the technician at his right to begin her process. She begins to softly call out instructions to the other assembled members in the room, but they already know what to do. Methodically, the team presses buttons, pulls levers, and turns dials in an eerily precise manor. With the exception of the instructions being given, and actions being performed, not a sound is made. Within the chamber, the iron bars encircling the room begin to glow with a bright light. The man shifts slightly as the bars begin to move, spinning around to room. After a few minutes, the first technician turns back to Stanley, indicating that the facility was ready to commence the wipe. Stanley spares one last moment to look at the man standing inside the chamber. Twenty-three years old the dossier said. A son, a husband, and a father according to the short biography that was included. After all these years, Stanley still couldn’t understand why some people opted for the full wipe. Why choose this option when the others are so much more effective now. But it’s neither his decision to make nor his place to judge, the man has made his decision for whatever reason. Stanley takes a long breath, and inserts a specially made key into his console. After a final moment of hesitation, he turns the key. Light explodes from the inner chamber. Everything and anything was blinded by the white light. Existence itself becomes white. Stanley could no longer feel any part of his body, could no longer see anything except the infinite white expanse, ears failing to detect any sound. Thoughts stop in their tracks within him, and it seems that nothing had ever or would ever exist. Then, suddenly, he was back. Standing in the room, dazed, Stanley looks around. The other technicians are all still sitting at their terminals; a few are rubbing their temples. One never can get used to that part. Stanley then looks back into the circular room, now empty. The entire room was now the definition of black, with not a fleck of white to be seen. The raised platform sits empty, and his console signals that the door was able to remain sealed. Another light tells Stanley that the procedure had been performed successfully. Still staring into the room, he struggles to remember what he had seen in there just moments before. After a few moments, he accepts that he cannot remember and glances down at the empty form. No information is present, just blank spaces waiting to be filled out. With a look and a nod from his head technician, Stanley knows that the procedure was a success. He quickly congratulates everyone in the room for a job well done, and leaves through the door. He calmly walks back down the hall towards his office, not knowing who he has just erased fully from existence, nor why.


*One look at her my heart was stopping (Heartbreak)* *I did whatever she was asking* *She said "maybe later catch you in the elevator"* “Hi? Are you looking for something?” I asked as I popped my head out of the door. The girl who was trying hard to fit her keys into my apartment door grew red in the face as she saw me. “Oh, I’m so, so sorry. I thought this was my apartment,” she chuckled slightly to relieve her embarrassment. “Do you know which is door 32?” “Which letter?” I inquired. “Oh? There’s letters to them?” she looked back down to the paper in her hand. “Yeah. My door is the only one that doesn’t have it since remodeling still hasn’t reached me, thank god for that.” “I think it says 32 N?” “Then you’re across the hall 3 doors to the left,” I answered. Now I let my eyes take her in. She was breathtaking. Heartstopping. Her honey blonde hair reflected the lights of the hall, shimmering and dancing. Dressed in a loose blouse and short skirt. Boots accompanied her wardrobe pushing her up by a few centimeters. The way she looked at me with those blue eyes, oh man. I knew I was in trouble. “Nice to have you in neighbour. My name is Bryan. Hope you find everything great. And if you need me, please don’t hesitate to ask,” I said in greeting. “Thanks. I’m Adeline.” she reached out and shook my hand. “Maybe catch you later in the elevator someday?” she offered. “Definitely,” I smiled. *A couple days we got to hanging (Real close)* *Turns out she wasn't even taken (No no)* *I made a move she said "baby you're mistaken, I'm not into bacon"* “You’re not in a relationship!? How?” I asked in surprise. For the past few days, I’ve been hanging out with Adeline, going out places and getting into trouble. It honestly felt like I was back in highschool. Hadn’t had this much fun since then. Adeline was adventurous and had a craziness that brought mine out. “I just haven’t met the right one,” she sighed. “Too many of the people I’ve liked don’t seem to like me back or turn out to be one of those messed up bitches.” She moved around on her bed to hang her head in order to look at me. I was sitting down leaning on the door of her closet watching her exaggerated movements. “Out of all the people you’ve met, you haven’t found the right one? I doubt that. According to you, you’re adventurous, you’ve been to places. Not to mention, gorgeous!” I chuckled. “Well you’re right about all of that. But, no. I haven’t met the right one,” she seemed to be staring off into space after that. “Aw, honey. You’re breaking my heart.” I clutched my heart as I dropped in an exaggerated manner to the ground. “Breaking your heart?” “Yeah, You say you haven’t met the right guy. I’m right here, breaks my little heart.” I pout. “Oh, uh. Sorry, I uh. I guess I was being vague huh?” —she looked at me with obvious sympathy— “I’m not into guys. I’m uh...I’m lesbian.” Those words hit me hard. The realization of what it meant for me and my feelings was painful. It really did break my heart. *She got that smile and that body is to die for* *One of a kind and that's why it makes me cry* “We can still be friends. Right?” I couldn’t say no to her. Despite my feelings being crushed, they were still there. I might be making a stupid decision by crushing myself, but I just had to be with her. Even as friends. However sad it may be. “Yeah, friends.” I answered. *'Cause I found a girl* *Who's in love with a girl* *She said that she tried* *But she's not into guys* *Oh, why, tell me why* *Did I fall for those eyes?* *She said I was nice* *But she's not into guys* *I found a girl* “So what’s with that look in your eyes?” I asked as I sat down next to Adeline. I scanned the direction she was looking at. We were at a bar, so it was crowded. Lots of people were in the way obstructing our view. But then I finally caught a glimpse of what she was looking at. Actually, **who** she was looking at. It was an attractive bartender. Pretty and well toned. With a bit of a tan. Her hair was tied into a ponytail as she scrubbed one of the tables trying her best to clean it. My throat tied into a knot. A year and a half passed since I met Adeline, a bit of time also passed since her confession of her orientation. Enough to allow me to digest it properly. Yet, I didn’t want it to be true. I didn’t want her to get a girlfriend, if she did, it would cement the reality permanently. “She’s not worth it you know. You deserve better. Better than someone who works at a bar for a living,” I complained. “What? You say something…?” She was distracted. She wouldn’t be paying attention to any of my complaints. So instead, I ordered a drink from the man behind the counter. “One of your strongest ones please,” I signalled. The man stopped drying the cup he had his hands on and proceeded to scan the bottles on the shelves. He came over with one after finding it and poured a bit into a shot glass. “Tough night, huh.” he glanced at Adeline who continued looking at the girl as she went around taking orders from the customers. There were a couple people on the stage singing along to the karaoke. They were surprisingly good at it. Had the voice for it. Even when drunk. I downed the shot glass and placed it back on the counter. “Yeah, something like that,” I answered. “I’ll be right back Bryan. I’m gonna go introduce myself,” she got up. “Wait, I don’t think it’s proper etiquette to hit on people while they’re… Nevermind,” she left before I could finish. “So, how many am I allowed to have?” “Well, we don’t really have a limit. I guess you could drink as much as you want as long as you don’t drive,” the man answered. “I’ll have a few more then, please.” After several shots passed, the waitress Adeline was staring at came over to announce she was getting off shift. “I’m still gonna be here, so if you need any help, feel free to ask. I’ll be over there with that hottie,” she chuckled. And with that, she left with a small strut. “Life is unfair, you know?”— my voice was starting to gain a little slur — “Like, you love someone. But they don’t love you back. Worse of all, they don’t even love your gender! Like, if I were to have been born a girl, I wouldn’t have a problem being with her. But she doesn’t like guys. Why are girls like that?” I groaned to the man, Harrison. “I’m not sure dude. Girls are a mystery. Though, I was able to catch myself a great one. She’s my wife now. All I know to say is, fight for your love. Maybe she’ll come around, I doubt it. But what’s the harm in trying? And if it doesn’t work out, there are literally more girls than there are guys in the world.” “You’re right, I need a nap.” *I should've known to walk away then* *I should've left it alone* *But when she called me on the phone we'd be hanging again* *Under the premise of friends* *But now she only talks to me about some other woman* *She says* My phone buzzed. I looked over at it. The buzzer was making it move a lot, threatening to launch it off the boxes I placed it on. I groaned. This really wasn’t the best time for anyone to call me. I had to unpack all of my shit before I had to go to an interview. I didn’t even have any proper clothes for the fucking thing. *Clack!* I lifted my head to see that my phone had fallen off the box. The screen lit up signalling that I just missed the call. Whatever, I could check it out later. Right now, I had to at least move the couch inside, before it got soaked from the impending rain. It was a difficult task to do, but I was able to manage to get the sofa inside. Don’t ask me how, I had trouble even fitting it through the stupid door. With it inside, and a couple of minutes to spare, I looked at my phone. **6 missed calls, 4 unopened messages.** Who the hell could it be? Of course. As soon as I opened them, the name Adeline popped up. Haven’t even seen her name in a few weeks. Nearly forgot about her entirely. Another year passed since she started dating Yvette. The presence of her girlfriend dominated her all the time. Even when it was just the two of us. **Ady:** ***Are you all set up yet?*** **Ady:** ***Can I come over?*** **Ady:** ***Stop ignoring me. Let’s just talk*** **Ady:** ***We’re hanging out today. Whether you like it or not. I’ll text you the address. I promise that it’ll just be the two of us.*** Agh! Why can’t I get rid of her? Or at least crush and throw away my feelings? *She got that smile* *And that body is to die for* *One of a kind* *And that's why it makes me cry* She just played around with the food on her plate. Poking it with her fork. The silence was awkward. The ambience of friends wasn’t there anymore. No playfulness, no fun. Nothing. I wonder what happened to change all that. I can’t deny that I didn’t miss her. She was everything good that happened to my life. And the memories I have of us together were too precious to lose. *'Cause I found a girl* *Who's in love with a girl* *She said, that she tried* *But she's not into guys* *Oh, why, tell me why* *Did I fall for those eyes?* *She said I was nice* *But she's not into guys* *I found a girl* “I know that we’ve been on a rocky path. We haven’t exactly been the greatest of friends anymore. But, I had fun with you. I like you and I treasure all the experiences we’ve had together. I just, I want us to be friends again. I miss the old times we had,” she sighed, “I want to be friends again. *Oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh, oh* *I found a girl* *Oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh, oh* I didn’t know how to answer to her. I was at a loss for words. The emptiness in me seemed to gnaw at me begging me to answer her. *I can't believe I met somebody like you* *And now I feel like a fool* *Anatomy is so cruel* *I can't believe it I just think like a man* *That you just wanted me bad* *But you had different plans* I don’t know what got into me next. What the hell possessed me? What was I even thinking? All I know is that that I lost myself in her eyes as I leaned in. Our lips grazed each other’s softly. It was slow. But I enjoyed every moment of it. I was hungry for more and leaned in to keep going. *SMACK!* My cheek burned from how hard Adeline struck me. “What the HELL Bryan!!” she demanded angrily. “I’ve got a girlfriend! You can’t do that!” Guilt washed over me as I saw tears start to squeeze through her eyes. Why did I do that? Everyone in the diner had their eyes on me as she left running. *'Cause I found a girl* *Who's in love with a girl* *She said, that she tried* *But she's not into guys* *Oh, why, tell me why* *Did I fall for those eyes?* *She said I was nice* *But she's not into guys* *I found a girl* *Found a girl* *Who's in love with a girl* *She said, that she tried* *But she's not into guys* *Oh, why, tell me why* *Did I fall for those eyes?* *She said I was nice* *But she's not into guys* *I found a girl* I’m happy now. I have a girlfriend that I love very much. A stable job. A happy life. No regrets. Well. Mostly no regrets. I only have one. I never knew what happened to Adeline after she left. After that scandal. I changed my phone number and disconnected from the world. That is until Christa brought me back into the world. I’m at a diner now. Similar to the one from all those years ago. We’re having a great time celebrating our dating anniversary. But there’s something familiar in the air. I don’t know what. Maybe I should look around. But my eyes, won’t budge. Not from that girl sitting in front of another girl. Her smile is dazzling. Familiar. Like home. And her eyes, familiar as they are, lock on to me. A small smile is offered to me which I return with one of my own. Maybe I should go over and introduce myself. Excuse myself from Christa.


