Scary! Holidays To Make You Scream

Various

Scary! Holidays To Make You Scream

Copyright © 2007 Various

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc. of Markham Ontario, Canada.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing Inc.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Cover art by Deron Douglas

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ISBN-10: 1-55404-074-4

ISBN-13: 978-1-55404-074-2

First Edition November 20, 2007

Also Available as a Large Type Paperback

Now Available as paperback and hard cover

A Celebration of Cover Art: 2001 to 2006

Five Years of Cover Art

[Companion calendars also available]

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SCARY! Holiday

Tales To Make You Scream

Edited by Paul Melniczek

Introductions by John Edward Lawson

Contents

CHRISTMAS HORRORS

All I Wanted For Christmas - L.J. Blount

An Ideal Family Holiday - John Edward Lawson

Slay Bells - Simon Wood

The Santa of Sector 24-G - Scott Christian Carr

Nightmare on 34th Street - Paul Kane

Far-Off Things - Quentin S. Crisp

Night of the Party - Mark West

Green Grow'th the Holly, So Doth the Ivy - G.W. Thomas

Docking Bay Three - Megan Powell

HALLOWEEN HORRORS

The Gruesome Harvester - Brutal Dreamer

Halloween, Gypsies, and Dogs - JD Pearce

The Boblin - Michael A. Arnzen

Real Monsters - Bob L. Morgan

VALENTINE HORRORS

Killing Cupid - Shawn P. Madison

A Valentine's Day Kiss - Sandy De Luca

FOURTH OF JULY HORRORS

Chicken - Elizabeth R. Peake

ASH WEDNESDAY

Ash Wednesday - HORNS

LABOR DAY HORRORS

Camper's Legend - Nicole Thomas

THANKSGIVING DAY HORRORS

Gobble, Gobble, Oxen Free - Kurt Newton

Emma SRED, the Sleepy Head - Jeremy Carr

Bitter Bird - John Grover

EASTER DAY HORRORS

Forsaken - Jason Brannon

MAY DAY HORRORS

Firestar of the May Queen - Susanne S. Brydenbaugh

VETERAN'S DAY HORRORS

Locked & Loaded - Steven L. Shrewsbury

ST. ANDREWS DAY HORRORS

Night of the Saltire - Alex Severin

MISCELLANEOUS HORRORS

The Boy Who Fell To Earth - Hertzan Chimera

Holiday- Sarah Crabtree

Happy Lemur Day - Marc Sanchez

Baboshka - Kailleaugh Andersson

CHRISTMAS HORROR TALES

In contemporary society Christmas is thought of as the celebration of Jesus Christ's birth. It is a merry time for Christians to celebrate and spend time with their loved ones. Largely this is a creation of the Victorian era, popularized during the 1860s. The origins of this holiday, though, are of quite a different nature. The true history of Christmas goes back well over four thousand years.

The ancient Mesopotamians called their New Year Zagmuk, a twelve day festival marking the battle between light and darkness. The god Marduk entered mortal combat with the chaotic forces of darkness to prevent winter from taking over. To achieve this end their king was to be sacrificed yearly in order to fight at Marduk's side. The Mesopotamians, however, had no interest in losing a king each year. The solution was to select a "Mock King" from among the criminal population. He was given all the privileges of royalty but died at the festival's end.

Not only do the twelve days of Christmas stem from these traditions, but strangely the theme of having the impoverished and enslaved switch roles with the upper class became a centerpiece of most winter solstice holidays along the Mediterranean and throughout Europe.

A case in point is the Babylonian and Persian holiday of Sacaea, wherein slaves ruled over their masters. The Roman holiday of Saturnalia, celebrated from the middle of December through mid-January, also gave similar power to slaves at the masters' expense and the peasants took control of Rome. Later, Europeans would celebrate Christmas in a raucous, Mardi-Gras manner. During the drunkenness locals would appoint a "lord of misrule" and obey his commands, then besiege the homes of the wealthy taking their best food and wine. If the rich refused the mob there was often trouble.

Still other variations of the holiday focused less on class struggle and more on the titanic battle between gods and devils. For example, the Greeks held a celebration similar in nature to Sacaea and Zagmuk, during which they assisted Kronos in his combat against the Titans, who were led by Zeus. For Scandinavians the battle between the forces of light and dark were even more serious. On the thirty-fifth day after the disappearance of the sun scouts would be sent to the mountains to look for signs of its return. It is understandable that after such a long period of darkness massive festivals were held, in the form of Yuletide, from which we derive the Yule log. Evergreen and mistletoe boughs were considered excellent weapons against the spirits that ran amok during the short days of winter.

In the early days of Christianity the religion was struggling to establish itself against the popular Roman gods, and the Mithraism of the Persians. Mithra-unstoppable god of the sun-figured prominently in both of these religions; he was an infant god born from rock, born on December 25th. While it is not ever stated in the Bible, Julius I, Bishop of Rome, decreed in 350 AD December 25th the official observance of Christ's birth. This seems somewhat suspect considering that shepherds wouldn't be herding during winter. Regardless, this policy allowed converts to continue their traditional celebrations, allowing Christianity even greater appeal.

Other features taken from the Roman Saturnalia are garlands, visiting family and friends, large feasts, decorating trees with lit candles, and everybody's favorite: gift giving. Sinterclass, Saint Nick, Father Christmas, and Santa Claus are all variations on the Bishop of Myra, Saint Nicholas. Having died in 340 AD, he was renowned for his charity, especially to children. Italy has La Befana, a beneficent witch clad in black who delivers gifts to children on January 6, and Scandinavian countries have an elf that delivers goodies. In Switzerland the Christ Child actually appears and gives gifts to children directly! And, for those naughty children, some of these gift-bearing entities have dark sidekicks who will steal children or beat them severely with a rod.

Despite the fact that the general public is no longer able to terrorize the gentry, and some children live under threat of being tormented by supernatural creatures, Christmas remains the most anticipated holiday in most Christian lands.

-John Edward Lawson

...all I wanted for Christmas was to Die

By L.J. Blount

Outside fluffy flakes of snow tumbled lightly to the ground. The white blanket it laid was pure and untouched. A wave of lights reflected upon the fresh virgin snow. A rainbow of orange, green, red, and blue. Gold and silver garlands snaked up light poles. Decorative candy canes hung stretched across a quiet street in rows of red and white. The snow, it continued to fall, floating delicately among the lights and decorations, and the sounds of Christmas carols could be heard faintly amidst the glory.

***

Zak Tran sat up in bed in a cold sweat. The pain in his abdomen was unbearable. He held his breath as the sharpness increased. It was a twisting pain, the kind that gnaws on you as if you are being eaten alive. Zak crawled out of bed, stopped to double over before making his way to the bathroom as quickly as he could. By the time he reached the toilet, he had vomit trickling from between his lips, with some finding its way onto his nightshirt.

He hung over the toilet for several minutes, making sure his stomach was empty before he would rinse his mouth to extinguish the taste. Grabbing the half-full bottle of mouthwash, he stopped to examine himself. Blood-shot eyes, dark bags hanging beneath them. He was unattractive in his opinion already; the added baggage only made him homelier. He smiled - his teeth bore specks of vomit that had clung to the enamel. He frowned and took a mouth full of mouthwash - before reaching his toothbrush he noticed the string of puke that soiled his coffin-blue shirt. His frown grew deeper as he brushed his teeth and changed out of his nightshirt.

He stared again at his sunken face, hollowed eyes staring back at him. He couldn't remember the last time he felt good, or the last time he was happy. This was his gift two Christmases ago, his diagnosis of cancer. It wasn't until it was in stage four before they discovered it. A little known cancer of the T-Cells. He didn't concern himself with the specifics, only that he was given a few months to live. That was two years ago.

Zak made his way back to his bed, in slow arduous steps. Plopped down on his bed, not bothering to right himself or make himself comfortable. There was no need, he wasn't going to sleep again that night.

***

Zak watched Dr. Gibbons with a doubtful eye.

"Looks like you're gonna kick out another Christmas, Mr. Tran."

Zak ignored the doctor and finished buttoning his shirt. Another Christmas to celebrate my pain, Zak thought as he twisted the last button into place. He grimaced - be it ever so slightly, it was enough to draw the good doctor's attention.

"Are your hands giving you discomfort?"

Zak sighed as he sat. Always the same bullshit, "Does this hurt, or that. Tell me about the pain you're feeling." But they never yielded him any relief. "Yeah doc, but nothing like the pain in my abdomen." He replied.

Dr. Gibbons gave a thoughtful nod. The same he did every visit. Zak looked off to keep himself from getting angry.

"You know," Dr. Gibbons began, "I can't give you anything for the pain in your abdomen. I can give you a prescription for an anti-inflammatory that might help your hands."

Zak watched the smile on the doctor's face spread again. It was like a viral infection moving rapidly across his vapid face. His nose crinkled and his eyes drew in tight. "You know they upset my stomach, just like the pain meds."

He smirked as Dr. Gibbons stopped his scribbling and looked off as if in thought. "That's right," he said in a disappointed fashion.

Zak grabbed his coat and reached for the door when Dr. Gibbons repeated his original observation. "Looks like you're gonna kick out another Christmas, Mr. Tran."

How un-doctor like, Zak thought as he turned to give Dr. Gibbons a flash of a grin.

He left the office without making his usual follow-up appointment. They would call him with a time and date, every two months like clockwork he was in Dr. Gibbons' office having his lymph nodes poked and pushed on. His blood drawn, of which he never received any reports. And finally, the chest X-ray, which made very little sense to him, since his cancer was eating him away in his abdomen.

It didn't matter, because at that moment in time Zak Tran decided he was never going back to see Dr. Gibbons or any other oncologist for that matter. To Hell with it, he thought. All I want is something to ease the pain.

It was then that he noticed it. Had it been there every day for the past two years? Had he been so preoccupied being pissed off that the sign he rested his back on held the key to relieving his misery? There on the bus stop bench, the one he had traveled to and from Dr. Gibbons' office for nearly three years now, was an advertisement for pain relief. Not an ordinary sign for pain relief, like you might find for aspirin. This was a special pain reliever, home remedy and guaranteed to take your pain away or ten-times your money back.

He thought it a gimmick at first, but then convinced himself he had nothing to loose. Zak jotted the address down, with every intention of visiting "Juanna's Remedies," on Baker Street today.

***

He made it as far as Baker Street before the pain got the better of him. Zak sat down and propped himself up against a trash dumpster. The pain was terrible, much worse than yesterday. Perhaps the worst it had ever been. He thought for a moment, between agonizing shocks. Perhaps I'll die here now, finally. His grunts were coming quicker and louder as he leaned up against the dumpster. The people that did happen by Baker Street ignored him or made it a point to avoid him.

He was not alone, however - a voice called to him, one he likened to an angel. He looked up and he saw her, an elderly woman. Her wrinkled faced showed a life that must have been hard, and like his, lived far to long. Her eyes though, they were lively and showed much concern. He stared at her a moment longer, watching her aged lines with his stare before she spoke to him.

"Do you need some help young man?"

Zak tried to force a smile to be polite, but all he could do was grimace. "I-I am in..." He could squeeze no more out.

"Pain dear. I can see that. There is nothing more obvious than the pain that is eating up your insides."

"Juanna..." Zak slumped deeper into the rubbish he sat atop.

"Oh, she's not going to be able to calm your pain young man. She's all talk and new age. You need some real down home remedies."

Zak looked up queerly at the old woman that held out a bottle in her trembling hand. "Take it," she said.

He did as she said, but couldn't extend his arm too far. Each time it left his cramping abdomen, the pain would increase causing him to draw his hand back.

"Here," the old woman knelt beside him, "allow me." The old woman held Zak's head in her arm and gently poured the contents of the bottle into his open and willing mouth. Zak watched her as she stood, and about the time she had straightened herself up as much as she could, the pain was gone.

He sat for a moment, basking in the wonderment of the miracle. He stood, brushed the debris off his pants and began to thank the old woman. "Ma'am, I don't know how..."

"Hush now." She said, holding up an arthritic hand to halt his continuing. "You just be thankful and praise Jahobe tonight before you sleep."

"Jahobe?"

The old woman shook her head. "It is where that there cure came from. Jahobe is great and wonderful. Here, you take one more just in case the pain returns."

Zak took the small bottle from the woman's hand and thanked her again. She waved a hand as if to shoo him, be he a pest or something and carried on about her business. Zak watched the old woman as she slowly walked down the sidewalk.

***

The apartment was unusually warm that night. Comforting, Zak thought. He hadn't any pain and the chills that usually shook him were gone as well. Everything seemed that much more pleasant, even the stale dusty air was a pleasure for him to inhale, of which he did often and deeply.

He made himself comfortable in his bed, a warm smile filled his face as he thought a good night's sleep for once.

Thoughts of the old lady crept into his mind. He remembered her telling him to thank Jahobe before he slept. His recollection was fleeting, however, as he basked in the painless evening. It was the first such evening in nearly three years. "Yeah, I'll make another Christmas." He said aloud, answering Dr. Gibbons' observation.

He lay down, head on pillow, body straight, not leaning towards the edge, readied for a quick run to the bathroom. Instead, he sank into his goose down pillow and his mattress ready for a relaxing night's sleep. His warm smile faded as he slipped into a deep sleep.

***

A light mist rolled in as Zak exited the building. The parking lot was darker than usual and he noted that three of the four lights were out. The only working light that remained was the one he parked under. Lucky, he thought, as he made his way through the darkness.

It was uncanny, the sound of his shoes as he made his way over the asphalt. They made a clamoring that suggested there were a hundred of him marching through the parking lot in cadence. He looked around and noted no one else. He knew he was the last one out of the ward, having shut down the building and setting the alarm before he left. Still, it was unnerving. He approached his lightning yellow Lancer and deactivated the alarm. His car shimmered in the mist, like frost beneath a luminous moon.

He didn't notice them until he opened the door. The small creatures that danced at the rear of his car. He looked closer at them, two, no three as they bounced around like circus clowns. He moved from the door, leaving it ajar as he did. He wanted a better look. He moved slowly so as not to scare them off, then he realized that it was he who should be frightened. He took a step back, keeping an eye on the small, black balls of fur. Each looked up at him, one at a time in some kind of sick rhythm as the stopped their antics. He couldn't see their eyes. They were sewn shut with a fleshy-like substance. Their months were the same grotesque display.

He walked backwards, keeping an eye on the creatures. They remained as they were, standing as if waiting for something. He stumbled, falling over two other creatures that had crept up behind. He fell hard, in front of his open car door. He felt much like screaming, but nothing exited his agape mouth. Quickly he entered his car, shut the door and turned the ignition. Nothing. He looked up, out his windshield to see three of the creatures dancing on his hood, and one of the creatures held his distributor cap in its hand as it danced fancifully.

***

Zak woke in a cold sweat. The winter sun shone through his bedroom window. He had slept through the night, but not as comfortably as he'd liked. The dream, the creatures flashed through his mind, causing him to shudder. He was leaving work as he recalled. The car he didn't own yet, though he had designs on buying it. Maybe I should choose another color, he thought as he dismissed the dream.

He dressed, tossed on his jacket and went across the street to the diner. He smiled and felt a spring in his step. The packed snow crunched under his feet as he jogged across the street, avoiding the small bit of traffic as he did. Outside the diner he stopped, tipped his head back and glared up at overcast skies. He smiled, inhaling deeply, then blew out his breath in a long steady stream. He watched his crystal breath roll though the air in a sparkling plume. He smiled again, and winked at the couple who happened by.

He entered the diner, not in his usual "Leave me alone," manner, rather one that suggested he was ready to take on the world. He chose to sit smack in the middle of the diner, instead of hiding in a corner booth. As he sat and waited for his waitress, he took in the sights of the diner. People were scattered everywhere. Some in conversation while others read the paper and sipped their coffee. There were a few families - the kids ate their pancakes or colored on the kid's menus provided. Many things he never thought to pay attention to before.

The waitress was coming, and Zak sat up straight and put on a warm and inviting smile. "Julie," he began, as she was his favorite and the only one at the diner who ever really paid him any mind.

"The usual?" She replied.

"Nope, today I would like a sausage and cheese omelet, side of bacon and a large cup of OJ." He said rather proudly.

Julie smiled in surprise, "Would you like some toast or pancakes this morning?"

He stared up at her for a moment. He'd never really noticed that she was a rather attractive woman. She was kind and helpful as well. He smiled at her, and she returned the smile with a slight turn of embarrassment. "Pancakes, Julie, I would like the pancakes."

"Very well," she said, turning on her toes and sauntering off to deliver his order.

Breakfast sat well with Zak. He savored the taste of the sausage, bacon and the OJ. He took special delight in the pancakes, which he smothered in strawberries and maple syrup. He also took a special interest in Julie, who spent much time at his table exchanging small talk and smiles.

As he left the diner, he was sure to give Julie one last glance. She looked away and smiled, embarrassed by his attention. He thought for a moment about going back in and asking her out, but thought better as he had a few things to take care of before he could consider such a move.

Instead of going back to his apartment as he would normally have done, where he would have spent the rest of the morning laying in bed, absorbing the pain and cursing the doctors, he walked along the street, looking into the windows of the small shops that lined his way. He also thought about the liquid he got from the old woman, and how it was the first thing he had ever taken that didn't turn his stomach. A miracle cure, which was more than he had ever hoped for.

At the end of the block he spied it. The lightning yellow Lancer. The one from his dream and the car he had been saving for. He had the money for the down payment and the credit to finance, but never bothered to follow through because of his cancer. Now, however, with the pain gone and the cancer as well, what was stopping him?

Zak Tran moseyed across the street and eyed the car up close. He admired the clean finish, even beneath the gray sky. The lines were sharp and nicely molded. It had the racing gear, spoiler, pinstripes, tires and even a moonroof.

"She's a beauty." He heard someone say.

It was a salesman. "I want her." Zak rubbed his hand over the cold paint and smiled.

***

His new lightning yellow Lancer shined. Snow had begun to fall as Zak looked on proudly at his new car. The thought occurred to him that he would have to return to work, and he would. His boss had been more than kind to him, allowing him to take a leave of absence, and promising him a job whenever he felt up to coming back. His savings were gone, now that he'd purchased the car, and he hadn't earned a paycheck in over two months. His pain was gone, even if it was only for a day. He was convinced that his cancer was cured by some miracle from the wrinkled old woman, and he did have another bottle of the remedy. He decided then that he would return to work tomorrow and finally get his life back on track.

Zak returned to his apartment and tossed the keys and his keyless entry pad on his nightstand. Opening the refrigerator, he grabbed a beer and turned on the television. He flipped channels for a while, moving from one Christmas show to another, settling on 'It's a Wonderful Life.'

He couldn't get over the feeling. The relief to be able to live a day free of pain. His thoughts kept wandering back to the frail old lady and how she so willingly helped him. He was fortunate in that respect, he figured. Through it all, there was always someone who was kind to him; his boss, Julie at the diner and now the old woman.

The television faded into the backdrop as he made himself comfortable in his chair. He took a long, slow drink of his beer before setting it down. His thoughts, they flew through his mind in a blaze. He felt, dare he think, happy at that moment. Content and most pleased with the sudden change of events. He thought this, as his eyes grew heavy.

***

A chill floated in from beneath the door and through the cracks in the window frame. Zak grabbed a blanket and wrapped himself in it. He sat back down to enjoy the end of 'It's a Wonderful Life.'

The chill continued to grow, until Zak could take no more. He felt the cold as it bit his cheeks and nose. His breath rolled from his mouth in a white plume. Getting up he took the blanket and wore it like a robe. The plaid blanket draped as he shuffled his feet across the floor towards the thermostat.

"Jesus," he complained, tapping the thermostat, which read 27 degrees. Zak checked the windows, then closed all the drapes, checked the door and then went back to the thermostat. It read twenty-five degrees.

Zak turned, angry and cold. He had every intention of calling the superintendent, but there would be no phone calls anytime soon. Zak stepped back, as three black creatures crept towards him. He recognized them as the creatures in his dream. Their small furry frames covered in matted black fur. Their eyes and mouths were stitched closed by three small X'.

They danced and shook violently as they approached him. Zak tried to move, but it was as if the cold had frozen him in place. The creatures slowed - he stared down at each of the identical-looking beasts.

Zak broke free of his fear and lunged for the bed as one of the creatures flew at him. He heard the thud as it hit the wall. He turned to see the other two helping the third to its feet.

Quickly he made his way over the bed and to the door. The knob was stuck, and when Zak tried to remove his hand, he realized his hand was stuck too. Frantically he tried to open the door, then tried to free his hand from the doorknob. He could hear behind him the approaching creatures as they dragged their feet across the hardwood floor. The scratching got louder as Zak increased his tempo of pushing and pulling on the door. Still it would not budge.

He let off a wail of fear as one of the creatures lunged onto his back. He looked over his shoulder as the stitched eyes monster seemed to be staring back at him. Then it tried to open its mouth. The stitches, which appeared to be pulpy flesh, stretched to reveal a row of shiny silver teeth. The creature couldn't keep its mouth open though, and with each effort, its mouth would clamp down tighter. Zak slapped at the thing as he continued frantically to open the door.

Another wail crossed his lips when the second creature pounced on him. He could feel their claws digging into his shoulder and back as they began to tear at him.

Soon all three of the creatures were on him, each clawing at him, and fighting to get their mouths open so they could devour him. The pain in his back was blinding. Still he tried to open the door with the hand that was stuck to the doorknob. With his free hand he slapped at the creatures, trying to get hold of their fur, something to help him get them off.

***

"Oh-God!" Zak Tran woke with a fright. His hands dug into the arm of the chair, and his legs pulled close to his chest.

"You did not thank Jahobe."

Zak jumped from the chair. He backed into the kitchen, pointing a trembling finger. "How did you get in here?" He asked the old woman.

"You did not thank Jahobe, so he sent me to deliver a message."

"What the-"

"Jahobe says that you are ungrateful."

"I never asked for anything, you-"

"Jahobe says you will get back what he has taken."

"No! I will thank Jahobe!"

Zak watched the old woman as she walked away. "It is too late, Jahobe says."

Zak chased the old woman as she entered the hallway, but he was too late. The old woman vanished like an apparition.

***

Zak hadn't left his apartment in two days. He sat up in his bed rocking himself. On the table sat the small bottle of remedy that had brought him the great relief. The relief he still felt, but didn't know if it would stay forever now. Christmas was in three days and he would see another one as Dr. Gibbons suggested, or would he?

Outside his apartment, he could see the reflection of the blinking Christmas lights. A hush of Christmas songs he could hear through the walls of his apartment. It was a festive time, a time of family and friends, but not for Zak. He alienated his friends from work after he got sick. And his family in Vietnam disowned him for fleeing to America. Christmas was never festive for him anyway; he hated the holidays, this one the most.

He clutched at his stomach. His pain was replaced with the sickly feeling of fear in the pit of his abdomen. The old woman had spooked him, and the creatures in his dreams terrified him. He had only slept once since the old woman's visit, and there again the black creatures visited him.

He felt the sleep creeping up on him as he rocked. He wasn't about to sleep. Zak grabbed his coat and decided to head for the diner. He walked quickly through the dark hallways and down the stairs. He kept an eye open for the old woman.

He stepped out into the snow. The large flakes floated gently all around him. It was the kind of snow that brought a stillness to the night. The streetlights captured by the low hanging clouds provided a sense of warmth. The streets were clear of traffic, and he found himself alone in an otherwise busy neighborhood.

His trek was accompanied by the crunch of fresh snow beneath his feet. How long it had been snowing he did not know, but it was a steady flow, laying a white blanket of maybe four or five inches. He kept a weary eye out to his right and left, occasionally peeking behind him to make sure the old lady wasn't following. Zak Tran was not a violent man by any means, but he had decided during the past days that if the old lady ever showed herself again, he couldn't promise that he wouldn't hurt her.

The diner was closed, the sign that hung in the middle of the door read, "Be back at 4:00 a.m." He hadn't even bothered to check the time before he left. He looked down at his wristwatch, '3:35 a.m.' it read. He dropped his hand in disgust. At least the walk in the cold and snow woke him up. He headed back to his apartment, his step a little quicker and his eyes more attentive.

As he approached the steps to his apartment, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. He looked quickly to his right. There in the middle of the street stood the old lady. Zak stopped and turned back down the steps. He ran as the old woman turned and walked away. She moved swiftly, almost as if she were floating over the powder. Zak tried to pick up the pace and catch her before she slipped between the buildings. He failed.

When he reached the alley, the old woman was gone. Zak walked in a few feet before backing back out. He wasn't about to venture in and chase after her. He walked back to where the old woman was standing. She had dropped something that he hadn't noticed before. It was a small handkerchief with the word 'Jahobe' stitched in small X's. Something else too, there were no footprints except for his in the fresh powder. He turned back to the alley, looking through the shadows to the lights from the next street. Zak dropped the handkerchief and rubbed his hands on his pants as if to clean them.

He walked backwards for several steps, stumbling over the curb back onto the sidewalk. That's when he saw them, the black creatures as they danced from the alley and out into the street. The ugly little beasts held hands and frolicked in the snow, tumbling and throwing snow back and forth. Zak didn't stick around while the creatures played. He ran up the sidewalk towards his apartment building like he had never run before. The snowflakes whisked by him as he sped through the night and up the stairs, entering the building in a thunder. He thought briefly as he bolted up the stairs to stop at one of the apartments and ask for help. They would think I was nuts, he thought as he continued.

The door to his apartment slammed hard behind him. He struggled with the locks. It was all he could do to steady his hand to lock the chain and deadbolt. He turned against the door and let himself slide to his rear. He sat there, trying to slow his breathing. The ache in his lungs stung with each deep and abrupt breath he took.

Outside the door, he could hear the creatures as they ambled up the steps. Surely, someone else has to hear the racket they were making. He looked over at the phone. "Someone has to call the cops," he mumbled as he scrambled to his feet and backed away from the door.

Zak held the receiver in his hand, when the uncanny silence drew his attention away. He returned the receiver, his brow furrowed in curiosity. He moved gingerly towards the door, each step, a quiet cat-like move. Uncertainty ruled his action, and curiosity moved his limbs. Had the creatures gone? Perhaps the old woman had returned? He hoped the latter.

Pressing an ear up against the solid wood door, he listened carefully for any movement or noise from the creatures. He heard nothing, so decided he would open the door. He reached for the deadbolt when he heard them again. Quickly he backed away as the creatures scratched at the door. The noise was incredible, the clawing and now banging that rattled the door. Zak backed away as the door buckled, then began to splinter. Soon the menacing black creatures had broken through his door.

The three black creatures moved intently across the floor to where Zak stood. They were quick, not stopping to play or jest among themselves. Zak crumbled to the floor in fear of the monsters. Their stitched mouths and eyes struggled to open, stretching the stitching until they broke. He tried to scream as the three emerald-eyed beast overtook him. He tried to fight them off - his arms wailed about, but each time he struck the creatures they would just run right back and climb on top of him.

He struggled, hoping that perhaps this too was a dream and that he would wake at any moment in a cold sweat and laugh the whole business off. But they were hurting him now. Their sharp silver claws dug into his flesh as they chattered their jagged silver teeth. He tired, as the pain and insistence of their attack wore him down. He submitted, dropping his hands. He thought about Christmas, and how he was going to see another one. He wasn't so certain now, though days before he wished he'd die and get it over with.

The creatures, they stopped as well. The three gathered around Zak's head, all staring down mischievously at him. Then six little hands reached out and grabbed at his mouth. They forced it open, with remarkable ease. Then one by one they leaned over and crawled into his mouth, forcing their way past his lips. Zak struggled as each of them clawed down his throat. He could feel them wiggling inside his stomach, working their way down.

He screamed, but only the hiss of the creatures could be heard as they consumed him.

***

Zak could hear the carolers as they sang a joyful Christmas song. They wandered the street below, bringing cheer to everyone. They came every Christmas morning. Their joy-filled songs were of peace and laughter. He found no comfort in them, for three Christmases now.

He grimaced at the pain in his abdomen as he crawled over to the table. He longed for the small bottle, the one filled with the remedy. But it was gone and in its place was a small handkerchief with the name 'Jahobe ' stitched into it. It was a gift from the old woman, who came and retrieved her remedy.

The pain was unbearable, worse than before. The cancer had spread from his abdomen to his stomach and pancreas. Three places now, three places of pain, and no room for relief. The pills all made him sick and he refused hospice care. He'd rather lay up in his apartment and waste away. Or, perhaps as his cruel fate had already dictated, he would suffer through a fourth Christmas.

Zak Tran did make a list this year. It seemed that Santa didn't deliver to his apartment. He only asked for one thing. Surely the man could accommodate his one wish-death.

L.J. Blount

L.J. Blount has been writing for a little over two-years. His work has appeared at numerous houses, both in print and online. This includes the appearance in the Cold Storage Anthology. But, it is the future that is more in turn. Aside from his work in Atrocitas Aqua Anthology, he has several projects on tap for 2003. These included the publication of his first short story collection entitled: Dark Vigil (which will be released as an ebook (02/03) and a TPB (06/03). His first novel will be released later in 2003 (entitled: Augur of Armageddon). Also, he has two other stories to be released in separate DDP anthologies later 2003.

To visit L.J. Blount: drop by his website: http://www.geocities.com/myth_spinner/

An Ideal Family Holiday

By John Edward Lawson

"Oh you kids, settle down now, settle down. For gosh sakes!" Really now, I wish Darla could get these children to behave in a manner at least approaching "proper" some of the time so I wouldn't always have to play the heavy. "Sit down, sit down now. You're going to miss it!"

Darla opts to sit on the chair, leaving room on the sofa for the kids to sit next to me. With the familiar sounds of bells and choirs and that crooner from the fifties coming from the television, Darlene and Billy realize that the festivities really are about to get underway. Without further dramatics they plop themselves down next to me, directly across from the screen, almost shaking with anticipation.

"I always liked this version of the song better. That rock 'n roll one they did really stunk to high heaven."

"Oh," Darla says, realization making her sit up straight as a board. "I should have put on the holiday CD. Should I do it now or later?"

"Later, later," I say without taking my eyes off the screen.

I'll admit that maybe the child in me still becomes all giddy on the eve of our most important family holiday. On the dinner table wait the alluring holiday puddings, homemade, their comforting aromas making it all the harder for us to sit still. The coffee table directly before us holds a number of utensils, some of my tools, and a bunch of the children's pencil sharpeners, those little plastic ones that fit over the pencil. I really wish they would learn to empty the things before bringing them out here; wood shreddings leak all over the place. On the television some pseudo-celebrity-Gassley, I think his name is-fades in surrounded by the large crimson-petaled flowers of the season. What are they called again? Grow in dark places and all that.

"Darla, honey, what do you call those things again?"

"What's that dear?" she asks, not entirely answering me.

"I said, what're those-"

"Quiet, quiet," little Darlene says. "They're starting already!"

Normally I'd give her 'what-for' if she interrupted me and I almost do, but then thinking of what is about to happen stops me. I should just let the holiday spirit take over, right? What's more is I can't remember if we all took our holiday vitamins.

"Greetings out there across the land, and welcome to our holiday special!" Gassley proclaims, his eyes boring into the camera. "I'm Edmund Gassley here to wish everyone A Very Gassley Holiday!" What's that supposed to mean? He looks out of place in that red outfit with the white cuffs and boots. "My oh my what a program we have in store for children of all ages to enjoy. As usual we'll be starting the holiday festivities right here nationwide on live telebroadcast, so I hope everyone is ready. But first let's turn our heads to the past to remind us just what it is that makes this season such a special time of year, all the wonderful memories that we'll always treasure in our hearts, and let us turn our heads to our loved ones to remind us of what we hold precious here in the present."

The host of this evening's program pauses as if in contemplation; I don't think he's smiled once. A soft musical interlude follows during which the serene scene in the studio is intercut with slo-mo clips of past holiday specials.

"When are we getting to the good part!" Billy exclaims.

Darla and I look at each other and grin at the thought of all the excitement the evening will bring. The holiday atmosphere flows through us, as I'm sure it does with every loving parent in the country, the world. Seeing the look on our children's faces when they get what's coming to them, well, that's all the pay off I could ever ask for. Even Buster can sense the holiday cheer and has situated himself here on the floor next to me. I scratch behind his ear affectionately while Gassley prepares to speak again. Buster sure is a good old retriever.

"I bet that by now all the kiddies out there are just chomping at the bit to get going," Gassley chuckles/snarls, leaning in toward the camera with a deviously knowing gleam in his eyes. "Well! In that case, let's not delay any further. All righty everyone, are we ready?" he asks, with hands extending wide as if actually expecting a response. "Now children, let's remember that the traditional emphasis of the holiday is sharing, because we can all testify that it feels better to give than to receive, right? That goes for you parents out there too!"

"Yeah Dad, you always hog it all!" Darlene laughs while slapping at my leg. Okay, I think, just you wait. I've got a special present for everyone this year to make up for what they all got me last time.

"So everyone," Gassley nearly shouts, "Everyone turn to a loved one, a friend, whomever is on hand, and get ready to share! Now...follow me!"

With rapt attention we stay glued to the holiday's master of ceremonies, Darla and I slightly turned to each other, Billy and Darlene only vaguely facing each other. With self-assured glee Gassley lifts a disposable razor into view, then presses it into his skin. The razor slides down the length of his face, ever so slowly, the clean, pretty skin slipping through, curling over to display its bloody underside, much like a continuous length of potato skin emerging from a potato peeler. He doesn't twitch once - in fact, aside from the movement of his hand, Gassley remains stock still, his eyes piercing the camera's lens.

"Whoa!" I say. "Take a look at that, would you?!" Hastily we all reach into the assemblage of tools on the coffee table and grab a razor, putting it to and through each other's faces. Thank heavens for plastic cushion covers. Suddenly we are, as a family, becoming wet and wild with holiday cheer.

Yes, this is the most important of days, when we remember those who immolated themselves in protest. When we remember those who sacrificed flesh and blood for the common good, defending democracy. When we remember those who made it possible to have safe make-up and medicines and other consumer goods. When we remember all the models and actresses and dancers. Mutilation Day.

"Look Daddy!" Billy cries. I turn to find him holding up one continuous shred of skin which represents the entire length of his face, from his scalp all the way down along the jawline to his chin. His sister sure knows her way around a razor.

"Good job Darlene." Maybe she's getting a little too good at this. I wonder...she hasn't been practicing, has she?

"Well now," Gassley chuckles. "If that wasn't the very definition of fun then, by golly, I just don't know what is! So let's put the holiday cheer into full gear..."

Not a bad thought. The holiday cheer? It's all over our faces, easy enough to see with just a casual glance, or wipe away with a tissue. Gassley gets his hands on a straight razor now and we all do the same. While a crowd of children dressed as holiday gnomes watches in the studio, our host bares his teeth in what is a smile, I believe. "Ready boys and girls? Watch closely." With the holiday gnomes skipping and dancing through the winter wonderland they've set up, Gassley brandishes the straight razor and puts it to his ear lobe. Then he slices it, at the bottom, and blood begins to leak like you wouldn't believe.

"Once for every day of the holiday season now," Gassley intones, his breathing hardly strained. We diligently follow the directions of this second-tier celebrity and slice a total of fourteen notches all in the same ear, without hesitation, despite the whimpers of our family members...and our own moans. Buster looks us over with mounting curiosity at the sounds we're making but I tell him he's a good boy and everything is okay.

I hear the screams coming from next door. Oh, those pesky neighbors, always showboating! I for one refuse to play "keep up with the Jones's" this year; I think I learned my lesson last time. For some reason those flowers are catching my attention again. Right, blood orchids, that's what those flowers are called. Their ghastly red is no match for what we're wallowing in though. They do add something to the overall holiday atmosphere, I'll give them that.

Through the wonders of technology we continue to enjoy what would otherwise be just another dull night with the family. Having our body horrors synchronized with every other family in the land could really be the ultimate bonding experience. Tomorrow we'll all have stories to share, little variations on the actions Gassley led us all to indulge in. Thank the powers that be this isn't one of those drinking holidays where so many people end up wrapped around telephone poles. This here is a celebration of life, nationwide, a family-oriented event dripping with life. So here I am pounding a screwdriver through my own daughter's thigh, scrawny and soft as it is. Gassley, God bless 'im, he's shown us exactly where to penetrate the muscles and not pop a vital blood vessel, with the assistance of a handy full color 3-D computer graphic.

"Careful not to damage the upholstery," Darla blubbers. She's got a point there; if I get distracted or let the pain take over I might just hammer straight through the muscles and into the furniture. What a disaster that would be.

Seeing the look of anguish in Darlene's eyes I inwardly pat myself on the back, knowing I did the right thing earlier in not chastising my daughter for interrupting me but instead letting the spirit of the holiday take over. The same look is shared by Billy, whose mother is forcing steel through the flesh of his leg, and Darla, whose own daughter is doing the same to her. And when my son, flesh of my flesh, drives the rod into my leg just as I showed him, well I'm guessing I have the same "tormented by overwhelming happiness" look on my face.

Next up: running scalpels and hobby knives under the skin around our loved ones' noses. This is a difficult procedure to perform accurately at this stage. That is, with our hands shaking so, it's kind of hard to be precise enough to smoothly separate the skin from the underlying layer of fat. I'd like to do it without putting any stray holes in the skin flap but my face is starting to feel very lively after that whole razor thing. When we're done we have four nice, neat little noses with only a few small hunks of cartilage attached.

"Daddy! I'm Rudolph the Reindeer!" Oh, that Billy, he's always such a jokester. I would squeeze his tiny button nose except the thing is so bloody right now.

On the television Gassley looks like he's being overcome by the holiday spirit so they cut away to some holiday videos. I hope he doesn't end up like last year's host. My guess is they have the very best paramedics waiting in the wings at the studio.

It looks like the family dog can't take any more of this. He starts whining and licking his chops, and I'm sure every family can relate to this holiday occurrence. "What's that Buster? You too? You too boy?" He pants even harder, his tail wagging furiously now, and who can deny that adorable look in his eyes? Even the kids are pleading for us to let him in on the fun. "What do you think honey?"

"Just a little bit George."

"Hear that boy?" I say, holding up the scalpel like some kind of treat. "Just a little-wittle bit for the Buster-wuster boy." He barks twice, much to our delight, and sits before me ready to get his share of the pie. The silly little guy even tries shaking like we taught him, only I haven't extended my hand. He does this every time he wants something.

"Let me Dad, let me!" Darlene says. I don't trust that edgy excitement in her voice; if we don't keep the kids in check I sense there will be a tantrum of some sort. That's always how it ends, some sort of tantrum spoiling the day.

"Honey, you just watch and let your father do it. He knows what he's doing." Darla pats me on the shoulder lending me her support...that, and a blood smear.

The rest of the family holds Buster in place because sometimes he gets a little too excited. Just like what happened to each of us the severe angle of the blade penetrates his skin, just a prick at first, extremely painful nonetheless. I'm checking and yes, his nose is wet, which is a good sign if you're a dog. I guess we'd all make pretty good dogs right about now then! In any event I work the blade back and forth, very carefully since the whole family is hanging on my every move, a little further in every time. His nose is relatively small though and coupled with his excellent obedience training it hardly takes any time at all.

"All righty," I say while Buster's high-pitched whining contends with the whimpering and giggles of the rest of the family. After displaying his skin flap I add it to the cranberry/popcorn/skin garland we have going around the bookcase.

Listening to the noises he's making it strikes me that maybe I should take a better look at Buster (earlier I had some blood clouding my vision). Oh-oh-wow, look. Yep. I'm definitely going to have to call the vet in the morning. What's-her-name...right, Andrea. Dr. Collington. Always with those stylish glasses and pale, pale skin, and my God those hips. She's probably sitting alone at home in front of the TV, watching Gassley go into paroxysms of mutilation, taking a razor to her thighs at this very inst-hold it. I better just stop right there. Darla can always tell when I get all hot and bothered, even with my skin missing. What is it Freud said about the color red? Nope, no, can't let the wife catch me with these thoughts, today of all days.

I glance her way but she doesn't seem to have noticed. No, my wife is too busy trying to keep a penetrated artery from leaving some permanent reminder of holiday cheer all around the living room. Holiday cheer all year round? Well, why not? These days they start advertising for the holiday season as soon as Halloween's finished. I even know people who start their holiday shopping in July! So why not take it just another step further and go year-round with the deal? It's true, I guess we do need the time to recuperate in-between, but still...

Anyway, I've gotten so lost in thought that I've failed to keep up with the others. They probably just mistook my reverie for shock, or maybe thought I slipped into a coma like I did a few years back. What I find is that Gassley is back on the tube, appearing to be okay, and the rest of the family has worked knitting needles through their lips, many times over, leaving at least six holes in each lip. I rush to keep up and try to seem normal. Appearances are one of the most important things in family get-togethers, right?

I'm not sure just what shape our lips are in for eating all the holiday treats right now but I'm positive we're all still looking forward to the homemade pudding. Blood pudding does the trick every time; I'm sure in all the households across the nation people are thankful for the soppy crimson goop. After all, how many folks are really into cranberry relish? Come on, it's a no-brainer. I mean that stuff is just so bitter! When Darla's sister brings her family over later they better bring an extra helping of pudding. If not we can always make some up from scratch with our own raw materials.

"Honey," Darla says, her voice quavering. "I need...need some more holiday vitamins..." I dump two in her outstretched palm knowing that after taking these things she'll feel a lot better.

Gassley is looking especially excited now, so much so that even I am worried (just a little). "Ah...well, this is the moment...the moment that I personally have been waiting for!" He cackles and okay, I admit it, whatever it takes to make him so happy could be a bit extreme. "This is something that the kiddies out there...will adore." He laughs again and holds up one of those tiny plastic pencil sharpeners that usually only students have. His intoxicated grin/grimace fills the screen as he raises a hand and proceeds to force the pencil sharpener over his pinkie finger. Already guessing what comes next we scramble to get a hold of one ourselves. I guess it's a good thing that the kids have these after all.

Slowly twisting my wrist the interior blade begins its uneven boring into my skin. It catches the flesh on the side of my fingertip, painfully dragging and eventually ripping the muscles and fat more than actually cutting it. Of course, these things would be dull. All the better then! Next the upper corner of my fingernail catches on the blade. The more I twist the more the corner of my nail is forced to bend backwards, and the blade begins to peel the cuticle, and after a series of painful pops the fingernail itself is torn away, but not totally though because I can feel some thin underlying shreds of tissue still attached. Soon enough these too are torn apart and the fingernail rotates with the blade proceeding it, plowing into the remaining flesh of my finger before the blade reaches it and causes even deeper damage. When it's time to remove the stupid plastic contraption it gets stuck-probably because of my thick, muscled, man's fingers-and after a series of forceful tugs the thing rips away, stripping off a large amount of the remaining flesh with it. I can clearly make out the outline of the slender bone under the glistening, purplish sheath of uneven muscle and blood vessels.

Yes, the economy should be booming this year. Every twelve months the newscasters hype up the economic slump to spur us on to spending more, and we do: tomorrow every plastic surgeon in the land will be getting a call. Maybe that's the line of work I should've gone into? I'd be a rich man now. Think about it, really...I'd be up to my elbows in gore for the next few weeks at least! The holiday rush is so terrible at the surgeons' offices this time of year. And the lines, the lines, man alive. But if I were the "cutter" I'd get to see every gruesome injury inflicted, which I know is every child's dream come true. I'm not even talking about being the lousy surgeon set up in the shopping malls for kids to talk to and get their pictures taken with. Yeah, tomorrow I'd have my hands on Dr. Collington's mutilated thighs...and more...

Time becomes a slippery thing when you are feeling the holiday bliss and before I know it the special is winding down. Gassley gasps, "Oh my...we're all out of...time...well, I hope you've...enjoyed...this evening's holiday excitement every bit as much as...I have..." All around the room I can sense the unspoken response: it isn't over already, is it?

The orchestral holiday music swells to a crescendo as the camera rises, pulls out. "And remember: have A Very Gassley Holiday!" I don't think there's any question that we will.

During the closing strains of music and credits which play over suicide scenes and war crimes I clap my hands together with anticipation. "Well everyone," I barely manage to say, "I've got a little surprise!"

"Oh, you didn't!" Darla sloppily exclaims.

"Yeah, well, it's a little something to show the family just what I think of them, and how much I appreciate the duties of fatherhood." Having prepared in advance I pull the generator, alligator clips, and fifty yards of barbed wire out from under the sofa.

"Yay!" the kids cry in unison at the sight of my homemade torture kit.

Darla eyes the setup with genuine surprise. "George, you shouldn't have...really..."

"How about we take this thing for a spin before we eat?" I grab my son and bounce him rigorously on my knee, probably because of all the adrenaline pumping through me right now. "Well? What do you say to that, Billy?" It comes out as more of a growl than a question really.

"G-G-God b-b-bless...bless us...every o-one..." little Billy sobs. The heartfelt sentiment moves me as I know it does the rest of the family.

John Edward Lawson

John lives in Hyattsville, Maryland with his wife Jennifer. He has had over 200 works published on the Internet, in the small press, and in various collections. Three of John's eBooks are available from bizarrEbooks.com and he also has a poetry chapbook for sale, The Scars Are Complimentary. In 2001 his work won several competitions and was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Currently John is editor of The Dream People (www.dreampeople.org) and four anthologies.

Slay Bells

By Simon Wood

Snow insulated the city, absorbing the urban world's noise in its peculiar way. All Tom could hear was the squeak and scrunch of his footfalls compacting fresh snow.

He smiled. The kids would love the surprise in the morning. It would be their first white Christmas. Hell, he hadn't seen one in years. Who expected snow in San Francisco? Bing Crosby would be the name of the day tomorrow.

A new sound invaded the night. Sleigh bells tinkled on the night air. Tom grinned like his five year old.

He loved Christmas, always had. There was something about this time of the year that made him glad to be alive. People always managed to do something special-like now. Someone was giving the illusion that Santa was on the way by ringing sleigh bells from the rooftops on Market Street.

The sleigh bell chimes intensified. They were directly overhead. Grinning, he looked up.

His grin slipped down his face like melting sleet. Christmas had just lost all meaning.

***

Clark couldn't believe it. Some son of a bitch was mugging some other son of a bitch on Christmas Eve. The mugger was dressed entirely in green. From Clark's vantage point, he was in a fancy dress costume and pounding the shit out of his victim on the ground.

Clark wasn't about to let it happen. He charged across the empty street. His feet found surprising purchase on the slippery surface.

"Leave him alone, you shit!" Clark shouted.

The attacker continued to deliver blow after blow to his victim.

Clark closed on the attacker and realized the attacker wasn't using his fist. He had a short bladed dagger in his hand. Two bells dangled from the butt and chimed every time he stabbed his victim. Clark tried to stop, but he slithered on the snow then on the red slush before colliding with the man in green. The attacker collapsed on his prey and Clark flew over the top of them and crashed on his back, cracking his head on the sidewalk. He flipped onto all fours, afraid that the green-clad killer would turn his attentions to him. The killer didn't. He wasn't finished with his victim. He thrust the knife down twice more into the dead man's eyes. With rapid motions, he plucked the eyes out, snaring them with the dagger's snake-like forked blade.

