FEAR: An Anthology of Horror and Suspense

by
Louise Bohmer, Vickie Britton, John Everson, Loretta Jackson, Nancy Jackson, Giovanna Lagana, Linda L. Lattimer, Janet Mills, Susan M. Sailors, Richard A. Satterlie, Katherine Smith and An Introduction by Nicholas Grabowsky

Published by
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
Whiskey Creek Press
PO Box 51052
Casper, WY 82605-1052
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
The 2006 copyrights ©

for each story in this anthology are held by the authors of the individual stories. All rights reserved.
 Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN 1-59374-546-X
Credits
Cover Artist: Jinger Heaston
Editors: Giovanna Lagana, Katherine Smith, & Louise Bohmer
Printed in the United States of America

Other Anthologies by WCP Authors Available at Whiskey Creek Press:

 www.whiskeycreekpress.com

 LOVE, An Anthology

 HATE, An Anthology of Murder and Mystery

 Dedication

 We'd like to thank the extremely talented WCP authors who contributed to this FEAR anthology. Your stories made our nights appetizingly frightening while we stayed up late reading them in the dark and hiding under the covers.

 We'd also like to thank the gifted and award-winning authors Nicholas Grabowsky and John Everson for supporting us in this project.

 CONTENTS

 "Night Crawls In” by Nancy Jackson:

 Lindsay suffers another night of insomnia where her imagination runs wild, or at least what she hopes is her imagination. As Night Crawls In, her darkest fear comes alive to haunt her with its furry eight legs.

 "Possibilities” and “Cara's Eyes” by Katherine Smith:

 Death is a realm unexplored but always present. Looming and relentless, it cares little for the petty woes of the average person, nor does it offer either pity or redemption. Fear is all it acknowledges...

 "Frieda Mae” by Linda L. Lattimer:

 When a widower remarries to give his two young sons a mother, the new wife isn't what she appears to be. After she starts to dominate the household, a ghost from the past returns making sure those she left behind do not fall in harms way.

 "Crime or Punishment” by Giovanna Lagana:

 Poor Chris has been abused and tormented all of his life by none other than his robbing, violent, drug-addicted parents. When a mysterious boogieman begins to haunt him at night after his mother's death and then falls dead in front of his stepfather's car, Chris begins to panic. He wonders just how long he has before the boogieman's prediction comes true and he'll get what's coming to him.

 "Feathers” by Louise Bohmer:

 Garrett has always possessed a natural knack with all things arcane, hidden. But his love for the ancient goddess, Lilith, and the strange owl-child they share, ends his mortal marriage. When Lilith tries to take the owl-child back to the Netherworld—the boy's rightful home—Garrett protests the loss of his child, and he will do anything to stop Lilith and their offspring from leaving him.

 "Vera's House” by Katherine Smith:

 Shelia isn't greedy; it just seems such a waste to let her grandmother slowly rot away amidst a fortune in antiques and other valuables when a few kind gestures might make Vera leave her everything...

 Of course, nothing comes without a price and inheriting the estate isn't exactly what Shelia imagined. Odd sounds in the night, weird dreams, and the cellar ... well, that is enough to give anyone the shivers if they live in Vera's House.

 "Cynophobia” by Janet Mills:

 Following her husband's death, Janie Raycraft's life has become a daily routine of rising early to catch the weather forecast, going to work, then returning home to an empty house to eat and watch TV alone. When an aggressive dog and a strange man begin to stalk her every move, she longs to return to her quiet existence, even if it means someone has to die to accomplish it.

 "Because I Wanted You” by Susan M. Sailors:

 Obsessed by words that touched his soul, a young man pursues a woman he knows nothing about, not knowing he is entering a world no one ever returns from. He wants to possess her, but soon she will show him what true possession is.

 "Eleven-Thirty Midnight Road” by Vickie Britton and Loretta Jackson:

 A tragic accident took the life of Cathy Rhodes, leaving guilt-stricken friends, Marc and Paula, to pick up the pieces. Now Paula believes Cathy is trying to communicate with her through the Ouija board, and also sees her ghost in a blood-soaked white dress.

 Paula's ex-boyfriend, Andrew, believes Marc is trying to draw Paula into his web of madness. Is Paula losing her mind or has she fallen under the spell of a psychopath? Andrew knows the truth will be revealed tonight on the anniversary of Cathy's death—Eleven-Thirty Midnight Road.

 "The Stick” by Richard A. Satterlie:

 There are those of us who believe inanimate objects can possess a power that feeds on evil, while there are others who harbor a deep evil within them. But on one lingering fall day, when Xerxes Bradshaw decides to go out to investigate the body of a boy in the woods, he comes in contact with something eerily peculiar that fuses both evils into one. Before long, his curious journey turns into one of pure horror, and his life hangs with the swing of The Stick.

 "Long Distance Call” by John Everson:

 Jack thought when his wife strangled herself with a phone cord that it was the last he'd hear from her. But then the phone rang...

 NIGHT CRAWLS IN

 by Nancy Jackson

 Lindsay lay alone watching the dim green numbers on the clock show midnight. Earlier in the night she had seen a spider make its way across the wall, and somehow the very thought of it being in the same room kept her wide-awake. Of course she was no stranger to the frustration of insomnia. Between her husband's snoring, endless thinking, and an overactive imagination, sleep was a rarity in her life.

 Jay was a wonderful, hardworking man and ever supportive. He offered to sleep on the couch to see if it would somehow do the trick, and bring her one full night of peaceful slumber. It seemed like a cruel trade-off but she thought it was worth a shot just this once.

 She breathed slowly in and out, willing herself to fall asleep. It had been unusually warm for the season. While she was self-conscious of her middle-aged body, the heat had made her start to sleep in the nude.

 A slight cover of warmth hung over her body and gently caressed her with its breath. She missed the dreams of the night. At one time they had propelled her to write all kinds of imaginative stories. Her children used to love to hear them, but they were all grown up and now studying hard in college.

 Lindsay stared at the window and counted out the three branches from the tree outside, its shadow looming twice its normal size. The lack of sleep had started to make her see things that were easily explainable in daylight, but looked frightening at night. Objects on her dresser made shadows sway on the wall in an eerie rendition of ancient ritual dances.

 Something moved, and she blinked twice. Peering closer, she saw a spider. The nasty thing crawled right above her; its thick, fuzzy legs scurrying with amazing speed and gusto. Had it not been for the faint light from the crescent moon, she never would have seen it in the dark.

 Lindsay's pulse raced—her body's reaction to fear. She hated everything about the dark. Nothing looked the way it should. Her husband had long since stopped making fun of her need to sleep with a nightlight; a tradition started when she was a little girl. For years she had horrendous nightmares and freakish dreams that no small child should ever have to deal with. Sleep was its own nightmare, and she tried to stave it off for as long as possible. Now, not only did she have the night to contend with, but a spider as well. Her two biggest fears in one.

 Beads of sweat lined her forehead as the heat wave washed over her body. Lindsay's throat grew sore and became increasingly dry. Sitting up, she fumbled for the silver light with hanging butterflies beside her bed. As she pulled the little metal chain, it broke off and fell to the floor. A sense of dread washed over her.

 "Jay?"

 She didn't figure he'd hear her. Not with his insufferable snoring. Her eyes took their own sweet time adjusting to the darkness while her hands felt around for the glass of water her husband had brought in earlier. The first drops of water were pure pleasure against her parched lips and mouth. Greedily, she guzzled the rest down, practically choking. Something felt strange as she swallowed. She tried as hard as she could to make the uncomfortable feeling go away, but it wouldn't budge. The water had gone down without a problem, but what was that fuzzy, cotton-like feeling?

 Panic swept over her body. It was clear there was an object stuck in her throat. Her heart raced as the realization of having swallowed the spider finally hit her.

 Lindsay could hardly breathe. Blood raced through her veins at top speed as the spider crawled back up her throat. She swallowed again and again, but it remained. It sat there, its legs feeling around, pushing against her insides. Opening her mouth to scream, nothing would come out. With her nails, she clawed at her throat, and felt the lump scurry about to avoid her hand. Sweat poured down her forehead and drenched the sheets beneath her body.

 She leaned forward and coughed in an attempt to dislodge the intruder, but the thing was too stubborn and determined to not come out. The only other thought she had was to vomit it up. She stuck her fingers down her throat and gagged. Lindsay never cared to throw up, and her stomach resisted. Her pillow fell from the bed, covering the nightlight on the wall.

 Darkness flooded the room, and she was too afraid to move or get up. What if there were more spiders? There could be anything lying there in the dark, waiting. It was at night when things crawled and awakened, things that should never be seen in the daylight. Memories from her childhood, of the stories her mother read about bugs and monsters that fed on darkness, raced through her mind. Those very things fed on people and their fears. They knew she was scared. She had always been scared. Their eyes used to watch her from every corner of her room, floating closer until she got the nightlight. Perhaps they had grown tired of waiting for her, and now there was no more light to protect her from them.

 The more the spider moved, the more frightened she became. Lindsay imagined it crawling around her insides, spinning a web around her internal organs and pulling it tight, killing her slowly. Visions raced in her mind of it laying eggs deep within her chest cavity, only to have a million baby spiders infest her every muscle, cell, and pore. They would fill her up with webs and feed off her blood supply until she was nothing but flesh and bone. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her days were numbered and it would be the night that would eventually kill her.

 Lindsay just couldn't go out like that, not without a fight. She pulled open the nightstand drawer and fumbled around. Taking her husband's Xacto knife, she made sure the blade was nice and sharp. Satisfied, she opened it to a decent length. Looking down at her chest, she watched it crawling farther down, making a pathway between her breasts. She knew it would be painful, but she had to get it out.

 The spider's body scurried near her bellybutton where she made the first slice, straight and deep. Her subconscious cried out in pain but her mind was too goal-oriented; this was no longer a choice but an absolute need. She watched its legs flutter past the cut and continue down to her lower abdomen. Again she stuck the knife in and turned the blade, grinding it through muscle, giving it a way out. Still it wouldn't escape, but burrowed further. The pain didn't register over her sheer panic. In the dark, her blood looked black—like ink. Maybe if she bled enough it would eventually come pouring out.

 Down her thigh it scrambled, and seemed to look for the perfect place to nest. With the blade, she sliced every inch of her legs until they were shredded, the stark white of her bone reflected against the sliver of light from the moon. In horror, she realized it retreated upwards again.

 The door to her room flew open. Her husband flipped on the light and stared at her, eyes wide with shock.

 "My God, woman! What have you done to yourself!"

 Blood soaked the white satin sheets around her body; droplets slowly fell to the floor. He ran over and gaped helpless at the sight before him.

 "There's a spider,” she said, her voice strained.

 On the wall by the door, she saw it; the same one she had seen earlier. Jay's gaze followed hers, and then he smashed it with his shoe.

 "I killed it, okay? It's gone now. What the hell happened here?"

 She'd never seen his face so pale before.

 "I..."

 "Talk to me, sweetheart. You are losing a lot of blood."

 "I thought it was inside me,” she explained.

 Her one relief was the cold making its way up her body. She felt so tired and weak; she was certain sleep would come to her at last. Lindsay laughed quietly to herself. Imagine thinking the spider crawled inside her; what a crazy idea.

 "Don't move. I'm going to call for a doctor. I don't want to leave you, but I'm scared for you, baby. I'll be right back."

 She watched him panic and race out the room with tears running down his face.

 "No, Jay, just let me sleep. A nice long peaceful sleep. I think I've earned it."

 She drew the covers up over herself and sighed deeply. “You could just turn out the lights. Things always look different in the dark."

 About Nancy Jackson

 Dark fiction author Nancy Jackson loves to take the readers on a vivid, scary ride with words. Her works have been seen inBlackest Death Vol. 2, Small Bites, Embark to Madness, Cthulhu Sex Magazine, Chainsaw Magazine, and many more. Visit her website www.nancyajackson.com for a peek at other places where she's left her mark.

 For works with more spice, visit her alter ego Ann Cory at www.anncory.com

 POSSIBILITIES

 by Katherine Smith

 Well, wipe out the curly frost,

 The bleak cloak. Winter hovers,

 Despite your warmth and the late hour.

 Your windows are glass orifices,

 The walls dusty and unused.

 The sharp teeth of ice and pain await,

 Always consistently hungry. There are those

 Who hover, and write dead letters

 To long since gone lovers,

 And ... laugh out loud.

 You know them, these gleeful demons

 In denial. Grey faces pressed

 Against your panes

 In need. Staring eyes, so dark,

 So winged and flighty. They have crept

 Under your bed and swallowed your nights...

 And are never full.

 (First published inThe Harrow, Volume 8, No. 3, 2005)

 CARA'S EYES

 by Katherine Smith

 Alas, she's gone to the dead,

 Not needing a choice,

 Gleeful and wanton. Blood optional,

 Like collecting coupons clipped

 From yellowing papers.

 Tangled sheets; was that what she wanted?

 She pondered it, trapped in her haze of bones

 And rotting leaves, the sighing song rustling

 Her empty chest. Hard to know; that was her—

 Clefts of needy matter, jars of poignant fertile beauty.

 She had tried, but time had run woefully short.

 Sleep is a virgin sacrifice by those who wield no knife.

 No prophets care, no oracles spit-out praise.

 In those idle disappointments, settle and breathe

 And own the earth. She was gone,

 And so she was in abstract glory as well.

 In the darkness, it was whispered...

 (First published inThe Harrow , Volume 8, No. 3, 2005)

 About Katherine Smith

 Katherine Smith is the author of nine novels and numerous shorts stories. She writes both horror and mystery. She loves the cold chill of the first, and the intrigue of the second.

 Katherine is an Eppies finalist with the first Danny Haase mystery novel,The Summer Bones, and the second,Blood is Quicker Than Water, was a #1 bestseller both at Whiskey Creek Press and Fictionwise in the mystery category.Wayward Sun, a western romance set in 1861, is also a 2006 Eppies finalist in historical romance, and she is a contributor and co-editor of the WCP anthologies,Love andHate. The mother of three teens, she lives in rural Indiana with her husband, Chris. Please visit her at www.katherinesmith.net.

 FRIEDA MAE

 by Linda L. Lattimer

 It was like an earthquake every time she took a step. Boyd would look at me and crack a half-grin. I'm telling you she was so big, we often wondered if the people in China felt the earth move with every step she took.

 We were at a County Fair when Boyd and I actually met her and saw her up close. She was displaying her selection of jams and jellies. Not to mention her showcase of blue ribbons.

 Boyd took one look at her and poked me in the ribs.

 "Allen, get a load of her. Must be near four hundred pounds. That's what all the kids at school say. I ain't never seen anyone as big as that."

 "We ain't supposed to be pokin’ fun at people, Boyd. You know better. What would Ma say?"

 "I ain't pokin’ fun. She's just huge."

 "Maybe she can't help it."

 Boyd just shrugged his shoulders. He was five years younger than me. I always kept a close eye on him ever since his birth. Doc Phillips said the cord was wrapped around his neck, and he had to turn him in Ma's belly to correct his problem.

 I remember Ma screaming and crying. Pa and I were right outside the bedroom. Poor Pa. He was so worried sick. There wasn't nothing he could do for Ma. After she screamed out for Pa, that had been the last straw, and he took matters into his own hands.

 "Allen, you stay here, boy. No doctor ain't going to keep me from my wife."

 Pa stormed straight into that bedroom. For a moment, I feared someone would be thrown from the closed door, but there was nothing. Ma screamed one more time then it was over.

 When Pa finally returned to my side, he had signs of relief mapped on his face.

 "It was a close one, son. I thought we had lost your ma, but she's okay."

 "What about the baby, Pa? I ain't heard no crying."

 "Doc's trying to get all his breath in him. He was a blue baby, son."

 "I have a brother?"

 And that's when we heard the loud shrilling cry.

 "Doc must have got his breath in his lungs,” Pa said.

 Then, for the first time since I knew him, Pa broke down into tears. The strong oak that had cared for Ma and me since my birth allowed the flow of mucus to run from his nose and water from his eyes. And from that moment, I knew I would never love him as much as that day my brother, Boyd, was born.

 In the process of time, we wondered was Boyd ever going to learn. He seemed so slow in some areas, but Ma and Pa always had patience with him. I suppose you could say I did, too. Boyd clung to me like a runt puppy to his momma. Why, sometimes, I couldn't even go take a leak without him right by my side.

 We weren't able to attend school in town. Pa and Ma taught us our book learning. We looked forward to our studying every night. Ma had French blood in her and she always told us about adventures in her country. If her parents hadn't stowed away on that boat a long time ago she would have never have come to America.

 It was by fate Pa running into them and giving them a place to stay. When Ma's folks died, Pa up and married her. He promised to care for her for life.

 It seems like only yesterday that I could smell her perfumed body. It didn't matter how much cooking or cleaning she did for us everyday; she always had that clean smell. She reminded me of a fresh rose just blooming. Pa use to say it was the scented soap she used. Her skin was always soft and her beauty never faded. That is why we never understood her sudden death.

 Ma insisted on cooking Boyd and me a nice hot apple pie. She needed us to run out to the apple tree and bring her the prettiest red apples we could find.

 Boyd licked his lips a number of times. No doubt about it, Ma's apple pies melted in our mouths and went down like a nice warm cup of cider. She baked the best pies around.

 Ma never got to bake for us anymore. When Boyd and I returned to the house, Ma was passed out on the kitchen floor. Doc Phillips said her heart just stopped ticking.

 "It does that at times,” Doc said. “Don't have to be old, either. Must have needed a baker in Heaven."

 That statement seemed to pacify Boyd. It was like sharing his Ma with the other angels. Someone else needed her now.

 In time we learned to do the chores like Ma. Of course no one could ever match her skills or the grace she brought into our lives. I suppose Pa figured if we pulled together, we could at least try to make Ma proud.

 "Ma's pleased today,” Boyd would say.

 "What are you talking about, son?"

 "The sun and clouds are beautiful. I'm sure Ma's baking is making our day beautiful just like she sees us working together. She's watching over us, Pa."

 "Yes, Boyd. You're right."

 Pa always agreed with Boyd. Had been since his birth. The boy had been slow in learning and making sense of anything he spoke of, but Pa didn't care. He saw Ma in Boyd and that's all that mattered.

 "Boyd. Boyd, is that you?"

 The jelly lady had disturbed my thoughts of Ma. She was summoning us to come her way. Boyd clung to my arm.

 "We better see what she wants before there is a commotion. Just stay by my side, Boyd. It'll be okay. Don't be scared. No one's gonna hurt you with me around."

 That he did. It's a wonder Boyd didn't cut off my circulation. Not only was the jelly lady huge, but the closer we got, the uglier she became.

 "I just wanted to tell you boys I was sorry to hear about your ma. She was a good woman. Highly favored in our town. I been trying to get out there and check on you but been busy with my canning and all. You men doing okay out there without a woman's touch? I know it's been a while."

 "We're doing fine, thank you.” I meant every word.

 "I'm sure you are. I would like to give you some of my jellies. That is if it's okay. They probably ain't as good as your ma's, but my blue ribbons do say something. Maybe you could take two jars home."

 Boyd's gaze wandered to the jellies then me. I knew that “okay” look. We took the two jars and went home. But what turned out to be sugar jellies ended up in too many sour sorrows.

 Three months later Pa married the jelly lady. I don't know how Pa could have taken her into our home after having an angel like Ma, but he did.

 "I just think you boys need a woman's touch. With the planting and harvesting, I just don't have much time left to cater to you boys. You need a ma."

 But Frieda Mae was “nobody's ma.” Now or later. Her heart just wasn't in it. She seemed to always put on a big show when Pa was around. Pretending to really love us boys and want to do everything for us. Unfortunately, when Pa's back was turned, she became a witch.

 "You remember the story Ma use to tell us about the people who lived in the forest and the pa married another wife?” Boyd threw at me one day.

 "Yes, I do. Seems she was a wicked stepmother. Even the witch in the forest didn't seem as wicked as that stepmother."

 Boyd laid his head on his bended knees and released some tears. “I really miss Ma. And this woman ... she ain't never gonna be my ma. She keeps saying I'm slow and ain't never gonna amount to nothin'."

 "You just pay her no mind. She doesn't have sense like you do, Boyd. You are a smart boy. Ma said that all the time.” I tried to console him, but it was just something he had to get out of his system.

 That night we all sat in silence at the supper table. Pa said his back was giving him some trouble, but Frieda Mae just snickered.

 "Can't be hurting as much as mine. It ain't easy being a wife to you and a ma to these boys of yours."

 Pa never said a word. I often wondered had he regretted marrying the ole heifer. That was one marriage Boyd and I never comprehended.

 As days slowly edged into weeks, and weeks into months, Pa seemed to grow thinner and less active. I took up his slack on the crops while Boyd stayed closer to the house, keeping an eye on Pa.

 "I think she's feeding Pa rat poison,” Boyd would say.

 "Boyd, where did you come up with a notion like that?"

 "You see how she cooks. She fixes these huge portions for herself, lets us dip out our little share, then she makes sure to hand Pa his."

 "But rat poison?” I found this hard to believe.

 "The box is half empty."

 That was the day I vowed to keep a sharper eye on Frieda Mae. Whenever her back was turned, I would quietly turn the corner or peer through an open window. Once she made me pee in my pants.

 I had just woken up and turned the corner to pour me a glass of cold milk when the heifer grabbed hold of my ear then threw me against the wall. Hot urine ran down my leg. This I never expected.

 "You think ole Frieda's pretty dumb, don't you, boy? Don't you shrug them shoulders at me. I know what you've been up to. Trying to steal extra food from me when it ain't time for you to be eatin'. You'll eat when I got it ready. Hear me!"

 I swallowed hard and forced my head to nod. The old heifer really was dumb after all. She may have scared me breathless, but I still had one on her.

 It had been a month since Boyd had mentioned the rat poison. There had been no sign of Frieda Mae spiking anything. I suggested Pa see a doctor, but he declined.

 "Doctor can't give me anything for my illness, son. My heart's shattered in too many pieces. I've lost your ma. I've shamed my family. I don't know how you and Boyd can still own up to calling me Pa."

 "We love you, Pa. You're all that we have left. Can't you just tell Frieda Mae you made a mistake?"

 Pa rubbed the back of his neck then released a sigh. “I wish it were that simple. Look at me. I'm a hundred-thirty-pound old man. I'm no match for her. I told myself I was making a mistake, but I thought you boys needed a cook. That's all she really is around here is a cook. It's not like she and I are husband and wife. Your ma is the only one that I will ever love."

 "Just be a man, Pa. We men don't need anyone to help us."

 I cupped his hand in mine. Not only was it thin and bone-like, but it was cold. I could feel his fright. It wasn't going to be easy confronting the ugly two-eyed monster. One blow to the head and Pa would be six feet under.

 "I'm not really hungry tonight, Frieda Mae,” Pa mentioned at the supper table.

 "Want me to fetch the doctor?” she asked.

 "I don't need a doctor for what's ailing me."

 Boyd cast his gaze into my direction. I bit my lower lip and scanned the room for something to use for protection. I could almost smell a fight approaching. Frieda Mae set her glass of tea down.

 "Is it my menu? I can always change the fixin's."

 I could sense the words were extremely hard for Pa to utter. I think the three of us were on pins and needles.

 "The food's fine. I just feel..."

 Frieda Mae's eyes widened. “I hope you ain't planning on putting me out to pasture. ‘Cause we're together until death us do part. These boys need me around here. Why, before I came out here you three were pitiful. It was like an angel sending me."

 More like the devil,I was thinking.

 "Sorry, Hayden Jennings, I'm your woman. Now you might as well eat up. Maybe I should take you to a doctor after all."

 I started to say my peace, but Pa's eyes instructed me to keep quiet.

 The weeks ahead, I tried to think of a way to free us from Frieda Mae. It wasn't going to be easy. But when is life ever a merry go round? Pa began spending more time on the crops again and less time around Frieda Mae. His strength appeared to be returning.

 "Allen, keep an eye on Boyd. I've got to go into town for some more seed. I'll bring you some penny candy. How's that sound?” he asked, while rubbing Boyd's hair.

 Boyd's eyes lit up as he licked his lips.

 "You don't need to be bringing them boys no sugar. They don't need to be putting any pounds on their bodies."

 She sure had the room to talk. I wanted to tell it to her face, but I knew Pa would say it was disrespectful.

 Boyd dropped his head. Pa lifted his chin and cast him a wink. If he wanted his sons to have candy, he was the boss. Good going, Pa. Get all your strength back then throw her out on her—now what was that French word Ma told us once, oh, yeah,derrière . Throw her out on herderrière .

 Pa had been gone a good while when the commotion started. Boyd pulled out some pictures of Ma and hummed a tune she always sang to him.

 "Boyd, can't you see I'm trying to make my jellies. I need concentration. Cut that crappy noise out!"

 "My ma sung me this song. She likes for me to hum it to her,” Boyd issued.

 Frieda Mae slapped her hands on her hips and strutted toward the living room. “Well I'm your ma now, and I say cut it out! Or do you want a trip to the woodshed? You should have had some whippings a long time ago. Maybe you wouldn't have grown up to be so dim-witted."

 That's when I stepped in. “You ain't taking him anywhere, Frieda Mae. And Boyd ain't stupid, and as for being our ma that is one thing you'll never be."

 A sharp crack of thunder pounded outside. Boyd jumped.

 "Now you see what you've done? A thunderstorm is approaching. I'll never finish my jellies."

 Frieda Mae snatched the pictures from Boyd. Boyd started crying. “Get to your room, or I'll take you out back, that's a promise."

 Another loud clap followed by thunder. It rumbled so hard it shook the floor of the house. A strong outburst of wind blew in through the open screen door.

 "Give my brother his pictures!"

 "I have had enough from the both of you. Your pa has spoiled you. No manners, I tell you! I think it's time to change things around here! Fine, you want the pictures, you little cry baby. Here.” And with her fat hands, Frieda Mae began ripping the pictures in two then threw them into Boyd's direction.

 Everything started spinning so fast, but the movements were like water slowly easing out from a clogged well. Boyd's tears ceased as his mouth flew open. I stood dumbfounded. How could she? The ole bag wasn't human.

 Another clap of thunder, then lightning. The wind blew a fine mist of rain in through the screen door. The curtains were tossed to and fro from the breeze.

 Boyd clenched his fist, then kicked Frieda Mae with his boots. He struck her hard in the right leg. She screamed. I knew it had to hurt. Those ole cowboy boots of his were killers.