“Sophia, there’s a monster under my bed!” the little girl cried. Sophia looked up from her Instagram profile on her phone and rolled her eyes. She said, “Charlotte, you’re eight years old now. That means you’re a big girl, and big girls don’t believe in monsters.” “Please, Sophia. Come look under my bed,” came the girl’s reply. Sophia scoffed and said, “All right, but we both know there’s nothing there.” She put her phone into her purse on the coffee table, then got up off the couch in the living room and walked down the hallway to the girl’s bedroom. She pushed open the door which had been left slightly ajar, and a ray of light from the hall spilled into the room. There, she saw the girl sitting up against the headboard in her pink pajamas. She had a look of fright on her tiny face. Sophia glanced around the room and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Dolls, coloring books, and other toys were strewn everywhere. “Why don’t your parents ever ask you to clean up after yourself?” she said as she approached the bed. Ignoring the question, the girl said, “There’s a monster under my bed, I swear. Please just look under there and make him go away.” The insistence in her little voice made Sophia’s heart melt, and she said in a soothing tone, “Alright, sweetie. I believe you. I’ll make the monster go away.” The girl smiled as she laid her head down on her pillow and said in a sing-song voice, “Thank you.” Sophia crouched down next to the bed and lifted up the sheet to reveal the space underneath. There was nothing there besides the carpeted floor and some crayons. She rose up on her knees and said, “What did I tell you, silly? There isn’t anything there at all.” The girl sat up and opened her eyes as if she’d been asleep, then looked at Sophia with an expression of terror and screamed. Her high-pitched wail punctured Sophia’s eardrums like a needle, and Sophia covered her ears and said, “Charlotte, what is it? What’s wrong?” However, the girl continued to scream. Sophia heard footsteps thunder down the hall and then the door burst open. A man in boxers and a t-shirt stood in the doorway holding a metal baseball bat. Behind him, Sophia could see a woman in a nightgown look over the man’s shoulder with concern. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” he demanded in an outraged voice. “Tom, Mary, it’s me, Sophia, the babysitter, remember? You hired me to watch Charlotte tonight while you were out to dinner. I didn’t realize you’d come home already. I thought you’d be gone until later.” The man and woman looked at each other with confused expressions, then the man said angrily, “You thought we were gone? Are you trying to kidnap our daughter?” “What? I… I…” Sophia stammered. The girl began to cry and said, “Mommy, daddy, help me!” The woman rushed over to the girl and said, “Shhh, sweetie. Mommy’s here. It’s ok.” She looked at Sophia, then at the man and said, “She’s bleeding.” “What?” the man said. He then took a threatening step towards Sophia as he gripped the baseball bat tight with both hands and said menacingly, “What did you do to my little girl?” “Not our daughter. Her…” the woman nodded to indicate Sophia. Sophia looked down at her left hand and saw that a deep cut ran down the side of it. Before she had time to think about how it got there, the man took another step toward her with his arm outstretched. She wriggled away, then ran out of the room and down the hall. “Come back here!” he shouted. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Sophia ran into the living room. She went to grab her phone and purse off the coffee table, but when she looked, she saw that they were gone. Sophia heard the man’s footsteps as they pounded down the hallway, and she turned and went for the front door. Broken glass crunched under her shoes on the tile entryway as she flung the door open, and she saw that there was a torrential downpour outside. She looked for her car where she parked it at the end of the driveway but saw that it too was gone. In a panic, she decided to run through the rain to her parents’ house, which she knew was only a few blocks away. Rain pelted her and soaked through her clothes as she ran, and the man shouted after her from his doorstep, “I’m calling the cops!” Once she arrived at her parents’ house, she was perplexed to see that all the lights were off. She thought, “They’re always at home and awake at this time of night.” She reached into her pocket for her keys but remembered they were in her purse. In desperation, she pounded against the door and called out, “Mom! Dad! Let me in! Please!” She beat on the door for several minutes until finally the porch light came on. A woman opened the door slightly and Sophia pushed it all the way open as she bolted inside. She threw her arms around the woman and sobbed into her shoulder as she said, “Oh, mom, it was horrible. My babysitting clients went crazy. They treated me like a stranger who was intruding in their home. I think they might have stolen my purse and my car.” The woman, instead of hugging her back, went completely stiff. After an awkward moment, she put her hands up to Sophia’s chest and shoved her hard through the open doorway. Sophia sprawled out into the rain and landed painfully on the house’s front porch. She looked up with an expression of heartbreak as the woman slammed and locked the door. Three police cars and an ambulance pulled up, their red and blue lights flashing off the houses and trees in the neighborhood. An officer got out of his car, pointed his gun at Sophia and shouted, “Keep your hands where I can see them!” “Please, I don’t know what’s happening.” Sophia said as she sat behind an old wooden desk in the police station’s interrogation room. “Why won’t anybody listen to me?” “What’s your name?” asked the detective who sat across from her. “Sophia Larson.” “Sophia, I’m Detective Anita Benson. I need to ask you a few questions. First, how old are you?” “I just turned 16 last May.” Detective Benson stared at her expressionless for several moments, then asked another question, “Whose house were you at earlier this evening?” “Tom and Mary Smith’s house. I’m their babysitter for their daughter, Charlotte. I’ve been their babysitter for two years, ever since Charlotte turned six years old.” “How did you get into their home?” Sophia made a confused expression and said, “They let me in. I was there to watch Charlotte while they went out to eat. I have no idea what’s going on or why they reacted to me like they did. They treated me like they thought I was trying to kidnap their daughter. I also think they stole my purse and my car, but I don’t know why.” “How did you cut your hand?” Sophia looked at where the paramedics had bandaged her left hand before they brought her to the police station. She said, “I don’t know.” Detective Benson asked, “Whose house were you at when the police arrived?” “My parents’ house. My mom opened the door, but when I hugged her she didn’t say anything, she just shoved me back out into the rain. I’m so confused.” “Sophia, would it surprise you to know that the people at the first house said they don’t know who you are, and that you broke into their home?” “Yes, of course it would. Like I said, I’m their babysitter. They’ve known me for years. Why would they say that?” “When we arrived, we found that a small window next to the front door had been smashed. Someone apparently broke the window, then reached through it to unlock the door and let themselves in. We also found a trail of blood drops and muddy footprints that led from the front door to the little girl’s room where her parents saw you.” Detective Benson continued, “The names of the people who live there are not Tom, Mary, or Charlotte. I can’t tell you what their names are for their safety. Furthermore, the woman at the house you say belongs to your parents and whom you say is your mother doesn’t have any children, and she’s not married. We checked.” Sophia looked at her dumbfounded. “This… can’t be true.” “I’ll ask you again,” said Detective Benson. “How old are you?” As Sophia stared at her in confused silence, Detective Benson reached into her jacket pocket and took out a small mirror. She held it up, and Sophia gasped. Instead of her young face that she’d seen that morning and every morning before, Sophia saw the unfamiliar face of a haggard old woman. Her white, stringy hair was disheveled and matted against her forehead. Her wrinkled face was drawn in an expression of shock. She screamed.