Terror cold-welded Clark to the spot as he bore witness to the unbelievable. Lightning exploded from the dead man's sockets, striking the knife blade and vaporizing the eyeballs skewered to it. Electricity was conducted through the killer and he released an involuntary growl. When the lightning ceased, another bell dangled from the knife's handle.

The killer turned to Clark and Clark saw the murderer's face for the first time. The killer's hood had hidden his face, but not anymore. He was a man...of sorts. The face was dark and gnarled, as if carved from tree roots, and twisted into a permanent sneer.

"You're next, friend," the killer growled.

Clark didn't doubt it.

Sirens wailed and three police units slewed onto Market.

The man in green snatched a glance at the approaching cruisers then turned back to Clark. "Somebody up there likes you," he said with a smirk.

"Up where?"

"Up here." The green man propelled himself hundreds of feet into the air, until he was lost amongst the night and the stars.

The black and whites skidded to a halt on the snow, one car riding the curb. Headlights bathed the sidewalk in blinding light. The scene was open to wild interpretation and didn't look good for Clark. He stood with his hands raised.

"It wasn't me," he said weakly.

It sounded feeble and he knew it. But what else was he going to say? That some other guy dressed like the Riddler flying through the air did it?

"Stay right there," came a voice from a cruiser's bullhorn.

"I didn't do it."

The cops piled out from their cars with weapons drawn. Two cops kept their guns trained on Clark. The other four had their guns aimed on the night behind and above them.

"Turn around and face the wall," an approaching cop with sergeant stripes said. "Place your hands behind your head and interlace your fingers."

Clark did as he was told. "I didn't do it. Honestly," he said to the wall.

A gun barrel pressed against Clark's neck and a handcuff snared his wrist. His hands were brought down behind his back and the second bracelet clamped his other wrist. He was turned to face the victim. Heat vapor was still escaping from the wounds and the eye sockets.

"Christ," the handcuffing cop said. "Just like the others."

"I didn't do it."

"We heard you the first time," the sergeant said, guiding him into the back of a cruiser. "Someone order a meat wagon and keep the press away. I'll deal with this one."

The sergeant bundled Clark into the rear of the vehicle and roared off, lights flashing and siren wailing. The policeman drove more quickly than the conditions allowed. The car slithered on snow-covered streets, sliding from lane to lane, crossing into oncoming traffic lanes. It was lucky for everyone that the hour was late and traffic was scarce.

"Am I under arrest?" Clark asked.

"The lieutenant will decide that." The sergeant threw the Crown Victoria into the next bend.

Clark expected bright lights and a foul smelling interrogation office. Instead, he was delivered to the TransAmerica pyramid. A balding, pot bellied man emerged from the building's reception area. The sergeant delivered Clark to the man.

"This is getting serious," the man said.

"We're running out of time, lieutenant," the sergeant said.

"I know." The lieutenant checked his watch. "Damnit, we've got an hour."

"This is the witness." The sergeant shoved Clark a step closer.

"Lieutenant Harry Jakes." He offered a hand. "And you are?"

"Under arrest?" Clark replied.

"Foisie, get the cuffs off him."

"Yes, lieutenant." The sergeant did as he was told.

"Your name, sir?" Jakes asked.

"Clark Zale."

"Okay, Mr. Zale, you're with me." He indicated his unmarked blue, Crown Victoria. "Foisie, tie up affairs here. You'll find the Vic on the 25th floor."

Glancing up at the building, Foisie asked, "Where abouts?"

Jakes was already guiding Clark to his car. "Just follow the trail of blood. You can't miss it."

Clark massaged his wrists. "Am I free to go?"

Jakes shook his head. "You're very valuable to us. Get in the car. Let's drive around for awhile and you can tell me what you've witnessed tonight."

Jakes' driving was far more sedate than Foisie's and Clark was glad of that. But he wished he could go home and change out of his wet clothes. The damp cold had finally overcome his adrenaline inspired fear.

"What can you tell me, Mr. Zale?"

Clark reeled off his account of the man in green. It sounded unbelievable but Jakes took it all in with the occasional nod of understanding and without question. Clark wondered whether the policeman was just humoring him.

"When you say bells were on the knife, how many?"

"Three."

"Good. That means only three are dead."

"Can I go home now?"

"No, you're not safe. And from now on, you're under police protection."

"What?"

"You're still at risk. Sleath has never let a witness escape unharmed. He'll be back for you. I guarantee it."

"Sleath? What the hell is this about, lieutenant?"

"Christmas."

"Christmas?"

Jakes nodded.

"This is unbelievable."

"It isn't. Let me give you an education. Christmas, 101 style. Sleath is the killer you saw tonight. He's killed three people in the last two hours and he has another four to go before midnight."

"Who's Sleath?"

"He was Saint Nicholas' right hand man."

"Saint Nicholas? Santa Claus? What is this bullshit?"

"Not bullshit, Mr. Zale, the truth. This is the Christmas story we don't tell anyone."

Clark said nothing, not knowing what to say or believe.

"Sleath was...a...a disciple of his I suppose. Saint Nick's people would call them elves these days."

"This guy was no elf."

"Don't believe everything Walt Disney tells you. Not all elves are dwarfs who sing songs all day. They are people blessed with the gift of long life to preserve the spirit of Christmas."

"And Sleath is blessed, but not with the spirit of Christmas, I suppose."

"You got it. He had a falling out with Saint Nick. I don't know all the details. There are things they don't even tell us."

"Okay, Sleath doesn't like Christmas, but why all the killing?"

Jakes turned onto a street sign-posted for the Bay Bridge. "Ever heard of the Christmas Bell?"

"No."

"The Christmas bell sends out the spirit of Christmas and keeps Christmas safe for another year. If Sleath destroys the bell, it's adios Christmas. But, he only has the night before Christmas to do it." Jakes made a left. "Because the bell is at risk, it's moved from country to country every year. This year, it's here."

"Where?"

"Coit Tower. I've got a couple of men posted there with orders to shoot first and ask questions later."

"Okay, all Sleath needs to do is smash the bell, but that doesn't explain all the killings."

"The bell can only be destroyed with a weapon forged from the same material."

"Which is?"

"Sleath's knife."

"Figures."

"But that isn't enough, it has to be hardened with the souls of seven Christmas believers."

Clark thought of the soul he'd seen escape before being sucked into Sleath's blade and the bell that appeared on its hilt after the soul was captured. He hoped he wouldn't become a bell dangling from Sleath's knife.

"So, I'm bait."

"Afraid so."

"We're not heading towards Coit Tower, though."

"And I don't want to be. I want you as far away as possible. You're unfinished business and I'm banking on him coming after you."

"And you'll protect me?"

"I'll do my best."

"You'll do your best? Christ, Jakes, don't sound too confident."

"Sleath is a formidable killer."

"I know. I've seen his work-up close."

Jakes slammed on the brakes. Clark was hurled against his seatbelt-his breath blasted from his chest. The Ford's brakes locked up and the vehicle went into a skid that seemed to have no end. Clark didn't have to ask the lieutenant the reason for all the drama. Sleath was charging down the middle of the street towards them with his knife in his hand.

"Get us out of here, Jakes!"

It was too late. Before the policeman could spin the car around and hightail it, Sleath was upon them, his speed inhuman. He burst through the windshield, showering the occupants in glass.

"Hello again, friend," Sleath said to Clark.

Clark recoiled into his seat.

"I believe we were interrupted. I've come for your eyes." Sleath brandished his knife and four bells tinkled.

"Not this time," Jakes announced, unholstering a hand-cannon and taking aim.

Sleath was lightning fast. His knife-hand whipped around and severed Jakes' gun-hand at the wrist. The hand still clutching the gun bounced into Clark's lap. He couldn't touch the abhorrence lying there.

Clark was a spectator to what happened next. It was so fast, he didn't know what happened until it was over. With Jakes clutching his handless arm, the Ford careened out of control. Sleath aimed his next blow at Clark. The cop hurled himself in the way of the arcing blade, smothering Clark. Sleath's knife buried itself in Jakes' back. The lieutenant threw open the passenger door. The car swerved violently and Clark found his seatbelt had been unbuckled.

Sleath ripped the knife from Jakes' back. It yanked Jakes off Clark. The policeman lay sprawled in the driver's seat as Sleath oozed deeper into the car through the shattered windshield. He raised the knife again. The forked blade trained on the cop's eyes. Jakes knew it was the end and glanced at Clark. Acceptance was in his gaze. Although finished, the lieutenant could do one last thing. He booted Clark out the open door.

Clark's back smacked the pavement, the snow providing no cushioning. His spine crackled with pain. He realized he still had momentum and had the wherewithal to curl into a ball, protecting his head. He came to an untidy halt some two hundred feet from his first impact.

Clark unraveled and stood, just in time to see Jakes' unmarked disappear into a vacated Starbucks, exploding on impact. The explosion tore through the storefront, killing anyone inside the Crown Victoria. Clark thanked the cop for his sacrifice.

But his relief was momentary, as a phoenix rose from the flames and soared into the sky. Clark knew the flaming survivor was no legendary bird.

"Sleath," he muttered.

Clark had to get to Coit Tower before Sleath could destroy Christmas.

A MUNI bus shuddered to a halt before Clark under a popping cacophony of asthmatic airbrakes. The driver's face was a mosaic of confusion. Clark rushed to the door and slammed his fists against the Plexiglas. "Let me in!" he shouted.

The doors clattered open. "What the hell happened?" the wire-haired woman demanded.

Clark clambered aboard. "I need your bus."

"You ain't having my damn bus."

"I don't have time for this. Gimme the bus." Clark spotted three passengers towards the rear of the bus staring at him and out the window. "You'll have to get off too."

"No one's going anywhere," the driver insisted

"Get off the goddamn bus!"

Clark ripped open the driver's protective door. He yanked the overweight woman from her comfortable perch and bundled her out the door. He didn't have to ask the passengers twice. One glance from him and they flew out the rear exit.

Dropping into the driver's seat, Clark instructed, "Call the cops. Tell them Jakes is dead, that their witness has gone to Coit Tower, and to send back-up."

"You're in a whole world of shit now," the driver insisted.

"We all are," Clark said, thinking of Sleath destroying the Christmas Bell. He closed the doors and roared off, pulling an illegal U-turn on the one-way street.

Luckily, Clark knew how to handle a bus from a temporary job as a summer school driver during his third year of college. His skills were rusty, but he'd get there. But, stealing a bus wasn't the best idea he'd ever had. Getting to Coit Tower required negotiating a number of narrow switchbacks, which had the added obstacle of parked cars clogging the roads. Clark brushed cars aside with destructive intent. Vehicles lost more than door mirrors. The bus removed fenders, crunched doors, blew out windows and reduced full sizes to compacts. Buildings faired only slightly better. Even with no cars, some bends were so tight that Clark collected stucco and siding.

The bus didn't make it to Coit Tower's parking lot. Clark called it a day when the bus ploughed into two cars parked on either side of the road. He leapt from the vehicle's rear passenger exit and raced up the hill to the screams of protesting neighbors.

Out of breath and with starlight popping in his gaze, Clark rounded the tower to find he was too late. Jakes' guards were on their backs with their eyes missing. Both men still had their weapons in their hands. Having twice seen Sleath at work, he doubted the cops had even fired off a round. Clark stepped between the corpses.

He froze.

Echoing laughter trickled down the coiling stairway. Clark knew Sleath had found the Christmas Bell. But he guessed he didn't have seven slay bells dangling from his knife. Jakes and the cops made four, five and six. Without a seventh victim, Christmas was safe and the bell couldn't be broken. Clark accepted he was probably Sleath's seventh and final victim. Better him than some other poor unsuspecting sap. He checked his watch-five minutes to twelve.

Clark smiled. Time wasn't on Sleath's side. The elf had to claim seven victims before Christmas Day. Clark guessed he could last five minutes. Or die trying. He bent to take a gun from one of the dead cops.

Clark grasped the automatic. The dead cop snatched his wrist. Clark stiffened and gasped. The cop stared at him with an eyeless gaze.

"You'd better be a good guy," the blind cop demanded.

"I am," Clark replied.

"Take the gun, if you want." He released his grip on Clark's arm. "It won't do you any good, but this will."

The cop produced a remote control device. Clark took it.

"What is it?"

"We guessed we wouldn't hold him back. The place is wired."

Clark patted the cop on the chest. "I'll get help when I can."

"Don't bother. I don't wanna live. I saw his knife pierce my brain. I even saw my soul escape."

The cop continued to ramble but Clark had already entered the tower. Climbing the steps, he called out. "Hey, Sleath! You killed seven yet?"

A rasping chuckle greeted Clark. "My little friend. The one that got away. Is that you? I thought it was-I can smell you. Come on up and I'll tell you what I know."

"Sure you don't want to come down here? By my reckoning, you're out of time." Clark thumbed the detonator.

"Who says I'm waiting for you? Who says I don't have a little friend up here now?"

"Momma!" a little girl's voice shrieked.

"You son of a bitch!"

Clark raced up the steps, clutching the remote control tightly. He couldn't let the explosive off now. Not with a kid up there.

The burden of time wasn't Sleath's. It was Clark's. If Sleath's time ran out, he could always sacrifice the child. He checked his watch-two minutes to twelve.

Clark burst onto the observation level. The place was lit with Christmas lights. His clothes singed, Sleath sat in a chair with the Christmas Bell on his lap. He poked at it with his blade. Six bells tinkled from the knife's butt. The child was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is she?"

"Who?"

"Don't piss about. The girl. Where is she?"

"Oh, her." Recollection crossed Sleath's face. "I was always good at mimicking people. Drove Saint Nicholas mad."

"What?"

"Momma," Sleath said in the child's voice.

How dumb had he been? Clark couldn't describe how big a fool he felt. He glanced at his watch. There was time for one last thing.

Sleath rose. "Give me your soul."

"I don't think so." Clark brandished the remote. "The bell is wired."

Sleath smirked and shook his head. The elf rotated the bell to show its underside. All that was there was the clapper.

"I think someone's been lying to you. Now, gimme your eyes."

Clark looked up at the ceiling in despair, then smiled. Sleath was wrong. Clark hadn't been lied to. He'd just misunderstood. It was the Christmas lights. Tied to each light was a chunk of plastic explosive with a wire running from each piece. Clark smiled.

"Do yourself a favor, Sleath. Take a Christmas off."

Sleath growled and raced across the floor.

More out of good fortune than anything else, Clark was standing next to the elevator. He punched the down arrow. The doors slid open and he dived inside, striking the door close button. The door eased shut.

Through an ever-narrowing gap, Clark watched Sleath charge towards him. Sleath made a final lunge, but was too late. The doors closed. His knife pierced the metal door, but the elevator descended unabated.

Clark heard Sleath hurl frustrated insults. He laughed and checked his watch-ten seconds.

"Merry Christmas to you," he said and pressed the detonator.

The explosion rocked the elevator before something snapped and the elevator car plunged. Clark was weightless as the car fell but was thrown to the ground as it struck bottom, its walls buckling. The doors were parted, wrenched open by the impact. Clark slipped through the gap. He tore out of the tower, into the parking lot.

He was greeted by strewn rubble. He whirled to gaze at Coit Tower's peak. It wasn't there. The observation level was gone. A smoldering stump remained in its place.

He wondered if he'd been successful. There was no sign that Christmas hadn't arrived, but the absence of Sleath's remains caused his heart to flutter in the fear of failure.

Then, he spotted his proof-the Christmas Bell. He rushed towards it. Not a scratch was on it. And why would there be? Jakes said it was indestructible. And as if to confirm that Christmas was safe, Sleath's knife was lying next to the bell, just as unharmed, and the six bells from his six victims were missing. He gathered up both items and struck the knife against the bell. It rang loud and proud above the wail of police and fire sirens.

"Merry Christmas, everyone!" he cheered.

SIMON WOOD

is a California transplant from England. He shares his world with Julie (his American wife), Royston (a Longhaired Dachshund) and Streetcar (a cat), all rescued from the barbaric Californian streets. In the last three years, but he's had nearly eighty stories published around the world. Last August, his debut novel, the suspense-thriller, "Accidents Waiting To Happen" was released and was nominated for a Bloody Dagger award. His short story collection "Dragged Into Darkness" will released this August. Readers can keep up to date with Simon

through his website http://www.simonwood.net.

The Santa of Sector 24-G

By Scott Christian Carr

(Lower Level-Designation UNDERCLASS, LndFil #862b)

Neural Log: 23:62-14-

--Digging and scratching with my bare hands in the petrified crust of Landfill 862b, also known as The Floor, The Bath, The South Pole, The Refuservoir-a mineralized shell of a millennia's worth of sewage, soot, spit, grime, carbo-hydro-peroxol exhaust, petrified bird and rat shit, decomposing food containers, acid rain and sludge, all baked to a crust and hardened in the cold ultraviolet gloom and the dank, mildewed shadow of the lower abyss. I never thought I could fall so low.

Fall so low-both metaphorically and literally. Last thing I remember before hitting the bottom and blacking out was the fall. Slipping and tripping, pushed over the broken guardrail in ghetto-town. Hitting the slime-sloped wall and sliding backwards a thousand feet down into the waste and sewage of Crack City's Refuservoir. Cast down among the bottom-dwellers and the sludge-eaters, the wildlife and vermin.

Never imagined I could fall so low.--

***

Neural Log: 23:62-18-

--How did it ever come to this? Just four clicks and a handful of rotations ago I was clocking in at the data factory-DF #3674e-my own small cubicle in Block 6780923, factory level 16, on the Inner Ring. The Inner Ring! From the cafeteria, through the window, I could even see the bottommost patios of 24-G.

24-G!-the Sector of the Rich and Famous, the Top Dogs, the Elite.

Those luxurious habitat rings at the uppermost levels of Crack City seemed almost to be within arms' reach from the factory's cafeteria window. Though I might never walk those gold-crusted, credit strewn sidewalks in this life-never bask in the Sun, filtered down through the Crack and through UV-shaded, tinted street visors-though I might never stand with my eyes turned crackwards up towards that crimson slash of unbroken sky-though I might never know the pleasures of the sluggish life, the luxurious way, the Aristocrat's world, I could at least see the underside of the life I was struggling towards from the factory's cafeteria window. And that is better than most.

And I could hope.

And I could dream.

And I could wonder.

And I could pray, and wish, and work my fingers to paper-cut nubs and my eyes to myopic, monitor-burned orbs. I could pray that if I gave hard enough, and worked long enough, that-if not in my next life, or the next, or the next after that-that eventually I might be reborn just a level closer, a level higher, a level nearer to the Blessed Ones up on 24-G.

And in this life I could take comfort in my very proximity to 24-G. Unlike the millions of struggling souls in the levels below me, I could actually see what I was striving toward, who I was working for. Sector 24-G was within sight!-infinitely beyond the reach of my undeserving hands, perhaps, but within sight nevertheless.

It even seemed (though I would never voice it externally-or even internally within the nosey earshot of my mandatory neural implant) to be within reach of the grasping, yearning fingers of my soul. Not this incarnation or the next, maybe, but some not-too-distant iteration down the conveyor belt of promised lives. Distant, no doubt. Far off, certainly. But within reach, oh god yes…--

***

Neural Log: 23:62-20-

--Ain't life grand? Without the struggle, without the strife-without want and need and desire and desperation, I ask you, what else is there?

At times (in the secret part of my brain, cloistered away from those probing electronic fingers and eavesdropping sensors of the greedy neural log) I even pitied the elite of Sector 24-G. Can you believe it? Well, I did! They who had it all: everything, every need, every desire, every whim on a string…

Yes, even if I didn't realize it consciously, wouldn't admit it subconsciously, I pitied them, in a way. For at that high a level, what more could came after?

But then, my conditioning kicks in and I rethink my unthunk thoughts. Their Way was not mine to question-for surely, the knowledge to be known at such a level would so far transcend the minds of we the lower level masses that it was foolish to even ponder. The spiritual struggles of Aristocrats on 24-G… One might as wonder how many holo-angels could swing on the tip of a pleasure-needle.

You could never seek to understand them, those angelic denizens of 24-G. You could only want to be them. And that is how it should be. No questions, only answers. Wait and work. Work and wait. Life in Crack City goes on, the obedient ascend, the lazy drift downward. Sink or swim. Work and fly. Think and fall. All is as it should be. Knowledge is a gift. Amen.

This is how I used to think. Until I fell, that is…--

***

Neural Log: 23:62-60-

--I keep blacking out. I'd hit my head in the fall. Or maybe the toxins and the fumes here at the bottom of the lower abyss have overwhelmed me. My muscles and bones ache from the impact. My skin tingles and itches and burns. My lungs are heavy and my lips and nostrils are coated with thick, mucousey carbo-soot. Sick and nauseous, my empty stomach keeps trying to heave out food that isn't there.

And, despite it all, I'm starving.--

***

Neural Log: 23:63-12-

--My neural implant is not working right.

I can feel it not working. Painful clicks deep in the meat in my brain. Intermittent, inconsistent. It doesn't feel like it's broadcasting-the familiar hum of the advertisements and orders, the policies and prayers, is now only static. I feel emptier than I've ever felt, more isolated than I could imagine ever being in this or any other life.

Cold and alone.

The bad news is, that without my neural log functioning, no one will be able to find me down here. The good news is, that with out my neural log functioning, no one will be able to find me down here.--

***

Neural Log: 23:63-35-

--I try again to climb the slick, sheer walls of the Refuservoir, but the chemical slime burns my fingers and seeps under my nails and I can't get a grip. I only get so far before the slope becomes too steep and I slide back down into the muck.

Even if one of the eyes of god (placed on every street corner, always watching, recording, reporting) had seen me fall, they wouldn't know who I was, or where I had landed-not with my neural net broken. I can hide and they can't find me.

I know this is true-I am alone and lost, unfindable and free, out of sight and out of mind…--

***

Neural Log: 23:63-50-

--But as the neural net goes quiet and the voices fall silent, the paranoia settles in. The eyes of god, on every corner of every street on every level, look always downward on us. And even though I know that they can't see down this far, don't look in this direction, and don't care about the vermin down in the Bath, I can imagine their metal necks twisting and turning, creaking and groaning, stretching to peer over the lip of the Refuservoir-blinking, scanning, scoping, searching-hunting for me.

In the deafening silence of my broken neural implant I can still hear the echoes of the man who pushed me, the geek who'd made me fall.

"You's a gonna be down there awhile!" he'd called after me as I accelerated down the steepening slope. "See how the other half lives…!" Damn Dexter! Damn him to-well, damn him to the lowest rings!-Damn him to the Pit, the Bath…

Damn him to the Refuservoir.--

***

Neural Log: 23:63-87-

--I'd made an error in checking and rechecking my lists. A typo, a slip of the finger, a hiccough of the eye, a lapse of the mind. An 8 instead of a 3 while punching my data, crunching my numbers. Repetition is god's own grace and Knowledge is a gift, the Net scholars tell me, voices in the neural foam, whispering in my brain's ear. And Fatigue is the devil's breath, a ticket south. I'd made a mistake and I deserved my demotion, those inarguable voices decreed.

Demoted to next level down. In life one can only go down, never up. Only in death, in the next life, might a soul ascend, and then never more than a level.

These are the rules.--

***

Neural Log: 23:63-98-

--The pinheads are one of those things that everyone knows about and no one talks about-not in public, not in private, never mentioned on the neural news-but everyone pays to the Pinhead Prevention Fund, listed in fine-print with the multitudes of other taxes and required donations deducted from every citizen's pay.

Few but me have ever even seen one, or would've known what one even was. I was just lucky, I guess. I'd seen Dexter from time to time-sleeping in an alley, or begging on a corner. Always carefully positioned just out of sight of the eyes of god. Knowledge is a gift, they say, but no one wants to see that.--

***

Neural Log: 23:64-56-

--Dexter was a pinhead. He was taller than me, and broader of shoulder-despite his tendency to slouch and skulk. And he was also one of the most intelligent people I've ever known-despite the fact that his pointed head was not much larger than a soda can. Yes, he was one of the smartest, sneakiest, and most cunning men I've ever had the misfortune to meet. Full of wisdom, he was, full of knowledge. Always pushing advice, dispensing anecdotal tidbits between begging for credits and scraps of food.

"Crack City, as the historian's tell it, wasn't named for the fact that it was constructed within the walls of a gigantic, volcanic fissure in the Earth-one of many such fissures scarring the surface of what's left of our once blue (if you believe the historians) rock of a planet," Dexter's endless monologue rose from the depths of the disposal bin he was rummaging through, immersed to his waist so that only his filthy legs protruded from the thing's mouth. I assumed that Dexter knew the recycling schedules and routines-he would have to, living the way he did-and that the energy dislocater ring in the disposer's belly wouldn't activate while he was in it.

My fears proved unfounded when Dex emerged triumphantly with the uneaten half of a discarded spiced-meat tube. He grinned, "But rather, the city was named for the perceived crack in the soul of its citizenry, cemented bugs that they were, addicted to a mythical drug that firmly placed the physical bodies of the undeserved in their lower-class status, but freed their minds and souls to the concept of ascension," Dexter poked the meat tube into his tiny mouth and licked his filthy lips. "Sound familiar?"

He would ramble on like this for as long as I would let him. A lot of what he said made sense, but a lot of it seemed little more than the delusional raving of a madman. Genius, lunatic, or both? While his history (I had no way of checking it) seemed sound, if somewhat blasphemous, this was also the same homeless mutant who spread rumors of a great, red, pot-bellied dragon living at the floor of the city.--

***

Neural Log: 23:64-84-

--When I told him I'd been demoted, Dex insisted on a tour of the lowest levels. I tried to refuse. I tried to fight him. "It's illegal," I complained, "How will we get back up?" But he would not be deterred. His strong fist clamped upon my arm, he tugged and pulled and laughed and implored me to go with him.

"It should be mandatory upon any demotion to go down and see just how bad it can get, how much worse it could be," he explained, dragging me into the nearest downward flux-shaft.

I was despondent and vulnerable. I should have struggled harder, I should have refused. I should never have let him take me down. I should have walked away.

But I'd already been demoted, and I would be sent down a level anyway. Better sooner than later, I rationalized, and of my own volition than at the hands of armed soul-guards. "All right," I told him. "Just one level."

Dexter just winked.--

***

Neural Log: 23:64-98-

--Crack City raced upwards past us, as we descended. The inertio-grav inhibitors tingled my feet and the wind mussed my hair. My ears popped. The walls of the city grew darker, more stained with age and rust and soot the deeper we plummeted, caked with slime and filth. It was noisier down there, cacophonic music and hov-cars honking, people screaming and cursing in a language that seemed like a bastardized version of my own familiar tongue.

Despite my protestations, we didn't stop until we'd reached the Red Ring. I'd heard about this ring, down just a stone's throw from the city-floor. It's decrepitude is infamous, it's crimes fill the neural news-tales of the violence of the impoverished, cannibalistic masses are whispered into our brains along the neural net feed, horror stories to keep us working hard, looking crackwards, focused on the rings above and fearing those below.

The Red Ring is Hell, it's Babel, it's Damnation Alley. Throngs of degenerate stragglers, the damned and the wretched and the cursed, the sick and the poor, the vile and the undeserving all mill about in criminal mobs. I'd been here before in a past life-everyone had-but I don't remember it, and I don't fear it any less for having risen above it.

Dexter saw the fear in my eyes as the flux-ramp slowed to a halt. "Here's to you, kid," he smirked, clapping me hard on the back. "And here's to life lessons learned the hard way."

"What-?" was all I could stammer as the pinhead turned and disappeared into the crowd, laughing as he went, leaving me alone, terrified, confused.--

***

Neural Log: 23:66-14-

--Three weeks after Dexter abandoned me, I lay huddled on the sidewalk sleeping and begging for food with the rest of them-lost in my own nightmare of despondent depression. Lost and alone among the bile and acid and garbage of the city. The Red Ring was slowly digesting me, melting me, eating me alive. I could barely remember the view of the bottom of 24-G from my cafeteria window. I longed for my cubicle, my numbers, my data, my job, my life…

The chatter of the neural net chided me, mocked me, laughed in my brain and told me that it was a long climb back up-ages long. Lifetimes long. My soul felt as empty and mechanical as the pair of decrepit junk-bots that had taken over the corner of the sidewalk, next to me. One of the 'bots dragged itself slowly, deliberately across the filthy grime-walk towards the grid locked traffic, filthy rag in hand-a vain attempt to smudge-wash windows for a credit. The other hadn't moved in days. There was nothing to indicate that it wasn't dead, broken, dysfunctional. Leaning against the slick facing of the lower level fuel-storage aquariums, it's empty, soulless eyes turned crackwards. Looking at it I was overcome with remorse and sorrow. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I lowered my head into my hands and slumped to the sidewalk.

Cyber-sluts ho-ho-hoing and whore-whore-whoring down the track sidestepped me. Coal-black plastic legs poured into ratty fishnet stockings stepped over me. The cyber-sluts goggled me, ooohing and aaahing, but I ignored them, my body wracked with sobs. Vacu-pump hoses and other various accoutrements of pleasure, degradation, and release were barely concealed on their plasti-flesh torsos, in open and obvious display. The cyber-sluts are the horrid vermin of the lower levels-loud and overbearing, relentless in their pursuit of credits, offering unspeakable depravities in loud mechanical voices-but the human whores are the worst. And human is too kind a word-misshapen half-lives falling out of their rags and crawling and dragging themselves along, desperately grabbing and clawing at the pant legs of drug-addled passers by. Begging for credits and food and sex and drugs, offering dirty sucky-suck access to every natural or augmented festering opening in their ransacked bodies. I'd never seen anything so depraved up on level 12, never heard of such atrocities in the neural news, never knew that such ugliness could exist.

And that's when I decided that I'd had enough. I peeled myself up off of the ground and walked over to the guardrail marking the edge of the central city-shaft. Looking down, I took a deep breath and-

"So tell me, how's it feel to see how the other half lives?" Dexter clapped me roughly on the shoulder and I spun around, startled and unbalanced.

And that's how I came to slip, to fall, to jump, to be pushed out of the Red Ring and down into the Bath.--

***

Neural Log: 23:66-78-

--And I'd landed in a toxic puddle, which itched and burned my skin. I'd broken my neural link when my skull smacked against the slime-coated cement of the Refuservoir floor. And in the choking, smothering quiet that followed I almost didn't notice as my clothes began to disintegrate, soaked in the chemical filth of the Bath.

I was naked, alone.

And now, with the neural net gone quiet, the paranoia settles in. An ad-barge floats by, far overhead, almost lost in the mist and gloom of the city, selling trinkets to the uppers and motivation to the lowers. Though I know that I'm too far away to be seen, and that it's eyes are turned towards the waving customers on the various rings and not the Refuservoir floor, I cower behind a hill of cluttered garbage and wait for it to pass.

Tatters of my melted clothes drip and hang from my shoulders and arms, and the chemical slick stings. My skin erupts in swollen, rosy patches. My nose begins to run and when I make the mistake of wiping it with my forearm I can smell the toxic fumes as the ooze burns my cheeks and nostrils.

Then the ad-barge passes and I begin a desperate search for something to wipe my skin. There are several large puddles of water about, but they are sticky and green with the same chemical ooze. Everything is. The itching, burning is becoming unbearable, and in a futile attempt I chase after a clean-looking food wrapper that has been caught in the wind. BEEF-STUFFFF! MMMMM! it reads, and it looks, if not clean, then at least not covered in the stinging chemicals. But it proves too small and too non-absorbent to be of any use.

It strikes me that this is the end. The End. The rules of life and death and reincarnation in Crack City apply in the Refuservoir as much as anywhere else: In life you can only go down, never up. In the Refuservoir there is nowhere left to go. I've reached the bottom and could descend no further, in this or any other life. But more importantly, down here in the Bath, there is no means of Ascension, no work to justify my soul's promotion to the next level. I'm trapped.

For me, there is no salvation.

Oh, how could I have fallen so low…--

***

Neural Log: 23:70-45-

--Something pinches the small of my back, and then my thigh, startling me from my despondent slumber. By now I am a swollen, infected mess. I haven't eaten in days, and had barely eaten in the weeks that preceded my fall. There'd not been a peep from the neural net, and a growing electric pain deep in the meat of my brain has begun to worry me. I have no idea if the neural log is recording, but the net wasn't broadcasting.

I'm starving, alone and waiting to die.

Another pinch, this time on my neck, rouses me fully and I open my eyes. In my slumber I'd disturbed a nest of… something. Tiny, segmented double-clawed creatures, leaping up out of the muck with stinging needle-tongues and a chitinous, toothy grip. They swarm up out of the ground and over my fevered body.

I shriek and jump to my feet, awake and brushing them from me. The tenacious ones cling like the devil, pincers locked onto flesh, probing tongues flicking and licking. No sooner do I pry them off and toss them away than others leap up to replace them.

I run, putting distance between me and the nest. Passing a deep, wide puddle of chemical slime, I consider just diving in and ending it all. But I don't.

I take refuge in a deep, dry crater and pull the last of the clinging monsters from my skin. Tiny, pocked sores appear where I've been bit, already turning purple at the edges. Throwing the insects to the ground and stomping on them is enough to kill them. Their shells cut and slice the heel of my foot, but two or three good stomps and they stop moving.

Once they are all dead, I sit down in the crater, exhausted. My stomach is moaning as I stare at the smashed corpses. My mouth begins to water…--

***

Neural Log: 23:70-64-

--After gorging myself on the foul insects I begin to feel tired, woozy, poisoned. A burning sensation erupts in my stomach and grows and spreads through my belly. At first, it was all that I could do to bring the creatures to my nose, touch my tongue to their shells, without gagging. But soon enough hunger took over, and I was able to close my eyes and my mind and suck the wretched juices and organs from the shells, until I'd had my fill. Bug-juice stains the weeks-long growth of beard on my chin.

And now I am feeling sicker by the moment.

My naked skin is pink and burning, slick with sweat and mucous. My desperate mind is going quietly insane. And my stomach…

My stomach-the pain is unbearable, belching geysers of gas and foul liquid that smells like rotting death erupt from me as I curl into a fetal position in the muck and garbage of the crater.

Oh, let me die…--

***

Neural Log: 23:71-13-

--But I don't die.

After timeless hours (or days?) of feverish nightmare-sleep, I awake with a parched throat, shivering in the damp cold of the city's floor.

I'd dreamt that the Arches of 24-G were opened up to me and that a Great Eye was peering down at me from the sky-crack above. I was naked, but the voices of my neural net had returned, and they were laughing at me, mocking me, telling me that I would never ascend to 24-G, that none of us would, that no one ever did… And then I dreamt that I was one of the Elite of 24-G and that I was looking down on the lower levels through the eyes of god and that I saw all but saw nothing. None of the struggle, none of the strife was seen through those all-seeing eyes. Only the dedicated hard work, the clean streets, the happy pedestrians-joyous celebration and the steadfast working for their ascension-even the lower levels, even the Red Rings, were seen through a blurred, myopic lens. The filth was airbrushed until it seemed smooth and clean. None the cyber-sluts or human trash were about, all cleverly hidden just out of the eye's view. Not a pinhead in sight. The Refuservoir was totally obscured beneath a pleasant valley of clouds drifting easily along the city's lowest tier.

I awake to find that my stomach has swollen to twice its normal girth. It's distended and hurts to touch, and it jiggles unnaturally at the slightest movement, as if filled with jelly or sludge. Chills wrack my body, as a shrill, cold wind shrieks over the crater's edge, stirring garbage in tiny whirlwinds and biting my exposed skin.

I start to cry.--

***

Neural Log: 23:72-56-

--A gentle, warm breeze stirs me, and turning my head I notice a small passage in the crater's floor. It is from this downward opening that the warm air billows.

The passage is tight, but wide enough for me (distended belly and all) to squirm into. Garbage and the crust of the city floor scratch my raw, sensitive skin, but the warmth eases my aching muscles. My nose is beginning to run, but the foul smelling belches from my gut are becoming less frequent. Perhaps it's my imagination, but the skin of my stomach feels slightly softer, not as pinched and taught as before.

As I worm my way down into the tunnel, it occurs to me that this might be the end-that I could just curl up in a cozy ball here and die. But something urges me on. Pushing with my toes and pulling with my fingers I inch my way downward. The tunnel floor is illuminated with the pervasive light of the city above, or perhaps there is a chemical phosphorescence to the walls, it's hard to be sure. And then I see it.

A small sign, white on red, set into the floor of the tunnel. Dirty but legible:

SALVATION

I pause for a moment, my muddled brain attempting to decipher the significance of this strange omen.

I begin to dig and scratch at the crust embedding the sign. I pick and claw at the petrified garbage for what seems like hours, before pulling away enough debris to read another single word. ARMY.

What is this? With bleeding fingers I dig some more-desperate before exhaustion, hunger, sickness, or death overtake me to uncover another bit of this mystery-when the ground suddenly gives way beneath me.

The fall is painful, my swollen stomach feels ready to burst, but nothing seems to be broken. Once I get my bearings I can see that I am in a large room filled with strange, whirring machinery. I'd fallen through the ceiling.

Conveyor belts along the walls carry bits and pieces of unidentifiable electronic and mechanical components in from openings in the walls and out through similar passages. Large pot-bellied steel machines rumble and shake beneath tremendous pipes that extend from the floor and into the walls and ceiling. I appear to be in a factory of some sort.

Around me on the floor is the debris of the sign and the ceiling. The sign, freed from the crust of the city floor lies at my feet. Apparently there is little more to the mystery than I'd already uncovered, it reads simply SALVATION ARMY.

What strange army of the past was this? I'd never heard of it, but then, the neural teachings seldom spoke of the past, but rather we were taught to look forward to ascension. But even Dexter's history lessons (which admittedly, I only half-listened to) had never, to my recollection, mentioned such an army.

With further inspection of the debris, the mystery only deepens. Dozens of small metal disks, tarnished and crusted with age, are littered about the floor. And each one bears the strange etching of a man's face. Were these men the soldiers of this army of salvation?

My stomach takes another turn as my eye catches something among the debris that I first mistake to be the bloody gore of preserved meat, sealed neatly in transparent plastic.

Closer inspection, after wiping away ages of smudged dirt, reveals it to be a uniform of some sort. Red velvet in a vacuum-sealed bag.

I tear at the plastic, which rips quite easily, and remove the strange clothes. Stiff with age, the uniform unfolds awkwardly. Red velvet trousers and coat. A matching, pointed cap. A white shirt and coal-black boots and a belt. Also a bell, no doubt a primitive alarm, of some sort… And a large, empty velvet sack. What a strange outfit these soldiers of salvation wore!

But it looks warm and I climb into it, buttoning the shirt and tightening the belt gently over my sore, distended stomach. It's loose-fitting. The boots are sturdy, made of a material unfamiliar to me. The white trim of the hat tickles the sensitive skin of my head, but it is warm, and it feels somehow appropriate to wear the full uniform of this long dead soldier.--

***

Neural Log: 23:74-87-

--The small factory room seems to be totally automated. That is to say, that other than the small conveyor belt portals (much too narrow to admit a skinny child, let alone a man of my distended, sickly girth) there appear to be no entrances to the room.

The hole in the ceiling through which I'd fallen is too high to reach, and there's nothing substantial to stand on in the room (the rumbling pot-bellied machines are far too heavy to be budged, and are secured firmly in place with large, immovable bolts).

Watching the strange devices and unfinished bits of mechanical junk fly by is fascinating. Some of it is vaguely recognizable, and some is strange and unidentifiable. There goes a water filter, and there's a keypad and a seat cushion. Watching the endless stream of odds and ends is monotonous, repetitive, transfixing-data disks, food containers, waste receptacle lids, traffic lights, tooth-scrubbers, ceiling lamps, it all flows silently by. It's hypnotizing. I lose track of time just watching…

And then something glides into the room that is so shocking that at first I don't even consciously realize what it is that I'm looking at. Without thinking, I reach out and pluck it from the belt.

Holding the thing in my hand, I stare at it and it stares back at me. The small golden orb is lighter than I would have imagined, and smaller. The red crystal areole is dark, and doesn't glow with the holy fire that that bathes the streets of Crack City. Holding it in my hand, it seems impotent, insignificant, and I feel suddenly empowered-how ever did I fall so low only to come into possession of one of the eyes of god?--

***

Neural Log: 23:75-47-

--The malleable, uncertain beginnings of an idea tickle the back of my mind. Not really aware of what I am doing or why, I begin collecting pieces from the conveyor belt and stuffing them into my sack. Odds and ends, strange electronic devices and components, circuit boards and data chips, and a handful of implants that I'm almost certain are neural nets…

When the sack is full, I sit heavily down on the floor and carefully examine my surroundings.

No doors in the room. Other than the hole I'd fallen through in the ceiling (and I have no desire to return to the Refuservoir) there don't appear to be any exits. But the conveyor belts must go somewhere, the large pipes and shafts emerging from the floor and walls and heavy machinery must lead somewhere…

I get up and begin to pry at the largest shaft in the room. It is a good three feet in diameter and extends at an upward angle from the largest rumbling pot-bellied machine (a furnace of some sort, I reason) into the seam where the ceiling and wall meet. It's warm to the touch, but doesn't burn, and to my surprise I am able to pry a large plate from the front of the shaft. Warm air billows upwards, but otherwise it is empty.

With nothing to lose, I climb inside, pulling my sack in after me. It's warm, and I'm suddenly filled with an urge to sleep. But curiosity gets the better of me. It's dark inside the chimney-shaft, but I can see that it continues upward without turning for quite a distance. Regularly placed rivets make nearly perfect hand- and foot-holds, and with the warm air billowing up my pant legs and under my coat I begin my ascent.--

***

Neural Log: 23:76-98-

--I climb the chimney-shaft for so long that I lose all sense of time, the warm air rushing past makes me dizzy, lightheaded, and creates the illusion that I am drifting downward, rather than moving upward. Every so often I knock against the steel wall of the shaft, only to hear the unmistakably solid thud of concrete behind it.

Eventually I've climbed far enough that I must be well above the level of the Refuservoir-in fact, though it's difficult to gauge, I feel I must be up past the Red Ring, by now. Perhaps as far as Plaza 3 or the protein farms…--

***

Neural Log: 23:78-32-

--Finally something! I reach a section where the chimney splits into three directions-straight up, and off to either side. Securing my sack firmly to my belt, I continue straight up.

Eventually I come to a similar split. Then another, and another.

I continue my course, straight up…--

***

Neural Log: 23:79-74-

--Blinding light up ahead. As I draw nearer, it begins to take shape. A rectangle, with crisscrossed shadows giving it texture.

Drawing closer I see that it is a vent. Peering through, I am surprised to find myself at floor-level, looking into someone's living room! A pair of feet stride past, startling me, and then a woman's voice calls out, muffled by the carpet and the thick walls, "Pork or chicken-stuff, tonight?" My mouth waters, and I continue onward and upward.--

***

Neural Log: 23:81-38-

--Up past living rooms and bathrooms, apartments, offices and factories, I climb. Past basements and playrooms and studios. Past gene-rep kiosks, breeding gulags and cancer shelters.

I climb past classrooms and auto-feeds and euthanasia clubs, but in all cases the vents looking outward are too small or too secure for me to escape through.

With my bowels churning and my stomach rumbling-I'm belching and moaning, expelling noxious gas from both ends-perspiring, dehydrated and starved, I finally find an exit. A large vent that opens into a dim, clinical room. The vent itself is oversized and so rusted with age that it is nearly falling off of the wall to which it's affixed. Beyond it, all is quiet and still. Small liquid lights cast strange, dancing shadows on the walls and ceiling.

As inconspicuously as I can, I push and pry at the vent, twisting it from the wall, and climb carefully inside. I have no idea what level I might be on, but I suspect that if I am discovered there will be hell to pay. Back down into the Bath-or worse, if such a thing as worse exists in Crack City.

A desperate search of the room reveals no food, and no answers to the question of where I am. One entire wall of the room is glass, a window, and it is from behind this window that the strange lights and reflections originate.

There's only one door leading out of the room, and pressing my ear to it all seems quiet on the other side. It opens into a narrow hallway leading to the room behind the glass.

Bile rises in my throat and a painful shiver wracks my body and weakens my knees so that I have to lean against the wall for support. My nose begins to bleed and suddenly, calmly, I know that I am dying. My distended stomach aches in a deep, unnatural way, and I can feel bad things happening in my kidneys, my lungs, my brain.

Staggering into the room, I am bathed in the dancing liquid light, and enveloped in a warm, wet mist. I fall to my knees, my legs no longer able to support me. The air is thick and cloying, almost claustrophobic, but somehow, despite my failing body, comfortable and inviting. I only want to sleep. I only want to hear those voices chattering through my neural net once more before I commit myself to… to what, I couldn't even guess.

On my knees I crawl to the source of the strange lights. Twelve objects, each set beneath a lamp of its own, each tilted towards the ceiling, receptacles of some sort-I lean forward and peer into the closest one.

Wrapped in a filthy synth-fab blanket is a sleeping infant. Twelve cradles span the room. Twelve babies. But like no babies I could ever have imagined in my wildest nightmares-they are like nothing I'd ever seen or heard described in any neural news session or lesson.

The first infant is more tubes and wires than baby- a misshapen clump of muscle and exposed organs held together by electric wire and intravenous tubing. Its heart throbs in an open cavity, its lungs rise and fall with bloody, rhythmic, tidal regularity. Morbidly curious, it is all that I can do to turn away-I have never seen anything like it.

And in the next cradle-an infant with no arms or legs, just a bulbous head and under-sized torso. And there's a pinhead over there, pointed head no larger than my clenched fist.

"Please do not disturb them," a monotone, electronic voice snaps me from my inspection of the children, "Please do not touch my sugarplums."

I whirl around.

Standing behind me on tractor-tread wheels is a large mechanical woman. The color of dark tarnished brass, with a microphone-mouth and green-glass eyes, her boxy figure towers over me, segmented arms beckoning me to move away from the cradles. Multitudes of dexterous, spaghetti-thin fingers worry together with click-clacking intensity at the ends of her hands.

"Please," she implores through unmoving lips, "Do not harm the little ones. Do not hurt my sugarplums."

"What is this?" I ask. The bile again rises in my throat, and I'm unable to keep it down. Gagging, I dribble foul black ooze over my beard and down the front of my red army of salvation uniform.

"Please step away from the children," the mechanical woman pleads, then in a softer tone, "Here, let me help you." With a much gentler grip that I would have imagined, she lifts me into her arms and places me on a cot in the far corner of the room, near the window away from the babies. "You are sick," she says, matter-of-factly.

I nod. I try to speak, but another fit of heaving seizes me. A long belch followed by another spurt of bile sprays the woman, but she seems not to notice.

"Here," she pours a tall glass of ice water and places it into my hand. "Drink this."

"Who are you?" I ask, "What is this place?"

"This is the Rebirth Center," she answers. "I am MA-368. You may call me Ma." Her electronic voice betrays a compassionate warmth. In a comforting tone she orders me to finish the water and to lie back and try to sleep. "You are exhausted," she says, "Your body needs to rest."