 She reached for her aching leg when he clobbered her in the other leg. She let out another loud roar. I knew we were dead boys. I had to get Boyd out of there fast! Once she recovered, she would kill the both of us. But she had a hold of Boyd's shirt before I could move one step. She looked like a fiery bull. With her eyeballs bulging and fire almost whipping out of her nostrils, she cupped her hands around Boyd's neck.

 "No one does that to Frieda Mae and gets away with it!"

 I tried hitting and kicking her, but she was too powerful. With one hand still wrapped around Boyd's neck, she used the other to slap me across the floor. I had to hurry. There was no time to waste. Boyd started turning blue in the face.

 Think. Shotgun. Grab Pa's shotgun. Please let it be loaded. Just remember how Pa taught you to use it if necessary.Oh yes, that was most crucial.

 I took it from the front closet. I cocked the barrel, aimed, and fired. It threw me back a bit. The bullet went right past Frieda Mae's head. Boyd fell to the floor as she released her hold. What breath he had was raspy.Please, Boyd, don't die , I prayed, as tears spilled over in my eyes.

 Frieda Mae put her hands to her ears then threw them by her side. “Give me the gun, Allen. Before you kill somebody."

 "And what were you trying to do to my brother?” My heart raced.

 "Just putting the fear of God into him. Now give me that gun!"

 "NO!"

 The screen door slammed.

 "What in the world?” It was Pa. One look at Boyd, and he raced to his side. “Frieda Mae, what have you done to my boy?"

 He cradled Boyd in his arms. His blue face was slowly changing to it natural color, and his breathing was gradually becoming steady.

 "Your son kicked me in my shins with them ole boots of his."

 "That was no reason to almost kill him,” Pa said, with a tear forming in his eyes.

 "She tore Ma's pictures and threw them at Boyd's feet. She said she was our ma now. Pa, I want her out of here, now. Today! Pa, another couple of minutes and Boyd would be dead.” I was shaking but I didn't care. I had to speak my peace.

 "Frieda Mae, pack your belongings and get out of here before I press charges against you."

 "I told you, Hayden Jennings, I ain't going nowhere. I'm your wife and their ma. Maybe I should show you who's boss."

 I cocked the barrel but nothing.

 "Out of ammo are we?” Frieda Mae questioned as she marched toward me.

 Pa lunged for her leg, but she kicked him in the head.

 That's when it happened. The screen door flew open. A gust of strong turbulent wind swirled through the living room then...

 "Ma,” Boyd mustered out.

 She floated into the midst around us and pointed her finger directly at Frieda Mae, motioning for her to leave. The four hundred-pound heifer stood speechless. Urine ran down her legs, making a standing puddle. Boyd clung to Pa. I wanted to move, but my feet felt like cement.

 "You will leave my family now and never come back.” The voice spoke in ripples. Ma opened her mouth and blew a gust of breath toward Frieda Mae, knocking her to the floor.

 Frieda Mae shook her head, then shakily stumbled to her feet. She took one last look at Pa, then scattered from our presence as fast as her feet would carry her, never once looking back.

 Ma raised her arms as a small swirl of wind stirred around the torn pictures that lay on the floor. She lightly touched Boyd's forehead, gave Pa and me one last look, then vanished into the wind. There was a loud rumble of thunder, a short outburst of a shower, then the sun beamed out in a radiant shine.

 Boyd sat upright. “Look, Pa, the pictures. They ain't torn no more."

 "And the wall doesn't have the knick from the gunshot. I don't understand, Pa. Even Boyd doesn't look bruised. What do you make of it?” I mentioned.

 Pa shook his head. “Never question anything we don't have an answer for, Allen. Just be thankful we're all right."

 Pa picked up Ma's snapshot then kissed it. “We are three lucky men to have loved a woman like your ma. She meant it when she promised to always watch over us."

 Pa got to his feet and clung to Boyd and me. That was one day in our life that we never forgot. It could never be explained but always remembered.

 We never saw anymore of Frieda Mae. Pa packed up her blue ribbons and belongings and had someone in town carry them out to where she once lived. Whether she ever received them, we never asked. We had been pardoned from Frieda Mae, and our freedom smelled like beautiful roses on a hot summer's day.

 About Linda L. Lattimer

 Linda Lattimer lives in southern Georgia. She has always had a passion for writing since it is like an escape, taking her places she can only read about and meeting people that forever stay in the heart. She enjoys traveling and visiting new places. Raymond Gary Park, in Oklahoma, is a place she frequents because of the tranquil beauty it offers. It also has some great catfish in the lake. She has a book with Whiskey Creek Press—Journeys From A Boy to a Manand a short story in theHate Anthology with Whiskey Creek Press, “Two Men, Two Women, One Camper". She loves when readers drop in at her website and send her an email: www.coffeetimeromance.com/OurAuthors/LindaLLattimer/AboutMe.htm and romanceatheart.com/bookshelf/lindalattimer.htm

 And stop by at Coffee Time at this website and see what she has going with the others on the board: www.coffeetimeromance.com/phpBB2/

 CRIME OR PUNISHMENT

 by Giovanna Lagana

 "Dang it, boy! Get in the bloody car!” Chris Steven's stepfather, Jason, whooped, as he opened the passenger door of the old, rickety Trans Am.

 "I'm co-coming as f-fast as I c-can!” Chris stuttered, as he ran out of the corner store's swinging door with the crumpled brown paper bag in tow.

 He looked around, making sure no one was in sight, and then jumped into his seat, closing the door as the car sped away with a loud sound of tires peeling out. A cloud of dust and dirt swirling in the air was the only telltale sign of the just committed crime.

 Jason asked as they sped away, “So did you get the money?"

 Chris nodded. “Uh-hum. No one knows no-nothing. I asked the cl-clerk to g-get me a f-few things way up high in the f-far c-corner of the store. Wh-while he was doing th-that, I opened the register and took the mo-money. Done it li-like you told me."

 Actually, Chris had already done it like Jason told him to so many times that it had become routine for him. He and his stepfather had been going from town to town robbing small corner stores that didn't house any surveillance cameras to record their crimes. In fact, it was Chris’ job to check out the shelves in the stores and ask the only clerk on duty to fill bags of stuff that were out of the ten-year-old's hand's reach. While the clerk was busy filling his order in the far corner of the vacant store, Chris was busy opening the cash register, taking the money, and running to the escape car his stepfather kept running in front of the door.

 So far they had stolen a little more than three thousand dollars. Of course, most of it went to pay for his stepfather's drug and alcohol addiction. Only some of it paid for food and the pitiful boarding in the rundown motels they came to on their unlawful missions.

 This had been going on now for three months. Before then it was Chris’ mom who had been Jason's accomplice. But when she up and overdosed on one of Jason's drug and alcohol concocted potions he liked to call “The High and Mighty", Jason decided Chris would be promoted to being his criminal pawn. It worked like a charm. Not one of those gullible clerks ever expected an innocent looking ten-year-old would rob them high and dry.

 Tonight, while his stepfather drove on like a speeding maniac in utter darkness, with only the car's high beams as guidance on the rough terrain, Chris caught his breath and stared at the starless night. His stomach let out a loud growl. “I-I'm hungry,” he said, as he turned to look at his stepfather.

 Jason frowned in irritation. “What else is new, boy? Dang it, you's always hungry."

 "But I didn't eat no-nothing since this morning."

 "Yeah, we didn't have money to eat, did we? That's why we done this job, remember?"

 "We-well, now we got some money, can we eat?"

 Jason's nostrils flared. “You are really stupid, boy, ain't ya? Got that screw loose, ain't ya? You know we can't stop until we get out of this town. The sheriff will be after us in no time at all. Look out the window and stop thinking about food. Once we gotten out of this hell hole, we'll find a motel and eat."

 Chris took another deep breath and tried to forget his hunger pangs. He stared out his window into the dark abyss of the forest up ahead. For a split second, he saw a small flicker of light behind some trees that seemed to be following the car. The hunger pangs suddenly disappeared and butterflies of fear took their place in Chris’ stomach. His face turned pale, and he began to wonder if that mysterious light following them was the boogeyman—the very same boogeyman that Chris had come to know pretty well in these past few months.

 He had been with Chris ever since his mother died. The boogeyman came to him every night like clockwork. He was punctual—that boogeyman was—no doubt about it. He waited for them to have eaten, and Chris’ stepfather to have conked out on dope or alcohol and in deep sleep, to appear.

 Every night when Chris closed his eyes to fall asleep, he'd begin to hear a clinking sound—"Cling ... cling ... cling.” And as soon as he'd open his eyes, there was the boogeyman sitting at the edge of his bed glaring at him with that bedeviling stare and holding a small bell he always carried in his right hand.

 This boogeyman was not a monster. He was a human—a tall, slim male with a red bandanna on his neck and dressed in stonewashed jeans and checkered blue and white shirt. He looked like a warped cowboy who had no sense of style. Was he evil? Chris didn't know. Did he scare the willies out of him? Hell, yes! You better believe it.

 The boogeyman's ghostly white skin just sent shivers up Chris’ spine and those eerie eyes of his made him quiver with fright. He felt like he was looking into the depths of hell when he gazed into those glassy eyes—and if he stared for too long, he'd be lost forever in those fires of the nether world.

 But even though the boogeyman gave Chris the heebie-jeebies, he never harmed or touched him. The boogeyman just sat there and stared at him, shaking his bell—"Cling ... cling ... cling".

 The noise was an agonizing torture. It was the only sound Chris heard for the entire time the boogeyman sat on his bed. And it amplified with every “cling", until it turned into a crescendo of madness. Chris wondered if that was the reason for the boogeyman's nightly visits. Was he trying to drive Chris insane? Little did the boogeyman know that if Chris could have survived ten years of abuse and torment from his parents, he'd have to ring that damn bell of his longer than the few hours he did to make Chris go over the edge of sanity.

 During the supernatural visits, Chris tried many times to wake up his stepfather by shouting out his name, but Jason never even budged a muscle. And when Chris finally fell asleep out of exhaustion and fear, the boogeyman would say, “Don't worry, you'll get what's coming to you soon enough."

 Chris feared those nightly encounters, thinking each night that the boogeyman would finally deliver on his threat. He wondered how the boogeyman knew where to find him day in and day out. The only way he figured was that he was following them. That was it! The boogeyman was invisible and he was following them from town to town. Only when his stepfather was asleep did he make himself known to Chris. But what did he want with him? Chris had no special gift or possession. He was just a messed up ten-year-old who got his daily dose of beatings and torment. That was all.

 All Chris had known since the beginning of his existence was pain, abuse, alcohol, and drugs—these were his parents. Not a loving mother who would make him a cup of hot chocolate and cozy up with him at night to read him bedtime stories. Not a dad who would take him out to the park and play catch with him. No, Chris grew up with drugged up and violent parents who took out their frustrations and hatred on the innocent little soul who followed them around.

 As Chris stared out the side window this night, trembling in fear over his obsession with the boogeyman and his haunting, his stepfather, Jason, said, “So how much did we get away with this time? Did we hit the jackpot?"

 An electrical surge in Chris’ brain flared up. It always did when he sensed he was in trouble. He knew the money he took out of the cash register wasn't much. The clerk had probably just emptied it out not that long before Chris came in. They were lucky if it was over a hundred.

 Taking a big swallow to try to soothe his dry mouth, he opened the bag to count the money. Seventy-two dollars—that was it. Not good—not good at all.

 While Jason held on tight to the wheel as they drove through a sharp curve, his patience was obviously wearing thin, and he shouted, “Well? How much is it? Did a cat cut out your tongue?"

 Chris took a deep breath. “W-w-we o-on-ly g-got—"

 "Dang it, boy! Your screw got loose again! Do I have to hit you across the back of the head to get it into place?” Jason lifted his hand in semblance of a strike.

 Chris cowered and covered his head with his arms for protection. He hollered, “Please don't! W-we-on-only got se-seventy-five dollars!"

 "Freakin’ hell! That's all we got, seventy-five crappy dollars! Just how are we going to survive on that, dang it?"

 Chris breathed a sigh of relief. Even though Jason's screaming would have awakened the dead, it didn't cause Chris any pain other than his eardrums popping from the loudness. Compared to bodily pain, it was peanuts.

 Jason leaned backward and tried to reach for something as he continued to curse while he drove. “Dang ... dang ... dang. Nothing ever goes right. Ever since Jenny died and I've been left with you nothing has gone right. You're cursed, boy, and your bad luck keeps on rubbing off on me. I oughta leave you right here in the scary forest. You ain't no good for me. Dang it."

 Chris had heard those menacing words over and over again, but he knew that without him, Jason wouldn't be able to pull off the robberies. Chris was his main man, so to speak. But that didn't stop Jason from beating Chris until his body and limbs were black and blue and aching. Jason never touched Chris’ face, though. He didn't dare try it. It might jeopardize their whole operation if the clerk suspected that Chris was in some kind of trouble.

 Jason continued to paw the back seat in search of the map, “Dang it! Where is that map. We need to take a look at it and decide what town we will hit tomorrow. If you mess this one up like you did today, boy, you'll be taking a permanent hike in this here woodland. Got it?"

 Chris shook his head and bowed as he said, “Y-yes."

 "Freakin’ map, where the hell did you put it?” his stepfather muttered, as he turned his head to the back for a second to see if the map was indeed there.

 As his stepfather scanned the back seat, Chris stared out the window. For an instant he saw a blur of red, white, and blue in front of the windshield, then a loud thump echoed in Chris’ ears and the car shook as if it hit something.

 Jason jammed on the breaks and screamed, “Dang it, boy! What happened?"

 Chris lifted his head in confusion. “Y-y-you must have hit something."

 "What, boy, what did I hit?"

 "I-I d-don't k-k-know. It was red, white, and blue. Maybe it was a pole with a flag on it."

 "What the hell is an American flag doing in the middle of this dirt road? Let me go see.” Jason got out of the car and looked in front of the car. At first he looked confused, but then Chris saw a look of pure fear envelop his face. He screamed out loud, “Boy! Boy! You c-come o-out here, now. Holy shit, dang, we hit a guy!"

 With trembling hands, Chris opened his side door and stepped onto the gravel road. He came around the car. Because he wasn't brave enough to look directly at the victim lying on the ground, probably in a pool of blood with broken bones twisted and protruding out of flesh, he walked up behind Jason and took a deep breath of mosquito infested, humid air to muster his courage.

 He got on his tiptoes and peeked over Jason's shoulder. The blur of red, white, and blue he had seen just minutes before were really a red handkerchief and a blue and white checked shirt. “No! It can't be!” he uttered in complete shock. His hands, lips, and legs became numb, and he stumbled against the car.

 "Shut up, boy!” Jason shouted and bent down to feel for a pulse. “Do you want someone hearing you? Dang it! He's got no pulse!"

 'B-but t-that's th-the boogeyman! That's him! H-he's th-the o-one whose been coming to me at night!” Chris shouted as he pointed a trembling finger.

 "Dang it, boy! Lower your voice! There's a farm we passed a few minutes ago. You never know if they can hear us. And stop that crap of the boogeyman. This is a man and he's dead. I'm telling you that screw of yours is looser than ever. I think you need some major beating to get it tightened permanently.” Then Jason's voice suddenly changed and became deep, just like the boogeyman's did and he said, “Don't worry, you'll get what's coming to you soon."

 Chris spine shivered with trepidation. “Why did you say that?"

 Jason looked at Chris with confusion as he wiped his sweaty hands on his shirt. “I just said I think you need some major beating to get that screw tightened."

 "N-no, y-you s-said ‘Don't worry, you'll get what's coming to you.’ That's what the boogeyman always says!"

 Jason shook his head. “I didn't say that. You really are losing it, boy!"

 Chris’ heart began beating uncontrollably. If Jason hadn't said it, then maybe the boogeyman did? But when Chris looked at the boogeyman, his eyes were closed and he wasn't moving. For the first time, Chris began to believe his stepfather was right. Maybe he did have a screw loose.

 In a barking voice, Jason commanded, “Just don't stand there. Help me get him off the road."

 "W-what? N-no! N-No way! I-I ain't touching him!"

 Jason took hold of Chris’ shirt and pulled at it, and in a menacing tone, said, “Oh, yes you will. Otherwise I'll leave you here with him and drive away."

 "O-Okay. But I'll only g-grab his leg.” Chris was worried that if he got too close to the boogeyman's eyes that they'd open up and suck him into the fires of hell.

 "Fine, whatever, as long as you pull."

 They dragged the boogeyman's body off the road and into the deep forest. Chris was totally alert, expecting the boogeyman to attack any second. But he never did.

 Once the corpse was out of sight, Jason said, “Okay, get in the car fast. We need to get out of here."

 Chris agreed and jumped into the passenger's seat. As they drove off, Chris looked behind him, but the boogeyman was nowhere in sight. Maybe he wasn't a boogeyman and just a regular man who followed them around. And now that Jason ran him over and killed him, maybe that meant that he wouldn't come a’ haunting every night like he had done for the past three months. Chris took a deep breath and said a silent prayer.

 After an hour's drive, Jason drove up to the Sunset Motel and turned off the engine. “Man, what a day. I can't wait to eat and drink ‘The High and Mighty'. I sure need it."

 Chris looked at him and wondered how he could be so calm after he'd just left a dead man miles away in the forest. The scavengers of the forest had probably already started attacking his body and eating it. “A-Are y-you going to call the p-police to tell them a-about the body?"

 Jason looked at Chris as if not only one screw was loose in his brain, but several. “Are you crazy? Do you want them finding us?"

 Chris looked down and continued, “N-no, but what if y-you c-called from a p-pay phone and told them anonymously?"

 "No way! Let them find him on their own. The guy is dead anyway. What good are the police now? Anyway, I need ‘The High and Mighty’ soon, otherwise I'll go crazy."

 Jason signed into the motel as “John Smith” and paid cash to the punk rocker clerk behind the front desk. With a crooked smile, the clerk said, “John Smith, huh? The world is full of John Smiths and they all seem to want a room."

 Jason's face turned red and he uttered, “Hey, man, I don't want the interrogation. You want my money or not? There are plenty of motels we can go to."

 The clerk put his hands up and said, “Relax, mister. Sorry, I was just making a joke."

 "Well it's a bad one. So what room is ours?"

 The clerk took a key from a hook behind the counter and said, “Lucky Room 13—that's all we have left."

 Chris’ spine quivered with hesitation once again. He looked up to his stepfather and whispered, “Thirteen is bad luck. Let's go to another motel."

 Jason laughed. “You really are crazy, boy.” He took the key and walked out in search of Room 13.

 Once they got in and Jason placed their dirty, gray duffel bag on the bed, he pulled off his sweaty T-shirt and walked to the bathroom. Before closing the door, he said, “Christ! Open the air-conditioner. It's hot in here. And make me ‘The High and Mighty', will ya? I'll drink it when I get out of the shower."

 Chris looked around the grimy, puny room searching for the air-conditioner. The air reeked of urine and mildew. Chris had been in so many grungy motels like this that the smell didn't bother him anymore.

 He found the air-conditioner in the left corner of the room. The front panel was gone, but the control buttons were still intact. He pushed the ‘On’ button and turned the dial to ‘Maximum'. The motor cracked and creaked, then it kicked in within a few seconds. But unfortunately, after five minutes, the air that blew through the vents was still hot. It was probably low on Freon and needed to be fixed. Chris cursed to himself, knowing full well that Jason hated the heat and humidity and became really cranky. He knew he'd be his stepfather's punching bag this night if his mood became miserable. And with the stifling heat and stickiness in the air, this was bound to happen.

 He went to the duffel bag and took out the plastic bag where his stepfather kept his drugs and alcohol. He took out the bottle of Green Hornet Liquid—the herbal equivalent of the street drug Ecstasy—that they got in the herbal stores and the bottle of whiskey. Jason had created this drink “The High and Mighty” many months back. It was his mother's and Jason's favorite cocktail. Chris was so sure it was the reason his mother died months ago. After she drank it and crashed out on the bed, she never woke up the next morning. But Jason denied it. They had been using it for months and it was safe. Sure—right. That's the excuse every drug addict used when they couldn't live without their poison.

 Jason had taught Chris to make it a few months back when he was in a lazy mood and didn't feel like getting up off the bed to make it for himself. Ever since then, Chris prepared it for Jason.

 As he looked at the whiskey bottle tonight, he thought about the heat and what Jason's temperament would be like once he got out of the shower and found the air-conditioner wasn't working. Instead of adding only an ounce of whiskey to the herbal liquid and water, he decided to add two ounces. Maybe that would mellow Jason out and make him crash out—yes that was it. Then Chris wouldn't have to endure his nightly beating and punishment.

 The moment he placed the drink on the nightstand next to the lumpy bed, Jason opened the door of the bathroom and sighed, “Oh! That felt good.” He spotted his drink and picked it up. With a towel wrapped around his slim waist, he collapsed on the bed. It creaked and bounced from the ordeal. Then he gulped the drink in three shots and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He frowned and asked, “Hey, it's freakin’ hot in here still. Did you turn the air-conditioner on?"

 "Y-yeah, I-I did, but it's broken. I-It d-doesn't work."

 "Christ, is this night going to get any better? This is all your fault, boy. You and that bad luck that follows you around.” Jason got up and lifted his hand, ready to strike as he approached him.

 The spark in Chris’ brain surged with adrenaline. He closed his eyes, ready to receive the smack.

 Just then he heard “Cling ... cling ... cling". The sound was something Chris knew all too well. The boogeyman was coming. This was it—he wasn't dead lying in the forest being eaten by scavengers. No, he may be dead, but he was nearby and he was coming for Chris.Tonight's the night I'll get what's coming to me , he thought as more fireworks exploded in his brain.

 The clinking sound continued getting louder and more frequent. Jason stopped dead in his tracks and asked, “What the hell is that?” He jumped up and ran to the window. He opened the smoke-stained curtain an inch and peeked out. “Holy shit!"

 Chris asked, “It's the boogeyman, isn't it? He's here to get me."

 Jason cursed, “No, you stupid idiot! How many times did I tell you there is no boogeyman. It's a huge dog—looks like a husky. The dang thing has a bell around its neck and it keeps walking back and forth.

 Chris said, “What?” and went to the window to peer through the crack. The white beast stopped the moment Chris looked at it. It was as if it sensed his stare. It turned to glare at him with its glassy eyes. A shudder pulsated through Chris’ limbs and stomach. Its eyes were just like the boogeyman's, and it had a red, white, and blue collar around its neck with a small bell at the end of it that rang with the slightest movement.

 Chris closed the curtain and said out loud, “No! It can't be! That ain't no dog. That's the boogeyman."

 Jason shook his head, “Will you stop it! That ain't no boogeyman. It's a dang dog. See its collar? The owner is probably in one of the rooms in this motel."

 "Cling ... cling ... cling” continued to ring in their ears. “Freakin’ luck still ain't getting better. That blasted thing is going to keep us up all night,” Jason cursed. He went back into the bathroom.

 Chris ran after him and took hold of his arm. “Where are you going? Don't leave me alone. He's after me. He wants me!"

 Jason pushed him away, knocking him to the floor. “Crazy boy! For the last time, that ain't no boogeyman. It's a stupid dog, and it's going to keep making that sound if I don't go to the front desk and tell them to stop it."

 Chris sat up and wrapped his skinny arms around Jason's leg and begged, “Pl-please don't leave me alone in he-here."

 With a roar, Jason swung a punch at him and hit him right in the eye. “Let me go!"

 Chris collapsed to the floor. His eye felt like it broke out of its socket and fell into his brain. The pain was excruciating. He lay flat on the floor crying.

 After a few minutes, his stepfather came out of the bathroom fully clothed. He staggered towards the door and stumbled a few times. He had to lean against the wall to regain his balance and kept rubbing his eyes to focus.

 Chris just lay there, holding his face and trying to stop the flood of tears that were rolling down his cheeks. He wanted to get up to stop his stepfather, but the pain was too much to endure.

 He heard a big bang as his stepfather slammed the door, and then he waited in stillness. The “cling ... cling ... cling” still rang. But it was constant and not getting closer. That was good.

 Chris waited in a fetal position until the pain subsided and half an hour passed. He got up and looked out the window, worried that the boogeyman had gotten Jason and was devouring him. The beast was still there, but Jason was nowhere to be seen.

 Another hour passed and still no sign of Jason. The beast was outside, but he was just pacing back and forth making that bell around his neck ring. Out of sheer exhaustion and stress, Chris lay on top of the bed and fell asleep.

 He was awakened a few hours later by a knock at the door. He lifted his head and realized his stepfather hadn't come back. He slowly got up as his eye and his head began to pound with unbearable pressure. He opened a slit of the window curtain. The beast was gone and so was the clinking sound of the bell. He did see an officer and the punk rocker clerk standing at the door. He slowly walked to the door and opened it saying, “Yes?"

 The sheriff looked at the ten-year-old's bruised face and swollen, purple eye and bent to his knees. He gently touched the boy's cheek and with a compassionate tone, asked, “Are you okay?"

 The look of concern on the sheriff's face just made Chris dissolve. Tears began to slide down his face again. He leaned against the sheriff's shoulder and just cried. Cried for all those years of torture that he had endured. Cried for the childhood of which he had been robbed. Cried for the innocence he had a right to, but was never granted. And when he was done, the electrical surges that every so often exploded in his brain were finally gone. And he was forever free of his stutter and from that beast of burden he was born into ten years ago.

 Once Chris regained his composure, the sheriff told him, “I'm so sorry, son, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your father is dead. We found his body just outside the hotel's lobby. He had been dead for about an hour, apparently from a seizure."

 All Chris could muster as a response was, “He wasn't my father. He was my stepfather.” This time no tears streamed down his face like before. There was no love lost. He knew his stepfather died because of “The High and Mighty” he had drunk a while before.

 Chris then asked, “Where did the dog go? The dog that had a red, white, and blue collar and bell around its neck? It was pacing back and forth outside of our window.” Chris then turned to the punk rocker and continued. “That's why my stepfather left, to get you to get that dog outta here."

 The sheriff and the punk rocker just stared at each other and nodded. The sheriff asked, “You saw a dog with a red, white, and blue collar and bell around its neck? Was it a white husky?"

 Chris nodded. “How did you know that? Do you know this dog?"

 The sheriff motioned for Chris to sit on the bed and said, “That sounds like the legend of the man wolf the Indians in these parts talk about. Supposedly, it's a spirit who guards children and protects them from evil. It uses its bell to guide the innocent to freedom. Of course, no one ever saw it and no one believes it."

 The sheriff then went on to ask, “Do you know where we can contact your mom, son?"

 Chris shook his head, “She's dead. Jason, my stepfather, was all the family I had. I got no one now."

 A look of perplexity masked the sheriff's face while he stood there deep in thought.