“Principal Davis is a cunt.” The anger that fueled the words is dry before the ink. I wet my finger and try in vain to rub the words from the faux-leather school bus seat. Across the aisle, Jason Withering’s dull stupid gaze presses on me. “So what, are you going to tell on me?” He shrugs. His road-kill eyes drift down to my chest. I shoulder my ratty book bag and head to the front, leaving my crumpled suspension form behind. “This isn’t your stop.” The bus driver doesn’t even look at me. “I moved.” He responds with a long sip from his big gulp. A hearty gurgle noise seems to indicate the matter resolved. We stop at a light. I grab the lever and pull it hard. It’s easier than I expected and the door hisses open. He reaches to stop me but hesitates when he considers the large fruity drink in his hand, settling instead for a half-hearted rebuke as I jog away into the drizzling rain. I cut through an alley, the town square and an elementary school yard. I stop a minute to wistfully watch the swings. There is a hole in the back fence in a bramble of poison ivy. I navigate though it, and then move delicately around a roadside monument to a traffic accident that lay just beyond. A car pulls up alongside me as I walk. The window hums down. The man inside has yellow eyes and a don’t-mind-if-I-do face. His car is nice. His watch looks expensive. “Where are you going.” “Home.” “Wanna’ ride?” “No, its right there.” I point to my house. “Oh, nice place.” I look at him funny. It’s not. On the street full of tidy houses, mine is the shitty one. In school we just read ‘To Kill a Mockingbird.’ Well I live in Boo Radley’s house. If I had friends, they wouldn’t come over. The windows are blocked with clutter. There is detritus all over the yard. Our old Cadillac has been turned into an island for sunning stray cats in the sea of tall grass and weeds. “I like your socks.” I stop to look down at my feet. My red knee-socks are full of holes and grass stained. I look at him closer. He has a giddiness around the edges that makes me uncomfortable. His grin is so wide it almost disappears around the sides of his face. When we get to my house, I peel away and run up the steps. The car moves down the street and turns out of sight. On the porch I peer through the window. I can see my Grandma sitting in her chair, cocooned in cigarette smoke. Her wig is drooping to the side. She holds an electrolarynx to her throat to coax out the mad barks that constitute her half of a conversation with the TV. I imagine the poisoned menthol smell of her cardigan. Death and chemicals. She always reeked of death and chemicals. As I walk down the steps and back into the rain, I tell myself this time I really am running away, but I know it isn’t true. I spend the afternoon wandering the woods behind the park. A stray cat follows me and I share my lunch with her. The two of us slink into an abandoned house through a busted window. We sit and read the graffiti on the walls. *Jenifer Leigh is a slut.* *Rockyeez mom gives good hed.* I wonder if there is anything about me in here. It’s night by the time I get home. I know the doors will be locked. That was the deal; in by dark or not at all. I scramble in through the bathroom window. Careful not to turn on any lights, I run a bath. A towel under the spout dampens the noise. I lay floating in the dark. The crickets buzz lazily. The only light is the dim yellow glow of the streetlamps outside. Some children see their future in the clouds. I see mine in the water damaged bathroom ceiling. There is a spot that looks like my pregnant cousin. Another looks like my friend Amy, who dances at the Playpen. And there is me, a small smudge just barely blooming into existence right above the window. It is a doom without romance, I decide. The quiet death of a stray dog crawling under a porch to die. It is too much to ask, perhaps, to avoid my fate, but I would prefer to find it with a bit more grace. What if I were Diana? Or a Kennedy? I almost smile as sleep overtakes me. I wake suddenly. The water is cold and the crickets sound louder, almost expectant. Someone is in the doorway. I pull back the curtain a little and see the silhouette of my Grandma. Her wig and the cardigan outline the shadows of her form. She shifts her head a bit as if to get a better look. I can smell her death and chemicals. “Grandma?” I see her raise the Elecrolarynx to her throat. “Hello dear.” The sharp staccato words ring out sharply. I don’t respond. A long disturbing silence follows. She begins shifting from one foot to another, apprehensively. I sink down further into the water, watching her. “I have brought you something.” “You can give it to me in the morning. Go back to sleep Grandma.” “But my dear, I want to give it to you now.” She shuffles forward, head down. Her hands pull a small bundle from her sweater pocket. As she unwraps it I can smell sweat and dirt and grass. I recognize my socks. She lays them out across the top of the toilet seat with large hairy hands. When he lifts his head up I see the giddy too-wide smile and yellow eyes under my grandma’s wig. I sink further into the water, a weak escape from the horror. He gestures to the socks expectantly, bobbing up and down faster. I ball my fists and try to scream but I only find the taste of the tepid bathwater. He is moving up and down in a feverish state now, a sock in his hand and an eager whine trailing from his mouth. He edges closer to the tub. I cannot watch. I sink lower and look at the ceiling. My water spot is growing. He has one foot into the bath. My water spot is spreading fast. Two feet. It’s bulging under the paint. He reaches down to touch my face and my fear changes to a rage like I have never known before. A fury against the bad school and the dead parents and the insane grandmother and this whole wolf’s den of a town. Loathing unfreezes my paralysis. The ceiling rips open in a flood and I scream out from a place inside both dark and primordial. His grin droops in surprise. Before he collects himself I ball myself up and kick out against the side of the tub, spilling out on the floor painfully in a wet tangle of limbs. His hands are on me but they slip. I run. He grabs me again, but this time too, I slip away. I grab keys on the counter and sprint the car outside. I hear him trip over my grandma’s body in the dark and the sickening flat sound of his face hitting the tile floor. I’m out the door and into his car. A howl from the house fills the night as I speed away. Its almost sunrise when I finally stop driving. I turn off near a sign for Amarillo and park on a road leading off to nowhere. I have no money, no phone, no clothing. There was a light up billboard outside Albuquerque with my face on it. When I open the trunk, I find my grandma’s jewelry. Its at the top of a large duffle bag full of similar pieces. Diamond watches, rings, pearl necklaces, an emerald tiara and a large wad of social security checks and cash rubber banded together. The bag is too heavy to lift. Next to the bag is a case with duct tape and and a long wicked looking knife. There is more. In the spare wheel compartment I find clothes. So many clothes. It’s mostly high school girl’s school uniforms. I put on a shirt and shorts emblazoned with the words ‘Valley high Pys. ED.’ There is blood on the sleeve I sit in the car awhile, listening to the thrum of the semi trucks on the highway with my eyes closed. When I open them, I can see dark clouds forming back in the west. I can feel the malevolence reaching out, calling me back to it. Demanding me. I put the Emerald tiara gently onto my head, checking it with care in the mirror. I drive east.


Hey guys! Please click the link to read the short story, as I get paid by the view. It would help a lot! Randall knew he was never a lucky guy, if there existed such a thing as luck. He felt as though the subway doors always closed right before he stepped on, felt some other pedestrian always snagged his taxis just before he could wave it in, and felt every pretty girl in New York which he could summon the courage to talk was always taken. But today, today he found a scrap of luck in the form of an abandoned cellphone on the sidewalk. It wasn’t a nice cellphone, not an iPhone or Android, but a simple burner like the ones used by the bad guys in movies about organized crime. Perhaps that detail about the phone is what made the discovery lucky. If it had been a nice smartphone, Randall would have found himself blocked by passcodes, or the owner would have cared enough to call their service provider and shut down the device. But not this phone. This one appeared to be in perfect condition with full service and not a single scratch, even after laying on the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue during a Saturday morning. Randall already had a cellphone—it wasn’t as if he needed this lost one. Nonetheless, he had been selling Percocet to a closed circle of trusted acquaintances (a guilty burden on his conscious, but the money helped keep the lights on) and using his regular phone for these errands made him nervous, as if the DEA would bust down his apartment door any minute. After all, it wasn’t a purely artistic choice that those bad guys in the movies did use these types of phones. Once Randall was safe in his apartment, slouched in the solitary, beer-stained loveseat of his living room, he began sending texts from the burner phone to each contact who bought from him. He waited for each person to respond, confirming they knew this number to be the only form of contact they should have, and then saved their respective names and numbers into the phone’s contact list. On Saturday’s, Randall was free of his commitment to the corner E-Z Mart and wouldn’t have to worry about getting stabbed over a pack of menthols until Monday stuck its head around the corner. Thus, he kicked his feet up on the coffee table, turned on Hulu, and poured himself a vodka and soda (easy on the soda). The daylight hours escaped him in a montage of *Rick and Morty, It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia*, and *The Handmaid’s Tale*(yeah, he watched that, and he dared anyone to say something about it). As the view outside his window turned soft and purple with the falling sun, the burner buzzed against his leg. Randall, surprised someone had already run through their supply, reached into his pocket, and flipped the phone open. The text showed an unknown number. Had he forgotten to save someone’s name? Or perhaps one of his customers sent a friend to his number- something he had told each and every one of them to never do. Irritated, Randall clicked into the message, but what he saw made no sense. *212-555-7641* *23 Jones Ave, Brooklyn…3am* After his initial shock and confusion, Randall figured this must be someone trying to contact the phone’s previous owner. It was the only explanation he could reach. Randall double checked he had texted every customer and saved their numbers, which he had. Deleting the message, Randall returned to his weekend entertainment. After Randall had drunk himself through a new six-pack, and the streets of New York had turned dark and ominous, the phone buzzed again. *212-555-7641* *??? Now’s not the time to back out. BE THERE.* A fog of paranoia drifted from the recesses of Randall’s thoughts and hung its greyness over his logic. The mob and gangsters didn’t just exist in movies, they were reality. Drug dealers populated New York’s underground like red ants—small and hidden to the unaware eye, but bountiful nonetheless. They would come looking. They would go to this address and find their man missing, and then they would come for Randall. He shook his head. It made no sense. How would they find him? They could trace the number. Yes, that was entirely possible…right? No. Paranoid, he was acting paranoid. Randall shook his head again and tossed the phone onto the cushion. The phone buzzed again. Yet this time, it kept buzzing. Someone was calling. Randall looked at the phone, the hairs on his neck prickling. A slow hand reached over and picked it up. He held the phone as if it was a wired bomb with the last seconds ticking away. Randall flicked it open and saw it was, in fact, the same unknown number. He pressed decline. Seconds later, a string of messages rattled the phone. *212-555-7641* *You son of a bitch.