"But the babies," I ask, "What's wrong with them?"

Ma's voice becomes firm. "Why, there is nothing wrong with them," she says in a tone that leaves no room for argument. "They are exactly as god and nature and the city and their parents have made them."

"But what is this place," I ask. "This Rebirth Center?" Already my eyes are growing heavy and the soft cot seems to suck me down into it. My mind begins to wander and drift, and I can imagine Ma smiling as she speaks.

"This is where the unwanted babies are born," she explains, "This is where the ugly ducklings and the sickly ones and the damaged children are born and where they stay until they-"

"Stay?" I mumble as I'm drifting off.

"The ones who are born in such a way that no human eye should ever have to look upon them, stay here. My little sugarplums. They stay here until they are well enough, and then they leave." I thought of Dexter, skulking in the shadows and living a life out of sight of the prying eyes of god-the thought of those all-seeing, selectively blind eyes made me remember the items in my sack. "And the ones who are too sickly live here until they die here," she finished.

"I thought you said that there was nothing wrong with them…" My weary voice sounds distant and slurred.

"There is nothing wrong with them," Ma insists. "They are exactly as god and nature and the city and their parents have made them. All of the healthy children bred in the birthing centers are returned to their parents. And the unhealthy ones-the muties, the sickies, the deformed, diseased and disfigured-remain here. Their parents are given other, healthier children.

"But healthy or not, they are exactly as god and nature and the city and their parents have made them. But no human eyes should ever have to look upon them."

"Why not?" I ask. Ma remains silent. "Why shouldn't human eyes ever have to look upon them?"

After a moment, she answers, "They never have. It is better this way." But she doesn't sound as if she believes herself. "Now sleep."--

***

Neural Log: 23:83-17-

--I dream that I am flying. Soaring majestically up through the rings of Crack City. Over balconies and under sky-bridges, cruising boldly up to and over the eyes of god, and then quickly turning and arcing down, down towards the Refuservoir, gaining speed, momentum, inertia, plummeting almost to the point of impact and then up again-past the Red Ring, past the cafeteria window, past the credit-lined sidewalks of 24-G and up, up, up through the very Crack itself and on into the dazzling, fiery heavens.

Looking down I can see that Crack City is just a glowing scarlet slash in a cold black orb, a crimson eye watching me from below, but growing smaller and smaller as I ascend, impotent and powerless to stop me…

And in my dream I am suddenly, powerfully aware that ascension is all that there is-a beautiful, natural aspect of the soul. Of every soul. In death we are all free-free of rings, free of levels, free of aspiration, free of struggle. Free of the myth of 24-G.

It occurs to me that there is no such thing in life as rising or falling, climbing or sinking-the rings and levels of Crack City are nothing more than a game of the living. The soul can never be demoted, it cannot help but to ascend, to rise, to escape, to be free. The only real demotion is for the living.

The only real demotion is for those helpless, hapless children born in such a way that no human eyes should ever have to look upon them…--

***

Neural Log: 23:85-35-

--When I awake, I know that it is for the last time. I am dying. My bloated stomach tells me this as much as the sour taste in my mouth and the throbbing in my brain. But for the first time in all of my memory, I am not afraid.

Another fit of vile retching seizes me, and when I finally catch my breath I look up to find Ma holding me in her metal arms. Warm plastic fingers stroke my fevered cheeks, comforting me, caring for me.

"What's wrong with me?" I ask, as if I don't already know.

"Nothing is wrong with you," Ma whispers softy. "You are exactly as god and nature and the city and your parents have made you."

"But I'm too sick to live," I smile. "So it looks like I'm going to die here."

"Then that is as it should be," Ma answers. "It is better this way."

"But before that happens," I struggle to sit up-a violent pain erupts in my belly, making me gasp. "Before I die, Ma-there's something I want you to help me with, there's something that I want to do. There's a… gift I want to give."

"Gift?" Curiosity tinges her voice, "For whom?"

"For you, Ma" I smile. And then I start to laugh until the pain in my gut makes it too hard. "For everyone."

"What is it?"

I have to think about this before answering.

"Salvation," I finally tell her.--

***

Neural Log: 23:85-97-

--The components of my velvet sack are laid out neatly on the floor. Some have been taken apart, scavenged for parts, others proved altogether unnecessary. It took us the better part of the day, but with Ma's help my project is now complete.

Mounted to the corner of the ceiling, the eye of god is positioned to look directly down on the twelve cradles. Ma has removed the blankets from the infants, exposing them in all their disfigured glory.

A long wire snakes down from the eye of god and connects it to the neural implant that I'd removed from the factory conveyor below the Refuservoir. Ma holds the implant in one hand and an electric scalpel in her other, as she prepares to begin the operation that will kill me.

I feel the knife cut, slicing cleanly through skin and skull. I feel Ma's plastic needle-fingers gently lifting the bone away, then poking, prying and closing on my damaged neural implant. Carefully, she removes the broken implant and replaces it with the new one-the one which is directly linked to the eye of god.

"Are you ready?" she asks. Ready not sure, she never asks me if I'm sure.

I nod. She turns from me and flips a switch on the wall giving power to the eye and to the implant. My brain is flooded with images and voices and news and conversation and ads and prayers and decrees and instructions. It takes all my effort to tune out the cacophonic noise of the net and focus on my surroundings.

Twelve cradles fill my mind. Seen through the eye of god-twelve stark examples of all the horrors of nature, of man, of Crack City.

If ignorance is bliss and knowledge is a gift, then my gift is the knowledge of the Rebirth Center and its children-its muties, its sickies, its deformed, diseased and disfigured-Crack City's children, our children. Seen through the eye of god and through my neural implant, then out into the net and into everyone's homes.

Through the neural net and into the minds and souls of everyone in Crack City-the citizens and cyber-sluts, the workers and bosses, the mothers and the fathers, priests and politicians. Everyone from the Red Ring all the way up to the Elite on 24-G suddenly stop what they are doing, sit bolt upright, awake in horror, close their eyes and open their minds, take pause, reconsider, swallow hard, reflect, fall silent, understand-as visions of the sugarplums dance through their heads.--

SCOTT C. CARR

Scott C. Carr is writer and journalist with an insatiable curiosity for modern folklore. He has written extensively about the sociology behind the paranormal and other bizarre subcultures and has appeared as an expert on both television and radio, including recently FOX News: FOX In Focus and the film documentary The Hudson Valley Sightings. In addition, he produced and co-hosted his own radio talk show UFO Desk on 99.5 FM WBAI, NY. He's the Chief Editor of the critically acclaimed Apocalypse Fiction Magazine and the Writer and Executive Producer of the AFM/Blue Moon Movies film, The NUKE Brothers. He has written for Sony Entertainment, Artisan Films' Distant Corners Entertainment Group, and his fiction and nonfiction have recently appeared in Pulp Eternity, Pegasus Fiction, The Dream People Literary Magazine, The MUFON Journal, The Flying Saucer Gazette, and the Double Dragon Publishing anthologies Of Flesh and Hunger and The Wicked Will Laugh. A chapter from his novel Believer will appear in Sick: An Anthology of Illness. Carr's work has been favourably reviewed in both MovieLine and Heavy Metal: The Adult Illustrated Fantasy Magazine, and in 1999 he was awarded The Hunter S. Thompson Award for Outstanding Journalism.

Nightmare on 34th Street

By Paul Kane

Christmas Eve.

A time of loving, of giving. Peace on Earth and good will to all men…or should that be "persons" in this Politically Correct day and age? Yeah, right. Officer Mal Docherty hadn't seen much evidence of "Peace on Earth" recently, hadn't seen much evidence in all his years on the force come to think of it. Yes, it was true that the crime rate had gone down in New York, so the figures said. But here on the streets, down here you saw plenty. Muggings, stabbings…and shootings - there were never any shortage of those. The last one he'd seen involved a drugs case back in August. Mal and his partner, Norman Young, had provided back-up for the cops in charge of the case, and they'd witnessed the worst possible outcome of a deal gone sour. Mal could see the blood now, exploding out of the victim's chest as the bullet… He shook his head; he'd seen worse anyway. Much worse.

"Here y'go, Tee," said Harry Grable, handing over two steaming cups of coffee to Mal. "That'll keep you going for a while."

"Thanks, Harry." Mal had been coming to Harry's stall ever since it became part of his beat a few years ago. Harry made the best damned cup of java you'd ever tasted, and his hot dogs and doughnuts weren't so shabby either. The large man with salt and pepper hair and a glowing red nose that would give Rudolph a run for his money leant against his cart, grinning as Mal fished about in his pocket for change.

"No need for that, Tee. On the house tonight. It's Christmas."

Mal looked up and down the street, surveying the scene. The swell of bodies filling up the space, bobbing in and out of stores - most notably Crosby's, the biggest store on 34th Street - all doing their last minute shopping. Not too far away a Salvation Army band was playing "O Come All Ye Faithful"... Quite who the faithful were, Mal had no idea, but the bandleader was conducting the music for all he was worth in case they happened to show up. Lights glimmered in the darkness, the festive decorations illuminating the whole area. Above, giant screens advertised everything from aftershave or perfume at one end of the present scale to outrageously expensive sports cars at the other: a stocking filler for the man or woman who has everything.

"So it is," said Mal. "God bless us every one." He raised his coffee in salute, then took a sip, the liquid warming him up temporarily. It was freezing out here tonight, the weathermen - sorry, weather-people - promising snow again before the evening was out, to top up the layer that had already settled the day before last. Mal wasn't looking forward to working on Christmas Eve, of all nights. But he and Norm had drawn the shitty straw once again so he'd just have to accept the fact that he was on shift now till the wee small hours. It meant that he'd miss all the preparations that were going on back at his home. His children, Lauren (seven) and Brad (five) getting all excited, ready to put out the mince pies and sherry for Santa, Wendy helping them make out their wish lists, a tradition from Mal's own childhood. Then they'd put them under the tree in the hopes they'd be replaced with brightly-coloured packages tied up with bows the next morning. That's really what it was all about, the innocence of being a kid - their belief in the magic. Mal missed that now he was a grown up.

"You been watchin' too many old movies, Tee,' said Harry.

"Yeah," replied Mal. There were plenty on TV to choose from at the moment, the titles more of an irony nowadays: It's a Wonderful Life… Is that right? Still, better than living in the real world, he supposed. "Well, cheers, Harry. You have a good one, won't you?"

"You too, Tee. Say hello to the missus and the little ones from me."

Mal raised the coffee cups, and turned his back on the vendor. He made his way past the crowds, back to the distinctive blue and white patrol car parked on the opposite side of the road. In shop windows he saw his reflection: the dark uniform of a NY policeman, peaked cap, padded jacket and belt, with baton and gun hanging from it. Mal sometimes wondered why he'd ever joined the ranks of the boys in blue. To make a difference? To make the city a safer place for your average citizen, if such a thing existed? To help create a decent world for his children, to give them something to believe in? At times it just felt like he was fighting a losing battle.

The lights changed as he got to them, the signal stating he was able to cross safely. Norm sat in the passenger side of the vehicle. He wound down the window as Mal approached, eager to take possession of his drink. The sounds of the radio wafted Mal's way: U2's "Angel of Harlem" playing on a non-stop X-Mas station Norm had found. Mal heard the lyrics "New York like a Christmas Tree, Tonight this City Belongs to Me…" and thought how appropriate the first part was. New York did look like a Christmas Tree tonight, with all the decorations and lights, while the real thing - a giant Tree not too far away - was attracting ever more visitors. But the city did not belong to Mal, didn't belong to anyone. It was an entity in its own right, one that shouldn't be judged by looks alone.

"About time," Norm called out through the gap in the window, "I was beginning to think you were grinding the beans yourself." He took the cup from his partner and drank a mouthful, the coffee sticking to parts of his moustache. Norm looked at Mal. "No doughnuts tonight?"

"Like I said before, Norm, you can do without them." Mal pointed to the policeman's paunch, hanging over his belt. "Save some room for that turkey tomorrow." Mal knew that even though they were separated, Norm's wife, Cynthia, would be cooking a huge spread the next day for him - Mal always got a report back about it when the pair met up again…and she made enough to feed most of the division.

"Oh I can always find room for one of Harry's doughnuts," Norm assured him.

"I'm sure." Mal drank some more of his coffee and looked back over at the crowd again, seeing the faces this time. None of the people on the streets of New York tonight seemed particularly happy, or festive. They looked stressed, impatient, irritable. Christmas had become almost a mirror of modern day society in a way. Everything had to be done in a hurry and there was more pressure than ever to get things right: to keep up. Lose your footing on the treadmill and you were a goner. The ads showed a perfect world that couldn't possibly exist, and was all but impossible to live up to. Happy families, friends, lovers, all gathered around the fire playing games and having fun. The reality? Most family get-togethers ended in rows, most parties relied on booze to kick start them - and as for those on their own at this time of year, thinking they were missing out, well there was no wonder the suicide rate rocketed between December 24th and 26th …

"What're you thinking about?" asked Norm.

"Mmm? Oh, nothin' much. Nothin'…" Mal's sentence trailed off as he noticed a disturbance out on the street. There were a handful of folk piling out of Crosby's, a couple of maroon-suited staff following them. But these people didn't look stressed; at least, not in the same way as the other New Yorkers. They looked more panicked than anything, tumbling out of the entranceway, arms flailing as they did so.

"Norm?"

"Still here."

"Norm, take a look across the road." Mal pointed in the direction of Crosby's and what was rapidly becoming a small-scale riot of sorts.

Norm frowned. "Something's up."

Mal glanced back at him. "No shit, Sherlock. Your finely honed police skills tell you that? Here," he said, handing Norm the other coffee cup, "Hold this. I'm going to check it out."

Mal made his way back across the road, not bothering to wait for the traffic signals to change now. Instead he dodged in and out of the cars, earning a blast on the horn from one yellow taxi-cab. The police officer pushed past the gathering crowds to get to the people in the entranceway. Just what the hell was going on? A fire maybe? That would explain the pandemonium… Or, heaven forbid, something worse. Something man-made…? Surely this city had seen enough of that kind of thing to last a million lifetimes?

"Okay, okay, what's the problem here?" Mal asked, his hand on one woman's shoulder.

She turned, a look of surprise and bewilderment on her face.

"Ma'am. Can you tell me what's going on?"

Still she stared at him, dumbstruck, so Mal looked around for someone else who could help. One of Crosby's staff came up, eager to oblige. "Officer, oh thank the Lord."

"What's happened, sir?"

"There's…" the man paused, not knowing quite how to explain the situation. "There's been an incident, one of-"

And then Mal heard it; the distinctive blast of gunfire, coming from inside. Somebody in the crowd screamed and there was even more commotion. Mal grabbed the staff member before he could be swallowed up by the churning mass of bodies.

He looked the man in the eyes. "How many?"

"Just one guy, he's gone nuts-"

More shots rang out.

"There are still people inside," said the man from Crosby's. "Children…"

"See that squad car over there, go tell the officer inside to radio for assistance."

"I…yes, I think someone's called the authorities."

"Go tell him anyway!"

The man nodded and began to push back through the crowd. It took a second or so for Mal to lose sight of him completely.

All right, Malcolm Docherty…What should you do? Back-up's probably on the way right now…wait for it to arrive? Might be too late by then…and he'd said there were people inside…children…I have no choice…have to do something…

Mal had to go inside.

Fighting against the tide of humans that were still pouring from the store, he headed for the doors, and headed inside Crosby's department store…

***

It had actually been less than a week since Mal had been in here, last Saturday to be precise, but it had been under such different circumstances. That day he'd been looking forward to visiting the store, bringing Lauren and Brad to town to see Santa in his den. In spite of the superficiality of it all, word had it that the fella they'd hired this year was good: extremely convincing and a wow with the children. Mal had to admit that was right. They'd queued for hours on his day off just so his little girl and boy could sit on Father Christmas's lap. Had it been worth it? You bet. Just to see their cherubic faces light up as they entered the grotto - decorated with candy-coloured stripes, balloons, fairies, huge fluffy bears, and trees laden with baubles, stars and chocolate treats… There was even a toy train chuffing around the tracks above parents' and children's heads.

And then, as Lauren and Brad were finally allowed up to the podium, where Santa sat in all his glory, dressed in the customary red and white outfit, they'd both beamed so broadly all Mal could see were teeth.

"Ho, ho, ho," Santa had said, also smiling - although you could only just see it behind his big white bushy beard. Brad and Lauren took their turn to whisper in St. Nicholas's ear, as female helpers dressed as elves readied presents to give them when they were done. And when Mal took their hands to lead them away, Santa pulled down his half-moon glasses and winked. Nice memories, and something to hang on to when everything else was gloomy…

All Mal could think was what a shame this had to happen here. What a shame that whatever might unfold now would wipe out that memory and replace it with something completely different, something like-

Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!

Mal heard the shots as he walked through the foyer, another handful of shoppers running past him. They were coming from the direction of the grotto he'd visited. Obviously someone else had been pondering the nature of this season a little too much, and he'd come up with his own way of coping with it. Mal broke into a run himself. But he ran in the opposite direction to the fleeing customers - drawing his own weapon as he went. There hadn't been too many occasions when he'd had call to discharge his pistol, and only one instance when he'd had no choice but to… Mal hoped with all his heart that it wouldn't come to that again tonight. Not tonight.

The first thing he saw as he entered the grotto was the train on the tracks above his head. It had been derailed and now hung down like a limp member, flaccid and useless. There was a break in the tracks, ragged pieces sticking out where the blast had hit it. Mal crept further inside, his forehead dripping with sweat - partly due to the change in temperature and partly to his anxiety at what he might find in here.

It was like a snapshot from some kind of nightmare, the Aladdin's cave transformed into a hellish underworld. Bullets had riddled the brightly coloured walls, the fluffy bears and the mock presents on display. Parts of the scenery had been almost shredded in half by the gunfire, baubles on trees shattered. Mal saw an elf helper propped up against some steps, holding her arm. A stark redness was pouring through her fingers, dripping down her lime green costume. Their eyes met, and for a moment he saw a glimmer of hope in them.

Then a hail of gunfire splattered the wall behind him. Mal ducked, rolling over on his shoulder and spreading himself down on the ground flat. He tried to work out the position of the shooter based on where the bullets had come from…It was all but impossible; the whole thing had happened too quickly. From his place on the floor he could see more bodies, feet upon feet. He couldn't tell whether the people they belonged to were just injured, like the elf, or… And he could hear children crying, adults half-screaming and half whimpering with fright. Jesus, who would do something like this?

Mal crawled along on his belly, wriggling like a snake. His hostage and siege training flashing through his mind. He should try to engage this person in conversation somehow, get them talking. At least then they wouldn't be shooting anyone. But who was to say this guy even wanted to talk? Only one way to find out…

"Hey," shouted Mal. "Hey you!"

Silence.

Mal tried again. "Hey, I want to talk to you."

Stupid…What a stupid fucking thing to-

"Don't want to talk," came the answer in a voice that was deep, gruff, and on edge. It was capped off by another shot.

Mal flinched, but persevered. "Then just listen, okay?"

Nothing.

"You can't be doing this…Look, put down your weapon and we'll sort all this out peaceably, okay?"

"You can't sort anything out. No one can!"

Good, thought Mal, you've engaged him…keep going… "Why, what's the problem? There's nothing that can't be fixed…"

"That's what you say."

"So, tell me about it. What is it, money, your job? Something more personal?"

"My job! Hah! That's a good one…"

Okay, so it's his work…He's lost his job or something…Maybe his family too? That's enough to set anyone off…at any time of year…

"It can't be as bad as all that, can it?"

"It's worse…They…they never stop coming…"

"Who, who doesn't stop coming?" Mal raised his head slightly, figuring he just about had an angle on the direction of the voice. Over on his far left. And then he saw the gunman, and it turned his blood colder than a winter's day in Lapland.

There, by the side of Santa's golden throne he stood; bottle of whiskey in one hand and a rifle in the other. By his feet was a sack of other weapons - Mal saw a machine-gun poking out of the top - and tucked in his black belt were two automatic pistols. "The letters," said Father Christmas. "The children, the presents…"

"Oh my God," Mal whispered under his breath. It was the same man who'd been bouncing Lauren and Brad up and down on his knee, who'd winked at them as they left. Mal couldn't believe the turnaround though, from a happy, gentle fellow to raging lunatic, eyes wild, buttons undone half-way down his scarlet tunic.

"I just can't take it anymore," shouted the man. "It's the same every year…They never stop coming…never…"

"Listen…What's your name?"

"You know my name, my names."

He couldn't be serious, surely. "No, your real name."

"You know that as well, deep down…"

"Right, okay…Listen, it's only once a year. It's just a job…"

The man laughed. "Once a year, but for sooo many years, so many decades, so many centuries. On and on, never-ending… And it's not just a job; you can't quit, there's no way out. No way. It's too much for me, too much. I can't stand it any more…"

"Look, I can help." Or at least get you some help… thought Mal.

"No, no you can't. It's too late for that, much too late."

Mal raised himself up a little so he could see the Santa, but duck down again quickly if need be.

"Ha! I know you," said the man, waving his bottle in Mal's direction.

Mal was surprised he remembered, given the amount of people who must have passed through here… "Er…yeah, I was in with my children..." Talking about Brad and Lauren made him look around for the other kids in the grotto. There were several hiding behind a mock-up of Father Christmas's sleigh, some more at the rear of a particularly large present. They looked terrified.

"No, I mean I know you, Malcolm."

How did he know Mal's name? Must've mentioned it when he was here, that's the only thing he could think. "I don't think so."

"Oh yes, I know you. Remember that year you went on and on at your folks for that toy garage? Yes, the one with the little orange car wash and bell. They told you they couldn't afford it and you cried. Still arrived though, didn't it? You got your wish."

"What the f…How did you know about that?"

"I know a lot of things, Malcolm. So many things… I know what a naughty boy you've been in your time as well. Haven't you?"

"Naughty…?"

"Does Wendy know about Officer Kelly? No, I don't think she does, does she?"

Mal's mind was reeling. This was impossible, nobody knew about the fling he'd had with Kelly, not even Norm.

"And that druggie. Wasn't your fault, though. You did what you had to…"

"Shut up."

"Just like we all do."

"I said shut up." Mal stood and raised his pistol, aiming straight for the man's head.

"Go on, do it then…" said the Santa. "Wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

The crying got louder and now there was more screaming. "I mean it," shouted Mal. His hand was shaking, finger twitching on the trigger.

"Can't you see? All this," Father Christmas nodded at the grotto, "All this is bullshit. The world's changed, son. You know it, I know it. Everything's gone bad."

"Including you."

Santa didn't answer him, but Mal could see a tear trickling down his cheek, heading for the forest of white below.

"It really isn't too late, you know," said Mal.

"Isn't it? You really believe that? You really believe in anything anymore…?"

Mal fell silent.

"Thought so." Santa raised his rifle, ready to shoot. Mal briefly saw a picture of the drug addict he'd killed all those months ago, and froze. He heard the crying of the children - of the adults - in that store. Did he really want to do this in front of them? Time was running out and he had to make up his mind.

There was a shot. And Santa dropped his gun and his whiskey. Another blast echoed around the room, then the man was falling over, toppling against the golden throne. He raised a bloodied hand to clutch at the chair arm, but it slipped off, too wet to find purchase.

Mal looked down at his pistol, expecting to see the telltale smoke rising from the barrel. But then he realised he hadn't been the one who'd fired. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Norm there, along with a number of SWAT officers and, unless he was mistaken, a few Feds too.

They swarmed in, checking on casualties, ushering the children to safety, securing the area. Mal moved forwards with Norm and the SWATs to find the man dressed as Santa keeled over on the floor. They snatched the handguns from his belt, kicked away his rifle, and trained their own weapons on him. Somebody called for a paramedic, and Mal noticed that a number had already entered the grotto to treat the wounded. He feared it would be too late for this particular one, though.

Father Christmas coughed, and smiled at Mal. "Ho…ho…ho…" he wheezed. Then he winked from behind his pair of cracked half-moon glasses, before closing his eyes forever.

"You alright?" Norm asked his partner.

Mal nodded. Physically he was fine, if maybe a little shaken up.

"Jeez Louise, look at the hardware in that sack," said one of the SWAT guys. "Guess not everyone wants computer games for Christmas…"

Mal turned and started to walk away.

Norm jogged up alongside him. "Hey, where are you going?"

"Home," said Mal.

"What about the report? Hey…Mal, hey wait up…"

But Officer Malcolm Docherty was already on his way out of the den.

***

It began snowing while Mal walked the streets, but he barely even noticed. And it was close to midnight by the time he arrived back home. Mal let himself in, heading straight for Lauren and Brad's rooms first. They were fast asleep, their innocent faces as pale as angels on the pillows.

Mal left them in peace (heavenly peace…?) grabbed a Bud from the fridge, and walked into the lounge. The TV was on - the end of some stupid Christmas special featuring a variety of "Z list" celebs. Wendy was dozing on the couch; she only stirred slightly when Mal came in. He took a gulp from the bottle just as a news flash came up on the television.

"…in Crosby's tonight. The shootings left several people injured but only one person dead, the gunman - who has since been identified as a Mr. Christopher Cringle. A spokesperson for Crosby's said 'He has only been in the employ of this store for the last month, and his credentials seemed very impressive…"

Mal switched off the set and took another swig of the beer. The clock on the mantle chimed twelve. His eyes were drawn to the tree in the corner of the room, and the wish lists below it. He wondered whether those wishes would ever be granted, now that…

No, he didn't want to think about it. Didn't even want to consider the outrageous possibility that one of the last shining lights, one of the last symbols of hope was no more. That He'd been tainted by this world, driven mad by the demands placed upon him…

Cringle had just been some guy in a Santa suit, just another person who'd lost it and gone ape with America's favourite adult toys.

"I know you…You've been a bad boy…"

Mal took out his notepad and pen, and scribbled something down. He walked over to the tree, bent over, and left the note there. Then he joined his wife on the couch, slumping down beside her, and waited till morning to see if his wish would come true.

PAUL KANE

is a horror author from Derbyshire in the UK. He has had stories published in many magazines and anthologies on both sides of the Atlantic, in all kinds of formats. His first two collections Alone (In the Dark) and Touching the Flame have been highly praised by writers, critics and trade magazines alike, and his most recent collection is Funnybones (from CGP), this time gathering together all of his humorous horror fiction. In addition, Paul is also editor of the Shadow Writer, Terror Tales, and Top International Horror anthologies.

He has a B.A. and M.A. from Sheffield Hallam University and in the past has worked as a photographer, an artist, an illustrator/cartoonist, a professional proofreader, and a freelance writer and reviewer. He is currently working as a lecturer in Film & Media studies and Creative Writing, and is at the moment working on a Hellraiser Film Book for Indigo, an interactive role playing adventure, and his second novel. Paul's website can be found at http://www.shadow-writer.co.uk

Far-off Things

By Quentin Crisp

Childhood, legendry, love - all these things share one thing in common, a sense of misty, uncrossable distance. And that distance is also the depth of our longing for them; and that distance is an old song crafted from sadness. The song has always been old; its age and its sadness are one.

Poets, philosophers, sages - since words have been at their disposal they have devoted those words to one of the three above. But is it not strange that love - for that is the word in question - which has no sure existence in this world at all, should be the object of so much elegy and debate?

Sometimes, swollen with sighs, I would add words of my own to this debate. My words would be thus: that true love is another world that has existence only in the lover's solitary heart. Upon contact with the harsh air of this, our world, it dies away. And to illustrate my words I would retell a tale of childhood - perhaps in some form known to some already - and one that belongs to the no-time of legend.

Both the latitude and the age, as befits a tale of legendry, were isolated from all maps and history. We can say that the town was in the north, and by that understand that its streets were grey and cold, that these events took place in the olden days, and by that understand that barefoot children in threadbare clothes played hopscotch and whipped hoops through those streets. But amongst those children was one child who could not play such games.

The boy had not spoken a word since his birth, though his hearing was sharp enough. That in itself would not have forbidden him from playing with the other children. There was simply something wrong with him. It seemed he could not bear to look another human being in the eye, as if he was afraid of what they might see in his own. And so people were just as uncomfortable with him as he was with them, until he acquired the title of idiot and everyone felt much relieved. As an idiot he could have his place in the town, and even if he was not respected exactly, he was ignored.

So while other children chanted their skipping rhymes he would sneak from one dank, crumbling alley to the next as if he wished himself invisible. Indeed, all around seemed to abet his invisibility so that, to a stranger, his exaggerated stealth must have looked comic and pathetic.

Out past the last alley, the last brick wall and all the unspoken mourning that is reared with stone and clay, the town gave way to meadows and hills crowned with copses. At this boundary the boy would suddenly run, bursting with a mixture of excitement and release.

The open fields, the sky pupilled by clouds slow with peace and wonder: these were the boy's schoolroom. Life to him was as unfenced as they. He did not count the years, nor did he reckon how he should act or what he should feel according to how many had passed. He foraged for pine-cones and chestnuts amid leaves. Where the water stilled and swelled at the bend in the stream, he lay flat and reached out to tickle the bellies of trout. He found out the nests of all the birds and watched the progress of their eggs and their fledgling young. In the vine-crowded tower of the broken old lime kiln he waited for bats to waken or to come home.

To the boy these things were familiar. They were his very own treasures. But enfolded in the valleys between these hills the boy had also found out something that was to him strange and enticing. Wilder than the ragged hills around, to the boy at least, was the farmhouse and the people who lived there. When the tide of evening drew in he would pause amid the long grasses of the meadow that looked down upon the house, and gaze at the yellow windows. He heard with distinctness sounds from the kitchen, and from without the barking of dogs and the restless clucking of hens.

Perhaps he would not have paused so long in the evening, listening for the different voices from within, if it were not for something he sometimes saw during the day. Her name was Leah. She was the daughter of the house and old enough to work around the farm. The boy would catch a glimpse of her now and then, on lucky days, when she sat on a stool in the barn to milk the cows. Without knowing why, the boy made this one division in his life, between the time before he had ever seen her and the time since. And yet he did not question his own fascination, and indeed, hardly thought about the girl except when he was near the farmhouse and remembered her again, as if afresh, like an animal curious at a scent it did not understand.

Time passed and the boy could now hardly remember his life before he knew of the girl. It happened that one day Leah failed to appear in the barn. When her absence continued the next day and the next, the boy felt downcast and was unable to enjoy his usual solitary play as before. Suddenly, all he could think of was when he would next catch sight of her. The boy was quick-eared and heard much that was not meant for him. He knew the girl's name already and soon he learnt from a few words let fall here and there in the town that she had taken ill. It seemed her illness was of a kind from which few recovered.

Now, when the boy passed near the farmhouse, the place seemed desolate. He was sure that even the sounds from within had become sad and subdued. As he stood and looked down from the upper meadow the thought struck him with peculiar sharpness that he might never see the girl again. The world that had begun with the first sight of her, and had grown almost to be the whole of his memory, might soon be gone. He felt as much urgency as helplessness, and beyond these two vying emotions a sadness as if he had only just woken to the sober, nagging loneliness of himself. It seemed appropriate that autumn was deepening towards winter, and that a frost was in the air.

The boy passed by the farmhouse no more and no less often than before. Without hope there was nothing else he could do than this. The light was short, the darkness long, so that the days were as nights and the nights seemed almost to meet each other in one unpassing night. And somewhere deep in the heart of this night, unable to bear the weight of his hopelessness any longer, the boy slipped out of his house. With all the world lost in dreams around him he realised this is what he should have done before.

The boy was fond of secrets. They were to him the most precious things in the world, and in this unexchangable currency he had long ago acquired riches. Who can say but that there was some deep link between his love of secrets and his muteness? As the wide night took him in its soughing embrace he knew that he was seeking the most precious secret of all. The girl's fate had been decided, and when one's fate is decided one is already moving and breathing in another world. The boy had to get close to that house, if only to hear her sleeping breath or to know that she was there dreaming with the night's vast and single dream.

As he emerged from the line of trees at the top of the meadow he heard an eerie, shivering sound, clear on the frosty air. Echoing in the loneliness of nature, it was not a sound of nature. He moved a little further, like a cautious fox. Leah was leaning from her open casement in the upper storey of the house, as if to release her sobs to the thrilling cold and endless freedom of the night where they would not disturb her tired family. As the moon gave to the clouds that fogged it a mystical effulgence, so it seemed to the boy, Leah's sobs leant the night a wondrous beauty. It was then that the mystery of love was disclosed to him, by Leah and by the night, more breathless and complete than the most ancient love poem. Love was hidden from the world in the shape of this child, to be revealed only to the eyes of another child. And the child whose eyes they were was one untutored in the uses the world has for things. He did not know there should be a use for or an object to anything. So this love simply was, and there was nothing for him to do but gaze and admire.

It is an irony worth noting that of all the love songs and poems that ever were, none of them succeed in recording any sense of what the being who inspired them was like. All that is recorded is the feeling of love itself. And yet for the author of the song or poem there was only one person who it could be meant for. Why is that person always lost? Why do they become nothing more than an anonymous 'you'?

The face and name that love had assumed this time were Leah's, and the boy was keenly affected by her uniqueness. It was all part of the secret now his. In all of history there would only be one Leah, and since she was already not long for this world, it seemed that all of time and creation had rejected a beauty too great for it. Only the boy was there to see it. He saw it in the treacly dimple of her cheek, the jutting of one of her teeth, the way her hair seemed to melt into wisps, making the slightness of her whole frame something gossamer that might disappear in too bright a light. He saw these things, and he also numbered among the privileged few in all the starry span of time to know her voice. Oh, most indescribable of all things, the human voice! In hers he sensed a gentleness and shy intelligence that must understand him, and yet which could only be too good for him. The boy could not imagine that such beauty could ever touch something so intrinsically lowly as 'himself'. Nor could he imagine that it could possibly spurn him, since his love was that beauty's mirror. All that he could do was try and grasp the unique and elusive thing called Leah in the deer-like movements of her body and as it trembled in her voice.

He saw this uniqueness as a colour, the rarest ethereal blue, bordering on turquoise. His memories of Leah were full of this colour and serene. But when he saw her now, her voice was wracked with tears and that beauty was a naked, devastating thing. If the blue of his memories was like the flashing limpidity to be seen sometimes in a peaceful stream, then that colour was transformed now into the frothing, violent white where the stream meets the rapids.

Leah brimmed and overflowed with tears for the passing world that was her self. Night after night, how many tears had fallen on that patch of earth next to the door? The boy could think of nothing more sacred than those tears. So, when Leah had utterly exhausted herself with crying and withdrawn into the muffled darkness of her room, he crept right down to beneath her windowsill and looked for any trace of them. They had melted the frost a little, and the earth had drunk them up. This was what the boy found the first time. The second and third time tiny shoots were pushing themselves up through the stony earth and into the unwelcoming autumn air. They grew with astonishing speed, until, in a week or so, they were recognisable as a kind of cowslip.

But there had never been cowslips like these before. They reminded the boy of something. Just as Leah's sobs had expressed a sadness and beauty transcending nature, so these flowers, too, seemed to be something other than nature's scions. They were not of nature, and not of the everyday world of humankind. They were visitors from the world of faerie. When Leah, exhausted of all tears, withdrew and closed her window, the boy would draw close and examine the blossoms. They were a silvery blue colour, almost turquoise, like Leah's teardrops in the moonlight. When the boy breathed in their scent he was taken by an irresistible nostalgia, like the knowledge that youth is the most ancient of all things. Their scent could have been Leah's very breath, and no doubt their nectar was warm and salty. It was certain that these flowers were the external, living efflorescence of all Leah's beauty.

Leah herself must have been blinded by her tears, till all the world blurred and ran and the stars were drowning in the sky. She did not seem to see the flowers till they had grown a little over waist height. She had been weeping almost silently, one night, when her attention seemed to be caught by her own falling teardrops, as if there might be some consolation in watching her own sorrow fall through the empty space, detached from her, like rain. Then she saw the flowers where her teardrops fell and the night was made intimate with her little gasp of wonder. She appeared to forget her sadness as she gazed. She must have been strangely moved by the strength of such fragile-looking flowers, blooming effortlessly amidst the icy bleakness of the season.

"If only I could live as long as one of those," she said to herself, "just to see Christmas Day again, I would be happy."

As he watched, the boy's eyes followed Leah's down. As if both of them had forgotten her words they saw only the pearly wonder of the flowers. And while their eyes were drawn downwards, Leah's words went up, up like a prayer, into the night where no human eyes were now turned. The sky stretched out more vast than any landscape below it. The stars and the webbed effulgence of the moon shed a cold, marmoreal light upon the clouds below, as if they were ruins and the clouds were the desert dunes they stood in. But the skyscape was not empty. In the vapours of the clouds, stirring in the deepest pools of night's blackness, throwing out an arm in the midst of their slumber, or muttering words that make sense only in dreams, were all the demons, bugbears and gooligars that look down upon our world and make sure that no part of existence goes by unwitnessed. They are the far-off things for whom dreaming and waking is one. All things happen under the same sky, and because of the far-off, grey and shapeless things that dwell there, the unseen background to all that passes in the world, in a sense all things are far-off, one thing from another.

There, in their cracked and crumbling Olympus of weirdly glinting stars and bottomless night, gargoyles of cloud vomit in play over bat-winged cherubim; there lesser imps disport upon the backs of sky-borne behemoths. And there in the teeming loneliness and the howling silence, Leah's prayer could be heard.

***

Something wonderful had occurred to the boy. He did not need to hide and watch any longer. So far his love had simply been the act of seeing. Now he could step into the picture of his own love. It was a simple matter, and yet the plan the boy had made was such that he began to feel himself walking in that other world to which Leah already belonged, a fateful world where all deeds were as the language of the gods. All he had to do was to show Leah her own beauty. He was the only one who could show it to her because he was the only one who understood it. The savage emptiness of Leah's lot was real. All the possibilities of the infinite had been broken off to leave something merely incomplete. It was unbearable. But the fact of its unbearableness turned what was small once more into an infinite platform for beauty. It was not a real beauty as the emptiness was real. Not yet. But if he showed it to her it would be. He could not speak, but if he only gave Leah the gift of her own beauty their hearts would not need words. Then something would happen that had never happened before in the history of the world.

Somehow this plan was so awesome that the boy just could not hurry to carry it out. To hurry was not in the spirit of the thing. Then, suddenly, Leah stopped appearing at her window, and the boy was plunged into misery. He was afraid that she might already be dead, and that his chance was gone forever, and he cursed himself for his slowness. But as he sat on the doorstep of his house, his head in his arms, lost in his dreary pain, without word and without vision, he heard the footsteps of people passing and a bright voice chirped, like the sun piercing a sky packed with a cumulus of grey clouds.

"Yes. Not a whisper of her illness. It's just like she woke up one day and it melted away."

"It makes you wonder, don't it? Maybe we could all cure ourselves if we just woke up in the right mood."

"Yes. Straight away she said she wanted to work on the farm again."

The voices disappeared off down the road. The boy lifted his head from his arms in joy. All around him now was that bleak no-man's-land that might be autumn or winter, and the cold stones of the town. But to him it was spring and birdsong. Without waiting he leapt up and ran over the hills to the farmhouse. Leah, it seems, had just finished milking and was carrying two steaming pails from the barn, her soft cheeks flushed in the cold air. Watching from his habitual hiding place behind a stone wall, it seemed to the boy that Leah's renewed health was even more precious than her illness had been. She looked more beautiful than ever. He noticed the faerie flowers still grew by the door. If he could carry out his plan now, with Leah restored to the world, perhaps there could even be a lifetime of…of what? Of that unimaginable state the plan was to bring about. But when to do it? The timing must be right. And then it struck him as obvious. For something of such magic and moment he must choose the most magical date on the calendar. It must be Christmas Day, buried deep in the folds between autumn and winter. It was not long now. He only had to wait a few more days.

***

Christmas Day dawned. It was still early, and the cold of the air and the white of the snow made everything seem fragile. Something of the deeper blue of night stained the edges of the sky, fading to a very rare blue, almost tremulous, if a colour can be said to tremble. It was a blue that the boy knew in his heart.

From the lintel of the door there hung icicles. Under a dusting of snow the flowers still bloomed, as if they lived on the darkness and cold as some flowers do on sunshine. The boy knocked on the door. What would he do if it was not her? But it must be her. Who else could come to answer when such a blue was in the sky? There were no voices from within, but there were movements. Someone was coming. His heart beating in happiness, the boy knew it was her before she opened the door. Sure enough, she had been the only one awake so early on Christmas Day.

The door opened. She looked at him, puzzled, but with a sense of pleasant anticipation, as if anything that happened today must be part of the day's festivities. She was not wrong. The boy had never seen her so close, and now the freshness of her beauty startled him, so that he realised it was not an easy thing he meant to do at all. But he wanted to now more than ever. This was the moment. After a few seconds of flustered silence he took his left hand from behind his back and offered something to her. She looked down. In his grasp there was something beautiful, a turquoise, opalescent flower, just like the ones that grew by the door…Her eyes widened for a moment and then she fainted away, as lightly as a snowflake falling to earth, in a swoon of death.

***

What happened on that Christmas morning became my greatest secret, and one that has guaranteed my silence all these years, if any such guarantee were needed. Perhaps it is best I can never tell this tale, and not merely because my guilt is thereby hidden. Since it will never meet the harsh air of the world, in this tale, at least, something of the magic of those far-off things, happy or unhappy I no longer know, will be preserved.

Now I am old and hoary. I have enough wit to tend to my bees and sell their honey and keep myself warm in my shed. My eyes are still clear, and my hearing keen, and every day more is added to my store of secrets. In secrets I am richer than any man that ever lived. And though I am old, the sun on the grass looks the same to me as it ever did, and the grass beneath my feet feels the same. I have no need to envy the spring. I have not opened my mouth to speak, and what is inside me has remained the same and ever-young. Perhaps I am the idiot people say I am, for every day the world's cruel wonder leaves me speechless. And I know that even if I tried to speak, even if I forced a sound, with the first, painful birth cry of my voice there would start a wailing, weeping howl that would go on forever.

QUENTIN S. CRISP

was born in 1972 in Devon, England. He has written stories since his childhood, generally in a dark and fantastic vein. His first collection of short stories, The Nightmare Exhibition, was published in 2000 by BJM Press, receiving praise from Thomas LIgotti amongst others. Another collection, Rule Dementia!, is expected from Rainfall Books in 2004. His influences range from Lovecraft through Burroughs to the likes of Mishima Yukio and Nagai Kafu. His interest in Eastern culture has led him to live in Taiwan and Japan, where he was generally to be observed walking aimlessly about alleyways and drinking great quantities of green tea. He is currently hovering in limbo somewhere between the planes of life and death.

The Night Of The Party

By Mark West

The party had been going well, until Tim Garrett decided to make his move.

The Brooks-Hammond Associates Christmas party was a big occasion, with every member of staff - from warehouse operatives through to the directors - attending. Held in the Gaffney Royal Hotel, everyone was expected to dress the part and behave accordingly. Of course, this never usually happened but minor infringements of both - like the sales girls in their tiny handkerchiefs of tops, or a warehouse man doing a drunken dance - were overlooked.

Amanda Clarkson was standing outside the ballroom, quietly smoking a cigarette, to get a respite from the pounding beat of the disco. For some reason, her office had sat at a table next to a set of speakers, where it was impossible to hear any conversation or think straight.

Even with the ringing in her ears, the hotel had that quietness to it that well-heeled establishments tend to have. Thick carpets muffled footsteps, the walls were covered with expensive wallpaper and paintings and the noise of the party was contained by the heavy doors. Out here, on her own, she could collect her thoughts before heading back into the onslaught of loud music and drunken conversation.

"Well hello there."

Amanda turned to see the speaker and cringed. She'd only been working at B-HA for six months, but had heard all about Tim Garrett, National Retail Sales Manager. A short, pudgy, balding man, he thought he was God's gift to young women and didn't hesitate to prove it. Amanda had been informed that, at twenty-one, she'd be a prime target and had better watch out.

"Hi," she said.

"Tim Garrett," he said, smiling broadly at her, "NRSM. And who might you be?"

"Amanda, I work in Finance."

"A new girl, eh?" The smile dissolved into a leer.

She nodded, moving slowly towards the ballroom door.

Garrett was leaning on the doorframe of the Gents. His tie was halfway down his chest, the knot tiny where he'd pulled it without loosening it first. His shirt - dark blue with white collars and cuffs - was dark at the armpits and there was a crusty trail of gravy down his front. His face was streaked with thin streams of red, where sweat had caused the colour to run in the party hat he was wearing at a jaunty angle.

"So how are you?" he asked and launched himself across the corridor, grasping the wall for support.

"Not bad," she said, reaching behind her for the door handle. One of the sales girls told Amanda that Garrett had cornered her at a previous Christmas party and managed to get his hand down her top before she could shake him off. "How are you?"

"Happier now I've seen you," he said and grinned at her, the pantomime face of the pleasantly pissed.

"Well, I was just going back in."

He lurched along the wall, ever closer to her. "What are you out here for, anyway?"

"To have a smoke and clear my head."

"Looks fine to me," he smiled.

"Thank you. Look, I'm going to go in."

"You're not trying to get away from me, are you?" he said slowly. He was still moving and she could smell him now - sweat, cologne and beer.

"Not at all." She hoped her face wouldn't betray the lie.

"Good, because you sounded rude then. Don't you like the look of me?"

What did she say to that? "You look a bit unwell."

"Well you look wunnerful, love."

She resisted the temptation to try and cover her knees, which her round-necked black dress didn't quite reach. "Thanks. Are you coming in?"

He was almost upon her now, just a few feet to go. "Nah, I wanna discuss some expenses."

"I don't do expenses," she said, still reaching for the door handle. Where the bloody hell was it?

He pushed off the wall and, lurched two quick steps forward and put his arms out, until he was in her face, an arm on either side of her head. The smell of him almost turned her stomach.

"Who cares?" he said and licked his lips. Amanda noticed that his tongue was coated yellow.

"Can you step back, please?" she said carefully, starting to feel a little worried.

"Why fight it? You know you want me, everyone does."

Tingles of fear darted through her belly. "Look, there's been some mistake. I just want to get back to the party."

"Don't fight it, Mandy. I've got a room, nobody needs to know."

"I will though." She tried to push him back but he was using his arms for support and she couldn't get any leverage against his bulk. "Please, get away from me."

"Mandy, Mandy, Mandy, what's the problem?"

Now she was scared. "I'm sorry, but you are. I don't like this, really I don't."

"Well none of my other bitches has ever complained." He moved his right arm and flopped against her. "Lovely tits," he said, moving his shoulder against her left breast. "Anyone ever told you that?"

She felt her eyes well with tears. "Please get off me, or I'll scream."

His right hand was resting on her thigh and began to move down, searching for the hem of her dress. She pressed her hands to his shoulders and tried to push him away, digging her nails in. The pain didn't seem to affect him and his hand continued its steady progress.

"Leave me alone or I swear I'll fucking scream."

He giggled. "Potty mouth."

