DYE ME DEAD Jay Stempin Chapter 1 Michael

The tall bookshelf, bookended by dozens of Medusa-haired skulls, squeaked to life by the sound of a tricycle pedaled by a faerie with daisy petal hair. Green skin. Looked like a flower. She skidded to a halt in front of a paperback edition of Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man .  “Hey Mike, what’s the deal? Thought we had plans to get rid of him. As you can see snow’s falling hard. We really should get going. You know how I get around wintry weather.” “Name’s not Mike. How many times I got to tell you? It’s Michael.” “Sure it is, Mike. You’re with the syndicate, right? Know all about you. And I’m here to remind you of our mission. And let me reiterate the ‘our’ in this mission. You’ll get used to working for me. What? You don’t like that idea? Is that why you’re shedding skin like snowflakes? Get a grip. For the love of all the ash in Hades thought you’d be better equipped, emotionally.” “First off, Esmeralda, who’s the fool you’re referring to? Don’t work with many fools. But I know a few.” He gave her a long icy stare. He had dealt with fae before, notorious for trickery and games. “I’m kind as a dewy flower.” He smiled, knowing full-well that kindness was one of the last resorts for a faerie. She cringed as if someone had offered her a slice of raw liver.  “We’re all one here.” “Is that so? Get your gear, Mike. Time to head into the wilderness window.” Michael stepped outside. Snow was falling hard, sideways and upside-down. Some flakes, with the wind whipping about, were turned inside-out. He buttoned up his winter jacket and laced up a pair of snowshoes and trudged into the woods, pausing under a fat oak that formed a protective umbrella against the snow. He dropped his mittens into a pocket and rolled up his sleeve and blinked at his forearm. A tattooed map appeared on his arm revealing his current location and the surrounding topography of Nevada City, California. He muttered an incantation in the name of Zig and Zag Saunders. Zig and Zag were twins, brother and sister, born in San Francisco. They now lived in Nevada City and had been praying for help, via social media devices on their iPhones. Michael was assigned as their social worker. Michael trudged through the snowy woodlands until he reached a fork in the trail: one, to his left, followed a stream, the other a steep rocky snow-covered hill to his right. He glance over his shoulder, sensing he was being watched. The snow had stopped falling and the sun appeared, mirroring its bright moony light against the snowy landscape. He did not see anyone in the area and noticed had not left any snowshoe prints in the trail. He grinned and winked at the sky.  Onward he trudged until he spotted a cabin nestled amid a throng of trees. He removed his snowshoes, hooked them onto a pine branch. His boots crunched through the snow. Still no track marks in his wake. At the cabin’s front door, he stomped snow from his boots on the front mat: Welcome for the Last Time. A woman with short-cropped hair highlighted in purple answered the door. She was dressed in slippers and thermals and a wool sweater. Looked to be in her twenties. “Yes? Can I help you?” Michael bowed and took a step back. “Hello, friend. Is this the residence of Zag Saunders?” “Last time I checked, yes.” “I’m here on her behalf. Are you Zag?” She shook her head and placed a finger under her dimpled chin. “You’re here to help my brother, aren’t you? I’ve been wishing for you to come. He’s sick with an injury and has trouble getting around.” “I do not!” The gruff reply came from deeper in the cabin. “Oh shush your mouth,” she snapped over her shoulder. “And don’t get out of bed.” The sound of a floorboard squeaking was followed by something dragging. Tap. Drag. Tap. Zig rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t listen very well.” “And you’re not taking my friend from me,” continued the same gruff voice. “Julius’s mine.” A man appeared next to Zig. Sandy brown disheveled hair and blue eyes rimmed in gold. Hooded sweatshirt with two crescent moon patches, each with a faerie dangling by one arm from the moon’s arched edge. One fae was waving the peace sign with two fingers, the other flipping the bird. “This is Zag,” said Zig. “My brother. Were twins.” The likeness was remarkable. Same blue eyes. Same sandy hair. The woman was about an inch taller. Zag had long hair twirled into a single braid. He had carved his crutch into the likeness of a braid with the head of Medusa on the handle.  “Would you like to come in, Michael?” Michael gave pause, surprised by her knowingness. He offered a humbling nod. “You’re a wise one, Ms. Zig. Very in-tune with the realm beyond the physical plane. We all need to be in tune. And here we are: to remember who we are and why we’re here.” Winter winds slid under the cabin’s front door causing an icy draft that’d make a snowman’s pee freeze. Zig shoved a rug to the door, blocking the gap. Zag, leaning on a crutch, boasted: “We’ve been praying and meditating for you to come. For years. Glad you’re here. But you sure took your time. Run out of gas? Get lost Hoodwinked by a rabid wolf?” Zag turned and hobbled to a sofa and sat next to a hand-stitched Guatemalan blanket scrunched up on the sofa. There, seated on a throw pillow, arms wrapped around her legs, chin resting on her knee, was Esmeralda. “Took you long enough,” smirked Esmeralda. “Hello. Been supporting these two, I hope. Let’s get down to business then.” She buzzed around Zag’s head and cartwheeled through the air, landed on his shoulder. “Be kind, silly human. Be kind. Stay loving to Julius.” Esmeralda took flight and disappeared under the gap in the front door. Gone. They all sat at the kitchen table. Michael set his coat on the chairback. He was wearing a black T-shirt filled with a collage of interlocking gold halos. Stamped over the halos, in bold white letters: Archangels 27 Buddhas 9.

 “Zag, how you been? What’s been going on with you? What’s good?” Zag’s eyes remained on the window, watching snow fall and twinkle in the morning light. “You mean being dead?” Zag shrugged. “Feel the same, I guess. What about Emma? I really miss her. Wonder if I’ll see her again. By the way, got your message last week. That dream was vivid, dude.” “Hope it set your soul free.” Wings bloomed from Michael’s V-shaped back; he yawned, and then scratched his arm with a wingtip before they disappeared into the crystalline comfort of his spine. “Worried about Emma.” “Oh stop,” said Michael in a feathery tone. “You’ve got a gift but you must remember not to allow emotions into your threaded consciousness. Your empowering energy can be a bit of a double-edged sword.” “Ya think…? You referring to being able to remember past-lives? Yeah, it sucks. That’s almost worse than being dead. Probably a close second. My heart’s heavy right now. Like I’ve got Fred Flintstone’s stone house on my chest.” Michael sprinkled a handful of glittery dust over Zag’s head, and began to sing, ever so softly. It was an unfamiliar tune with an intoxicating rhythm to it. Catchy. “This’ll help you, for a time. New recipe.” His bright brown eyes smiled. “What were you singing?” “A new recipe blend Just put it together. Been working with a local spellfarmer who helped me sync my singing recipes with her herbal blends. She’s got quite the garden in the canopy.” There was a pause. “You talking about Belle Gaia?” Michael grinned. “You’re tuning in. You’re intuitive, just like your sister.” Zag’s face said he not all that impressed with these hunches. “Just echoing what I hear in my mind. What was so special about that? What I really want: find Emma.” “Careful with those memories. Could be hundreds, or even thousands, of years old.” Zag did feel lighter though; he expressed all this to Michael and Zig. A smile formed on his face. “What is it?” said Zig. “Haven’t seen you smile like that in eons.” “I see her, in my mind. Emma’s face fills my thoughts.” He gazed off again, as if the wooden crossbeams under the ceiling were talking to him. “Her infectious laugh, like silver wind chimes vibrating sweet tonal chords. Perfect."

“Come out back. Got to show you something. You know you’re becoming quite the popular one, in certain circles,” said Michael. “Just got to find out what happened to her.” “Brother, you’re popular. Great news.” Zig’s eyes beamed. “Popularity doesn’t interest me,” he said solemnly and closed the door after Michael followed them to the back porch. “Right now, I’m just going to hold onto her smiling image, her soft caramel eyes, her touch.” “Okay. Too much information,” Zig said, tugging on a ski hat. “Emma’s silky locks rolled down her back. Her youthful enthusiasm was everything wrapped in a bow.” Zag sighed, leaned his crutch on the wooden screened-in back porch. Michael said: “You think she’s dead, don’t you?” Zag gave him a funny look and shielded a ray of sun streaming through the tall snow-covered pines. A forest of trees stretched out in front of them. A narrow twin-pathed trail meandered from the cabin and disappeared into the Wood. “If she is, why can’t I be with her? Flippin’ sucks, dude.” “You’re toying with memories. Don’t you know how taxing that can be?” Zane shook his head. “I get it. But it’s tough when she twirls into my thoughts every day.” Michael ruffled his shoulders and began to hum and send vibrations through Zag’s legs. “You thinking of her now?” There was a pause. Zag said, “Who?”