* *Coward. Answer me.* *This isn’t a game anymore.* *Blood is on your hands. Remember that.* *Don’t throw this away.* Randall watched the messages roll in, his stomach twisting into a knot with each vibration. Through his fear and confusion, a short gasping laugh escaped from his lips. It seemed his bad luck remained the same. The phone vibrated once more, and rather than reading something he never wanted to know, Randall jumped from his seat and launched the phone at the wall. It clattered to the floor, perfectly intact. Randall leaned over, hands on his knees, and began to laugh. He had forgotten that before the days of fragile glass phones, they had been built with the structural integrity of a slab of brick and mortar. Nonetheless, he intended to destroy it. It had been a mistake picking it up. He wanted no part of this bloodied feud between anonymous faces. Picking up the phone, Randall walked to the sink, dropped it in the garbage disposal and flicked the switch. The metal blades inside the drain screeched and began to toss the phone about in a spray of plastic shards. The phone jumped as if trying to escape the shredding blades. Randall flicked the switch again and stared down at the tattered phone. It was destroyed, useless. It had to be. Yet still, Randall felt unsafe. He felt as if someone was down below on the street, smoking a cigarette as they surveyed his apartment and calculated how they would break in and kill him. This time, he couldn’t convince himself otherwise. The liquor and beer had made his thoughts fuzzy and incomplete. Logistics escaped him and the paranoia found him, staring into his face with an evil grin of yellow teeth. Randall grabbed the gashed remains of the phone and fled out the front door. If he truly had put his ass on the line by picking up the phone, he meant to be proactive about it. He meant to make sure he was prepared for whatever mess he had stepped in. As Randall jogged down the stairs of his building and hopped into his car, he ran through the plan a hundred times. He would go to the address, keeping a good distance of course, and he would wait to see what happened. He had to make sure he could be ready for any potential repercussions. As his rusted Sedan bumped off the curb and into the street, Randall almost made a U-turn and ran right back upstairs. This was crazy. Why should he go directly to the danger, if there even was any? He risked a whole lot more just by putting himself closer to the situation. Nonetheless, he drove on, the alcohol sloshing through his stomach and his mind. Randall checked the clock—1:30 AM—as he turned the corner onto 23rd street and parked the car. He killed the engine, turned off his headlights, and leaned the seat back just enough to peek over the rim of the window. The street was dark. Multiple light posts were out and the others flickered with their last bit of strength. The supposed meeting wouldn’t happen for over an hour, but Randall scoured the street with eyes as if he expected Al Capone to appear from the shadows with a trunk full of cash. But there was nothing, just a lone wanderer stumbling down the street with his head low and hands tucked in the pockets of a jacket. Distant car horns could be heard in the still of the night. Randall slid further down in the seat as the man passed by his car. The occasional car drifted down the road and Randall watched them turn away, their brake lights a bright beacon in the shaded hours. As 3 o’clock drew closer, Randall’s foot bounced restlessly against the floor of the car. His mind played tug-of-war on itself—one half telling him to get the hell out of here, but the other half kept him glued to his spot on the street. Just when the rational side of the battle urged him to throw the car into reverse, the phone began to vibrate in the passenger’s seat. How? How could it still be working? Randall grabbed it, almost dropping it from his shaking hands, and flipped the screen open. The unknown number pulsed on the display, wobbling a happy dance as the staccato vibration went through its cycle. Randall declined the call. If there was any doubt left in his mind, it had run off when the phone rang. It was time to leave. He tossed the phone to the side, stuck his keys in the ignition, and— *TAP TAP TAP.* Randall jerked back in his seat, slamming his knee on the underside of his steering wheel. He looked up and almost pissed in his pants. His car was surrounded. Somehow, during the phone call, a group of men dressed in all black had snuck up on him and now stared through each window. They wore dark sunglasses, even in the darkest part of the night, and their faces were stale plaques of stone. The man at the driver’s side window tapped again and twirled his finger in a circle—*roll it down.* Randall, in a split-second of fear and confusion, attempted to start the car and drive as far away from this street as possible. He made one quick motion to start the car, but at the same instant, each person around his car reached into their black coats and produced sleek pistols. The man outside the window shook his head and tapped again. Randall leaned away from the steering wheel, bringing both hands to hover by the side of his head. “Unlock it,” the man said beyond the glass. Randall obeyed. As soon as the locks clicked, every door to his car was thrown open and the man grabbed Randall by his collar, yanking him into the street. Randall fell onto his stomach, tried to get up, but a heavy boot pushed into the small of his back and kept him pinned down. No one spoke to him. His car was being frisked by the others as the one man kept his gun aimed at Randall. They threw the contents of his glovebox into the road and turned the seats up. One of them found the phone and brought it over to the man standing on top of Randall. “Guess we know where Smith went,” he said, handing the phone over. The pressure eased on Randall’s spine as the man observed the phone. “Where’d you get this?” he asked. Randall went to turn his head, but the man’s other foot came up pressed it back down. “Don’t look at me. Answer the question.” “It was on the sidewalk,” he stuttered. “I didn’t know anything about it, I swear. It was just lying there!” The two men exchanged whispered words. Randall’s breathing was short and fast, his mind floundered. “Get up,” the man commanded and grabbed the back of his shirt. Randall stumbled to his feet as they pulled on him and threw him against the side of his car. He stared down the barrel of a pistol, trying not to soil his pants. Beyond the pistol, he could see his own reflection in the black mirror of the man’s sunglasses—wild eyes and a trickle of blood coming from above his eye. He hadn’t even felt it. The man stared at him silently, as if some device in those sunglasses was finishing an analysis of Randall’s threat level, and then said, “Get her.” “Who? Get who?” Randall asked. “Shut up.” The man jabbed the gun towards Randall’s face and he flinched back. The man who had brought the phone from the car walked away, towards a black SUV which Randall had just noticed for the first time, and popped open one of the rear doors. Out stepped a woman, dressed in a shirt which fit tightly to her hourglass figure. The shirt had a long tail which billowed behind her. Randall, through the fog of terror, found her beautiful. She wore white, contrary to her serious counterparts, and strode towards him with fluid steps, like a Russian ballet dancer gliding across the stage. She came to face Randall. Her eyes were green, not a soft aqua, but bright and piercing like polished emerald gems. Long blonde hair was pushed behind her eyes, framing the dazzling irises like a priceless renaissance painting. But, as she stood there and examined Randall’s face, the green melted into violet, then to red, then to blue. Randall knew he had to be hallucinating. The stress of the situation had broken his conscious and he was imagining things. Yet he couldn’t even convince himself of these things. Before he could comprehend the sight, the woman reached a hand up and placed the palm against his brow. He felt heat, saw a muffled flash of light from the woman’s palm, and the heat became painful. Randall tried to scream, but no sound came. “He’s telling the truth,” she said and stepped away. The woman spun on her heel and glided back to the SUV, stepped in and disappeared as if she had never existed. The world around Randall began to swim. The street tilted and his legs were weak. A whirl of visions raced through his mind—a grassy hill with a lone, massive redwood tree on its peak, an angry ocean of violent waves crashed against jagged pillars of rock, lava flowed through a channel of burnt earth surrounded by trees on fire. None of it made sense. Where were these things coming from? What had she done to him? The world went dark. Randall sat up straight, gasping for air. His head dribbled with cold sweat and his hands shook uncontrollably. He was home, sitting on the love seat with Netflix on the TV asking him—Are you still there? Randall wasn’t sure if he was. He looked around the room, remembered the cold stare of those black sunglass, and slowly rose from the couch. Blood drained from his head and his vision started to go dark, forcing him to sit back down. As he did, something rattled on the cushion beside him. Randall removed his head from his hands and saw an overturned medicine bottle sitting beside him. White pills were spilled across the cushion—Percocet. He grabbed the bottle turning it over in his palm. Randall had sold the last of his supply. He was positive. Then, like a splash of cold water, the memory of that woman’s changing eyes came back to him. He saw her irises dissolving and changing colors as she stared into his soul. Even from his memory, he felt as though she could see him, see into him. He looked at the bottle in his hand, looked at the empty handle of vodka on the floor, and a creeping suspicion began to form itself in his head. He had overdosed, gotten overconfident with his limits and drank himself into a night terror. Yet there remained a doubt, like a small flame in a dark room. The phone. Where was the phone? Randall jumped from the seat once again, fighting off another head rush, and overturned the entire apartment. He checked the wall for a mark where he had thrown the phone, checked the garbage disposal for traces of plastic—there was nothing. After checking under his bedcovers, under every couch cushion, Randall sat back down. Looking at the empty bottle of Percocet, Randall accepted the overdose. It was rational. He had a problem and it had taken him to a dark dream world, one which he had no intention of ever visiting again. Randall scooped the spilled pills into the bottle and threw them all in the trash. Randall went to his window, looking down on the Sunday morning. The street was quiet, occupied by a few pedestrians on a stroll. He jumped as he saw one of the men in black standing in the alleyway across the street and staring up at him, but it was only a trash can. Randall leaned his forehead against the window and blew a hard breath, creating a small circle of moisture on the glass. In his heart, he knew what he had seen. The woman’s eyes were burned to the side of his brain like a brand to a cowhide. He could feel the weight of the phone in his pocket, could see his own face in the reflection of those sunglasses. It had been real. He knew it to be true. He sold his Percocet, the bottle shouldn’t be here. It was a ploy. They wanted him to forget, wanted him to convince himself of a bad dream. And it was easy for him to accept, far easier than convincing himself of an encounter with some witch and her bodyguards. They were smart, but Randall trusted his memory. He couldn’t escape those eyes. He had to tell someone, had to explain what he had seen.


