text: True love is never a wasted effort. Be open to it, share it even in the darkest of times. As the sun set, he went to work doing for them in death, what he couldn’t in life, protect them. Grabbing a spade from the barn, he dug a grave for each. Deep enough to keep out the coyotes, each freshly tilled mound, capped with a fieldstone. He had watched in disbelief as Penny and the entire McCormick family were skinned alive by the ravenous horde of locusts. Their skin, clothes, hair, organs, all devoured in a rapacious cloud of death and destruction. Their screams of agony echoed in his brain, tormenting him over and over, on a reel of madness. Each skeleton lay upon the earth in repose, sculptures of bone portraying their final moments. Thomas collapsed out of physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion as the last rays of sunlight shone on his toil of love. “I’m sorry,” he said as he wept in uncontrolled fits. “I’m so sorry I was too weak to save you.” The soil dampened by his grief, readily accepted his offering of contrition. Never having a deep faith in the divine, he vacillated about whether a prayer should be offered. Couldn’t hurt. Up, down, left, right if you are real prove it tonight. Rising from his genuflection to a higher power, Thomas brushed the moist clay from his knees. The day had been long and full of travails, the night offered no solace. He made his way back into the house. Liberating a fifth of whiskey from the liquor cabinet, Thomas beseeched his heart and his mind for an armistice. Grabbing a pub glass from the dishwasher, he downed shot after shot of the brown liquor. Glasses still in the dishwasher, right that was Penny’s daily chore. Charity’s job was to load it, Marie would do the knives, Penny would empty it. Gone, all gone. Thomas poured another shot hoping to drown out the pain, it wasn’t working. A vibration under his foot startled him. He looked down to discover the Sally Speaks doll, Charity’s sleeping buddy. It was a stuffed dolly that spoke seven different sayings when squeezed. It had golden yarn hair, black button eyes, and a sunflower dress. One of the sayings was the soft voice of a child. Mama, it said. Charity’s last words...screamed at the top of her lungs. They were inseparable. “Damn you, Sally! She’s dead! They are all dead! Thomas tore the stuffed dolly in two, heaving each piece across the room in different directions in a fit of anger. He didn't know what else to do but drown his sorrows in this bottle and hoped that when he rose tomorrow, this was all just a bad dream. Everyone would be alive again, whole again. Not the bare skeletons, denuded of their flesh, of their life that he had planted into the earth like some underworld perennials. Hope springs eternal Maybe I did die on that bridge, that night, maybe this is my hell. Maybe, but luck and hope were foreign to his way of thinking. Faith was even more strange. Even so, he prostrated himself onto the wide oak flooring, arms outstretched towards the ceiling, the sky, the heavens and he begged. “Please, please, please don’t let them suffer for my mistakes, my failings, my weakness.” He had no more tears to shed. He was tapped out and so was the bottle of comfort. Thomas trudged up the stairs to the guest bedroom, passing out fully clothed on the top of the flannel bedspread. The sky is angry tonight. Dark clouds hang low on the horizon. Heavy rain starts to fall on the tin roof of the farmhouse. Loud booming thunderclaps followed by blindingly bright flashes of lightning; the heavens are in turmoil. The newly turned earth becomes mud pies. It is as if a giant child has grabbed a plastic bucket, filled it with a soggy earthen concoction, and displayed their wares to the general public. A movement, a shifting of soil, a resurrection of unknown proportion. Lightning flashes. The acrid scent of chlorine hangs in the air. Two more blinding flashes. Puddles of mud form as the makeshift cemetery becomes inundated. More movement, slow and from within. The graves are collapsing, one by one. A hand, a child’s hand. Methodically, the recent tenants of each grave rise to the surface, shambling towards the farmhouse, a macabre parade. A loud bang. Wind whistling through the open front door to the farmhouse. More banging. The front door is thrown open, then sucked closed by the ever-changing tempest. Thomas