Chapter 2 Zag

 “Emma, you want a cup of tea? Got some Gunpowder Green.” She stepped in behind him and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him close. She kissed him on the neck. “Let’s play scrabble.” He spun round and their lips danced together. He could feel her heart pounding against his. He closed his eyes inhaling the flowery scent in her hair, nibbled at her neck. They sat at the table, scrabble board set up. Emma set her word onto the board: Quicken. Played it off his word: Tangle. Tea kettle whistled. Emma strolled down the hallway, her long hair shining in the moonlight pouring in through the window. She disappeared into the kitchen. Sirens wailed from somewhere outside. Zag stirred in his seat, but he could not get up. Something was holding him down. He looked to see his feet shackled to the chair legs. Julius, perched on a wooden branch of a Japanese maple, took flight and flew in through the open window and landed on the window sill. “Hola ‘migo,” said Julius. Julius was a dwarf dragon. “Hey there. Did you hear that siren?” Julius began pruning his purple-green scaled belly, wrapped his tail around his talons. “I did.” “What’s the emergency? Ambulances out there?” “Not that kind a siren, pendejo. It was Shellbee, the siren of the Wood.” “Oh, man. She’s at it again?” Julius began muttering something else in Spanish. “Come on, man. In English. I’m not bilingual.” “Try and stay present, friend.” “Doing the best I can. But since I died, well, living in this spectral frame’s a bit of a challenge.” “Learning curve’s something you can handle, amigo.” Zag closed his eyes. A buzzing sound flitted through the air. Sounded like Shellbee wooing someone in the woods again. Zag woke him. He rolled over in bed, mulling over the dream. Julius was sleeping atop the sofa, a red-embered fire glowing in the fireplace, tail wrapped around his scaly frame. A tapping came to the door. Michael was invited inside and offered a cup of tea. Zag went on to describe his dream in detail. “And here’s the thing: If I am dead, why am I dreaming? Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to dream about Emma. It has happened a lot since I died. But why am I stuck here, in this body, if I’m dead.” “It’s not your time to transition. But you carry a gift of past-life remembrance. And you’re just learning how to catalogue all these memories. You have a job to complete. That’s why I’m here. Your liaison. It has more to do with your sister than Emma.” “Emma. Tell me about Emma.” “It’s for you to discover. It’s part of your soul contract. That’s all I can say for now.” He glanced to his gold pocket watch. I must be off. Toodle-oo.” Before Zag could even open his mouth, Michael was gone. Zag sat on the sofa. “Well, Julius. What do you make of all that?” “How ‘bout you cook up some pork tortilla soup.” “You’re always hungry.” Zag sipped on his tea and heard a feminine voice whispering in his ear. He turned, wondering if his imagination was playing games with him. “You’re still alive, my sweet cantaloupe. Even if you’re dead.” Sounded like Emma. Was he dreaming again? There she stood, dressed in a flowing gown of purple, yellow frockcoat, tawny boots, and spinning an umbrella in her hand. Her long white gloves shimmered like starlight. “If you want to reunite with me, you’ll need to save your sister.” “What’s the matter with Zig? She alright?” “Hurry. Zag. Hurry.”  “Hurry? Haven’t hurried anywhere since my body began to fail me years back.” Julius appeared in front of his nose, hovering, wings going at hummingbird-speed. He whacked Zag in the head with the tip of his leathery tail. “Use your core strength before your sister is sent to cadaver central.” Zag hobbled to a standing position. “What’re you doing?” said Julius. “I’m going to find Zig.” “Sit your butt down, pendejo. Use your core essence.” Those words from Julius made something click for Zag. He sat down, closed his eyes, and meditated on Zig. Within several minutes, might have been longer, Zig was uncertain how much time passed as he drifted into the safe haven of meditation. Zig? Can you hear me? Zig? It’s your brother. Trying to reach you psychically. Where you at? There was a gentle tapping at his third eye. Zig smiled; kept his eyes closed, seated in a pretzel position. Body swaying. Waves of energy rolled through him; shoulders and arms began to shiver with warmth. Felt silvery inside. Was his sister trying to respond? Wow. Exciting! Zag continued to focus on each inhalation and exhalation. A voice spoke in his head: I’m sorry but your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try your call again. What? Hello? This is Zag Saunders. Trying to reach my sister. The same voice responded in his head: Sir, your call cannot be completed as dialed. This is Ophelia Jones, psychic switchboard operator of Akashic Records Warehouse. Can I help you? Hi. I’m trying to reach my sister. Think she’s in trouble. Sir. Please state your name and the last four digits of your social security number. He gave her this information. But he really wanted to flip her off for making him go through this charade. Your account has not been activated, sir. Would you like to activate it? Does Satan steal souls? ‘Course I do. Sir, in order to activate your account, I’ll need some information. This call is being recorded. Can you give me the address of your temporary residency at Akashic Records? Akashic Records? I don’t live there. Live in Nevada City. Mr. Saunders. There’s no Nevada City address here. Can you give me your secret password? Don’t have a password. He felt Julius land on his shoulder and purr, “Tell her: Winnie the Pooh.” Uh….Winnie the Pooh. Thank you sir. Now, for further security, can you verify your death date? Earth Day. April 22, 1990. Thank you sir. The line seemed to go dead. Hello? Operator? You there? Hi there. Who’s this? The voice did not sound like the operator. Zag replied: This is Zag Saunders. I’ve been trying to reach my sister. Zag? This is Zig. Need your help. She informed Zig that she was arrested for illicit energy travel and she needed to be bailed out. Zig caught an Uber and made it to the police station. Got her released. Zig, in tears, explained, on the cab ride home, that she had been set up. She did not even know what illicit energy travel meant. At home, Michael was there wearing his signature grin. “Bravo, my friends of Earth. You’ve done it. Both of you are safe now.” “Safe?” Zig wiped her nose with a tissue. “Don’t worry your sweet heart. All charges have been dropped. He hugged them both.  They chatted on the back deck for over an hour. “Heaven has unique ways of handling situations. But understand this: you two will be working your magic. Here on Earth, for many years to come.” Zag stood up and performed a few deep-knee bends. “Look at this? I can move. No pain in my legs.” He pushed open the screen door and danced around the yard, waving his arms in the air and shouting with excitement. The following day Zig and Zag both received letters in the mail confirmed their acceptance as Health care workers at Akashic Healing Arts. They were to pack their bags and relocate to Earth Too, a planet in the fourth dimension, locate at 117 Bradbury Lane.


"Give me what I want, and no-one gets hurt." "I know that voice." Marshall Calhoun swiveled on the barstool. "Silas McReady. Ol' Lead Heart." "In the flesh."

"Been a while." "Fifteen years, Ethan. Long time." "What's with the gun, Silas?" "Wanted to start this off on the right foot. Heard you've turned lawman now, Ethan. You were a quick draw back then, fifteen years ago, and from what I hear you're quicker now. Still don't think you're as quick as me, but I'm not anxious to find out. So, figured I'd get the draw on you from the get-go. And then there's this, my ace in the hole. Bring her in, Cookpot." The saloon doors swung open and Cookpot — a tall, broad-shouldered, blonde, bearded man — entered, his left arm around the neck of fourteen-year-old Annabelle Pinion, his right holding a Colt Cog Action Army .45 pointed at her head. "Heard tell this little one is special to ya, Ethan," Silas said. "Near to an adopted child, is what I hear. Like you were to me, back when." Annabelle was short, flat-faced, buck-toothed, wore her hair in long braids under a man's Stetson several sizes too large, and she had something wrong with her eyes so she had to use powerful goggles to read, reading being her favorite pastime. Since she wasn't reading at the moment, the goggles were perched up on the hatband.

"You doing alright, Annabelle?" Calhoun asked, voice steady, but there was a thickness in his throat.

"Yes, Marshall Calhoun, sir, he hasn't hurt me none, as of yet, though I can't say I like the looks of things."

Marshall Calhoun stood up from the barstool, hands held up at shoulder height, palms towards Silas.

Ethan "Iron Hand" Calhoun was tall, slim, with narrow eyes in a narrow face. He wore all black, except for the red kerchief around his neck. On his right hand, his gun-hand, he wore a mechanized glove, clockwork-powered for fast-action shooting. His left hand was bare, and he was missing his left ring-finger. The man Calhoun was facing, Silas "Lead Heart" McReady, was shorter by a head, and in contrast to Calhoun's jet-black hair, Silas's lead-gray shag was threaded throughout with silver strands, his weatherworn face creased and wrinkled with skin tough and worn as old boot-leather. But he had the same narrow eyes as his once-near-adopted 'son', the same intense stare, the same at-the-ready gunman's stance.

"So, what do you want, Silas?"

"Treasure." "Then you've come to the wrong place, old man. Gearsville's full of dust, but it ain't gold-dust." "You know what, you always were a straight shooter. So, I believe you don't even know," Silas said. "But I know. Believe me, there's treasure in this town, and, what's more, I know where it is. We're gonna take a walk down Main Street to the clocktower, get that treasure, and then head right out of here in the airship we just sailed in on."

"Treasure, in the clocktower? News to me." "It's there alright. You're coming with me, Ethan, just so there'll be no trouble until we leave." Silas turned. "Cookpot, we're bringing the girl too." "What about that one?" Cookpot pointed to the grizzled codger slumped at the end of the bar, the only other patron in the saloon at this early hour, nine in the morning. "Hey, ol' timer, what's your name?" The old man stood up from his bar-stool. With his left hand, he smoothed down his rumpled shirt and vest, ran a hand through his unkempt white mane of hair and over his bushy beard. In his right hand, he still clutched his whiskey. His watery, unfocused blue eyes peered in Cookpot's direction. "Who's askin'?" he slurred. "I'm askin', ol' timer. What's your name?" "Phineas Cogsworth. Folk 'round here just call me Phin." "The town drunk, huh?" "Mr. Cogsworth is an inventor." It was the tinny, metallic voice of the automaton who was tending the bar. "An inventor?" Silas said. "This one? What did he invent?" "He made me, for one," said the automaton barkeep. "And many other wonderful machines." "Okay, Inventor Phin, you're coming with us too," Silas said.

"And what about that one?" Cookpot motioned at the clockwork automaton barkeep.

"Cog-boy stays," Silas said. "Don't care for his kind anyhow. You're gonna keep quiet, right, Cog-boy, lest your betters get hurt?" "Yes sir," the automaton said in its tinny, metallic voice, fixed grin engraved on its steel features, eyes two shining blue gems. "Please don't hurt anyone, sir." "Now, give me your gun, Ethan," Silas said. "Nice and slow. No quick moves. I've got my finger on the trigger, and it might twitch if I get startled." *** "I know it's here," Silas said.

They were in the clocktower at the end of Main Street. Cookpot was standing guard outside, and a twitchy, freckled redhead desperado had joined Silas to watch over Marshall Calhoun, Annabelle, and Phin while Silas searched the place.

On the ground floor of the clocktower, the room was bare, except for two dusty old chairs upholstered in green velvet, each on one side of a large portrait of Alexander Gearhart, the founder of Gearsville, with his neatly trimmed moustache and his iconic monocle and top hat.