I highly recommend checking out the video version here - But if you're more of a reader than a watcher, then read on: In the middle of 2013, Adobe went through a huge security breach in their systems with huge bits of their software code stolen and posted online. The hack was inevitable as Adobe had been criticized for its pricing practices among its user base for a very long time. My very first memory of using an Adobe product is a bit vague, but the feeling it gave me, is still very vivid in my mind. I was confused, amazed, inspired, jaw-dropped, all at the same time. Photoshop was the first Adobe product that I used and I didn’t know what to think of it except that now I can manipulate digital memories however I want. Photoshop was then of course just the beginning of what would lead me into a never ending curiosity of exploring other Adobe products like Premiere Pro and After Effects which then led me into digging deep into the past of two businessmen, John Warnock and Charles Geschke, the guys who found Adobe in the December of 1982. Initially being a math failure in his ninth grade, Warnock went on to grab a Bachelor’s degree in mathematics followed by a PhD in computer science. Warnock’s genius in mathematics was at full on display in the form of his 1964 master’s thesis where he solved the Jacobson radical row-finite matrices which was originally theorized by a leading algebraist in 1956. Warnock took his understanding of math and computer science to the next level when he wrote the Warnock Algorithm designed to render a complicated image of a scene. If the image is simple, it’s immediately rendered, but if it’s a complicated piece of pixels, then it’s divided into smaller parts and the rendering process repeats itself. On the other hand, although he never came up with a unique invention, Charles Geschke, Adobe’s co-founder was on a parallel level to John Warnock with his MS in mathematics and a PhD in computer science. He went on from a teaching job to working at Xerox where he formed and headed an image science laboratory, directing research activities notably in image processing. This is where the two masterminds crossed paths when Charles hired Warnock at his lab and the two came up with the idea to commercialize InterPress graphics language for controlling printing. But Xerox remained unconvinced and the two along with a third collaborator, Dan Putman left their jobs at Xerox to build Adobe. The company found in Warnock’s garage, went on to the level where Steve Jobs once negotiated to buy it for five million dollars, but to Warnock and Charles’ credit, they refused and instead sold him 19 percent of the shares for five times more of what the company was evaluated at the time. Reaching the mid-1980s, the company launched Adobe Illustrator that would change the face of how people would draw in the future to come followed by Photoshop nine years later that would become its flagship product. Two years later down the road, the world was introduced to Premiere Pro and After Effects that would redefine how movies would be made. Fast forward to the Summer of 1993 and the company finally came up with the PDF format that would allow us to send electronic documents anywhere, view and print them on any machine. In Warnock’s own words “Imagine a digital document viewer equipped with text searching capabilities. You can find all documents that contain a certain word or phrase, then view that word in context within the document. Entire libraries could be archived in electronic form.” Being incredibly successful with all of its products, it’s quite astonishing that Adobe flash was met with a lot of backlash most notably from Steve Jobs who opted not to support Adobe Flash on iPhones claiming unreliability and security flaws with the software. Jobs even posted an article online expressing his thoughts on Flash and the rise of HTML 5. Adobe eventually went on to discontinue Flash in the December of 2011 and refocusing all efforts on HTML 5 for mobile devices. With its share of success, Adobe has faced continuous criticism due to its security designs. Hackers have been successfully able to breach it to gain access to computers worldwide. The vulnerabilities became so bad that the company itself revealed in 2013 that about 2.9million customer data had been stolen including encrypted credit card information along with bits and pieces of Photoshop’s source code that allowed programmers to duplicate its engineering techniques and making it incredibly easy to pirate Adobe’s product. Back in 1994, Adobe bought Aldus Corp., the manufacturer of Free Hand that was a direct competitor to Adobe Illustrator. But Adobe was forced by the Federal Trade Commission to sell the software to Altsys, the company which was then bought by Macromedia, the organization which was then bought by Adobe in 2005. Adobe bounced over and took back control of the only two leading illustration programs in the world. What’s more mind twisting is that Adobe is now diving into the AI industry collaborating with NVIDIA to speed up its Adobe Sensei AI which is going to deliver some very powerful features like auto lip sync in Adobe Animator CC and face aware editing in Photoshop CC. I’m an Adobe user and I’ll always be an Adobe user, because I can never really be sure what amazing new mind twisting direction Adobe’s going to be moving in, but whenever I finally see the end results, I’m confused, amazed, inspired, jaw-dropped, all at the same time. I definitely haven’t used all of the Adobe products, but the softwares that support the process of filmmaking definitely keep me enticed to be an Adobe user as I go on. All of this made me think as to what crossed the founders mind to take this garage based company to worldwide domination and that was the inspiration for the video version of this story. Everything you see in the video has been done very frugally and with very limited means.


Ashley Cane had just moved into a new house a month ago. She didn't know anyone and didn't really mind. She was a loner and didn't like people much. She hadn’t made friends with anyone in her class this year, the kids were all either too bossy or too wimpy. So it wasn’t such a bad thing for her to move away in the middle of the school year. In her old house, her favorite thing to do was read. In the stories she read, she could go anywhere, be anyone, and do anything. It was better than reality for Ashley. And because of all those books, she has developed an overactive imagination. Her brother, Adam, hated that about her, she knew, because she would always tell him things he didn't want to hear. Ashley was fifteen when they moved, and Adam was thirteen. Their new house was built in a modern style, overlooking a wide meadow. Ashley could just see their nearest neighbors’ house from the end of their driveway, peeking out of a copse of trees nearly a half mile down the road. She liked that it was quiet, and it got extra dark at night, more so than their old house in the suburbs. But her favorite thing about their new house was a game room they had set up in an open loft above the living room. There were shelves of books and a big comfy chair. Plus, there was a big screen TV and a bunch of video games. Ashley liked to sit up there and read, or stare through the skylight and daydream. “What do you think, Adam?” mused Ashley one evening. The two of them were up in the loft, listening to the rain splash against the roof above them while a quiet movie played on the TV. Ashley had turned slightly in the chair and muted the TV to blurt that random question in Adam’s direction. “Whatever you’re talking about, I don't want to hear it,” insisted Adam, tossing his baseball in the air and catching it from his position on a futon against the far wall. “Why not?” asked Ashley, “I think they do, don't you?” “You think what?” he sighed, his curiosity getting the better of his judgement. “I think that ghosts are real,” Ashley said, “And not just ghosts either. Poltergeists and possessions, too.” “Oh brother,” said Adam, giving his sister an eye roll. “First you thought the neighbors were aliens from outer space, then you were convinced that the new mailman was a vampire bent on killing off everyone, and now ghosts. What next? Bigfoot?” “Hey, don’t get me started on Bigfoot,” she quipped in response, shifting in her seat to fully face her brother. “But really, you don't believe in ghosts?” she asked. “I do,” she continued, not waiting for Adam’s answer, “I think they're everywhere, watching us.” Their mother’s voice from downstairs saved Adam from answering, “Ashley! Adam! Come for supper!” “Coming,” they called back in unison. Meatloaf again, thought Ashley, I think it's poison. “Ashley, eat your food,” said her father. “I will.” Ashley watched as her brother ate a forkful of food and swallowed. After a moment of anticipation, nothing happened. Okay, it's not poison, she thought, and took a forkful of her own. Ashley woke at a sound. A cat was crying somewhere outside near her window. I feel sorry for it, she thought sleepily, maybe it’s hungry. She got out of bed and threw some shoes on, grabbing a light from the emergency drawer on her way to the front door. Running outside, she turned on her flashlight and headed for the meadow. “Here kitty, kitty” she called softly. “Come on out, I won’t hurt you.” She shone her light around the tall grass. Turning around, she oriented herself to her bedroom window to find where the sound was coming from. When she turned back toward the meadow, a small gray and white cat had appeared. Ashley gasped, “You scared me little kitty.” The cat just stood there, staring up at her. In her flashlight’s beam, the eyes flashed for a moment as Ashley crept closer, trying not to scare it. She bent over to pick it up, and to her surprise, it didn't run away. Cuddling the creature close to her chest, she carried it back to her house. “See Mom, can I keep her? Please, please, pleeeeaaaase?” begged Ashley, holding the cat up for her mom to inspect the next morning. “Well,” said her mother, “If you take care of it, okay.” “Yippee!” shouted Ashley, “Did you hear that, kitty? I get to keep you!” Her mom hid a smile behind her mug of coffee. “What are you going to name it her?” she asked. “Umm, Misty, yeah,” said Ashley, “It was misty from the rain last night and she’s gray.” “Sounds perfect,” said her mom, “I’ll stop by the store and pick up some supplies on my way home from work.” “Thanks, Mom!” Ashley squealed, and ran to her room. A scream cut through the night like a hot knife through butter. Adam came tearing into Ashley's room. It was the night after Ashley found Misty. “Calm down, dweeb,” she said, her voice filled with sleep, “What happened? Bad dream?” “No,” he said, “There's something in my room.” “Yeah right.” “There was! I saw it!” he insisted, “Well, not all of it. Just these evil, glowing eyes that were staring at me in the dark. Then they disappeared and a second later they were on the other side of the room, staring again.” “Uh huh, sure.” “Come on, I'll show you,” he answered her snide comment and gestured for her to follow. Ashley groaned and dragged herself out of bed before