She brought her knee up quickly and he folded over it, his breath woofing into her face. He went down like a sack of potatoes, his hands cupping his groin, tears spilling down his cheeks.

"You bitch," he gasped, "you fucking bitch."

"I warned you," she said, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her hand.

"I'll fucking kill you."

Amanda stepped around him, frightened of what he might do if he got up. She didn't want to be here, she just wanted to be at home.

Garrett brought his knees up to his chest, his face scrunched up with the pain. "You wanted it, Mandy, you know you did. No-one'll ever believe you."

Starting to cry, Amanda walked quickly out of the hotel.

***

It was the week before Christmas, cold with a clear sky. Flashing lights and multi-coloured decorations hung from the lampposts and were draped between buildings, but Amanda ignored them. She didn't feel in the Christmas spirit anymore and the tears swamping her eyes blurred the lights and made it difficult to see.

She felt stupid and weak - she'd been told what he was like, so why didn't she go back into the ballroom as soon as he appeared? And what would happen on Monday - would he say anything or complain about her? What if he was right and no-one believed her version of events?

Taking a tissue out of her handbag, she dabbed at her eyes - she must look a right state by now, with trails of mascara running down her cheeks. Her coat was still in the ballroom, but she wasn't going to go back for it. She would get a taxi home, tell her boyfriend Roger that she wasn't feeling very well and go to bed and try to forget about this whole sorry mess.

Feeling slightly better that she'd made up her mind, she walked up Market Street towards the taxi rank.

***

Gaffney seemed to be alive with revelers. Groups of people poured out of the pubs, laughing and joking, holding one another up or engaging in play fights. Girls walked past, with tinsel boas draped around their necks. Men staggered in the road, shirts undone, lipstick kisses on their cheeks.

The taxi rank occupied most of Dalkeith Place, but it was surrounded by four pubs and there must have been close to fifty people milling around, with no sign of any cabs. From her right, through an alleyway that led to the Cornmarket Hall and swimming pool, came a gang of four lads.

"Aye aye, look at that beauty."

She looked away quickly and kept moving. Don't make eye contact with them, just ignore whatever they say.

"Hey, love, do you fancy a Christmas kiss?"

She wished they'd leave her alone.

"Come on, it's Christmas. You can't ignore us now."

Resigned - they were coming towards her, what could she do? - she slowed and turned her head.

All of them were wearing pale Ben Sherman shirts and chinos - they looked as cold as she felt. None of them could have been older than her, but they all looked the worse for wear and bleary eyed.

"Christmas kiss?" said the one nearest to her, his hair shaved close to his scalp, pitted with little bald patches were the scar tissue had covered the follicles. He was pointing towards his groin and she glanced down. He'd attached a sprig of mistletoe to his belt and she felt her stomach drop.

Now what? There were no taxis and the lads were going in her direction. She could always walk home, but it must have been a couple of miles away and she was scared and cold.

"Come on, you slag, give us a kiss." The man sounded angry now and that made up her mind. She turned and ran past them and down the hill, their hoots and jeers ringing in her ears and bouncing off the closed shop fronts around her.

***

Amanda kept running until she was on Northampton Road, a good half a mile away. The run had warmed her up slightly, but it had also given her a painful stitch in her side and her breath burned in her throat. Her feet hurt as well, where her new shoes had dug in.

Northampton Road ran down to an intersection, under the railway bridge and then up towards the A14. Halfway up the hill, she'd turn right for the short walk back to the flat. She wondered what Roger was doing now. Whatever it was, she wanted to be there with him and not out here, where the cold was starting to make her head ache.

Walking briskly, she set off down the hill. No-one was around and the traffic was light. The bus garage was all closed up for the night, the double deckers lined up in their bays waiting for the Christmas shopping Park & Ride tomorrow.

The intersection was deserted, the lights changing like a slowed down disco system, with no cars waiting for them to turn green. The bridge, half in darkness, seemed to call her to safety.

She crossed the road, feeling relieved - she was nearly home.

A man was walking down Northampton Road, about as far from the bridge his side as she was from hers. He was wearing a dark overcoat, smart trousers and carrying a briefcase. She thought quickly about crossing to avoid him but decided it wouldn't be necessary, he was a businessman on his way home from work.

Amanda reached the bridge, the road marked with narrowing patterns for lorries to follow so they didn't get stuck. The pavement was protected by a metal fence and she trailed her fingers over the cold metal, watching the floor but looking up every now and again to see where the businessman was. The pavement was wide, but you had to keep to your own side to pass another pedestrian.

He walked under the bridge at the same time she did and caught her looking at him. In the wan light of the dirty bulbs on the underside of the bridge, she saw him smile.

They met halfway, she against the metal fence, he against the brickwork.

"Goodnight," he said, as they passed.

"Goodnight," she said and then he touched her shoulder.

The tingles of fear that had been growing since the Royal Hotel, suddenly exploded into sheer panic. She turned quickly and he was standing still, facing her.

"Yes?" he said, "did you want something?"

She was confused now. Had he touched her or did she imagine it?

"No," she said slowly, shaking her head, "everything's fine."

"Good. So you didn't fancy a fuck then?"

Did she imagine that? She looked at him, his thin face and red cheeks, his curly brown hair cut short and couldn't believe it. He was smiling at her, as friendly as a vicar at a village fete. Was she going mad? "What did you say?"

His smile broadened and he leaned on the metal fence, resting his briefcase against his leg. "I asked if you wanted something."

Relief flooded her. She had been imagining it. She couldn't wait to get home now, to have a hot bath and climb into bed, safe and secure.

"No, I'm all right thanks."

His smile faded. "So you didn't want that fuck then?"

She hadn't imagined that. "I have to go," she said, shaking her head.

"I'll come with you," he said, but didn't move.

She turned and walked away quickly, wanting to put plenty of distance between them. She could be home in five minutes now.

His footsteps clicked on the concrete and a chill ran through her. He wasn't going away, he was coming after her.

She risked a glance back and he raised his hand in a friendly wave.

The sudden rush of terror made her head swim for a moment and then she began to run. A hundred yards ahead was a turn-off, leading into a small estate of executive type homes. She and Roger had looked here, on a whim, though their combined salaries wouldn't even buy them garage space.

Amanda ran harder, pumping her arms, trying to get some speed up. As she brought her right leg up, her shoe shot off and into the road. She limped along for a couple of strides and then kicked her other shoe off. The ground felt cold and gritty against her soles but she didn't care, that was the least of her worries now.

Just inside the mouth of the estate were four houses, the windows festooned with fake snow and childishly drawn Santa's, but the driveways were clear of cars and no interiors lights were showing. The road curved slightly beyond the last house, to lead into the rest of the estate and she was bound to get some help there.

Passing the last house, she glanced back. The man was keeping pace with her, hardly moving his arms, looking to all the world as if he was just slightly late for his train.

The estate was built around a circular drive, with half a dozen houses facing one another. The majority of them had cars on their driveways and, standing in front of one house, was a man smoking a cigarette.

"Hey," she called, waving, "help!"

The smoker looked up at her and then beyond, at the man with the briefcase. He took a final drag of his cigarette, threw it towards the road and went into his house, locking the door behind him.

What now? Did she rush over and hammer on the door, demanding that the occupants call the police, or keep running? Could she get out of this estate, or was it a dead end?

She veered away from the smoker's house and headed for another, larger house. The lounge and bedroom windows were lit, a pale Mondeo sat on the driveway and a Christmas wreath hung on the door. As she ran towards it, someone walked past the door and then a small window was lit, its glass frosted.

"Stop," shouted the man. "You can't run away from me forever."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she got closer to the house. Another few steps and she'd be on the driveway. Even if she got to the front door and nobody came out, perhaps she could break a window and then they'd call the police.

Her head exploded with pain and she fell to her knees, as a briefcase slid past her on the ground. Groaning, her knees raw and hot, she sat up.

The man stood over her, breathing deeply, hands by his sides, his fingers flexing. "How rude are you? I was talking to you."

Tears began to roll down her cheeks, even though she didn't want to show him that she was terrified. "What do you want from me?"

"What you offered under the bridge. You can't offer something like that and then walk away, that's not right."

"I didn't offer anything," she sobbed.

"What are you, love, a prick teaser?"

"I didn't offer you anything, I was just going home."

"Didn't sound like it to me," said the man and he began to unbutton his jacket

"Undo one more button and I'll scream."

He looked around, holding his arms out. "And what do you expect will happen? Do you really believe someone will come to your aid? Come on, love, get real - even if anyone does come out, I'll just tell them you've had too much to drink and we're having a fight." He looked down at himself. "You look a mess, with your knees ripped out of your tights and no shoes and here I am, in a suit. Who would you believe?"

His words stung her and, taking as deep a breath as she could, she screamed. The anguished sound echoed off the houses, building on itself until it became something unreal.

A flicker of doubt crossed the man's face, but he finished unbuttoning his jacket and looked around casually. "See?"

She screamed again and saw the curtain flicker at the smoker's house. "Help me!" she shouted but the curtain dropped.

The man took a step towards her, grabbed under her arms and lifted her to her feet. "Come on, don't make this more difficult than it has to be."

She kicked out, aiming for his groin, but he anticipated it and moved to one side so that her toes connected with his knee. She yelled out in pain.

"Where did you want to do it then?" he asked gently.

"I don't want to do it," she screamed, "you're a maniac. Let me go."

He leaned towards her and she thought he was aiming for a kiss, but he stopped just short. "Keep it up, my story is looking more reasonable all the time."

She spat in his face and he dropped her, with a disgusted expression. Calmly, he took a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped her saliva away. She began to scoot backwards, on her hands and feet. Her handbag slid off her shoulder and clattered to the tarmac.

Her rape alarm. Why hadn't she thought of it before? She upended her bag, the small alarm bouncing away from her. She reached for it and sat up.

The man put away his handkerchief and smiled. "Ah, the rape alarm. Don't you get it, you're drunk and this is a domestic. Nobody will come to your rescue."

Behind her, she heard a toilet flush and looked around as someone walked past the front door. He looked through the glass side-lights at her and she could see him clearly, his close cropped hair and glasses. She was convinced that he saw her too, but he shook his head and walked away, switching off the hall light in the process.

She couldn't believe it.

"What did I tell you?" asked the man and began to undo his belt.

Amanda pulled out the activator on the alarm and its insistent, piercing shriek bounced off the houses, painful in its intensity. The man looked startled for a moment and then he kicked it out of her hand. It bounced once and she reached for it, but he beat her there and ground it under his heel. The shriek whimpered once and died.

She looked around. Nothing moved - nobody came to their door or looked through a window.

"I think you're fucked," smiled the man and he punched her in the face.

***

She was vaguely aware of being carried and put down somewhere dark, the ground cold.

"Don't," she said, her voice sounding all wrong. Something cold and wet was on her top lip and chin.

"Hush now, it'll be nice, you'll see."

She heard the briefcase snap open and the man moved her legs apart and kneeled between them.

"Please," she begged. Why was this happening? She'd only come out for a Christmas party. Surely she'd wake up in a minute, in her own bed with Roger snoring gently beside her.

The man made a clucking sound. "Sorry, gone too far now."

He pulled her dress up to her stomach and put a hand into the waistband of her tights. She heard something click and felt cold metal on her belly. That moved and he was slashing at her tights.

"Please don't."

"I wouldn't worry, they didn't look too expensive. Anyway, I can't get in if you're wearing tights, can I?"

He peeled her tights off her legs, put the knife down and pulled at her dress. She felt it rip up to the neck and he parted it. "Has anybody ever told you that you're beautiful?"

"Shut up," she screamed and began to cry again, "just shut up, shut up, shut up."

He sliced through her bra and pulled each cup to one side. "No, love, you shut up, all right?"

"Help me," she screamed and he hit her again, her head bouncing off the ground, stars bursting around her.

Groaning, she closed her eyes.

***

She swam back slowly through the darkness, her cheeks stinging.

"Wake up, you bitch," he hissed and slapped her face.

Her body was riddled hot and cold, her groin and breasts feeling like they were on fire, her back, legs and arms freezing. She tried to raise her head, but a wave of nausea washed over her, making her groan. There was more of whatever it was on her face, cold and damp.

"Where am I?" How long had she been out? Had anyone come to see what was going on?

The man stood up. "You filthy cow," he sneered and did up his zip. "You disgust me."

With her left hand, she gingerly felt down her body. Her breasts, especially around the nipples, were very tender. She found deep cuts on her belly and her hand explored further, into her groin. Even the slightest touch seemed to stoke the burning that felt like it raged over the whole area. She felt more cold dampness and realized that it was blood.

She was hurt.

"See you later, you cheap whore," said the man and he picked up his briefcase.

"Wait," she gasped, reaching for him, "you can't leave me here."

He looked over his shoulder. "Why not? You should've thought of this before you came onto me."

She began to cry. "But I didn't, I didn't."

He shook his head and walked away, disappearing from view behind a wall.

Where was she? A high brick wall loomed up to her left and a wood panel fence ran alongside her right. Was she in someone's back garden? Had he dragged her into someone's garden, raped her and nobody had come to find out what was going on?

She tried to sit up, but her whole body seemed to erupt in pain at the movement and she was sick, not quite managing to get her head to one side. She felt the vomit splash her chest and arm.

Somebody walked up behind her and she whimpered, trying as best as she could to cover herself.

"Are you alright, love?"

It wasn't the rapist, thank God. She turned her head slightly and saw the man from the house, who'd used the toilet. He squatted beside her shoulder, away from the vomit.

"Is she okay?"

This voice was in front of her and she looked towards the street. It was the smoker, concern showing on his face. But there was something else there as well, almost relief that it was Amanda and not someone he knew.

"I don't know, I think so," said the man whose house she'd been violated next to.

A woman stepped around the smoker. "My God, she must be freezing. I'll go and get a blanket or something."

The smoker nodded at her. "The police should be here in a minute or two." He looked at the house owner. "I rang them when that rape alarm went off. I had no idea what it was, until Pat told me."

"You heard it?" sobbed Amanda.

The house owner cleared his throat. "I think we all did."

"So why didn't you stop him?"

"Jesus," said the smoker, "she's bleeding badly."

"Do you think we should move her?" said the house owner.

"Best not. We'll leave her like this, until they get here."

She put her hand to her groin, trying to ease away the pain. It was just like the rapist had said - nobody would come. She coughed and felt something dribble out of her mouth.

"Merry Christmas, you fuckers," Amanda said and closed her eyes, the sound of the siren a long way off, the ground very cold against her back and shoulders.

MARK WEST

lives in Kettering, Northants with his wife Alison. Since 1999, his stories have appeared in many small press markets, including Enigmatic Tales, Sackcloth & Ashes, Terror Tales, Horrorfind (including The Best Of Horrorfind), Roadworks and Tourniquet Heart. His first collection is due from Rainfall Books in September 2003 and Brian Keene called him "one of the brightest things in horror to come out of England since Clive Barker". His website, featuring news and on-line fiction, can be found at http://www.mwest1.homestead.com

Green Grow'th the Holly, So Doth the Ivy

By G.W. Thomas

Johnny Two-Feathers and I had just finished our Christmas Eve dinner of bannock and rabbit stew, when the door to Cabin Number Two flew open. It might have been the wind, for it was blowing apace outside, except that Johnny had just fixed the latch that morning. We both turned to look at the stranger in the door, wrapped in a heavy coat and a beaver hat.

"Got room for another?" he asked through frozen lips.

"Sure," I said. Johnny got up to fill the kettle from the bucket on the sideboard. The newcomer looked cold. He'd need something warm to drink. After the kettle, Johnny started setting up for another batch of bannock.

"Name's Llwewellyn," said the stranger, taking a seat close to the fire. He warmed his small hands and looked casually at our home. Not much to see except traps on the wall, a feed store calendar and a single picture of the Holy Mary that Johnny had bought in Edmonton. Cost him a big beaver pelt. I'm not much of the God-fearing type, so it was all the same to me. But Johnny loved that picture.

While the Indian took down the sack from the ceiling then picked the mouse turds out of the flour, I talked with our guest. He was a typical Welshman, shorter than me, dark hair, blue eyes with a sad quality to them. I found out later this was not sadness, but something else.

"So, Mr. Llwewellyn, what brings you to the wilds of Alberta?" I asked idly.

"Prospecting," he lied. He weren't no prospector. He looked city-born. I said nothing, just looked to Johnny. The Indian kept his opinion to himself.

I noticed our guest's leg then. He was bleeding.

"We'll need to put something on that," I offered. He began to brush me off but when he saw how much blood was on his pant leg, he nodded yes. I got the kit out from under the bed. Johnny brought hot water from the kettle. Llwewellyn pulled the pant leg up to show five or six deep gashes. They weren't animal bites but more like when a man scratches his leg on a branch. Llwewellyn offered an explanation as I cleaned and bandaged the wound.

"Had a little accident on that beaver dam." He pointed in the direction of Blue Creek where the beaver were once thick. It was possible that he had torn his leg in an old beaver run. Just possible.

Soon Johnny had the bannock ready. Usually we bake it but since he was in a hurry he fried it in bear grease in a pan. There wasn't any more rabbit so the stranger had to make due with dried meat. Llwewellyn eyed the vittles on the sideboard.

"That's a nice turkey you got there," he said, like he was hinting for an invite. Neither Johnny nor I took the bait.

"For Christmas dinner," said Johnny. "Potatoes and cranberries." The Indian showed him a bowl filled with wild cranberries, picked in October but stored in our cold house.

"We traded a wild goose for that bird. From the Norwegians near Mayerthorpe."

Llwewellyn nodded, not really interested. His eyes kept turning to the door behind him.

The wind howled as it does coming off the Simmonette River from the Nor'West. Llwewellyn jumped, grabbing at his coat pocket.

"Easy," I said.

"Yes," he agreed, then forgetting about the door tore into the bannock, liberally smearing it with more bear lard. Johnny and I let him eat in peace.

After he ate all the bannock, Llwewellyn sat back and reached into his pocket again. This time he brought out an exquisite pocket watch with no chain. He clicked it open and music filled the walls of the cabin. I didn't recognize the tune but it was lovely.

"What time is it?" I asked. Neither Johnny nor I wore a watch. Mine was at home beside my bed. Johnny was too poor to own one. But in the Bush you didn't need one no how. You get up with the sun, go to bed when you're tired.

"It's ten-thirty-three, exactly."

"Really? I imagine my ma and sister are having eggnog with the neighbors right about now, singing them Christmas songs. This year it's just Johnny and me."

The big Indian didn't say anything, just looked at that picture of Holy Mary. If he was thinking of home amongst his people, the Cree, he didn't show it.

Llwewellyn looked bored.

"Got a place for me to sleep?"

"Sure, you can have my bed, if you don't mind the mice," I offered. "Only you'd probably be more comfortable up in the fur loft."

"We need water," Johnny said, holding the bucket.

"I'll go," I said. I have to admit our visitor didn't make me comfortable. He struck me as the kind of fellow who'd take your last bite of food and then complain about it. Any excuse to be away from him was welcome.

Johnny grabbed the axe. "I'll cut the hole."

We stepped out of the door with our coats done up tight, hats and mitts. We left our guest to curl up on my bed.

Johnny led the way down to the river. The ice was thick by Christmas so we had to chop out a small section once or twice a day. We both knew the spot well. I put down my bucket and waited for Johnny.

He didn't start swinging right away. Instead he said, "I don't trust him."

"Yah? Seems like a liar to me. He ain't no prospector, sure. See his hands?"

"He feels wrong." Johnny had passed sentence. I had come to trust Johnny's intuition in most things. He had a shaman's sight, for when Johnny was nine he had died. Struck by lightning he had lain dead for five minutes. Then just as sudden-like, he was alive again. After that, he had been different. Originally a rambunctious child, he became quiet, serious-minded. It was one of the reasons I wintered with him. He was quiet and serious about his work.

Johnny swung the axe expertly twice. Years of practice guided his hand and he knew exactly how to cut the hole to allow the pail to fill to the top. I dunked the bucket then pulled it up, brimming with clean water.

I was ready to go back as the wind was freezing my face. Only Johnny was standing still. I froze. A cougar or some other predator I wondered? "John-"

He just pointed out at the ice over the river.

My eyes are good. You don't hunt for a living if you can't pick a deer out of a thicket or a squirrel on a pine bough thirty feet above you. But in that moment I doubted my own ability to see.

The Simmonette is about a fifty yards across by Cabin Number Two. Less than half that far was a woman. She was made of ice. I could make out her long, dark hair, her beautiful petite face. I had heard the Indian legends, but this was a white woman's face. Where her legs should have been the ice came up in a frozen wave.

"What is it, Johnny?"

"Bad medicine."

"Surely, it's just a trick of the light -"

"Go inside, Ara."

"No, Johnny. I'll stay."

The Indian didn't say anything else. I could decide for myself. Johnny stepped around the hole and moved closer to the strange thing we saw.

The wind was howling. You have to understand that. I could hear Johnny singing in Cree. He had his medicine bag necklace out in his hand. In the other he still clutched the axe. But over the noise, I thought I heard something else. Another language. I didn't recognize its words either. Only the last part was in English. It was a refrain from a song that went: "Green grow'th the holly, so doth the ivy…" It drew closer.

Johnny dropped the medicine bag and raised his other arm. The single-bladed axe flew through the air to strike something that shattered into a million shards. The singing stopped and an ear-splitting crack ripped through the river like a living thing.

"Run!" I screamed as we spun and made for the home bank. The river ice separated into huge sheets as the concussion vibrated through the ice and into our legs. The surface in front of us broke, splashing freezing water all over. We jumped at the end, making the ground of the river bank. A last greedy wave pawed at us, trying to pull us back into the river, but we had made the willows by then, and hung on for dear life.

Johnny and I both ran for the cabin with the same thought. We had seconds to get inside and out of those clothes before they froze stiff, making it impossible to run. Every second counted. The longer we were cold, the more likely we were to get sick.

We piled in through the cabin door and began stripping instantly. Freezing cold water stings like fire burning your skin. Your fingers get numb and the buttons and strings become impossible. Stoking the fire up, we huddled naked around the stove, slapping our limbs to get the blood flowing.

Our guest rolled over, but said nothing.

Johnny crawled into his bed, leaving his clothes to dry by the stove. His bed folds into the wall, so he took it down and crawled into his thick blankets.

I had someone in my bed, but I didn't care. I was too cold. Llwewellyn complained when I jumped in. "You're freezing and wet!"

"Perhaps you'd be happier in the loft?" I barked, losing my civility at last.

"Maybe I would," he said. I pointed at the ladder that takes you up to the fur loft. Of all our cabins, only Cabin Number two had a loft. It's where we stored the hides and furs we caught during the winter. The ceiling is low so a man has to walk bent over but there is no bed more comfortable than that made of beaver and coyote pelts.

Llwewellyn disappeared up the ladder. The unspoken rules of hospitality said if a man needs a meal, feed him. If he needs to sleep, give him a bed. I had been a guest in many homes by the kindness of these rules but I have never made a nuisance of myself.

I forgot about our guest. It was Christmas eve after all, so Johnny got up and put on his second best pair of long johns and set the kettle to boiling. I followed his example, dressed, adding a pair of moccasins to my feet. Soon we were singing Christmas songs, eating a cake given me by my ma, and drinking scolding hot coffee. We hadn't finished the first cup when we heard Llwewellyn scream.

Johnny went first, a long blade in his hand. I followed with the kerosene lamp. If I hadn't seen the lady on the river, I'm sure I'd have run screaming from that loft. Everything was in motion. In the midst of it, Llwewellyn fought and cried. For a second I thought two wolves had snuck up into our loft until I realized that these attackers lacked substance.

The furs, on all sides, from the smallest squirrel to the largest grizzly bear, were biting and clawing with absent fangs and talons. Like furry snakes the plews came at the Welshman with evil purpose. Some of the pelts were still on stretchers and unable to join in the fight. These mouthed grotesquely, "Green grow'th the holly, so doth the ivy…"

Johnny didn't wait like I did. He grabbed the lantern from me and swung it in a wide arc. The loft ceiling is low, so he did this on his knees, repelling the shadowy pelts with his light. The Indian swore at them in Cree, then in English to me, "Get him out, Ara."

I hobbled forward, bent over like an old man. Pelts scratched at me, flew in my face, trying to smother me. I pushed and clawed until I had Llwewellyn by the shoulder, then shoved him towards the ladder. Johnny covered our escape with the lamp.

Once downstairs I had to restrain Llwewellyn. He would have run out the door without his coat. I yelled at him, "Stop! You're safe here," trying to believe it myself.

We stopped and listened. All was quiet in the loft. The smell of singed fur was thick on the nostrils. We waited five minutes before I left Llwewellyn and climbed up the stairs.

Johnny lay on the floor under a mountain of burnt fur. He was clutching his medicine bag. He was dead. The boy who had come back to life was dead.

"Is it safe?" Llwewellyn called up.

I came back down, a black smoldering hatred burning inside me. "Tell me," was all I said.

"Tell you what?"

"Johnny's dead. Why did he die? Tell me." The look in my eyes told him what I'd do if he didn't.

The Welshman looked at the door, then me. It was as if he was wondering what his chances were of getting away. He made the right decision and sat down on the bed.

"I'm not a prospector," he said first. "I make candy, ice creams. Or at least I did. That was one of the reasons Glynis married me. She didn't want a laborer for a husband. She loved the nice, clean little shop. She loved riding in the cart when I sold ice cream on hot summer days. Only, the business failed. We had to move to Canada.

"I tried to make a go of it as a farmer. The Government was selling cheap land. Only I never had much luck."

I sized up the little Welshman there. Some people work hard and people call it luck. Lazy, greedy schemers like Llwewellyn. I had thought his eyes sad, but now I knew them for what they really were.

"Glynis wanted to leave me. This was Christmas eve, three years ago, you see? A cousin in Winnipeg had offered her a job. And I had bought her nothing for Christmas. She told me she was leaving." He stopped, staring at his small, soft hands.

"I wouldn't let her. I grabbed her from behind. Got her around the throat with my watch chain, and -"

I looked at his hands. Uncalloused but possessing a kind of reptilian strength.

"I put her body in a hole in the ice of the creek by our house. Then I packed up and left the farm. I went to the States. I found a job in a candy factory, did well for myself.

"Only, come next Christmas eve, I found I had this feeling, like I was being watched. First it was little things: a slip on the stairs, a candle burning my sleeve. But on the next Christmas eve, I knew for sure. On that one day of the year, Glynis could get at me. For twenty-four hours, she could take her revenge. And her strength was growing-"

Llwewellyn dug in his pocket, brought out the watch with no chain.

"I studied up on these things. Curses, spooks and such. And I realized my mistake. I had taken the watch chain with me. If I put it in the creek with her, then she'd be powerless. So I came back. And tonight I put that chain in the ice."

"But she still comes. Are you sure?"

"Yes, she's been trying to get me all night. She pushed me down that beaver dam. And the furs- But once it reaches midnight, it'll be Christmas and I'll be free." He held up his watch. It said 11:59.

"Merry Christmas," he said with a wide, wicked grin. The watch played its pretty tune and I recognized it at last. "Green grow'th the holly…"

Llwewellyn got up off the bed and began to dance in a disgusting manner, giggling like a child. "Green grow'th the holly, so doth the ivy," he sang. "It was her song. She could sing it in Gaelic and English. Glynis loved Christmas. She always said I never kept Christmas in my heart."

I felt sick. I wanted to get up and beat the little Welshman like a dog. Instead I just watched him dance like a man who had won the lottery. He patted the turkey on the sideboard, saying to it, "Well, this is a Christmas that'll warm my heart for many a year." He laughed at his own joke, picking up a cranberry and popping it into his mouth.

I could take no more. I had no intention of sleeping in a cabin with a murderer. Llwewellyn would have to leave now.

"Green grow'th the holly-" Llwewellyn stopped singing and clutched his throat. He choked once, then began thrashing like a man in a seizure. All I could do was hold him down until he stopped. He only stopped because he was dead.

I let go of him then. He felt wrong. His skin had a prickly feeling to it. His mouth was wide open. I looked down and saw something green poking out, deep in his throat. It was also in his nose and ears. Blood began to leak out of him onto the floor.

I went to the sideboard. I picked up the bowl of cranberries. Only the reddish berries were blood red. They were holly berries.

I noticed something shiny on the floor next to Llwewellyn. It was his watch. I opened it. The time said 11:59 then the minute hand clicked to 12:00. The music stopped when I threw the watch against the wall with all my strength.

I couldn't bury Johnny or the Welshman until Spring thaw. I wrapped them in blankets and hoisted their bodies high into a tree. When the ground softened I buried Johnny on the hill overlooking Cabin Number Two. I buried the picture of Holy Mary with him.

Llwewellyn, I buried in a dark patch of fir, a good distance from the cabin. That spot to this day bears holly bushes. The trees there about are twined with ivy. I don't go there anymore.

G.W. THOMAS

has been writing Christmas ghost stories since 1991. His influences include Dickens, M. R. James and Robertson Davies. His previous Christmas stories are available in GHOULTIDE GREETINGS from Double Dragon.

His Christmas site is http://ghoultidegreetings.tripod.com

Docking Bay Three

By Megan Powell

"Open the pod bay doors, Hal."

"I'm sorry, Dave, I can't do that."

Dave smiled. The computer's response had "Marianne" written all over it. She'd been the one to suggest the computer's nickname in the first place. She'd also been the one to program its plain English capabilities, and it seemed that every other week someone found a new Easter egg.

"Computer, open Bay Three doors."

"Unable to comply."

That was not an Easter egg. Dave frowned. There was probably nothing serious, just a mechanical glitch. He maneuvered over to Bay Two. "Computer, open Bay Two doors." After the normal pause, the doors began to slide open. Dave piloted his one-man craft inside and performed the shutdown procedure.

His schedule was light and he was naturally nosy, so he proceeded down the corridor to Bay Three's inner door. There was no sign of a maintenance technician, though that didn't mean much. A glitched docking bay, when they had more than enough space in alternate bays, wasn't likely to be a high priority.

"Computer, open Bay Three doors."

"Unable to comply."

Dave frowned. "Computer, what is the location of David Lebrowski?"

"David Lebrowski is in the main corridor outside of Docking Bay Three."

So the computer didn't think he was outside the station. Dave was relieved, because that sort of sensor problem would be a bitch to fix. Not to mention potentially dangerous. "Computer, why are you unable to open Bay Three doors?"

"The external door is open."

Shit. So much for a minor glitch. "Computer, I requested that you open the exterior doors-" he checked his watch "-fifteen minutes ago, and you were unable to comply. Why?"

"The internal door was open."

Well, that would explain it. There was a glitch, and one of the technicians had been working on it. The computer was doing exactly what it was supposed to do; an accident of timing just made things seem suspicious.

All the same... "Computer, display Camera Three-E on screen."

The viewscreen beside Bay Three's door was small, but it clearly showed the exterior of the station. Equally clear was the fact that the doors of Bay Three were closed.

Closed to the naked eye, Dave reminded himself. Maybe they hadn't mated properly. Maybe...

"Computer, what is the location of Marianne McHugh?"

"Marianne McHugh is in the cafeteria."

Dave headed in that direction. He was hungry anyway, he reasoned. And not at all panicked. Or superstitious. Marianne had named the station computer after a fictional computer that turned into a homicidal psychopath, but so what? Life didn't have to imitate art.

Marianne wasn't in the cafeteria. Brad Jacobs was sitting in a corner hunched over a reader. It was even odds whether it currently displayed technical schematics or pornography.

"Hey, Brad, have you seen Marianne?"

Brad shook his head. "Not since breakfast. Why?"

"Nothing." Appetite gone, Dave left the cafeteria. Brad tended toward obliviousness. Marianne could have been in the cafeteria up until a minute ago. "Computer, what is Marianne McHugh's location?"

"Marianne McHugh is in the gymnasium."

The gym was clear on the other side of the station. Dave frowned and headed in that direction. She might have been in the cafeteria, unnoticed by Brad, until after he'd last asked the computer for her location. She could easily have made it from the cafeteria to the gym... "Computer, what is Marianne McHugh's location?"

"Marianne McHugh is in the gymnasium."

He was about halfway there. If she left the gym, it was even odds she'd turn left down the corridor, in which case he'd run into her. If she turned right, he'd still be able to catch up with her. It wasn't as though she had any reason to avoid him. Ten meters from the gym, he asked for her location again.

"Marianne McHugh is in hydroponics."

Hydroponics was near the gym, though he couldn't think why she'd go there. Marianne claimed to be suspicious of carbon based life forms. The gym was empty. "Computer, what is Marianne McHugh's location?" he asked outside the gym.

"Marianne McHugh is in the cafeteria."

Dave swore. It was physically possible. But it didn't make any sense for her to run from the cafeteria to the gym to hydroponics and then back to the cafeteria.

He almost hit the intercom in the hallway. But then he remembered the damn movie. That Hal had even been able to read lips.

He continued down the corridor. Hydroponics was empty, which under normal circumstances wouldn't have seemed especially sinister. Dave picked up his pace. A circuit of the main ring, he decided, was perfectly reasonable. If he couldn't find anyone, then he could check personal quarters and some of the harder-to-reach parts of the station.

What if everyone was gone? What if Hal had gone as crazy as its namesake? Were there even now vented bodies drifting alongside the station? And what might the computer have planned for him?

No. Brad had been okay as of a few minutes ago. A homicidal computer would surely have been more thorough. Dave approached the cafeteria again, relieved by the prospect of human contact. "Hey, Brad, have you-"

The cafeteria was empty.

Dave swallowed. It was important not to panic. "Computer, what is the location of Bradley Jacobs?"

"Bradley Jacobs is in the gymnasium."

Hah! Getting Brad to fulfill the required exercise regimen was like pulling teeth; damned if he'd voluntarily go to the gym. "Computer, what is the location of Cassidy Chase?"

"Cassidy Chase is in the gymnasium."

"Computer, what is the location of-" Dave bit off the words. The gym. They were all in the gym. Or hydroponics. Or wherever he wasn't.

He wondered if the people on the Mary Celeste had disappeared all at once, or if they'd been taken one by one.

His watch beeped, and Dave nearly leapt out of his jumpsuit. He glanced down at his wrist and frowned. He didn't have any appointments this afternoon. At least, none he'd made himself. But the computer had access to the data in his watch; the computer ran the nightly synch; the computer...

All crew meeting. Docking Bay Three.

Dave swallowed. "All crew meeting" normally implied a boring time sink. But he'd happily listen to Greta Hanson and Miles Greenberg snipe at each other, just so long as everyone was all right. Just so long as he'd be all right, himself.

The watch beeped again, and Dave acknowledged the reminder. He headed toward the docking bays. The alternative was running in circles, chasing after crew members who'd always be one step ahead of him.

He stood once more before the Bay Three doors and took a deep breath. He didn't know what "the worst" might be, but he should be prepared for it. "Open the pod bay doors, Hal."

Hal complied.

"Dave!" Marianne called, and the greeting was echoed by the rest of the crew. He was so relieved to see them that it took a moment for the contents of the bay to register.

"What's the matter?" Marianne asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"The Ghost of Christmas Past," Miles chortled.

The docking bay had been cleared of all movable equipment. One of the cafeteria tables had been brought in. Assuming that the labels on the bottles were correct, someone had broken a dozen or so regulations about the quantity of alcohol that could be brought on station and served at one time. Christmas lights were strung up around the pod bay doors.

Most surprising of all, what appeared to be a real pine tree stood in the corner. Another strand of lights adorned its boughs, as well as small bits of metal which, on closer inspection, proved to be nuts and bolts from a repair kit.

Somebody had gone to an awful lot of trouble.

"At least now I know why Hal wouldn't open the pod bay doors," he said.

"I'm swearing everybody to secrecy," Marianne said. "It's important that we programmers have backdoors into the computer, but it'd make some of the higher-ups a little nervous if they knew how easily I can subvert Hal."

"Is Hal just stupid, or are you just charming?" Greta asked.

"I'll never tell," Marianne said. "But I've been teaching Hal to sing. He's got a better voice than I do."

"That's not saying much," Miles said.

Marianne threw a waded-up napkin at him. "Hal, sing something for us." After a moment, the computer launched into a fair rendition of "Deck the Halls."

"Just as long as it's not 'Daisy,'" Dave said.

MEGAN POWELL

lives in suburban Philadelphia with one husband, two cats and 5.5 computers. Her fantasy novel Vocation is available from Double Dragon. Her short fiction has appeared in various magazines and anthologies, including The Eternal Night, Ideomancer, Aoife's Kiss, Femmes de la Brume, Bullet Points and The Blackest Death. She is the editor of several anthologies as well as the webzines Fables and Shred of Evidence. She maintains a homepage at www.meganpowell.net.

HALLOWEEN HORROR TALES

The combination of a number of European holidays, Halloween is now celebrated internationally on October 31. The current incarnation of the event draws heavily from the Celtic festival of Samhain (pronounced "sow-in"), which was celebrated November 1. The Celts believed that the boundaries between the worlds of the living and the dead weakened at this time, permitting the dead to unleash all manner of mischief on mankind. In addition, the presence of spirits permitted the Druids (Celtic priests) to more accurately predict the future.

The Roman Empire conquered most of the Celtic territory by AD 43, and soon after the Roman holidays were mixed with Samhain. Two such celebrations were Feralia, a day of the dead celebrated in late October; the second holiday was in honor of Pomona, Roman goddess of fruit and trees. This is where the tradition of bobbing for apples on Halloween originates. Eventually Pope Boniface IV sought to abolish the holiday altogether by replacing it with All Saints' Day in the seventh century. All Saints' Day is still observed November 1; the Greek Orthodox Church observes it the first Sunday following Pentecost. Despite this, the original holiday is still celebrated-although not in its original form.

It is common in the United States to celebrate Halloween with parties and trick-or-treating. Trick-or-treating is said to be derived from the early All Souls' Day festivities during which poor families would "go a-souling": they would beg for food, which came in the form of "soul cakes" given on the promise that the poor family would pray for the donors' deceased relatives. Today children merely get candy with no strings attached. The current practices in the U.S. vary quite a bit from pre-1950's traditions. It used to be a holiday centered around the community at large, with a general celebration in the town center. Pranks and vandalism are cited as the cause for shifting the focus to children trick-or-treating.

In Latin America and Spain All Souls' Day is celebrated November 2 as the third consecutive day of Hallowmas. In these countries All Souls' Day is the most important part of the holiday as it involves honoring the deceased, often featuring alters to loved ones, graveside picnics where family members are remembered, and so on.

In England the holiday is celebrated November 5, although in a much different fashion. The Protestant Reformation put an end to most "pagan" practices in the country, which resulted in Guy Fawkes' Day replacing Halloween. Fawkes was a notorious traitor and supporter of Catholicism and the anniversary of his execution is marked with bonfires (originally "bone fires" in which symbolic bones of the Pope were burned). There are places in England where children still carry effigies around and ask for "a penny for the guy" on this day. In Canada and Ireland the holiday is celebrated in roughly the same fashion as the U.S.

Halloween trivia: Dan Rather, Michael Landon, Jane Pauley, and John Candy were born on this day while Harry Houdini, Indira Gandhi, and River Phoenix died on Halloween. On Halloween 1517 Martin Luther went public with ninety-five theses, starting the Protestant Reformation; on Halloween 1952 the U.S. began testing atomic bombs on the Marshall Islands. Every year 2.5 billion dollars are spent celebrating Halloween by United States consumers, making it second only to Christmas for commercial holidays in the USA.

-John Edward Lawson

The Gruesome Harvester

By Brutal Dreamer

Michael Davis and his sister Kelly were new to the neighborhood. They had arrived at Willow Ridge Drive a week before Halloween and almost immediately noticed that every house on the street had jack-o-lanterns displayed on front porches. Not ordinary jack-o-lanterns, but strange, weird actually. Most were very large, illuminated by a single candle. The orange flickering brightened the hollow eyes, breathing life into them - almost as if they were watching you, each tease of the wind sputtering the wick and giving the pumpkins a malevolent appearance. The harvesting had begun. Halloween was here.

These doll size orange freaks, as Michael called them, were propped on haystacks, ears of corn surrounding them. Each was displayed in the front window of every single house. Everyone on the block had one - all except for Michael and Kelly's house.

Michael hated Halloween.

He thought the orange faces of fire were ugly, serving no purpose except as a dead tradition. It made no sense - just because they lived in a rural county, the old hicks thought it wise to place the hideous things on their front porch. Kelly snickered at Michael's ambiguity towards such a fun-filled holiday. Fall and Halloween were Kelly's favorite time of the year, although she too didn't understand much about the new neighbors and agreed with Michael's discomfort. They were the strangers in their new hometown.

School was closed when they arrived due to the pumpkin and corn harvesting. They had yet to even meet any of their new schoolmates.

They traipsed down the street and noticed how odd it was that there were no children outside playing, and no other activity. Michael kicked at a rock as he strolled down the road. "There's nothing to do around here!" he complained.

"We have to get used to a lot of things, Michael." Kelly said. "Just think, there's no Mall nearby. Face it brother, we are now good ole' fashioned hicks, living in Hicksville USA. Ye-haw, giddy up!" she giggled, poking fun at her brother.

To their surprise, an old hearse clattered by, heavy smoke trailing from its rusted tailpipe. Brittle leaves crumpled as a brisk wind awakened, singing mournfully through the dry trees. Michael stared in silence, glimpsing a black, brass coffin through the back window of the vehicle.

"Creepy!" he said, motioning after the hearse. "Did you see that - there was a freakin' coffin in the hearse!"

"Well, duh." Kelly said smacking his shoulder, crinkling her face. "What else would you expect to find in a hearse?"

"This late at night?" he asked, puzzled. "Where could it be going at this time? They don't hold funerals in the dark." He continued ranting about their eerie new home.

***

Friday evening approached, and Kelly wanted to continue in her own tradition of carving out a Jack-o-lantern. She tried convincing Michael to help, and to get in the festive spirit himself. She stopped by the local shopping center, a tiny little building with a screen door on the front, which snapped shut as the two entered. Noticing several pumpkins lined up on bales of hay, she grabbed the roundest one and placed it on the counter to pay for it. Michael rolled his dark chestnut eyes and whined, "You are such a kid - you really are. Are you ever going to grow up and stop celebrating this childish holiday?"

"Come on - you did know these candlestick faced pumpkins originally served as beacons for trick-or-treaters, didn't you?" Kelly said, nudging his arm.

"Yeah beacons to ward of Remington himself." His face gleamed over the lighted flame on the countertop of the small shop. "…nothing like living in a house where a demented hick goes berserk and whacks off his family's heads with a pitchfork."

***

Kelly awoke as the crimson morning sun shone in her window. It was a splendid day for the fall holiday. The air was cool and brisk, the clouds wispy but few, and the golden sunshine cast beautiful reflections onto the cornfields, a rustling of red and yellow and orange leaves scattering in the breeze.

Yawning, she stretched and rolled the covers off, and Kelly went down stairs. She spotted Michael sitting at the dining room table, gazing at the jack-o-lantern.

"Making a new friend?" Kelly teased Michael.

He grimaced and replied, "Hardly. I was just thinking this thing looks so much like your last boyfriend."

Kelly smirked.

"Nah, I think ole' Jack O' is much cuter," she replied, patting the top of the jack-o-lantern's head.

"You're twisted!" Michael giggled.

"You know, we might actually get to meet some of the kids in the neighborhood tonight, being it's Halloween and they'll be dropping by for candy." She smiled, excitement beaming across her face.

"Oh, joy." Michael taunted. "Now that's just what I need - Billy Bob, Joe Bob, and Bobby Joe to stop by. Need I remind you - 'Deliverance'?"

"I wouldn't worry about that, they tended to like men not girls, thank God. Those teeth were really nasty!" Kelly laughed. "Come on, when did you lose your Halloween spirit?"

***

The twilight approached fast and the white moon was full, a hint of crimson reflecting off the dying sunlight. Dusk descended, casting golden streaks and dousing the slumbering fields.

The neighborhood children were out in droves, wearing crude homemade costumes mimicking scary creatures of the night. Dracula, Frankenstein, ghosts, hobgoblins, and scarecrows. They paraded merrily down the block from house to house. They giggled and shrilled, marching cheerily to the house across the street. "Trick-or-Treat" the children squealed in unison. The woman put candy in each bucket and bag. The joyful kids approached their own house, and Michael peered through the glass pane at the top of the door as he reached his hand into the enormous bowl of candy.

A woman from across the street darted across the road and grabbed the first child in the line by the arm, yanking him off the porch. "Andrew - you know we never go near the old Remington House," she spat, glaring back at the home in disgust.

"What the hell is her problem?" Michael asked Kelly. "What do we have, cooties?"

"Maybe it's a safeguard since they don't know us. You know - afraid we'll put razor-blades in candy or glass slivers in their caramel apples. Maybe your face scared them off." Kelly said.

"More like Jack O's face did that," he retorted. "That thing is one ugly orange freak."

Kelly opened up the door and walked outside. The giggles of the trick-or-treaters were fading, the night growing quiet. It was eerie, and she shivered.

"Don't listen to him Jackie baby." Kelly said fondly, before she extinguished the candle.

Kelly looked at Michael, "You don't think the story about this house is true, do you?"

"What," he said? "That the old geezer Remington took a pitchfork and stabbed his kids with it, tearing off their heads, and haunting this unholy house? Geez Kel, I bet you still believe in 'Ole Red Eye' Granddad told us while we were kids."

Michael rolled his eyes, the smoldering wax wafted into the screen of the front door. The breeze stirred and the branches beat against the house. "Hey, Kel maybe that's old Remington knocking on our home and he wants our heads, ya think?"

Kelly sighed.

***

She heard a thud on the dark front porch, the sound amplified by the unnatural stillness. It sounded as if something were under the wooden slats beneath the porch. Startled, Kelly asked Michael to help her investigate the strange noise. A dripping and clumping persisted, becoming louder as they approached the side of the porch.

"What is that noise, Michael?" Kelly asked. She swallowed hard and her eyes watered.

"How the hell am I supposed to know." Michael scolded her. "This is your idea of fun, isn't it? You're the one that likes all this hocus pocus crap!"

Kelly bent down and placed her hand on the planks, pressing her cheek to the porch and peeking through the slats.

"Ewww..."

"What? Did you see something?" Michael's voice raised in alarm.

"Nothing," she said. "But..." She lifted her hand, yellow slime dripping from the palms and running down her arms.

"What's this stuff?" Michael grimaced, touching the gunk on her arm.

"Eggs?" Kelly screamed. "It's raw eggs."

"Oh great, now we're in the full spirit, aren't we?" Michael groaned. "We've been egged. What's next, toilet paper in the trees?"

"Jack O'," Michael said. "I thought you were to be some brave hero and protect the innocent, you ugly creature."

"Kids out for good old-fashioned Halloween fun were playing pranks on us." Michael reasoned. "That's all. I'm going inside."

***

Kelly sat out on the porch, her face cuddled warmly in her palms.

Her disappointment gnawed at her, but her curiosity grew. Why did the kids hate them so much? The extinguished candle in her jack-o-lantern had smothered from the gooey pulp, and she could smell the smoky, greasy aroma.