 Those butterflies of worry began to go crazy in Chris’ stomach, “Where are you going to take me?"

 The sheriff smiled and said, “Don't worry, son. You can come and stay with my wife and me for a while until we settle things for you.” He wrapped his arms around Chris’ narrow shoulders and said, “Come now with me. It's late and you need to rest.

 As Chris followed the sheriff into his police car and they drove off, he stared into the forest, wondering if that legend was true and the boogeyman was really the man wolf the sheriff talked about. He continued to look into the forest, waiting for a glimpse of the boogeyman following them, but after a few minutes of searching and seeing nothing, he fell into a deep, tranquil sleep—one that he never had enjoyed before in his ten years of a violent and loveless life. For the first time in his existence he felt safe and loved. He had found the peace he hungered for.
 * * * *

A year has passed, and Chris is in school, catching up on all the years he missed in his education. The sheriff and his wife decided to adopt Chris and another child they were foster parents to. Now Chris and his younger brother have a loving mother who makes them a cup of hot chocolate at night and cozies up with them to read them bedtime stories, and a dad who takes them out to the park to play catch.

 Every now and then, Chris will hear the clinking sound and fears the boogeyman/man wolf is back, but it always ends up being another bell—not the one the boogeyman/man wolf rang when he came a’ calling. To this day, Chris still doesn't know if the boogeyman/man wolf was evil or nice. But he does know that the beast did deliver on his promise. He promised that he'd get what was coming to him. And for that Chris will be forever grateful.

 About Giovanna Lagana

 Giovanna Lagana has been married for the past twelve years to her loving husband, Ghislain, and is the proud mother of three beautiful children, named Mathieu, Nicholas, and Isabelle. She has been writing for several years and has published several of her poems and short stories in magazines, e-zines, and anthologies. She's also an Editor for Whiskey Creek Press. When she isn't busy playing with her kids, writing, or editing, she spends her time reading.

 Her horror/romantic suspense novelWith Black & White Comes The Grey—The Battle Of Armageddon—Book 1, which was rated a top-ten Best Horror Novel in the Preditors & Editors 2005 Reader's Poll, is available at Whiskey Creek Press. She is also a contributor, and co-editor, ofLove andHate anthologies.

 She'd love to hear from readers. Her website is: giovannalagana.wcpauthor.com/

 FEATHERS

 by Louise Bohmer

 She had moved down from the attic after Olivia left. Freed from the sharp squeals of the mice she had hunted at night, above the poorly insulated master bedroom, Garrett found rest again.

 The nursery became her rightful nest, and she took over full-time care of their offspring. Sometimes, Garrett would press his ear against the wall and listen to the old lullabies she sang.

 Olivia couldn't handle their odd situation. After six months of staring at a crib filled with an abomination, that should have held her own, impossible newborn, she had cracked. Tearfully, she'd confessed her aversion to the child he and the bitch Goddess shared.

 "Feeding it.” Stopping, she had sniffed hard and wiped the tears from her soft, apple-round face. The misery had ravaged her innocent beauty. “My God, Garrett, you have no idea. Those teeth ... its eyes."

 "His eyes, Olivia. He's not a monster. Don't refer to him as one."

 "Then what the hell is he? Explain it to me, Garrett. Explain to me why I can't have a child, but she, that thing, can?"

 He had wished for answers, all the ones she had needed, but none had come to him. “I don't know, baby. Life just doesn't make sense sometimes."

 His indecision, his addiction to an arcane deity, had cost him his marriage.

 "She wasn't right for you anyway.” Lilith had told him when he'd come to the nursery after the fight, threatening to slit his wrists and asking why he had to carry such heavy burdens.

 Lilith was right, of course, and he knew it. A wise demoness never questioned the intangibles, she already knew the outcome. Olivia had been an unsuitable partner for him. She lived in a world of science and reason—a dedicated geneticist. Garrett lived in the realm of the esoteric, as a successful medium and tarot reader.

 Perhaps it was this lifelong love of the supernatural that had first drawn her, the moon-white, winged lady, to him. He had his suspicions, but, as with all things concerning the Netherworld, proof was amorphous.

 He took a step onto the thick, blue carpet. Lilith turned and smiled at him; her emerald eyes flickered once, like a cat caught in a dark room.

 "Why tonight?” Garrett noticed the babe wrapped tightly in her silken feathers, and he walked closer to mother and child.

 "Sometimes it's best not to know why.” Reaching out, she stroked the tip of his long, thin nose with a snowy talon. “In their dark quarters, alone, some secrets should lie. Humans are a far too curious race."

 "You sound like a play.” He buried his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and sighed.

 "That should suit your old world heart.” She smiled and wiped some pearly spittle from their owl child's chin.

 Weary, he scratched his scalp, covered by a thick thatch of mahogany curls. “I'm tired of dramatics. Being unique grows old after awhile."

 "Don't be angry. You knew how this arrangement would turn out.” Her silver-tipped wing stretched out and stroked his bare arm.

 He brushed away her offered olive branch. “Yes, I knew. But I was caught up in your glamour."

 "That's a pitiful excuse, Garrett.” She laughed, coyly, mocking his truth with her feigned innocence. “You know affairs with the Divine always end in eternal heartbreak."

 "How do I know that?” He wasn't being impudent; his curiosity was genuine. Odd thoughts filled his head at all times, and he often wondered who they really belonged to.

 Lilith shrugged and stroked the soft down on their infant's neck as she burped it. “Perhaps you were a god once, in another life?"

 He scoffed at this, and ran his palm over the fluffy feathers that covered his son's head. He would soon shed these and fine, raven hair would grow in. Garrett swallowed over the hollowness that crawled up from his chest and into his throat. He would miss many transformations in his child's otherworld life.

 "Why would I be here now if that were the case?” He took a deep gulp of fresh, night air coming in the open window, and held it for a moment as he savored the clean taste. “Stuck in this shitty, mundane life."

 Lilith leaned forward and kissed his forehead. Before she straightened, she whispered to him; “Even gods can fall. This could be penance, my love."

 "I don't want to ponder my past incarnations.” He waved away her time wasting philosophy with a peevish hand.

 "I,” his voice cracked, and the first drops of misery dripped onto his cheeks, “don't want to lose him.” He thought about the cold, empty house without them. The loneliness would creep in like a specter, play on his mind, make him imagine ghosts he did not want to see, in shadowed corners.

 "I know.” Her tone held a hint of true compassion. “But this must end a certain way, Garrett, as all things do."

 His lips grew tight and thin, and his face ached with the tension. “You never speak straight.” The words came out louder than he expected, filling the room with a sharp echo that made him jump.

 He grabbed onto the baby's arm and stared, determined, into her preternatural eyes. “I won't let you take him.” The child whimpered a bit beneath his firm grip. Throwing a narrowed glare at his otherworld lover, he dropped his hold on the boy. Garrett's heart hammered in his chest, and he struggled to keep his breathing even.

 Lilith chuckled and stroked his cheek with a soft, smooth thumb. The lack of texture in her skin made him shiver.

 "You know you have no choice.” A sweet, singsong under-rhythm now leaked into her words.

 Garrett closed his eyes, and let the caress of her fingers on his face lull him into a trance. “Then let me come with you.” His bones melted as he leaned into her. She put a hand against his chest, and her cool touch seeped through his heated skin, touching his heart.

 "You can't, darling. Not this time."

 He wondered about those last three words, and the innuendo that slipped with them from her lips. But he didn't care about the past, not right now. Keeping his son on this side of the Veil was his only concern, for now.

 "Please, let me keep him?” His begging shamed him some, but he was desperate, and frightened by the solitude that would follow their departure. He'd heard the whispers of his dead mother and father from beneath the bed last night, warning him that he should not have pursued their obsession with all things arcane.You should have let our love of the occult die with us, son. His mother's reedy whisper had floated up through the mattress.You were never strong enough to handle what the true unknown holds. He knew that his fear of Lilith and the child's departure was partly selfish; he didn't want to lose his son, but he didn't want to face the demons that would come with his alone time either.

 "And how would you raise him?” Gently, she pushed Garrett back. His eyes snapped open, and her spell dissipated. “How do you suppose mortal children would react to our boy?"

 She held the child up and outward, so he faced his father. Garrett's heart ached as he took in the fluffy, ivory chest, heaving in a deep, content sleep. The infant's hard, fleshy beak drooped open, and a bit of drool crept down the side of his mouth. The protruding, bony lips, Lilith had told him, would recede with maturity. He'd be a fine, handsome demigod one day.

 Again, he knew she was right. The omnipotent were rarely wrong. How could he raise a mythological offspring? The child belonged with his mother, beyond Garrett's reach.

 "Will I ever see him again?” His voice was husky with early grief.

 She shook her head; her face remained impassive. “I cannot speak for eternity."

 He chewed on his bottom lip, and looked from mother to son. His hand drifted behind him, to the waistband of his jeans where he had tucked a small revolver.

 "Then,” his fist clenched around its short, cold stock, “I can't let you take the part of him that holds me.” He slipped the gun out of his pants and brought it up to his temple.

 He wouldn't let her take what made the boy half-human away with her. Killing himself would sever the child's tie to the mundane world. Garrett swallowed hard as he positioned the pistol. Tears itched at the back of his eyes, adrenaline flooded his brain, and despair clawed at the back of his throat, begging him to end his life. At least, in death, he could follow them to the other side ... perhaps find them, somewhere, within the plane of purgatory.

 "Don't you dare, Garrett.” Lilith gripped the babe close to her breast with one massive, clawed hand as she charged forward. Her wings swooped out wide then back in tight against her body, creating a frantic wind. “You're his key between here and there. My key, as well."

 Her talons touched his chest, and he staggered back from her. “I'm sorry. I can't live with the emptiness to come ... the ghosts ... I renege on our deal."

 He tilted the gun backward against his temple, so the bullet would rip deep through his brain. He felt a deep peace, a grim acknowledgement of what needed to be done, as he curled his shaking fingers tighter around the cold metal. Closing his eyes, he pulled the trigger.

 Lilith's shrieks died with him.

 (Originally published inGothic Revue August 2005)

 About Louise Bohmer

 From a young age, a curiosity for all things odd grew in Louise Bohmer. In later years, this fascination manifested itself in her strange stories. She'll try her pen at just about anything. Speculative, horror, fantasy ... If it jumps into Louise's imagination, she'll pull it out and see what she can do with it. You can find Ms. Bohmer's work inWicked Karnival—Halloween Horrors, CWW Raw Meat, Wicked Karnival Magazine, andChainsaw Magazine .

 Her short story “The Other Woman” is a Torrid Teaser for Whiskey Creek Press Torrid. Visit her on the web at: www.louisebohmer.com

 VERA'S HOUSE

 by Katherine Simth

 Shelia watched the spider move with delicate precision toward a hapless moth that hung suspended above what looked like the shriveled remains of an ancient sponge. Spinning a web in the kitchen sink would normally be a risky proposition, she told herself cynically, but since Vera obviously hadn't washed anything in a long, long time, the spider was safe enough.

 "I guess I thought she'd never leave us.” There was an underlying sob in the comment.

 Shelia glanced over at her cousin. Margaret was still red-eyed from weeping at the funeral. Her dark suit was rumpled and sported a fine line of dust across one sleeve.

 "Yeah, I know what you mean,” she murmured. Even as she spoke, an eddy of cold air wafted past her cheek, smelling stale and lifeless.

 Vera, their grandmother, was finally in her grave at the ripe age of ninety-six, a long life of devotion to family left behind for some higher plane ... that is, if you believed in such a thing.

 Standing in the dull illumination of a cold November afternoon, Shelia felt another trickle of icy air go past.Damn that monstrous old furnace in the basement , she thought darkly; it probably needed to be lit again.

 "What will you do with the house?"

 It was about time that question, edged as it was with bitterness, had been asked. It had hung between them, held at bay during the calling the night before, the strained meal at the church afterward, and then, of course, this morning when they'd laid their grandmother to her eternal rest. Shelia noted that despite all her overt affectations of grief, Margaret's plump faced was pinched, like she'd eaten something gone bad. Shelia said blandly, “Well ... it's a mess."

 "Yes.” Her cousin agreed, surveying a pile of ceiling plaster, which had dusted the old sideboard by the stove, her gaze moving across the peeling wallpaper, the decrepit refrigerator, the warped floor next to the open pantry door. Dust encrusted every inch of the place, and the air stank of a thousand long-past dinners and the permeating influence of age and neglect. “She just didn't want anything changed, especially the past few years. I couldn't convince her to make any improvements."

 "Too bad,” Shelia murmured, meaning it.

 "Yes, well ... Will and I,” Margaret began hesitantly, gripping her handbag tightly. “We have some money saved. We always thought the house would be ours, but since Grandma left it to you, we thought we could help you out and take it off your hands, if the price was reasonable, of course."

 "Of course.” Shelia let the words drip with irony. Margaret had always fancied herself Vera's favorite. In fact, none of the other grandchildren had expected Shelia to inherit the house. She added, “Sorry, but I thought I'd keep it a while."

 "Keep it?” Margaret struggled visibly with annoyance and disappointment. “Why on earth? You live in Chicago."

 "I'm looking for a change,” Shelia supplied, not willing to expound on her recent personal disasters. Losing her job hadn't been much of a surprise, she'd hated that shitty office work anyway, but Jeff dumping her for someone quite a bit younger and maybe a little bit prettier, well, that had hurt like hell. The bastard had thrown her out of the apartment, so it was just as well she had some place to go.

 She wandered over to the sink, aware that Margaret was staring at her back. Picking up the old crusted sponge, she watched the spider spin upward in alarm. Then taking the stiff material in her hand, she quickly crushed it against the stained porcelain.

 From behind her, Margaret said suddenly, passionately, “I can't believe she left this house to you. That she lefteverything to you.No one can believe it."

 "Why not?” The squashed spider looked almost comical, flat like a cartoon character against a windshield.

 "It's like you hypnotized her or something."

 "Don't be stupid, Margaret."

 "You ignored her for almost your whole life. Then all of a sudden, you're the loving granddaughter!"

 "So?"

 Her cousin moved; a short jerk of her body scraped her very practical flat-heeled shoes across the dirty, gritty floor. “I was the one here. I took her to the doctor, paid her bills for her, took in her mail, I even shoveled her walks in the winter and did her grocery shopping. And you,” the tone turned contemptuous, “you started calling her, acting like you cared just in this past year as she started to go downhill. You sent flowers every week, a gift now and then—"

 The sponge didn't even smell anymore; so old and faded, it had become. Rather like Vera had been at the end, Shelia mused ironically. The situation had a certain poignant poetry. It was true; her grandmother had been won over so easily.

 Margaret continued to whine “Even at Christmas, I was the one to have her at my house; Iwanted her at my house. Sure, she was difficult and proud at times, but I did everything I could. Where were you when she had her stroke two years ago? I didn't see you driving down to empty any bedpans."

 Shelia turned and tossed the sponge into a trashcan full of undetermined contents. “Look, Margaret, this place isn't exactly a bucket of gold, or anything. It's a wreck, not worth much, and it will take every dime of the bequest she left with it to make it decent enough to live in."

 That was a stretching of the truth, but believable. No one knew that Vera had saved and scraped her whole life, leaving that untouched money in the bank to grow and grow. Last year, the sum had come close to over ninety thousand dollars. It had diminished some ... well, that was what power of attorney was for, wasn't it? Shelia didn't feel bad about spending it. Vera would have wanted her to have some nice things.

 And there were the antiques, too. The old crappy place might be ready to fall down, but it was fairly brimming with furniture, dishes, and other useless brick-a-brac that would all sell for a small fortune.

 "It isn't fair.” Margaret sounded irritatingly close to tears again. “What about the dining room table and chairs? And the china? They were always supposed to be mine."

 "The lawyer won't let me do anything right now.” It was an evasive enough answer.

 "But...” Margaret sounded almost bewildered. “It isn'tright. "

 Shelia smiled sweetly at her cousin. “Not right? Vera had the right to leave her house to whomever she chose, and that person is me."
 * * * *

Vera came down the hall, her cane thumping dully on the wood, her breath rasping outward in sickening whistles. She wore her good pink wool suit and sturdy, dark shoes, the ivory brooch Shelia had always coveted at her sagging throat. She moved laboriously but determinedly, her gnarled hands grasping the handle of her cane with white-knuckled force, her glazed, opaque eyes focused with intent. Reaching the end of the hall, she let go of the heavy cane, which crashed into the floor with ear-ringing force. Haggard and wizened, her skin darkened and sunken into her skull like plaster on a mold, she clawed at the knob, turning it ... turning it...

 Shelia woke gasping in the dark, sweating against the stale sheets.Now what the hell was that , she thought frantically.

 The dream hadn't been in the least bit funny. Relief crept through her rigid body as she realized what had happened.

 Yes, a dream. Vera hadn't crept down the hall and peeked into her doorway. Her corpse, ice cold and clammy from the grave, hadn't tried to crawl into her bed, chuckling and complacent in the dark.

 She hadn't.

 Shelia rolled over, twisting uncomfortably in her nightgown. The night was listless, the thin shade over the dusty window letting little illumination into the shrouded and bare room. She had managed to wash a few sheets and sweep the floor but that had been the extent of her ambition. The rest of the evening she'd spent staring at the old television in the parlor, huddled in a mildewed blanket she'd found in a closet. The flickering screen and gothic lighting had done nothing to soothe her nerves.

 Her nerves, she assured herself, not her conscience.

 It must be the saintly Margaret—touting her virtues and ill-use—that had her dreaming such a nasty little concoction.

 Bitch.

 It wasn't like she was some kind of criminal, Shelia thought grumpily, punching her hard pillow into a ball under her head. She'd given the old lady some attention, obviously much needed. And nothing was as criminal as Vera just sitting on a fortune of old furniture and vintage fabrics, letting them rot and decay into something of no value. The house itself was evidence of her neglect, practically falling apart and not worth nearly as much as Shelia had hoped.

 Closing her eyes, she sought sleep again, trying to ignore every creak and groan of the old house. All she managed, to her annoyance, was a restive tossing and turning, until a gray dawn crept over the tops of the frame houses and across the empty fields. Groggy and red-eyed, she went downstairs to the derelict room that passed for the kitchen and thought longingly of hot coffee.

 Vera had condescended to modernity enough to purchase a coffee maker, but it looked crusted and dirty and hardly something anyone sane would use ever again.

 And it was cold.That damned furnace; it was a thought of sudden fury. How on earth had Vera—at her age and state of mind—managed the journey to the basement to light the pilot as often as it seemed to go out? If the condition of the house, once so lovingly tended and immaculate, was any indication of Vera's condition near the end, well, that pompous bore Margaret had little business complaining. All that rubbish about her loyal dedicated care was obviously a bunch of crap...

 The sound of the ringing phone interrupted her inner ranting, and Shelia's jaw tightened, wondering who would be calling at such an early hour. Since she and her mother weren't speaking right now, it couldn't be her ... and her other relatives were even worse. A petty lot, the whole bunch of them, resenting her for being Vera's favorite.

 Hurrying toward the parlor, she pushed open the creaking door and saw the old black telephone sitting in squat, modern splendor on a table almost two hundred years old. Starting toward it, she caught her foot on the edge of the rug and unexpectedly pitched forward, narrowly missing the edge of a stout end table, sprawling in ungainly embarrassment across the musty carpeting.

 She lay there, stunned, realizing two things at once. Vera had died there, in that very room. Lying helpless on the floor, maybe in the exactsame position.

 We found her in the parlor, but she'd been gone two days, poor dear ... perhaps she tripped over the edge of the rug, I guess we'll never know...

 Shoving herself upward, Shelia scrambled to her feet, trembling suddenly.

 The phone had stopped ringing.

 She didn't care.

 Vera had died on a Sunday morning after taking a tumble in the parlor and being unable to get up. She'd broken her hip; the autopsy had told the family that much. Weak and old, she'd not lasted very long without being able to move or summon help.

 And Shelia had called that fateful Sunday morning, bright and early, as part of her campaign to win Vera over. She remembered it, remembered making the early call, remembered hanging up in disgust when she'd gotten no answer.

 Shaking, she walked slowly back into the kitchen. The delicate web was still in the sink, the useless corpse of the spider more ridiculous than ever.

 "I didn't kill you,” she whispered out loud. “Vera, are you listening to me? I didn't kill you."
 * * * *

Mr. Lawson leaned back in his chair and smiled with obvious false sympathy. His voice, in contrast, was steely and professional. “Six months, I'm afraid. It's the law."

 The law. It was true, he looked very much like a lawyer from the color of his drab tie to his silver-bright hair.

 Sheila tightened her fingers on her purse. “But if a buyer comes along..."

 "I'm afraid it doesn't matter."

 Didn't matter? That was all well for him to say, but he didn't know about the noises ... about how apparently Vera had decided so unfairly that Shelia was to blame for what was just a tragic accident, about how she rattled around that old house, thumping with her cane...

 Nightmares, she reminded herself firmly, looking around the plain warm office.Just nasty little nightmares and an overactive imagination.

 "You may sell it, and the contents as well, just as soon as the court says it all actually belongs to you.” His tone was graciously polite.

 So pat, so concise, so final.

 Thank God she'd edged off some money from Vera's accounts, she thought viciously. How did this withered, little man think she'd live?

 "Although,” he continued in that same unemotional voice. “I must say that I think you should consider honoring some of the original bequests as stated in the first will. Your grandmother led me to believe that you would distribute items such as the dining room tables and chairs to your cousin Margaret, and various other pieces of furniture and family heirlooms to others in your family."

 Thathad been the understanding, of course, when Shelia had persuaded her grandmother to change her will.So much easier , she had cajoled,to leave it all to me and let me worry over who gets what. I'll take care of everything.

 Yeah, right,Shelia thought maliciously. She'd be willing to bet good hard cash that her relatives had already been to see Lawson themselves, wanting to sue her or something. They weren't getting as much as a stick of scrap lumber from the shed out back. Vera was dead; she'd never know.

 Her smile was barely civil. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Lawson."

 "Certainly.” He dismissed her, rising politely as she surged to her feet and stomped out of the office.

 "Of all the pompous, self-righteous...” She stopped on the sidewalk, her mutter arrested by the chill whip of an Arctic wind. It was her mistake, she realized bitterly, to not have suggested a different lawyer when Vera last changed her will. Lawson's sentiments clearly lay with that pain-in-the-ass, Margaret, and the rest of her whining siblings.

 She wasn't sure what she was more tired of, her resentful, greedy family or that creaky wreck of a house she'd inherited. All those shrouded huge pieces of furniture, the weird, dark family portraits of people she didn't recognize, the chipped pieces of faded china, all it just gave her an uneasy feeling. Chicago, with her drab apartment and lackluster career, it seemed almost appealing at this moment.

 Another gust of wind hit her in the face, making her cough. She stumbled on the curb and crossed the street, hugging her coat around her shivering body. Margaret, she remembered, lived only two blocks or so away—in a warm house that didn't rattle in the night...

 Margaret, she'd reminded herself as she walked stiffly down the sidewalk, could go straight to hell. And take the rest of the family with her. What a bunch of sore losers. Once Shelia sold off the antiques and put the house on the market, she was moving back to Chicago and would never have to think about any of them again. Altogether, with the house, the contents, and the life insurance policy money, she should have a tidy little sum to get her back on her feet.

 Snow began to spit in her face, making the walk even more miserable. By the time she'd walked the short distance back to Vera's house—no,her house—she was shaking and half-frozen. Going up the sagging steps of the front porch, she fumbled with her key.

 The lock turned with a mournful sound and she stepped inside, grateful to be out of the wind and weather. The air inside the house was faintly foul—stale and unused.

 And cold. The air inside was nearly as cold as it was outside. She could see her breath in big frosty puffs.

 Cursing, she kicked the door shut with a bang that threatened the precious leaded glass in the front panel. Stomping across the floor, she stalked past the huddled musty furniture and peeling wallpaper. Going straight into the kitchen, she fumbled with the latch on the basement door, wrenching it open with gritted teeth, grabbing at the flashlight resting by the warped door.

 She wassick of it. As expensive as it would be, she might have to replace the furnace if she was going to spend the winter in Vera's house.

 The furnace sat at the very back of the cellar, like a venerable, crusty king on his throne. Shelia had begun to dread and resent the whims of the smoking, uncooperative contraption; four times already in the week she'd lived in the house waking to cold floors and an eerie silence. And worse, lighting the pilot light consisted of crawling on the dirt floor with a flashlight and a lit match and sticking your hand into the nether regions under the rusting belly of the ancient thing. She'd done it enough times now to hate the process.

 It was like ice in the basement. Her teeth chattered as she scraped a match and balanced the flashlight between her knees. The match sputtered as she thrust it into the dark hole. A faint smell of oil hung in the dank air.

 Leaning back on her heels, Shelia smiled grimly and waited. Usually, she couldn't wait to get out of the cellar and she left immediately, scrambling up the rickety stairs like a frightened cat. Older and wiser after a week of combat, this time she was going to wait until the beast actually turned on. More than half the time, she'd had to come back and relight the pilot, sometimes three or four times.

 "Come on, you stupid thing,” she muttered. “I'm freezing here."

 Not to mention that the gloom and smell of the cellar gave her a sickening feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach.

 To her relief, the fan clicked over with a rusty whirr and the furnace roared to life.

 She got to her feet. A second later, the door at the top of the stairs slammed shut, and there was an audible click as the latch fell into place.

 In the dark cavernous space, Shelia felt frozen by more than the chill in the air. Her cry came out as a thin scream. “Vera!"
 * * * *

It was nonsense, of course, once a person calmed down and thought about it, once the initial rush of shock at being suddenly locked in the basement passed. The furnace coming on had caused a reverse flow of air that had slammed the door shut. The latch, a simple old-fashioned mechanism made of iron, had flipped shut when the door slammed. It was the law of physics, not a supernatural force.

 It wasn't Vera, realizing from the grave how she'd been duped. It wasn't Vera, remembering how she lay in pain on the floor while her life slowly faded away. It wasn't ... Vera.

 Itwasn't . The whole idea was nonsense.

 Shelia stood and breathed slowly, letting cold air fill her lungs in a measured movement.No use panicking , she told herself, trying to ignore the vault of darkness around her.Just climb the steps and open the door . That latch, not to mention the door, was at least a hundred years old. How hard could it be, even if it was locked...

 Did something move in the shadows to her left?

 Oh, God.

 Deliberately, she skittered the thin beam of her flashlight around the room, thankfully seeing nothing but sweating walls and a few cobwebs. Squaring her shoulders, Shelia moved toward the stairs. Darkness followed, swallowing the room, seemingly laughing at her tiny beam of illumination.