following Adam into his room and turned on the lights. Misty came out from under his bed and stared up at the siblings. “Those are the eyes!” he yelled, ducking quickly behind his sister. “Calm down,” Ashley chastised him and picked Misty up, “It's just my new cat, Misty.” “That cat is evil Ash, get rid of it!” “No way,” snapped Ashley, “She didn’t do anything to you. I love her, and she stays.” Ashley took the cat back to her room, while Adam made sure his door was completely closed. The rest of the night was uneventful, and Ashley soon forgot about it. The next evening, the siblings were hanging out in their loft when a crash came from the living room below. “What was that?” Ashley startled, looking up from her book. Another smash sounded, and her eyes flew wide. “I don't know,” said Adam, “It sounded like something breaking.” They ran to the railing to peer down at the living room. They gasped and ran down the stairs. “Oh no!” Adam yelped. The living room was trashed from top to bottom. Their mother's collection of porcelain frogs covered the floor, in three thousand pieces it seemed. And the crystal vase was broken, too. It lay on the floor next to a small lump of fur. “Misty!” yelled Adam, “See Ashley? That cat is evil!” Misty turned to look at the humans who had walked in on her fun. Her eyes were wide, as she looked right at them and meowed softly. Ashley shivered despite herself. Misty couldn't have done it on purpose, could she? Adam and Ashley worked for an hour cleaning up the room before their parents came home. When they did, the siblings had a lot of explaining to do, and Ashley had a lot of begging to do to keep Misty. “See you later kids,” their dad said, “We’ll be back by ten.” “Well, Adam,” said Ashley, “What shall we do?” “Anything that's far away from that cat of yours,” he said. “She was staring at me all night, last night. She really scared me.” “Oh, Adam,” said Ashley with a laugh, “Next you'll be telling ME about the mailman being a vampire.” “Get real,” Adam said, throwing her a look of disgust, “Still, Misty gives me the creeps.” Adam put on his headphones and started dancing with a mop, while Ashley started writing the letter to her grandmother. The move was hard, and Ashley missed living down the road from her grandmother and getting to see her all the time. The letter was far overdue, but she had been so busy with unpacking and Misty, that, and her grandmother didn’t use email for easier correspondence. “Dear Grandma, Well, we got here okay, and the house is all unpacked, finally. Adam has been as annoying as ever. We have this awesome new loft to hang out in though, I can’t wait for you to see it. But grandma, the BEST news is that I found a little cat and mom actually let me keep her! She's gray and white, so I named her Misty. The strange thing is, she likes to stare at Adam in the dark. It scares him, but I think it’s kinda funny. Like, see what it’s like being annoyed all the time? Though, the other day she destroyed my mom's prized possessions, her frog collection, and her crystal vase. I felt so sorry for her, she almost cried when she found out, but I'm positive that Misty didn't mean to. She was just being a curious cat, I’m sure! At least, I hope… Anyway, our mailman comes only at night, so I will be able to get this letter out to you by morning. He's not like the other mail carries that deliver mail in the daylight, but this guy does it in the dead of night. Um, vampire much? At least it’s convenient if you’re a night owl, I guess. Oh well, I have to go now, grandma. Please write back if you find the time and think about getting a computer! I love you and I miss you. Love and kisses, Ashley” Ashley sealed the envelope as she slipped on her shoes and headed out to the mailbox. The night was cool and she showed in the darkness. A noise in the woods that bordered the long driveway on one side made her jump. “Who’s there?” she called softly. Nothing, silence, oblivion. Stop being so dramatic, she chastised herself, it’s probably just a raccoon. She put a hand to her racing heart. Calm down, there's nothing out there to be afraid of. Just then, something darted from the bushes in front of her. She didn’t get a good look at it but saw that it was big. She shrieked and turn to run, but the creature chased her and jumped on her back, holding her down. The thing’s claws dug into her back and she could feel the blood coming to the surface. She struggled against the weight on her back, crying through clenched teeth as the creature dug harder. When Ashley felt the last of her strength about to abandon her, her attacker sprang from her back and flashed into view for a second before running away. Breathing hard, and gasping for breath, Ashley couldn't move for quite a while as she gathered her wits and her strength. I can’t stay here, she thought as she slowly got to her feet. She limped back to the house, seeking help as the blood continued to soak into her shirt. “Adam!” she called weakly. “What?” Luckily, he had removed the headphones and was reading quietly in the living room instead. “Help,” she croaked, before collapsing on the floor. Adam heard her fall and came running. “Oh my god!” he screamed, “Ashley your back is covered in blood!” Adam ran into the kitchen and got some towels and water. He ran back and tried to clean off her wounds and staunch the flow of blood. “Don't worry, sis,” he said shakily, hoping to calm her, or himself, down. “It’s ten o’clock. Mom and Dad should be home soon.” As if on cue, the front door opened, and their mom stuck her head in the opening. “Hi kids,” she called out. “Mom!” yelled Adam, “In here, quick. Ashley’s hurt!” Ashley’s parents immediately bundled her into the car to take her to the hospital. On the way out, their mom turned to Adam, “Here, I almost forgot, Misty was outside on the doorstep with this in her mouth. Feed her, okay? We’ll call you from the hospital.” Adam watched his parents go, and then looked numbly down at his hand to see what his mother had given him. It was a bloody envelope, addressed to his grandmother, from Ashley. The next morning, Adam was allowed to visit his sister at the hospital. “Um, can we talk alone?” he asked. “Okay,” said the nurse, “But you only have ten minutes before visiting hours are over.” After the nurse left, Adam turned to his sister. She lay on the hospital bed looking pale. Bandages were covering her back and she winced as she shifted position slightly. “Ashley,” whispered Adam, “What happened?” “I was walking… ouch… out to the mailbox when something came out of the bushes jumped on me.” She paused to take a deep breath, “It was so strong, I couldn’t get up, and it started digging his claws into my back. I couldn't move, it… ouch… hurt so much.” “Does it hurt now?” “Only when I move,” she snorted in reply, rolling her eyes. “Did you see what it was?” he asked, sitting on the chair by the bed so he could be closer to her face. “Well,” she started, “I think my eyes were playing tricks on me, or I was in shock or something, but…” “What? But what?” he asked earnestly, “Tell me, please, Ash.” “It looked like Misty, but it was too heavy and too powerful to be cute little Misty.” “Um, Ash,” said Adam after a moment’s silence. “Yeah?” “Well, just before you left for the hospital, uh, Mom said she found Misty outside with your letter to Grandma in her mouth, and it was covered with blood.” “Ashley?” asked Adam. It was two days since Ashley's return from the hospital, they had kept her for a few days to make sure her wounds didn’t get infected. She didn’t have to wear bandages, but her back was still sore. “What?” she grumbled. It was also the middle of the night, and Ashley was very tired. “Misty is staring at me again,” he said softly from the doorway to her room, “I wish I knew what she was thinking.” As he was talking, Ashley suddenly sat up. “Shh!” she hissed, “Do you hear that?” “Yes,” he whispered, breathing rapidly and scrambling to stand beside her bed, “What is it?” The sound echoed from down the hallway. “It sounds like it's coming from my room,” said Adam, his voice shaky. The noise grew louder. It sounded like claws clicking on the floor, big claws, sharp claws, and coming closer. “It's coming in here,” squeaked Ashley. They looked toward the door and saw Misty. But she wasn’t a tiny cute kitty any more. She was huge, and as she walked into the room she blocked the whole doorway. Her eyes flashed in the darkness, glowing red, and drool oozed over her elongated jaw. A low growl issued from deep in her throat as she advanced on the kids, baring her razor-sharp teeth. “Adam quick,” called Ashley, who had moved to open the window beside her bed. “Out the window!” Ashley watched in horror as her beloved cat, now transformed somehow, launched her large bulk at Adam, pouncing like a tiger. He screamed as Misty bit his arm, teeth sinking through the thin cloth of his pajamas. Ashley grabbed the lamp from off the bedside table, and with tears in her eyes, she hurled it at the creature her sweet kitty had become. Misty snarled and let go of Adam. Wasting no time, Adam and Ashley tumbled through the opening. They hit the ground running, but Adam quickly spun and tried to shut the window. Misty charged, and the glass halted its downward progress. Adam took off running, hoping that would at least slow the creature down. “This way, Adam! Hurry!” The two kids raced across the lawn at the side of their house, heading toward the front. Maybe, thought Adam, yes, the grass is long enough. “Ashley,” he cried, “The meadow!” Ashley and Adam raced into the meadow and ducked out of sight just as Misty in hot pursuit, rounded the corner of the house. “Shh,” whispered Adam, “Come on.” He began crawling through the grass away from the house, and the vicious cat. “Adam…” whispered Ashley after some time, “I can't go anymore, my back…” Adam stopped crawling and dared a glance back, peeking his eyes above the tall grass. “It's okay, I think we lost her,” he said, “Just a little further, there’s a clearing where we can rest.” Ashley groaned, but followed her brother a while longer. When they reached the clearing, they both stood up cautiously and brushed off their knees. Adam suddenly went still in front of her, and Ashley stopped in her tracks. It was eerily quiet as they stared at the figure that stood blocking their path. “You!” said Ashley, gazing in shock at the mailman, with his unnaturally pale face and blood red lips. “Good evening, children,” he said softly, “So nice to see you out so late.” He smiled wickedly and advanced on the two children, mouth open, and fanged teeth glistening. Adam and Ashley were frozen in fear as he loomed closer. Just before he reached them, Ashley managed to whisper, “I was right.” As the vampire mailman dropped Adam’s lifeless body to the ground, he looked up. Entering the clearing was a small cat. She stared up at the mailman. “Good work, my supernatural friend,” he said, the children's blood still staining his teeth. “Thank you for chasing them this way.” The cat meowed before turning to her former masters lying dead on the ground and her eyes flashed red. Then, tail raised, she disappeared into the long grass.