"I was told," Silas said, "that I should take a closer look at the painting." He peered at the portrait, then grabbed a hold of the frame and lifted the picture down off the wall. Something fell out of the back of the painting, a glint of gold as it rolled on its edge across the floor, landing at the tip of Phin's left boot. Phin deftly stepped on it, hiding the item. Neither Silas nor the freckled redhead had noticed — they were too busy staring at what had been hidden behind the painting.

"See, I told ya!" Silas said. "A safe!" This was an older model safe, one that used a key, rather than a combination lock.

"Guess you need to find that key next," Marshall Calhoun said.

"Nah, this one I can blow easily," the redhead said. "All I need is some gunpowder. And it just so happens, I brought some along." He guffawed.

Sure enough, in less time than it would take to recite the twenty-third psalm and the Lord's prayer three times at a decent pace, the freckled redhead blew the safe open.

Inside they found a good sized chest, about two feet long, a foot deep, and a foot-and-a-half tall. It was padlocked, but Silas fixed that in no-time, jimmying the lock with a crowbar. They all gathered around as Silas opened the lid, to find that the chest contained ... ... nothing! "I guess the joke's on you," Calhoun said. "Someone musta gotten to it first, and then just put it back again empty, whaddaya say?" "I say something's not right here," Silas drew his gun and pointed it at Marshall Calhoun. "I say you've been playing me all along, Ethan." Calhoun raised his hands. "Now hold on, Silas. You said yourself that I was a straight shooter. I didn't know it was here, honest. Look at the dust and cobwebs on the wall where the picture used to hang. This is the first time in a really long time that anyone got to that safe." "Well, then, we'll just have to find some other treasure," Silas said. "We'll round up the Gearsville citizenry and see what they can contribute, rob your bank, and then torch the whole damn town. What do you think of that, Ethan?" "I say that's rotten." "Well, that's what you think of me, ain't it? Wasn't that the last thing you said as you rode off back then, fifteen years ago? That I was rotten to the core? Well I'll prove you right, son. I'll show you just how rotten I can be. Let's get outta here!" ***

Outside on Main Street, the gang's big airship was tethered to the clocktower, hovering a few feet above the street, ready to take off on moments notice, a ramp extended to the ground. In front of the airship there were nine steam-powered horses with Cookpot and six other desperadoes mounted.

The freckled redhead stepped into the stirrup of the nearest of the two riderless steam-horses, swung his leg over the horse's back and settled in the saddle. Off in the distance, a man approached, walking slowly down Main Street.

Silas leveled his gun, then relaxed as the 'man' came closer and he could see that it was the automaton barkeep. "What're you doing here, Cog-boy," Silas said. "Who's mindin' the bar?" The automaton barkeep ignored Silas and addressed Marshall Calhoun: "I made all the arrangements, sir, according to your standing instructions. The town is at the ready." "Thank you, Joe," Calhoun said, then brought his fingers to his lips and let out a loud whistle.

The rooftops suddenly sprouted rifle barrels all around. The clockwork ratcheting of Winchester auto-repeaters echoed. "Here's the deal, Silas," Marshall Calhoun said. "Three options. Number one: I can give the signal and the townfolk up on the roofs will light up on you and your men. Or, number two: you can just take the easy way out and head up the ramp to your airship." "That's two options," Silas said. "What's the third?" "Back there in the bar you said you think you're still a quicker draw than me. Wanna find out once and for all?" Silas gave him a long look, then smiled. He held out the Marshall's gun. "Yeah, Ethan," he said. "Let's find out." *** "Any time, Marshall."

They were twenty paces apart, facing each other, right hands hovering over their holstered guns.

"When the clock in the tower strikes ten," Calhoun said.

The clock in the tower began striking, one bell … two bells … three bells … "You were just a kid, Ethan. I taught you everything." Four bells … five bells … "You left out the most important part." Six bells … seven bells … "What's that?" Eight bells … nine bells … "You never taught me to be a good man. I had to figure that out for myself." At the tenth strike of the bell, both men drew at blinding fast speed. *** Silas looks so small , Calhoun thought. I remember him being so much bigger, so solid, so strong . This crumpled scarecrow was a frail, broken rag-doll, half the size of the Silas of Calhoun's memory.

Calhoun leaned down, used his left hand, the ungloved one, to feel for Silas's pulse at his neck. Nothing. The fixed stare in the pale blue eyes told the same story, as did the growing bloom of blood soaking the front of Silas's shirt. Dead. Gone. Calhoun moved his hand from Silas's neck to his eyes, closing both eyelids with thumb and index finger. Marshall Calhoun stood up, turned around, clockwork six-shooter still in his mech-gloved right hand. "It's over," he said, addressing the townsfolk riflemen up on the roof tops as well as Silas's gang down on Main Street, the eight desperadoes on their steam-powered horses.

Calhoun stepped closer to the nearest horseman, the twitchy red-headed, freckled one. Calhoun cocked his gun, and in reply the redhead aimed his six-shooter at Calhoun. On the rooftops twenty rifles took aim at the gang below, the clockwork sound of levers winding up for mechanized repeater-action.

"There's no need for more bloodshed," Marshall Calhoun said. "If you leave now, sail your airship into the big blue, we'll give you free passage, no posse, no-one even needing to know what went down today. You saw it, the treasure chest was empty, so there's nothing for you here. Silas had the wrong information, is all. Silas is dead. And I'll give him a good burial. There was a time when I loved the man, and there's still a fair bit of love for him left in me. Let it go. Leave now. I'll put him in the ground." "Eat dirt," the redhead said, gun still leveled at the Marshall's head. "You think you can get away with gunning down Ol' Lead Heart like that? No way. There's one of you and eight of us, and I don't believe that gaggle of hick-birds up on the rooftops could hit the side of a barn. For all we know they're pointing broomsticks at us, and winding alarm clocks, pretending to have cog-rifles." The big, blonde, bearded man, the one Silas had called Cookpot, rode up, clockwork-horse puffing steam.

"The Marshall is right, Freckles," Cookpot said to the freckled redhead. "It was a fair fight. The Marshall outdrew and outgunned Lead Heart, that's the way of it. He's dead and gone, there ain't no treasure, and nothin' good comes from getting into a gunfight with these hick townies." He squinted up at the rifle barrels poking from the roof-tops all around, then yelled: "We're leaving. You hear? Your Marshall promised us free passage, and we'll take it." The eight men rode off to the airship, up the ramp, which closed behind them. The airship released its grapple hook tether from the clocktower, lifted off, and soon became a smaller and smaller dot in the big, blue sky.  ***

"See here's the thing!" Phin cackled. "It ain't so empty as you think, Marshall, this treasure chest. Lookie here, will-ya!?"

The wiry, grizzled old man held up the golden cogwheel they had found behind the portrait in the clock tower. "This is the key," he said. "I mean, Marshall, it's literally the key. Let me show you." Phin fiddled with the golden cogwheel, inserting it between the two other cogwheels at the bottom of the empty treasure chest.

Nothing happened. Phin scratched his neck. "Well, I'll be durned. I was so sure." "Needs a power source," Annabelle said. "And we have a great big one right outside, a white ball of hot fire up in the big blue." They dragged the treasure chest out of the clocktower and into Main Street.

Annabelle took off her reading-goggles and used the lenses to concentrate the sun's rays to a bright dot which she aimed at the dull-gray jewel in the middle of the golden cogwheel.

The dull, gray jewel turned green, and the golden cogwheel began turning in a strange pattern, forward once, backward once, then forward twice, then backwards three clicks, then forward five clicks, then backwards eight clicks, then forward thirteen clicks. "It's the Fibonacci sequence," Annabelle said as the cogwheel kept clicking backwards and forwards. The last was a long run of clicks.

"He's goin' for eighty-nine clicks this time," Phin said. "That's the next in the sequence, right, Annabelle?"

Annabelle nodded, just as the cogwheel reached that final click.

With a thunk and the grind of hinges that had not been oiled for a very long time, the whole bottom of the empty treasure chest swung open. Inside the false bottom they found a leather-bound book and two rolled up documents.

"This ... " said Phin, "looks familiar." While Annabelle unrolled the documents, which were blueprints of a complicated machine, Phin opened the book. "Well, I'll be durned," he said. "I do believe I wrote this my own self." "You," Marshall Calhoun said. "You wrote this, Phin? You hid this away in this complicated way? For Cog's sake, man, why?" "I don't rightly know, Marshall," said Phin. "You see, when the whiskey-demon got me and I began losing my marbles, I started doing stupid shit, like burn my books, destroy my machines, or so they say. Me, I can't recall much of those days. This must have been awfully important, if I went through all this trouble to hide it from myself, being that it's the only thing that remains of all I wrote and most of all the machines I made back when I was in my right mind. Yup, musta been pretty, pretty important." "Important?" Annabelle said, looking up from the blueprints. "You can say that again. Do you know what this is?" "No, ma'am, I don't." Phin shook his head. "It's the blueprints for a machine that would create unlimited power in the same way the sun does, except not hot," Annabelle said. "It's cold-sun-power. I don't know what else to call it. It's everything we could ever want. Why'd you not make this machine, Phin?" "I remember now," Phin said, "the reason I hid this away." "Yeah?" Marshall Calhoun said. "Why?" "Because I was afraid of it," Phin said. "It's everything we want, that's true, but it comes with a terrible cost. You see, this machine can either make unlimited power, clean power, free power for everyone, or ... " "Or?" Annabelle looked closer at the blueprint. "Oh," she said. "I see it. This machine could also be a bomb." "The biggest bomb anyone ever made," Phin said. "So big that it could destroy a whole city, so big that in the hands of the wrong people, it could destroy the world." "Put it all back," Calhoun said. "But ... " Annabelle looked at him.