 Her legs felt stiff as she began to climb, like those of a jerking puppet. With dread, she reached out a hand and tried the knob.

 The furnace chose that moment to cough and go out.

 Silence. The cold metal against her palm.

 No one would come look for her. She didn't have any real friends, and her family was furious with her...

 Maybe in a week or two, when she didn't take in her mail or move her car out of the driveway ... people might start to wonder then, but how long would it take for them to actually look?

 No, don't think about it.

 She turned and pushed the door handle. Nothing. The latch on the other side held firmly. Her heart began to pound and hurt in her chest. She shoved again, harder. The door held like iron.

 Infuriated, she attacked the door with force, accidentally dropping her flashlight, which bounced away and went out in a brittle tinkle of glass.

 Locked in the basement in pitch darkness ...Real fear made her frantically kick and bang on the door, hopping with frustration on the top step.

 She could swear that there was an answering thud from the other side. She froze and thought she heard it again; a scrape and a knock of wood on wood, as if someone were walking laboriously across the old floor just outside the locked door.

 Horror was like a well-spring, flooding her mind and body with indescribable terror. “Damn you, Vera,” she shrieked, kicking and pounding. “Let me out!"

 The top step cracked like a bullet under her feet as the stairs collapsed. Shelia had an odd sensation of weightlessness as she plummeted downward in a haze of crackling wood and throat-clogging dust.
 * * * *

Blackness all around. And cold, except for a spreading warmth seeping from her body in a liquid pool. She was lying on uncomfortable shards of wood, the pain and shock leaving her dizzy and weak.

 Damn that pompous Margaret, she thought hazily, for not insisting that Vera keep the place in better repair. Her cousin was responsible for her being trapped, injured, and frightened.

 Damn Margaret for not seeing that Vera was lonely, growing a little more confused and vulnerable each day. If Margaret had seized the opportunity, she would be the one bleeding and trapped in the icy darkness.

 "Damn you too, Vera,’ she whispered furiously into the cold room, beginning to weep. “Margaret deserved this old wreck much more than I ever did."

 Of course, Vera could leave her house to whomever she chose.

 About Katherine Smith

 Katherine Smith is the author of nine novels and numerous shorts stories. She writes both horror and mystery. She loves the cold chill of the first, and the intrigue of the second.

 Katherine is an Eppies finalist with the first Danny Haase mystery novel,The Summer Bones, and the second,Blood is Quicker Than Water, was a #1 bestseller both at Whiskey Creek Press and Fictionwise in the mystery category.Wayward Sun, a western romance set in 1861, is also a 2006 Eppies finalist in historical romance, and she is a contributor and co-editor of the anthologies,Love andHate. The mother of three teens, she lives in rural Indiana with her husband, Chris. Please visit her at www.katherinesmith.net.

 CYNOPHOBIA

 by Janet Mills

 The German shepherd followed her all the way home, his threatening presence bringing the memories back in a frightening rush. Janie had never experienced the luxury of forgetting. The jagged scar along her chin line was a constant reminder of the time she was eleven and a neighbor's vicious pet jumped the chain-link fence as she ran by. The doctor had said she was lucky the dog missed her throat. He assured her such a wound would most likely have killed her.

 Never run from a dog. Stay calm. Avoid eye contact.She remembered all the rules, though she had never gotten a chance to practice them that day long ago when the dog had leaped at her with no warning.

 Janie pulsed with fear, and the knowledge this animal could probably sense it. Her breath came in short gasps; the expelled steam dissolving in the crisp, autumn air. How much farther to her door? Mouthing an earnest prayer, she fumbled in her purse for her keys. If it came to that, she could use the sharp points as weapons. Oh, why hadn't she bought a new can of Mace? She'd thrown away an expired can only weeks ago.

 More than thirty years after the attack, she was still deathly afraid of dogs and had never been able to own one, not even a gentle breed. The sight of almost any dog sent panic careening through her body at breakneck speed.Cynophobia , her doctor called it.

 "Go home now, please,” Janie told the shepherd, forcing confidence into her pleading tone.

 She made it to the porch steps of her house and hurried up them. A glance over her shoulder confirmed the dog was still trailing her like a hunter trails its prey. Janie turned the key in the lock and nearly threw herself across the threshold to safety. With her heart hammering in her chest, she peered out the front window.

 The dog was gone.

 A man stood at the end of the hedge bordering her driveway. He faced Janie's door. A stranger to her, he was of medium height and medium weight, with light brown hair beneath a baseball cap. He wore jeans and a faded flannel shirt. His appearance was truly non-descript. She probably wouldn't have noticed him had she not been on alert because of the dog.

 Perhaps the German shepherd belonged to him, and he had merely paused in front of her little house to retrieve the animal. If that was the case, however, where was the dog?

 Janie released her breath. “Settle down,” she told herself. She was inside her own home, safe and sound. Next time she left the house, she would keep an eye out for the shepherd, but her little drama could be ruled officially over.

 Turning to hang her coat in the entryway closet, she felt a draft of cold air. Janie frowned and stepped into the living room to adjust the thermostat. With a soothing rumble, the furnace kicked on. A smile stretched her lips as she surveyed the small front room. Her newly purchased Victorian style furniture, and the floral area rugs on the polished wooden floor, welcomed her. The cost of redecorating her domain would take several more months to pay off, but it was worth every dollar she'd charged to her credit card.

 She walked into the kitchen to brew a cup of tea. The sight of her back door standing ajar threw her thoughts off balance again. Hadn't she locked it this morning when she'd returned from taking the trash out to the alley? Certainly she had.

 Janie chewed on her lower lip. One of the many perils of being in her fifties was a perpetual forgetfulness. She'd be sure she left her cell phone or her reading glasses in a specific spot, only to find them someplace else. It was a nuisance at times, this aging phenomenon, but she normally just laughed it off. There was no use fighting the inevitable. One look at her thickening waistline was enough to remind her that she could no longer take her physical or mental health for granted.

 Determined not to allow the open door another moment's concern, Janie shut and locked it. Warm rays from the late afternoon sun slanting through the kitchen window mixed with the heated air from the floor vent, and she was comforted. She glanced at the red light flashing on the answering machine next to her cordless telephone. Pressing the button, she listened to the message.

 "Ms. Raycraft, this is Sheri at the Auto Barn. I'm sorry, but I've misplaced your cell phone number. We need to order a new fuel pump for your car. If you call us at your earliest convenience tomorrow, with authorization to go ahead with the repair, we should have your vehicle back to you by the end of the week. Thanks and have a good evening."

 Janie sighed and reached into the cupboard for a tea bag. Maybe tonight she would add a shot of schnapps.
 * * * *

"Today's forecast calls for cloudy skies and isolated afternoon showers. Highs thirty-eight to forty-two."

 Janie brushed her teeth, watching the radar images of clouds scuttling across the Colorado map on the television screen. She would pack her umbrella for the walk to the bus stop at the end of her street. While she didn't mind using public transportation on occasion, dealing with unpredictable autumn weather sometimes gave the experience a twist.

 She returned to the bathroom to rinse her mouth. “You could have taken Isabel up on her offer to give you a ride to work,” she scolded her reflection in the mirror. “But no, you had to be Ms. Independent.” She plucked a gray hair sprouting from the midst of her dark brown bob.Dang, were those new wrinkles around her mouth? She'd go to the gym after work today and sweat off her worries. Then maybe after that, she'd indulge in some chocolate yogurt mousse for dinner, followed by a salad, heavy on the ranch dressing. Janie had reached a point in her life where she ate the good stuff first, followed by a portion of something bordering on healthy. If she still had an appetite, she considered whole grains and lean meats.

 At her desk in the newspaper office later that morning, she answered a call from a frantic woman.

 "Classifieds,” Janie chirped into the headset. “May I help you?"

 "I need to report my dog as missing. He didn't come home last night and he's still gone.” The woman, identifying herself as Noreen, spoke in a rush. “I already called Animal Control, and they don't have him over there. I want to place a notice in the paper."

 "All right.” Janie began to type information into the computer. “What would you like it to say?"

 "Lost, German shepherd with black leather collar. Answers to ‘Brutus.’ Reward offered for safe return."

 Janie's fingers paused mid-strike. “What neighborhood?"

 "I'm on Dahlia, so put ‘Paradise Valley West’ for the area."

 "This may be a coincidence,” Janie said, “but a German shepherd followed me home yesterday afternoon. I live on Magnolia."

 "Did he have a black collar?"

 "I don't recall seeing one."

 "Well, if he shows up again, please call me. I'll come right over and see if it's my Brutus.” The woman gave two telephone numbers. Janie typed them into the ad, then jotted them on a sticky note beside her keyboard. She took the caller's payment information then disconnected. If the dog reappeared on her street, she would contact the woman before calling the pound.

 A fine mist chilled the air as Janie stepped out of the gym at the recreation center that evening. Her friend Meredith joined her, still glistening from the workout they had both endured in their spinning class.

 "Let me drop you at your place,” Meredith offered. “No arguments. The bus has to be a little scary at night."

 "I'm sure it would be fine, but thanks, I'll take you up on that.” Janie smiled in gratitude.

 "I know you don't like dogs, but you should get a cat or a gerbil or something,” Meredith said, as she pulled out of the parking lot. “An aquarium of tropical fish would be good, too. Very soothing."

 "Tate had all those allergies, so I got used to not having any pets."

 "He's been gone for over three years, Janie.” Meredith's tone was soft yet commanding. The steady tempo of the windshield wipers punctuated the passing beats of time like a metronome. “I think you need some sort of companion in your house."

 Janie nodded because it was expected. Her friend meant well, and after Tate's death from injuries suffered in a car wreck, friends were all Janie had left. She and her husband had never gotten around to having children, and her own family was scattered across the western states. Her grief after the loss of her soul mate had been a hard knot that was only now beginning to unravel.

 "Why don't you have dinner with Fred and me tonight? He fixed a pot roast. The kids might stop by, but we have plenty."

 "Oh, no thanks. I love you guys, but I don't care for Fred's pot roast.” She also didn't wish to be the odd one out at the dinner table, although it had happened often enough in the last few years. Sometimes Meredith's daughter and son-in-law would tow their raucous brood of four to dinner at Grandma's, and the resulting chaos was always entertaining as well as exhausting.

 "I don't care much for Fred's pot roast, either,” Meredith went on. “But if I tell him that, he may stop cooking altogether. If you came over to share some, there would be less for me to stowaway in plastic tubs and hide in the back of the fridge."

 "That sounds enticing,” Janie said with a laugh, “but I'm going to have to pass it up this time."

 "Chicken. You probably have something wonderful planned for dinner."

 "Better than pot roast."

 The women shared a chuckle. The thing about friends, Janie had learned, is that they made their points, pushed them a little farther in an effort to see you did what they thought was necessary, then backed off when they sensed they should. Meredith was that kind of friend.

 Janie reach for the passenger door handle after Meredith came to a stop in the driveway. “Thanks for the lift. It sure beat taking the bus."

 "I can pick you up in the morning, too, you know."

 Janie smiled. “I know, I can call you or Isabel for a ride, but I really don't mind the bus. I think I'm falling for a man of eighty-six who rides every day and calls me ‘Sweetie.’ He patted my knee this morning.” She glanced at her front porch, and a talon of fear gripped her chest. “Oh, no."

 "What's wrong?” Meredith turned toward the house. “Hey, where did the dog come from?"

 "I don't know, but he seems to have acquired a fondness for me. It's not mutual.” Janie dug into her purse, retrieving the phone number of the woman who had called the newspaper office earlier. “Do you mind if I make a call while we wait here? I may know who he belongs to."

 "Sure. He's a fine-looking animal.” She paused, then added sheepishly, “If you like dogs."

 With trembling fingers, Janie punched in the numbers to the woman's cell phone. It connected on the second ring. “Hi, Noreen. You gave me this number when you placed an ad about your missing dog this morning. I think he's sitting in front of my house.” The woman sounded relieved, and promised to be over in five minutes.

 "Maybe he belongs tohim .” Meredith pointed to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Softly illuminated by the glow of a streetlight, the man Janie had seen the day before stood facing her house.

 "Okay, this is beginning to give me the creeps.” Janie took a breath in an effort to still her rapidly pounding heart. She told her friend about the appearance of the man and the dog at the same time the previous afternoon. “Isn't that more than just a coincidence?"

 Meredith considered the situation. “Well, maybe the guy is new to the neighborhood and finds you attractive. He's trying to figure out if you're single or not, so he's watching your house for some sign of a man. He'll use his dog as an excuse to meet you, once he sees the coast is clear."

 "You're nuts. The guy is much younger than me. And his dog is probably rabid."

 "Nothing wrong with a younger man.” Meredith grinned, but Janie could see a flicker of concern in her friend's gaze as she continued to watch the man. “You really should come home with me. We'll both go inside, and you can grab a couple of things to spend the night at my place."

 Headlights behind them in the driveway announced Noreen's arrival. Janie stepped out of the car and popped her umbrella. “He's right over there—” Her other hand, raised in a gesture, fell to her side. “Where did he go?"

 Meredith joined them outside the car while Noreen searched the front yard, calling Brutus’ name.

 "This is so unlike him,” the woman said with a frown, coming back to the driveway to shout over the hedge. She wrung her hands as she turned toward the two women. “He's usually such an obedient dog and stays right in the yard."

 Her words sent a chill up Janie's spine. The neighbor from her childhood had claimed the same thing after her dog's unwarranted attack. Janie had lived with the guilt of knowing the animal had been put to sleep a few days later. When the neighbors had placed their house for sale soon after that, however, Janie had felt no remorse. The angry exchange between her parents and the people next door had permanently severed their neighborly relationship.

 "Was he wearing a black collar?” Noreen asked as she peered over the back fence and continued calling the dog's name.

 As before, Janie hadn't noticed. “Mere, do you remember seeing a collar?"

 "No. I don't think he had one."

 Noreen returned to stand with them. “It could have slipped off."

 Janie nodded, feeling sorry for the woman. She glanced across the street to note that the man had disappeared as well.

 "I guess I'll drive up and down the streets again.” Noreen gave a discouraged sigh. “Thanks for calling me, Janie. Please do so again if you see the dog."

 Janie assured her she would, then watched as the woman backed out of the driveway. She collected her purse and exercise duffle from Meredith's car. When her friend offered to go into the house with her, Janie didn't argue. It was all too easy to remember the open door from the previous day.

 The women did a quick walk-through of the interior. “I really love this furniture,” Meredith said when they returned to the living room. “And those antiques. With my grandchildren, I could never get away with owning such nice stuff unless I kept it all in a separate room under lock and key, and then what's the point?"

 "You can come over and enjoy it any time."

 "Be careful what you offer.” Meredith laughed. “All right, then. Let's get your jammies packed."

 "I'm fine now, really. You can see for yourself that the place is secure."

 "A sleepover would be a lot of fun,” Meredith coaxed in a singsong voice.

 "I appreciate it, you know I do. But I'd be better off in my own bed."

 "It's the pot roast."

 Janie chuckled. “If you listen carefully, you can hear a chocolate yogurt calling me from the kitchen."

 "Oh, you are a brat.” Meredith headed for the front door, then lifted an index finger. “Hang on a sec while I run to my car. I'll be right back.” She slipped outside and returned a few minutes later to hand Janie a small can of Mace. “I think you should have this."

 Janie gave her friend a quick hug. “Thanks, Mere. A gift from a true pal."

 "You'll call me if you need anything?"

 "Of course."

 After Meredith's departure, Janie changed into slippers and padded into the kitchen to retrieve her supper. When she didn't see the yogurt container in its customary place on the top shelf of the fridge, she pawed through the remaining contents.

 "Did I eat that already?” she asked herself aloud, giving her temple a soft rap. “Getting older stinks!” Considering the other choices in the fridge, Janie scowled. “Slim pickin's,” she muttered. “I was sosure I had a chocolate yogurt in here."

 She shut the door and debated the merits of walking to the convenience store a few blocks away. Another quirk about reaching mid-life was the determination to go after what you felt was important and not settle for something less. Tonight, it was the chocolate mousse yogurt she had thought about all day. A salad with extra spoonfuls of ranch dressing, shredded cheese, and croutons wasn't going to quell her appetite.

 Ignoring the little voice in her head that told her to stay home and pop some kettle corn to satisfy her craving for something sweet, Janie dressed warmly and armed herself with her umbrella and the can of Mace. She locked the front door behind her and scanned the neighborhood from her porch. One of the reasons she'd purchased property in this section of town was the prevalence of streetlights and the low incidence of home thefts. There was also a close-knit community of senior citizens on her block that kept a vigilant watch on all activity.

 With those assurances in check, Janie hit the sidewalk at a fast clip. No one else was out; she had the street to herself. Drops of rain danced in pools of shimmering light. She inhaled the pungent scent of wet leaves, characteristic of her favorite season.

 The sound of a low growl made her scalp tingle in apprehension and drew her attention to a stand of short ornamental bushes in a neighbor's front yard. Nothing moved in the shadows, and she thought she might have imagined the sound. Still, she fingered the Mace can nozzle.

 "Please,” she whispered, “if you're there, just leave mealone ."

 Janie reached the corner, awareness of someone or something keeping parallel to her plaguing every step. With her gaze trained on the glowing sign of the convenience store a block ahead, she dashed across the intersection. A menacing bark behind her halted her steps at the curb. She pivoted in time to see the German shepherd charge directly toward her. Janie opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She aimed and pressed the Mace can nozzle, releasing a spray of chemical in a billowy cloud. At the last moment, when she was sure she would be knocked down and mauled, the dog yelped and retreated.

 She bent over and took in deep gulps of frosty air. “Thank ... you ... Meredith.” From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of someone staggering into the adjacent yard. She blinked, but the figure was gone.

 No chocolaty treat was worth what she had just put herself through. Her appetite had completely vanished, leaving a churning stomach in its wake. Had she not been so close to the bright lights of the convenience store, she would have turned and headed home immediately. Instead, she jogged the last few hundred yards and entered the building, intent on using the pay phone to call a cab for the short ride back to her house.

 "Are you all right, ma'am?” a young man behind the counter inquired, as theding announcing her arrival echoed through the store.

 "I will be, as soon as I get home.” She pulled a wad of one-dollar bills from her coat pocket. “Do you have quarters for the phone?"

 "Yeah.” He took one of the bills and pressed a button on the cash register to open the drawer.

 The bell above the double glass doors chimed again. Janie caught the astonished expression on the clerk's face an instant before she heard the distinctiveclick of a gun being cocked. She froze in place.

 "Get down or I'll blow your head off!” the gunman shouted.

 Whether he was yelling at her or the clerk, Janie's body reacted on pure instinct. She threw herself face down on the floor. As though through a fog, she heard the clerk plead with the man not to shoot him.

 "I'm in my last year of college,” he said on a whimper.

 Janie focused on a black scuffmark on the tile floor and repeated a silent prayer that the thief would take the money from the till and run, sparing her and the young clerk, who seemed to be the only ones in the store with the gunman. Would the clerk dare push a button under the counter to alert the police? Where were all the customers she routinely saw coming in and out of this place at almost any time of day or night?

 The feel of the pistol muzzle against her temple was the coldest sensation she'd ever known. Her heart stilled as the gravity of the situation rushed over her.

 "You look at me, lady, and you're dead. I should kill you right now for what you did to me."

 She squeezed her eyes closed and managed to nod. The guy had to be high on drugs, saying such a thing to her. Surely she didn't know him. And if she did, what could he hate her for—misprinting an ad in the classifieds? The absurdity of such a thing, coupled with the stress of her predicament, nearly made her laugh out loud.

 The overhead bell sounded again, and the interior of the store went quiet except for the strangled sobs coming from the other side of the counter. And then, as though summoned by the robber's absence, the store filled with people and commotion. A man with a kind voice asked Janie if she was all right, then he helped her into a sitting position on the floor.

 "I don't think you should stand,” he said.

 "I doubt I could."

 A woman about her age told her that the police would arrive any minute, and offered her a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Janie waved it away, knowing she was too shaky to hold it to her lips. The urge to see that the young man who worked there was unharmed brought her to her feet. She stepped toward him, and he broke away from the people clustered around him to embrace her, like a son seeing his mother after time spent apart. The hug was intense and genuine. That's when her tears began in a torrent.

 The requisite ambulance showed up at the same time as the police, and Janie and the young man named Steven were checked for injuries and questioned thoroughly. As she listened to Steven give his statement to the officers, a fresh wave of terror engulfed Janie.

 "I know I was supposed to look at the height marker on the door when the guy left, but I wasn't thinking straight. I hope you can see it on the video tape. All I remember was he was of average height, average weight. He had a cap pulled low over his face, but I could see some plain brown hair around his ears. I couldn't see his eyes, but he rubbed them a couple of times. Other than that the guy was just, you know,average .” Steven paused. “There's a better word for it..."

 "Non-descript?” Janie suggested weakly.

 "Yeah, that's it. Non-descript. No distinguishing marks or anything. And there was a dog; a big German shepherd with scary looking eyes, that stayed by the door the whole time the guy was in here."
 * * * *

Janie was a reluctant celebrity at the newspaper office the following day. After the umpteenth time she'd recounted the story to co-workers, she claimed fatigue and asked to leave early. She called Steven on her cell phone from the parking lot. At home with his parents, he assured her he was all right. He said he was more concerned about her than himself.

 "You're sweet,” she told him, “but don't worry about me.”I've lived through my husband's death. I can survive this.

 What she kept to herself, and struggled to deal with the most, was the niggling feeling that the man who'd robbed the convenience store at gunpoint and the man she'd seen in front of her house on two occasions were one and the same. If that man and the German shepherd always appeared together, had he consequently gotten a dose of Mace last night? Steven had claimed the man rubbed his eyes during the course of the crime.

 Yet the police hadn't been too interested in her story or her paranoia. There were hundreds of men in town that matched the vague description both she and Steven had given, they told her, and the store video had been too grainy to get a good picture of his face. The officers promised to assign an extra watch to the neighborhood. Unless something else materialized to identify the gunman or he struck again, however, there wasn't much to go on.

 Janie avoided looking at the convenience store when the bus dropped her at the corner. She held a new can of Mace that she'd purchased over her lunch break at a shop near work, gripping it like a prized possession. The weather had cleared overnight, and her walk home was blessedly uneventful. She let herself into the house, tossed her purse on the entryway table, and draped her coat over the back of the couch. The routine of hanging both items where they normally belonged was too strenuous to execute.

 In the kitchen, she chose a bag of tea from her collection in the cupboard and reached for her antique cup and saucer in their usual place beside the sink. The spot was bare.

 Her breath froze, and her gaze darted around the room. “Okay...” she finally said on a long exhale. Considering her recent ordeal and her notoriously poor memory, she might have put the set somewhere else. When a quick search of the kitchen failed to produce the cup and saucer, Janie selected another set from the cupboard where she kept her dishes. She heated water in the microwave. As much as she loved her antiques, and almost anything old-fashioned, she also had a keen appreciation for modern appliances and technology.

 With fragrant tea brewing in her cup, she headed for the living room to put her feet up on the coffee table and surf through the afternoon TV programs she usually missed. The cushion of the new couch enveloped her with comfort. She pushed her shoes off, picked up the remote control, and clicked on the TV set housed in an antique armoire. The volume was elevated from listening to the weather report that morning, so she didn't immediately hear the music drifting down the hallway.

 Wasn't that Tate's trout?

 Her hand stilled, the cup of steaming tea midway to her mouth. Her heartbeat accelerated. When she had purchased this house after her husband's death, she had decorated one wall in the extra bedroom in memory of him. The singing fish had been one of his favorite possessions, so she had mounted it beside a framed photo of Tate and his fishing paraphernalia. The plastic trout, with a repertoire of two funny songs, was activated by a button ... or someone walking past it.

 Breathe,Janie reminded herself. She mouthed a silent prayer.

 Smoke detectors beeped when their batteries ran low. Couldn't a silly singing fish be set into motion by a malfunctioning battery as well?Of course it could.

 The memory of a recurring nightmare combined with her uneasy thoughts as she sat stiffly on the couch. In it, she's alone in the house when an intruder breaks in. He holds a large knife, and she can see his silhouette in the shadows. She runs to the basement to hide, but he knows she's there. She can hear him on the steps, slowly descending.

 That was always the spot where she woke up in a sweat, unwilling to go back to sleep for fear the vivid dream would continue. When Tate was alive, she would snuggle against him until his arms, strong and reassuring, wrapped around her. Fortunately, the nightmare only plagued her once or twice a year, but it was even more unnerving now that she was a widow.

 Her paranoia about the dog and the strange man was gaining too much ground in her mind. This was ridiculous. Janie set her cup and saucer on the table, gathered her courage in one hand and the Mace in the other, and headed for the back room. The play of afternoon sunlight on the carpet runner in the hallway stopped her. The beam came from the window in her bedroom. Had a shadow just crossed it?

 The hair along her nape rose to attention. Every nerve in her body seemed to tingle with awareness of someone—or something—else in her house. Unable to staunch the fear that raced through her with reasonable, logical explanations for what she'd just seen, Janie turned on her heels and ran back along the hallway. She grabbed her purse and dashed out the door in her socks.

 After putting some distance between her and the house, she stopped in the driveway and turned around. Her breath rose and fell in gasps. This was so unfair. That damn dog and that man had made her feel unsafe in her own home. Anger at the fact that her refuge, her haven, had been violated—whether real or in her imagination—overcame her fear. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and dialed 9-1-1. As she reported the suspicious circumstances to the dispatcher, her gaze was pulled to the sidewalk.

 The dog sat by a utility pole, watching her.

 Farther down, walking in the opposite direction, was the man. He didn't face her, but her gut reaction to his presence, as well as his size, said it was the same man who had been in front of her house before, and possibly the same man from the convenience store robbery. Perhaps he had seen her get on the phone, and it had scared him away. She glanced at her front door again.

 What she feared most was outside, not in her home. She hurried back in, shut the door, and slid the deadbolt into place.

 By the time the police and an animal control officer arrived, Janie was feeling overly dramatic for having called them. Both the dog and the man had vanished. Once again, she felt secure being inside her cozy little house, and chalked up the creepy feeling she'd experienced earlier to her nerves and recent trauma. At the same time, she made a decision to visit some of the other residents on her street over the weekend, to ask about anyone else seeing the German shepherd and the non-descript man.

 She thanked the officers for their time and saw them out the door, then she locked up again. A short time later, she had a book, a glass of wine, and a bubble bath beckoning her to relax. She lounged in the deep claw foot bathtub and let the hot water soothe her like a blanket. Her worries dissipated with the swirling steam.