This short story was inspired by Tom Waits. From the Tom Waits' album "Mule Variations" (1999). ‘I saw him again today.’ 'Saw who?' 'You know...him.' 'No hun, I don't know who you are referring to when you just say him?' 'You know, our neighbour. The old man.' ‘Really? Humf, I thought he would have left the neighbourhood after your last note. Maybe he didn’t get it?’ ‘No, I’m sure he got it. He opens his front door at least once a day when he walks to that disgusting old looking mailbox. Who would send him mail anyway? He’s sooo creepy. So when are you coming home? The kids miss you and I don’t feel safe, you know, with him being right there.’ ‘I’ll be back soon. We’re finishing the plans for the new South side of the building. I would say, I’m home on Tuesday.’ She gave a long purposeful sigh over the phone, ‘All right. I guess that’s fine.’ ‘Honey, come on. It’s not that bad.’ ‘It’s just that old creep. He’s always staring. I saw him open his door yesterday while the boys were playing innocently on the sidewalk. The kids say he didn’t say or do anything but I know. I know what he wants. He keeps whistling that tune as well. I don’t know where it’s from or why, but every time he sees them he would start whistling the same old tune. Do you think he’s trying to lure them in? Do you think he’s tried? Her voice slipped into a sinister tone, as he heard her adjust the phone in her hand. ‘I heard he has no one. No family, no pets, nothing. That’s why he wants my boys. He wants their company. I can tell.’ ‘That’s a bit…extreme.’ He said trying to lighten the tension. ‘Extreme! These are my boys! My sweet baby boys. I don’t want that dirty old man to touch them!’ ‘Okay, okay. Jesus Christ.’ - - ‘They’re my boys too. Don’t you think I worry too?’ ‘Doesn’t sound like it.’ ‘F—‘ ‘Excuse me?' ‘Never mind.’ ‘Just tell them to be careful around him.’ ‘Don’t you think I do it everyday!!?’ ‘Yes, of course.’ - - - ‘Also, I’m pretty sure he's a sex offender and he hasn’t gone around to tell people. That’s illegal right?' ‘Honey, I don’t—‘ ‘I can call the cops for that, I’m sure.’ ‘Jesus hun, don’t call the cops again. Last time you thought you heard some moaning from the shed, meanwhile it was just his cat. At this rate, no one will take you seriously.’ ‘What about that smell!?’ ‘What smell?’ ‘That one day when the whole block smell like a bleach bomb went off. That’s the kind of cleaning of someone who did something awful.’ - - - ‘Either way. Please don’t call the cops again. Or sneak into his yard for that matter.’ ‘Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do.’ - - ‘Don’t ask me then…? Also, I’m just saying. He’s never bothered us really. You seriously have to find better things to do during the day.’ - - - - ‘Are you staring at him now?’ ‘No.’ ‘I just heard the curtains draw.’ ‘I’m just checking if he’s there.’ - - ‘Yup, there he is. In that god-awful backyard of his. The lawn is dead and he doesn’t care. Just working in that wooden shed of his. All closed up and secretive. It sounds like he is slamming in nails into the floor of the shed. What’s he building in there? Maybe he is covering something up. Or someone. Buried it underneath the house. Buried his ex-wife underneath the panels? What do you think he’s building in there?’ He sighed softly on the other side of the line. Like a person patiently waiting for a train to pass before crossing the rails. - - ‘You still there?’ ‘Yup’ ‘So, what do you think he’s building in there? I can hear him at night, hitting and sawing. With that blue light that shines out from underneath the door.’ ‘Honey. I don’t know.’ ‘I bet you it’s some sex swing or dildo machine.’ ‘Jesus.’ ‘I bet you he’s not Christian either.’ ‘I wouldn’t know hun. I’ve seen him fix an old chair. He could be a repairman.’ 'No holy carpenter there, no sir.' - - ‘I’ve seen him whack a mole dead. No sympathy – that old wretched man.’ ‘Hun, you know they are a pest there.’ ‘Yea, but no man of God would hurt an innocent animal.’ ‘Hun, I’ve seen you pull out the rat traps with their squished heads… and you know, smile.’ ‘That’s different. And don’t say that.’ ‘What?’ ‘Squished heads. We’re Christian.’ - - ‘Okay.’ ‘Okay, what?’ ‘I don’t know hun, I’m off to bed. Please don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.’ ‘Like what? What do you expect from me!?’ ‘You’ve already threatened him with your letters and sending cops to his door for no good reason.’ ‘A mother has six sense about these kinds of things. That’s why I’m here, protecting my babies, and you’re not.’ - - ‘That’ not fair. You know I need to finish this job. Also. Seriously. He’s just an old creepy man minding his own business. I suggest you do the same.’ - - - ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just stressed.’ ‘Okay’ - - - ‘Unless he does something fishy again.’ ‘No Chloe. Dammit. Just call me if something is weird or happened. If you want me to call him, I’ll do.’ ‘Like you’ll be able to help. Also, he cut his phone line with some scissors last week. It’s not like you can reach him, and I doubt he has a cellphone.’ ‘He cut his own line with scissors?’ ‘Yup. Normal right?’ - - - - ‘Night Chloe. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’ ‘Yea’ Click. X Dial tone Dialling Ringing ‘Hello’ ‘Matt.’ ‘Hun?’ ‘You better come over now. The cops are here… ’ ‘Dammit Chloe why did you call the cops again. He’s just an old man! What could he have possibly done?' ‘There is so much blood…’ ‘Wait. What? What blood - who’s blood! What happened?’ - - - ‘Chloe!?’ - - - - ‘The cops aren’t here for him.


Over the years, a number of people have asked why I’m so jumpy and nervous all the time. I’ve even been described as uncomfortable in my own skin. While unflattering, that characterization is pretty valid. If I’m not feeling particularly generous with my personal explanations, I just make up an excuse about it being a normal part of my temperament. That usually ends the conversation. I presume my brother and sisters have fielded the same question. It’s a reasonable thing to wonder about four paranoid adults like us but the disturbing truth comes with a tangled answer. As my Papa ‘came clean’ to us years ago about a grave mistake he made in a moment of spiritual weakness, I’ve decided to share his story with you. Suit yourself over whether you believe it or not. Frankly I wouldn’t believe it myself but Papa had no doubt at all. Over time, his ironclad defense of the story went a long way toward convincing my siblings and I to keep glancing over our shoulders. I was raised in less-than-ideal circumstances. Born into abject poverty in a rural part of Eastern Kentucky, my teenage parents struggled to make ends meet. Life was deeply religious in our part of the country back then. In that way, I suppose my upbringing wasn’t so different from others around me. Pa got work in a coal mine and Ma did housekeeping for rich people. My three siblings and I had plenty of chores ourselves to do around the tarpaper shack. It was the first thing we did after school in the evening. Papa didn’t have time. He didn’t get home until late. He was always covered in coal dust and coughed up copious amounts of blackened phlegm. It was the Appalachian working man’s burden. I always felt bad for both my folks. The mine dust was rough on Papa, and Mama worked her fingers to the bone washing and cleaning. Then after working all day long for other folks, they came home and still had countless things to do. My brother and I couldn’t tote the wheelbarrow up to the house. It was too heavy. We just chopped the firewood and filled it full for use in the stove. Papa still had to bring it up to the house when he came home. Both of my sisters cooked and cleaned while Ma was working but washin’ clothes at the riverbank was something she had to take care of. Every day, the cycle of responsibilities would start over. The only day they ever had off was Sunday, and that was set aside for religious things at the church. They were very devout back then. One Tuesday morning there was a horrible collapse at the mine. We all feared the worst. The story made the national news. Mama prayed for Papa to make it back to us but the mining company spokesman said the shaft was completely shut off. They had no air to breathe. In all, there were 23 men trapped in the mine for eight days. 23 households awaited a miracle but in the end, only one family got ‘the man of the house’ back. Ours. The other miners died. Either from the deadly collapse itself, starvation, fear, or from slow asphyxiation. There are no pleasant ways to pass on, but dying in a pitch black coal mine was surely one of the worst. We were so grateful that he survived but at the same time, we felt terrible for the others. I went to school with several kids who lost their Papa. It was very awkward to celebrate our good fortune in the presence of the bereaving families. Ma warned us to be solemn and respectful around town, to avoid stirring up emotions in the less fortunate. We didn’t know it at the time but there was another reason for her call for discretion. Reporters came a callin’ but Papa refused the speak to any of them about his harrowing ordeal. As a kid, he’d been locked in a closet by his old man as punishment for bad marks in school. He’d been terrified of the dark all his life but toughed it out every day to put bread on the table. We assumed the disaster was too painful for him to think about; or he was keeping quiet out of respect for those who didn’t make it. The truth was infinitely more sinister. In a time when most people would assume my parents would become even more strong in their faith, they stopped going to church altogether. The folks around town started gossiping. Tongues wagged at our apparent lack of appreciation for him being spared. Instead of them being angry at the damn mining company for dangerous, unsafe working conditions, they resented Pa for being the only survivor! No one was willing to hire him after that. He was cursed in more ways than one. He had the ‘nerve’ to walk out of a collapsed mine shaft with no apparent contrition, while others paid with their lives. They had no idea of the truth of the matter. My siblings and I couldn’t help but notice my parents’ unsubtle shift away from religion. Ma kept telling us to ‘let it go’ but finally one night, Pa broke his silence. He confessed to us that like all the other doomed souls trapped in that dark shaft, he prayed to the lord to be spared. He wasn’t ready to die and didn’t want to leave us financially destitute. No matter how fervent any of them were in their pleas, their prayers went unanswered. One by one, the others succumbed to injury, deadly mine gases, hunger, or a lack of oxygen. Completely alone in the madness of death’s belly, Pa lost all hope. In his moment of greatest weakness and desperation, he gave up his faith, forever. He cast it aside like an old unused shovel. All the years spent praying in church for unity with God had been useless. The lord didn’t answer any of his pitiful cries. The miners were abandoned and in their tomb. For Papa to die alone in the cruel, closet-like darkness terrified him more than anything else in the world. Many of the perished men in the trapped crew were pious, God-fearing folks; and yet they had been forsaken in the end. If it was a test of loyalty or faith, their final reward was death. Their families were now fatherless. Papa grew frustrated and angry. In a pivotal moment of spiteful retaliation, he reversed the recipient of his pleas. He prayed to ‘the great adversary’ to spare him. We were wide-eyed in terror at his startling confession but then it grew even worse. He began to sob and shake. He realized that his own life held no collateral value to strike a bargain with since he was near death. Through tears of shame and regret, he admitted that he offered ‘the lord of lies’ one of our lives in exchange for sparing his own! There was no verbal affirmation from the Devil in the encompassing darkness but immediately afterward, a rescue party reconnected the collapsed tunnel. No sooner than the betrayal escaped his lips, they freed him. Pa accepted that ‘coincidence’ as an undeniable confirmation; and that there was no backing out of their diabolical agreement. He firmly believed that at some unknown point in the future, the hammer would drop and the ultimate price would have to be paid for his freedom, by one of us. To the day Pa died of black lung disease and Cirrhosis of the liver, he begged our forgiveness. Ma didn’t blame him and neither did any of us. Under unimaginable circumstances like those, many would’ve given into temptation and offered up horrible things to save themselves. As a man who kept his word with unwavering commitment no matter what, he fully accepted the consequences he believed that he brought upon my siblings and I. We all did. He and Mama turned their backs on the Bible from that day forward. Despite being an unrepentant prodigal to the very end, I think Papa drank himself to death as a form of subconscious penitence. He never forgave himself for “failing to accept death like a man.” Ma died soon afterward from a broken heart. They were interred beside each other at the town cemetery. It’s been more than twenty years since the mine disaster. All of my siblings are still alive but we never talk about ‘the pact’. We’re older now and have experienced a much broader world than the fragile one we grew up in. I’d like to believe we’re immune from believing in the trappings of folktales and curses but the nagging fear still lurks in the back of our minds. It haunts my thoughts and colors my perception of seemingly innocent events. If I hear a strange noise or disturbing shadows on the wall, I wonder: “What if this is it?”, or “What if ‘he’ has come to collect his debt?” We may never talk about it but I know my brother and sisters have the same lingering superstitious affliction. The irrational fear is inescapable. We’ll always worry that the reckoning day has arrived for one of us. It’s the source of our fears.