Michael stood in the doorway and saw Kelly sitting in the darkness alone, when he caught a strange aroma, like fresh turned dirt, perhaps from the recently mowed hayfield.

Kelly stood, patted Jack O' on the top of the head and bid him a goodnight. Michael moved from the doorway as she sauntered inside and waited in the doorway with him, gazing at the house across the street.

Michael was almost angry that Kelly's Halloween had been ruined, although he hated the holiday himself. Still, he despised the crotchety old woman from next door after yanking the kids away from their home, and the hooligans that were throwing eggs killed the spirit of fun. Now it appeared that someone was setting out to either make him angry or to really scare him.

He heard footsteps crunching in the leaves outside the house. "Who's out there?" he yelled. Kelly peered through the glass paned window on the door as Michael looked through the other one.

"Do you see that?" he asked Kelly.

Kelly gasped. She craned her head to the edge of the porch. "I see a shadow. Do you see it?"

"Yeah." Michael said, almost gloating that he'd caught the hooligan tossing eggs at their home. "I see the little brute."

He opened the door and Kelly followed closely behind him as he walked to the edge of the porch. The silence was unnerving, even the crickets were quiet. Kelly grabbed Michael's arm with her trembling, cold hands.

"Let's go inside. Hurry, Michael." she said.

She turned, and shrieked.

Someone was standing before her - a tall man.

All she could make out of the darkened silhouette was a man dressed in tattered faded overalls wearing a sun-hat. She squinted, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and leapt backwards into Michael. She saw straw from the cornfields sticking out of neck and armholes of the man.

"Oh, that's original - a scarecrow," she said. "Aren't you a little too old for trick or treat?"

The scarecrow came closer to her and Michael. The smell of rotted hay was nauseating. The breeze was oppressive, the air thick and heavy.

Kelly looked up as the man held a pitchfork over their heads. They turned sideways in unison and slowly backed up to the front door. The moonlight caught the face of the stranger - just enough for Kelly to realize the stranger wasn't wearing a simple homemade costume. It looked much too real, and terrible.

A living scarecrow!

This sinister stranger, with Jack O's face and wielding a pitchfork was something beyond their comprehension - something supernatural. The hollow triangular holes, the jagged mouth, an orange skin. The familiar face appeared as a sudden flame lit inside the hollow ravenous eyes of the demon. The pitchfork came down hard, separating their heads from their bodies.

***

The following day, the neighbors marched past the old Remington house and spied two orange faces stuffed like scarecrows sitting upon the front porch of the new neighbor's home.

Legend has it, these jack-o'-lantern decorations are actually talismans that repel the evil spirit of "the gruesome harvester" away from houses that display them, but only for those who believe.

Do you… believe?

BRUTAL DREAMER

Brutal Dreamer (a.k.a. Peggy Jo Shumate) is a DVD Empire Movie Reviewer, DDP Promotions Manager, editor/reviewer THE BLEEDING SKY Magazine, a Terror Tale Scribe Member, and a 2000 Graduate of the Institute of Children's Literature. Brutal-Pegs has more than 100 credits both electronically and print in such markets as: SDO Fantasy, EUTO Fiction and Poetry, Shadow-Writer, The Eternal Night, House of Pain, ShadowKeepZine, FantasyLand 2001, The Writer's Hood, Stoking the Fire, Steel Caves, Eternal Night, Decompositions, EOTU, The Dream People and many other publications and newspapers.

Editor of Cemetery Poets: Grave Offerings. My fiction will be involved with 17-19 Anthologies between: 2003-2004. "SICK", "THE WICKED WILL LAUGH", "ATROCITAS AQUA", "CEMETERY POETS", "THE WRITER'S HOOD HORROR", "HOLY WRIT", "SHADOW-WRITER", "SCARY!", and "MASSACRE PUBLICATIONS" and many other anthologies.

I am married to my best friend, David and we have two children: Isaac and Elizabeth along with our lovable but feisty Maine Coon Cat, Shackie Taques.

Stop by and visit Brutal Dreamer at:

http://brutaldreamer.tripod.com/

e-mail Brutal at: brutal@brutaldreamer.com

Halloween, Gypsies & Dogs

By JD Pearce

It was another sleepless night in October, the weather was nice and beginning to get quite cool. Leaves were falling and Halloween was only a day or two off. At least I think it was, I had kind of lost track of the days lately due to my lack of sleep. It seemed that every time I did fall off to sleep and start dreaming about making love to some sexy amazon with big round breasts and a face like Rachel Welch, I'd wake up right before anything really great would happen, (if you get my drift).

Those damned dogs again, barking, barking, barking, at who the hell knows what. I get up, pull my shorts on, walk through the bedroom, out the back door onto the deck and yell, SHUT UP, of course they come running up to me, tails wagging, at least one of them, the other one knows I'm mad as hell and he hangs his head down low, at least this mutt understands somewhat this human is really pissed! He's the male, Ricky I call him, a really good dog most of the time but a scared one. A big black lab who will jump in your lap and shake like a scared rabbit if it thunders. The other one Lucy, a little mixed breed, she's black too and dumb as a damn rock, would never listen to me or mind me at all. I could not figure it out, I tolerated them both all right but they just would not listen to me or ever shut up, especially at night. Although I am not an animal hater I had grown to dislike these dogs, my wife's dogs.

The damn stupid little dog Lucy, with the brain the size of a flea, seems to have no idea that I am enraged because it is four o'clock in the morning and she is out here barking her ass off because a fucking fly farted down the damn street or something. I point my finger at her, "You stupid bitch, if you don't shut the hell up I am going to put a muzzle on you and leave it there for a week!" My normal threat, or at least one of them, I use multiple threats of muzzles, drop kicks, shotguns, hot pokers up the ass, anything I can think of that will appease my angry impulse at the moment. "Now shut up!" I go back into the house and lay down, my wife who never really wakes up, rolls over and in 20 seconds she's snoring again yet I'm wide awake. It will be at least an hour before I can doze off. That is if the stupid dogs don't start barking again, which they probably will.

This is a typical night here in my world, not only do my, I mean my wife's dogs keep me awake every night but they keep half the neighbors up too. They all look at me like it's my fault when I walk by their houses, the assholes! I throw up my hands, even force a smile on my lifeless, zombie-like face and they turn away as if they did not even see me, they hate me and my, um, my wife's dogs.

Dogs, dogs, dogs, everywhere I go there are stinkin' dogs! It seems every other house on my street, in my neighborhood has 'em, all my friends, even my sister and mother. GOD how I hate dogs. When I walk by or ride my bike they are looking at me, barking, growling, trying to figure out in their pathetic little minds how to get out and chase me. I'm beginning to think it is a conspiracy, these freakin mongrels are all in on it, every damn one of them. I only wish some terrible disease that only inflicts canines would somehow spread through my neighborhood, through the state, hell even the country or the world. Wipe 'em all out, kill every last one of the bastards. Yeah, I'd celebrate that, I'd go out and buy a cat and me and him would get drunk. I can just hear me and my new best friend cat, at the bar talking about dogs.

"Fucking mutts, flea hounds from hell, none of 'em were ever worth shit as far as I'm concerned."

"Your damned right, in fact you remember that movie old yeller, well if it would have been me, there never would have been a movie, I'd a shot that son of a bitch as soon as he walked up on the porch!"

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, remember that bitch Lassie, I'd of took her ass to Alaska and dropped her off, then see if she could come home. He, he, he, he, he."

Damn dogs are everywhere and always will be. Seems like I can't go ten feet in the back yard without stepping in a pile of shit. Godammit! I'll never get that stuff off my shoe, who's supposed to clean this shit up anyway, you little mongrels, why I oughta....

OK, where was I, well on this particular night I had woken up again, ten nights in a row, by not only our, I mean her dogs but every damn dog in the neighborhood it seemed, at our back fence. Sounded like a whole gang of berserk dogs, a pack of crazed pound puppies gone wild! I'd had enough, I went for my shotgun, ran out the backdoor, BOOM!

I fired a shot off in the air with my 12 gauge pump, woke up everyone within a freakin' mile I'll bet. Lights were flashing on in the bedrooms and kitchens, people peeking out the curtains and blinds. The dogs scattered all right, scared the shit out of 'em, only thing is I accidentally shot the telephone and cable vision wires that were running to my house. DAMN!

Well, it was only a few minutes before my doorbell rang. The cops said they had a complaint about someone firing a weapon on these premises. "Yeah I heard it too! I ran out the back door and saw someone out there in the alley chasing a bunch of yelping dogs, hope you catch 'em."

The cop just looked at me with that look he always has on his face, "OK, Mr. Shepherd, look I know it was you, I saw the wires hanging down around in the back yard, you shot your neighbor's wires too, they want me to lock you up! If you do this again I'm going to have to arrest you. I can't keep coming out here week after week while you shoot up the place. You're gonna kill somebody if you're not careful." So he gives me a ticket for firing a weapon in the city limits. Of course I have to call the phone company and the cable vision people, (thank god for cell phones.)

Well after about a year of this crap I was desperate so I went to a palm reader. Yeah, I know what's a palm reader got to do with it? My buddy at work had told me this lady was a real gypsy so I figured what the hell, maybe she can put a curse on the damn dogs or something. Hey, I said I was desperate.

I walked up in her yard, she had a big sign with a giant hand and a big red eyeball in the middle of the palm. "Madam Cronella" it read. As I inspected it closer I read some fine print that said, curses, potions and wishes all guaranteed! Well I knew I was at the right place, into her house I went and there she was sitting behind a small, round table, crystal ball in the center, filing her long red nails. There was a big black cat, a fat one laying in a chair in the corner, it looked at me as if I were no better than a mouse. Its tail flipped and it began licking its foot, quietly. I thought to myself, "Now there is a real good pet, quiet, still, minding its own business." The gypsy was an old wrinkled woman with a voice that sounded like a crow or something, I couldn't help but think of the witch in the Wizard of Oz when she spoke. "Can I help you sir?" she cawed.

"I sure as hell hope so!" I replied. She asked for my hand and I cautiously stuck it out there. She grabbed it, twisted my wrist so that my palm was up and began tracing her sharp, red nail through my hand, it tickled a little but I courageously left it out there to see what she was going to do.

"This is not good." She cackled.

"What's not good?" I shot back. "We must hurry, you have little time. Tomorrow is full moon, you need to sleep soon or you will perish." I suppose it did not take a genius to tell I had not been sleeping - I looked like hell. I told her about the dogs and she said she could help. "Use this tomorrow night, under moon, be careful with this, it is very, very strong potion."

Before long I was out the door and had the potion in my pocket. She said all I had to do was sprinkle a little around the yard and drop some in the dog's water bowl, just a few drops mind you, because this was supposed to be powerful shit, anyway the dogs would stop the barking and I could get some sleep. Well, me being the genius that I am decided that I would also put some in the creek that ran down through the woods in the back of our property. I knew all the stray dogs in the area and most of the neighbor's dogs would go down there and drink when they got a chance. I figured "what the hell" might be a good way to shut 'em all up! So I also decided to drive through the neighborhood and sprinkle a drop or two in everybody's yard too, you know how dogs are. They have to stop and piss in every yard, smelling every bush and phone pole they can, anything that has been pissed on before. It couldn't hurt.

"Hell I wish every one of those damn smelly son of a bitches would disappear," I said under my breath as I sprinkled the last of the potion. "Hmmm, what a coincidence." I thought "Halloween night a full moon, damn I sure am glad it's not Friday the thirteenth, this would be too weird." So I finally returned home after completing my ghostly mission and crawled into bed. My wife was already asleep and I scooted in under the covers beside her, a maniacal grin spread across my face that no one could see as I fell asleep.

I woke up the next morning and it was daylight. As soon as I opened my eyes I thought, daylight, morning, and I didn't even wake up during the night." I couldn't believe it - it worked. I got up and made my way to the back porch and looked out for the dogs. I whistled and no response, I walked around the house looking for them but they were gone, really gone. In fact I did not see or hear any dogs in any of the neighbor's yards either. Some of the neighbors were outside in their yards looking for their mutts too I suppose. They looked at me really funny. Do they suspect me for doing something? I wondered to myself - they seemed to be staring. "Fuck it!"

I ran through the house out the front door and jumped in my car. I started riding through the neighborhood. I was singing happily as I drove, "Oh where, oh where has my little dog gone, oh where oh where can he be, hahaha." There was not a damned dog in sight, they were all gone. I couldn't believe it. It's a miracle, every freaking dog in the whole neighborhood is gone, "Hallelujah!" I screamed, only then did I realize I was still in my underwear, my old ones at that. The pair that had big holes in the front and back, the pair my wife hated!

I tried to sneak back in the house without anyone seeing me and I got caught coming in the door. "Where have you been this morning?" She asked, scanning me up and down with a confused look after seeing I was in my BVDs.

"I was out looking for the dogs honey, they're gone!" I replied, trying to sound genuinely worried.

"Well put some pants on next time you go out and throw those old underwear away! I can't believe you went outside like that! Where are those dogs, did they jump the fence again?" She asked, scowling at me like a prune-faced Pekinese.

"I don't know honey, I think something really strange is going on, I did not see one damn dog in the whole neighborhood, I think they have all disappeared!" I could hardly contain my glee, couldn't even believe I was really saying what I was saying. My wife was worried sick but I was soooo happy! I planned to give my gypsy witch a big hug next time I saw her.

A few days went by and I was sleeping like a baby, of course the big dog disappearance was headline news in our city, hell even in the country. CNN and MSNBC had been in the neighborhood interviewing people. Of course everyone was speculating on what happened. Some said it had to be an alien abduction, others whispered it was due to that new Vietnamese restaurant that opened a few blocks over. Some even thought it was a sign from God Almighty himself that the end was near, but only me and the little gypsy woman really knew what had happened. Hell even I was a little confused, I thought it was supposed to shut the dogs up not get rid of them, but after going back and seeing the gypsy again she said I must have wished them away somehow. She said my anger was so powerful that it made her potion that much more effective, maybe because of the full moon, Halloween and all.

I was sleeping so good, in fact a whole week went by and I never woke up once during the night. Then it started. The nightmares came, like fanged ghosts in the dead of night, and I could not wake up until the worst would happen. They were terrifying, horrible and savage. In my dream it would be around midnight, the moon was bright and a chill wind blew that made me shiver. I would be out in the yard or somewhere outdoors with nothing but my old worn out BVDs on and I would be calling the dogs, looking for them. My wife would be somewhere in the background crying and upset because they were missing and I would be calling out looking for them, I would hear them barking, faintly at first and then louder. I could hear them coming closer, I would turn to my wife and say, "Listen honey, I can hear them, they are all right, they're coming home!" But it was no longer my wife, it was her body but with a big Doberman Pincher's head, her big sharp teeth were bared and saliva was dripping from her mouth, she came after me and I, I started running and before I knew it all the dogs in the whole neighborhood were chasing me down the street. I was barefoot and I kept stepping on glass and nails as I ran, my feet were bloody, the pain was awful, I tried to keep going. The dogs kept coming, they seemed to smell my blood and this made them run even faster, they were all mad, foaming at the mouth coming after me wanting to rip me to shreds, eat me alive. Suddenly I would be in the middle of the street and my legs would be trying to move but it was like I was stuck in a big pile of thick glue or something, it seemed like slow motion. I looked back and the dogs were closer, hatred in their cold, black eyes and blood lust in howling throats, their muscles taught, flexing as they bounded closer and closer, I was terrified like a small deer, caught in a poacher's spotlight. I looked back ahead of me and it was a dead end, a big gate with metal bars ahead too tall for me to climb. The dogs were right on my heels now and I, I was stuck unable to climb, unable to move and then suddenly they pounced...

Sharp, razor-like teeth were ripping my flesh, hot acid breath suffocated me, the pain was tremendous, I tried to fight but the dogs were all over me, had my hands, my wrists, my ankles. Biting me on the face, the ears, even my crotch. They were like a pack of hungry sharks grabbing hunks of flesh and shaking their heads with crushing force ripping apart my body piece by piece, the pain was unbearable, then one of my, I mean my wife's own dogs was right in my face, our eye's locked, I thought for a moment she would save me, rescue me from the pack of frenzied killers. I pleaded with her in my mind, "Lucy help me," I begged. She smiled it seemed with those pearly white, razor sharp teeth then she snapped, ripping my throat out!

I sat straight up in bed, sweat pouring from me all over, I looked at my hands and arms, I was OK but the nightmare, so real so terrifying. "God forgive me, what have I done!" I said to myself. It happened again and again ten nights in a row, I couldn't take it anymore, I was going nuts, loosing my mind. I could not eat or sleep. I had circles under my eyes, I had bags under my circles! Then it dawned on me, the gypsy, yeah maybe she can help. I got up and showered, managed to get dressed and headed down the block, I had to walk because I just couldn't seem to drive anymore, my nerves were shot, I seemed to hallucinate all the time.

I was about a block from the gypsy's house, I could see the big sign in the front yard with the palm and the big red eye in the middle of it. I was almost giddy at the sight. I stepped into the street, hoping she was there and could help me. I heard a noise, I turned my head and looked up just in time to see the big metal grill of a truck, a Mack truck I suppose, it had a dog on the front as a hood ornament, you know the one, it's a bulldog kinda standing on its back feet. "Oh shit," I managed to say with my last living breath.

That dog was the last thing I saw, felt actually, it caught me right in the forehead, then the truck smashed me, my bones splintered, blood gushed everywhere, brains and guts too. The trucker slammed on the brakes and drug my mutilated body about thirty feet or so. I saw it all, it seemed I was up above the accident, floating, watching as the truck driver got out and looked under his truck. I thought he was gonna get sick when he saw me or what was left of me. The truck was one of those eighteen wheeler rigs, had a big trailer painted with a picture on each side of what else but big dogs, eating out of a big bowl full of Science Diet food or some shit like that. How Ironic, I thought to myself as I continued to float. Fucking dogs got me back after all. I floated up and up until I could no longer see the earth.

Next thing I knew I was standing in front of two large gates, St. Peter was there and I knew I was in Heaven. Actually I was a little surprised but I had always been told our God was a very forgiving fellow.

After I met with St. Peter and got assigned to my eternal job I realized that God must also have a sense of humor, although I personally didn't think it a bit funny. Turns out my job is cleaning up after all the dogs in Heaven. I walk around with a pooper scooper, 24 - 7 and pick 'em up as they drop 'em, I even recognize many of the dogs from my old neighborhood, I think they recognize me too, they seem to show it in their own way (if you get my drift, peee -ew!) Oh yeah, my, er, my wife's dogs are here too, Lucy and Ricky - they bark constantly, day and night just like the rest of these stupid mutts. Dogs, dogs, dogs everywhere! God how I hate dogs! "OOPS sorry, good doggie."

In Loving Memory of Fred...

JD PEARCE

is a 41 year old, who spends his time riding his motorcycle, pampering his lovely wife, listening to talk radio, playing D&D computer games, reading fantasy adventure books and writing in his spare time. JD loves to hike, camp, eat, play poker, go to the movies and sing old songs. It is his dream to someday live in a log house with his wife in the NC mountains by a river or lake. That done he would hope to write, then publish a novel in the vein of R. E. Howard's Conan, his all time fave character next to Gath of Baal, better known as the Death Dealer..... Visit JD at: www.jdskaraoke.com/fantasyandlegends.htm. Email: jdddd@hotmail.com

The Boblin

By Michael A. Arnzen

Bob couldn't get the goblin mask off his face. The plastic stuck to various patches of flesh like bandages that hurt too much to peel off. Frustrated, when no one was looking, he tugged on it with all his might - just once - and yelped from the pain. The goofy green plastic face held its position, snapping back in place.

His brother, Pete, leaned over in the backseat and peeked into Bob's goodie sack, his sticky fingers pulling open the lip of it to reveal Bob's hefty collection of treats. "You got any Gobstoppers in there?" Pete was a wizard, and his conical purple cap of moon and stars dangled below his face on a piece of elastic. It was spattered with purple splotches of grape saliva like a soiled bib. Pete didn't know how to eat a lollipop correctly. He tended to just press it against his lips and blow spit bubbles and then suck those back into his mouth. The hard candy never actually entered his mouth. And that meant a lot of drool got all over the place while he spent hours trying to finish it off, before giving up and throwing the whole thing out. Bob hated this habit about his brother, especially because he often would open a drawer or a bag or a book and get sticky old sugar spit all over his fingers.

This time, though, Bob just ignored him, idly plucking the chin of the goblin mask with his index finger, as though playing with a scab. The streets of Massapequa streamed past the mask's eyehole cuts in a blur as the car made its way back to their neighborhood. His eyes were still tearing from the attempt to extricate himself from his mask, pooling cold against the plastic rim of his new and unwanted sockets.

"Leave your brother's candy alone," their mother said to the rear view mirror. "I told you that I want to check it first, anyway, Peter."

Pete shrugged and looked inside his own bag, seeking a sucker when she wasn't looking.

Bob kept crying to himself, silently hoping his tears might loosen the glue - or whatever it was - holding him prisoner to his mask.

***

No one had bothered to say anything about his goblin face all evening. Mom probably thought it was just so much kid's play. And Pete was treating him like the mask was simply a part of who he was now, just like the glasses his mom wore.

Bob tried explaining to his mother that he couldn't remove the mask and that they might need to go to the hospital, but she just nodded and ignored him as she went about her household duties, acting like he was crying wolf. Pete didn't say a word, either, but of course he was still wearing his goofy wannabe magician's outfit, too, keeping in costume like some extra from a Harry Potter film. He was acting as though some unspoken competition was going on to see who could last the longest in their Halloween costumes. Later that night, their mother even said how cute they both looked, all dressed up and watching TV together. She even went so far as to call Bob her "little gobblin' goblin" when she caught sight of him sliding candy pellets into the little breathing hole that the manufacturer had blessedly cut into the lips of the mask. He hated being called "cute." Truth be told, he felt dopey and heavy-headed, like a giant Pez dispenser.

When he got into bed that night, the mask felt like it had completely become one with his face, save for the clammy gill-like cuticles around the edges of his chin and ears. It was hard for him to sleep, feeling as though his face were being permanently contorted into a goblin's, warts and all. He thought of his mother and her cosmetic mud masks. He wondered what sort of plasticky mud his face was really becoming beneath it all. Probably much worse than the wormy whiteflesh his fingertips turned to whenever he took a bath for too long.

Pete slept under the covers in the bed beside him. He had begged Bob to stop scaring him with that mask but Bob didn't know how to oblige. So Pete got angry, called him a zit-faced dweeb, and ducked his head under his sugar-stained Baltimore Ravens blanket.

Bob just stared at the ceiling, imagining that his face was being eaten away by some sort of unseen acid. In his mind it slow-burned into his skull until he fell into a sleep like death.

***

Bob awoke to the sound of Peter's electric toothbrush buzzing across the room. Ever since his last visit to the dentist - which earned him his favorite grape lolly's - Pete had been a clean tooth fanatic. He had a morning habit of walking around the house with the brush zimming in his jaws as he pulled some stunt like putting on his socks with one free hand while brushing. Today, Bob discovered as he pulled open his crusty goblin eyes, Pete was sitting cross-legged on the bed, doing his penmanship homework in a large ruled notebook that sprawled across his knees while he polished away his incisors.

Bob got up and headed toward the bathroom to pee, but Pete was already up and running out the door. "Gotta spit" he gurgled, but it sounded more like "goblin sped" and Bob wanted to punch him for it.

When his turn to use the bathroom finally came around, he trundled into the room and locked the door and went straight to the mirror. His eyes darted around inside the mask. He could tell they were his by the blue color and the telltale vein in the left orb. His hair, muffed into weirdness from his strained sleep, was also familiar. But that's where the familiarity ended. His face was green and yellow, its two bulbous cheeks and chin tinted in colors that reminded him of three nicely waxed Granny Smith apples. Aside from a brooding brown shelf of impossible eyebrows, the most notable goblin markings on his green face were a long nose that hung sideways like a divoted pickle from between his eyes and numerous banana-colored boils that seemed ready to burst at the touch of a finger.

Bob touched it anyway, pressing into the plastic. His face had gotten distinctly more rubbery over night. Or was it more gobliny? How rubbery was a goblin's face, anyway? He didn't know, but he knew one thing with such utter certainty that he had to sit down on the toilet and think long and hard about what to do about it: the mask was merging with his very skin, taking over his features, becoming his new face.

When he stepped into the shower, he turned the hot water all the way up and stood on tiptoe to get maximum water pressure into the space around the edges of the mask. But it did no good: the edges were barely there anymore, and in some places the edging was gone altogether. All he did was scorch his face so harshly that he had to pull away and eventually give up trying altogether. The pain was too much to bear.

As he dried, the realization dawned on him: the heat of the water had seared his goblin flesh. The mask had bonded with him completely. His very nerve endings confirmed it.

He dried his hair, mulling over the implications. He was no longer Bob. He wasn't entirely a goblin, either. He'd become something in between the two. A Boblin.

His mother punched on the bathroom door. "Hurry up, Bobby, it's time to go."

"It's not Bobby. It's the Boblin!" he shouted back.

"You're running late for school," she called back, her voice pulling away. "Meet us in the car."

He went back to his room and put on his nicest clothes. He wanted the Boblin to look his best when people met him.

He climbed in the backseat and his mother took off to Massapequa Junior High. She chattered on her cell phone during the whole trip. Then she let the Boblin and his brother out in front of the school, having not once looked him in the face. If this had happened a few years prior, she might have found herself lip to lip with a green-faced, pustule-covered freak, but she'd given up kissing the kids goodbye long ago. She waved an aimless hand at them before driving away.

They were late for school, just as she'd warned. They took their time walking toward the building.

The Boblin pulled his brother aside by the shoulder. "Look at me."

"What?"

"Don't you think it's weird that I'm still wearing my Halloween mask to school?"

"What Halloween mask? That's just your ugliness nasty regular look, isn't it?" He stifled a laugh.

"You're clueless," the Boblin said, adding an insult that he knew would hit home. "Just like mom."

The Boblin and his brother made it all the way to the hallways before they saw any other kids - all latecomers, rushing to square away their lockers and head off to class.

"See ya later, snot head," Pete said as he ran down the hall.

Splitting up at Bob's locker was an old ritual of theirs. Pete's class was on the other side of the building.

The Boblin flicked the combination lock and opened the door and put away his backpack. He thought twice about going to class. The teacher wouldn't recognize him, so why bother showing up for roll call?

"Look here, someone thinks it's still Halloween!"

The metal locker door slammed shut with a noise like a gunshot.

Joe Hanson stood in the space where it once blocked his view of the hall. Hanson was the bully of the school. The Boblin knew this because he'd once pushed his little brother down the stairs for no reason other than "looking at him funny" on his way up.

"Hi there, Joe," the Boblin said, the words feeling goofy between his oddly-misshapen lips.

"Who do we have here?" Joe Hanson asked as he slapped at the mask that didn't come off and then made a funny face of terror.

The Boblin thought he'd introduce himself, but his mouth tore open and had already snapped around Joe Hanson's arm and began chewing into the ulna. His mouth flooded with blood and he hungrily swallowed his breakfast. When the boy pulled away to run, the Boblin lunged and found the throbbing meat of the neck even tastier. He pushed him inside his locker and munched into his ribcage until the bell rang, when the Boblin thought it best to lock up the carcass, grab his bloody book bag and run towards home.

***

He showered again, this time to wash the blood off his body. He didn't know what to do about his clothes so those were put in the trash in the garage. The Boblin was a mess. In the mirror, he noticed that the green gill-like edging of the mask had not only merged seamlessly with his human flesh, but that the green pigment had begun spreading down his neck. Boils were growing on his shoulders. Hairs sprouted in weird places. And the lobes of his ears had turned into elongated flaps that had acquired the organically pointy shape of a fleshy diamond.

The Boblin was not horrified. No. He had begun to like his new appearance very much.

What mattered to him more, now, would be what to do about his family. They had ignored him so far, but there would come a time when there'd be no escaping the fact that his mask was not going to come off. And what if the Boblin got hungry for more man meat? Would little Petey be for dinner? Mom?

After all, the hunger was something he couldn't control - his face had just taken over and snapped its jaws onto tasty Joe Hanson's wrist when they'd come close enough for that long pickle nose of his to smell the pumping blood it harbored. That's what horrified the Boblin more than anything else. The lack of control. The sudden lunge of his mouth, champing on its own accord. The instincts taking over. He found that eating a human was a very rewarding act, but he didn't like losing control at the drop of a hat like that. He'd rather pick his victims on purpose, just like all those killers in the movies did.

He took one last look in the mirror. The boils from the mask had darkened to a rich mustard yellow. He pinched at one with two fingers and - surprisingly - it burst as easy as a blister, blurting milky pus all over the mirror and sink. This pleased him because he'd always thought those stupid boils were what made the over-the-top goblin mask look fake. Now he looked far more realistic - far more like a Boblin should. He grinned and noticed that his teeth had somehow become triangular and sharp as blades and that the canines, especially, had elongated like a dog's. Maybe the Boblin was getting more and more gobliny than he expected. On the inside. But that was okay, so long as he found some place to run to and something meaty to eat. For he was getting bored with looking at himself and getting hungry all over again.

He still had sense enough to put on some clothes. A hooded sweatshirt would conceal the Boblin's face from those who might recognize him as no longer human. He quickly scanned his room, looking for anything he might want to take with him, given that this might be the last time he ever stepped foot inside the place. Nothing meant much to him anymore. The books, the baseball glove, the posters...all of it was Bob stuff. Not Boblin stuff.

Except the bag at the foot of his bed. The one filled with Halloween candy. He rushed over to it and dumped its contents onto the bed. He sorted out the suckers and tossed them onto Pete's pillow, a parting gift for his little brother. The rest went back into his bag, just in case he needed something to munch on as he chose his next victim.

***

He rang the doorbell and held the bag open. A woman answered.

"Trick or treat," he said to the stranger, his grin spreading wide.

Her face expressed recognition and horror at the same time. She wasn't the right person. But he pounced anyway, latching his mouth around her forearm as she tried to shut the door. She fell backwards and he went right for the thrashing neck. Her lilac perfume was a welcome new marinade as he pulled her entire throat out with one mean tug of his head.

***

"Trick or treat," he said to the neighbor next door, his grin spreading wide all over again.

The longhaired man who answered the door was clearly horrified - not by the green-faced boy but by the massively bloodied sweatshirt and massive row of teeth that stood before him, waist high. He turned but the Boblin leapt onto his back and feasted. He got a lot of hair in his mouth. That sort of bothered him the way that stringy corn on the cob used to bug him, so he punched into the man's back with his lower jaw and clamped onto the muscles that held his left shoulder blade in place. This was some of the best meat he'd had yet. It was so satisfying, he spent the night in the man's house, sleeping peacefully in front of the television set. Luckily, no one came home.

The doorbell awakened him when the cops came over to ask about the lady next door, but he just ignored them, curling sidewise on the sofa and sleeping while they worked the rest of the block.

He would have to work the rest of the block, too. This one and the next one. The Boblin had to find his creator. He was on the hunt. He was almost entirely a beastie now, but he still had his memories and he figured that someone along their trick-or-treating route on Halloween must have done this to him. He didn't know who or where or why, but someone whose doorstep he'd visited had turned him from Bob into the Boblin. Maybe it was just some sort of trick instead of a treat - a magic trick. Or maybe it was just the work of some candy that he'd snuck out of his bag when they went from door to door - candy that had been laced with some potion or poison. Maybe it was the mask manufacturer. He didn't care. He had to find the person who did this to him. And he had to eat. The Boblin was homeless, after all. Whoever had done this would have to take him in. He was their kid now.

He moved at night, when the cops were gone.

The Boblin ate the whole block. None of the neighbors claimed him as their child. None seemed remotely responsible for his transformation. All of them were innocent. And all of them tasted good to the Boblin.

***

He was no longer hungry, but he was lost. He had nowhere to go but back home.

His mom opened the door.

She recognized the goblin mask instantly. She rolled her eyes and then said, "Where the hell have you been, Bobby?"

He sighed. "Trick-or-treating, I guess."

"I thought you ran away. You had me worried sick." Her lips quivered and she clearly couldn't keep her angry front up long enough to scold him. A tear spilled out of a quivering eyelid. She bent down to hug him and pick him up, but stopped short of a homecoming hug. "What is that stinky stuff all over you?"

"Bloo-" he started but his mouth was open and her heart was so close to him and he couldn't stop from jumping right into her chest, mouth first, munching his way through her breast and swallowing hard as he nuzzled into the gap between her ribs. Chomping madly, he rammed his tongue through the cage of bone, trying desperately to reach the heart encased there, thrashing its purple meat against the muscles that surrounded it. But he couldn't quite get the green tip of his goblin tongue close enough to the muscular prize to tug it free. In a struggle to get there, he held her tight with both arms, finally giving her the hug she'd originally wanted, using all his might to pull his face deep into her corpse.

"Halt, bloodthirsty demon of the damned!"

The Boblin looked up, surprised by both the assured sound of his brother's voice and the ludicrous words of his command.

Peter stood tall above them, slipping a shaking arm through his wizard costume, the conical sorcerer's hat crooked on his head like a dunce cap. He uttered baby talk: "BrogeticusLividnum Fazistuporfluo."

The Boblin had finally found his maker. He thought that when he found his creator, he would find a new father - perhaps even a new mother - to join in eternal hellish bliss. But never a little brother.

But then… No, someone who didn't know how to eat a lollipop properly could not possibly be responsible for this. The kid was just play-acting. Trying to erase the horror he had found in his foyer with a fantasy. Trying to escape from the traumatic scene of his mother's demise in the only way he knew how - through pretending to be in control.

In his free hand, Peter waved a wand.

The Boblin had had enough of this nonsense. Pete was always jerk. He never could stand up for himself in school. He'd do him a favor. He'd make spit bubbles with his bloodied skull. The Boblin lunged.

And fell down onto his chin, the impact snapping the very tip of his tongue off between his sharp teeth.

He yelped like a dog and tried to pick himself back up to lunge again, discovering that he was anchored to his mother; his hands and feet stuck to her dead body like weights. His flesh connected to her flesh. His hands bound to her sides with an impossible epoxy. His fingertips, gone, sunken into the ribcage. The Boblin moved to chew them free, but even then, it hurt - he had felt the bite pierce her skin as if he had bit into his very own and pulled away in agony.

Her dead eyes opened. Mother had never looked so strange. It was as though she were wearing a mask that made her into a whole different person. And maybe that was because he was seeing himself at the same time that he was gazing at her, the vision of two sets of eyes impossibly meeting one another along a shared optic nerve, blurring oddly into one fuzzy image that masked his face over hers and hers over his in a way that made the Boblin into something more. Something Mom and something Bob and something Goblin. A Momblin.

From somewhere above, his master opened up a sucker while he uttered a new command.

MICHAEL A. ARNZEN

is a past recipient of the Bram Stoker Award and the International Horror Critic's Guild Award. His latest book, Freakcidents (DarkVesper 2003), is a collection of poems about impossible mutants and carnival freaks. His website, gorelets.com, is a popular visit for horror fans online.

Real Monsters

By Bob L. Morgan

...It's only me dear

In my midnight disguise...

"The Kinks"

Halloween Night

2001

A Full Moon

Chicago IL.

Kedzie Ave.

"We are two bad muthafuckas," Bobby Joe Lee said to Jake Borton beside him and passed him the joint they were sharing. He blew a stream of smoke at the windshield and laughed.

Jake took his deep hit and held it in. The veins stuck out on the sides of his neck before he let the smoke out with a loud, "Haaaaaah," sound.

"Tonight we be fuckin some muthafuckas up," Jake said and passed the joint back to Bobby.

The car stereo blasted out some old hard pounding acid-rock. A light misty rain was coming down. The streets were wet and shiny. Streetlights, neons and headlights made streaks like laser beams down the pavement.

Jake pulled out his thirty-eight special and checked it again for the fourth time in the last fifteen minutes.

It was loaded.

He put it back in his belt line under his leather jacket.

Van Halen screamed to them from the radio, the song was Running With the Devil....

Bobby yelled, "That is the story of my fuckin life!"

"Mine too, muthafucka!" Jake answered him.

Bobby and Jake grew up together. They flunked out of and dropped out of High School together. They hung around the streets and did drugs together. They stole cars together, like the one Bobby was driving. They robbed drunks and junkies and raped women together.

They were like Martin and Lewis, Crosby and Hope, Starski and Hutch or a thousand of the other two-man teams who went down in history together. Except that they were ghetto white trash who didn't care about anyone or anything. And they were proud of it.

This was their favorite night of the year. The night when wearing masks didn't draw attention. What they were doing tonight they'd done for the last two Halloweens. It was so much fun that Bobby and Jake would make this their Halloween tradition, until somebody stopped them.

The plan was simple - rob fast, kill any witnesses. Spot a pair wearing costumes on the street. Kill them, take their masks. Steal a new car every time you get the chance. Then do it over and over again.

For the last two Halloweens, this worked like a charm. They were switching masks and cars so fast the police never knew what they looked like or what they were driving. They never left any witnesses behind.

Last Halloween they accounted for eight deaths by shooting. Jake always said it was nine. He said he got two for one because his final victim was a pregnant woman standing on a street corner waiting for the light to change. He shot her just because Bobby had a higher score than he did that night.

This was what these boys lived for. This was what got them off. This was their favorite night of the year. Halloween, their night of masks and murder.

Bobby pulled the stolen car over to the curb at the corner of Cermak and Kedzie. The car he drove was a beat up early eighties green Pinto. It had so many rust spots that it looked like it was suffering from a bad case of teenage acne. The newer cars were too hard to wire. After he tried a few recent models and almost got caught when the alarms went off, he gave those up.

They were parked in front of a privately owned convenience store. The sign read "Monster Mart."

Bobby grabbed a rubber mask from under his seat and pulled it on over his head. He checked the chrome plated forty-five that he took off a business man stupid enough to walk through Forest Park after dark.

Loaded.

Jake pulled on his mask.

They looked at each other.

Jake had on a Jason hockey mask from the Friday the Thirteenth Series. Bobby had on a Bill Clinton mask.

"Damn," Jake told Bobby. "You the scariest mutherfucker I ever seen."

"Yeah," Bobby answered laughing, "But that Hillary. She scare the shit outa' me."

Both the masks came off the rack at "Lowell's Groceries." The bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Lowell were discovered five minutes after Jake and Bobby left with the masks and the money from the till.

They both got out of the Pinto, leaving it running.

They walked across the sidewalk keeping their hands on the guns in their belts. Bobby kicked the front door open and stepped inside the store.

An old oriental man was behind the counter reading a magazine open to a spread that showed panoramic scenes of the countryside of China. He looked up when they entered.

"Hey!" Bobby yelled and jerked his pistol free from his belt. "Treat this trick, muthafucka!" He marched to the counter, the gun out in front of him pointed at the old man's head.

Jake stepped inside and to the right of the glass door. He kept his pistol in both hands pointed at the floor in plain sight.

This was a small convenience store. There were only three short aisles with coolers holding beer at the back and the cash register counter.

Two women, a black and a Mexican, were at the coolers. The Mexican was dressed like a fairy princess. The black had on an Elvira outfit. They froze when they heard Bobby's yell.

Jake waved his gun in their direction. "Don't you even think about moving," He shouted to them.

They couldn't have moved less if they were made of stone.

The old man behind the counter froze too. His mouth hung open in surprise.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Bobby shouted at him. "Get me the god-damn money!"

The old man was shaking. His hands were jerking so much he couldn't hit the right keys to get the cash drawer open. He started stammering, "I-I-I-I."

"Get the fuck out of the way!" Bobby yelled at the old man and shoved him with his left hand. The old man stumbled a step, then went down dragging some cartons of cigarettes off a rack with him. Bobby leaned over the counter and slammed at the closed cash drawer with bottom of his pistol grip.

The cash register bell rang like the starting of a round at Madison Square Garden. The drawer stayed shut.

"Get him to open the god-damn thing!" Jake yelled.

"Shut up!" Bobby yelled back. He banged at the register some more making it sound like he was playing a pinball machine.

The old man was gibbering, "You jam, you jam. It no open." He stood up but stayed stooped over, trying to be as small as possible.

"Open the mutha-fuckin-thang!" Bobby shouted at the old man who cowered against the wall.

"I can no open," the old man muttered, his eyes downcast.

Jake was eyeing up the two women at the beer coolers. He liked what he was seeing. There was an open/closed sign hanging from a hook at the top of the door. Jake flipped it over to closed. He turned the door latch locking them in.

"Have the old man turn the lights off," Jake said to Bobby. He had an evil smile on his face. Jake leered at the women, mentally ripping the clothes off their young slim bodies.

Bobby glanced at the women. He liked what he saw too. "Switch the lights off," he said.

"Please, "the old man pleaded. "I get you money. Nobody get hurt."

Bobby yelled at the old man, "I told you to turn those fuckin lights off!"

"Please. Nobody, get hurt."

Bobby's chrome plated forty-five roared twice in his fist and two holes were punched in the old man's chest. He flew from his feet in a cloud of gun smoke and red mist, landing in a crumpled heap on the tile floor.

Bobby went around the small counter and stepped over the old man and hit the light switch on the wall. The room was darkened to a dim neon gloom. The lights from the coolers and the orange tinted streetlights were all that illuminated the inside of the store.

Black Elvira was standing with her hands on her hips. All trace of surprise was gone from her face and posture. The Mexican Fairy Princess had her arms folded across her ample breasts. She gave the two bandits the evil eye as they approached.

Black Elvira shook her finger at Bobby and Jake. She was doing that head cocking thing that some black women do when they are getting ready to get pissed off.

"Oh, no, no, no, no," She said. "You don't want to touch me or my girlfriend. My man is Calvin Cooley. He's the head of the Cryps around here." She paused for effect. "He'll have you white boys skinned alive, you touch us."

Bobby and Jake were standing in front of the women now.

Bobby laughed.

Jake laughed.

Bobby said, "It's about time I got my dick sucked."

"Me too, muthafucka," Jake answered.

Black Elvira said, "You bring those wrinkled little white cocks out here and that'll be the last damn thing you do with them."

Bobby lashed out and punched Black Elvira in the mouth. She staggered back and bounced off a cooler door and fell to her knees.

"Oh no, choo did it now," The Mexican Fairy Princess said. "Choo geh her mad. Chee tear you up, man." Her voice and accent sounded exactly like Rosie Perez, the Mexican actress from White Men Can't Jump. Her eyes had an excited sparkle in them. She had a half smile on her lips.

Jake didn't like the smile. He stepped forward and shoved his pistol in her face.

"Bitch!" Jake yelled. "You best start getting those muthafuckin clothes off before I go upside your head."

The Fairy Princess's eyes seemed to blink a glowing red. Hair sprang from the pores of her face like grass growing in a time-lapse photography nature film.

Jake sprang backward into a rack of Green Giant canned vegetables. "What the fuck?" He yelled.

Brown fur sprouted and grew on the Princess' arms, legs, neck and face. Her nose and cheeks and lower jaw jutted forward creating a wolfish look.

"Momma taught me to be polite to peoples," She said. Her voice was now the raspy whisper of a threatened canine. Her body was thickening in waves, muscles jumping out of formerly feminine softness. "But choo called me the B-word. Choo don't do that to a lady."

Black Elvira looked up into Bobby's face. Her eyes glowed an ethereal blue. Her mouth had grown impossibly large. Pointed razor sharp shark's teeth and four long fangs grinned at Bobby. Her hands sprouted four-inch long black nails that looked like knives.

She swiped at Bobby like a cat and got him on the leg as he jumped back. Three tear lines went through his jeans, into the muscle of his leg and spewed blood.

"Girlfriend," She said. Her voice was a guttural growl. "We're going to have to teach these boys a lesson in manners."

The Mexican Fairy Princess Werewolf answered, "What gets me is, I just got my hair done." She reached up and patted her hair with vicious looking claws. "Wit me changin, I just trew dat money out da window."

Bobby and Jake let loose with their guns. The hail of bullets they fired drove the Black-Vampire-Elvira and the Mexican-Were-Fairy-Princess against the doors of the coolers. A few of the shots went wide shattering the glass doors and some of the beers sprayed foam into the air. They kept firing until their guns were empty and clicked repeatedly as they kept pulling the triggers.

When the cloud of gun smoke cleared, the two women, now looking like escapees from a horror film festival, were standing there dusting themselves off.

Black Elvira fingered one of the many bullet holes in the front of her dress. No blood came from the holes that closed as Jake and Bobby watched.

"I did used to like this dress," Black Elvira said.

"We're getting the fuck outa here!" Bobby yelled.

That was when they heard the hissing like escaping steam coming from behind them.

Slowly, they turned around.

Sitting on the countertop, eyeing Jake and Bobby was a lizard far larger than any lizard from any of their drug-induced nightmares. It had shiny green scaly skin and was about the size of a big St. Bernard dog. Its eyes were large and black. It sat like a cat. When the lizard breathed, there was an angry rumbling that came from deep within its chest. Smoke puffed from its nostrils and mouth. The teeth in that mouth were huge and looked as sharp as jagged glass.

One word came into Bobby and Jake's minds simultaneously.

Dragon!

Jake screamed as the dragon sprang from the counter and knocked him backward into Bobby. Both of them sprawled into the shelves that held Green Giant peas, corn and green beans. The dragon was after them, slashing with sharp talons and snapping at them with quick reptilian strikes of his jaws.

Bobby went down first when he stepped backward onto a can of nibblets corn. His foot flew out from beneath him and he crashed to his back, his head bouncing on the tile.

Bobby begged for mercy when the dragon climbed onto his chest. He started shouting long forgotten prayers, asking Christ and God and the saints for salvation from this hungry thing that stood on him. But, on this night, God looked the other way and saved his salvation for someone who deserved it.

With a rip of its claw Bobby's throat was torn open. Dark red blood geysered into the air. The dragon took Bobby's head in its mouth and tore it loose from his body. Bobby's arms and legs pistoned in and out in his body's last spasms. Then he went stiff and lay quiet.

Jake backed away from the carnage in front of him. He backed right into the waiting arms of two female things from hell. They welcomed him. Black Elvira on his right and The Were-Fairy-Princess on his left.

They wrapped their arms around him and caressed him with razor sharp talons and hungry mouths with daggered teeth. Jake screamed and cried as their nails cut gashes into his flesh. He fought against them and tried to pull away but their skin and limbs were as strong as steel. He was like a baby in their hands.

But there was no mothering instinct being stirred here. The instinct he brought forth from them was the instinct to feed. Jake was dragged to the ground and pinned down by the two. He screamed and cried and begged. It didn't make any difference.

Black Elvira was at his throat. She raised herself up and looked into the bawling man's eyes.

"Don't you want me now?" she asked. "You've got me." She clamped razor sharp teeth down onto his throat and ripped it open.

The Were-Fairy-Princess ripped open Jake's shirt at his stomach. Then she ripped open Jake's stomach and scooped out his soft insides and fed upon them.

For a time only the sound of smacking lips and chewing was heard inside Monster Mart.