 A trio of knocks on the front door startled her awake. The bath water was lukewarm. Janie didn't know how long she had been asleep, but the darkness beyond the frilly bathroom curtains indicated a while. She pulled the chain connected to the rubber plug in the drain and climbed out to drip on the rug. After toweling off quickly, she grabbed her plush white robe from the hook on the bathroom door. She rushed down the hall as the doorbell rang, followed by another round of persistent knocks.

 "Coming!"

 At the front door, she put her eye to the peephole. Black nothingness greeted her.

 "Hello?” she called.

 Janie reached for the switch to the porch light and snapped it on. Returning her eye to the peephole, she frowned. It was still completely dark beyond her door. No golden glow from the porch light, no figure standing on the steps...

 No sign of porch lights or streetlamps from anywhere on her street.

 Janie jumped away from the door as though it had scalded her, her heart thundering in her chest. Something was blocking the peephole from the other side.

 "Who's there?” she commanded, with a tone she hoped sounded confident. “You need to leave me alone,” she continued when no one answered. “I have a gun, and I'm not afraid to use it."

 That was true enough. Tate had taught her to fire his revolver, and she kept it in the nightstand beside her bed. Last night, after the robbery, she had checked the handgun to be sure it was loaded before stowing it back in the drawer.

 Silence continued to reign on the other side of her door. She didn't dare look through the peephole again for fear someone's face would be pressed against it. Viewing too many horror movies when she was younger made her wary now.

 "I'm on the phone now, calling 9-1-1,” she said.

 Glancing at the cell phone sticking out of her purse on the entryway table, Janie considered placing another distress call. What would the police think? Was she just some crazy woman living alone making up wild stories to gain their attention?

 Footsteps sounded on the narrow porch, then faded. Was her visitor trying to fool her, or was he actually gone? Again, she imagined peering out the peephole to find a vacant porch, only to be scared out of her mind when someone suddenly appeared in the lens.

 No, she wasnot going to look.

 Instead, she stepped to her living room window and cautiously drew back the lacy sheers. Reassuring lights winked at her from her neighbors’ front doors and from the lamps lining the street. Something flew past the beam of a streetlight that she decided must be a bat. When she was a teenager, she had treasured her thick mass of dark brown hair. The urban legend about vampire bats flying into your hair and sucking the blood from your skull dry had frightened her for years. She still feared bats, but she loathed dogs even more.

 A quick glance through the windowpane in the other direction set her pulse back to pounding. The German shepherd paced the width of her driveway.

 "Dammit,go away ."

 Janie found the number for Noreen in her purse and made the call. No one answered, so she left a message explaining that she thought the woman's dog was in front of her house again, and to please return her call or come by as soon as she could.

 She knew she could call any number of people, and someone would come over to stay with her or take her elsewhere. But Janie had lived too long and was too stubborn to let the creepy events of the last two days drive her from her home. If you threw in the healthy amount of pride she'd been born with, and combined it with her sense of independence, it all added up to a grim refusal to ask for any more help, at least for the remainder of the day.

 The sleeping pill she longed to take at bedtime that night went unused. She needed all her wits about her in case there was another incident. In the full light of day, everything would be fine.

 Then she reminded herself that Tate's singing trout had gone off in the middle of the afternoon. She made a stop in the extra bedroom before she called it a night, to pull the batteries out of the compartment on the back of the fish.
 * * * *

The next few days passed uneventfully. Janie bailed her car out of the repair shop, and her life returned to the routine she'd grown accustomed to before the appearance of the dog. Funny how a good fright could make a person long for the peace and relative boredom of a simple lifestyle.

 She paid visits to her closest neighbors. Not even Phil Jenkins, the retired man with a sweet disposition who lived next door, had observed the German shepherd or the non-descript man on her block. She would have feared for her sanity had Meredith not seen both. They had disappeared as completely as the fall foliage from trees all over town. Winter was coming, and along with it the comforting thought of curling up on the couch in the evenings with a quilt and a good book.

 Dusk had fallen on a frosty afternoon a week later when Janie arrived home from work. She let herself in the door and paused in the entryway, sensing that something wasn't quite right but not knowing exactly what was wrong. Telling herself it was just the residual effect of her recent scares, she shrugged off the sensation and headed to her room to change into more comfortable clothing. As she tied the drawstring of her sweatpants, her scalp prickled. This time she knew someone was there, knew it with every vein sending blood pounding through her body. She glanced toward the open bedroom doorway.

 The man stood in the hall, watching her with dark, intense eyes. There was nothing non-descript about his gaze on her.

 She wanted to scream, but her vocal chords were as paralyzed as her limbs. The distance between her and her nightstand drawer yawned before her. She'd never get there before he stopped her.

 He made a sniffling sound. “I've had a crummy cold, or I would've been here sooner."

 Janie had to force herself to swallow as he stepped into the room. She retreated until she felt the wall at her back.

 His gaze bored into her. If she lived through this day, she would never forget the malice in his eyes.

 "You're just like my mother. She liked bubble baths and tea in a pretty cup too."

 The way he bit off the words sent chills of foreboding up Janie's spine.Oh, God , she prayed.Help me. This young man is insane. “Why are you doing this?” she asked in a quavering voice.

 He fingered the lace runner decorating her dressing table, then picked up her hairbrush and smelled it.

 "Please,” Janie implored. “I'm not your mother."

 He shrugged. “Close enough."

 The phone on her nightstand rang, making them both jump.

 "Don't answer it!"

 She searched for an excuse to bring her closer to her gun. “Someone will come check on me if I don't."

 He seemed to consider that possibility, then nodded toward the receiver. “Okay. Pick it up. But if you sayanything about me being here, I'll kill you right now.” He patted the butt of a pistol lodged in the waistband of his faded jeans.

 Janie moved slowly toward the nightstand; the ringing of the phone seeming to grow louder and more urgent with every step. If she could just open the drawer...

 He pulled out his gun and pointed it at her. “Don't do anything stupid."

 With her heart throwing itself painfully against her ribs, Janie reached for the phone in its cradle. Somehow, she had to distract him. She answered the call to buy her more time.

 "Hello?"

 "Janie?” It was Meredith. “I know it's short notice, but I wanted to ask you over for dinner tonight. I hope you haven't eaten yet."

 "Oh, how nice.” She struggled to put some sort of inflection in her tone that would alert her friend to the situation. “You know how I love Fred's pot roast."

 "Huh?"

 "It's my favorite, but I can't make it tonight. I'm not feeling up to it."

 "You hate Fred's pot roast."

 "Uh-huh."

 Meredith paused. “Is something wrong?"

 "Yes.” Janie hazarded a glance at the man in her room. His deadly presence made her shiver uncontrollably.

 "Is someone there?"

 "Absolutely, I would come over for pot roast if I felt better."

 "Okay. Stay on the line. I'm handing the phone to Fred while I call the police on my cell."

 Janie squeezed her eyes shut for one long moment. The man cleared his throat and gestured at her with his gun.

 "Say goodbye and hang up."

 "I have to go,” she said into the receiver.

 "Meredith is talking to the dispatcher,” Fred assured her.

 Dread washed over Janie. She could only hope and pray the police would believe she was in very real danger this time and immediately send a unit.

 Someone pounded on the front door, and both Janie and the intruder turned toward the hallway.

 "You expecting someone?"

 "N-No.” It was too soon for the police.

 An old man's voice followed more insistent pounding. “Ms. Raycraft? Are you there?"

 "Phil!” Janie screamed.

 "Don't say another word.” Her captor's steely tone propelled her back to the night in the convenience store. He had to be the same man, but what did it matter now?

 "Can you tell me what's going on, Janie?” Concern colored Fred's words, bringing her attention back to the telephone. “The police are on their way."

 "Hang up,” the man demanded.

 "Bye,” Janie whispered into the receiver, wondering if it was the last time she'd speak to any of her friends. She pressed the “off” button, but stayed by the nightstand.

 The man whirled at the sound of glass shattering in the front room. He cocked the hammer of his gun and faced the open bedroom door. Janie reached for the nightstand drawer, her trembling fingers fumbling with the knob.

 She heard the thunder of a gunshot as the German shepherd lunged through the doorway. It pounced on the man, knocking him down as it went for his throat with snarling fury. Janie screamed and grabbed her gun, aiming it toward the man and the beast, not caring which one she shot. The blast knocked her backward onto the bed.

 The dog yelped and stumbled sideways, blood covering its muzzle.

 "Ms. Raycraft!” Phil shouted, hobbling into the room.

 She tried to stand, but the floor rushed up to meet her, and everything went black.
 * * * *

Janie reclined on the couch, a soft quilt tucked around her waist. She accepted the cup of tea from Isabel while Meredith hovered nearby.

 "You found my favorite cup and saucer,” Janie said with a weak smile.

 "It was right by your sink."

 Janie squeezed her eyes shut a moment, and the cup trembled on the matching saucer. Some of the odd things that had happened to her in the last few weeks had been attributed to the creepy young man she had shot and killed in her bedroom the day before. Others were due to simple forgetfulness—the kind that kept progressing the older Janie became. She knew she would never have an explanation for all of it.

 She placed a tentative hand on the German shepherd's head and stroked his soft fur in short, awkward movements. He looked at her from his post beside the couch. The dog hadn't strayed from the spot since Isabel had brought him home from the animal hospital, where he'd spent the night under observation. He had received a clean bill of health after the blood from the intruder had been washed off.

 The shepherd's big brown eyes met her gaze now as he whined.

 "I'm still sorry I scared you with the gun,” she told him. “But I've never been so afraid."

 "That's quite a thank you for saving your life,” Meredith said, shaking her head. “To think if he hadn't scratched at your front door, and Mr. Jenkins hadn't noticed and come to investigate..."

 "My hero,” Janie said with sincere affection, rubbing the dog she'd named Savior behind the ears. His tail thumped on the floor.

 Noreen had not claimed the stray shepherd, saying he had different markings than the dog she'd lost. Animal Control had no record of anyone searching for another dog of his breed, and they had given her permission to keep him if she liked.

 "I've never owned a pet, but it looks like we belong together."

 As incredible as it sounded, she was beginning to grasp that the dog had inexplicably been sent to protect her from a disturbed young man. With the intruder's death, Janie had to accept that she might never know anything beyond the fact that he had fixated on her as his mother. The investigating detectives had assured her the incident would be ruled as self-defense.

 The mess in her bedroom was a grisly reminder of the shooting and of how close she'd come to being killed herself. She knew it would take time to recover from the memory now embedded in the little house, but she was determined to stay and reclaim the peace she'd struggled to find after her husband's death.

 Savior whined for her attention again. She opened the bag of dog treats Isabel had brought from the vet and cautiously fed him small pieces.

 "You know, I doubt I've been cured,” Janie told the dog. “I probably still have cynophobia. You're just the exception.” She scratched his furry throat. He wagged his tail and rested his chin on her lap.

 "A very fine-looking exception,” Janie added.

 About Janet Mills

 Janet Mills has been an avid reader and writer since she was a little girl. She writes in the romance sub-genres of western historical, contemporary, romantic suspense, and romantic short stories. “Cynophobia” is her first short story with no romantic elements, and she loved the challenge of writing it. She'd like to thank her friends who contributed to this story by sharing their own scary experiences: Amy, Myrtie, Di, Lauri, Pat, Anne, Lynette, Heather, Kim, Roni, Jane, and Ailene.

 Janet lives in Wyoming and teaches elementary school. Her other books from Whiskey Creek Press includeOne Italian Summer, Best Of All, The Sweetest Gift, Midsummer Nights, andNothing Less Than Love . Her short romantic story “Worthy Hearts” is included in the LOVE Anthology from WCP. Look for “Simple Gifts” in the upcomingHOPE Anthology .

 Please visit her author website at: www.janetmills.net

 BECAUSE I WANTED YOU

 by Susan M. Sailors

 She is laughing now. I want to hear it, and to know why.

 Any other guy could approach her if he wanted to. I cannot. Her poem, those words—they paralyzed me; she was reading me, analyzing me. “I came this long, long way ... because I wanted you.” She was writing the words that would echo from the hollow of my heart the first time I saw her. And I knew that even before I found her.

 Last night, she stared at the moon a long time, standing in front of her bedroom window. I was sitting cross-legged right under the bush beneath her window, looking up at her. I let my mind go, imagining she would look down and see me, and our eyes would meet. It would be perfect. But she did not look down at me. She looked at the driveway, five feet in front of me, but not at me, not at all. She turned away very quickly, and the curtains fell, shutting me out. I wanted to scream, but dared not.

 That is not the way I want us to meet. I cannot touch her, but I can reach her. I believe she feels my presence. It is not a delusion. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can hear her heart beating. I can feel her calling to me. She senses things, senses me. She is probably imagining what I look like now, sitting in front of her mirror, brushing her long, dark hair. I wonder if she imagines my scar—a swift knife cut from my eyebrow to my jaw on the right side of my face, right down the center of my eye. But the blade never touched my eye. A scar is romantic—it would make me more mysterious and dangerous, though I am not really either, not to her—and I know she must be imagining me as a romantic figure. Soon her curiosity will force her to seek me out.

 It is two a.m. She has not stayed up this late in a long time. She must be writing again. I would love to read it—I would devour every word. I will commit all of her to memory—but she has to let me.

 I always have these thoughts just before dawn. I want to call her and hear what her voice sounds like while she is still half in her dreams. I want to whisper her name, a line of her poem—to put myself into her mind, into her dream, and into her heart. She has already claimed my heart and invaded my mind—what else could I ask in return but to be let into her dreams? Will she let me in? Yes, I know she will. I do not have to be in her room, but I want to be in her dreams. She will let me in. Every time she tosses in the night, it is because I have looked away from her window. She can feel when I am not watching her—even in her sleep—and she cannot stand it. I know I must be in her dreams, or else why would I feel this way?

 It's so much stronger at night—that's when I come to her. In the night, under the veil of my longing, I whisper through the gleam of the silver beams that shine down so brightly and illuminate her image before me like a vision of the blessed Virgin. My steps echo the beat of her heart, now beating in time with mine. It's all I can hear, awake or asleep, though I hardly sleep anymore.

 I cannot explain it exactly, but I know that we knew each other once before. Some other life bound us together, and now in this one, I have found her again. She probably has no idea that I am searching for her. I have no memory of that other life, but I know it's there, that I lived it. Perhaps she knows more, but I somehow feel that she knows nothing, though she may sense it subconsciously. I don't understand that stuff either. I just know what I feel. Her call, pounding in my blood, pulls me out of myself, and I feel nothing but her.

 I do not know what to do. What can I do—she will not let me in. I am going mad, being driven mad, falling into a madness with no night and no day, only the sound of her breathing, the beat of her heart, the echo of her step. I am going insane and she does not even know it. But she feels it—I know she feels it—she must feel it. How can she not feel it when I am so close to her, when I am consumed by her, when we are the same person? How can I make her feel it when she will not let me in? She would let me in if I could only make her see me. She has to see me, and then she will let me in, because she will see me as no one ever has before. She will recognize me, see past the outside, and know me. But she cannot see me while I am down here. I must reach her. She will let me in.

 She will wake up, and I will be here waiting patiently for her to wake up. I must not touch her till she has seen me, because that would not be fair. She has to reach out for me first. She will, once she has seen me.

 She is so still as she sleeps. I can only hear her heart beating. I can always hear that.

 She has finally let me in. I know her secret now. Her eyes have opened and she has seen me. She's looking at me now. Her eyes are just as I knew they would be—they want me. Now she is reaching for me. I am about to enter her dream; a dream that will last for all eternity. I hear her voice echoing in my head, “I came this long, long way, because I wanted you.” I do not even flinch at all, but simply close my eyes as I feel her breath on my neck, her teeth breaking the skin.

 About Susan M. Sailors

 Susan M. Sailors lives in Knoxville, Tennessee with her husband Jonathan and her cats Shadow and Motley. She lectures at the University of Tennessee, but spends most of her free time writing and watchingDark Shadows . Visit her on the web at www.lulu.com/susanmsailors and subscribe to her newsletter at:

 groups.yahoo.com/group/SusanSailorsShadows/.

 More of her work will be forthcoming from Whiskey Creek Press Torrid, starting with theSummer Sizzlers anthology in July 2006. She has paranormal and fantasy stories in the Torrid Teasers line in August, October, and November. And stay tuned for updates on the release of her first novel,Night Gardening , with Whiskey Creek Press.

 ELEVEN-THIRTY MIDNIGHT ROAD

 by Vickie Britton and Loretta Jackson

 Calling on the dead—an idle pastime for the sloppily drunk and the chronically bored. Paula couldn't take her eyes from the Ouija board that her high school chum, Janet, had balanced across the half-rotten tree stump.

 Paula cast a quick look at the boy she loved, Marc, who studied with morbid curiosity the cryptic images of the sun and moon in the upper corners; the alphabet and numeric arrangement; the YES and NO in stark, black letters at the bottom edge of the board.

 Janet's auburn hair and amber eyes took on an eerie cast in the weird glow of the car's headlights. Her brother, stocky, outgoing Randy, Levin High School's clown, never changed. “Where did you get that thing?” he asked, with mock derisiveness.

 "Found it in the bottom of the closet with Mom's lava lamp,” Janet replied, with the haughtiness of an older sister.

 "So what are we going to do with it? Call up some ghost?"

 "Not just any ghost,” Janet said, her voice seeming to float away. “We are going to summon Cathy Rhodes."

 The board's evil gleam struck dread and revulsion in Paula. “The Devil's Instrument,” Paula's mom would say if she were here. Paula inched a little closer to Marc, gripping his arm for reassurance or protection.

 The twisted shadows, theBlair Witch atmosphere, gave the familiar faces of Paula's three friends an air of grotesqueness; as if stopping in the woods at midnight had transformed them into crouching heathens, gathered for some secret, ancient ritual.

 Randy and Janet argued over who would go first. The brother and sister were part of the snobby Bolen family, yet they were different from the swarm of Bolen cousins; the freewheeling, fast-living clique, who infested Levin High like a swarm of well-dressed cockroaches.

 Paula liked Randy—everyone did—for he could always make her laugh. He popped the top on another can of beer and began chanting in a low, pretentious way, “Cathy, Cathy, Cathy, speak, speak, speak."

 His eerie voice infused a liquid feverishness into the scene. It was apparent that to Randy, the séance was a big joke. Of course, he had been one of the few who had managed to evade falling under Cathy's spell.

 Paula averted her gaze, and to her shock found herself staring at the old oak tree where the accident had happened nearly a year ago. With a chill, she traced the damage Marc's vehicle had done to the huge, marred trunk. She could almost see the Mustang, crumpled and broken, steam pouring from the radiator. She could envision Cathy in the front seat, tangled hair falling forward, white dress drenched in blood.

 I shouldn't be here, she thought in a panic. Participating in such a stupid act must surely amount to betrayal.

 Marc spoke for the first time since Janet had stopped the car at this spot.

 "Let's get started,” he said.

 Marc's eyes sparkled like a cat's in the moonlight, the irises making little silver slits. The tight jeans and t-shirts Marc always wore, his dark, unruly hair and surly expression, gave him a rebellious, James Dean image—one that had, even though he had been Cathy's property, always caused Paula's heart to react.

 "Janet, you and Randy go first."

 Randy, with a silly step, waltzed toward Janet and made a show of dropping to the ground opposite his sister. His hands poised playfully on the heart-shaped planchette with its transparent circle.

 Intense silence followed, then Randy cried out mockingly, “Spirits, can you hear us? Cathy Rhodes. Cathy, if you're out there, give us a sign of your presence."

 Slowly, the planchette began to move. Hesitantly at first, then soon it began to glide swiftly over the polished surface. The five watched in awe as letters appeared beneath the clear window.

 C—A—

 Janet pushed away the board and scampered to her feet. “It's spelling out Cathy!” she said with a gasp.

 "Don't you know what he's doing?” Paula demanded. “Randy made that happen, deliberately."

 Randy looked up, with a big, innocent smile; his only response a ghostly “Whooo."

 "Let's leave,” Paula said, tugging at Marc's arm.

 "I agree,” Janet chimed in, hands lifting to ruffle through her shoulder-length hair, shot through with reddish trails. “This idea was mine, but it sure was a dumb one!"

 Marc's gaze remained locked on the board. “I'm not ready to leave. Not before Paula and I have our turn."

 Before Paula could protest, Marc had seated himself beside the Ouija, looking up at her; his lean, handsome face sober and compelling. He was willing to do anything, even foolish things like this, to communicate with Cathy. He would never stop loving her, Paula thought, with a surge of pain.

 "Paula, you've got to try,” Marc urged. “You were her best friend. You know if she ever contacts anyone, it will be you."

 With a sense of dread, as if what she was doing ran counter to her own will, Paula took her place across the board. Her heart seemed to stop beating when Marc spoke, his words despairing and anguished.

 "Hear us, dear Cathy. You are never out of our thoughts.” His voice broke in what for a moment she thought was a sob. “We need you."

 Paula's trembling hands matched his on either side of the indicator.

 "Cathy, Cathy.” Marc spoke into the surrounding blackness; his face a mask of concentration; his eyes tightly closed. “Hear us, dear Cathy. Please hear us."

 The indicator began to move. Paula suddenly felt as if the breath had been sucked from her lungs. She watched, wide-eyed, as the thing started to spell out real words. Paula, as skeptical as Randy, had not been prepared for this. She had expected only disconnected letters, gibberish, nonsense.

 Randy stepped closer and peered over Paula's shoulder. “Let's get the hell back to Levin,” he said with a strange laugh.

 Janet hushed him. “Quiet."

 A startled cry escaped Paula's lips as the planchette flew over the board as if it had taken on a life of its own. The indicator moved faster and faster, jerking and pausing over random letters.

 "Cathy trusted you, Paula,” Marc said breathlessly. His gleaming eyes met hers, now afire, feverous. “This message is not for me, but for you!"

 Paula grew light-headed, dizzy. Final words sprang from the jumble of letters. “I am here. I—M—U"
 * * * *

Paula lay on her bed, wakeful; the lamp on her desk softly illuminating the framed picture of her and her pal, Cathy Rhodes—Cathy Rhodes, beautiful with perfect features and thick, shoulder-length golden hair. Her wide-set, strangely dark eyes seemed to be staring into Paula's as if in secret communication.

 Paula burrowed her head into her pillow, assuring herself that the dead didn't talk to the living. Marc had created those messages. Unable to let her go, Marc was trying desperately to keep Cathy alive!

 When Cathy had moved to Levin two years ago from California, Paula had been flattered when the new girl had singled her out as a best friend. From the beginning Cathy had ruled the boys like some sultry, outcast queen. Cathy always got everything she wanted, even Marc. She had immediately snatched him away from his childhood girlfriend, Janet, and had ever since held him bound by unbreakable chains. Cathy had laughed about that and about Janet. What she had done to them both was cruel; still Paula could not bring herself to turn against Cathy—the essence of everything Paula wanted but was afraid to be.

 Mom was right; it wasn't healthy to keep thinking back to the wreck. But the accident had taken with it such a strong, vital force that Paula, like Marc, could hardly believe that Cathy was really gone.

 That dreadful night almost a year ago seemed like yesterday. A sudden storm had swept in with such fierce, angry violence it had rattled the windows and shook the doors.

 Cathy had called her early, insisting that Paula go with her to the big dance at Levin's Community Hall.

 "I'm getting tired of Marc,” Cathy had said, with that air of the too self-absorbed. “He's so possessive, so obsessed with me."

 Paula's heart pounded. If Cathy weren't just talking, then Marc would soon be free; free for Paula to step in and mend his broken heart.

 "I intend to meet someone else at the dance. Here's the plan. Marc and I will stop by the farm for you. Once we get to the party, I'm going to disappear. I know you've always had an eye for Marc. That will throw you two together. So you'll be doing me a favor, and I'll be doing you a favor."

 "If you don't want to see Marc anymore, why not just tell him?” Paula had asked.

 "No, I'll have to show him, or else he'll never be willing to let me go. We'll start working this out the minute I get to your place. I'll climb in the back seat, and you slide into the front next to him."

 But Paula's Mom refused to let her go out in such weather, even if Paula had to miss the biggest opportunity of her life. “You know how these roads get. There's flash flood warnings out right now, and it's getting worse by the minute."

 Paula, sunk in disappointment, leaned against the open window, tears mingling with streaming rain. The unworn party dress hung on the closet hook beside her; the flowing shape dancing and fluttering in the wind like a restless ghost. As Paula stared into the night, she resented Mom for making her stay home. She envisioned Cathy and Marc, holding each other close, whirling to the music, both so vibrant, his dark hair complementing her gold. At that moment Paula felt an intense, bitter hatred for Cathy Rhodes. A hatred that plummeted to stark grief at the ringing of the phone.

 Paula still felt an overpowering sense of guilt. It had been Marc at the wheel of the yellow Mustang that night it had smashed into the tree. His speeding on a slick and treacherous road had caused Cathy's death. But Paula had shared the blame with him then, and still did. “It should have been me in the front seat of that sports car,” she spoke aloud to Cathy's picture. “I should have died that night, Cathy, instead of you."
 * * * *

"Please talk to her, Andrew,” Paula's mom pleaded. “She spends far too much time moping in her room. And she's been seeing Marc.” Mrs. Nelson's voice trailed off, leaving in its wake a multitude of unspoken fears.

 Paula's mother had always depended on Andrew, the son of her nearest neighbor. Andrew couldn't remember the time he hadn't been underfoot, helping with the harvest, mowing the lawn. He had always liked hanging around, no doubt, because of Paula.

 Sweet, innocent Paula. She always reminded him of a frightened doe—gentle, kind, sensitive. He smiled as he remembered how she used to follow him to school like a puppy, hero-worshiping him. It must have been hard for her when he left for the university, but on those weekends he had managed to return to the farm, he had found awkward changes in their old relationship. He told himself that Paula had just found new interests, made new friends; he was no longer the center of her life. Still, the old, protective attitude surfaced the moment he had seen Paula's mother and knew that Paula was in need of help.

 "Hey, pigtails,” he called, tapping on the door. He opened it a crack—not braids now, but long hair, dark and rumpled against the pillow.

 Andrew stepped into the room, glimpsing his image in the dresser mirror. He had been a couple of years ahead of Paula in school, working hard, intentionally avoiding the tight little cliques. A loner then, and he looked even more like one now; tall frame too straight and proud, and his face, too lean and rugged.