"It's too much power," Calhoun said. "We're not ready to wield the power of the sun. Not now. Maybe never. We'll play at being God and end up going to the Devil." She sighed. "You're right." "But what do we do with the chest?" Phin said. "That Freckles guy blew the safe to smithereens." "We couldn't put it back there anyhow," Calhoun said. "Someone knew it was there. Maybe someone you told, Phin, back when you'd lost your marbles, who knows. I'll find a place to bury the chest, somewhere only I'll know." He held up the golden cogwheel. "And you, Phin, go find a place to hide this, somewhere only you'll know." "Okay." Phin took the cogwheel. "One day," Calhoun said. "Probably not in my lifetime, but maybe it'll be your grandchildren, Annabelle, who make a world where it's safe to share the secret of the sun."


This would make a great once upon a time story,  Michel thought . Except,

I’m  in it.

Maybe the next time someone tells you a place is haunted you’ll believe it,

said a voice inside him. If there was a next time which seemed doubtful, considering who was screaming at him right this very moment. All because he’d dared to ask why he’d been captured.

“Why are you in this cell?” roared the monster. “Because you stole my flowers!”

Michel was amazed he could look at him without screaming himself. Monsters weren’t supposed to exist. Everyone in England was too enlightened for that. Yet here was one. He, or so Michel assumed, was large, standing seven feet tall. He had the horns of a bull and a face like a bear. He stood upright, with paws instead of hands and a bull’s feet. He worn velvet blue pants ripped and patched. Michel rubbed his shoulder and winced. The damned monster had almost pulled it out of socket dragging him here.

The pain was how he knew he wasn’t dreaming.

 “It was just a flower, sir, for my daughter’s grave. In all honesty, you seem far too angry over this.”

Good God almighty did you just say that?

he thought, watching the monster’s jaw open, showing sharp fangs.

Can you blame me?  Michel asked himself. It didn’t help that the merchant ship he’d been expecting still wasn’t in port. With his luck, the damned thing probably sank and he'd have no wares to sell. Coming home in the pouring rain he had seen the castle and ran to take shelter in an archway. Then afterward, he’d seen the rose garden. So many Michel had figured it wouldn’t hurt to take just one. It had been so red, almost like blood, brilliant in the twilight, sweet-smelling as a spring breeze. But still, it wasn’t the only one. Now here he was imprisoned by a crazed monster-gardener.

“How dare you talk to me this way!” it spoke in a furious growl.

“What more can you do to me?” Michel looked around him. “I’m in this cell. I suppose you could kill me but I’m fine with that.”

The monster stared at him. “What?” His eyes widened. Michel saw they were green.

The things you notice at a time like this .

 “You want to die?”

“Not really,” Michel smiled. “But it wouldn’t be the worst thing. I’d see my wife and daughter again.”

I hope.

Given his past history that was also doubtful. But after all the priest said Jesus forgave a murderer on a cross so who knew?

The monster frowned.” I don’t understand,” he said at last. "Most people are frightened of me.”

“Oh, trust me, sir, I am. But also curious. Why all this over a flower?”

The monster simply turned and left.

Humph. Well, at least I’m alive.

For now,

Michel thought. He coughed and put his hand on the wall, Damp, cold stone. One barred window, and a barred door. A torch burned a few feet away, lighting a stone hallway leading to stairs.

Do all prison cells have to be alike?

Michel pulled his picks out of his pocket. He was struggling with the lock when the door swung open.

My Lord Jesus, help me.

 He wasn’t a praying man, but this seemed a fitting occasion.

For a ghostly figure stood there. In life, he might have been handsome, if one liked men with ringlets and thick mustaches.

 “Come with me,” he said. Oddly, his hollow voice had a French accent.

“Ah,” said Michel, “I see. There is an enchantment here.”

“Hush,” said the ghost. “The master doesn’t like too many questions.”

“I noticed,” said Michel. “Look, I honestly meant no harm. How about you help a poor peasant and get me out of here, Sir…?”

“Just call me Louis. And I can’t let you escape.”

“I’ll take you with me if you’d like. Maybe you’ll become...um… more solid?”

“I’m not leaving. Neither are you.”

“Thanks a lot,” Michel said.

“Do you want out of this cell, or not?”

Michel pulled his coat tighter around him. “That would be nice.”

“Then come and be silent.” Louis led him down some staircases and into the servant’s quarters. He took Michel to a bedroom that contained a small lumpy-looking bed and a dresser. It was dusty but it wasn’t a cell either.

“So,” Michel asked, “What’s the story?”

Louis shook his head as if annoyed. “Don’t ask questions I said. Boy!” he called out, startling Michel. A ghostly child brought in a cart. Obviously, their state didn’t stop them from handling objects. On it was indeed a bowl of stew. Michel ate and while it was plain it was hot and hearty.

Now, let’s see about getting out.

Michel went to the door which was unlocked. He looked out. Louis and Boy seemed to be gone.

This might be a trap. They could be invisible.

Only one way to find out.

Michel crept out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and back up the stairs. At the top was a wooden door that led into a great hallway. At one time the place must have been beautiful. Now it was cobwebby and smelled of dirty tapestries. But Michel barely noticed because there was the front door. He was just turning the knob when a growly voice spoke from the shadows.

“I can smell you. Also, there are wolves. You’re better off with me.’

Michel rubbed his shoulder again. “I doubt that. No offense.”

“Maybe I should kill you, as you wished.” The monster strode to Michel who did his best not to flinch. His breath really was overpowering.  But what he said next surprised both of them. “Why do you want to die, anyway?”

Michel sighed. “I told you why. I’m old and weary. That last barber-surgeon I saw said judging by the sound my heart won’t last much longer. He bled me but I only got worse. I don’t particularly want to die but it wouldn’t be-“

“The worse thing,” the monster said. ‘So, it seems better to keep you alive. A greater punishment.” He sighed, which was more like a hot wind in Michel’s face. “I suppose Louis let you out. I’ll need to... talk to him.”

The things I do for people,

Michel thought, not knowing if Louis could be hurt. He showed his picks, which the monster snatched. “Should have known, you being a thief and all. Get back to the servant’s quarters. And consider that better than you deserve.”

Michel did just that. He slept in the lumpy bed and awoke at dawn. Once again, he slipped past Louis and back up the stairs.

Maybe I can find some other way out of here.

But the castle was more like a fortress, ruined as it was. The windows were shuttered against the bright sunlight, the front doors locked. So was a few side doors Michel tried. Eventually, he found a door that wasn’t locked. This led to a library that smelled greatly of wet dog mixed with bear.

Wonderful,

Michel thought. The monster spent time here. He should leave. But something drew him to the middle of the room. For in a vase was a single rose. It was as white as snow with pink-edged petals, nothing like Michel ever saw before. Drops of water sparkled on the petals as if it had just been freshly watered. And the smell! It reminded him of his daughter’s cakes, sweet and nourishing. But yet it had a faint smell underneath. It was of something dying.

This flower is at the center of this enchantment,  Michel thought.

And if I was smart, I’d get the hell out of here.

A snarl told him it was too late for that. He spun and backed away from the flower, towards the far wall, and away from the monster.

“M-My apologies, M-Milord,” he said. “I-I merely wished to find a book. To pass the time.”

“I’m no longer any lord,” the monster growled. “But you’re a liar. You probably can’t even read.”

 Actually, I

can.”  Michel shouted back. “Not all us peasants are unlearned. And while we’re at it I was more than a common thief. Throw in heretic, assassin, and thug for hire. All for a good cause though. We were fighting against the Inquisition,” he said. “So at least now you can kill me with a clear conscience.”

“I have-a

heretic  in my house?”

“ You  imprisoned me,” Michel replied. He saw the monster’s eyes narrow. Then he growled. But his body also shook in such a way Michel wondered if he was... laughing.

“ You have balls, I’ll give you that,” he said. “Bigger than is good for you.”

“So I’ve been told,” Michel muttered to himself.

The monster stared for a long moment while Michel wondered for the thousandth time if he was about to die. Finally, he said, “if you really can read, help yourself to the books. Touch the flower, and-” at this point, he drew a claw across his throat. Michel swallowed and nodded.

*****

“So,” Michel asked one night. ‘What should I call you, if you don’t like milord?”

“Bestia will do.”

Lousy name but so be it. “ So. Who did you piss off?”

“You dare to ask-”

“Yeah, I know. I’d ask Louis but all he does is tell me to go away.”

“If you must know, an old woman came to my door seeking shelter. I had Louis push her out. Before she left, she gave me that.” Bestia gestured to the rose. “An apology for disturbing us, she said. It was no apology.”

“In fairy tales, you never turn away beggar women,” Michel said.

“This isn’t a story,” Bestia answered. “Sometimes beggars are assassins. You know all about that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Michel said very softly.

Bestia nodded. “My father had already been killed by such. Besides,” he spat this out. “Don’t you think she could make her own shelter?”

“And how do you break the curse? Perhaps I can help.”

Bestia didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “What about you?”

“The inquisition killed my brother,” Michel said. “Because he questioned if Galileo was right. No more than that.”

“So,” Bestia said. “you wanted revenge.”

“Yes. And I had it. Until...”

“Until what?” In the darkness, Bestia could just see Michel’s face. His mouth was twisted as if haunted. He watched Michel walk to the flower. He almost cried out but all the man did was pick up a fallen, wilted petal. Then Michel spoke to the flower.

 “One night, we captured a man. A boy really, studying with the wrong kind of

holy

men .

He begged for our forgiveness, that he only did it because he was sickly and had to earn money somehow. And for that,” he looked back at Bestia. “We tortured and killed him. After that, I ran. Came here to start a new life.”

“Why?” Bestia said.

“I saw,” Michel swallowed, “we were becoming that we wished to destroy.”

****

Michel opened the garden’s gate. Bestia turned, stared as if surprised by the man. “Why have you come back?”

“You gave me money for bread and wine,” Michel said. “And bid me return at dusk.”

“And anyone else would’ve stayed lost. What can I do? Hunt you down and kill you? The villagers would kill

me  this very night.”

“I’m not anyone else,” Michel said with a smile. “Plus that cell of yours is better than a cold dark house full of ghosts.”