Timmy lay all cozily curled up in bed, his slow rhythmic breathing only ever so slightly audible. A gentle breeze blew the curtains upwards, making them balloon out a little bit. A pile of clothes lay on his chair next to his bed, as if to protect him while he slept. Outside, the night was still. An occasional bug hopped onto the windowsill, but soon hopped off again as it realised it couldn't get past the screen. Unbeknownst to the dreamer, a shadow appeared in his room. It glided soundlessly across the cool tiles, bent over to pick up a lump of blanket on the floor, straightened up again and - "G'mme back my blankie, mommy," Timmy sleepily mumbled with one eye open. He clamped his arm down by his side to keep the blanket on him, but it was too late. The blanket was off him. "Give't back," he mumbled again, stretching out both arms insistently. "Mommy?" he asked, this time more awake. "Wh-" He stopped mid-sentence, frozen. All sleep seemed to have left him. He couldn't scream, he couldn't move, he couldn't do a single thing except stare in shock. For there stood before him a glowing white creature with only sockets for eyes and a tongue that permanently hung out of its jawless mouth. Putrid green saliva (?) escaped onto the floor with a steady "*drip, drip, drip*". Its limbs were unnaturally long and seemed to be able to bend in directions that its apparent joints should not have allowed, and within its translucent chest was a cold, grey stone which Timmy could only assume to be what was once his heart. And as the creature extended its right limb closer and closer towards Timmy, its face cracked into a demented smile, if it was possible at all, since it had no jaws. Then the creature cleared its throat, as if to speak. Timmy squeezed his eyes shut and stuck his fingers in his ears, his heart pounding faster than the time Claire from class gave him a chocolate valentine. And the creature spoke in a deep, booming voice that resonated within Timmy's skull. "Hey kid, my name's Jonathan, but you can call me John. Didn't mean to scare ya, sorry about that. You're...Timothy, right?" \-- "Sooo...you've been living in my house for *how long again?"* Timmy asked in a tone of incredulity. I nodded. "Yep, you heard me. Since 'way back when your Grandma and Grandpa were still young, like you are now. They just didn't know I was around, see. And back then I didn't have my pals with me." I stopped short. "You mean there's more like you?!" he almost screeched, eyes widening in fear. I quickly realised my mistake and hurriedly tried to calm him down. "Hey, hey, they're not bad guys. They just need a place to stay. We got kicked out of this house when your Grandma and Grandpa were grown. I think it's called an...exoricism or something like that? Anyway, we got kicked out, and couldn't find anywhere to stay. Have you ever seen a man sleeping on the streets, Timmy?" He nodded. "Yeah, Mommy said that's because they're something called *homeless.*" "That was us. We wandered around, until we heard your Grandma and Grandpa had died. That meant that the protection surrounding this house had died with them. So we snuck back in. We were careful at first, not wanting to scare your Mommy and Daddy away in case they kicked us out again." "How did you manage that?" Timmy asked breathlessly. \-- Christa slept away, blissfully unaware of the time. The clocked ticked and ticked. Seconds passed, then minutes, then a full hour. Abruptly, she sat upright in bed and glanced at the clock. "Ugh, late again!" she cried out in distress, and scrambled out of bed to the bathroom, berating herself for having partied too hard the night before. Now her boss would certainly disapprove of this, and she wouldn't get that promotion she was eyeing. That goody-two-shoes, show-off, Little Miss Perfect Samantha would get it instead. " 'At Shamangda on'y knowsh 'ow 'oo show off anyway," she mumbled through a mouth full of toothpaste. She quickly finished the rest of her morning routine and came back out to the room, then stopped dead in her tracks with surprise. A nice outfit, admittedly pretty well-chosen, had been laid out nicely on the bed for her, along with her purse neatly sitting next to it. She rubbed her eyes to make sure this wasn't one of those dreams where you think you're all ready to go out the door and then you wake up, but she wasn't mistaken. This was real. "Must be losing my mind," she thought, and put on the outfit. She checked through her purse. Everything she would need for the day was in there. "I probably packed it last night in advance," she thought, and then left the house. That night when she came home exhausted from work, she caught a whiff of...grilled salmon? "That's funny, I don't remember buying salmon at all," she said to herself. "Eric?" she called out. "Are you home yet?" No answer. "I know you're in here somewhere, trying to surprise me with dinner!" she giggled, "Come on out now, I could smell that lovely dinner the minute I entered the house!" No answer. "Eric? C'mon, stop fooling around, I know you're in here. Jig's up. Let's eat, I'm starving," she called out a little louder, but no answer. Just then her phone buzzed. It was a text from Eric. "*Hey honey, I'll have to stay late at the office tonight, so sorry ): there's some pizza in the freezer if you want xx"* Chills ran up and down her spine. She went to the kitchen table, which had a single plate of grilled salmon and some asparagus on it. There was even a slice of lemon. Gingerly, she poked the fork, and then picked up the fork to use it to prod the salmon several times. It fell apart in pink, soft flakes, just the way it should be. Slowly, with a trembling hand, she brought a slice to her mouth. The taste was otherworldly. After finishing the whole plate, she lifted it up when she noticed a note underneath it in unfamiliar handwriting. "I hope you liked it. Please indicate your choice of breakfast the next day by putting a check mark next to any of the following: pancakes with maple syrup, fried bacon and scrambled eggs and toast, waffles with chocolate fudge and strawberries," she read aloud. Shaking her head and telling herself she would try to make things out later, she went to wash her plate. Plate now washed and dried, she dragged herself up the stairs to her bedroom. Halfway up, she tripped and fell flat on her face. She flailed out to catch the railings, but it was too late. She wouldn't have needed to catch the railings anyway, because she fell on something soft. Looking down, she could see the stairs a few inches away from her face. She was actually hovering above the stairs. Before she could react, whatever it was that held her started to push her back up into standing position. "Uhh...thanks?" she said out loud, and a booming "No problem!" made her shriek and sprint the rest of the way up into her bedroom, slamming the door firmly shut. A knock on the door startled her. "Lady, you forgot something," said the same booming voice from just now. "I believe you dropped your glasses." Cautiously, Christa opened the door a crack. There was no one outside, but her extremely battered glasses were floating in mid-air. She opened the door a little wider. "Sh- show yourself," she commanded bravely. There was a sigh. "Look, just get your glasses and go. I guarantee you, if you see what I look like, you won't want me in your house. It's a bad idea." They argued back and forth, until the creature finally relented. "Get a mirror and stand with your back to me," he instructed, and she did so. "Now, just wait. It takes a while for me to un-invisible myself using this method. Aaaand, yup, there we go. That's me." Christa's scream was enough to curdle the blood of any neighbour within a 5 mile radius. \-- "So, I finally managed to convince your parents through all the anonymous favours that I did for them, that although I look horrible enough it's a wonder the mirror didn't shatter, I'm actually just the spirit of a regular good guy that continues to be good even after he's dead," I finished proudly. An awestruck "Woooww!" was the only response I got from Timmy. Then, "You can make yourself invisible? Why didn't you make yourself invisible when you first came in? How do you do it? Wh-" "Hey, hey, buddy," I interrupted gently. "It's about 3am, time you should sleep, You were asleep before this anyway. I'll see you in the morning, okay?" "Okay," he replied, and gave me a huge smile. "Can I hug you goodnight? It must be lonely being a ghost." I could've sworn my cold stone heart felt a flicker of warmth right then, and I agreed on the hug, but reassured him that I had 2 other ghost pals and it wasn't quite as lonesome as he thought. "Goodnight, ghost-John. You're really cold, but I guess you give good hugs. You're a funny guy," he laughed. "Goodnight Timmy," I said, smiling, and softly exited the room.