 He was going to ask her what was wrong, but he already knew. His gaze dropped to the photograph of Cathy. Andrew had attended the community dance the night she was killed. He had, like all the other males in Levin, been attracted to Cathy, too. Why wouldn't he be? She was sultry and sexy and always went out of her way to let him know that she had noticed him. At times, he thought her as lovely as any movie star, at other times she simply reminded him of a Barbie doll; a mean little Barbie doll, one with teeth.

 "Want to talk?” he asked, stepping closer to the bed.

 "No,” Paula said in a muffled voice.

 "What's wrong, Paula?” Andrew squelched the desire to reach for her, but instead continued talking in the same, teasing way. “You can tell old Dr. Andrew. Boy trouble, I'm guessing."

 When Paula didn't answer, Andrew thought of Marc Wood. Years back, in fact, the day Paula had remarked with enthusiasm that Janet's boyfriend was the greatest basketball player on Levin's team, Andrew had started to dislike him. That emotion remained, stronger than ever, and he told himself he knew why: he had always detested guys who spent their lives acting like surly, brooding boys.

 "Why don't we go into town? We'll stop atCosmo's Pizza like we use to."

 "I'm sorry, Andrew,” Paula said, on the verge of tears. “But I need to be alone."

 She hadn't once looked at him, her face still tight against the pillow. He stared at her for a moment, then headed silently for the door.
 * * * *

Please don't go, a part of Paula begged.Don't leave me alone with her. But the other part was strangely detached, uncaring. It was as if Andrew were no longer her friend, but a stranger who had wandered into the house by mistake.

 She stayed in her room all morning. At noon, a car pulled into the yard, and she could hear the mingling of voices below her window. Marc and Janet stood leaning against the car, heads bent as if in serious conversation. Janet had evidently sent Randy up to summon her, so she could stay with Marc.

 Paula felt a tinge of envy. Marc and Janet had dated for years—before Cathy had come to Levin. Were they going to again pick up on that old relationship? Janet always managed to look so perfect. A shiny clip held the curly auburn hair back from her face, and a careful coating of mascara drew out the highlights in her almond-shaped, golden eyes.

 Randy pounded on the door with all the grace of a bear. “Paging Paula Nelson. You're wanted downstairs."

 Paula opened the door to Randy's big smile. “Tell them ... I don't feel like going anywhere today,” she said.

 "Last night get to you?” Randy asked with a grin.

 Randy had been at the dance the night Cathy had died, although his sister Janet had decided to stay home. Paula had run across both of them later at the emergency room where they had taken Marc.

 Randy, solid and stocky, with his ever-present smile, didn't look at all like his sister; though, like Janet, he didn't lack attention from the opposite sex. As Paula gazed at Randy now, she felt a shocking question arise. For the first time, it occurred to her that Cathy might have been planning to ditch Marc that night for Randy. Cathy had often told Paula that Randy was the only boy in school who wasn't interested in her, and that would have been cause enough for her to make a play for him.

 She was just jumping to conclusions. Cathy could have been meeting anyone; why even Andrew had been home from college at the time. And when Cathy had first set eyes on Paula's neighbor, she had exclaimed, “Wow, isn't he handsome?"

 "We're going to the beach.” Randy said, stopping near the door, obviously not caring whether she went or stayed. He left quickly, and Paula watched from the window as Marc, Janet in the front seat beside him, sped away.

 To Paula's surprise, Marc returned late that same afternoon.

 "I want you to go with me,” he said.

 He remained gloomily silent as she got into his car. Marc headed toward the Wood residence; a large, old-money house, almost a mansion, at the end of a secluded street. His parents were away, as usual. When Marc brought friends home, they always had the run of the house.

 Marc, with a click of the remote, opened the hatch of the car, and to Paula's horror, removed the Ouija board he had no doubt persuaded Janet to loan him. He walked ahead of her through the sprawling house to his room, which because of the thick drapes closed over the windows, except for the posters on the wall, seemed like some isolated cavern.

 "It's only a game, Marc. A pastime. Please just put it away.” As Paula spoke, she wandered to the window and drew open the drapes. Misty light slanted into the room.

 When she turned back to Marc, he was seated beside the board. He looked anxious, brooding; his long fingers already poised over the planchette, waiting for her to join him.

 Janet, she could deal with. If Marc had truly loved her, he wouldn't have thrown her over for Cathy. But how could she measure up to Marc's true ideal of perfection? Cathy, forever beautiful, unchanging. How could Paula compete with a dead girl?

 "You know she really spoke to us last night,” Marc said, then added nervously. “We must try again."

 Paula made a decision to play along. This might be the only way she could get him to come to his senses; to realize the truth that Cathy had not communicated with them last night and wasn't going to now. Paula sank into the chair opposite him. Marc, lost in concentration, seemed silently awaiting the force he was so certain would soon take control.

 Out of the corner of her eye, from outside, Paula thought she caught a glimpse of a wraith-like figure in flowing, white dress. Alarmed, she went to the window. The scene in front of her loomed still and empty. The power of imagination, she thought, as she stared toward the foggy outline of trees.

 Paula returned to the Ouija board. Marc was talking; not to her, but to Cathy. “The wreck wasn't my fault. Headlights came speeding at me from out of that storm. I had to swerve to avoid hitting that car straight on. I tried to save us, to save you. I really did."

 He hadn't mentioned another car being involved in the accident until weeks after he had left the hospital. The psychiatrist had said he had made the story up; a crutch, a way to face life, a way to believe he had not caused the wreck.

 "We're not going to get any message,” Paula said, “with you talking."

 Silence reigned. Like before, Paula felt an ever-growing panic. Exactly like last night, prompted, no doubt, by Marc, the letters began spelling out words that brought shivers down her spine. Slowly, clearly, the message appeared:I am here. 2 stay.
 * * * *

"Cold pizza.” Andrew glanced up to see Janet wrinkle her pert little nose. With a shake of reddish locks, she declared, “Time to reorder."

 Her words made Andrew realize just how long he had been sitting inCosmo's Pizza lost in thought; his order forgotten in front of him. “Join me,” he invited.

 Janet slipped into the booth. She picked pepperoni from the pizza and brought it to her lips delicately, watching him with cool, amber-colored eyes that reminded him of cut glass.

 Her appraising gaze remained locked on him as if she liked what she saw. In school, he had scarcely noticed Janet; she had just been Paula's friend. Certainly he hadn't seen her as an attractive girl; one now openly flirting with him. If it hadn't been for Paula—if that wasn't always the case with any girl he met—he might have been interested.

 "I'm beginning to worry about Paula,” he said. “What's going on with her, Janet?"

 Janet told him about how she had found the Ouija board. “We've all had such trouble dealing with Cathy's death. After that wreck, instead of improving, things kept getting worse. I think Marc will always blame himself for what happened almost a year ago today—on Midnight Road."

 "So you thought up this game to snap him out of it, to help him confront the fact that she's dead."

 "Yes, but it didn't work.” Janet stopped short, then added vehemently, “I wish I'd never seen that damned board. I should never have given it to Marc. Instead of making him realize she's gone, it's doing just the opposite. It's put some fool ideas in his head, too foolish to even try to explain."

 "What do you mean?” Andrew asked with growing concern.

 "He thinks Cathy is speaking to him through Paula.” She leaned closer, saying in a hushed voice. “No, he believes Cathyis Paula."

 "That's crazy."

 "Yes, it is. Frankly, I'm afraid.” Janet leaned back wearily against the cushioned plastic booth. “I'm beginning to wonder if Paula's safe with him."
 * * * *

Saturday afternoon, Paula and Marc headed to the beach. In a secluded spot on the shore, they lay side by side on an old blanket. Paula closed her eyes and tried to relax.

 Marc seemed restless. He leaned up on one elbow and remained looking down at her. She observed him through half-closed eyes; his tan, lithe body glistening in the late afternoon sun. His eyes took on a distant, brooding look. Suddenly, he spoke, “Do you remember the time we came out here last summer? Just you and me and Cathy?"

 It had been a warm, lazy afternoon, much like today. They had brought a picnic basket. The three of them together. The beginning of the end.

 Paula had been plagued with a dreadful summer cold, so she stayed on the beach. Marc and Cathy spent the whole afternoon in the water. Paula watched them, splashing and playing like a couple of young seals. They had not once even glanced her way. When Marc and Cathy were together, there was nothing in the universe except the two of them. It was on that day she knew she must face the truth. She must quit being around them all the time. She must get over her big crush on Marc.

 Marc gazed down at her. He reached out to lift strands of her long, brown hair, which the warm sun had lightened in places to a deep golden shade.

 Paula had always dreamed of being in his arms—her, instead of Cathy—but something was wrong. She edged away from him, but not in time. He drew her against him, and she felt the warmth of his lips covering hers.

 For a moment, she tried desperately to respond, to feel at one with him, to forget.

 Tears gleamed in Marc's eyes as he pulled her tighter. Then she heard him moan, not her own name, but the one that was forever on both of their minds—Cathy, Cathy, Cathy.
 * * * *

Andrew arrived early for dinner at the Nelson home. “Isn't Paula going to eat with us?” he asked Paula's mother.

 "To tell the truth, I'm at a loss to what she's going to do. She's been in her room most of the day."

 Andrew felt relieved by the sound of girlish talk and giggles as he headed up the steps. Paula was seated in front of the mirror, Janet putting some finishing touches on her hair.

 "Paula, what have you done with your hair?” Andrew asked with alarm.

 It was much shorter; hung now, barely to her shoulders in thick, golden-blonde strands.

 "Don't you like it?” Paula turned to Janet for support. “Janet's going to do the same thing to hers."

 "Your hair looked nice before,” Andrew returned. “It didn't need to be bleached. It makes you look like a different person."

 "Maybe that's what I need to be."

 Andrew's gaze shifted from Paula to the photograph of Cathy. For the first time, he was struck by the startling resemblance, more evident now that Paula's hair was shorter; the exact color to accentuate her strangely dark, wide-set eyes.

 He felt anger rising inside him. Andrew didn't want Paula any different; he wanted her to remain that sweet, innocent girl he had loved since boyhood. He didn't want her to be anyone else, least of all a sultry, heartbreaker like Cathy, bent on destroying every man she met.

 "Better stay for dinner,” Paula said to Janet.

 "No, I must be going."

 Andrew determinedly remained after Janet left. “Paula, we need to talk."

 Paula looked at him warily; the way the family cat did sometimes upon being startled—taut, suspicious, prepared for battle, as if the person who fed him every evening had suddenly become a stranger to be watched and feared.

 She didn't speak, but began twisting the silver, stylized “C,” which hung around her neck on a thin chain, one that surely must have belonged to Cathy Rhodes.

 Andrew stepped closer to her. “This Marc character. You've been seeing way too much of him."

 "What do you have against Marc?” The nervous fingers kept working with the chain. “You don't even know him."

 "Just stay away from him,” Andrew said, turning back to the door so she wouldn't see his great agitation. “He's a danger to himself and to everyone around him. Janet says—"

 "Janet is just jealous. They dated all through school. She expected, with Cathy out of the way, to get him back. But he's been asking me out, instead."

 "How lucky you are.” Sarcasm, a defense Andrew didn't ordinarily employ, rang in his voice. “He's not even seeing you, Paula. To him you're just a fantasy."

 Paula's twisting of the chain stopped. “I'm real to him,” she said. “But Cathy and what happened is real to him, too. We've been trying to contact her. Marc believes she has appeared and spoken to him."

 "What nonsense! Cathy is dead,” Andrew almost yelled. “And Marc is a madman. That wreck damaged him in a way that no one will be able to repair. Listen, Paula. I'm not going to stand by and let him hurt you."
 * * * *

Andrew remained at the Nelson home after supper; was there when the sports car pulled up to the house. Paula ran out and climbed in beside Marc.

 Paula's mom was busy in the kitchen. Andrew, sick with worry, wandered upstairs to Paula's room. He didn't like the idea of invading her privacy, but it had to be done if he were to find out more about the accident, more about Marc. He found a photo album in the bottom drawer of her desk and leafed through it. Photos at the lake: Cathy and Paula in a swimming contest with Randy, Janet pretending to push Marc off the wooden wharf, a photo of Cathy and Marc dressed up for some formal dance, several snapshots of Janet, Randy, Cathy, and Marc near the school, arms around each other, clowning for the camera.

 Sheaths of loose letters and newspaper clippings were crammed into the top drawer. He opened one of the letters and read:

 Dearest Paula,

 When I am with you, I feel I am with Cathy.

 Crazy talk!

 He rifled through more letters, each one more insane than the last.

 My love for you is immortal as my love for her is immortal. At times, I'm sure you are her.

 Andrew tossed that note angrily aside and lifted a newspaper clipping.

 A local girl, Cathy Rhodes, died last night when the car Marc Wood was driving lost control at the turnoff to Baxter Road and crashed into a tree. Wood, who sustained only minor injuries, remains in the hospital undergoing psychiatric evaluation. The accident occurred on June 20th at eleven-thirty on a blacktop north of town known by the locals as Midnight Road.

 Andrew's gaze fastened suddenly on the calendar on the wall, and his heart gave a leap. June 20th—today! The anniversary of Cathy's death.
 * * * *

Even after he had gone back home, he kept calling Paula's mom.

 "Paula isn't home yet. Andrew, it's getting late."

 "I'll see if I can find her,” Andrew said, concealing his growing apprehension.

 Andrew found Randy playing video games in a room adjoining the pizza parlor. “Have you seen Paula?” he demanded.

 "She left a while ago with Marc,” he said.

 "Do you know where they went?"

 Randy, not taking his gaze from the screen, shook his head. Andrew whirled away from him, making a hasty retreat.

 Just as he feared! He glanced down at his watch. It was past eleven.

 Andrew's blood seemed to freeze in his veins. Suddenly, he knew where he could find Paula, where Marc had taken her. She was out there with that psycho, and no telling what he had planned!
 * * * *

The yellow Mustang, which Marc had carefully restored, shot like a bullet down the highway. Paula shrank against the passenger door, frightened now. Marc had appeared not even to hear her when she had insisted that he take her home. When they reached the intersection, he pulled off the highway onto Midnight Road. Paula, alarmed, stared into the stormy darkness at the treacherous, twisting blacktop.

 Marc braked the car abruptly in front of the big oak tree and leapt out. His form blended with the black shadows that fell across the scene where they had held the séance, across the very spot where Cathy had died.

 "We shouldn't be out here tonight."

 Marc looked at her, his expression chilling. “Of course we should. This is the anniversary of Cathy's death."

 Paula folded her arms across her thin T-shirt to keep from shivering. At one time, Marc had seemed to her a desirable, glamorous boy she wanted for herself. She had realized some time back how wrong she was. Andrew was right; Marc had not once seen her, only Cathy. She wanted to turn around and run back to the car, leaving him stranded out here alone. But no matter how much her feelings for him had changed, he looked so pathetic she still had to help him. Marc, so in denial about Cathy's death, needed saving, for without a doubt he was on a collision course with disaster.

 "Cathy,” he said, looking at Paula. “I'm sorry."

 Paula, aghast that he was calling her Cathy now, replied as if she were. “What do you have to be sorry for? It wasn't your fault. You skidded on the curve, lost control of the car."

 Marc shook his head, wild eyes reflecting the gleam from the headlights. As if gripped by deep anger, he spoke harshly, “No, it didn't happen like that. That other car sped around that curve. You saw it yourself! What else could I do?"

 "I didn't see the car. What did it look like, Marc?"

 "I can't describe it,” he said incredulously. “Storm and night, headlights speeding toward us. I swerved to avoid a head-on crash and slammed into this tree.” His eyes were deep hollows now, as black and stormy as the night. “I heard you cry out. I watched your head snap back, then fall forward like a rag doll's."

 Poor Cathy—blonde hair sweeping forward across her face, white dress dampening with blood.

 "But I didn't kill you!” Marc's delighted voice rose above the spattering of rain. “The accident wasn't my fault!"
 * * * *

As Andrew drove through the darkness, his gaze fell to the dash clock, brilliantly illuminated by a sudden zigzag of lightning—eleven-thirty. His hands tightened on the wheel. What was on Marc's twisted mind? Did he intend to commit suicide; to re-enact the night of the accident with Paula as a substitute for Cathy?

 When he reached the old, twisting road that wound away from the highway, Andrew spotted the yellow Mustang, headlights glowing, focused on the marred oak. He skidded to a stop. Neither Paula nor Marc looked toward him. They were staring down at the Ouija board propped on a stump between them.

 "We can bring her back, Paula. I know we can!"

 The planchette began to move. Paula looked stricken, as if she were in some kind of trance. He saw the flash of her hands sliding across the board as if they had no will of their own; as if they were being forced by Marc's insane determination.

 "She's here, Paula. She's here!"

 Andrew had heard enough. He stormed forward. He grabbed Marc by the back of his shirt collar, pulled him to his feet, and shook him. At that instant, rain began pouring in earnest, drenching them.

 In the blinding storm, Andrew tried to locate Paula. At first, he had been aware of her shrinking back into the surrounding trees, but now he could no longer see her. Where could she be?

 He continued struggling with Marc. He hadn't expected him to be so strong or so quick. Andrew, at last, managed to break free and step back. As he did, he glimpsed an image through the wet leaves—a shimmer of silk and white.

 Andrew gasped. It must have been a trick of the lighting. It must have been Paula he had seen. He started to go after her. At that same moment, Marc's fist caught him square in the jaw.

 Half mad with rage, Andrew slammed Marc hard against the tree. His head struck the rough bark, and he slumped to the ground.

 Andrew's gaze fell upon the Ouija board, and he snatched it up angrily and broke it over his knee. Just as it cracked in two, a drift of wind swept in, bringing with it an inhuman cry, like the shriek of some earthbound spirit.

 "Paula! Paula, where are you?” Andrew called, and his words echoed back through the dripping foliage.

 "Paula!” This time a ghostly figure in muddied, white dress emerged from the trees. He drew in his breath and took a step backward as his eyes locked on the half-smiling, prettily seductive face of Cathy Rhodes.

 For a moment, Andrew simply stared at her, caught by the mad glitter of those amber eyes. Then, with a click of realization, he knew that he wasn't looking at Cathy at all.

 With one swift motion, he sprang forward, catching the girl's shoulders. Rain streamed from her dyed, blonde hair and made little trails across her face.

 He shook her. “What have you done with Paula?"

 "I dragged her back into the trees,” Janet said. “She's there where I left her. Dead."

 Andrew moaned. “Marc's not insane! You're the one that's crazy."

 "Marc belongs to me. He always has and always will,” Janet cried. “He was mine, until Cathy took him away from me. I hated her! I can't tell you how much I hated her! I followed them that night!"

 "You were driving the car that caused Marc to wreck. But, why,” Andrew asked, “did you convince Marc to try to contact her?"

 "I used that board to make Marc understand that she was really gone, gone forever. Then, with her out of the way, he would see me again. But it didn't work! Instead, he got it into his head that Paula was Cathy. I decided to dye my hair and look as much like Cathy as I could. But the only way I could do that without him knowing what I was doing was if Paula changed hers, too.” Janet gave an unstable laugh. “But that plan backfired. I couldn't let Paula steal him. I got this ... dress ... and started following Paula, waiting for my chance. She had to pay, too, like Cathy did, for ruining my life!"

 Andrew's grip on Janet slackened. She slipped loose, turning away from him. When she whirled back, she clutched a knife; the same one she must have used to kill sweet, dear Paula!

 Fury made Andrew stronger. He leapt forward and twisted the knife from her grasp.

 "What's ... what's going on?” Marc stood, hunched over, bracing himself against the oak.

 Andrew pushed Janet toward him. “Watch her,” he yelled. “I'm going to find Paula."

 He searched through tangles of thick, wet foliage, frantically calling Paula's name. Andrew found her at last; a forlorn figure in soaked jeans and T-shirt, lying face down on the ground. He lifted her gently. “Paula. Oh, no, Paula. I can't bear to lose you!"

 Blood soaked through the torn T-shirt, just above her left shoulder where Janet had stabbed her. The wound looked deep, but it had missed her heart. “Paula, I love you. I've always loved you,” Andrew cried.

 Paula's eyes opened, but she remained limp in his arms. Still, Andrew knew that she would be all right, that she would live!

 "It was Janet all along,” he told her softly. “Janet caused the accident that killed Cathy. She was the one possessed—by the spirit of Cathy Rhodes."

 "She intended to kill me,” Paula sobbed. “And would have, if you hadn't shown up."

 "Don't cry. You're safe now, darling."

 Paula clung to him as if she would never let him go. “Oh, Andrew. Don't ever leave me again."

 About Loretta Jackson and Vickie Britton

 Loretta Jackson and Vickie Britton are a sister co-authoring team whose over thirty published novels include mysteries and romantic suspense stories. Two of their mystery-romance novelsPath of the Jaguar andNightmare in Morocco have gone into second printings. Their works have been produced in paper, audio, and electronic formats. They enjoy writing short stories and have two anthologies published by Whiskey Creek Press, a mainstream anthologyNo Longer Drifting , and a collection of suspense storiesThe Bloody Knife.

 Their websites are:

 www.foxfountain.com/vl.htm and www.brittonjackson.cjb.net

 THE STICK

 by Richard A. Satterlie

 Today, there would be no detour. I wouldn't sneak the two blocks out of my way. This was way too important.

 It had taken more than a minute to get the information out of Rory Fain's panting mouth. There was a dead body out at the swing. A kid, no less. My house was just as far from the swing as it was from the police station, and with me in a jog and Rory in his present state of overweight exertion, it would take Rory twice as long to cover the remaining distance to the police station as it would to get me to the swing.

 But first, I had to get past Kyle Murray's house. That would require a full sprint, and luck. Right now, I had to do it. A dead body doesn't come around every day. More like once in a lifetime.

 "Give me a head start,” I said to Rory, but the words weren't necessary. He was hunched over, hands gripping his knees. His chest heaved as if the fall air had the thickness of maple syrup.

 I patted his back and turned down the street, toward Kyle's house. Best not to think about it. And I didn't. I was in a full sprint in three steps, pumping my arms hard to help pull me down the street. My breathing was already in rhythm with my gait, and I flew past the driveway, the mailbox, nearly to the hedge that bordered the next yard.

 "Hey, Jerk-off."

 The shout put a hitch in my next step, but it also lit the adrenaline afterburner, and I rushed past the hedge, straining to move my legs faster, expecting to hear heavy footsteps closing in from behind. But today, everything was silent. Everything except the rasp of my breathing and the slaps of my sneakers on the pavement.

 One, then two houses past; I slowed to a walk and looked over my shoulder. Kyle stood at the hedge; his fists balled, his shoulders slumped. He leaped forward but stopped; an obvious scare attempt, but effective enough to get me back in a gallop. I rounded the corner to the sound of his distant laugh.

 Free for today, but with a debt for tomorrow, I slowed to a walk, trying to calm the painful stitch in my side. Today was the first time I had passed directly in front of Kyle's house in over two years. Back to a slow jog, my mind freewheeled.

 The curse of the teen years was bad enough for a slow developer, but some of the blame for my predicament had to fall to my parents. Physically, I was invisible enough. But the unmerciful minority, the fraternal twin dragons also known to us as the jocks and cocks, were always on the lookout for anything unusual, out of the ordinary, out of each group's sense of order. Even though they worked at opposite ends of society, it seemed they both had the same two-tiered system for gaining self-worth: accomplishment and bullying.

 Two more blocks and my shoes left the pavement. The path through the woods was concealed enough to make us think our parents couldn't find it, but trampled enough to help us weave through the dense underbrush to the swing. The beaten dirt path represented our escape. The jocks and cocks rarely ventured this deep into the woods. To them, any of our possessions were considered fair game, community property. But not this path, and not the destination it held. This was ours.

 Every time I walked the path, my feet felt like they touched only air. I could totally relax. In town, relaxation was a privilege to us, not a right. And that highlighted the best part of this journey. I could let my mind wander without the necessity to post a mental sentry.

 I floated along the path, the crisp air teasing my sense of mental order. The leaves should have turned by now, but they kept hope. A hope I couldn't share. Why? My search for answers always came back to my parents. They didn't deserve it, but they were the only flesh-and-blood scapegoats I could identify. Kyle and the rest of the jocks were not the cause, just the effect. And even though my parents were only contributors to the cause, they were the only ones who could be pinned down with certainty.

 Running afoul of the jocks, those self-appointed as most likely to succeed, or the cocks, those most likely to do time before they were eligible to vote, was simple. For some of us, the transgression was an unusual physical feature or handicap. For others, it was an embarrassing public slip anywhere in the recent past. But the worst was an inordinate attention to academics. Anything that made us stand out from the camouflage-of-the-ordinary, tattooed us with concentric circles—a target. In my case, it was all in a name.

 My parents, either in their desire to be unusual, or in some mind-altered state of fantasy, decided to give me a name beginning with the least used letter of the alphabet—X. And, not just one of them, but two. And so I was christened Xerxes Bradshaw Turner. That's pronounced “Zerksees,” but by the second grade, it had been morphed to “Jerksees” by the embryonic jocks and cocks. I'm convinced my parents didn't do it to be mean, or as the Johnny Cash song says, to make me tough. To them, I think, it was a breath of originality. But for a teen, that breath easily turned sour.

 The last two hundred yards of the path turned to a switch-back trail up a bracken-choked hill that seemed to quadruple the actual distance, and prevented anything but a hunched walk. I still had plenty of time before the police would get there, so I slowed my stride. It was unlikely my breathing would return to normal before I crested the hill, and what awaited would keep it strained. But I tried to calm myself as much as the steep climb allowed. Now, my feet plodded along the path, but my mind returned to flight.

 In our town, everyone seemed to have a secret. It was small enough so there was no “bad side of the tracks,” but large enough to include the full range from poverty to wealth. Our house was in the middle: the breeding ground of the jocks, land of parents who looked the other way, the kids-will-be-kids defenders of any unusual behavior they were forced to acknowledge. And one of the worst case studies was two doors down, in the form of Kyle Murray. Kyle was a junior, two years ahead of me, already captain of the football team, member of student council, and rumored to be in the running for Homecoming Queen Escort in his upcoming senior year.

 Kyle and I had an understanding. He'd restrict his blows to areas that didn't show, and I'd keep quiet about it. The agreement was struck way back in the primary grades, when Kyle's parents countered my complaints of harassment as irrelevant. Kyle's “youthful enthusiasm” was just a sign that I needed to be more assertive. My parents had bought the argument and encouraged me to push back. Now, I couldn't walk by Kyle's house if he was home.

 The last part of the climb was the steepest, but I always accelerated against it. Just like the grocery bags that were heaviest in the last few steps into the house, the near goal anticipation made the final climb noticeably difficult, but bearable. Bearable because the swing was near.