Bestia nodded, thinking how far he’d fallen. His companion was a

peasant . Worse, a

heretic .

He didn’t have to come back.

 “Take that to the table,” he said. “Let’s eat.”

That night, Bestia talked about his father punishing those who couldn’t pay taxes, his cruel ways. “If you had run across

him,”

he said, “you’d still be in the cell, if not dead. He felt he had to rule this way.”

“But over a flower?” Michel asked, coughing. He glanced at the rose. It seemed as if mold was growing on it, blackness creeping up its petals. “This enchantment-” but he was interrupted.

“Yes,” Bestia said. “He’d say today a rose, but tomorrow money or jewels.”

“Not necessarily,”

“I know, now,”  Bestia grunted. “When he died, I didn’t mourn. You see, it was too late for my mother. But me...I was finally free.”

Michel held up the bottle. “A toast to that,” he said.

Many times Michel went to town, bringing back wine, bread, and fruits. And nights they would talk in the library, often laughing. Sometimes they played chess, for Michel was a quick learner. Louis listened, wondering.

“You should try to leave,” Bestia told him one day. “Before it’s too late. Take Boy with you.”

“No,” Louis said. “It’s my fault too,” He thought about fairy tales and lonely men. And a dying rose.

She never specified what kind it should be,  Louis thought.

Or who.

***

The ghost pounded on the library door. “What is wrong, my friend?” Bestia said, opening it.

“Michel’s back. And he’s sick.”

“What? I told him to stay in town if the weather got bad”

Louis looked at the flower. Only the faintest white remained upon it.

So,

he thought.

It’s nearly the end. Almost a relief. “ Michel isn’t good at listening,” he said.

Bestia ran through the great hallway where Michel leaned against a wall, coughing hard and deep. Bestia caught him as he fell. He lifted the thin, small man and carried him into the library, the only room with a fire. He laid him on the couch. “Bring blankets and the brandy,” he said to Louis. When he returned, Bestia put the bottle to the man’s lips. He glanced at Louis, but he only shook his head.

“Leave us,” Bestia said, then turned back to Michel. “Why? Why did you come back?”

“Your hospitality,” Michel said, trying to laugh.

“No!” said Bestia. “Even last week you were breathing harder than usual. I saw! You must have known! Why did you come in this snow?” For all his anger he was gentle as he lifted Michel’s head to put pillows underneath it. This, plus the brandy helped his breathing somewhat. “Why! Why did you come when you were so sick!” He rose and paced to the fire. The rose trembled but neither noticed. “You addled fool!”

“I had to,” Michel spoke so softly Bestia had to walk back and bend over to hear him. His breath was still hot and smelled like a dog’s, but not as bad. Since Michel had been here Bestia had been taking better care of himself.

“ Why?”

“ To tell you...how much all this meant to me.”

Bestia just stared at him. In his eyes, Michel saw utter disbelief. “It’s true.”

“I was wrong,” Bestia whispered.

“About?”

“You're not addled. You’re insane!”  Bestia paced again. He stopped at glared at Michel “You wanted to spend time- with me! A monster! For that alone, I thought you were insane. Now I know it’s true!”

Michel smiled and coughed. He laid back on the pillows. “Possibly...but listen.”

“Rest. Don’t try to talk. Save your breath. I don’t want you dying this night.”

“I’m going to try not to. But I can’t...make promises...”

Bestia growled angrily. “When you first came here you said you wanted to die! That was also true?” He slammed his paw into a statue on a stand and sent it flying to shatter against a wall.

“The flower,” Michel whispered.

 Bestia turned back, breathing nearly as hard as Michel. “Who cares about it?”

“I...do. I wanted...to break...your enchantment.”

“I told you I gave up on the cure long ago,” Bestia said. He pointed at the black rose with its decaying smell. “Tonight it will die and so be it. But you...” he walked to the wall and drew his arm back as if to hit it. Instead, he rested his paw on brick. “Why did you not stay in town this night?”

“To say...you alone...accepted me...knowing what I was. A heretic...a murderer...even though I couldn't… break your...curse.”

“Who am I,” growled Bestia, “to do no less, my friend?” He walked back to Michel. The tears were beginning to fall now. “No, you didn't break my curse,” he said, turning towards the flower. As softly as his gravelly voice would allow him he said, “Instead, you did so much more. You were like the brother I never had. And you were the only one to come back.”

 Michel’s reply was so soft, Bestia could barely hear. “Louis.”

“Is only here out of guilt. He blames himself for my predicament. The servant-boy always stays with him. No, Michel, the curse never mattered. You alone came back, of your own free will. And I love you.” He turned, but wouldn’t meet the man’s eyes. Instead, he looked at the portrait above the couch. It was of some elderly aunt but he could never remember her name. “Whatever that means coming from the likes of me.”

“The world,” Michel managed, before coughing long and hard again. Bestia walked swiftly to him. He knelt and laid his paw on Michel’s chest. Michel grasped it. Both were openly crying now.

“No,’ he said.

“Yes.” Michel closed his eyes. “You...had me...at your table....” The rose trembled and as it did, Michel managed to whisper, “For that...I love you.”

“ What?”  Bestia’s cry echoed in the library. Then there was the sweet smell of sunshine, the perfume that reminded Michel of his daughter’s food, of spring. He barely noticed for smelling Bestia’s breath on his cheek. It was no longer heavy and dog-like.

And now he was grasping a hand.

Michel opened his eyes and saw a man with long blond hair. Tears fell from green eyes. “Michel,” he said.

Through blurred vision, Michel saw the rose was in living bloom. He gently touched the man’s cheek, saying, with his last breaths, “So, that was... how to...end the curse.” And he smiled.


It’s been years since I set foot in this place, the ominous halls, the old ceiling caving in, I can still picture that fateful day. Back when I was just a girl, walkin’ to this school with a smile on my face and dreams in my heart, but it was gone all too soon. The dreams turned to nightmares on that day, none of hardly anything or anyone survived; except for one thing. I searched the halls in sight for something I could salvage, after all, they were going to demolish and replace this place with a new school, though it will never get rid of the memories that still send chills down my spine.  I got down to the cafeteria, the mainly devastated area, the walls only reached up to my knees, and you couldn’t see the floor past the rubble. I went to piles of rubble and pushed away at it, looking for something to salvage, nothing. I made my way to the exact class I was in that day, it was all normal, perfect, though notes of suspense lingered in the hallways, it all seemed fine. Nothing was out of the ordinary, there was a plane flying from above, and the room was silent; until we heard a loud crash, and a chorus of screams, the ground shook and we fell to the ground. Fire arose from where the bomb had hit, and smoke filled the halls. Teachers joined in a panic as they started evacuating children, I was following the crowd when I looked back and saw the cafeteria gone, and half the school in flames. When we had escaped, I heard the sirens of fire trucks and ambulances in the distance, mixed with the voices of teachers reassuring the weeping children. My head started to get fuzzy, and I looked around in what felt like slow motion, and my mind went silent, my sight became dark, that's all I can remember.  I searched the room and memories came flooding back, it raced through my mind and I started getting dizzy, “not this time” I thought to myself as I clung to an old desk for support, and slowly pulled myself up. I scrambled to find something, anything, that could have survived the misfortune of this room. Brushing on the crumpled blackboard, I could feel all the feelings I felt then, the lack of hope that soon swept my mind; but then I saw it. I knelt down and brushed a pile of ash and rubble away to reveal a cracked porcelain music box, painted with flowers and vines. I turned the rusty knob on the side and it opened to reveal a beautiful dancer, flowers in hand. Music started to emanate from the box, I closed my eyes and started swaying to the soft tune. This was the only way my mind could escape those harrowing memories, I sat there listening, until I started to drift off and my worries began to fade. I dreamt of bright blue skies, adolescent me walking to school happier than ever. If only life could actually really be this perfect, only in my dreams. The years have passed me by, imagining this all never happened, like I never lost so much so soon. “They’d never understand,” my conscience whispered; it’s true, and it’s unjust, no matter how many times I've looked back and feared this place, it can’t leave me, I can’t leave it, not yet. I awoke with a jolt, rubbing my head and huffing, while I looked up through the broken ceiling at the now night sky. I lay motionless, staring up, continuously toying with the music box still perched in my hands. I finally started to stumble my way out of the unlit room, walking in a daze towards the exit, but I felt an urge to stay, like there was more to be seen. I wandered down the halls in sight for somewhere I could have missed, and I saw it, a mysterious darkly-lit library that looked completely untouched. I stepped in cautiously, clutching onto my music box; “It’s freezing in here,” I thought to myself, hugging my arms for warmth. I ran my fingers on the books sticking out of the shelves, deals of dust and ash stuck to my fingers and I wiped it on my already dusty pants. I squinted to the far side of the library, stacks of books untouched, I crept over to the stacks and searched for something I could have forgotten. Copies of fairytale books stacked almost like building-blocks on the floor turned me back to the memories I missed greatly. I spotted a filing cabinet, papers overflowing through the top of the drawers, and a stack of more papers on the top. I slowly walked over to it, holding out my hand, careful to not bump into anything, and gently swept my hand over the paper on the top; “The Water Creek School Devastation,” was printed on the top of the paper, it must be a newspaper. I read the description, it was written by a person who could never understand how it actually felt, I could tell by how under dramatic it was. I read further, names and pictures of victims who were killed, but then I saw something that made my blood run cold; “Harper Perkins” was another name on the list, my name. I dropped the music box, which caused it to start playing music, I walked backwards, gasping for air, finally reaching the wall I slouched down, the silence in the room was deafening and my surroundings were dancing. Different memories started to fill my mind, instead of already being outside of the building I was inside, clutching my music box and singing the tune while keeping my eyes shut, I was the only one there, they forgot me. “Wrong” I thought, there was no possible way that I could have died, I'm still here aren’t I? And how could they have just left me to die Alone? I jumped up in fear and raced to the exit, I ran, and ran, and ran. I finally reached the door and pushed through with all the strength in my body, causing me to slip and fall. I braced for the ground but was warmed by a surrounding bright white light, Floating around in circles in what seemed like a version of heaven. Then it all went cold, silent, and dark. I was placed at the front doors once again, daylight crossed my view, “it’s been years since I set foot in this place” I recited, just like a script.