The dragon backed away from what was left of Bobby's body and went behind the counter. He started to shake all over so fast that his green skin became a blur. The shape of the dragon's body changed. The back legs grew longer. His spine straightened out. The lizard snout receded into the face. The old oriental man was now back to looking human again. He quickly dressed into the clothes he'd left behind the counter.

Master Po, as he was known to the Monster Community, would let the girls finish their meal. He knew they dropped by to pick up Vampire's Nectar, a beer laced with blood, produced by Monsters Inc. The beer and other beverages were made to curb the cravings of members of the Monster Community. Po was Chicago's distributor of these products.

His mission, as with all the members of Monsters Inc., was to help the young of their kind find ways to fit into society as useful productive citizens.

Sometimes, the humans didn't make this easy.

Po watched the two girls as they finished up with Jake and moved on to what he had left of Bobby. They attacked his body voraciously. Po's appetite wasn't what it used to be. He was getting old. The girls wouldn't even leave bones behind.

They were good girls. Po knew them from the neighborhood. He hoped that tonight wouldn't influence them toward feeding on humans unnecessarily when there were alternatives available.

He brought the girls two rolls of paper towels. One for each of them. They were good girls, but their table manners left something to be desired.

Bob L. Morgan Jr.

lives in a suburb of Seattle Washington with his wonderful wife Judi, stepdaughter Natalie and their insane cats Patty and Fritz. In the late 1980's and early 1990's he went to college In Victoria Texas and saw print in several college publications. He then didn't write for publication for the next 10 years. Bob's wife talked him into giving fiction writing another shot after she read some of his old stories and was impressed. His short fiction has been featured in House Of Pain, The Writers Hood, Splatter Punk, Short Scary Tales, The Murder Hole, and Savage Night. He currently is a staff writer at SavageNight.com where he reviews books, and movies.

Current projects include the novel, Blood For The Masses as John Dark and as always several short stories are being worked on at the same time. He welcomes any comments and questions and can be contacted by e-mail at boblmorganjr@hotmail.com.

VALENTINE'S DAY HORRORS

The tradition of celebrating love on February 14 originates with the Roman Empire. It was the time to honor Juno, queen of the Roman gods, also considered by Romans the goddess of marriage and women. February 15 was the Feast of Lupercalia. On the night before the Lupercalia celebrations boys would draw the names of girls from jars; they would then be paired with the girl for the festival. Often these pairings were to last an entire year. As one might imagine, this frequently led to marriage.

The Catholic Church recognizes three different saints bearing the name Valentine/Vanlentinus, all of whom were martyred. As for the Saint Valentine after whom the holiday is named, there are many legends. Three facts are constant in all the tales: Valentine was a priest, he lived during the third century AD, and he fell out of favor with Emperor Claudius II (also known as Claudius the Cruel). It seems he was beaten to death and then beheaded.

In one legend he was jailed and eventually slain for refusing to give up his belief in Christ. After being caught worshipping in a temple he was imprisoned, but during this time Valentine's romantic side showed itself and the jailer's daughter fell in love with him. When the time of his execution arrived he left her a letter, signing it "From your Valentine." A second legend states that Claudius banned marriage because it not only prevented men from joining the military, but married men in the army pined for the loved ones. Despite the ban Valentine continued to perform Christian marriages in secret. He was caught and sentenced to die. In some tales Claudius attempts to convert Valentine to the worship of Roman gods only to have Valentine attempt converting him to Christianity, after which Valentine is sentenced to die. In any event, he was declared a saint and in 496 AD Pope Gelasius declared St. Valentine's Day.

Eventually the Catholic Church attempted to subvert and eliminate the Lupercalia celebration traditions by substituting the names of young women with those of saints. They were only partly successful, as the act of young men and women choosing each other on Valentine's Day became intermingled with the act of choosing patron saints for the coming year.

During the Middle Ages young people would draw names of the opposite sex from a large bowl. Then they would wear the name on their sleeve for a week, originating the term "wearing your heart on your sleeve." In fact, the day only became increasingly superstitious (or "pagan") with additional beliefs heaped on over time: if a woman saw a sparrow on Valentine's Day she would live happily with a poor man, a robin meant her destiny was to marry a sailor, a goldfinch meant a millionaire; cutting an apple in half and counting the seeds would also reveal how many children you'd have. Today people merely celebrate with the exchange of cards, candy, and flowers. The first of these St. Valentine's Day cards was sent by the Duke of Orleans to his wife in 1415; he was imprisoned in the Tower of London at the time after being captured at the Battle of Agincourt.

For couples, the day is used to add a bit of romance to relationships, while for singles the suicide rate spikes (ending the "suicide season"). The day is also remembered for the St. Valentine's Day Massacre of 1929, during which organized criminals butchered their rivals in broad daylight. Other St. Valentine's Day facts from the United States: fifteen percent of women send themselves flowers, three percent of pet owners give gifts to their pets, children give each other and teachers over 650 million cards, crime rates tend to go down, and many stalkers use this day as an excuse to finally introduce themselves to their victims.

- John Edward Lawson

Killing Cupid

By Shawn P. Madison

Click.

Cupid Montgomery walked down the center aisle of the large parking garage toward the mall entrance on Level B-2, her two week old red convertible parked about forty feet behind. Her heels clacked loudly on the pale concrete of the platform, the sound reverberating off the walls in the confined space. Such a lonely sound, it reminded him of just how lonely his life had become.

Click.

He watched as she almost stumbled in her rush to make it into the huge glamour store anchor of the enormous shopping mall, it was three minutes to five and she was working a last minute shift to cover for a co-worker

Click.

His camera began to whiz and whir as it automatically rewound the film. Cupid Montgomery, looking stunning in a tight blue dress that fit her curves in all the right places, dark stockings complimenting the creamy tones of her face, disappeared through the thick glass doors and glitzy lights of the mall entrance.

It was February 14th, Valentine's Day, and Detective Ian Phillips wasn't about to allow a Cupid in his town to become the twenty-second victim of the Cupid Killer.

"Damn," he muttered and shook his head in grief as he scanned the many computer printouts of photos lying atop the dark manila folder sitting in his lap. There was just enough light in this section of the parking garage to allow him to see the terror that the twenty-one pictures contained. Pictures of young women, once beautiful, now nothing but horrible figures depicted in death. The long-lasting legacy of the Cupid Killer.

Every one of them missing their hearts…no…not missing them, that was wrong. They still had their hearts, all of them, when they had been discovered. When these pictures had been taken. Just not in their chests where they should have been.

Instead, the hearts had been…had been placed in…

Ian Phillips wiped sweat from his brow and upper lip with his sleeve. The terror etched on the faces of the dead women in the pictures was starting to get to him. No matter how many times he scanned those faces, mourned them for the atrocities they had been subject to, it didn't matter. The fear in their eyes, frozen there over time, called to him through the years…

Twenty-one years in twenty-one different cities. All major metropolitan areas. Always the same MO. Always in the same manner. Always the same type of girl. All of them named Cupid. All of them young or relatively young. All of them beautiful.

He'd been following the case for the past six years, ever since Cupid Montgomery turned sixteen. There were twelve females named Cupid in this town, a relatively big town but not a huge metropolis. Eleven of his Cupids were too young, too old or too ugly to fit the profile. But Cupid Montgomery was just right. A stunningly gorgeous young woman from a wealthy family. Not into drugs, not too overly promiscuous.

No, Cupid Montgomery was just right.

Detective Ian Phillips hoped this Valentine's Day would be just like the past five; uneventful. There were more than fourteen thousand women named Cupid currently living in the continental United States, nearly three-thousand of them fit the Cupid Killer's profile.

But only Cupid Montgomery both fit the profile and lived in his town. Phillips tore his eyes away from the terrifying pictures, wiped a bit of wetness from his right eye and took a deep breath. There were more photos in an envelope on the passenger seat, but those were of Cupid. His Cupid. The pictures he had just snapped off would be added to his collection once he got them developed. Pictures of Cupid Montgomery on each Valentine's Day since she had turned sixteen. Pictures that he hoped would be added to next year when he snapped off some more shots of the beautiful red head, still alive and breathing. Still with her heart where it should be.

The odds were against the Cupid Killer striking in his town this year, Phillips knew. Especially with another lunatic running loose in the local area. The Hangman Killer, as the media had dubbed him, had proven to be slick with a belt and hard to capture. He had killed twelve so far in a three-state area, the epicenter of which lay just a few miles from where Phillip's car now sat parked. Serial Killers seldom intruded on each other's territory, at least according to all the studies those psych-jobs at Central Precinct were always quoting. So why did he feel something different this year?

Why the feeling of deep foreboding, of doom and gloom?

Phillips shook himself in the cramped driver's seat of the unmarked car. Pulling a double-shift tonight was not something he had been looking forward to. Yet, he felt a need to be closer to Cupid this year than ever before. Felt it deep inside. Call it a cop's intuition but Phillips just had the damnedest feeling that tonight was going to be different.

It was a cold February evening and the car stank of stale cigarette smoke and the cheap cologne he still got from his kids each Christmas. His small apartment across town was dark and lifeless, had been for the past three years, ever since the ugly divorce. He wasn't about to sit there on his couch watching any of those annoying romantic Valentine's Day movies on the tube. Besides, Cupid Montgomery was only working a five-hour shift tonight.

Five hours. Not too long to sit here and wait for his Cupid to leave the mall and drive back home to her plush apartment in the Hill-Court Estates. Paid for by her rich daddy, of course.

No, Phillips decided as he glanced one more time at the disturbing pictures sitting in his lap. Not too long at all.

***

"Hey, Cupie Doll," Buddy Daniels said and winked as Cupid walked past. She gave him a sly smile and walked over to the time clock to punch in. "I didn't know you were working tonight."

"Yeah, me neither, until about two hours ago," she said and noticed, once again, exactly how cute he was. Buddy had only started working here about three weeks ago but the two of them had immediately hit it off. They were both currently single and, although he was a little quiet, that smile of his always got to her. She wondered often, with just a little disappointment, why he hadn't asked her out yet.

God, he's so cute…and me on Valentine's Day without a date…

"Hey…Cupid," Buddy called to her back as she was about to enter the sales floor. She turned and tried to hide the smile that had been trying to play across her lips. "Do you want to maybe get together after work, you know, for a little dinner or something? I mean, it's Valentine's Day and we're both just gonna go home afterwards and I just thought…"

"Of course, Buddy," she interrupted. "I'd like that."

She saw the ends of his mouth curl up into a smile and a softness came into his eyes. "Great, that's really great."

She nodded at him, slipped him that sly smile again, and left the employee break-room. Maybe Valentine's Day would turn out all right after all…

***

A door opened in the pasty gray corridor, about thirty yards down from his hiding spot beside the dumpster, and he watched an older gentleman dressed in a maroon apron and work clothes drag two bags of trash his way.

There were more than forty doors lining both sides of this corridor, rear access ways for various employees to rid their stores of trash unseen by the ever important consumers who kept them in business. People who handed over their cash and swiped their little plastic cards to the tune of nearly a billion dollars a year in this mall alone.

The corridor itself was nothing spectacular, bare cinder block walls and concrete flooring lit only by dim lamps spaced every twenty feet or so and covered with small metal cages as if the bulbs trapped within were hot items on someone's theft list.

The slime and stains of years worth of trash bags being dragged down the hall from each door covered most of the concrete flooring. He could hear the rubber-soled shoes of the old man rasping slightly with each step as he fought to tear them away from the stickiness underfoot. It was cold in the corridor, too. Very cold. He guessed that the mall management felt it unnecessary to keep the store employees warm while throwing out their waste. Maybe they felt that by keeping the area non-climate controlled, the employees would make less trips to the large green dumpster and keep the amount of trash they disposed of to a minimum, thus saving the mall from excessive waste removal fees. Petty motives for profit by petty men of even pettier moral values. How he despised them all.

The metal roll-up door that allowed the garbage trucks access from the outside to the twenty-yard dumpster looked well-used and dented. Most of the cold in the cramped gray corridor was seeping in around the edges of this door.

He grasped the slick black plastic handle of the nine-inch butcher's knife tightly as the old man approached. His heart raced and he tasted the sickly sweet desire to kill fill his mouth.

No, no, restraint…

The old man stood less than ten feet away and heaved the two black bags over the lip of the dumpster. He watched as the sloped figure grunted with the effort and could smell the man's sweat, an overpowering odor that nearly caused him to gag. Anger swelled up momentarily and he felt his body preparing to lunge at the despicable presence before he gained back his control and steadied himself behind the huge metal container.

Not just yet, not just yet…but soon…

The object of his attention this night would be coming through the seventeenth door down on the right of the corridor within the next ten minutes, if her habits held true. He had been watching this particular one for quite some time now. She was a creature of deep habits, of routines upon routines. So predictable, so utterly predictable in her actions. Didn't she know there was a killer on the loose? A predator hunting down those of her kind? A silly young woman without the sense to protect herself, without the will to survive. Willing to walk down this long corridor to meet her death with nary a suspicion.

Oh yes, this one deserved it most assuredly…

It would be interesting to see how far back he would have to cut this one's mouth open to accommodate her heart once the deed had been done. That was his favorite part, seeing just how wide open their mouths could go before he had to cut them further in order to slip through the still-beating organ. Watching their dying eyes widen in terror as he stuffed their very lives down their throats.

Speed with the knife, that was the key. It was the speed that allowed their brains to continue registering exactly what he was doing to them even after their hearts had been cut away. It wasn't easy sawing and hacking through ribs in a manner precise enough to leave the heart mostly intact. It took skill…it took patience. And did he ever have patience. It took all that he had to hold himself to just one per year. But, once this day arrived, he used every last ounce of it to get him to that moment. Every last ounce.

Tick tock, Cupid Montgomery, he thought and grinned as the old man slipped back into his store through the drab gray door down the corridor. Tick tock…

***

"Hello Cupid, thanks for coming in on such short notice," her manager said as she slipped behind the counter and scanned the small trash bin on the bottom left shelf for contents. "Somebody called in for Bonnie, said she wouldn't be able to make it in tonight and hung up before I could get any details. I hope she's all right."

"No problem, Martin. I hope Bonnie's ok, too, but I didn't have any plans anyway," Cupid said and picked up the half-full plastic container. "I'm going to take the trash out real quick, ok?"

"Sure, thanks, but try to get back on the floor as soon as possible," Martin Harris said to her retreating back. "Sandra needs to take her break, Karen soon after and we've been busy as hell today."

"You got it, boss," Cupid said and stole a quick glance back over her shoulder to catch Harris watching her backside with an appreciative eye. Caught you again, Martin, she thought and smiled as he quickly turned away. She passed into the storage area toward the rear of the store and shook her head at the mess on the floor. "Oh, great," she sighed, spotting five full trash bags and more flat boxes than she could count blocking the gray metal door which led to the service corridor.

"Thank God I like taking out the trash," she muttered and bent down to move some of the flattened cardboard boxes out of the way. She had tried using her heels once to perform this action but learned very quickly just how hard the concrete floor of the storage area felt when her butt slammed into it.

Three minutes later and she had cleared a path to the door. She straightened her dress and smoothed it out where it had bunched up around her hips before reaching over to grab the doorknob. An immediate wash of cold air swept into the storage room from the corridor as the door swung wide and she took a step back. "Damn cold," she said and quickly chastised herself again for talking to nobody, a bad habit she had picked up in college.

Grabbing up two of the big black trash bags she entered the corridor and began the long walk down to the dumpster. She always got the creeps in this corridor, like something would spring out at her from the shadows once she reached the far end. She liked facing it, though, conquering her fears on an almost daily basis.

Of course there was nothing there - there never was. But the corridor still managed to spook her every day. That was why she started out with the trash each and every shift. By facing her fears right off the bat, she could handle anything that happened on the sales floor the rest of the day. A mental game, sure, but if it helped her get through the mundane mall workday, it was well worth it to play.

Cupid could feel her shoes sticking slightly to the dirty concrete floor and grimaced at the thought of the germs she was scraping across the soles of her expensive footwear. People are such pigs, she thought, you'd think the mall could have somebody scrape the frigging garbage off the floor.

She was about seven or eight feet away from the dumpster when she heard it, a soft sound, barely there, but she heard it all the same. It sounded like someone exhaling, a quick gasp of excitement that had been held in for too long. It had come from behind the dumpster and her feet continued to propel her forward despite the tingling quickly scrambling up her spine.

There is someone here after all, she thought just as her eye caught the gleam of the overhead lamps off of bright shiny metal…

***

"Jesus Christ," Phillips swore and threw open the door to his unmarked car. "The fucking trash, how could I forget about her routine!"

He slammed the car door closed behind him, ignorant of the ghastly computer printouts that had scattered from his lap and on to the asphalt, and began heading for the mall's front entrance before remembering about the roll-up access door to the service corridor on the other side of the mall.

"Shit," he mumbled and switched directions mid-stride, sucking cold air deeply into his old lungs. It had been about eight minutes or so since Cupid had entered the mall, that meant that she had clocked in about maybe five minutes ago. If her routine held up, she had made the rounds of the various trash bins around the counter, the employee break-room and the storage area before commencing with her regularly scheduled trip down the service corridor to the dumpster.

He had been able to learn all of this without raising suspicion over the past few months, often following her into the store to observe her actions, trying to establish a pattern that he could document and rely on during his investigation. She seemed to always start her day with the trash run, a quick way to kill the first few minutes and get herself into the proper mindset for another dreary day at the mall, he figured.

Rounding the corner to the rear of the mall in full stride, he saw the roll-up door he wanted, dimly lit by a bare bulb mounted on the wall about a hundred yards or so ahead. He could barely see the series of buttons mounted to the right side of the door that allowed it to be opened and closed by the trash collectors from the outside and felt relief well up inside him as he realized that he was mere seconds away. He didn't care if she was in there and he scared the holy hell out of her by springing the door open, as long as she was safe and sound.

He could explain it all to her later but, for now, he only wanted to ensure her safety. That corridor was the perfect place for a killer to hide and wait for his prey. Phillips cursed himself for not thinking of having the place staked out earlier in the afternoon. Oh well, he would have to contend with that error in judgment later. Right now, he just wanted to see Cupid's face and make sure she was all right.

With about thirty yards to go he heard an awful scream tear through the night, muffled by the metal roll-up door directly ahead of him. It was a woman's scream - a scream of pure terror and it could only have come from one person.

"Goddammit, no!" Phillips screamed and tried to push his tired old legs a little faster toward the door. He never saw the greasy fast food wrapper lying in his path but managed to curse as he went down hard. The cursing stopped when his head bounced off the pavement.

***

He brandished the knife and she screamed, the ugly sound echoing off the cinder block walls in the confined space of the corridor. She was nearly frozen in terror and he was able to cover the distance to her in less than a second before she moved. He lunged for her and grabbed ahold of her dress at about thigh height as she struggled to move in her heels and began to fall toward the floor.

She was making no noise now and he hoped to God that the thick doors of the service corridor had made her scream inaudible to the employees inside the stores. The dress tore quickly at the slit that had lined her right side and the smooth blue fabric ripped high up right along the seam, exposing the little white satin panties underneath her dark nylons and most of her matching bra. The woman scrambled forward, away from the dumpster, and he placed one foot down firmly on some cloth trailing from her dress. This stopped her forward momentum but didn't stop her legs from kicking.

Good, he thought, I like it when they fight back…

He leaned down over her now, squatting atop her so that her kicking legs were knocking up against his back and rear. He noticed that the dress had managed to bunch itself up around her chest and neck, her cream colored flesh contrasting sharply against the gray of the concrete floor.

He made a motion for her to be quiet and raised the knife a little higher so that she could see it. Her face went pale and she momentarily stopped moving. He placed one hand on her bare right shoulder, pinning her to the ground, as he allowed the large knife to glide softly against her lips and left cheek. Tears were streaming from her eyes but he could see that she dared not scream again.

"My, but you are a pretty little Cupid," he said, and her eyes widened at the mention of her name. "Yes, I know who you are, my sweet young thing, but you don't know me."

"Please…" she muttered in a childlike voice and he felt the power engulf him as it always did. "Please, don't…don't…"

"Shhh, my sweet little Cupid," he purred. "This will all be over in a second or two. But, for now, you really should be gathering your thoughts and preparing for the last thing you want to fill your mind with."

"No, no…please…" she muttered, but he could see that her eyes were looking elsewhere, were looking up at the dim lamp directly above. She was making her peace, he decided. They all did that. It was the least he could do to give them that little bit of time to make their peace…

He slipped the knife through the center of her bra, the flimsy fabric slicing through, exposing the soft creaminess of her breasts. Now he could make his cut…

The knife raised and was about to lower when the door she had used to enter the corridor scant moments ago flew open and a large man came rambling toward him along the filthy concrete floor.

***

Ian Phillips, dazed and confused, tried to sit up but the pounding in his head knocked him down again. He touched his right hand to the place on his head that hurt the most and immediately felt the warm stickiness of blood.

Has to be a concussion, he thought and tried to concentrate on his watch. It showed just a few minutes later than when he had started his mad dash around the mall. Good, I wasn't out long…

Trying again, he forced himself into a sitting position and immediately lost what little contents had remained in his stomach from lunch. A natural reaction to a concussion, he knew, but it tasted foul nevertheless.

Rising shakily onto unstable legs, he found the door he had been heading toward lying directly ahead of him and he forced himself forward. It wasn't that far to go, but in his state, it seemed like a mile. Twenty feet further along, he dropped to his knees and threw up again…

Wiping spittle and yellow flecks of God knows what from his lips, he checked to make sure his weapon was still positioned in the holster under his left shoulder and tried once again to make it to his feet. Hold on Cupid, Goddammit, I'm coming…

***

Buddy Daniels scrambled down the service corridor, heard the heavy door to the back of the store clang shut behind him, and skidded to a stop about five feet from where Cupid and her attacker were lying on the floor.

"Hold off a minute," he said and glanced around nervously at the other doors in the service corridor. "Stewart, just hold off a minute."

The man looked up at him and grimaced. With a heavy sigh, he fixed Buddy with a glare and pointed the large butcher's knife toward him. "What in the hell are you doing here, Wilson?"

"Buddy…" Cupid moaned as her glossy eyes found him standing not too far away. "Buddy, help me, please…"

"So, she calls you Buddy," the man sitting atop Cupid said and he sneered. "How very endearing. Once again, what are you doing here, Wilson?"

"I thought I had made it clear to you about coming here, Stewart," Buddy said. "I thought I had made it more than clear."

"Shut up, you idiot," the man said and turned Cupid's face toward him. "She's mine tonight."

"No," Buddy said and took a step forward. The man lowered the knife toward Cupid's throat and made a quick little slash, drawing a small trickle of blood on her neck.

"You two, you two know each other?" Cupid managed to rasp, shivering from the cold of the corridor. Buddy looked down at the girl on the floor, saw her naked breasts, the dress nearly torn fully away and realized just how close it had been.

"Shut up my sweet," the man growled and grabbed ahold of Cupid's long red hair. "Leave us now, Wilson, or I shall come for you next."

"I don't think so, Stewart," Buddy said and took another step closer. His heart was beating normally, almost as if he was at rest, his eyes were fully focused on the man sitting atop Cupid Montgomery, his muscles ready to spring.

The man looked up from his victim and frowned again, as if just now noticing that he was still there. "Wilson, I admit that I have broken my agreement with you but, just now, I have some business to attend to. We shall be able to make amends soon. Now, leave us!" That last had been shouted. "Or do you prefer to watch a master at work, you being a newbie to the profession and all?"

The tip of the wicked blade pressed against the center of Cupid's chest, pressing in just enough to draw some blood, and Wilson steeled himself for action.

Just then the momentary silence of the service corridor was shattered by the loud rumbling of the metal doors rolling up behind the dumpster. It was just the distraction that Wilson Lemay, known to his fellow employees as Buddy Daniels, needed. He leapt at the killer as the man's eyes were turned toward the swiftly rising door, twisted the knife from the hand that held it, and in one fluid motion swept it in a clean arc toward the man's exposed neck situated approximately at his waist height.

Stewart Nellingham's eyes opened wide and he turned to look at his killer with an expression of shock. His blood geysered from the severed arteries in his neck, splattering against the gray walls of the corridor, the green rusted metal of the dumpster and the cream colored flesh of Cupid Montgomery. Nellingham died quickly without a sound to mark the moment of his passing. She screamed again then and scrambled to get out from underneath the corpse that had fallen on top of her.

Lemay threw the knife down as he saw an older man with blood matting one side of his face and a gun in his hand stagger underneath the metal door, bathed in the yellow light of the dim bulbs outside. He slumped beside Cupid to check her for hidden wounds as his mind raced to find the answer to the mystery of the newcomer's injuries. Was there someone else out there? He thought. Someone else with blood on his hands?

"Stop it, right there," the man said and Lemay could see a badge being held shakily in his left hand. "Stand back from the girl, do it now!"

"It's all right," Cupid managed as she allowed Lemay to cover her with the remnants of her dress. "He just saved my life. That…thing…was going to kill me."

"Ms. Montgomery," the man said, still eyeing Lemay. "I am a police officer, are you alright, ma'am?"

"I, I don't know, I think so," she stammered between lips that were now shivering with the cold. "How could I be, I mean, that man tried to kill me…" she sobbed and buried her face in Lemay's chest.

"Who in the hell are you?" the cop asked and Lemay turned toward him with contempt. "And I thought I told you to get away from her."

Lemay could see that the man's injury was probably pretty serious. His eyes had that faraway look in them, sort of like Cupid still did. "I work with her, I heard a scream."

"Get away from her, I won't say it again," the cop said and waved at him with the gun. He was standing about ten feet away now and looked as if he were going to stumble to the ground at any moment.

"That man there," Lemay said and pointed to the still-twitching corpse of Stewart Nellingham. "That's your Cupid Killer. He was trying to kill her."

"What do you know about it?" the cop asked.

"I know that I saved her life, asshole," Lemay said. "Something that your pathetic ass wasn't going to do."

"Fuck you," the cop said and motioned toward him again with the gun. "I said get away from her. Do it now."

Lemay stood and raised his hands in a half-hearted attempt to let the cop know he wasn't going to do anything stupid. When the man took one shaky step forward, Lemay lunged at him and knocked the gun away with ease.

Cupid looked on in confusion and called "Buddy!" over and over while he grappled with the cop. It was over in a matter of seconds but Lemay was utterly aware of just how much time had elapsed since Cupid first screamed. Someone was bound to stumble on to this little scene any second now and it was time to cut his losses.

Wilson Lemay straddled the cop who lay on his stomach, his face being pressed cruelly into the concrete with one hand while Lemay's other hand loosened his belt. "Cupid, you may want to turn away from this," he said as he slipped the belt around the semi-conscious man's throat, and began to pull it tight.

"Buddy, Buddy, what are you doing?" Cupid said in horror as she watched the killer known as the Hangman strangle the life out of the man underneath him. The cop's face and neck slowly turned deep red and then purple as his tongue stuck out in a grotesque mask of death. The older man's eyes managed to catch those of Cupid as they began to bulge out of his skull and, for an instant, she thought that she could see in them a deep remorse. Lemay twisted viciously then and gave the belt strap one final yank. The loud crack of the cop's breaking neck bounced off the walls of the corridor and the man lay limp beneath him.

Cupid began to scramble slowly back down the corridor, toward the rear door of her store, back to her regular old life and the hell away from the insanity of this place. The man she knew as Buddy Daniels wore a sickening expression of lust on his face as he hit the button that closed the door to the outside and began to approach her. He paused once to pick up the knife that had formerly belonged to the Cupid Killer and decided that he just might find another use for the weapon after all.

"Buddy, what's going on?" she pleaded with him as he got closer to her. The belt he had used on the cop hung from his right hand, the buckle scraping eerily along the concrete floor of the corridor with his every step. There were now two corpses sharing the service corridor with her and another man that she thought she knew until just a few moments ago. "What's going on here? Jesus Christ, you killed that cop, you killed that man who was…who was…"

"Yes, Cupid, I killed them both, honey," Lemay said and allowed his gaze to fall where Cupid's breasts had once again been exposed underneath the tattered dress she wore. "You see the man who intended to kill you had been warned quite sternly not to come here, not to cross into my territory. I actually met with him in person to deliver that particular message, could have taken him out then and, looking back on it, probably should have. But he dared to come in here after I told him not to and take a shot at you, Cupid. He dared me to kill him for it. And now he's dead. I saved your life…"

"But the cop, Buddy, why the cop? I don't understand this…" Cupid moaned as more tears streamed down her face.

"Because he was here, Cupie doll, he saw just about everything," Lemay said, enjoying Cupid's useless efforts at escape way too much. "He was in the way. I had to get rid of him. I originally came here just to kill the Cupid Killer, honey. You see, deep down, I pretty much knew he was going to take a stab at you, pardon the pun. But once I was finished killing Cupid over there, I just didn't want to stop. That cop was here and he was in an awful state so, I figured, what the hell. Lucky numbers thirteen and fourteen. Two for the price of one, right?"

"What're you talking about, Buddy?" Cupid barely said it as a whisper as Lemay knelt down beside her, letting the belt drop for a moment next to her right thigh. "You're scaring me, Buddy…"

"Don't be scared now, Cupie doll," Lemay said and, once again, felt the heft of the knife. "I was going to save you for later, for after our little date, but I think I have to do this now. Too bad I won't be able to enjoy that luscious body of yours first, Cupid. I sure do hate how this has turned out. You know, I half thought that he wouldn't choose to attack you tonight, Cupid. I really thought he would take my threats seriously. But I guess he just couldn't control himself. Do you know about that, Cupid? About loss of control? Do you? I wonder sometimes about that, Cupid. I wonder if you know what it's like to lose control. Just totally lose it…"

Cupid Montgomery screamed again then as the knife rose high into the air over her body. For some reason, Lemay thought, I'm going to use the knife this time. Strange, that, for he had used the belt every time before. The very same belt that now lay on the cold concrete floor beside Cupid Montgomery's nearly naked body. He could see the buckle lying up against Cupid's thigh as his arm arced down, the blade a blur of shiny metal.

He could see the thick red blood of Cupid Montgomery mixing with that of the Cupid Killer and splattering across the worn brown leather of his belt. This experience had changed him, he knew, changed him deeply and profoundly. He was something new now, not just the Hangman Killer anymore.

As Cupid's blood ran thick along the floor, soaking into his black pants and spattering his shirt, he laughed at the results of this night. Laughed at how easy it had been, how it had all turned out. Absently, he wondered in the back of his mind just how long it would be before another possible victim entered the corridor. He couldn't stop now, he was on a roll…

Killing Cupid, he thought with a smile, he just might have to carry on the tradition…

Just then, a door halfway down the corridor opened up and he could hear the sound of trash bags being dragged across the concrete floor. Looking up, he saw the back of an older woman coming through the door not too far away. Wilson Lemay stood and waited for the store's rear door to close itself behind the still unsuspecting woman. Feeling the reassuring weight of the knife in his right hand, still slick with the blood of not one but two victims, he loudly cleared his throat with a smile.

SHAWN P. MADISON

lives in a new house in Suffolk, Virginia, where the grass has grown in nicely and all of the books he has collected through the years now fit. He has written in the genres of action, children's, contemporary, fantasy, horror, humor, mystery, non-fiction and science fiction. He has published more than fifty short stories in over twenty different magazines, both electronic and print, and his first novel, GUARDER LORE, was released by NovelBooks, Inc. (www.novelbooksinc.com) in March of 2002. Shawn and his wife share their house with two old friends; a larger than normal cat and a dog who thinks he's human, and, together, they all hope to make Virginia their permanent home. To learn more about Shawn and his writing, please visit his website at: http://legendarts.com/shawn/ or feel free to contact Shawn via e-mail at: asm89@aol.com

A VALENTINE'S DAY KISS

By Sandy De Luca

A light February rain began to fall as Marcus crossed the border from Connecticut into Rhode Island. The car needed fuel and he needed caffeine. Gazing at the slate gray sky he sighed and hoped the predicted ice and sleet would wait until he reached his destination. Only forty miles to Talbot's Bay where shelter, obscurity and an old friend waited.

He exited at a rest stop where a gas station and two small diners welcomed tired travelers. He filled the tank and then wandered into the diner which boasted The Best Cup of Java in New England. He settled in a corner booth. The walls were decorated with red hearts and paper cupids. He gazed at the menu. The dessert special was cherry cake with pink frosting.

"Available all this week," said a perky red-headed waitress. "Our pastry guy uses whole cherries."

"I'll pass. Just a cup of coffee."

Was it that time of year again? He'd met Daria years ago on February 14th. She'd always be his Valentine. He swore that, even when he left Talbot's Bay so long ago.

The waitress set down a steaming mug. His stomach rumbled when another server rushed by with two steaming plates of turkey and mashed potatoes smothered in gravy.

"You sure I can't get you something else?"

He thought about his destination. "Coffee's fine."

Marcus had been on the road for a day, leaving Jacksonville the previous night and driving at a normal speed limit. He didn't want to risk being pulled over by a cop.

Now he drank his coffee and went over all the details. He'd wiped everything down, making sure he'd left no prints. Nadia struggled when he straddled her. She clawed at him when he cut her with his hunting knife. She pulled his hair and scratched his hands and face. Nadia fought like a wild cat, even when her eyes had been cut out and her face stripped of its flesh. He washed her from head to toe, hoping that all incriminating evidence would be removed. After she died he clipped her nails and put the clippings in a plastic baggy which he later buried in a field off the Jersey Turnpike.

A small red box lined with white tissue lay on the night stand. A card with the words To my Valentine was tucked beneath the box. A heart on a gold chain hung delicately around Nadia's neck. Marcus yanked the chain, breaking it.

In the hotel bathroom he flushed the heart and chain down the toilet. Then he washed his hands with scalding hot water, humming a tune he and Daria used to sing. He heard a soft sigh and haunting laughter. He spun around on his heels. Water and suds dripped onto tile. A girl with coal-black eyes peeked at him from behind the shower curtain. Smoky black wings flapped. She smiled at him, fangs protruded over her lips. He blinked and she was gone.

He'd seen her years before when Bernard tried to conjure the Angele'.

It had to be the Xanax his doctor had prescribed a week ago. He'd been having trouble sleeping, anxiety brought on by his wife's affair. One of the side effects of the drug was hallucinations. He'd taken one too many that day.

He left the hotel room in Florida along with two bodies, that of his best friend and his wife, Nadia. He shot Tom Stanford once in the head. He died quickly. Death wasn't so easy for Nadia.

He heard laughter as he closed the door behind him.

He saw the girl with coal-black eyes again at a filling station in Georgia. She glared at him from the window of an old pickup truck.

He never really loved Nadia-not the way he loved Daria. Family money was his motive for marriage, but the idea of her fucking around with another guy outraged him. He didn't like to share what belonged to him.

He had briefly thought about shooting himself afterwards, of ending it. He hadn't murdered some prostitute or a drifter this time. His wife was the daughter of a prominent Jacksonville businessman and Tom was a major player in one of the largest mob families in the South. They'd slaughter him if they caught him.

He changed his mind about death when he opened Tom's briefcase and found a million dollars tied in neat bundles. So he ran, driving away from the pain and bloodshed, believing Bernard Danser could help him. And he thought about Daria. He always thought about her, through two bad marriages and through countless affairs.

In South Carolina he stopped at a used car lot and traded his 1997 Taurus for a black nondescript 1999 Escort. He paid the dealer in cash. In North Carolina he stopped at a Denny's and switched license plates with a Caddie parked out in the back. He'd do it again before he got to Connecticut.

He called Bernard Danser from Virginia and told him about the dilemma. Danser promised him shelter and a room at the Angele' hotel. Marcus shared secrets with his friend, secrets that went deeper than murder and theft. He knew he could trust him. He'd known it since the day he met the magic man.

***

On a smoky February day, twenty years earlier, the temperature had risen to an unseasonable sixty degrees. He'd played hooky from school, caught the bus from Providence to the bay. He was a fifteen-year-old kid, bored with school. Good grades came easy to him. He didn't need to study, or attend classes regularly. He had skipped several grades and would be graduating within a month.

He never knew his father, and his mother struggled to raise him by working as a seamstress by day and as the local fortuneteller on nights and weekends. People said she was uncanny and her readings always hit the nail right on the head. She told him he was special and that he'd learn the secrets of the universe from a powerful man.

Marcus made extra money by making deliveries for one of Providence's crime bosses. Twice a week he'd walk into a bar on Atwells Avenue. A neat package, wrapped in brown paper, would be waiting for him. He'd stuff it into his denim jacket, catch a bus to Cranston, West Warwick or even to the ritzy section of East Greenwich, hand the goods to some beady-eyed wise guy and then go home to read the books he'd found in his mother's cedar chest; volumes about Aleister Crowley, the Salem witches and strange accounts about the history of Talbot's Bay. He became obsessed with the life and disappearance of the artist Rebecca Farrell. Every chance he had he'd go to Talbot's Bay in search of Farrell's prints or small rare sketches which were exhibited in the galleries on the boardwalk.

On February 14th, 1983 he wandered further along than he'd done on previous visits. Brightly lit shops gave way to older deserted buildings and finally there was only the ocean on his left and vacant lots to his right.

He walked a few blocks further and spotted a secluded shop. Crystals dangled over the door. Stained glass windows reflected sunlight. A man stood in the doorway. At first he looked ancient, humped over. But it must have been the sun's reflection creating an illusion, because on second glance the man looked to be no more than thirty-five or forty. He had dark shoulder-length hair. His eyes were filled with wisdom and something else-something that seemed to damn Marcus as he returned the man's engaging smile.

A poster hung on one of the windows: REBECCA FARRELL'S LOST DRAWINGS.

"Wow. Originals?"

The man's eyes twinkled. "Yes, of course. You have an interest in Farrell?"

"Yes."

"An elderly spinster recently passed away and an entire trunk filled with Farrell's work was found in her attic. I purchased quite a few of them at an auction last weekend. Come inside and look if you'd like."

The shop smelled of incense and candle wax.

A lovely blonde girl, around his age, sat cross-legged amidst scattered prints and drawings. She held a framed charcoal of a Goddess. The girl's expression told him that she was in awe of the artwork.

"I'm Bernard Danser. This is Daria. One of my students and also a fan of Rebecca Farrell."

The girl nodded, then returned her gaze to the drawing.

Daria.

That was the beginning.

That afternoon was a turning point in his life. Bernard Danser knew more about Rebecca Farrell and her work than any book he'd ever read.

"She came from New York to escape the rat race and to learn about magic. She had great power, but misused it. She's now spending eternity in a dark underworld, trapped in a room filled with mirrors where she can view all she's left behind on this earth."

"Is it the same magic you teach, Bernie?" Daria's voice was soft.

"Yes, but you must never abuse my teachings. Never."

The girl blushed.

"And you both must remember that today wasn't an accident. I knew you'd come, Daria and I knew you'd come to me before that, Marcus.

. We three will open doors to new and wonderful worlds."

Later when the sun set over the Atlantic, Marcus walked with Daria on the beach and he kissed her for the first time. A light snow fell and it swirled like a magic cape over the restless ocean.

"Be my Valentine," he whispered.

"I've dreamed of this," she said and kissed him once more.

Each Saturday the three would meet at Bernard's shop. He taught them Astrology, Tarot and about strange magical worlds.

"These are secrets passed down from generation to generation. Those who are chosen to learn these secrets find their teachers when the time is right-just like you've both found me. I've been to other realms and have shared wisdom with the beings who inhabit them. But there's one place I've yet to open the door to. It's the realm of The Angele'. They're dark fairies." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Their magics are among the strongest. We'll work hard so that we can at least bring one of them here to speak with us."

Bernard opened a purple velvet pouch. "I met with a man earlier today. He owed me a favor. He gave me some good mescaline-if you'd like to try it."

Both Marcus and Daria swallowed the pills, anticipating the wonderful and giddy feelings that would follow.

Daria giggled as Bernard drew a chalk circle on the floor and asked them to step inside. "We'll begin by going to the place I'm most familiar with."

He sprinkled a white powder inside the circle and on their shoulders and heads. It began to shimmer within the candlelight.

"I feel so magical," said Daria.

Bernard smiled "You are magical, sweet girl. Now listen." He sprinkled more powder. It turned purple, blue and green. It glowed like sparkling gems. "Lord of the East unseal your gates. Lord of the West lay your golden keys before me. Lord of the North cover us with cloaks of protection. Lord of the South give us the wisdom and courage for all that we encounter."

Soft cat growls filled the air. A gate appeared where a tall bookcase had previously stood. "Come to Talazia, my students."

Marcus and Daria came to know Bernard's alternate world as well as they knew their own.

Before long they also learned that the beings of Talazia often came here to share both magic and mischief. Feline beings transformed into sultry human women when they crossed into our world. And sometimes Bernard would become a black panther, a glorious being with blazing yellow eyes.

Marcus often doubted the things Bernard showed him-the thing he became. Mescaline, LSD and other drugs were abundant and Bernard willingly shared them with Daria and Marcus.

On February 14th of the following year Bernard announced, "We're ready to conjure The Angele'."

He drew the familiar circle, lit red candles and painted their faces with what he called symbols of the Gods. Then he chanted in Latin, calling the elements, asking the wind to open doors to other worlds, for water to wash away the obstacles, for the earth to accept the magic of other worlds and for fire to light the dark tunnels through which all travelers must walk.

Marcus held Daria's hand as wind beat against their faces, lightning streaked across the sky, rain pounded against the windows and the ground quaked.

Smoke filled the room, then slowly dissolved. In the center of their circle sat the dark-eyed being. Dark wings beat. She shrieked, rose up and circled over Bernard. Then she reached down and slashed his face with dagger-like fingernails.

She disappeared.

They tried relentlessly to bring her back, to reach into the world of the Angele'.

A month later blood sacrifices became frequent. Bernard would drive through the city in search of the homeless, prostitutes and others who would climb into a stranger's car for money or the offer of a free meal.

After the killings The Angele' would appear for a moment or two, lick the blood and then quickly fade away. At times he bound and tied together several hookers or homeless drug addicts, cut them and filled a cauldron with their blood, calling The Angele'. It always failed.

"Sex magic is potent. Blood ritual is the ultimate magic. It'll work, we'll perfect it," Bernard would say. "The power one derives from it is unsurpassed." But the sex, or even the blood sacrifices which granted them entry into other realms, failed to satisfy the dark fairies that Bernard thirsted to know.

He never changed, never seemed to age-he said it was magic.

Marcus fell deeper and deeper in love with Daria during those years. In the beginning she told him she belonged to only him, but as time went on and Bernard emphasized that sharing love and sex amongst themselves-and with others- could create rich and dark magic, she became distant, often going off with Bernard alone.

Marcus wanted power and access to all that Bernard offered, but his obsession with Daria was stronger and one day he decided it would be best if he moved on.

"You'll be back, " Bernard said to him after he told him his plans to move South, go back to school and create another life. "Your destiny is here with me."

***

He returned to the odd beach town after another decade had past. How ironic, on the day he drove away from Talbot's Bay, he'd also left behind dead bodies. But those crimes were buried now, with the bones of the people who had died.

He shook his head, wondered if his old friend still killed in the name of magic. If he still visited the strange alternate world, Talazia, where shape-shifters and the black panther were natural phenomena. He once again wondered if all these visions were the results of Bernard's potent drugs. It didn't matter, Bernard offered him sanctuary-safety and some secrets were best left alone.

He wondered if Daria would be there, if she looked the same-still had feelings for him.

***

Marcus entered the dark lobby of Hotel Angele'. Behind the registration desk stood a woman, sleepy eyes, blonde hair tied back in satin bow, strands of silver beads hung around her neck and onto her black velvet dress. She smiled at him, lips turning up in what looked like a scowl. "Do you have reservations?" she said, picking up a thick book, flipping through pages.

"Marcus Sands," he said removing a wad of cash from his pocket. "Bernard Danser has a room reserved for me."

Ignoring the money in his hand, she looked at him, tapped pointed red fingernails on the counter. "Oh, yes, we've been waiting." She snapped her fingers. "Beatrice, take Mr. Sands to his room."

A woman, he hadn't noticed before, floated from the shadows. The tall redhead smiled at him. Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she walked towards him. A tight knit dress hugged feminine curves. She smelled of summer flowers. Images of lush gardens and tiny impish faces peering from leaves and vines flashed through his mind. The woman looked at him with jade eyes. "This way...please."

He followed her up three flights of stairs.

"The elevator stopped working months ago," she said nonchalantly.

An annoying inconvenience for the guests, thought Marcus.

"There aren't any guests on this floor," said Beatrice, leading him down a dark corridor. Bizarre paintings lined the walls. They were intricate renderings of fantasy landscapes. Dainty fairies and strange, exotic creatures seemed to move, follow him with their eyes as he passed by.

"The paintings are wonderful. Rebecca Farrell's work," he said, stopping before a large canvas. He was awed by a cluster of tiny creatures with golden wings extended. Their cherub faces looked to the moon, lifelike-fantastic. A larger figure of a woman, with rainbow-colored wings, seemed to be singing to the others. Two brownish dwarfs sat on the ground beside her.

The redhead moved closer to the painting. "The tiny fae are called Daintelias. They're cute and charming, but quite mischievous. The brownish critters are called Swamp Breeds. They're treacherous and demon-like." She sighed, ran her finger over the wings of the large figure-a replica of the dark-eyed girl who had appeared to him recently. "She is one of the most deadly and the most magical. She of The Angele'."

He frowned. "I know."

"The original owner of this hotel was fascinated with fairy lore. He commissioned Farrell to do the paintings and he named the hotel after his favorite clan of fae."

He nodded. "Bernard and I have discussed The Angele'."

She turned, "There's always more to learn. There are books about the legends in the library on the second floor." She unlocked a door and led him into his room.

Marcus opened French doors leading out to the balcony. He hugged himself, feeling icy February wind. The ocean's waves rose, foamy tips seeming to reach to him like phantom fingers.

Bernard had told him that in the mid-nineteenth century the hotel had attracted celebrities and the rich. Now it had become another mediocre place, lost in the shadows of a high-rise Holiday Inn. Bernard said that ghosts walked the corridors and grounds of The Angele'. Talbot's Bay had its share of strange legends and supernatural tales. Bernard knew how to bring them to life. He had a knack for conjuring devils-often literally.

For the past decade Marcus Sands had dismissed belief in magic and ghosts. He believed in staying alive, eluding the police, his enemies and holding onto the money he'd found in Tom's briefcase. Now once again he felt the lure of Bernard, his secrets and his thirst for ultimate power.

He thought of Daria again, wondered once more if she still lived on the bay and kept in touch with Bernard. At one time he believed he loved her-perhaps he still did.

He took a long drink from his glass, an expensive crystal goblet, cut in odd patterns. Shapes seemed to move within it, a woman's face smiled up at him-Daria. She smiled again, then it floated from the glass and into the garden below.

"Damn meds," he said, setting the glass down. The face looked up at him from a tangle of trees below.

Bernard would be meeting Marcus at seven in the lounge. He looked forward to it. He changed into a clean pair of jeans and a dark short-sleeved knit shirt. He checked his appearance in the mirror, noting that his weight had stayed the same since the last time he'd seen Bernard. However, his hair was shorter and streaked with gray.