 Every set of conscientious to semi-conscientious parents in town had forbidden their children to go to the swing. It was really a rope with a plywood disk tied at the bottom, securely fastened to a stout branch of an elderly oak. The swing dangled at the edge of a rock outcropping that dropped down fifty feet to a pine-straw covered terrace of the forest floor. We called it “The Cliff."

 Swinging out over “The Cliff” gave me a feeling of freedom, of flight. If I looked out at the treetops, I could imagine myself a bird, winging around the tops of pines, oaks, and maples. I could leave behind the earth and all of its captive beings, mean for their inability to escape solid ground.

 At the top of the hill, the trail made its final turn, around a large boulder we named the turret. From the top of the rock, we could see for miles in all directions; a great look-out for those low on the pecking order of middle youth. It was the only place where we could puff our chest with a sense of advantage.

 Our parents had warned us to keep away from the swing by invoking every demon they could muster—children had fallen down “The Cliff.” You remember what's-his-name's kid, the one who suffered brain damage and sits and drools all day? Or that other kid who was kidnapped from the swing, and never found. The drug deal that went bad, and the hunters who liked to shoot bush noises.

 If what Rory had said were true, all parents in town would have live ammunition to load from now on.

 I rushed to the turret but stopped. I tried to visualize what was on the other side. A dead body. But what would it look like? Rory hadn't said anything about the cause of death. Would there be blood? Would all parts be intact? What if I threw up? I envisioned a crumpled, broken body at the bottom of the cliff, the frayed rope still swaying above it. It was the most logical outcome, at least to me.

 With a deep breath, I moved around the turret, but parts of my body disagreed about the pace. My arms swung hard against the mild breeze, but my feet chugged in small baby steps. I had to consciously correct my legs, and with the first full step, my toes caught on something hard in the soft dirt. I felt my upper body tip. In slow motion, I tried to regain my balance, but my other foot dug into the soil and my outstretched palms broke my tumble. I must have rolled on my side as I fell, because I stared at the side of the turret; my body curled around the object that had initiated the fall. I reached out to smack it, but my hand recoiled without prior thought to do so. It was the plywood disc. A short section of frayed rope lay limp in its center. It was the fear of all who mounted the swing, and a major contributor to the thrill of its use. Someday, the rope would give out.

 But what was it doing way back here? Our nightmares all had it giving way over “The Cliff;” the only honorable way a rope swing could break. And, if the disc was back here, where was the body?

 I turned in the dirt and had to cough through a small cloud of dust. All I saw was a pair of feet, hanging a shoulder's width off the ground. I jerked to an elbow and turned my body to get the full view, and my eyes focused on the neck of the corpse. The rope had been tied into a perfect hangman's noose, and it dug into the boy's neck, turning his head at a strange angle. The body swayed, almost imperceptibly, in the steady breeze. My stomach rose to constrict my throat.

 The clothing, the shape of the body—it seemed familiar, but the face pointed away, looking out over the treetops. I had to see.

 I jumped up, brushed the dirt from my clothes and hands, and noticed my feet shuffling forward without my permission. When my mind caught up, it pulled the emergency brake, and I stopped five feet short of the lifeless form, obviously human, but missing that one quality that made it a person. I looked at the dirt in front, then behind me.

 My sneakers made distinct impressions in the bare dirt of the path. My prints stopped at my shoes, and a different set, smeared, non-distinct, surrounded the new version of the swing.

 Two seasons of crime scene TV shows told me to stay back. Don't contaminate. Worse yet, don't become a suspect. I would stay for the arrival of the authorities, and I had Rory's word on the timeline of our meeting, but who was to say I hadn't been here before?

 But the passion burned. A dead body was meant to be appreciated. And above all, to be touched. The first two questions from any curious teen would be, what did it look like and how did it feel? To disappoint colleagues would be treason. Worse yet, it would be a permanent label that would expand the concentric circles on my chest. An unforgivable chicken-out.

 I had to see the face. I had to get close enough to touch the skin. Common sense told me it would be cold, but how cold? A sudden chill raised goose flesh along my arms and neck.

 A light movement in my peripheral vision caught my attention, and my head swung toward the trunk of the guilty oak. A long, straight stick slipped in the breeze, threatening to topple over the cliff with the next gust. It was a perfect length to poke at the body, to turn it to see its face. The stick seemed to call to me; the suggestion for its utility coming from its perfect shaft.

 A straight path to the tree trunk would carry me closer to the corpse, but I wanted to grab the stick before it slipped over the cliff. I jumped back a few feet and sprinted in a wide circle, making a final lunge as the stick slipped from the bark. I caught it and pulled it to my chest like it was the little brother I never had, teetering on the lip of the rock ledge.

 I looked up, then shuffled backwards. My heel caught a root and my back slammed against the tree trunk. The corpse had turned, and it swayed there, staring at me with half-closed eyes, their focus somewhere between this world and another. The skin of the twisted face was a pale gray, streaked with faint pink spider webs. A gasp rumbled from somewhere in my chest. I felt my knees buckle and I slumped against the rough bark, down to the dirt. It was Bobby Brookhouse.

 Bobby had been one of us. His entry into the fraternity had been an early one, originating on the athletic fields during physical education. He was arguably the least coordinated male in our freshman class, and all he had to do was run three steps to show it off. Each of his flat feet padded the ground with an awkward double tap, and each tap shook his body with a rigid shudder, so his movements were jerky, robotic. They reminded me of the jitterbugging sea monkeys I reared in the third grade, until I realized they were just brine shrimp.

 Bobby was one of those students who came to kindergarten already reading, and throughout his school years, he seldom paused to take his face out of a book. This gave rise to his jock-cock nickname, Bookworm, later shortened to Worm.

 In a way, I had envied Bobby. All the jeers, all the shoves and grabs, seemed to roll off of him like he had some special force field. His temperament was as level as the surface of a windless lake, and his smile was always ready when he was among friends.

 Best of all, Bobby became another person when he was on the swing, sliding out over the cliff. His whoops resounded through the treetops, each coming back louder and shriller than the original.

 But then he had changed. Books were no longer his passion. Instead, he made his bed on the Internet. His clothing changed from rural mish-mash to all black, head-to-toe. His hair was dyed a dull black, which contrasted the shiny black of his fingernail polish. Worst of all, he had become aloof, icy. And he stopped joining us at the swing.

 His next venture carried him to territory even the jocks and cocks avoided. It was rumored he was into the black arts; the worship of demons. I thought it was all for show until an unbelievable rumor got out. Sketchy as it was, he apparently had stood down a group of three cocks, intent on showing him the true meaning of evil. How he did it was never known, unless he had confused them with his lack of coordination.

 My eyes returned to the corpse. It swung at the edge of our cliff, but something wasn't right. It was clad in Bobby's old attire, his pre-Internet, nerd clothes. The only remaining hint of his personal dalliance was the hair dye, which accentuated the dull grey of his post-mortem skin.

 I struggled with the image of him hanging from the tree. Was this the way he wanted to go? Was this his own ending? The look on his face didn't tell that story. The way his fingers curled, claw-like, suggested he hadn't relaxed into death.

 Suddenly something pulled at my hands, but there was no one else near. The breeze was now steady, but timid. Again, a pulling sensation. I looked down and, for the first time, examined the stick in my hands. A little over an inch in diameter, it was more than four feet in length and as straight as a good hickory switch. A walking stick, maybe? Smooth, red bark covered most of its length, interrupted about one-third from the top by some kind of carvings. I raised the staff in my right hand and turned it so I could examine the marks. It pulled at my hand, so I had to keep a stiff grip to hold it still.

 The markings burned into the wood clear through the bark; the patterns intentionally complex. I recognized some kind of symbols, and a few repeated. The center of the decorations gave me a shiver that rivaled the one when I first saw the corpse. A burned-in face stared at me with what seemed like bottomless eyes. Their shape seemed angry, but the mouth below held a sly grin. As I stared at it, the expression seemed to change. Or did it? It was so subtle, it could have been a trick of light; a distant branch throwing a shifting shadow. I couldn't take my eyes from the face. Then, the stick pulled again; this time a hard jerk, nearly yanking me away from the tree trunk.

 I tried to let go of it, but my hand wouldn't release. I concentrated on opening my fingers and shaking it from my hand, but my hand remained closed, each attempted shake counteracted with a greater force. I grabbed the stick with my left hand, just below the decorations, and it heated up, burned. But only under my left hand. I jerked the hand away. Under my right hand, it seemed cool.

 My eyes shot up to Bobby's face, and I swear the corners of his mouth curled into a grin. Probably just a death spasm. We'd all heard about muscles contracting long after death, about corpses sitting up on the mortician's slab. And there was something in Bobby's vacant eyes that mirrored those burnt into the stick—an opaline translucence that gave them an incredible, reflective depth.

 Too old to cry? A violation of that rule twisted my torso into repetitive heaves.

 I stood, and the stick pulled again. Not toward Bobby, but toward the edge of the cliff. The force was steady, strong. I tried to resist, but my feet slipped in the dirt.

 The face grinned up at me.

 Now the stick heated up under my right hand; the temperature jumping to the point of reflex withdrawal in an instant. But my hand couldn't withdraw. It couldn't let go. The heat inched up a little more, then held. It seemed to be at the threshold of tissue damage, but on the low side. Irritating for sure, but not yet at the intense pain of a burn. Not like the heat I felt with my left hand. I shook my hand again, or at least tried to, but I couldn't even deflect the stick from its path.

 My feet hit the rocks that rimmed the cliff, and the drop-off loomed within inches. Looking down, I felt tightness in my lower abdomen. I struggled, but the stick pulled harder to match my effort. My right foot skidded on the rock, setting off a tumble of loose pebbles down the embankment. The stick held me there and rose up, bringing the burned face to eye level. Again, it seemed to smile at me.

 Did this have something to do with Bobby and his death? Was he really successful in his quest for the unexplainable? I pictured my body at the bottom of the cliff. Two dead teens wouldn't be much more surprising than one out here.

 The stick jerked, and I tried to sit down, to let my body go limp. Another tug swung me around on the rocks, my back over the cliff. My feet scraped at the rock like my sneakers had claws. My free arm windmilled the air.

 The stick jerked again, but this time it pulled me parallel to the edge, hard enough to yank my body back over the rocks. I scrambled to regain my footing.

 It led me along the ledge and away from the tree. The footing was solid, but uneven, so I took small steps, first tapping my toe before placing my foot down. It pulled until I was even with Bobby's corpse. Its heat still teetered on the edge of pain, just as I teetered on the edge of the cliff.

 The human pendulum swung now, and Bobby's feet nearly touched my knees. The breeze was steady, but the trajectory of his body seemed to increase with the next swing. His shoe brushed my jeans. I looked behind me, down the cliff again, at the jagged rocks that waited to snag me on the way down.

 Again, Bobby's corpse swung toward me, and I tried to slide back toward the tree. But the stick wouldn't let me. I tried to release my grip, but my hand held it tight. I could hear my pulse, feel it in my neck, throbbing near redline. Bobby's shoe tapped my kneecap.

 A sense of clarity swamped all sensation, although it was nightmarish. Even in death, Bobby apparently carried a curse for his discoverer. The stick was just a tool of the curse. Bobby was going to push me over the cliff.

 I shoved in the opposite direction, toward the stick, and it resisted. Bobby was at full backswing.

 With his forward swing, the stick rotated in my hand, the tip aimed at his midsection. It struck the corpse's chest, but it didn't recoil upon contact, even though it stopped the sway in a dead hang, motionless. I looked at my hand. It still gripped the stick, but the heat was gone. It didn't feel cool, or cold. It didn't feel like anything. I couldn't even feel contact on my palm or fingers. It was as if the hand wasn't part of my body. I felt the movements of my arm and my wrist when the stick moved, but they weren't mine, not commanded by my brain.

 What did Bobby have planned now?

 The stick moved again; this time probing at Bobby's shoulder. The corpse turned slowly until its hand pointed in my direction, within reach. The stick stopped the movement and seemed to hold the corpse there, daring me to touch it.

 I don't know how much time passed. Probably only a few seconds, but I just went blank. Then, I felt my left hand lift as my earlier thoughts about proper dead body etiquette resurfaced. I stared at Bobby's hand, the fingers. The skin was the same pale gray of the face, but the fingernails were free of their black polish. Instead, they were purplish, almost blue, but the color didn't come from the surface of the nails, it came from beneath them.

 I balled my hand, leaving the index finger extended, and reached to touch the skin. The hand moved with the contact. My hand jerked back to my side before the message to pull it back crossed my consciousness.

 Curiosity exploded within me. I anticipated the hand would be stiff, but it had moved with unexpected limberness. I tried to think back to the television shows. They all spouted the time to rigor mortis, but I couldn't remember the details. Just like how the body temperature decreased with time, the facts were clouded by reality. And I needed to touch it again. Was it really curiosity?

 I reached with my free hand, palm open, and took Bobby's hand. His limp fingers spread across my palm. I closed mine around them. They didn't have the warmth of life, but they weren't shivery cold like I expected. How long had Bobby been hanging? I looked up at his face, half expecting him to laugh out the practical joke, but up close, his eyes were clouded, vacant. A shake invaded my arm.

 I rubbed my thumb across the back of his hand, and it snagged on a raised welt. My thumb jerked back. Again, the sensation of curiosity flooded through me. I tilted the hand so I could see it. The welt was a long-healed scar, apparently from a branding. The geometric shape took a moment to register. A pentagram. I released Bobby's hand and wiped mine on my pant leg, like I could remove some coating of evil sloughed from the corpse.

 The stick slapped the rock, and I nearly fell backwards at the sudden noise. Upon release, Bobby's corpse twirled into a slow spin, now facing away from me. The stick tugged again, this time across my chest and back toward the tree. I followed, glad to be away from the cliff, and from Bobby Brookhouse. It had to be a product of my mind. The pulling of the stick, and heat. Was I in shock? Imagining the animated movements of a piece of wood to justify my fear, my curiosity? Had I read too much Poe? Too much King and Koontz?

 Maybe it was the questions that calmed me, that brought everything back within the laws of physics. Viewing the corpse of a friend could induce a temporary psychotic episode. I tried to shake the stick free again, but my hand still wouldn't let it loose. But since I was away from the ledge, away from the corpse, I tried to relax.

 I thought for sure I'd be nauseous, or at least a little dizzy, but the sensations never came. Instead, I felt an emotional tug along with the physical one. It told me to get far away from the swing, from “The Cliff,” and away from the corpse. The stick didn't need to lead, but it did, pulling me in a circle that retraced my original steps to the edge of the turret. I started for the path, but the stick yanked to the left. I knew where it was headed, but I resisted, just to judge its insistence.

 We had an escape route from the swing. Its entrance was guarded by two overlapping bushes, and the stick pushed into the exact spot, pulling me behind. Once through, the hint of a path led through equally dense brush. I could follow it as long as the light was good, more easily in this direction then in the reverse. It ran across the top of the hill, then descended in a steep dirt ramp. I sat down. I didn't relish the dusting my pants would take, but it was the only safe way to go down, using my legs as brakes.

 At the bottom, the path disappeared. Looping around the hill would bring me back to the original path. Turning left would lead to the high school athletic fields. In between, the woods would open to several neighborhoods, depending on the route.

 The going was slow since it was necessary to probe for soft spots in the scrub brush, but the stick pulled in a zigzag path—it seemed to sense the passageways of low resistance. If my mental calculations and sense of direction were right, we were running roughly parallel to the main path, and not far from it.

 The vegetation thinned, and in the distance, I heard the noises of town. The path was in view, about thirty yards to my right. I stepped in that direction, but the stick jerked hard. A second jerk nearly pulled me from my feet. The third one did. I fell into a chest-high myrtle, and the stick pulled harder until I was next to the main stems of the bush. The stick fell to the ground, still numb in my grasp.

 A voice penetrated the shrubbery, from the direction of the trail. Another one, both the deep tones of adults. I pushed at the bush with my free hand, and I saw movement. A bare patch in the foliage gave me a brief glimpse of a small, round frame hurrying along the path. My mind clicked. Rory. A larger form hurried past, then another, both in the tan clothing of the police. The voices faded, but the stick remained still. I pushed up a little, and the stick twitched, so I settled back down on the ground. I had the sudden urge to scratch a million itches, but I resisted.

 I didn't know how long I was expected to stay still, but I assumed the stick would lead me along at the appropriate time. And what choice did I have? I was probably in the bush for two minutes, but it seemed like a half hour. The hint of a cramp invaded my left leg and I shifted position to head it off. The stick vibrated in my hand, then went still.

 Another noise came from the trail, and another man hurried along the path. He had on regular clothing, and he carried a large suitcase-sized bag. When he was out of sight, the stick came alive and pulled in the direction of the path. I jumped from the bush, and a sudden impulse swamped my sensations. The impulse grew into a need—the need to get home.

 The stick was limp now, and I used it as a walking staff, swinging and planting it just ahead of my left foot. My gait was quick.

 As I neared Kyle's house, I veered across the sidewalk, intent on crossing the street, but the stick jerked me back on the original course. I pushed into a trot, but the stick slid into my chest, slowing me back to a walk. A feeling of panic tingled in my body, and I tried to shake the stick from my hand. It continued the rhythmic plant-and-swing movements of a brisk walk.

 At Kyle's hedge, I slowed down to peer around before continuing, but the stick maintained the pace, pulling me into the open. A click, and I knew it was too late.

 The front door slammed against the doorstop, and Kyle charged across the porch, clearing the three steps in a single leap.

 "You're a dead man, Jerk-off."

 The stick pulled to a halt.

 I tried to yank away, but it held me there; a non-moving target for Kyle's bull rush. He was in full linebacker mode now, at full speed, a building growl sounding his approach.

 The stick heated again in my hand, like before to the very edge of pain. It swung up, and into a rapid rotation, like a baton, and the fast circling movements accelerated it into a blur.

 Kyle was halfway across the lawn and coming fast.

 The stick jumped from my right hand to my left, and duplicated the blurred circling movements.

 Kyle was nearly a lunge away.

 The stick slowed and circled above my head. It swung around as Kyle's arms reached out and crashed into the side of his head, deflecting his lunge so his right hand barely brushed my right arm. He crumpled on the sidewalk and let out a high-pitched yowl.

 The stick spun me around to face him as he scrambled to his feet. It was still hot in my grip.

 "You son of a—"

 The stick shot straight out, the tip jabbing Kyle's chest hard enough to send him reeling backwards, onto his butt. He jumped back up. His hand fished into his front pants pocket, and he fumbled with a folding knife. The four-inch blade reflected the afternoon sun.

 "Dead man, Jerk-off."

 He approached slowly this time, the knife held in front of his waist. He faked a couple of thrusts, but the stick remained still, weightless in my grip. A shiver of fear hit all parts of my body at once. The stick was cold.

 Was this some kind of joke? Did it set me up for a real carving? I tried to back away, but the stick came to life and held me in place, still cold.

 A grin spread across Kyle's face. “What's the matter, Jerk-off? Your arm tired?” He stepped forward, raising the knife a little.

 The heat returned, instantly, and the stick shot out, this time impacting the bridge of Kyle's nose. A loud crunch preceded his yelp, and he fell to the ground again, flat on his back, moaning. He writhed on the ground, gripping his face as blood gushed between his fingers.

 The stick pulled closer and held me there. It swung high over my head.

 Kyle's eyes opened wide.

 The stick waved back and forth, like the head of an aggravated cobra.

 His gaze followed it. His eyes were wild, but not with anger. For the first time, I recognized fear. He must have seen it a hundred times on my face, and it filled me with a strange sensation. It wasn't satisfaction. It was more like I had just grown an inch or two.

 The stick lowered slowly, and pulled me up to the groaning hulk. He tried to push backward with his feet, but the grass resisted his movement. The stick swung over and planted its tip in the middle of his chest with a firm tap. It was cold again.

 Kyle's hand flew up and gripped the stick. I tried to pull it away. With the tug, I felt its smooth, cool bark.

 I yanked, and it slid a little on my palm. I released, and my hand came away. It was in Kyle's hands now. I jumped back, but he just lay there, holding the stick against his chest like it had impaled him. His face was smeared with streams of blood that dripped on the grass. Then, I noticed slight movements of his hands. His eyes went wide, and he shook his head, throwing streams of blood out onto the grass. Was the stick heating in his hands as it had done in mine?

 His gaze caught mine. His eyes seemed to plead with me to take the stick back.

 The desire to get home was overwhelming now, so I turned and bolted into a sprint. At my front door, I turned to see Kyle in the same position in the grass. His hands covered his face. The stick was no longer in view.
 * * * *

My fear of Kyle's retaliation gradually faded a little each day of the week he didn't show up for school. It disappeared on Friday night when he failed to appear for the football game with Garfield High, our nearest neighbor in the Coastal League. By noon Saturday, a week after the discovery of Bobby Brookhouse's body, the town had collectively dug up a reason for his absence. Kyle had to leave town for an indefinite period of time to help with the family of a sick relative—a selfless act from such a fine, young man. He was on the radar of the Athletic Departments of several major universities, but he still had his senior year in front of him.

 The initial word from the police on Bobby's death maintained a strong suspicion of foul play, suicide unlikely. How could Bobby raise himself up into the noose without some kind of platform? That held until Rory Fain reminded the officers how easily one could climb out on the branch that supported the swing, now just a short length of bare, frayed rope. The new official word—the death was undetermined, but suspicious.

 I was more concerned about two things. Kyle was one. I had conducted my own investigation of his absence, for obvious reasons. Despite an intervening house, ours was placed far enough back on our lot to give a view of one-half of the Murray residence.

 My upstairs bedroom window gave a clear view into the window of the rear bedroom. The room didn't belong to Kyle; it belonged his older brother Larry. But our upstairs porch at the back of our house, behind my bedroom, gave better than a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the neighborhood backyards through the wrap-around, screen-only windows. When I was younger, I called it the cabin, and I had spent most of the warm summer nights sleeping out there in a hammock my father had stretched between a pair of specially reinforced, vertical beams. If I crawled under the hammock and peered out from the farthest corner of the cabin, I could see a small slit of the bedroom window in front of Larry's—the window of Kyle's bedroom.

 Purposeful peeping seldom crossed my thoughts, but fear does strange things to a person. When Kyle didn't return to school the Monday following my assault, or rather the stick's assault—the day I thought would be my last on this earth—I decided to collect some data so I could better calculate my new final day. I decided to sleep in the hammock despite the fall chill.

 I couldn't see in Kyle's window, but I could tell if the light went on at night, and over the course of the school week, it had remained dark. This brought me to the football game; the one thing in this world Kyle would never miss, and his absence confirmed my stay of execution, at least for now.

 One of the many things I learned from my Biology teacher, Miss Perkins, aside from the fact that she didn't wear a bra, was that proper scientific deduction required more than a single piece of circumstantial evidence. I had a second, and it came from a more direct observation.

 Kyle's brother Larry gave away a good three inches and at least fifty pounds to his younger brother. And Larry wasn't right. He had a moderate case of cerebral palsy that twisted his posture and jerked his movements into over-compensated thrusts. I had played enough games of after-school chess with Larry to know he had an estate mind trapped in that shanty of a body. Larry was out of school, but his patience and experience brought him to our after-school chess club as a volunteer coach. Kyle didn't appreciate his brother's passion for chess. Apparently, Kyle didn't appreciate anything about his older brother.

 This is where I have to admit to spying in Larry's window, but it all was quite innocent. My computer desk was under my bedroom window, and beyond my monitor was Larry's window. Over the past year, I had observed a disturbing routine in the Murray household. Every evening around dusk, Kyle would pay his brother a visit. Now, I couldn't make out words from the exchanges, if you want to call them that. They were one way, for sure. Throughout the interactions, Larry cowered on his bed, but never made a peep. Kyle, on the other hand, fumed. He always started the same way. He'd stand over his defensive, and defenseless, brother, shouting like a drill sergeant accosting a wayward troop. Shouting would lead to pushing, pushing to hitting. He used the same strike-where-it-doesn't-show tactic he used with me, and I flinched along with Larry each time Kyle's fist hammered his broken brother. Kyle always ended his visits the same way. He'd spit on his brother and laugh before stomping out of the room. I don't know if I really heard the laugh. Real or imagined, it was identical to the laugh that echoed in my ears every time Kyle walked away from me after an attack. Sadistic is the only way I can describe it. A laugh of satisfaction, it was probably his personal vindication for the necessary effort to re-establish his superiority over an obvious defective—someone who didn't deserve to walk on his sidewalk.

 The past week had been a roller coaster of emotions for me. I already mentioned Kyle's dark bedroom. But, something wasn't right in Larry's room, either. For the first half of the week, Larry's routine was normal with one exception. Kyle never paid his evening visits. Wednesday started the same with one notable difference. The person in Larry's room didn't move with the shuffling, jerky movements of cerebral palsy. The person's actions were fluid, normal, and repetitive, as if the person paced the room with a rapid gait. Thursday night, the drapes were pulled, something Larry never did, but I could still see the silhouette of the figure. And it moved without effort, as the night before.

 Oh, yes—the second thing that concerned me. Where was the stick? It had led me to the confrontation that now troubled my life. It had beaten the boy who could squash me like a bug without a moment of hesitation. Kyle didn't need the stick like I had needed it. Did Kyle still have it? Did the stick have more plans for me, or had it moved on to ruin the life of someone else? Was I about to join Bobby Brookhouse?

 I shivered. Why was I once again giving an inanimate object the gift of intent? It had to be the stress of the past week visiting my pillow, bringing back the bent memories of my interaction with Bobby's corpse.

 Another thought scrambled my mind on Sunday morning as I lay in the hammock, bundled against the morning chill. What had happened to Larry? Who was it who paced so effortlessly in his room since Wednesday night, and why had the drapes been pulled on Thursday? The figure didn't look like Kyle. It didn't have the rippled muscles that showed through the tight shirts he always wore. But the clothing was too baggy to make a positive identification.

 Could it have been Kyle? He had done the unthinkable. He had missed a football game—his ticket to a larger stage, to the public's acknowledgement of his superiority over everyone in town.

 A new chill came from beneath my covers. Would Kyle show his face in town with the markings of the beating he had received from the stick? It had broken his nose, and the swelling and blackened eyes would be impossible to hide. I couldn't reside in Kyle's mind, nor would I want to, but I imagined his vanity would be at least as strong as my fear in driving his behavior. If it was half as strong, it could force him to miss a football game.

 Was Kyle hiding out, healing? Was his anger festering in inverse proportion to his fading bruises? Was my parole temporary?