Claire and I stood in the middle of “the storage unit”, as Claire kept calling it. I’m not prone to phobias, but believe me, it’s damn near impossible not to feel claustrophobic, when you’re surrounded by endless rows of precariously stacked piles of heavy objects, some of them looking alarmingly sharp, most of them looking as if they may tumble down any second. Packed to the brim. You’ve guessed it: this was no ordinary storage unit. Not something built to harbour a couple of forgotten moving boxes and great-grandma’s favourite rocking chair. This was a an industrial size affair, the floor about ten thousand square feet, the ceiling easily fifteen feet high. The biggest items stacked in here, as far as I could see, where a sofa comfortably seating a football team (reserve players included), a fossil collection in glass show cases that may or may not have once been the highlight of a museum exhibition, and something I can best describe as a moderate size harvester. Plus anything and everything imaginable in any type of household, from your run-of-the-mill seventeenth century French Sun King’s castle to a trailer park meth lab. Most of these piles seemed to defy gravity. Some reached up to the ceiling, packed so densely they seemed to be squeezed in here by force, or maybe the ceiling had been lowered, clamping down on them. A sight to behold, no doubt. Still, what truly overwhelmed me, was the stench. Foul. Aggressive. A combination of decay and something I can, bizarrely, best describe as “frenzy”. When Claire had opened the heavy metal shutter door to this place, it had been little more than a slight whiff. Then ever-increasing in strength the further we ventured inside. Where I was standing now, the stink was oppressive. Maybe an old bear was hibernating in here somewhere. Or rather, an old bear had been hibernating in here, many years ago, but sadly, hadn’t made it to the next spring. And nobody had found him yet. So what was this place, what’s the explanation for this jam-packed maze and the disgusting smell accompanying it? “Real estate storage”. Have I mentioned Claire’s a realtor? Well, she is, and a very successful one at that. Before I tell you how this adventure took an ugly turn, let me mention that Claire had warned me, asking me whether I had a sensitive stomach, telling me it might be best to skip our visit. Whereupon I had told her it wouldn’t be a problem. I even remember chuckling knowingly. As a coroner, I explained to her, I was used to stenches no storage unit could equal, let alone surpass. Well, I was wrong, and not just about the stenches. Back to the story. Apparently, “real estate storage” is a thing. When Claire first mentioned it, that didn’t exactly pique my interest. I imagined used yard signs with “for sale” printed on them next to a photo of Claire’s friendly, well made up face. A couple of boxes with old flyers maybe. What more could there be? So when she said, with that telling little smile of hers, that it was nothing like that, nothing at all … I was hooked. In my defense, I’ve always been a curious person. In hindsight, that was probably my biggest mistake. That’s the thing about hindsight, though: as a rule, it comes too late. But what about the storage unit? What’s the explanation for the size of it, for this breathtaking, chaotic—for lack of a better word—collection?

“Real estate home staging”.

Any ideas what that entails?

You do?

You’re well ahead of me then. Little did I know you cannot expect to sell your house for a decent price anymore, unless you ruthlessly declutter it first. Sure, I understood the general idea: for a showing, avoid smelly socks on the bedroom floor and moldy pizza boxes in your teenage son’s room (or any other room, for that matter). Maybe even declutter your wardrobe and your kitchen cupboards. After all, you never know whether a potential buyer might be brazen enough to open them. What I hadn’t realized, was that it didn’t end there. Before your realtor sticks a “for sale” sign into your front yard, you’re expected to do the following: Scrub every surface until there’s nothing left to scrub, outside surfaces, inside surfaces. Everything. Everywhere.

Depersonalise. Your favorite holiday snaps? Those cherished portraits of your grandchildren? Photos of beloved pets, who’ve trooped over the rainbow bridge long ago? Get rid.

Any particular aromas, good or bad, scented plants and perfumes included? Get rid. Mismatched pieces of furniture, holding so many dear memories? Get rid. That collection of glass budgerigars made from special Czech crystal you inherited from aunt Marcia? Well … you get the picture.

The reason is simple, as Claire explained to me: the family who—you hope—will buy your old place, preferably well above asking price, has to envision themselves living there. Envision themselves . Not envision you . So “neutral” is key. Excellent real estate home staging, I’ve learned, goes even further: not only will Claire take all your unwanted, sale impeding clutter off your hands, she will also supply you with wonderfully stylish, perfectly neutral design objects. Anything that upgrades your simple family home to a professional interior-design showroom.

And where does all the unwanted clutter go? Exactly. Right now, I was standing in the middle of one of those “declutter storage units”. Yes, there were more. Six in total. This was the biggest and the most impressive, though, Claire had assured me.

There’s one more thing you should know: not only had Claire been an amazingly successful realtor for decades, she was also a hoarder. Which is why none of the stuff in here—while meant to be stored only temporally—got thrown out or auctioned off, when the owners didn’t come back to collect it. Everything stayed. Everything. So there you have it. The explanation. And after adjusting to the sight of this vast, bizarre collection, I thought nothing in here could surprise me anymore. That was my second mistake. Or maybe it was my third. I’ve lost count. I stared at the bloody knife and the severed hand, both sticking out of a pile of what looked like theatre props and costumes for a period piece, Henry the eighth maybe. I remember thinking Claire had probably seen it as well, assuming the hand was a theatre prop. An understandable mistake. I’d be a useless coroner, though, if I couldn’t spot the difference between a prop and the real thing. “Claire?” I called, softly. I couldn’t see her any more and turned around, slowly, looking for her, trying my best not to touch anything—neither the knife nor the hand nor anything else. In my mind, at that point, the biggest threat was still an avalanche of home-decorating junk toppling down on me. There was no answer. Instead, the overhead lights went out. In quick succession, I heard the metal shutter door being pulled down, followed by the eerie sound of the thick metal lock snapping into place. Then the click-clack of Claire’s high heels on the concrete floor of the deserted hallway, on the other side of the door. Then nothing. For a brief moment, the image of all the other doors to all the other storage units flared up in my mind’s eye, like a beacon of hope. Someone else would arrive soon, surely. Then I remembered what Claire had told me: she was the one renting all the units on this floor. I also remembered her jokingly mentioning that for the foreseeable future, there was no watchman.

It’s hard to describe my next feeling. The one that came with the realisation of what it meant, that rash decision, when I had—readily, carelessly—agreed to leave my briefcase in Claire’s car. The briefcase with my smartphone in it. “CLAIRE?!” Silence.


Today is no ordinary day, but a day I was sent to a boarding school, far away from where I was born and raised. At this young age, I was scared, and I missed my parents. I missed the girly barbies, I missed Lucy, my lovely Shepperd dog, I missed my nanny, my childhood friends, my favourite piano, violin, and my ukulele. I missed the wonderful kitchen where there are so many food I could eat, I miss the mango tree in the front yard of my house where I can taste the most juicy mangos. All of a sudden, I was sent to this institution, where all the horrible things seem to about to happen. I went to the school to sign in, and I met two girls who were so nice to me and they invited me to join their little gang. Although I was a super shy girl, but I accepted their invitation. I was surprised that they were nice because this strange place was like an origin of nightmare to me. I was taught so many brainless tricks like buying snacks from behind the high walls, using cellphones by bribing the dorm manager and paying the bookstore owner to get them illegal stuffs from the outside. I came from a little village where people are genuinely pure and don’t have many cunning thoughts, so I was kind of scared and surprised at first with these city people. Soon enough they found that I was a poor little girl whose parents sent me to this school against my will, they abandoned me and looked for other interesting people to play with. In this school, I didn’t get a lot of disappointments actually, because I didn’t even expect this experience to be good. None of my parents are well-educated, they sent me to this elite school with the hope that I could be different from them. As people in their age always say, education is a good way to escape from the lower class and advance to higher class in the society. As a child, I honestly didn’t have a concept about social class and I was not smart enough to deal with people with political mind. They tell too many lies as my grandpa said, who was a soldier fought in many countries like Afghanistan, Israel, Egypt and Cyprus. He said, he never like politics and being a politician, although himself was a high-ranked Military Officer. I was a very quiet and shy girl who didn’t like presenting myself and felt very reluctant about strange things. I constantly felt being bullied by my classmates even though I think they didn’t mean to be. They were mostly from well-off families with a lot of pocket money. Their lavish lifestyle were things that I could never comprehend. Some students like me were happy as long as the food they offered from the canteen were excellent, the bedtime were promised, and we were safe and weren’t getting any hurt. We were told that we had to follow a very strict daily schedule, including getting up at six o’clock, followed by running, breakfast by seven thirty to start our first lesson, then followed by classes and homework time until eleven o’clock in the evening. I didn’t really feel like having a life in this school, except the moments when we had some chances to dress up to perform, sometime there would be some sport competitions for our class. That’s pretty much it. I didn’t even know there was a big library where students could borrow with our student card until the last semester. Luckily, I was a true bookworm and I liked studying. The school used to have a long corridor for posting higher level students’ articles which I enjoyed reading them as I finished my breakfast and lunch. This is when I developed a personality that I liked to be alone when no one can interrupt me while thinking. I feel kind of sad for myself when I could have been a totally optimistic girl and well-rounded person if I didn’t go to a boarding school like this away from my parents and hometown. However, there is something good in this school, which is the time they gave me to develop my brain and learn new knowledge was abundant while most of my peers were just dating and doing a lot of mindless stuffs. I had been through so much in this school, I used to be a very carefree person in my little village where there were not many temptations and desires corrupted in it. People loved their jobs and their families, and they helped each other. In this school, people were selfish and always thinking about themselves and what they could obtain from the other people. There were so many messy things going on in this school like briberies, student federation corruptions and discrimination from teachers. Some teachers even ranked their students by asking what career their parents worked for a living, what cars they were driving to school and how much pocket money they got from their parents each month. This was a totally sick environment and I felt so pity for those people who paid so much money to just get into this political private school. The only one thing I appreciate from this school was that, I greatly appreciate my parents’ love for me to go to this expensive school. With their great hope and love, I developed a lot of good discipline which deviate myself from the others such as getting up early to read, and developed a habit in reading and trying to learn in my own pace. However, I would confess that went to this school was a mistake they made because being away from parents were the worst childhood one could get in life and without parents’ unconditional love but the bullying from strangers were very scary. I was trying to cry but never have the energy, as I was too exhausted trying to survive.