Upon entering the hallway, soft music and tinkling laughter drifted towards him. Bernard's voice, thick and rich, boomed above the feminine ones. Red hearts and cupids decorated the walls and plump red roses in silver vases sat on the rich mahogany tables.

Gorgeous women sat in the lobby; smoking, smiling and talking. In the lounge more beauties sat at the bar, drinking beer and wine. Bernard sat in between a lovely brunette and a pretty blonde. He smiled when Marcus approached. Bernard hadn't aged at all. "Liz, let my friend have a seat." The blonde slid off the barstool and smiled wickedly at Marcus.

"Andrea, give my friend a bottle of Jack Daniels." The bartender obliged.

"You old villain, I'm glad you're back on the bay," Bernard said as he lit a cigarette.

"Well, I wish I could be here under more pleasant circumstances." He glanced at the woman by Bernard's side, then leaned closer to his friend. "Thanks for giving me a place to hide out. They'll never trace me here. Nobody back in Jacksonville knows about my past."

"Anything for you." He put his arm around the brunette. "Marcus Sands and I go back a long way."

She seemed to purr as Bernard rubbed her back.

"Listen," Bernard said, moving his hand to the woman's thigh. "I need to settle some things with Linda. May I meet you around midnight in the gardens?"

"Sure," he said glancing around the lounge. "I'm sure I can settle some things of my own for now."

"Good, till later," said Bernard. "Andrea, give him anything else he needs."

Two women, one dark, tanned and petite, another tall, slender and fair, sat on either side of Marcus. He smiled, thinking this would surely turn into a wonderful night. Flashes of what he'd left behind in Jacksonville raced through his mind. He quickly dismissed those thoughts when the women slid closer to him.

It felt good sharing drink and talk with the women.

After the first bottle had emptied, another was set in front of him-then another.

He didn't know how long she had been standing there. Her face glowed and her platinum hair draped across her bare shoulders like a silky cape. A cigarette dangled from pouting lips and shapely legs looked inviting beneath her red mini dress.

"Daria," he said.

She strutted over, eyes blazing. "You look good, Marcus."

Stunned, all he could say was, "Have a drink with me."

She smiled, touched his hand and whispered in his ear. "Let's go up to my room, get away from the rest of them."

He looked into her eyes, saw something feral, a longing. Forgetting the others, he followed her into dark corridors and up winding stairs. She seemed to glide. Phantoms drifted by and miniature beings scurried from cracks in walls.

"A mix of Xanax and booze. I'm seeing weird shit," he said.

She turned, her face a skull, blood trickling from eyes sockets. Her voice was distant, as if it came from another realm and wrapped within layers of dreams. "The Angele' are known for their trickery."

He blinked. Her lovely face stared back at him. There was concern in her eyes.

"What?"

"You need to lie down with me. Love me."

She led him into a room where murals of fairies, dragons and unicorns adorned the walls. She started to undress, moving seductively as strange music filled the room. It seemed as though there were speakers behind the walls. When completely naked she laid beside him and undressed him slowly.

He ran his hands over her breasts and plunged his finger into her wetness. Daria had not changed at all. She wrapped her legs around his back.

The creatures on the wall began to move as she moaned. The painted fairies were engaged in sexual acts, some in groups of three and four. Their faces glowed with rapture. Panic raced through his veins as Daria moved wildly beneath him and screamed as she was satiated. Then she smiled up at him when he climaxed inside her. Multiple sighs and moans escaped from the murals. Then the figures were still and silent.

Daria licked his face like a wild animal. "Next time we'll invite Bernie, have a party like we used to."

Jealousy filled him. He wanted her for himself. She had to be his and only his. She kissed him and snuggled close to his side. Then fairies sang him to sleep.

***

A knock on the door awoke him. He was back in his own room, no traces of Daria anywhere to be found. Rain pummeled against his window.

Another knock echoed through the room-sinister, unwelcome.

"Who the hell is it?"

"It's Bernie," came the familiar voice.

Marcus opened the door. His friend stood there, clothes wet from the rain, damp hair clinging to his head. "Heard you had quite a night," said Bernard, absently removing a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

"Yeah, that Daria is still something else."

"Yes, she is." He tucked the cigarette in his mouth, lit it quickly. "You must have passed out, never kept our meeting in the garden."

Jealousy raced through him. But he tried to remain cool. "Damn, I'm sorry."

"No harm done. Get dressed and we'll go there now."

***

The rain became heavier as the two men made their way into the gardens. They walked through overgrown bushes, beneath limp tree branches, and brushed by intricate stone sculptures.

"I want to show you something and share some secrets I've uncovered in your absence."

Bernard led Marcus down a winding path. Trees loomed like deformed creatures and their branches swayed like skeletal fingers. Through tangled limbs and twisted vines stood a chapel.

They made their way to the crumbling structure. "Years ago, when organized religion was more popular, the guests liked to come here to pray. Light a candle." Bernard ran his hands over the splintered doors and gazed at stained glass windows, broken by age and weather. "Now the chapel lies hidden here, just as the faith of modern times often does."

Marcus studied faces within the stained glass. The Angele'.

"Now what was once hidden within the bowels of the church has come to the surface." He pushed open the doors. Upon an altar, where black candles flickered, sat three beautiful women-all with coal-black eyes. Their seats were made of thick branches, studded with knife-like thorns, dripping with crimson. Oversized roses towered above them. Tortured faces peered from within their centers.

"The blood of sacrifice...and those who have given their souls to The Angele'." Bernard waved his hand.

Daria's voice sounded behind them, soft, eerie. "They've made a pact with us," she whispered.

"I'm finally allowed access. "Bernard stroked Daria's face. "But there's a price-there's always a price." He pulled Daria close to him. "The Angele' wanted more than homeless bums and those from the underbelly of society. They want prime flesh and blood."

Marcus smiled, slow, wicked. "You son-of-bitch. You've managed to do it-found what we were after all those years ago."

"Yes, and it's no coincidence that you've come back now." He smiled down at Daria. "This is just one of the worlds I've managed to tap into. There are others-all waiting for us. And there's power beyond our wildest dreams."

The Angele' rose and disrobed. An altar ascended from the floor. Upon it laid a young girl. Her hands and wrists were tied. Her eyes were wild with fear.

The Angele' danced around the altar, touching the girl, kissing her tenderly and making love to her-and to each other-with fingers and tongues. When they were satiated they beckoned Bernard to the altar and handed him a knife.

The girl shivered when he slit her wrists. Then he cut her throat. He filled a chalice with her blood and offered it to the Marcus and Daria. They drank as The Angele' moved toward them, smiling and with lust burning in their eyes.

Bernard ran his hand over the dead girl's body and then touched each Angele' on the cheek, leaving a streak of red. "This flesh and blood is for you. Eat and drink this sacrifice and share your power with us."

***

Daria slid into bed and snuggled close to Marcus. She smelled of musk, of oak and incense. Her kisses were spicy and warm. He drifted to sleep and in dreams Daria led him down winding stairs, deep into the bowels of the church. The Angele' beckoned to them and led them into a crypt where the dead sat on marble stones and sang to them as they passed by. Green serpents emerged from the inky blackness and flapped multicolored wings. And blood rained down upon Talbot's Bay.

"I love you Daria," he whispered the next morning.

"I've missed you," she purred.

"After all these years nothing's changed. The rituals continue and my feelings for you are just as strong. I didn't realize until now-"

Her face glowed. "Marcus, today is special. Our anniversary. Valentine's Day."

"Twenty years, imagine."

"I want to make it work this time. Maybe once we learn the secrets Bernie has to share-maybe we can find a cottage by the ocean, live together." She bit her lip. "I've always believed we were meant to be together."

"Me too. I couldn't stop thinking about you. Couldn't stop lov-"

She put her finger to his lips. "I could stay here all day, my love. But I've got work to do. Can I meet you later?"

"Yeah, what time?"

"Around five," she said grabbing her robe and heading towards the bathroom. "Go back to sleep. I'll meet you in the bar about five thirty. We'll talk more about our future and my special kiss awaits you later."

"You'll always be my Valentine." There was dread in those nostalgic words.

He drifted back to sleep and dreamed of Daria. Blood trickled from her neck and from her chest. She sat cross-legged before a painter who dipped her brush into the wounds and splattered canvas with the deep crimson.

The painter smiled and said softly, "I'm Rebecca Farrell, painter of Bernard's nightmares."

Daria's scream and the blood-so much blood-were his only memories when he awakened at one in the afternoon. The rain hadn't let up. He showered, had coffee in the deli down the street and then spent a few hours wandering through the hotel and gazing at the Farrell paintings.

More of her work adorned the library; shape-shifters on canvas-cougars, tigers and lions-emerging from the golden gates of Talazia and more watercolors of The Angele'. Over the mantel was a huge pastel painting of a black panther. Marcus thought about the times he'd seen Bernard transform into a glorious black wildcat. Once again he wondered if it had really happened-if all of their journeys were simply drug-induced hallucinations. However, his recent experience with The Angele' quickly dismissed those doubts.

The lounge was quiet. A male bartender checked bottles behind the bar and an elderly woman sat in a corner booth, drinking a martini. Marcus ordered a beer and thought about the bodies he'd left back in Florida. He knew the police would try to track him down. He knew people on the other side of the law were searching for him as well. They'd never find him here, not in a small New England beach town where unconventional people such as artists, practitioners of the occult and a writer or two resided. Besides Bernie would protect him. His magic was indeed strong.

"Drinking again, Marcus?" Daria sat beside him. Bernard remained standing. Once again Marcus felt jealousy well inside him. He'd been looking forward to meeting Daria here alone. Why was she with Bernard? What had they been doing together?

"We've got something wonderful planned for you." Daria was breathless. Her eyes sparkled with happiness. "We've been working on it all afternoon."

Bernard smiled slowly at her and then turned his gaze to Marcus. "Tonight we'll give The Angele' the ultimate sacrifice and with that we'll be able to acquire riches, pleasures and magic beyond our wildest dreams."

Daria pecked Marcus on the cheek. "We've got to run. Meet us at the church at midnight."

Bernard took her hand and they walked off together. Marcus wanted to follow. Later he'd wished he had, but instead he sulked and indulged in one too many drinks.

Just before midnight he began his journey to the chapel. He made his way through the tangled vines, pulling up his coat collar as icy rain struck his skin. He heard a soft growling. When he pulled back the branches of a fallen apple tree a black panther stood before him. Its yellow eyes glowed. Its tongue dripped with saliva.

"Bernard?"

The cat shook its magnificent head, turned and then looked back as if to make sure Marcus was following. And he did follow.

The Angele' were circled around a gnarled and withered tree at the entrance to the chapel. They broke the circle when the panther approached.

Marcus screamed.

Daria's body hung from the tree. He looked into the panther's eyes and the scene of her death played out within them. They'd tricked her, making her believe that one of the women from the lounge would be tonight's sacrifice. She'd worked all day, preparing the candles, the flowers and helping The Angele' prepare the death tree.

They drugged her with sweet wine, then they tied the noose around her neck. Before she was hung her face had been removed, stripped away by the sharp teeth of The Angele'. Now white bone shimmered in the moonlight. Blood trickled on the ground.

The panther closed its eyes and slowly began to change shape, seeming to melt and ripple beneath the moonlight. Within minutes Bernard stood before him. "I loved her too, Marcus, and that's why her blood is the ultimate sacrifice."

A girl with coal-black eyes sunk her teeth into Daria's neck, then peered at Marcus as blood trickled from her lips. "A Valentine's kiss," she said and her laughter echoed through the woods with a nightmarish shriek as another Angele' bit into Daria's chest.

"No," he screamed as the fairies devoured his one and only love.

SANDY DE LUCA

is a poet, writer of fiction and a painter. Her poetry book BURIAL PLOT IN SAGITTARIUS was nominated for the Bram Stoker award in 2000. She recently completed a short novel called SETTLING IN NAZARETH. She has several other novels in progress. She is also editor/owner of DECEMBER GIRL PRESS. On weekends you either can find her exhibiting her paintings in SOHO in New York City or visiting old graveyards in Rhode Island.

FOURTH OF JULY HORROR TALE

The Fourth of July marks the day of independence for the original thirteen colonies of the United States from the rule of the United Kingdom. While a long ago editor of Harper's Magazine lamented that the celebration has lost it's vigor, "flown away in villainous saltpeter, exploded in firecrackers, and whizzed to the empyrean in skyrockets," it still ranks among the most prominent of holidays in the United States.

The fact is that the Fourth of July once competed with Christmas as favorite among families and children around the country. This is because of the unbridled fervor with which communities celebrated. Towering bonfires would be lit the night before, and the day would start early with preparations of food and military gear. The town would gather at church, and after the pastor spoke orators would take turns regaling their neighbors with tales from the battlefield (or their fathers' tales, or later still their grandfathers' tales). Songs, games, picnics, military marches, and defacing Benedict Arnold effigies took up the remainder of the day. The evening saw even more jubilation with fireworks displays (more common after a fireworks industry was established in 1817). These intense, day long spectacles petered out after the 1850's.

Independence is celebrated on July 4 because it was on this day in 1776 that the Second Continental Congress adopted a final draft of the Declaration of Independence. Although it wasn't declared a Federal holiday until 1941, the populace marked the day beginning July 4, 1777. On that day the city of Philadelphia used bonfires, bells, and fireworks, thus beginning the tradition still carried out today. The 1777 celebration was so raucous that two hundred soldiers were dispatched to keep some measure of peace-also reminiscent of present day revelry. However, there are certain regions prone to celebrate in their own way. Lititz, Pennsylvania, lights thousands of candles, while Seward, Alaska, holds a six-mile race to the summit of Mount Marathon. In 1901 on Pike's Peak, Colorado a massive quantity of explosives were set off, creating a plume of flame five hundred feet wide and hundreds of feet in height. The blast was visible everywhere in a two-hundred-mile radius.

The Fourth of July started a domino effect around the world, and today many other nations also celebrate the dates of their liberation from foreign rule.

-John Edward Lawson

Chicken

By Elizabeth R. Peake

Let's get something understood right now before I go any further. Oscar hated chickens. Not that any chicken did him any harm or he was allergic to them. He hated chickens simply because they lay eggs. Well, that and because he worked at an egg-breaking plant.

Oscar worked at EggBreakers a dozen years or so before the accident. He'd help unload the big trucks filled with hundreds of crates carrying thousands of eggs. He'd carry around a mop and bucket to clean up the never-ending eggs that hit the concrete floor every day. But the job he hated the most, the one he got stuck with every time it happened, was cleaning the mess a broken valve would make when it sprayed him and the surrounding area with slimy, snot-looking eggs. Thousands of them would transfer from one vat to another during various stages of storage. Oscar would turn the valves to start the transfer of the eggs from one vat to another and that's when the valves would stick or break. Either way, them eggs would shoot out in all directions. Not only did Oscar have to clean up the work area, he had to clean up his clothes and work boots as best as he could, and would still stink like eggs gone bad until his shift was over.

Sometimes, Oscar's old truck wouldn't start because of the snow and cold. He'd have to walk home from work and that egg would freeze on his clothes and boots. He wasn't a man of money so he had only one pair, and each night he washed them as best he could and placed them on the heater vents to dry. That hot egg smell would fill his apartment with a stench like no other. Stink would last for days and Oscar would cuss and holler like doing so would make the smell go away. The other guys at work would tease him into an anger-filled rage. And each time the guys would "accidentally" bump into Oscar and send him slipping and sliding on his ass through the gooey mess, his anger towards chickens would climb like a fever.

And because of that rage, it should not surprise you that Oscar took every opportunity to do things to chickens - bad things.

I remember one summer day when Oscar proved to me just how much he hated chickens. We were out and about looking for lawn mower parts when Oscar's piece of shit truck blew a tire. The damn thing couldn't blow while we were in town, no sir. That bald bastard waited until we were ten miles out and halfway home when it popped.

"Son of a bitch!" Oscar yelled. The steering wheel got the butt end of the "bitch" emphasis with a good right fist.

He hit the brakes with both feet and the swirling dirt cloud stuck to our already sweat-stained bodies. Gawd Almighty, that pissed him off even more. He didn't say anything but I've known Oscar long enough to know that when his eyes bugged and his teeth clenched, it's best not to be the one he's pissed at.

"Got a spare?" I asked.

"Yeah, I got one. Now ask me if its got air in it?" he said. Yeah, buggy eyes and spittle flying outta his mouth when he spoke was a clear sign Oscar was well on his way to another fit of hate-filled anger.

We got out of the truck and looked into the rust painted truck bed in which we found the dusty doughnut. If it had air inside, we were as good as home. Oscar grabbed the tire by its rim and hoisted it high in the air before bouncing it on the dirt road to check for air quantity.

"Well shit, its got air," Oscar said as he rolled it behind the pickup to the rear passenger's side flat. I grabbed the equally rusted jack and tire iron and began lifting the back of the truck when I saw the chicken. It strutted across the dirt road and into the nearby field.

"Did you see that fucking chicken? Did you see the nerve of it walking so close to me?" Oscar said. He removed the lug nuts one by one, all the while watching the chicken in the field. If the truth were told, he couldn't see the chicken, just its head as it jerked forward and back with each step. The wild grass in the field hid most of the chicken's body and neck.

"Yeah, I see it," I said. Sweat and dirt streaked down my face and neck and I never felt so in need of a shower in all my life. I walked behind Oscar to the passenger door and opened it. Inside the truck, I grabbed a handful of McDonald's paper napkins off the dashboard and wiped the dirty sweat from my body as best as I could. "I wish we had some water to throw over my head. Damn, it's hot," I said to Oscar, only he didn't answer me. I glanced over my left shoulder but Oscar wasn't fixing the flat. It didn't take me two seconds to realize he was in the field trying to get at that chicken. I told you, Oscar fucking hated chickens.

"Come here you little bitch," he said. Oscar had removed his shirt and was waving it at the chicken like a bullfighter antagonizing the bull. The chicken continued to slowly strut around the field, but if it was smart enough to see the look on Oscar's face and his bulging eyes, that chicken would have tried to fly to the next county.

"Hey, come on. It's fucking hot out here and you're messing with a stupid chicken." He either didn't hear me, or he was ignoring me. Either way, I was getting a little angry as he continued his bullfighter stance and angry curses at the white bird. "Oscar! Get your ass over here and quit fucking around with that damn chicken!"

Well, I guess my yelling scared the bird and the stupid thing ran right into Oscar's path. Within a few seconds, Oscar had his left hand around the chickens' neck and the other holding both feet. He began walking towards me and I couldn't help but laugh at the sight of his eyes and the chicken's. Both sets were wide and unblinking. But if I could single out one memory of that day, it would be the moment I realized that catching that chicken excited Oscar. His hard-on could be seen as he walked out of the grassy field. Dirt-mixed sweat slid into his eyes and the stinging went unnoticed. Oscar was having too much fun.

"Geez, Oscar. Either kill and eat the thing or let it go," I said.

"Killing and eating this bitch will be my pleasure," he said. "Grab my cooler outta the back of the truck, will ya'?"

I began walking towards the truck but I never got the chance to get the cooler. I was a few feet away from it when I heard Oscar yell.

"You little whoremonger! I'll fucking kill you!"

I ran towards Oscar but stopped the second I realized what had happened. The chicken had crapped all over his hand and arm. Some folks might say I am responsible for what happened next but most will know that my laughing at Oscar and his shit-coated arm would not have caused any normal man to do what Oscar did.

"You think that's funny, huh? You think this fucker shitting all over me is funny, huh?" His face changed to different shades of bluish red with every word he spoke.

"Oh, come on Oscar. You're damn straight it's funny!" I said. And yes, I was still laughing.

"I'll show you something funny, ass-wipe. I'll show you something really funny." Oscar let go of the chicken's feet but held the neck with a white-knuckled fist.

It was then that I knew the devil walked the earth disguised as a man.

Before my eyes could accept what was happening, it was over. Oscar, a man I had known for most of my adult years, a man I spent most of my days with, had shoved his prick into that chicken's ass and shot his load. My laughter stopped as quick as a hand flies off a hot stove. I stood there, unable to speak or walk. My rubbery legs barely kept me standing.

Oscar tossed the dead chicken into the field. "Now, that was funny," he said.

"No, man. That was sick," I mumbled.

He walked up to me and put his face as close to mine as possible without touching it. "Yeah? If you ever tell anyone, you'll find out how sick I can be," he said.

Oscar and I had a little understanding on that hot, summer day. There are just some things a man keeps to himself, and this was one of them.

The months passed and summer came around again. Oscar and I had spent little time together since the chicken incident. I made many excuses and told a shitload of lies to keep us separated, but the annual Fourth of July picnic the town held would put Oscar and I together again. Each year, it was held at one of the local farms and as luck would have it, this one was held at Ferguson's chicken farm. Pete Ferguson wasn't a big-time chicken farmer but he owned a hundred or two. Most were kept in the chicken house but a few walked around the farm and all around the picnic area. The kids chased the chickens and Pete yelled at his son to round them up, but his voice went unheard. Pete's boy hated the farm life and preferred to sit around and write poetry or some shit. Word around town has it Pete was ashamed of his son because of his lack of family interest. The town knew better. Pete was ashamed because his boy was more like a girl. Petey Junior was fond of his feminine side.

I chatted with the picnic folks and ate until I thought I would puke. I avoided Oscar as best I could but a man can only chat with the blue-haired church ladies for so long and eat only so much potato salad before he walks off to be alone. It was on that walk when I found Oscar trying to catch a stray chicken.

"Oscar, what the hell are you doing?" I asked.

Startled, he looked around to see who was speaking and then smiled when he saw me. "Hey, old buddy. Guess what I got?" He opened his hand and in it was a string of firecrackers. It looked like a dozen or so, all nicely tied together.

"What the hell do you plan on doing with those?" Deep down inside, I knew the answer. I guess I asked the question because I wanted Oscar to come right out and say it.

"What do you think I'm gonna do with a bunch of firecrackers on the Fourth of July? I'm gonna light them up!" Oscar turned his focus back to the chicken that unknowingly strutted too close to him.

"Tell me, Oscar. Better yet, lie to me."

Once again he looked at me and smiled. "Okay, what lie would you like me to tell you, huh?"

"Lie to me and say you aren't thinking of lighting up those firecrackers under that chicken," I said.

Oscar started to laugh, much like I did the previous summer when the chicken shit all over him.

"I have no intention of lighting up these firecrackers under that chicken," he said and then added, "and I'm not lying."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it." I started to walk away when Oscar spoke. As much as I couldn't believe what I just heard, I believed it all too well.

"Say that again," I demanded.

"You heard me. I said I was going to light up the firecrackers in the chicken's asshole."

In three steps I had Oscar by the shirt and spittle sprayed his face as I yelled, "Like hell you will, you sick fuck! You leave that chicken alone or I swear I will tell, you hear me?" Before Oscar could answer, another voice spoke.

"Hey, chicken fucker, what are you trying to do to my daddy's chicken?"

Gawd Almighty, it was Pete's queer son.

"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch. I thought you were my friend," Oscar said to me.

"You know damn good and well I haven't told anyone, especially that queer." When I realized I spoke just a little too loud, I let go of Oscar's shirt and we both looked at Petey.

"What did you say, you little faggot?" Oscar said. "What did you call me?"

"Hey, calm down," Petey said. "I call everyone a chicken fucker. I didn't know you really did one." Petey laughed, a rip-roaring belly laugh that could have assembled a crowd if the firecracker lighting hadn't already started.

Oscar grabbed Petey's shirt with his left hand and hit him in the face with his right. Then, he shoved him into the dirt.

"Stop it!" Petey said. I didn't actually hear him say it because of the firecracker pops and whistles coming from the front yard, but his mouth formed the words pretty damn good. He started inching backwards on his ass and the palms of his hands but Oscar was following his every move. "I didn't mean nothing by it, Oscar. Hey, to each his own, huh? I don't like to be judged and I'm not judging you, okay?" he shouted.

Petey had inched his way right into the toolshed when Oscar looked over his shoulder at me and said, "You get out of here. You've opened your big mouth too many times already. Remember what I told you last summer, you got that?" he said. He winked at me but his eyes had the bulge and both fists clenched tight.

I ran back to my car and left Oscar and Petey in that shed. I don't know what I was more afraid of, what Oscar would do to me, or what he would do to Petey. I was so afraid of what the Fourth of July picnic was playing host to that my stomach began to churn and I wasn't certain if I needed to sit on the toilet or stand over it. I drove straight home and almost made it to the bathroom. Almost.

The next few days were filled with the usual town gossip of how someone beat Pete's son into a brain-dead coma and even if he lived he would never wake up. Rumor has it that Petey probably screamed over and again but no one heard him over the sound of the fireworks that filled the night air. They said Petey had the blades of a pair of hedging shears shoved up his ass. They think whoever did it hated queers, but I knew better. I knew those shears were meant to disguise damage done by the predator himself. I knew what Oscar could do when he was laughed at or made fun of.

Petey died a couple of weeks later, having never opened his eyes or uttered a word. I called Oscar a few days after the funeral and made it very clear that I wanted nothing to do with him and to stay away from me. He said losing my friendship was no big loss and neither was the death of the town faggot. I hung up the phone fully intending never to see Oscar again.

Had it not been for the accident, I wouldn't have.

It was a very cold Thanksgiving night when Oscar's truck slid out of control and off the icy road. It overturned and rested against a few trees, shaking snow off the limbs and covering the truck with a wet, white blanket.

Oscar wasn't found until the next day and by then he'd been dead for a couple of hours. The town gossipers had a field day with the latest news. It seems Oscar had a note in his pocket, confessing to the rape and murder of Petey Ferguson. A man couldn't go into any store or gas station without being approached with, "Did you hear?" The blue-haired church ladies got together more often than usual just to tell the story again and again. Each time they told it, the fish got a little bigger, if you know what I mean.

The latest gossip is that Oscar was found dead in his truck, his pants around his ankles and his prick in a dead chicken's ass. Yeah, the rumors are that Oscar was screwing the chicken and that's how he lost control of his truck. Personally, I don't think that's what happened. Oh, I believe they found him with a chicken on his dick, but I don't think Oscar put it there. And if you ask me why I feel that way, I won't tell you. There are just some things a man keeps to himself, and this is one of them.

ELIZABETH PEAKE

Born in the heat of the Arizona desert, Elizabeth Peake is keenly aware of what hell is. In 1993, she decided to move her family to Minnesota, where hell goes by a different name.

She has written numerous short stories and they have appeared or will appear in various webzines and print magazines, including www.horrorfind.com, www.artofhorror.com, The Fear Within anthology, Femmes de la Brume anthology and microSHOCKS anthology.

She credits Brian Keene for giving her the huevos to pursue her love of writing, despite the odds.

If you enjoyed reading "Chicken" please let her know via email at author@elizabethpeake.com. If you didn't enjoy it, email her anyway.

She currently resides in Louisville Kentucky with her husband and three kids. Her web presence is www.elizabethpeake.com, and she is currently working on THE DARKEST HOUR, a full-length novel based on her short story, The Holler.

ASH WEDNESDAY HORROR TALE

Ash Wednesday, or "The Day of Ashes" (Dies Cinerum), is the first day of Lent, a Christian period of abstinence and fasting. These forty days do not count Sundays, thus The Day of Ashes always falls on a Wednesday.

The holiday has its origins in the sixth century at some point during the papacy of Gregory the Great, and the concept is noted in the oldest texts of the Gregorian Sacramentary. Ashes were used as a sign of humility, sorrow/repentance, and mortality in the Old Testament. The ashes are applied to the forehead in the shape of a cross in imitation of the spiritual seal placed on a Christian during baptismal rites (when a newborn Christian is freed from slavery to sin).

While the English monk Aelfric wrote of the association between the ritual use of ashes and the onset of Lent in 1000 AD, it was not officially adopted by the church at large until 1091 AD. In the very early days of the Christian Church the use of ashes and period of penance had been reserved only for the most grievous sinners. The 1091 change of policy was meant to unite church members and promote sympathy. Formerly the penitent was forced to spend forty days away from other people; this is the origin of our usage of quarantine, a Latin word meaning "forty".

Traditionally, the palm fronds from the previous Palm Sunday are burned to make the ashes. In some countries this ritual can lead to havoc and massive destruction in the form of wildfires. On Ash Wednesday 1983 the Australian state of Victoria was besieged by brush fires due to the many people attempting to create ashes without observing proper safety measures. The heat unleashed by the disaster was enough to burn a person standing three hundred feet away within five seconds.

-John Edward Lawson

Ash Wednesday

By HORNS

A rush of chilly air knocked the Mason jar off the windowsill, and the daddy longlegs began to crawl across the rug.

Bjoern Kurz sighed with frustration. Turning lazily from the window, he collected the jar and using the detached lid scooped the insect back inside. Soon his guest would arrive. Soon he would be purged. He meditated on this.

Outside the street below screamed with bustling traffic.

Bjoern rolled the glass jar in one of his marred hands. A hand damaged by fire. A hand covered with patches of ugly, raised, pinkish scar tissue. Much of the nerves deadened by the self-inflicted wounds.

The small creature's eight long legs skittered and slipped on the glass, unavailing in its attempt to find a new surface.

"Soon, my little friend, your journey shall end," he said, holding the jar close to his hard lined face - an emotionless look sired by many years of terror and madness.

He walked back to the open window, stepped between flapping curtains and leaned to look outside. He briefly watched heavily clothed pedestrians walking hurriedly by on the sidewalks of Manhattan. Joggers. Bike riders. Vehicles dangerously maneuvering, stopping suddenly and whizzing along. The ambiance strikingly different than from his own Wolfenbuettel, Germany, but with the same familiar phantoms of loneliness and desolation clinging to the hearts and minds, to the very souls even, of the people.

Closing his eyes, he pressed the jar against his wrinkled forehead. Self-deprecating thoughts of failure beleaguered him. He visualized dead bodies. Charred remains, blackened, scorched corpses. A burning crucifix. A hanging Christ melting, bubbling, yielding frothy blood.

Wincing, grunting, the leatherlike flesh covering his face twitching peculiarly, he pressed the jar harder.

The daddy longlegs put out feelers on the screw-on lid.

Suddenly, and as if swept over by an inner peacefulness, he began to slowly smile. Then he chuckled blackly and lowered the jar.

Happy laughter and talking softly drifted through the window from down below.

Bjoern tapped the lid a few times-enough to knock the bug to the bottom-then unscrewed it. He set the jar on the windowsill, the lid beside it, and reached into his moth-eaten khaki slacks where he kept a pack of matches in the pocket.

"Fire purifies," he solemnly said with a Mephistophelian wisdom manifesting in his sable-eyed stare.

With damaged, discolored fingers he removed a match. He watched the eight-legged creature climb toward the open end of the jar as he struck the match.

The smell of the burning match head, the trivial action of scraping it on the striking strip, igniting the chemical, every little detail seemed to proceed in slow motion in his mind. A surge of inner strength, of power, of energy, shot through him. The flame always his source of stimulation-his only source.

He stuck the burning match into the jar, purposely hitting the insect.

The match and daddy longlegs fell to the bottom.

He watched it move, saw the flame cause it to spasm.

Injured, it began to climb weakly up the jar.

"Phpht," he sounded and pushed the jar outside.

A little more than forty feet down, the Mason jar struck the concrete.

Bjoern heard it shatter then someone scream. Maybe more than one person. He didn't look, didn't care. He closed the window, fighting it down a splintered frame. Now, he would drink vodka and wait.

***

Rapping at the door pulled Bjoern out of his thoughts. He set his empty glass down on the small, careworn, black-covered Holy Bible lying atop the bare round kitchen table.

Through the peephole, he saw the young priest he'd invited.

And though it seldom happened to him, he felt nervous-more so from excitement.

"Mr. Kurz," the youthful, raven-haired cleric greeted him, smiling.

Bjoern was slow to reply. Standing there with the door open, his hand clutching the doorknob, he examined the man. His dour look creeping over mostly black garments up to a white clerical collar and to the man's questioning stare.

"Please," Bjoern finally said stepping back, motioning for his guest to come in.

The priest removed his black gloves as he entered.

"Please. Make yourself comfortable," Bjoern stated. "Thank you for coming . . . ?"

"Father Paul Dunne," the priest helped, taking off his long coat.

"Father Dunne," Bjoern echoed, offering up a broken grin.

The priest laid his coat over the back of a tatty armchair-stuffing his gloves into one of the pockets first-and was seated.

Bjoern closed the door and locked it.

"You've just moved in?" Father Dunne asked, casting a look about the apartment.

Turning from the door, Bjoern faced the priest and answered, "I like to live . . . " Rolling his eyes in thought, he concluded with a nod, "Simple."

All the rooms were sparsely furnished. What little there was mainly came with the rental. Bjoern was anything but a homebody. Like fire's natural temperament to spread out, to sustain itself, to remain uncontrolled, he regularly needed to travel, and in doing so unbend his tormented mind.

Dunne fingered the inside of his shirt pocket and took out a small, yellow slip. For a moment he silently read pencil scribble.

Sticking the paper back in his pocket, he inquired, "You've been here in America a very short time?"

Bjoern nodded. "Almost five months."

"Do you find it to be a pleasant experience?"

"Germany is much different."

"Your English is very good."

"Thank you."

Bjoern crossed over to the window. He parted the curtains and gazed outside, staring past the skyline and into the dark vortex of his own mind.

"Did you have a place of worship?" Father Dunne asked.

"Yes," Bjoern answered, talking over his shoulder. "Roman Catholic," he added.

"Great," the priest said, sitting forward.

Turning his back to the window with a straight face, Bjoern asked, "Can I get you a drink?"

The priest sat back, clasped his hands together and breathed heavily. "Yes. That would be nice. Thank you."

Bjoern nodded and walked to the kitchen. He took a new glass from the plain wood cabinet above the sink. He placed it on the table next to his glass and Bible, mumbling to himself as he looked around for the bottle of vodka. He regularly misplaced things.

A thin line of sweat ran down the side of his face. Agitation building.

Bjoern moved to the little gas oven. He turned on the front burner. There was a quick whooshing sound and then a ring of blue flame flared up. Without hesitation, he pushed his shirtsleeve above the elbow and thrust his exposed forearm over the fire. With his other hand he took hold of the wrist for support. He held it there steadily, even touching it against the burner grate. The flesh reddening, blistering. Old scars burning away, deeper. The acrid smell. Searing pain absorbed by intense facial contortions. At one point he opened his eyes and, turning his head, spotted the bottle in the dust-covered, narrow window-through the curtain a silhouette of it sitting on the sill.

He fell backwards, still gripping his wrist, lips twisted in agony, and bumped the table.

His glass toppled off the Bible, rolled over the edge of the table, and smashed into pieces on the floor.

Quickly, he pulled the sleeve back over his arm. Saw the discharge from the burns seep through the shirt's fabric.

"Are you okay?" the priest asked, rushing into the snug room.

"Yes. Fine," Bjoern answered, immediately correcting his posture.

"I heard a-"

"Accident," Bjoern said, gesturing to the floor. "Not a big deal."

"Here, let me help you," the priest said, stepping forward then starting to crouch.

"No!" Bjoern cried out, halting him with his hands.

Father Dunne gave a surprised look.

Softer, Bjoern said, "Please. I've got it. Everything's okay."

The priest, a little troubled, stood then walked out of the room and back to the chair.

Bjoern, certain he was gone, stopped collecting the broken glass and stood up. He set the pieces he'd picked up on the table, then got the bottle. The burning, as always, had cleared his train of thought. And so he'd remembered where he left it.

He poured a full glass of vodka.

"He's my redemption," Bjoern whispered to himself. "Ashes to Ashes."

An unformed smile appeared and faded.

***

"Thanks," Father Dunne said.

Bjoern handed him the glass of vodka.

After taking a drink, the priest asked, "What can I do for you, Mr. Kurz?"

"I seek God's permanent forgiveness," Bjoern quickly replied, standing near the wall next to a small, framed painting portraying Jesus Christ carrying a giant cross on his back through a crowded street.

The priest set his glass down on the arm of the chair. "God's forgiveness is everlasting."

"No. You do not understand," Bjoern maintained.

The priest took another drink.

"I am accursed," Bjoern said deadpan.

He began to pace the room.

Shaking a hand on either side of his head, fingers splayed like claws, Bjoern continued, "Affliction racks my brain. Drives me to commit-"

Like a marionette suddenly stopped in action, his invisible strings slackened, his puppeteer silent, Bjoern stood straight, arms down at his side.

"The Church will council and aid you in your spiritual healing," the priest said, holding the empty glass in his lap.

Bjoern began to unbutton his shirt.

Noticing what appeared to be wet spots on Bjoern's sleeve, possibly blood, the priest jumped up. "You're injured, Mr. Kurz!"

Bjoern opened his shirt wide.

"Let me take a look at-"

Suddenly confronted with a ghastly sight, Father Dunne was rooted to the spot in shock, and he dropped the glass. He'd glimpsed some malformations on Bjoern's hands and fingers, but never did he imagine . . .

Bjoern's dark, emotionless eyes forced their maddening stare into the priest's harmless, scared ones. Painful-looking, grotesque, waxy, scar tissue stood out on most of Bjoern's uncovered torso, making his appearance badly deformed.

The priest was speechless.

"Can God not grant me His mercy?" Bjoern asked, letting go of the shirt.

"Yes," the priest answered, his voice wavering.

"He can!" Bjoern cried out. And for the first time, a strain of emotion accompanied it. "And with your blessing?!"

Father Dunne sat back down. He leaned forward and picked the glass up off the rug. Luckily, it hadn't broke.

"Mr. Kurz, we encourage the faithful to follow God's healing according to His timely wisdom. And we encourage His followers to seek out means of secular, modern medical assistance as well as treatment for emotional suffering."

Bjoern began to pace the floor again.

Unsuccessfully, the priest tried not to notice the gruesome effects of the burns that had ruined so much flesh when the unbuttoned shirt waved open as Bjoern moved.

"I want you to attend Mass tomorrow. Wednesday begins the penitential season of Lent."

"Ash Wednesday," Bjoern stated, still moving around, eyes aimed directly at the floor.

"Yes. The Day of Ashes." Father Dunne nodded. "On this day the faithful begins the season of repentance and mourning with the observance of ashes . . . a reminder of our mortality and our need for God's saving grace."

"Fire purifies," Bjoern asserted. He stopped walking.

The priest's eyebrows raised curiously. Then, after a moment of silence he stood.

"So, I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Kurz?" he said, offering the empty glass to Bjoern.

Bjoern took the glass-his face stale with expression, eyes unwilling to meet the priest's.

The young man of the cloth bent over to gather up his coat.

"No!" Bjoern shouted.

Every undamaged muscle in his body became suddenly tense as he came forward swinging the glass.

Openmouthed, the priest turned his head just in time to see the assault, but with no time to defend against it.

The glass burst in his face, creating nasty bleeding cuts on his forehead, the bridge of his nose and around his right eye. As well as a few scratches on his lips and chin. The attack knocked him off balance. He dropped to the chair, disoriented.

"You're my redemption!" Bjoern growled, standing over the injured.

Moaning, blood blurring his vision, flowing freely down his face, dripping onto his coat, his fumbling hands, the chair and the rug, the priest struggled to stand up.

Bjoern pounced on him. Seized him by the neck.

Wrestled to the floor, the priest desperately clawed and pushed to gain freedom. He forced Bjoern's head back, worked hard to pry the ironlike fingers away from his throat with his own blood-slippery hands, but soon death's weakening cover swept over him.

Bjoern stood, saw the priest's lifeless look-bluish-pale skin drenched with glistening crimson, one visible eyeball rolled into the back of his head, mouth wide open.

Bjoern took a bath.

Afterward, he grabbed some towels, wrapped the dead priest's legs in them, and then dragged the body into the bathroom where he lifted it into the tub.

"You have blessed me, Father," he said, kneeling naked before the tub with a dozen metal lighter fluid cans, some matchboxes, and a knife sitting close by.

He'd already placed the priest's coat over the body.

The narrow bathroom window was open, and he glimpsed the night sky.

He stood, walked, and turned out the light. Then he sat down in the same spot.

He would pray until midnight. Then, he would perform the ceremony. He would burn the body. And with the priest's charred, severed hand he would mark his forehead in the shape of a cross saying "Remember, man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return."

As he sat waiting silently in the darkness, he grinned confidently. Convinced that this year he would receive God's absolute forgiveness and healing. That his madness would be driven away once and for all.

There had been other priests, other observances, but this one was different, he told himself.

HORNS

A member of the Church of Satan, Horns has written and published horror fiction online for the past four years.

The Official Horns Web Site contains up-to-date information on this new, creatively diabolic writer: http://members.tripod.com/~hornshorror

Hard print credits include: COLD STORAGE (antho of the undead) that includes an introduction by Graham Masterton; PEEP SHOW MAGAZINE 2; EXIT THE LIGHT (a collection of 34 horror tales); ATROCITAS AQUA; THE TRIDENT.

He's currently a subsidiary editor for HellBound Books Publishing and has many projects in the works. Some upcoming titles: KILLER, DEATH GRIP: Legacy of Terror, DEATH GRIP: It came from the Cinema.

LABOR DAY HORROR TALE

There are two types of Labor Day in modern times: one which remembers historical events (on May 1), and one that signifies a last dash to the beach or department store sales (on the first Monday of September). The United States celebrates the latter, while the rest of the world remains interested in the first holiday.

The late 19th century saw corporate power grow exponentially, dictating how the populace lived in many areas, while human rights in the work place were unheard of. Often working conditions in the factories and mines were such that modern people would consider the descriptions the stuff of outlandish horror fiction. Although organized opposition to this was forming, nothing really happened until the Haymarket Riots.

The American Federation of Labor called for workers to strike on May 1, 1886, and over 350,000 workers across the country complied. The city of Chicago was particularly hard hit and basically ground to a halt. On the third day of the strike Chicago police fired randomly at the workers, wounding many and killing four. The following day, when police attempted to break up a rally in Haymarket Square somebody threw a bomb that wounded seventy officers, killing eight. Eventually the eight local labor leaders (the "Chicago Eight") were charged with the crime on the basis of their political beliefs, resulting in most of them being executed.

This resulted in annual May 1st, or Labor Day, unrest in the USA and abroad. In the 1890's many states began to officially acknowledge Labor Day, but for some it was marked in May and others in September. It was decided that there needed to be a holiday sometime between the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving, so they went with the September date. This also separated the day from the more "subversive" date it was intended to celebrate. Largely, though, people continued to celebrate May 1st with picnics, rallies, and riots.

Amid fears of spreading communism during the emergence of the Cold War, the US Veterans of Foreign Wars decided "Loyalty Day" would make a holiday of higher moral quality. The US government agreed and in 1947 May 1st labor rallies and parties were supplanted by Loyalty Day parades. It was considered a time for every US citizen to reaffirm their patriotism. This worked very well throughout the 1950's, and even the long-standing Union Square rallies in New York Cities dwindled away due to the popularity of the Loyalty Day parades. Loyalty Day was short-lived, however, coming to an end in the 1960's due to the unpopular Vietnam War.

While the Loyalty festivals are forgotten, they did accomplish their task: the American heritage of May 1st has been erased from the collective consciousness of the country that spawned safe working conditions, sane work hours, and the end of child labor. The United States of America remains the only industrialized country that does not commemorate any form of Labor Day in the month of May, opting instead to celebrate the beginning of summer. See May Day.

-John Edward Lawson

Camper's Legend

By Nicole Thomas

Michael held the opinion that Labor Day was the last day for die-hard campers to wander into the "wilderness" and live like Daniel Boone. He laughed as he thought of all the people around the country packing their gear and heading for the woods, leaving behind their TVs, cell phones, and headaches associated with "city" living. He never could understand the logic of leaving a luxurious bed with satin sheets for a trash bag with a zipper. Then again, he wasn't a camper. That's not to say he'd never been camping.

However, he had his own opinions about why people come here. He believed all the comforts of home were a sacrifice of sorts because of the mystery and intrigue their National Forrest held. Sometimes people just like to live dangerously, haunted woods and all.

Burkittsville, MD has the Blair Witch. Once the two movies came out, that small town was flooded with tourists from all over, just to "look" at the town. It seemed whether based on myth or history, folks were naturally curious. Those here in Batesville, Indiana, understand the distraction and frustration tourists cause.

Michael thought the townspeople sympathize so much because they have their own version of the "Blair Witch," Aaron, the Crazed Camper. He smiled as he thought of 'ole Aaron and as he looked at his wife and their best friends unpacking their gear, he knew this was the best idea for a last 'get-together' before winter set in.

That night after the tents were set up, dinner cooked and they sat warming themselves around a crackling fire. David began talking "shop."

"So, how about you Michael? Ever defended someone you knew was guilty?"

"David, you know it's against lawyer-client -"

"Privilege … yeah, yeah … I know the drill Councilor. Now answer the question," David said.

Michael looked at his wife, Melanie, before answering. Then nodded.

"Oh this looks like a story all right," David said as he clapped his hands together and rubbed them.

"Honey, maybe Michael doesn't want to talk about it," David's wife, Gina said.

"It's ok … naw … I'll tell the story. It's a good campfire story, or so the paper's said."

"Campfire story … wait … that was you?" David asked.

"Yeah, that was me," Michael said as he looked at his wife again.

"What campfire story?" Gina asked.

"Oh honey, you gotta hear this story. It's better than the Lover's Lane Hook story!"

Gina shot her over-zealous husband a look, and then said, "Michael, if you don't want to talk about this, we'll understand."

"No, I'll tell you," he said. "It's just been awhile since I thought of Aaron." Michael drifted off into thought for a moment, then snapped back and began his tale.

Deep in the forest, among the pine trees and endangered species, tents dotted the area. The tall trees, dense brush, and forest inhabitants had adapted to this intrusion. In one of the lone clearings, two dome tents surrounded a blazing fire. Laughter and music sliced through the night until an unquestionable rumble had broken the party up, sending the two couples scurrying for shelter. After they had yelled their "good nights" and promises of a hike tomorrow across the clearing, the two couples had entered their respective tents.

The rumble of thunder and crackle of lightning had awakened the campers. Another flash had revealed a mysterious figure standing on a small slope overlooking the campsite. Rain had pelted the tent; each drop would explode in the unnatural silence. The occupants shot from their sleeping bags still half-asleep. Rachel had immediately grabbed Aaron's arm, as they listened intensely, leery of whom or what was outside. At each unruly rumble, Rachel had dug her nails deeper into his arm, drawing blood and causing Aaron to wince. Their imaginations ran wild as chills coursed through their bodies and deep-seated alarm settled into their bones. The bolts zigzagged across the sky, revealing nothing, but a campsite drenched in rain.

A strained laugh had burst from Rachel's lips as she and Aaron realized they had been holding their breath. Thinking their imaginations had bested them, an embarrassing giggle pierced the silence as they snuggled back into their sleeping bags. Rain and wind had mixed, and whipped and beat the small dome tent-the unknowing couple slept.