 A loud, rhythmic beeping brought me to my elbows in the uncooperative hammock. I could just see over the window ledge, through the tight mesh of the screen. A cement truck backed along the driveway that stopped just short of Larry's window. The air brakes hissed to signal the end of the beeping.

 I rolled out of the hammock on the window side and wrapped myself in the heavy top blanket. Instead of going to the far corner of the cabin, I went to where it joined the house. From that angle, I could see a narrow gap of backyard between the edge of the Murray's house and their neighbor's fence. A gasp pushed a cloud of visible vapor from my mouth.

 Everything was wrong in the picture. The Murrays had an elevated deck on the back of their house, and between the deck and the fence, a year-round flowerbed stirred envy in all the neighbors. A beautiful flagstone walkway curved through the bed and around the side of the house, connecting the deck to the driveway. The walkway was illuminated at night with low-voltage carriage lights that spotlighted the flowers from dusk to dawn.

 The flowerbed was now a pounded mat of naked dirt, criss-crossed with a rebar grid and framed with two-by-sixes, ready to accept a truckload of concrete. The flagstones were propped against the side of the deck. The largest looked too much like a headstone. The carriage lights were nowhere to be seen.

 And that wasn't all. Why was a cement truck working on a Sunday? Kyle's dad was a contractor by trade, working throughout the county and beyond building commercial properties. But here in town, the Day of Rest was literally interpreted.

 Movement caught my eye, and I shuffled along the cabin window to get a better angle. The drapes in Larry's window were open again.

 I ducked under the hammock and ran into the house, to my room. Someone in Larry's room moved in furious but fluid movements. I ran to my closet and pulled the bird-watching binoculars from their cold-season storage case. This time, I didn't pretend to work on the computer.

 A young man danced in the room in choreographed movements, his back to me.

 A long object twirled in his hands. I focused the binoculars and immediately pulled them away from my eyes. It was the stick. It rotated in the person's hands easily, making the change from right hand to left without a break in its motion. The routine looked like some sort of martial arts sequence, and each component appeared expert, effortless.

 Memories of my interaction with Kyle flooded back. How the stick had twirled in my hands without my authorization. How it had neutralized Kyle's maniacal rush. I looked back in the window, at the twirling stick. It drew circles of solid red with a single patch of brown—the decorated section. The evil smile of the carved face filled my mind. Another movement in the eyepieces brought me back.

 The door to Larry's room opened, and someone walked in. I shifted the binoculars and thumbed the focus ring. It was Mrs. Murray. Her lips moved, and the figure stopped his performance. He appeared to stand at attention, the stick held in his hands across the front of his body. Mrs. Murray said something else, but the figure didn't flinch.

 I wanted to scream to her to run out. To get away from the stick. Instead, she walked toward it, reached for it. I remembered how I couldn't shake it loose from my grip until it had performed its routine on Kyle's face. A feeling of panic crept up my midsection. Was that why it was leaning against the tree under Bobby Brookhouse's swinging corpse? Had it completed that job as well?

 Mrs. Murray's hand touched the stick, but she pulled it back fast. Was it hot? She reached again, this time gripping it. I could see the grimace on her face. The word “no” came from my mouth, spoken, not shouted. She tugged, but the figure didn't release the stick. She said something else.

 The scene blurred from the shake of my hands. I steadied my grip and everything came back into focus. All but one thing. The stick seemed to be vibrating.

 Mrs. Murray said something else and tugged at the stick again. This time, the figure released it to her hands. His head immediately swung downward and to the side, his shoulders slumped forward, and his right arm swung out perpendicular to his body.

 Mrs. Murray walked to the far wall and leaned the stick against the plaster. She rubbed her palms down her pants three, four times. She said something to the twisted figure, which remained motionless in the center of the room, and she walked to the door. Again, I pulled the binoculars from my eyes and pushed them back nearly as fast. It was Larry. He shuffled after her, his halting gait just as strained and hesitant as always.

 A blur obliterated my view, and I refocused in front of the window. Mr. Murray pushed a wheelbarrow to the chute of the cement truck and accepted the first load of concrete. He pulled the heavy load backwards along the side of the house, opening the view to the window again.

 I raised the binoculars and focused on the empty room, on the stick leaning on the far wall. The carved face looked back through the lenses. I swear it winked.

 About Richard A. Satterlie

 Richard lives in Wilmington, NC, a recent move after twenty-four years in the Phoenix Valley. He received a B.S. Degree in Biology from Sonoma State University (California) and a Ph.D. in Biology/Neurobiology from the University of California, Santa Barbara. He was Professor of Biology at Arizona State University until 2004 when he took the position of Frank Hawkins Kenan Distinguished Professor of Marine Biology at the University of North Carolina Wilmington. A Fulbright Scholar at the University of St. Andrews (Scotland, 1994), and a recent Guggenheim Fellow (2002/03), he has published over sixty articles in scientific journals and edited books.

 His debut novel,Phoenix , is also published by Whiskey Creek Press. You can visit Richard at his website: richardsatterlie.wcpauthor.com

 LONG DISTANCE CALL

 by John Everson

 Melissa twisted on Jack's lap to allow her to silence the disruptive ring. The outer office was eerily dark, backlit by the yellow glow of the elevator hallway. It was as if they were performing for an audience—the only light centered upon their bodies. Green glass softened the glare of the banker's lamp on Jack's desk. Softened but not obscured, the warm light threw shadows across the filing cabinets, projected the tawdry silhouette of their two bodies in motion across the side wall—bigger than life and twice as tantalizing to would-be peepers.

 "It's your wife,” Melissa harrumphed breathlessly. She twined the phone cord around her middle, forcing him to pull her closer if he wanted to stretch the receiver to his ear. With one thick hair-camouflaged paw, he pulled her in close, and while still subtly moving inside Melissa, Jack greeted his wife.

 "Hi, honey, what have you been doing all day? I tried to get through but the line was always busy."

 "Jack, I'm so alone.” Her voice trembled, seemed to come from miles and miles away. Melissa thrust a blushing nipple between the phone and his lips, but he only frowned and shook his head. He still cared for his Angela, even if she'd been living in another world these past months.

 "I'll be home soon,” he promised, eliciting an exaggerated pout from Melissa's cherry lips.

 "Why is Melissa there so late, Jack? It's after seven o'clock. What are you doing with her?"

 He answered too fast. Scared now.

 "Nothing, honey. I mean, she's helping me with this project, that's all. I've got to get it finished by Friday."

 Angela's voice seemed to be drifting. Its normally full, throaty rasp was reedy, insubstantial.

 "I've known, Jack. Always."

 "Known what, hon? Angie, you're not taking too many of those Valium, are you? You sound funny."

 Melissa was rocking, ignored on his lap. She could feel him slipping steadily out of her, no longer keeping it up. Her face fell in disappointment.

 "Ooooh. Uh. Uh. Uh.” Angela had begun groaning and grunting on the other end of the line! Sounding like she had when they'd first gotten married, and had enjoyed the wanton push of each other's fleshy bodies. Like she hadn't sounded in months.

 "Ohhhh, Jack. Is this what you want? I know how to do it gooooood for you, baby. I'll be your little slut, Jack. That's what you want, isn't it? A slut? Maybe some phone sex? Oooooh, Jack. Go ahead now. Finish what you started."

 Jack's desire dove rapidly into the impotent range. Something was majorly wrong. Somehow, she must know about Melissa—and the way she'd been lately...

 "I'll be right home, honey. Hold on."

 "Known,” Angela whispered. Jack thought maybe she was crying. “I'm ready now. I'm waiting for you, Jack. Me and Eddie. We'll be waiting for you."

 The line went dead.

 Jack handed the phone back to Melissa, who cradled it absently behind her, not taking her eyes off the man beneath her.
 * * * *

"How does she do it?” she railed, blue eyes flashing in frustration. The past five times they had managed to get the office to themselves to make love, the phone had rung just prior to completion of the act.

 "I don't know.” Jack shook his head and gently helped Melissa up from her complicated squat through the arms of the chair. “But something's wrong. She sounded really strange, and she..."

 His voice trailed off, eyes clouded in confusion.

 "What? What did she say?"

 "She said she'd known, and then started making sex noises. I don't know what's come over her. It's been eight months since she made love to me, and then it was like she was doing me a favor."

 He smiled lopsidedly at her; a puppy dog's look after tracking muck from the yard across white carpeting. “I'm sorry. I promise I'll make it up to you.” He hesitated, about to say more, then shook his head. “I better get home."
 * * * *

The house was dark when Jack's headlights swung into the driveway. He was genuinely concerned now. He loved Angela, had never dreamed he'd cheat on her. But then, last year, she had started to change. He blamed the books. After her brother Ed had driven off Highway 32 and into a tree, killing both himself and some woman he'd picked up in a club earlier that night, Angela had started checking out occult texts from the library. She couldn't accept her brother's death. But the books were only the beginning. Hunting for a way to contact her Eddie, Angela had begun frequenting a New Age bookstore downtown that sold crystals and incense and all sorts of gimmickry.

 Jack had kept his quiet at first, assuming wrongly that time would heal—that she would see that this hocus pocus crap was just that—crap. Eddie was dead and was going to stay that way.

 But she didn't see. Instead, she delved deeper and deeper, attending séances, bringing home all kinds of creepy, spaced out weirdoes. Jack had tried to put an end to it, but by then, it was too late. He'd lost her long before. The final blow came when one night, as he'd crept up behind her at the sink to cup a breast in each hand and blow in her ear (always a sure bet to have them both naked and coupling within five minutes) she'd swatted his hands away. Turning to look into his eyes, she'd calmly announced, “No more of that, Jack."

 He'd stepped back, staring at the freckles on her cheeks, hungry for those black ringlets across her forehead to brush his belly.

 "Huh?” was the most intelligent answer he'd managed.

 "No more sex. I think I've been unable to reach Eddie because I'm not pure. I have to be ... white, clean in body and soul to reach the other side."

 That had been it. That was the last night Jack considered that he had a wife—since then, his house had been filled with herbal scents and empty words. A woman lived with him, but she was not Angela.

 Jack turned off the car, grabbed his briefcase, and stepped into the garage.

 Everything was still. The reverberation of the car door slamming seemed to echo forever in his head. He stood a moment in the inky black of the garage, smelling the cold musty scents of dust and mildew. He needed to fix that fracture in the east wall, he thought absently. Leaking again.

 Jack fumbled for the knob and pulled open the door to the house. It was even more quiet inside. She must have gone out somewhere, he thought, and swatted his hand up the wall for the switch. The light at the top of the stairs blazed to life, revealing the five steps up to the front door foyer, the black-and-white-pattern tile there, the spider plant hanging from a long, macramé sling near the door.

 "Honey? Angela? You home?” he called. His voice fell flat in the darkness, seemed swallowed up by the night. No answer. Shaking his head in consternation, Jack mounted the stairs to the foyer. Something squeaked. He paused, listening, his heart pounding loud in his chest. It had just occurred to him that someone could have broken into the house—and hurt or killed Angela. Someone could still be there!

 The squeak continued, a steady sound, like a tree limb sawing back and forth against a window in the wind. It hadn't been there when he'd stepped into the house. Slowly, trying not to make a sound, he placed a foot on the next stair of the landing. Ten stairs up to the frontroom/dining room/kitchen. The sound grew louder, more frenzied. Another stair. And another. He held his breath.

 "Screeuuken screeeeeeuuken,” the noise accelerated.

 Jack closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Steeling his nerve, he ran up the next six steps. And stopped.

 The noise was Angela. She was dangling several feet in the air, held to the decorative ceiling beam by a taut length of phone cord. The receiver hung at her breast, still attached to the cord looped several times around her neck. The phone base anchored the noose up around the beam. Angela was naked and looked quite dead. The hall light reflected off something wet on the floor beneath her. Angela's eyes bugged in Jack's direction, but her lips were pulled back tight. If she hadn't been dead, Jack would have said she was smiling.

 Jack felt numb; his mind refused to function. He was simply too astounded to absorb this. He walked like a zombie to where she hung and reached out to grab one white, naked leg to still her pendulum motion. He withdrew his hand suddenly, in overwhelming disgust. She was cold. And damp.

 He sat on the floor, staring at the lifeless corpse that had so recently been his wife. And hated himself for his first thought,Well, at least Melissa and I won't have to sneak around anymore.

 He felt like a pupil at the feet of some philosopher. Only her feet were not on the ground, he thought, and suddenly began to laugh. It's not funny, his mind screamed and he only laughed louder. Then the tears came, and he cradled his face in his hands.

 Something dropped with a dull slap to the floor, and Jack snapped to attention. Whoever had done this to her was still here, he thought, as something nudged his knee. He almost wet his suit pants then and there. Jack reached shakily to the floor by his leg and quickly found the object. It was cool, smooth, tubular. And sticky at its end. He lifted it from the ground and stared at Angela's vibrator in disbelief. It had rolled from across the room. The phone end table, he thought. It must have fallen from there. There was still a sheet of paper curled atop it. He got up to see what it was, knowing before he got there that it would be a last note from Angela. He guessed right.

 Dear Jack,

 I've gone to find Eddie. Hope you'll be happy with Melissa. Give this to her for me?

 Love,

 Angela

 He stuffed the note and sex-toy into his pocket.

 Why had it fallen just then? he wondered, a strong case of the creeps stealing over him. Why had she begun swinging AFTER he'd started up the stairs. Goosebumps poked through the hair on his arms, and he realized it was time to take action. 9-1-1. That's what he had to do. Call 9-1-1.

 The line was busy. He picked up the kitchen extension and got a steady beeping tone. He'd have to go next door to call. Nodding at this sage decision, he stepped back into the front room and looked at Angela again. She was ghastly. White as milk, except for the purpling at her feet and neck. Then he noticed the phone was still plugged into the wall. That's why the line had been busy all day! She'd left it plugged in. He didn't have to go next door. He bent over and unplugged the line from the wall socket, went back to the kitchen, and made the call.

 But as he waited for the police and ambulance to arrive, one thought nagged at him. If she'd killed herself this morning, and tied up the line all day, how had she called him an hour ago?
 * * * *

"She was awake when you left this morning, Mr. Trenton?” the policeman asked, cocking an eyebrow that seemed more than willing to expand into a hairpiece if allowed.

 "Yes,” Jack replied softly. “She seemed fine."

 "And what time did you go to work?"

 "Seven-thirty, same as always."

 "Did you talk to her at all during the day?"

 "Well, I tried calling her at lunch, and then later in the afternoon—I had to work late."

 "But did you reach her?"

 "No. But she called me."

 "When?"

 "Around seven tonight?"

 The officer stopped writing and looked up slow and intently at Jack. The coroner had already guessed Mrs. Trenton's death had occurred between eight a.m. and noon, give or take an hour."

 "Tonight you say?"

 Jack noted the tone. It was apparent Officer Starley had suddenly become very interested.

 "Yeah, she called to see when I'd be home."

 "You were working later than usual?"

 "Yeah."

 "Did she ever give you any indication that she would try to kill herself?

 "No. She was getting more into occult stuff lately, but ... no."

 "And had you had a fight recently?"

 Jack pictured the cold, quiet life that had become his over the past few months. No fights. No speaking, really. “No."

 Starley scribbled in his book. When he looked up, he was smiling.

 "That's all for now, Mr. Trenton. I'm truly sorry about your loss."
 * * * *

Starley shook Jack's hand and left the kitchen, pausing momentarily to look up at the high beam Angela Trenton had so recently been umbilicaled to. It was likely that she'd used the chair by the wall to climb up, wrap the phone around the beam and her head, and jumped. But then again, her husband was hiding something. Murder? He didn't know. But he always got an itch when someone was concealing something. And right now, his body was itching all over.
 * * * *

"Ohhh yeah, c'mon baby, ride me!"

 Melissa's nails scraped against Jack's naked back as he thrust and moaned with her exhortations. “We're gonna get there this time,” she almost screamed.

 And then the phone rang.

 And rang.

 They tried to ignore it, but the precipice grew farther away with every ring.

 Finally, Melissa pushed against his chest with her palms.

 "Answer it, or they won't give up."

 He grudgingly agreed and rolled off of her.

 "Hello?"

 "Jack. You can't even lie alone for one night? I'm hurt."

 It sounded like Angela's voice.

 "Who the hell is this?” he yelled.

 "Forgotten me so soon, Jack? After all those years of marriage? I found Eddie, Jack. He still remembers you. He says he wouldn't mind handling Melissa for you if you'll come back to me. Will you, Jack?"

 He slammed the receiver down.

 "Who was it, Jack?” Melissa cooed.

 "Someone pretending to be Angela.” He snarled. “Pretty mean joke."

 "How many people even know she's dead?” she asked, stroking the back of his head.

 "I don't know."

 They slept the rest of the night. Or tried to.
 * * * *

The wake was a long and tiresome affair. Chirsten's Funeral Home filled with an amazing assortment of humanity, from the hairy, odd-smelling, space cadets of Angela's recent acquaintance to the mannikin-sharp models of her older relatives.

 Jack smiled diligently at the kind words and kisses of the assemblage, but in his heart, he was feeling relief—the recent memories of the silent hell his home had been were still too fresh in his mind to allow the fireplace-cozy visions of his life before Eddie's death to push their way forward. He cried, but he did not feel devastated. He felt freed.
 * * * *

He said as much to Melissa later that night, as she kissed his eyelids and began sliding her lips down his cheek and neck, her tongue leaving snail's trails of wetness behind.

 "I always wished she'd just disappear,” Melissa admitted, looking up from her ministrations at his sternum. “But I never wanted it to be like this."

 For a fleeting moment, Jack saw the mixture of joy and regret in his mistress’ face and wondered if this woman was responsible for Angela's death. Had this sweet-faced fountain of love turned to vinegar for an hour and shoved his wife to her death, guaranteeing that at last, Jack could satisfy her needs?

 He shrugged the thought away, giving in to the sweet temptation she administered. She probed and massaged and sucked him to full excitement, then rose and impaled herself upon him, allowing him only the sight of her rounded rear bobbing at his waist. And the phone rang.

 She froze in mid-squat while Jack's heart suddenly beat in double time. He shriveled instantly.

 "Why???” Melissa screamed, and snatched at the phone. It toppled off the nightstand, the receiver bouncing to rest earpiece up on the carpet. Melissa bent over the edge of the mattress to recover it, only to stop as she heard Angela's voice.

 "Don't touch it, whore.” Angela's normally sweet alto growled. Jack's face was pinched and white. They could both hear the voice as clearly as if she were in the room with them.

 "Eddie and I are waiting for you, Jack,” Angela continued, her tone again sweet and complacent. “We miss you. All of that stuff I haven't done for you these past months—I will now. But first we need to get your little tramp out of your way. It was purity that was needed, Jack. Remember how I said? No sex, no distractions. Pure thoughts of mind and spirit, and you can join me. Melissa, pick up the phone. Dear."

 Melissa's eyes looked ready to pop from her head. Her hand remained halfway between the bed and the floor.

 "I said, Pick up the phone, slut!"

 Melissa grabbed for the mouthpiece and moved to slam it down on the receiver. But as she stepped on the carpet, the taut phone cord seemed to twitch at her foot, wrenching her off balance. Melissa fell to the floor as the tight loops of the phone cord snaked around her neck.

 Melissa screamed and jumped to her feet, the ringer of the phone box banging on the floor as she stumbled to run from the room. Jack, still stunned at hearing the voice from the grave was slow to react, not realizing the animation his phone cord suddenly possessed. Melissa made it as far as the stairwell before the line went taut and jerked her neck backwards. For a brief second, her frightened eyes met Jack's as he belatedly barreled out of the bedroom after her, and then she twisted over the railing. He heard the snap as her neck broke, but threw himself down the stairs anyway, hoping against the odds that somehow Melissa could be saved.

 She could not.

 He found himself again at the naked feet of a woman he loved, as she slowly spun like a silent, ghastly piñata.Poke her hard enough and her entrails would rain to the foyer, a voice in his head taunted.

 Jack screamed in impotent rage. Not pausing to dress properly, he pulled on a pair of pants, slid bare feet into his shoes, and went to his car. He no longer functioned rationally; his sole thought was to put an end to what Angela was doing to him. And there was only one way he could think of to do that: kill her. That she was already dead didn't register.
 * * * *

Chirsten's was cloaked in darkness as Jack used a crowbar from the trunk to force the lock on a window. He tried to muffle the sound of the window as it protested the upward force he exerted, but it still let go a loud “eeeeerrrrraahh” as it crept up in its frame. Holding fast to the iron rod, Jack flipped his feet over the window jamb and pressed close to the wall once inside. He was in one of the many waiting areas strewn throughout the funeral parlor for the bereavers. After waiting many long minutes listening for the telltale sound of investigative steps, he disconnected his body from the wall, and crept forward. Angela's body should still be in the waking room in anticipation of tomorrow's funeral, Jack thought, as he tiptoed past a number of closed doors. At last he came to the sign reading ‘Angela Trenton'—white letters against a field of black. Even in the murky twilight of the hall, he could make out her name. It angered him further just to see it, and he abruptly grabbed the doorknob to open the door. It didn't budge.

 His anger only grew at the realization that, while she was apparently capable of striking out at him from behind the doors of this locked room, he couldn't get within ten feet of her. He wrenched and twisted the handle, trying to force the lock, but to no avail. At last, knowing that only a scrap of steel separated him from his troublesome, dead wife, he wedged the crowbar in the crack of the door and pushed. It gave a little, and he tried again, harder. Something began to splinter, but he ignored the noise. Giving it a third shot, he threw all of his weight into it, and with a sharp crack, the hollow wood around the lock gave.

 Angela lay displayed in an icy glare of moonlight, which stole in through a crack in the venetian blinds. Jack marched up the center aisle of the room. His eyes glinted with mad purpose as he came to a halt before her casket. She looked good in the purple turtleneck dress he'd given her last Christmas, he noted absently, though he'd seen her in it all day. Her eyes were shut primly, her mouth a vacant closed line of blush. Raising the crowbar, he smashed those innocent features, releasing a puff of makeup and a stream of liquid onto the satin pillows of the casket.

 "How could you?” was his only articulate cry, as he raised the dripping bar again and again before resorting to more personal attacks.

 The flashlight caught him in macabre silhouette, hands squeezing and shaking the flopping neck of a corpse.
 * * * *

Officer Starley spent the rest of the night in Jack's house, picking the place apart. It was with a grim but victorious smile that he faced the disheveled prisoner the following morning.

 "Quite a little death circus you've been running, eh?” Starley snarled, pacing the length of the table at which Jack sat cuffed. “Killing the wife wasn't enough, huh—got a thing for phones Jack? A little sex, a little strangulation? And we found another interesting piece of evidence up there at the sex n’ death cottage, Jack. Maybe we'll be reopening the investigation on the sudden demise of your brother-in-law."

 Jack's eyes at last flashed with a vestige of intelligence at the mention of Eddie.

 "Didn't think we'd find out about that little perversion did you?"

 Jack frowned in confusion. “What are you talking about?"

 Starley pivoted fast, slapped his hands down on the table. “We found Eddie Perfit's hand under the mattress of your bed, creep! Did you use it in place of your own on Melissa and Angela when you couldn't get it up? Or did you just like knowing ol’ bro Eddie was close at hand?"

 Jack's eyes bugged. He began to stutter. “Angela ... must have dug up ... she wanted to be with him..."

 "Save it for the jury,” Starley cut in, and then stalked from the room.
 * * * *

The trial went quickly—Jack refused to speak in his own behalf, and the evidence seemed overwhelming. He was sentenced to life, and many reporters noted the vacant stare in his eyes as they led him from the courtroom after a twenty-minute verdict delivery. They put him in solitary, and assigned him a shrink. But he had retreated fully. They stuck him with needles and prodded him with batons, but he didn't speak. The shrink gently cajoled him with soft words and easy questions, but to no avail. During his second week in solitary, he was led to his daily appointment with the shrink. The guard patted his ass with the baton and whispered a crude proposition in Jack's ear, but he didn't break stride. The guard pushed him into a chair, shrugged at the doctor, and left.

 At that moment, the phone rang. The prison psychiatrist noted with interest that Jack's normally blank expression had been quickly replaced by one of alarm at the sound of the phone. The shrink answered the ring, and a smile wrinkled the corner of his lips. He offered Jack the earpiece over the desk.

 "It's for you,” the shrink said, closely gauging his patient's response. Jack shakily held the receiver to his ear.

 "Hi, honey, it's me, Angela,” a familiar, raspy voice cooed. “I thought this would be a good place for you to get pure, so we can bring you over to us. Eddie and I are waiting for you, Jack. Eddie says now he can understand why you were doing Melissa. He says she's pretty good. I think so, too. Say hi, honey."

 The voice changed to a younger, sultrier tone. “Jack, it's me, Melissa. We're waiting for you, baby. We'll get you out of there soon, huh? Stay near a phone."

 Jack dropped the receiver and cupped his palms over his ears, letting loose a single, tortured, shriek.

 "Nooooooooo!"

 Copyright 2000—"Long Distance Call” first appeared in the collectionCage of Bones & Other Deadly Obsessions

 (Delirium Books).

 About John Everson

 John Everson is the author of the erotic horror noveletteFailure (2006) and the Bram Stoker Award-winning occult horror novelCovenant (2004).Sacrifice , a sequel toCovenant , will be released in 2006. Everson's horror and dark fantasy short stories have been collected in the booksVigilantes of Love (2003) andCage of Bones & Other Deadly Obsessions (2000), and he is also the co-editor and designer of theSpooks ! ghost story anthology (2004).

 His short fiction has appeared in magazines likeSpace and Time, Wicked Karnival, Red Scream, Black October andGrue, and in the anthologiesDamned: An Anthology of the Lost, Cold Flesh, Small Bites, Peepshow, Decadence 2, Tourniquet Heart, The Dead Inn and the CD-ROM anthologyBloodtype , which includes an Everson-composed techno theme song.

 For more info and a complete short story bibliography, visit John Everson: Dark Arts at www.johneverson.com and join his mailing list at:

 groups.yahoo.com/group/JohnEverson

 Be sure to check out the following additional Anthologies by Whiskey Creek Press Authors:

 LOVE, An Anthology featuring WCP authors and poets

 HATE: An Anthology of Murder and Mystery

 Both these Anthologies are available now from Whiskey Creek Press: www.whiskeycreekpress.com

 Coming soon:

 HOPE, An Anthology of Inspirationcoming in November

 2006, featuring stories from WCP authors.

 LUST, An Anthology of Torrid Romancecoming in

 January 2007, featuring stories from WCP authors.

 For your reading pleasure, we invite you to visit our web bookstore
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