Luke found it incredibly hard to say no. It didn’t matter who it was or what they needed; he always found a way to help them out, so it was certainly understandable that the night he got a call from an old friend asking him for a favor, he couldn’t turn his back. Sophie was her name. They met in high school but barely talked to each other at all. One day, Luke fell into trouble he couldn’t handle alone and she was the only person who chased after him to help. Complete strangers yet she came to him, offering a helping hand during a distressing time in his life that he preferred not to think about. After that, their relationship sparked into a deep friendship. That friendship slowly heated into desire, and Luke found himself developing feelings for her. He kept it hidden and decided it was best to keep it a secret, so he never spoke of it. Eventually, he found out that Sophie had felt the same way. They dated, they kissed, and they fell in love quickly. They were inseparable and completely mad about each other. A few years later, they split up. It wasn’t because they didn’t love each other anymore or because it didn’t feel right, but because their paths led them down different roads. Sophie wanted to go to school in a different part of the country, but Luke didn’t know what he wanted to do. He offered to go with her, but at the last minute she told him it wasn’t a good idea. She left and he watched her leave, not knowing what he was going to do without her. “It’s been three years.” Luke mumbled to himself as he sat in his parked car, running the engine in front of the airport. The small radio clock on his dashboard faintly read the time and played a soft rock station through dusty speakers. With the window slightly cracked, he took a long drag of his cigarette and blew it out into the open. Smoke filled the air and spiraled around him. The open window didn’t help at all, but he didn’t mind either way. It was Sophie who was going to have a problem with the smoke. That’s why he was there at the airport, sitting in an idle car in the middle of the night. He was lying in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, when he got a call from an unknown number. He could barely believe his ears when Sophie’s voice sounded through the speaker of his cellphone. She was back in town for a few weeks to visit but her ride cancelled, and she needed a way home. I don’t have anyone I can call… she had said. Please? Luke leaned back in his seat and groaned. “Who even gives a shit?” He cursed, taking an even longer hit from his cigarette, letting the stress flow out of his body. “Why did I even come here?” A knocking on the passenger side window caught his attention, turning his head in the direction of a sight that took his breath away. Her hair was shorter but still wavy, softly framing her flushed face with auburn curls. It barely brushed past the pink wool scarf wrapped around her neck. Her eyes, a cool shade of green, pierced through the glass window. Even after all of these years she still had the same effect on him. He reached over and pulled the door handle, letting her open it and slip inside the passenger seat. She slammed the door shut and let out a long sigh, sounding as though she were out of breath herself. A strand of her hair stuck to her strawberry pink lip gloss; the same lip gloss she always wore when she was with him. Her brown leather bag sat on her lap and Luke couldn’t help but check out her legs in black nylons and dark grey ankle boots. “Hey.” She spoke up in the silence between them. It took a brief second after or her to feel the hair attached to her lips. With the quick movement of her gloved hand, she moved the strand and continued to look at him. He gave her a half smile and sat back into his seat, immediately putting the car into drive. “Where to?” His voice was cold and gruff. He didn’t want Sophie to have the satisfaction of his kindness. Although the fact that he showed up at all defeated the purpose. Sophie sat back into her seat as well and stared out the window. “The Samlier Hotel. I have a reservation there.” She spoke softly. Luke gave her a side glance as he drove out of the airport parking lot. “Hotel? Why aren’t you staying with family or something?” He asked. She said nothing in response, continuing to stare out the window. Luke shrugged it off and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a pack of smokes. A swift movement of his hand made one of them slip out of its packaging and stick out enough for him to pull it out with his lips. He lit the cigarette with a quick flip of his lighter. The first hit filled his entire body and helped soothe his uneasiness. “When did you start smoking?” Sophie asked, breaking her silence. Luke smirked and slipped the lighter back into his pocket. “After you left.” His response made the atmosphere tense and the air even colder than it’d been before. He knew his reply hit her hard – hard enough to ensure she wouldn’t say another word the entire ride. A part of him only wanted to give her a ride so he could make her feel badly for all she had put him through, and for the most part it seemed to be working. Yet he couldn’t help but feel that it wasn’t as satisfying as he had hoped. Despite his feelings, he felt… wrong. Sophie brought her head down and played with her fingers, pinching the fabric of her gloves. “I had a feeling you would do this to me.” She admitted. Luke let the smoke out of his lungs with a sigh. “Do what, exactly?” “You know what.” “No, enlighten me. What am I doing? The same thing you did to me?” His voice started to rise up. Sophie turned her head away again and didn’t reply back. Luke scoffed and focused back onto the road. “Didn’t think so.” For the rest of the ride, they didn’t speak to each other. Sophie coughed a few times from the smoke and eventually opened her window so she could get fresh air. Luke messed with the radio in an attempt to find a station but decided he wasn’t in the mood for music and shut it off completely. The tension between them was incredibly thick and that alone was worse than the smoke. Luke pulled into the parking lot of the hotel and turned his car off, letting the keys hang from the ignition. “Well,

here we are.” He said unenthusiastically. The entire ride was awful, and he was relieved that it was almost over. When he didn’t get a reply from her, he peered over and observed Sophie sitting perfectly still in her seat. She had her head completely turned away from him, concentrating on the world outside her window. Her hands were clenched around the strap of her purse. “Hey, did you hear me? I said we’re here.” Still no response. Luke was becoming aggravated at this point. “Hey!” He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her slightly so he could see her face. Sophie finally looked over to him with tears in his eyes. Her make-up was slightly messed up and her eyes were pink, indicating that she must have been crying for quite some time. Luke pulled his hand back slowly, his heart racing. “Why are you crying…?” Seeing her upset and vulnerable was too much for him. Any negative feelings he had about her were completely wiped from his mind, replaced with compassion and concern. “Luke…” She turned her body around, slipped off her glove, and reached her hand out to his face. His mind told him to retract – pull away from her touch, but he found himself unable to. He let her hand touch his cheek and brush along the prickly stubble of his facial hair. Her touch sent shivers down his spine and made his head spin. Without thinking, he reached his own hand up and touched hers, holding it in his grasp. “Sophie…” Tears started to well in his eyes. Emotions flowed through him faster than he could process. It was so overwhelming and confusing for him that he didn’t know what to think or do next. Sophie smiled at him and unbuckled her seatbelt. She leaned over and moved closer to him. He could feel the heat radiating from her body and he could hear her hesitant breathing. “I… I’m so sorry… I just… missed you.” Sophie leaned even closer in and caught him in a tender kiss. Luke couldn’t help his reaction and kissed her back, deeply and passionately. When they parted, he pulled her in for another, and another, each one more intense than the next. Every time they parted for air he could hear Sophie’s soft and quick breathing. He didn’t think he had any want for her until the moment he saw her. “Stay with me in my room.” Sophie whispered, but Luke shook his head and captured her lips in another kiss. “No, come back with me. I’ll take you back to my apartment. It’ll feel like – “ “Like I never left.” Sophie finished his sentence, looking deeply into his eyes. The sparkle in her eyes were the same they’d been three years before. It didn’t take long for Luke to weave through late night traffic and make it to his apartment deep in the city. They both left his car and rushed into the building, taking the elevator to his floor. They scurried to his room door and Luke fumbled with his keys to open the door to his cold and messy apartment. Empty bottles of beer and several other types of alcohol were cluttered in corners and laid scattered across the floor. The bed was unmade, crumbled up pieces of paper overflowed the trash bin, and his clothes, dirty and clean, were either on the floor or strung across pieces of furniture. “Maybe we should’ve gone to the hotel…” Luke thought, feeling slightly embarrassed for the state of his home. Sophie didn’t seem to mind the mess and focused her attention on Luke, pulling him for another series of passionate kisses. It almost felt as though time had frozen while they were together. The light of the moon beamed through his window, illuminating every curve and detail on their bodies. They laid together, looking in each other’s eyes until Sophie fell asleep. Luke stayed awake, completely lost in thought. Everything that had happened was so much to handle at once. It took small movements or a sleepy moan from her to make him remember that it was all happening. It was real. The sound of her gentle breathing and early morning birds singing outside his window eased Luke to sleep and into a dream he never wanted to end.