hearing the commotion, even in his besotted condition, rises. He stumbles down the main staircase, missing a few stairs, catching his fall by clutching the banister. Another loud slam accompanied by stronger wind, blowing into the living room, papers from the end table blowing around and fluttering onto the floor. He closes the unruly portal. Shutters rattle on the outside. Scratching his head, Thomas speaks. “Must not have closed it properly.” A floorboard creaks in the upstairs hallway. Silence. Creaking of ancient wood. More silence. Climbing the stairs to investigate the sounds Thomas slips on a muddy riser, smashing into the maple banister hard. “What the hell?’, he curses. “Creepy old house”, he mutters under his breath. Probably some damn raccoon got in the open door. Great, just what I need. Some rabid varmint hear to harass me. At the top of the stairs, Thomas hears the front door slam open again. Hail pelts him in the face as he shuts the door once more. “I know I shut that properly last time”, he grumbles. He locks the front door this time. More creaking from the kitchen this time. As he heads to the kitchen, the floorboards in the upstairs hallway announce their presence again. Great, a family of rabid animals. A pack of squirrels or possums. He collects the biggest kitchen knife from the butcher block holder. Slowly, he creeps up the stairs trying to avoid making his presence known. He gets to the master bedroom; this was Conner and Marie’s room. “Ok, you little bastards! Get out of here. I don’t need this shit right now.” A door opens down the hall. He runs out to try to catch a glimpse of the intruder. Nothing. He grabs the handle of the door to push it open. Yuck, more mud. Ok, maybe not a squirrel. His heart races, feeling like it will explode out of his chest. His throat is dry as he swallows. He tries his best to sound tough. “Ok, I don’t know who you are but I’ve got a gun! So whatever game you are playing ain’t gonna end well for you.” Nothing again. He checks the adjoining bathroom. Gripping the knife handle tight, he slowly opens the door. His hand shakes uncontrollably. Nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, a shape, dark and foreboding stares at him from the corner. Another flash of lightning and a boom of thunder vibrates the house. He turns to confront this unknown, this mysterious intruder. Nothing. “I swear I saw something,” he says. As he turns to leave, a tug on his sleeve startles him. He wheels to strike with the knife. Staring at him, a wee being, covered in mud, looks up at him with huge saucer eyes. “Tom Tom,” it says. Inches from plunging the blade into this gremlin, he stops. “Charity, is that you? No, you are dead. I saw you die. I’ll never be able to forget it.” Tom Tom was the nickname she gave me. How does this thing know that? It can’t be her. It is impossible. She was a skeleton. All that was left of her was bone and hair. This imp is trying to steal my soul or something. He raises the blade again. “Get the hell out of here, you aren’t real! You can’t be!” “I’m cold, Tom Tom.” He doesn’t trust this apparition. A creak from the hallway. Shit, what the hell is this? Am I even awake? His heart slams against his chest. Faster and faster. The faucet in the master bathroom starts running. No squirrel turned on the faucet. That is a person. Or what used to be a person. A spirit. Ghosts can turn things on, right? A cold chill comes over the back of his neck and tingles down his spine. A knock on the front door, a slight rapping. Like a limb of a tree blown in the wind. Scratching every so slightly and then tapping on the entrance. “Thomas,” he hears in a draught of swirling wind. Tapping ever so gently, again. Keeping one eye on the tiny fiend, he steps slowly back into the hallway. It steps towards him. “I’m so cold, Tom Tom.” “Stay where you are! I don’t know what kind of hell-spawn you are but don’t move!” The hellion listens. It does not come closer. It starts to cry, a low whimper at first, then a sobbing escapes the hellish imp. Trying to catch its breath after each wail. Tears stream down its face, washing away muck and mire, revealing skin. “Charity. Charity, is that really you?” The knife clatters to the hallway floorboards. He races to comfort her. Please let this be real . Please don’t let me die some horrible death because a demon tricked me.