    It was one of those blustery August mornings that make you want to sing the color orange, drink too much coffee, and indulge yourself in a book in the park. The sidewalk beneath my feet was a river and I a boat, gliding down all the tributaries I knew so well. I inhaled deeply, feeling a hint of fall on my lips and clean air in my lungs. I loved days like this. The bell of the coffee shop chimed more sweetly than usual when I opened the door. “Hi Kathy!”            “Hey Paul! What are you having today?” she replied sunnily. Kathy always worked on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and always looked as cute as she did right now.            “Just the usual, thanks,” I said, smiling politely. I took my usual seat facing the window, sat down, and pulled out my favorite Dostoevsky. Then he walked in.            He was a tallish man in his mid-forties with graying hair and a suit to match, and while he did attempt to blend in, his demeanor betrayed the light atmosphere of the shop. He appeared intensely serious, focused like a laser, yet when he removed his Ray-Bans I could almost see humanity in those steel eyes. He politely greeted Kathy and ordered a latte.            He didn’t even see me in the corner, I was sure. Not once did he turn his head in my direction, even when he sat with his back to the window and opened the newspaper he had picked up outside.            “Kathy,” I said softly, with a wave. The man looked up briefly – alerted by the sound - then went back to his newspaper.            She served the stranger his latte, then came to tend to me. “What can I do for you?” she said sweetly.            “Could I get a coffee to go? I’m going to the park to read.”            “Sure thing,” she answered. She adjusted her apron, poured my coffee, and set it on my table with a smile.            “One more thing, have you seen that guy before?” I motioned quietly toward the stranger.            “No, I haven’t. I bet he’s new in town or passing through or something.” She shrugged.            I nodded and grabbed my coffee, walking until I heard the happy bell chime again, a little less cheerfully this time.            “Have a good day!” I heard Kathy say after me.            The door started closing. “Thanks, you too!” I waved and floated down the street.            When I found the edge of the park, I could feel the world turning with the chirping of the birds and the laughter of joyful people playing with their Labradors. It was hot now. Shade was welcome, and I located my portion of it on a park bench. The town ran like clockwork, from the joggers in the park to my Saturday coffee runs, though I loved days like this, with smiling faces surrounding me with an aura of superfluous, superficial ecstasy. I knew the pattern by now, even if two parts of that pattern would be absent this Saturday. I shuddered. It wouldn’t do to dwell on my neighbors.            An hour or two passed in peace and quiet. I read a chapter or three of my book.            When I looked at my watch, I saw that it was half-past noon. I ran like clockwork, as usual. I got up from my park bench and started humming Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” and I stretched vigorously. Deciding to survey the park before I took my lunch, I paused a second when I noticed something jumping out of the painting like a rip in a Renoir. Graying hair and a suit to match. He was facing away from me, but I knew it was him again. I felt chills run down my spine.

Even if it is him, it’s a small town and a nice day. This is just a coincidence. I calmed myself with that thought and followed the sidewalk river into the center of town.            “Mayor Smith! How are you?” I called up the street. George Smith was a short, broad man that I liked very well. We had gone through high school and community college together, though I ended up going to a University afterward and he ended up running the town.            He grinned graciously and hurried to shake my hand. “I’ve told you a thousand times to call me George when I’m not working, Paul!” He scolded. He frowned at no one in particular. “Actually, I think you’re right today. I forgot I’m supposed to go to the visitation for the Williams’s this afternoon. It’s a shame what happened between them. Are you going?” The mayor was serious now, seeming a little morose and quite irritable. I realized he probably wanted a friendly face in a crowd of mourners.            “Sure. I hadn’t planned on it, but I don’t have anything better to do,” I said. His eyes showed signs of relief.            He nodded, grinding his teeth in leftover frustration. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t, but good. I’ll see you there.” He started to walk away.            “Wait, do you want to grab lunch? We’re only five minutes from the diner.”            “Sorry, but they’re closed for the funeral,” he responded, giving me a quizzical look. “I thought you’d have read about the closings this morning? You always do the crossword.”            I felt a headache forming at the base of my skull. I didn’t think about that part, I noted. I guess I’m not running smoothly after all. I need to be more careful. I nodded in agreement with his comment, shoving my nervous hands in my pockets. “I would’ve, but somebody took the last one this morning.” It wasn’t technically a lie. “Gray suit” took the last copy when he walked in.            He seemed to accept that explanation. “Anyway, would you like to have lunch with me and the wife? We’d be glad to have you over, and we live two blocks from the Williams’s house.”            “I don’t want to cause you trouble on my account.”            “No, never. You’re perfectly welcome to come, and Sarah always makes enough for an army anyway!” He patted me on the back and led me up the street.            “Well if you insist, thank you,” I replied, maybe less generously than I should have. My head was throbbing at this point. George didn’t seem to notice, but if he did, he probably thought it was the heat getting to me. The headache turned into a splitting migraine when I saw him out of the corner of my eye, that haunting form sitting on a bench on the other side of the street. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but I could still feel them boring into the side of my head. There is something wrong about this. I glanced suspiciously at his smug suit and tie. What should have been a glance turned into a glare, and before I could correct my error, he removed his glasses. There they were. Those steel eyes and their laser focus. And they were focused on me . *** “Kevin Williams?” the limo driver asked.            I nodded.            The driver opened the back passenger door and motioned me inside. I didn’t say a word the entire trip into town. Long flight. Longer day ahead.            The sun was just starting to go down that Friday night, though it seemed to be going down on my whole life. My brother and his wife were dead, and the official line was murder-suicide. I just don’t believe it. How can they believe Jim would do such a thing? I looked out the window, at the world spinning on without them. There’s something wrong about this.            I must have dozed off. The limo had arrived at the house, and the driver was waiting with the door open. I blinked wearily and struggled out of the car, tipping the driver and slowly walking to the front door. It was a fashionable little house, not to large and not too small. Just like my brother to be normal. I pulled the key out of my pocket, grabbed the door handle, and the door swung ajar. The police left the door unlocked. I cursed under my breath and locked the door behind me.            Jim left me everything. Life insurance, house, retirement, the whole nine yards. And I still couldn’t believe it. This was my house now, and the whole place screamed in eerie silence. Gave me the creeps.

I should get the watch, before I get anything else.

The watch was an heirloom from our father, a very expensive pocket watch from Germany. It hadn’t come up in the inventory of the house or the crime scene report, so I decided it was probably in a hidden safe somewhere.            The more I searched, though, the more I began to panic. When I was sure it wasn’t in the house, I started to get mad. My ten-year career as a crime scene analyst came to the play, and the murk surrounding their deaths cleared up for me. Connie, Jim’s wife, died from blunt trauma to the head. Jim died from a gunshot wound to the side of the head at point-blank range. It seemed to follow suicide story, until I remembered that Jim also suffered blunt trauma to the side of his head according to the coroner’s report. Combined with the missing watch, it told me all I needed to know. Someone else killed both of them, and I was going to find out who.            The next morning, I walked into the only coffee shop in town and grabbed a newspaper. I felt a little conspicuous in my gray suit, but I had to be dressed for the visitation later that day since I was the only surviving relative.            I ordered and sat down to scan the paper. “Kathy,” I heard the man across the shop say. He was a brown-haired man in his thirties, wearing a light, plaid shirt, khakis, and a brown belt. The barista came over. I heard something about the park. The rest was too low to hear. She shrugged and went to the bar to pour him more coffee, and I went back to looking for clues.            When I checked my watch again it was half-past eleven. The paper’s not getting me anywhere. I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.            “Ma’am, do you happen to know anything about the Williams’s? I read in the paper that they died earlier this week, and the article said it was a murder-suicide.” I scanned her face for a reaction.            Her eyebrows furrowed, she frowned, and shook her head. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. “I don’t know anything about it, except that it was a terrible shame. You should ask Paul Simmons, the English teacher. He was their neighbor,” she said. “Actually,” she corrected, “I’m pretty sure he was the one that called the police that night, poor thing. I’ve been especially nice to him. He hasn’t been himself lately, and I can’t imagine having to witness something so awful.”            My stomach churned. I nearly leapt out of my chair. “Where can I find him?” I demanded, eagerly.            “You just missed him, sir. He just went to the park about an hour ago,” she said, raising her eyebrows. I folded up the newspaper and stormed out. The barista said something as the door closed, but I was already too far away to hear it.            When I got to the park, I saw Paul sitting on a park bench at the edge of the sidewalk in the shade of an oak tree. I walked behind him, barely noticing the few joggers passing me. I only saw him . He just sat there, oblivious to the world, reading Crime and Punishment and chuckling to himself. He was there for another thirty minutes before he got up and –            “It was you,” I muttered under my breath. He looked at my brother’s watch like it was his own, without even flinching, without a hint of remorse. I turned around, sat down, and waited until I heard him walking down the sidewalk, humming to himself. My world just ended, and this psychopath is having the best day ever, I ruminated. I inhaled deeply. I should change that. He was in his own head all the way up the street, so walking unseen beside him wasn’t too hard. Paul stopped to talk with another man in a black suit for about five minutes, so I continued up the road and waited on a bench. When he started walking again, he was sweating and the spring in his step was gone. I took my glasses off just in time to see him staring at me as his friend led him down the sidewalk. He’s afraid, I realized.            Good. ***            I would face the same fate as Raskolnikov's, or worse. Everyone at the visitation knew the man in the gray suit was Jim Williams’s brother, and those close to the deceased told me he was a private detective and ex-FBI. I vomited in the Williams’s toilet, but the pounding in my head and the churning in my stomach just got worse, for no power on earth or above would pity my case. The gleaming watch I had stolen off Jim’s body was boring a hole in my pocket. If I try to dump it I’ll only appear more suspicious. Between all the niceties of “Good afternoon” and  “sorry for your loss,” my mind perceived fangs, daggers which would dispatch me at a moment’s notice for my sins, and all eyes in the room seemed devoid of the humanity I craved, if humanity was ever something open to me in the first place. To top it off, his eyes followed me everywhere.            I tapped George on the shoulder. “I’m afraid I have to go. I’m not feeling well, and I’d like to get some rest.”            “Take care, and don’t let the heat get to you,” the mayor replied, shaking my hand firmly. There was my humanity, summed up in a handshake. I smiled for the first time that afternoon.            I was humming again by the time I reached my porch, floating as the trauma of my crimes seemed distant once more. You over-reacted , I told myself wistfully. He was just home for the funeral, and he doesn’t have any reason to suspect you. I opened the door playfully, and walked in my house.            I stopped. Even my clocks were quiet, and the house screamed in eerie silence. I heard footsteps on the porch, but I didn’t turn around to see who it was. I knew. Gray hair and a suit to match. The pit in my stomach became an abyss. “Did you really think you could escape me, Paul?”            The hammer dropped, and a crack rang through the summer air. I felt the bullet rip a hole where my heart had been.            I gurgled, pulling the golden watch, now covered in blood, from my pocket. It was five in the afternoon, dinner time. Like clockwork.