The raindrops had begun to grow. They crashed and plummeted unmercifully as they soaked the flimsy shelter. Like a bowling ball rolling down the alley, the thunder roared as the lightning cracked. Unexpectedly, a scream cut through the night. Aaron and Rachel bolted from their sleeping bags; shivers of terror had begun to race through their veins. What the hell?

Aaron had hurriedly put on his shoes and groped in the darkness for his hunting knife. Shit! I lost it this afternoon.

"Aaron! What are you doing?" Rachel said in a harsh whisper as she grabbed his arm again.

"Rach, honey, I'm just gonna see if everything's ok. It's all right. Really. It's just a fall thunderstorm."

"Please, Aaron don't leave me here alone." Unseen by Aaron, one tear had rolled down her cheek. "I have a bad feeling, please Aaron."

"Hush, love," he said gathering her in his arms. "It's going to be fine. I'll be right outside. I'm just gonna have a look."

He hugged her tight in gentle reassurance then he reached for the flashlight. The deafening sound of the zipper echoed through the woods, before another rumble sounded. Aaron shined the flashlight toward their friend's tent. Looks fine to me. He shrugged his shoulders and checked the area surrounding the camp. Everything was as they left it, although Aaron could not shake his paranoia … a feeling of being watched.

He felt like a white mouse in a weird science experiment. He imagined giant people were watching and taking notes on a huge brown clipboard while he walked through the maze of their campsite. He wished for lightning to see his surroundings clearer. The flashlight was little help.

Again, he shrugged his shoulders and decided all was well. Wet and cold, Aaron made his way back to his tent. The wind had calmed to a gentle breeze, caressing his cheek as he walked. He felt as if eyes bore into his skull, reading his thoughts. And as if the Heavens heard his plea, the sky lit up. In the distance, the silhouette of a figure appeared. Aaron blinked. Again, lightning lit up the site like a ballpark. The figure on the small hill was gone. Aaron shook his head. Damn, my imagination is on overload.

He walked back towards Rachel, past their friend's tent, through the entire site. Unzipping the entrance, he found Rachel asleep. You sure were scared, weren't you? Exhausted, he lay on his sleeping bag. Fucking great! Damn tent leaked. Well, this piece of shit is goin' back to the friggin' store. No leak guarantee, my ass. The thunder rumbled, the rain fell, the wind began to howl. Sure is gonna be a bad storm. Hope this piece of shit holds up. Aaron shifted his position then drifted off to sleep.

The next morning he snuggled closer to Rachel. "Mornin' love. See we made it. Nothin' but a good 'ole fall thunderstorm."

He had draped his arm across her waist. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck began to rise as paranoia overtook him again. He shook himself mentally and rolled to his back, his arm lay across his forehead. Lazily, his eyes wandered to the ceiling. Boy, my mind is havin' a ball with me. Aaron let it slide as he stretched and yawned. Deep brown eyes frowned then widened. He rubbed them to clear the crusted sleep; finally, what he missed last night met him square in the face.

The ceiling was a deep burgundy, a high contrast to the white canvas of the tent. Burgundy striped unevenly down the sides. His eyes focused intensively on the ceiling, mouth agape as he raised himself up on one elbow. Aaron reached out, without looking, and shook Rachel.

"Rach, wake up!"

Silence.

"Rachel!" His eyes glued to the overhead crimson canvas.

He saw nothing except the ceiling. He couldn't understand what happened and why Rachel was so quiet. He stopped and listened. There were no sounds, no birds singing, their friends were quiet, no crickets chirped, nothing … just silence. He froze as reality suddenly hit him. His eyes moved from the ceiling to the form next to him, horror slammed into his brain. Instinctively, he grabbed her and hugged her to him.

"Oh God! Oh God! Rachel! Nooooo!" Fear such as he never experienced consumed his thoughts and actions. His hand flew to his mouth, covered in blood.

Aaron looked at his hand, and then to the woman in his arms, his face locked in eternal horror. Laying her down, he fell all over himself as he scrambled out of the tent. Wildly, he screamed for help. His eyes flashed randomly over the campsite. In the daylight, Aaron discovered everything he had missed last night. Blood smeared and dripped from everything. He looked at himself. He had blood all over him. Her blood. Aaron started shaking violently.

"Dear God! HELP!" His hands flew to his head.

Silence.

"Rachel! My sweet Rachel!" Rocked to his knees, he held his arms out to her.

Silence.

Clawing at the ground on all fours, he swiveled, sinking further into the mud. What should I do? His eyes looked everywhere, but saw nothing. As he looked down again, a glint of silver caught his attention. He recognized it as his lost hunting knife.

He snatched it from the grass. Damn bastard! He held the knife as if it were all he had left on Earth. He gripped it so tightly he cut himself. The blade sliced through his hand. Fresh blood mixed with Rachel's and dripped down his hand. His mind and body were numb from shock. His mind locked up, he knelt paralyzed with fear. He tried to look at the whole campsite, but his mind blocked the massacre.

Stupefied, his eyes moved to the tree branch that hung over his tent - dangling upside down were their friends. It wasn't rain. Fascinated, he watched one lonely drop of blood as it rolled off his best friend's fingertip then fell an eternity onto the tent. The drop echoed into the forest and violently pierced Aaron's soul. One sound penetrated his numbed mind. A slow drawn whistle.

His head jerked toward the whistle. On the hill, the mysterious figure from last night raised his hand. As Aaron watched, covered in mud and blood, his mouth hung open and his hand pointed at the dark cloaked stranger, he saluted then disappeared. Aaron blinked then rubbed his eyes. It finally made sense. Oh God! It wasn't rain! Aaron's tormented mind screamed run! Kill the bastard! The knife had sliced deeper into his hand. But his fear and grief held him in place, sunk knee-deep in mud, caked with dry blood.

It wasn't rain. He made himself focus on the sight of his slain girlfriend. Her head had rolled off her pillow in his rush to get out of the tent. Her eyes were open, staring right at him. Oh God! Rachel … I … It wasn't rain! He looked from Rachel to his friends. It wasn't rain. Continually, this flew through his head until finally it erupted from his mouth in a primal scream.

"It wasn't rain! It wasn't rain." He struggled to stand then began to walk in a circle. "Dammit! It wasn't rain." He ran his blood soaked hands through his ash-blonde hair. "It wasn't rain. What the hell is going on?"

Aaron felt the barrier between this world and the other break. Hallucinations set in. Recklessly, he waved the knife. "You coward! Where the hell are you?" He stared into the dense brush and searched through the trees for signs of life. It wasn't rain. It fucking wasn't rain! He looked at Rachel and his friends, "God help me! It wasn't rain!" ripped from his throat.

This was how Ranger McRoy, who came up to say hello, found Aaron a few hours later. What he found would haunt him to the end of his days. Aaron walked in circles talking wildly; he had worn the grass from constant pacing.

Ranger McRoy carefully approached Aaron. He noted the crazed look in his lifeless brown eyes. Aaron jumped as the Ranger gently touched his shoulder. "Son, what have you done?" He stared at the young man before him, covered in various shades of red and brown.

Aaron looked despondently at the Ranger, knife pointed, and said, "It wasn't rain."

At his trial, the evidence presented against Aaron, including the hunting knife, had increased his guilt, but he said nothing. His eyes remained lowered. Once confident and proud, he now teetered on the edge of insanity. After reading the guilty verdict, the judge asked him if he had anything to say before sentencing. His lawyer stood next to him, an unnoticed gleam flashed in his sinister eyes.

Aaron stood before the judge; and finally raised his head. His crazed eyes stared through the judge and beyond. This once prestigious lawyer convicted of triple murder, managed to say, "It wasn't rain" before he fell to his knees, his body racked in tormented sobs.

The three were silent as Michael finished his tale.

"Damn, so do you believe he did it?" David asked.

"Well, some say he didn't kill those people, but others believed he did. Last I heard, he was still alive and sits in a padded room, a life patient of the State Hospital. I hear the nurses who attend him gossip to friends that all he does is sit in a stained straitjacket, rocking back and forth repeating, 'it wasn't rain'." Michael paused, looking at them. "Yeah I believe he did it, but I had to give him the best defense I could. That's why I prosecute now instead of defending."

His audience was silent. Shock registered on their faces, they nearly jumped from their skin as thunder sounded in the background.

Michael stretched as he stood. He looked at the sky, the flames reflected in his eyes, and said, "We'd better get inside the tents, looks like it might rain."

Nicole Thomas

Nicole Thomas-aka Nic or A. Nicole-lives with her husband and two daughters in southern Indiana. Ms. Thomas co-owns Demonic Books, parent company of 3F Publications and Catalyst Press, with Monica J. O'Rourke. She is a member of the Horror Writers Association and the National Authors Registry. She has had several poems and short stories published both in print and online, including The House of Pain, The Murder Hole and Horrorfind.com. She is currently working on her first novel. She is also the editor of Femmes de la Brume (Double Dragon Publishing).

She has won several awards for her poetry, including the President's Award for Literary Excellence 2002 and 2003 for Christmas with My Family, which appears in the book Bridges, by Iliad Press. Her nonfiction also appears in the books America: Voices Coming Together, Good Times, 9-11-01, Acclamations, Abstracts and Creations of the Heart. She also wrote and illustrated a children's book, Molly and the Secret, about a child's experience of abuse at the hands of a babysitter. The book is dedicated to her daughters and nephews, as well as the children and adults who must deal daily with the results of abuse.

You can visit her online at www.anicolethomas.com.

THANKSGIVING DAY HORROR TALES

Thanksgiving is the culmination of ancient harvest festivals, Puritan beliefs, and a New World historical event. Traditionally Thanksgiving is a time of contemplating the fortune of those who migrated from England to North America, although in more recent times it is more about reflecting on our prosperity than on mere survival. Families in the United States of America and Canada gather for large feasts and general merriment-activities that would have been banned from an actual Puritan Thanksgiving.

For the Puritan settlers of the Virginia Trading Company, a Thanksgiving was a somber day of worship to give thanks for good events, such as smiting an enemy or surviving a plague. However, the historical event in the autumn of 1621 featured secular songs, dance, gaming, and culinary indulgence. The Wampamoag participants had little use for involving themselves in any other kind of celebration with their European counterparts. The harvest feast lasted three days and, contrary to popular belief, was not repeated. While many communities held annual harvest festivals-as have all cultures-Thanksgiving wasn't suggested as a national holiday until the 1770's, made an official holiday in New York state in 1817 and nationally in 1863.

Contrary to current culinary practices, the original Thanksgiving did not feature turkey or ham, nor were fruits and vegetables so prevalent. Because of the hard, active lifestyle they endured, the Pilgrims needed all the protein they could eat, so meats were more necessary. We do know they had venison and "wild fowl" at this meal-wild fowl hunted in the area included crane, swan, and eagles. As there was no sugar to be had there were likely no pies or other sweets, including cranberry relish. Pumpkins were only eaten stewed, corn was only available dried at that time of year, sweet potatoes were not available, and there were no cows or dairy products.

In Canada the holiday is much the same as in the United States: feasting and family, since 1879. The harvest festival tradition in other cultures is a bit different, though. In China it was known as Chung Ch'ui, occurring on the fifteenth day of the eight month. Considered the Moon's birthday, Chung Ch'ui was celebrated with moon cakes (imprinted with a rabbit as the Chinese see a "rabbit" on the moon, not a "man"). Ancient Egyptians would hold parades, feasts, games, and dances in honor of Min, their vegetation god. Then, as they harvested their crops, the Egyptians would weep to trick the deceased plant spirits into thinking it was an accident. The Israelite survival through the desert is marked by Sukkoth, a celebration dating back over three thousand years. The huts (succuts) of the nomadic Hebrews are recreated, decorated with fruits and vegetables, then used to host outdoor meals for two nights. Greek tradition observed Thesmosphoria, a three-day festival in honor of the grain goddess Demeter. Similar to Sukkoth, shelters would be constructed from plants, replete with furniture, followed by fasting, then feast and food offerings to Demeter.

The current lifestyle for much of North America has removed the harvest celebration from this holiday, yet it still remains one of the most important for all families, regardless of their background.

-John Edward Lawson

GOBBLE, GOBBLE, OXEN FREE

By Kurt Newton

Walter huddled his thin, eleven-year-old body against the morning cold. He'd spent the night in an abandoned warehouse wrapped in mothball-smelling dinner jackets and old lady dresses he'd stolen from a Salvation Army dumpster. He wished the bag he'd grabbed had contained clothes he could wear, but then beggars can't be choosers, as his father was fond of yelling when he'd come home drunk with a bag of pretzels and a can of soda for supper and say, "Here, now eat and shut up." And if Walter showed the slightest hesitation or hint of complaint, somehow that message would find its way through his father's drunken fog and the accusations would start flying. "Good for nothing parasite...Just like that whore of a mother of yours...." And like grease for the wheels of violence, the words would soon turn into fists and Walter could only hope that unconsciousness would come quickly.

Walter watched the morning sun stream in through the warehouse windows and tried not to think that today was Thanksgiving. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and all the fixings. He supposed that "fixings" were all the other side dishes that came along with Thanksgiving dinner. At this point he'd even go for just the fixings to satisfy his hunger.

His stomach growled, then spasmed with pain. Somehow the hunger he'd felt over these past two weeks was worse than any bruise his father could inflict.

His ears perked as the scrape of a box came from across the warehouse. It was followed by a whispering of voices.

Walter buried his head and tried to disappear.

"Hey, here's one!"

Walter could hear the footsteps gather around him. Then all was silent. He pushed back the sequined hem of an old lady's dress from his face and stared at the faces that stared down at him.

Three boys and one girl. Each was dressed in winter coats, wool mittens, scarves and earmuffs. They ranged in age from perhaps eight years old to fourteen. Each looked well fed.

"Hey, don't be afraid," the oldest said. "I'm Matt, this is Marshall," he placed a mittened hand on his younger brother's shoulder, "This here's Melinda Sue, and this one's Mikey."

Walter looked at Melinda Sue. She looked to be about his age and her smile was as warm as the roses on her cheeks.

"How would you like to come home with us?"

Walter looked at the four cherub-like faces and thought he might still be dreaming. He saw visions of a Thanksgiving Day feast, surrounded by brothers and sisters, a mother and father who were neither an addict nor an alcoholic. Walter's stomach growled again, but he was still unsure.

"We do this every year," said Matt. "It will be fun!" The others nodded, their eyes bright. They seemed eager to get going.

Matt held out his hand. The others did the same.

Walter almost felt like crying. He sat up and they pulled him into their group as if he were one of their own.

They made their way out of the city, over railroad tracks and into the woods beyond. They walked along a well-worn path that wove its way deeper and deeper into the woods until they came upon a field where the grass was waist high.

Walter thought this was great. He'd lived in the city all his life, in rat infested tenements and crappy hotels. He'd always wanted to live out in the country, out where there were trees and leaves and squirrels. Maybe they had a dog, he thought. A big fluffy dog he could lay his head against on a hot summer day. He always wanted a dog.

"Gobble, gobble, oxen free!"

Walter jumped. It was Matt who yelled it. The children scattered, each to the surrounding woods, leaving Walter standing alone in the middle of the field. He wanted to run after Matt, then thought that maybe he should follow Marshall instead. Melinda Sue would have been a good choice, but she was girl, and he couldn't follow little Mikey because the young boy disappeared into the grass like a snake. So Walter simply stood in the middle of the field as the others fled.

"What's going on? Are we playing a game?" he shouted. He could feel the crisp November air against his cheeks. His feet were numb from the walk. There were rustlings in the woods, followed by giggles. "Count to ten!" somebody called.

Walter spun around. It was hard to tell which direction the voice had come from. The field was like a big open circle, except for one large stone outcropping jutting up out of the ground at its center. He really didn't feel much like playing. He was hungry. He was cold. But these kids seemed to want to play a game of hide and seek first before they brought him home. Maybe it was some kind of test to see if he would be a suitable brother and playmate. They'd been so nice to him, he figured the least he could do was play along.

"Okay! I'm going to count now! You better hide real good!"

Walter walked over to the stone outcropping and leaned against it, forearms covering his eyes. He began to count.

"One..."

(he could see himself seated in a nice chair, his hands washed, his hair neatly combed)

"Two..."

(the table dressed up like one of those displays in the department stores, all silver and sparkly, with candles and a fruit bowl, and nuts)

"Three..."

(everyone would be seated around, his newfound brothers and sister, his newfound mom, all pretty face and smelling nice, his newfound dad)

"Four..."

(and the smells, all smoky and sweet)

"Five..."

(sausage stuffing and giblet gravy)

"Six..."

(candied yams and cranberry sauce)

"Seven..."

(baby onions, green beans, and corn)

"Eight..."

(apple pie and pumpkin pie)

"Nine..."

(and in the center, all golden brown and glistening, the largest Thanksgiving turkey he'd ever seen)

"Ten!"

Walter opened his eyes. The field was still, the air a silent calm. They could all be hiding in the grass for all he knew. He climbed up on top of the stone outcropping for a better look. He could see the individual trails each of the kids had made when they cut through the grass into the woods.

A wide grin spread across his face, the first grin he could remember feeling in a long, long time. "Gobble, gobble, oxen free!" he yelled. His voice echoed across the field. Walter didn't so much feel the gunshot as heard it reverberate in his ears.

He flew through the air and landed on his back in the grass and lay staring up at the sky. It felt like one of his father's backhands, only this one didn't hurt. For some reason his eyes were locked open and there was a curious twinge that ran along his scalp, like the tickle he used to get when his mom would cut his hair. Aside from that, he couldn't feel a thing.

He could hear footsteps though. And voices. Young kid voices. And one adult. Like trees they gathered around.

"What do you think Uncle Frank?" Matt's voice, eager to please.

Uncle Frank, hunter's hat pulled down over his ears, rifle under his arm, lit a cigarette. He crouched down, grabbed the collar of Walter's jacket, lifted him slightly off the ground and let him drop. "This one's at least a hundred-pounder. You kids did good." Uncle Frank straightened up. "Okay, you two grab his shoulders, you two grab his legs."

Walter wanted to shout that this wasn't right, they couldn't do this to him, that this was Thanksgiving for crap's sake! I'm not dead...I'm not dead....

But the smaller faces that stared down at him looked so happy, so...hungry. In fact, Walter was having a hard time remembering what it felt like to be hungry, what it felt like to be cold, even what it felt like to be alone. In fact, these strangers had given him more in a few hours than his mother and father had given him in his entire life-a sense of family and togetherness.

"What's the matter, Melinda Sue?"

"It's his eyes, Uncle Frank. They got tears."

"It's just the cold, that's all. Here, let me fix that."

Walter watched as Uncle Frank leaned over, cigarette gripped between his fingers, and stamped the hot end into each of his eye-sockets. With a hiss and a sizzle the sky went dark.

Walter could hear the boys laugh as Melinda Sue went, "Eeyou."

After that he was probably lucky he couldn't feel a thing.

KURT NEWTON

Kurt is the author of two short story collections-The House Spider and Dark Demons-and The Psycho-Hunter's Casebook, a collection of murderous poetry penned by fictitious serial killers. Denizens of the Cityscape, an illustrated collection of poetic tales, is forthcoming from Double Dragon Publishing. For more information, visit Kurt's website at www.kurtnewton.com.

Emma SRED, the Sleepy Head

By Jeremy Carr

It started in high school when she was sixteen years old. Emma still cringed when she thought about it, the old memories of that awkward morning often rushing to the surface when she least expected it, sharp and clear and painful as the day it happened. She told herself that it made no sense to be embarrassed about a past event, recollections that her long lost friends had probably forgotten about, but this rationalization never helped. After all, it didn't happen to them. It didn't affect their lives. It wasn't their cross to bear.

She had been spending the night at Judy Hudson's house, along with four other girls. A slumber party. They stayed up late watching goofy romantic comedies on TV, gossiping about the boys in their class, and smoking a few illicit cigarettes that Shannon had managed to pilfer from her mom's purse. Emma didn't like to smoke, but she always gave it her best shot so as not to be ousted from the little group. Shortly after two a.m. they began to nod off; Emma was one of the first to go, crawling inside her sleeping bag and drifting into a deep, dark sleep.

In the morning she awoke to the sun in her eyes and the laughter of her friends, both focused with unusual clarity directly at her. Shielding her eyes from the glare she sat up, disoriented, and momentarily confused by her surroundings.

And then she felt it.

With her palms resting down against the floor, she experienced an unusual feeling. Something squishy and cold. Her hands felt like mush. She was still too tired to think clearly, and would have preferred to ignore everything and go back to sleep, but her friends' incessant giggling made that desire impossible. She struggled to make sense of their remarks, her mind in a muddle.

"God Emma, what's wrong with you?"

"What a pig."

"No self control."

Her eyes finally ceased their rapid blinking and opened wide, the fog in her brain starting to clear. She looked around at the snickering faces and lifted her hands for closer inspection. They were coated in black and white goo, smeared with clumps of messy, sticky stuff.

"What's this?" She asked to their utter amusement.

"You really don't remember?" One of them asked.

"Remember what?"

This caused a new eruption of laughter. Emma sniffed the stuff on her hands and recognized the odor. The texture and consistency could only be one thing: chocolate cake with white frosting. Cake she had seen in Judy's refrigerator the night before. It still didn't make sense to her.

"You got up last night about an hour after you fell asleep. Me and Katherine were still awake and watched you," Judy said.

"And then you went to the kitchen and totally pigged out. You should have seen yourself. It was sooo disgusting," Katherine added.

At first she didn't believe them. These were teenage girls after all, and apt to pull a prank like this on her. Like the time they smeared shaving cream on Jenny Alberton's hands and then waved a feather over her face. Now that was funny. But this was different. This was no harmless prank. These girls hadn't done something to her. Emma had done something to herself. Something that she had no recollection of. Something disgusting.

"I didn't eat any cake last night," she fumbled.

But by later on that day, after she'd had time to clean herself and interrogate her friends more lucidly, she was certain that they hadn't made it up. Besides, Mrs. Hudson had been saving that cake for Judy's sister's birthday, which made Emma feel extremely guilty, and for which she apologized to no end.

She found smears of frosting inside her sleeping bag, crusted onto her pillow case, stuck to her hair. She was disturbed. Frightened. Unnerved. To borrow an expression from her teenage years, freaked out. Who wouldn't be? It's one thing to talk in your sleep, or even to walk in your sleep-but who ever heard of eating in your sleep? She tried to block it out, to write it off as an odd occurrence, a once in a lifetime fluke, a story to laugh about then ultimately forget. And for a while she really believed that it would never happen again.

But it did.

The problem persisted throughout college, the circumstances varying, but always with the same end result. Embarrassment. Frustration. Self loathing. Her roommate Lindsey would often report the events to her the next day, as offhandedly as possible, pretending that it was no big deal, nothing to really worry about. Emma wondered what Lindsey said about her behind her back.

She dated as infrequently as possible, quickly realizing the potential that she had to disturb and sometimes frighten her bedside partners. Like the time she went home with Christopher Hankins, the guy from her American Lit. class who she'd had her eye on for an entire semester. The same guy who woke her up in the middle of the night, shaking her until she stirred, only to find herself standing in his kitchen, nude, her hands and face coated with Aunt Jemima syrup. And the whole time him saying, "You'll wake up my roommate, what's wrong with you?" It was bad enough for Emma to have to cope with her unsavory condition every night, but to bring someone else into the game was just plain unacceptable.

After college she moved into an apartment by herself, anxious for privacy and freedom from embarrassment. But the problem only got worse. How many mornings had she awoken with a foul taste in her mouth, and that all too familiar feeling of nausea and dread which seemed to spill forth from her dream state and into the waking world? She couldn't remember them all. But the worst ones, the most awful discoveries, she could hardly forget. Like the time she woke up with shiny, greasy hands and lips, later to realize that she'd eaten four entire sticks of butter. Or the morning she found an empty package of uncooked hot dogs, which gave her gas and sat in her stomach all day long. There was the jar of cocktail onions which she had thoroughly consumed, down to the last drop of vinegar, a taste she was not able to rid from her mouth for a week. All too often Emma would awaken to discover traces of her nightly raids still clinging to her bed sheets, an unpleasant reminder of her nightly excursions.

Clues.

Leftovers.

Evidence.

In her sheets she found olive pits and chicken bones. Cheerios and egg shells. Crumbs and crusts and things unidentifiable. Stains of every color and texture. And once, the worst morning ever, the humiliating discovery of leftover bits and pieces of raw ground beef, moist and wretched and rotting. The remains of hamburger patties that she had been saving for a barbecue that coming weekend.

It was like the old Groucho Marx joke, her father once said, about the guy who dreamt he was eating a giant marshmallow. He woke up to discover that his pillow was gone. The only difference was that Emma could never remember her dreams. At least, none that had to do with her peculiar eating habits. When she slept, it was as if she were down for the count, completely subdued, sentenced to limbo. And that was the worst part. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to her actions.

It wasn't that Emma was fat, or that she had problems controlling her eating habits throughout the day. In fact she was more or less on the thin side, and wasn't prone to gorging herself or overeating. She just couldn't control herself at night. Literally. It was then, when the world was still, as she lay in quiet limbo, sunk deep into the mud, that her subconscious mind would take over and glutton itself without remorse. And it was this, the complete lack of willpower, the utter absence of self restraint, that tore her apart more than anything. She began to doubt that such a thing as free will really existed. In her mind she was simply cursed.

Her morning ritual became an exercise in first determining what she had eaten, then washing the bed sheets should it be necessary, and sometimes forcing herself to throw up. To cleanse herself. To exorcise her inner demons and the food they were so fond of devouring.

She tried several attempts to thwart herself. Her first idea was to set booby traps around the apartment. It seemed reasonable enough. Before going to sleep, she would rearrange the furniture in the hallway leading from her bedroom to the kitchen. Obstructing the path with chairs, a coffee table, a suitcase; anything and everything she could find that might trip her up in her sleep, awaken her at the crucial moment before disaster. But after a week of trying this new routine she gave up, frustrated to discover each morning that she had somehow managed to maneuver around the clutter in the night, her subconscious mind always getting the better of her.

Next she tried hiding her food in hard to reach places. High shelves and locked cabinets. She even bought a padlock which, after some effort, she managed to secure to the door of her refrigerator. This plan seemed foolproof. In a way she succeeded, as the goodies she craved were literally impossible to get at. But the morning after making the final preparations she woke up with a bitter taste on her palate, and was mortified to discover that she had eaten a sandwich consisting of two slices of stale bread loaded with several beef bouillon cubes. The only food her unrelenting body had been able to find. She was at her wit's end, and all too often would cry herself to sleep, for what little good it did.

Several more years of torment passed before Emma finally sought treatment. At first it seemed like a godsend, a burst of light illuminating the dark abyss where her mind insisted on wandering. The revelation that she was not alone with this torment came from out of the blue, like a letter in the mail telling you you've just won a prize. Publisher's Clearinghouse for the soul. Her friend Lara had been listening to the radio one afternoon while stuck in traffic, and had heard a talk radio program whose topic was sleep disorders. As she listened, thankful to have something for her ears to focus on besides TV show advertisements and Britney Spears songs, she heard a woman talking about a habit that her husband had had for years. A habit that involved getting up in the middle of the night and banging his fists against the walls while screaming bloody murder, sometimes injuring himself in the process. A habit that frightened her to no end, and which she thought she'd just always have to live with. That is, until he was referred to the Minnesota Regional Sleep Disorders Center, and discovered that he wasn't alone.

Lara shared this discovery with Emma over brunch one afternoon. At first hesitant to even broach the subject, knowing that it would embarrass Emma to no end, she beat around the bush until she finally couldn't hold it in any longer. Unknown to her, Emma had had a wretched morning, waking up to discover three strips of bacon and dozens of frozen French fries, now soggy, clinging to her soiled nightgown. At first the conversation was awkward, but soon Emma brightened up and was even able to make eye contact with her friend as she listened to the good news.

"You're not alone Emma. There's doctor's out there to deal with kind of this stuff. And there's probably even a cure."

Lara eventually dropped the topic and switched to something else, sensing that her friend had gotten all the information she needed to make up her own mind.

The next day Emma made a call and scheduled an appointment to meet with one of the doctors at the Sleep Disorders Center. She had a hard time admitting over the phone what her problem was, but the receptionist was tactful and used to dealing with uncomfortable patients, and in the end Emma felt a wave of hope that she never thought to find. Never thought existed.

She was received warmly at the center, and soon found herself able to admit even the most traumatizing of events to Doctor Fletcher, the woman who had been assigned to help her. Emma was pleased to have a woman doctor on her side, as she often had trouble relating to men, the effect of years of shying away from even the most casual of encounters.

The doctor listened to her story and took notes, nodding her head and offering sympathetic comments, all the while radiating an aura of compassionate understanding. She then explained to Emma that she suffered from a condition known as Sleep-Related Eating Disorder, or "S.R.E.D." for short. While not a very common affliction, it still came as a tremendous relief to Emma who assumed, for year upon gut wrenching year, that she alone was the bearer of such an unsettling inclination.

A week later Emma spent the night at the lab, sealed up in a room that contained a one way mirror overlooking a bed, nightstand and refrigerator. A door in the rear led to a small bathroom, but otherwise Emma was confined to the observational space. The doctors applied electrodes to her head, which they told her could be slightly uncomfortable, but Emma, excited at the prospect of finding a cure, fell asleep with little effort.

Watching herself the next day on a video that had recorded the night's events was one of the most difficult things she'd ever had to do. But, summoning up the strength, Emma observed her bizarre nocturnal behavior, as Doctor Fletcher gently described the options available. She ultimately prescribed a dopamine enhancing medication combined with Tylenol 3, which she felt confident would alleviate the problem. Emma's spirits soared, and that night in bed when she cried it wasn't out of shame, but rather from an overwhelming sense of relief.

The results were amazing. Within a week, Emma was sleeping soundly, for the first time since childhood nodding off without the distasteful dread of having to wake up the next morning. Her confidence improved exponentially, and before long she got up the nerve to start approaching men again. A year later she met Craig Beaumont.

Craig was a substitute teacher who worked periodically at Stony Hills, the grammar school where Emma taught. They exchanged small talk in the cafeteria one day, and soon they were seeing each other on a regular basis. The first time he spent the night she felt some trepidation, painful memories reminding her of previous disasters, but her fears were thankfully unfounded. She finally felt like a regular person. A regular person in control of her life.

As the months passed, they continued to date each other, and Emma continued to take her medication, sometimes forgetting that she had ever even had a sleeping problem. Two years later they married, and before long she gave birth to a healthy baby boy. They named him Peter, after her grandfather, and looked forward to the years ahead. They put a down payment on a small house, big enough for the three of them with room to expand, and settled into family life. Emma was in heaven.

Then the problem resurfaced.

The trouble began in an unusual way. Emma woke up one morning with an extremely painful crawling sensation in her legs. It felt like a thousand tiny spiders writhing and biting, devouring her skinny white thighs and calves. Her first reaction was to throw the sheets off of her body, instinctually fearing that she was under attack. Looking down she noticed nothing out of the ordinary. But the feeling wouldn't go away.

In response to her frantic phone call, Doctor Fletcher explained that she was suffering from a condition known as Restless Legs Syndrome, a side effect of the medication she was on. The first strains of panic were already beginning to consume Emma, who had actually come to believe that she would live the rest of her life without unrest. A few days later her fears were magnified, when she woke up to find an empty bag of Frito Lay's occupying the pillow beside her. Craig was still asleep, and she hurriedly discarded the evidence before he began to stir. Later she called in sick to work.

Entering the sleep clinic for the first time in over two years, the familiar haunting sense of doom suddenly overcame her, no longer dormant. She had to pause for a moment before going inside, taking several deep breaths and counting to ten, telling herself to get a grip, everything's going to be all right. But this wasn't to be the case.

Dr. Fletcher calmly explained that due to the recurrence of sleep disorder activity, there was nothing they could do besides bring her in for more study. More tests. More poking and prodding and hoping to use her as a case study for future cures. Cures that weren't available to Emma herself.

She stopped taking the pills after that meeting, as they were now only good for giving her horribly itchy legs that hurt and burned and made her want to scream. Without the medication her problem flared up worse than ever, and it wasn't long before Craig naturally started to notice. She'd wanted to tell him about it when they'd met, but had always found a reason to avoid the subject. After all, she thought that she'd had the problem licked. Now, of course, the conversation was unavoidable.

At first he was understanding, sympathetic even, and promised her that it made no difference. They were strong. They would get through it together. But in the months that followed, she found him getting more and more irritable, to the point that he was even making wry remarks when his ill temper got the best of him. Like the night she accidentally burnt their dinner and apologized, only to hear him reply, "Well, at least only one of us will go hungry tonight."

It wasn't that Craig was inconsiderate or lacked compassion, his bitterness was simply due to the strain that Emma's condition was putting on their marriage. She had become melancholy and self-conscious again, uncomfortable sharing a bed with him, and often opted for spending the night alone on their couch. Sometimes she'd stay up half the night cradling her son, talking to him, telling him not to worry, desperately trying to encourage herself more so than him. Deep down she feared that Peter would grow up to suffer the same fate and this thought plagued her to no end.

It didn't really come as much of a shock when Craig decided to move out. To "put some space between them," he said. To "give them both some time to think."

He swore that it had nothing to do with her problem, but she knew the truth. The curse had gotten the best of her in the end, no two ways about it. She watched him go without a word, forcing a smile as he told her his plans.

"I'm going out to California for a while, to visit my parents. But I'll be back for Thanksgiving. And then we'll just…take it from there. All right?"

As his car backed out of the driveway, she felt a pang of despair well up from deep in her gut, and knew that somehow, some way, she had to think of something.

The revelation came a few weeks later.

Emma was teaching her third grade class one day when it dawned on her. She was giving her students the assignment of writing a short poem, a hobby that she herself enjoyed. First, she explained the basic rhyming scheme as simply as possible. On the blackboard she wrote:

A

B

A

B

She pointed to the letters and explained what they meant: A rhymes with A, B rhymes with B. They were free to choose any topic they liked, and Emma suggested that if they had a hard time thinking of something they should write about themselves. While they labored away, the sound of pencils scratching on colored paper filling the room, she wrote a poem for herself before she even realized what she was doing:

Late at night as she'd fall asleep

Her will gave in to SRED,

Letting go what was hers to keep

Poor Emma the sleepy head

By now she had come to think of herself as two separate people. One, the person that she saw when she looked in the mirror: Emma Myers, schoolteacher, mildly attractive, thirty-two years old, brown hair, blue eyes, recently separated. But the other Emma, whom she came to refer to as the sleepy head- this was an entirely different persona, her arch-nemesis, her alter ego. And it was this Emma that needed to be stopped. The realization that she could fight back against the gluttonous side of herself was the breakthrough. The problem was that she had been going about it all wrong. Booby traps and medication and locks on the refrigerator were not the answer. She needed to find a cure for the ailment instead of just treating the symptoms.

Determined to beat this thing on her own terms, she began a new series of tactics. Talking to herself, encouraging herself, training herself. Pushing her concentration to the limit, she would meditate as she drifted off to sleep, repeating over and over the mantra she had created:

Time to sleep, but not to eat,

The sleepy head is mine to beat…

Slowly but surely, the plan paid off. She found that with enough self encouragement, enough willpower, she could keep the sleepy head at bay. It wasn't foolproof for sure, but it helped. She still found crumbs and crusts, occasional stains and smears, but nothing grotesque. Nothing she couldn't handle. Nothing that made her cringe.

What she found most interesting was that with effort she could restrain herself from eating certain foods. If she made up her mind not to touch the leftovers from dinner, she'd find that she ate the dessert instead. If she focused on not eating raw foods, she'd settle for prepared ones. One morning she cracked herself up after discovering that she had actually microwaved a frozen pizza during the night before consuming it. The problem wasn't gone, not by a long shot, but it was getting better. Little by little, day by day, she felt herself gaining control. She was fighting back. And all the while she knew that she was preparing herself for the true test of her spirit. The biggest challenge was just around the corner.

Craig had said that he would be back for Thanksgiving, but he couldn't have realized at the time just how pivotal a day this would be. Emma decided to host the holiday, inviting her parents, her aunts and uncles, her cousins, and of course Craig. She had never done this in the past, never would have even dreamed of it. But she knew that this year she had to. It was the only way. The ultimate battle. If she could stock up her refrigerator with all of the essentials, every tasty morsel that would make for a terrific feast, and then restrain herself from sabotage, she was as good as cured. And maybe Craig would come back to stay. This she cared about deeply, not so much for herself, but for the sake of their one-year-old son, who she felt deserved the benefit of a father in his life.

In the days and nights building up to the last Thursday in November, she pushed herself harder than she ever had before. Whenever fear reared it's ugly, taunting head she fought against it, her level of self affirmation now at it's strongest. Like a boxer preparing for the big fight she readied herself. And before she knew it the day had arrived.

She woke up late on Thanksgiving day, feeling unusually tired and worn out. Not surprising considering how long it took her to finally fall asleep the night before, after putting Peter to bed and then spending the next few hours psyching herself up. With every ounce of mental strength she could muster, she willed herself not to devour the holiday spread. Not to greedily consume the goods which were intended for her family. Not to ruin Thanksgiving. She fell asleep while reciting her mantra, modified now to point her away from the tantalizing feast in her fridge.

Time to sleep, but not to eat,

The sleepy head is mine to beat

The cornucopia she'll leave alone

So that I can save my home…

The walk from her upstairs bedroom down to the kitchen that day was an agonizing one. She could hear her heart pounding in her chest the whole long way. Her stomach felt like it was filled with a thousand restless moths, swarming around a great bonfire that burned in her gut. She had already searched her bed for signs of trouble and found the sheets to be surprisingly clean. A good omen, a great feeling- but she wasn't in the clear just yet.

She approached the refrigerator uneasily. One look inside would tell the whole story. She suddenly felt like a contestant on the TV game show The Price is Right. Would she pick door number one or door number two? The only difference was that the choice wasn't Emma's to make. The choice had been left up to the sleepy head.

She tugged at the door and it opened. Cool air spilled forth, making her nipples hard. And Emma couldn't believe her eyes.

Inside she saw the mashed potatoes and stuffing. The cranberry sauce and gravy. Pickles and pies and a variety of appetizers. But most importantly, she saw the piece de resistance. The turkey, still packaged, still frozen, still untouched. Joy flooded her system, and a smile crept across her face. She had succeeded in restraining herself, her willpower had triumphed. Without medication, without booby traps, without locks, she had managed to keep herself from eating the holiday goods. She had saved Thanksgiving.

And that's when she noticed the smell.

It originated from behind her. The odor of cooked meat, burnt flesh, fat and gristle. The sickly sweet aroma of an animal that has been cooking for hours unchecked. The smell could only be coming from one place.

A quick glance at the oven confirmed her fears. The dial was turned up to 450 degrees. She couldn't see inside, but a small draft of gray smoke was slowly creeping it's way out around the edges. That's when she knew. She hadn't eaten the dinner. She hadn't eaten the desserts. But she had eaten something.

She tried to remain calm. After all, the biggest hurdle she had conquered. The turkey was safe.

Just then the doorbell rang. Family members were already arriving. From the sound of it, there were a few people already gathered on the porch, greeting each other and ready to start the festivities. They rang again.

Buzz, buzz…

She was still in her nightgown, and hated to leave them hanging. But she had to know. She had to see for herself what she had done. And before they came in, she had to do a quick cleanup. Damage control.

Opening the oven door, she jerked her head back to avoid being hit in the face by the acrid cloud of smoke. Peering inside she caught a glimpse of her overcooked late night snack. She could just barely make out the remains of the meal, now a crispy blackened hunk- but there, deep inside the cooking pan, the skeletal remains gave it away.

By now her family was getting impatient standing outside in the cold. The doorbell rang more angrily.

Buzz, buzz…

Emma closed the oven door and shut off the heat. She turned around and headed for the front door, but before she got there she fainted.

Her plan had worked extremely well. Too well. She had not eaten the turkey. She had controlled her deepest desire and all told she had saved Thanksgiving.

But her son wouldn't be there to enjoy it.

JEREMY CARR

Jeremy Carr is an independent filmmaker based in Brooklyn, New York. He has written and directed numerous short films including Homemaker 3000, The Crutch, and Red Hook. He is currently developing Lucid, his first feature length film-a dark, psychological drama. As Senior Producer of Distant Corners Entertainment, Jeremy wrote and produced the online animated series Wish You Were Here, recreating such bizarre moments from history as the Jonestown Massacre and the Salem Witch Trials. In 2002 he was the recipient of the NYC Flicker Festival Film Grant for his upcoming short film Maxwell Stein's Peculiar Predicament, and he was the co-writer of the play St. Rosita & The Francophone which premiered at the 1998 New York International Fringe Festival. Jeremy has written for such websites as ApocalypseFiction.com and The Flying Saucer Gazette, and some of his film work can be seen on IndependentFilm.com. He is a graduate of Boston University and an ethical vegan.

Bitter Bird

By John Grover

The delicious aroma of the turkey was already filling the house. Norma pulled the oven rack out, the sizzling of the juices reverberating in her ears, and prepared to baste the massive sucker. It was about twenty-two pounds, maybe more. She always got a big bird for Thanksgiving, even though it was just the four of them. Norma enjoyed the leftovers she gleaned from the meal.

Henry sat in the living room, his backside planted into the easy chair totally immersed in the traditional holiday football game. God forbid he should get up and offer to help his wife with the dinner. The meal was an undertaking, trying to coordinate the turkey and stuffing while making homemade gravy, mashed potato, candied yams, vegetables and pumpkin pie was no easy task.

A smile crossed briefly on Norma's face as she thought of her two children returning home from college on winter break. Thanksgiving just wouldn't be the same without them. Steve and Karen were great kids, very smart and so busy these days. So busy they barely had time to call Norma. She wished she'd hear from them more often.

Humming to herself, Norma shut the oven and put the baster on the counter, juices still coating it. She started to peel the potatoes and remembered she still needed to make the crusts to the pies.

Leaving the potatoes momentarily she searched her cabinets for the flour. Unable to reach the top shelves she dragged a kitchen chair over and climbed up. She didn't dare bother Henry about such trivial things as reaching the top shelves. He would be irate if he missed a great pass for something so silly.

Reaching and stretching, she felt the bag of flour just coming into her grasp when the whispering caught her attention.

"Huh?" it caught her off guard. She turned her head and listened. It was faint but she definitely heard it. A whispering.

Where was it coming from? She listened intently to it, a sound of voices; two as best as she could tell, whispering to one another. She couldn't quite understand what the whispers were saying, they sounded foreign or at least a language she never heard before.

She gripped the flour tightly now as she tried to follow the source of the whispering, her gaze sweeping along the cupboards and cabinets, the pantry, the fridge until settling on the oven-

The flour plummeted from her hands, opening all over the floor, a quick gasp escaping her.

The oven. The whispers were coming from the oven.

Climbing down from the chair, she walked slowly to the oven, the whispering dwindling until finally she placed her hand on the door.

She pulled the door open and stared at the roasting turkey, a slight golden color beginning to spread over it. She heard nothing, except that of the bubbling juices.

She laughed out loud, a nervous laugh, and shut the door. "No time for such foolishness," she remarked. "Goodness, just look at this mess." She began to clean up the flour.

The football game droned on endlessly, play after play, score after score, Henry's face was aglow, his eyes twinkling with awe as his favorite team seemed to be kicking ass.

"Norma!" he bellowed. "This is a hell of a game! Would you bring me some eggnog, I don't want to miss one second of this action."

He waited for a response from the kitchen but there was none.

"Now please dear!" he called.

"Yes Henry, I'm coming," she at last answered.

Norma left the potatoes on the table unfinished, along with the yams that she prepared to do next.

Pouring the eggnog into a glass she prepared to enter the living room until-

It came again.

The whispering caught her ears, causing her to take pause. Turning, she stared at the oven again. The whispering, growing louder now, was again emanating from the oven.

Norma crept over to the oven, eggnog in her left hand, reaching for the door with her right. The whispering was quick and chattery, a puckish feel to it. It got louder as her fingers swept over the oven handle, gripping it tightly.

Bending at the knees she pulled the oven and stared at the turkey, the skin a nice shade of brown, the stuffing crisp around the edges, the juices keeping the breast moist, it was nearly done. Where were the kids?

"This is nuts," she said to herself, starting to ease the door up.

"They don't appreciate you, ya know," the whispering transformed into language, easily understood and utterly frightening.

"What!" The glass plummeted from her hand and shattered on the floor, the creamy eggnog streaming into puddles.

"They mock you," the whispering voices continued. "They take complete advantage of you. They care for nothing but themselves. You are a slave to them."

Norma gasped, covered her mouth with her hand and slammed the oven shut. The voices seemed to come from the turkey. It spoke! The turkey had spoken to her. "Nonsense," Norma said. "This is just nonsense."

She stared at the oven as she got to her feet, keeping her eyes locked on it. She backed herself away, stepping into the spilled eggnog. "Goodness," she mumbled.

"Norma!" Henry yelled. "Where are you? Where is my eggnog?"

***

She stood in the kitchen, apprehensive, hesitant, unsure of how to proceed with her lovely Thanksgiving dinner. Something was trying to spoil it. She could not allow this. It had been so long since the family was together. This was supposed to be a perfect day.

"They care nothing for you," the whispering came again, two voices speaking to her from the oven. "They are using you Norma."

"Stop it, please stop. I must finish the dinner."

"What's the point? They will only eat it and then abandon you again. They won't even thank you, they won't even be grateful for the hard work you do."

"It's not as bad as all that. You're exaggerating."

"We speak the truth. This is their nature, their souls speak it to us."

"I can't listen to this, I must finish the dinner."

"Yes, finish the dinner and finish them. All of them. They laugh and laugh at you. We hear them now..." In the background, Henry cheered to his football games but to Norma's ears it did sound like laughter, hyena-like, mocking laughter.

"Norma, you must have justice. You must make them appreciate you."

Norma was silent. She listened. Listened to the whispers continue on and on...

The kitchen door swung open, deadening the whispers and causing Norma to nearly jump out of her skin. Her face washed with joy and excitement as she watched her son and daughter step into the home.

"Karen, Steve, it's so wonderful to have you home." She went to them and threw her arms around them both in a huge embrace. The children rolled their eyes at one another.

"Mom please," Karen said. "You're suffocating me."

"Where have I heard that before," Steve chuckled, a smirk on his face.

Norma released her bear hug and the kids stepped out of her reach, bags in their hands. Norma spied the dirty laundry they undoubtedly wanted her to do. "So kids, tell me all about school and how your year is going. I want to hear everything. Don't leave out a thing." A smile beamed on her face.

"Mom," Steve began. "We're really tired. It has been a long trip. We'd really like to take a quick nap before dinner."

"Yeah Mom," Karen added. "We promise to tell you all about it at dessert. We're beat."

"Oh, okay." Norma watched them exit the kitchen and as they said hello to their father, she heard the laundry room door open in the hall.

"Turkey smells great Mom," Karen called before entering her room and closing the door.

"Norma!" Henry bellowed yet again.

***

She couldn't remember the last time she dared to open the oven and baste the turkey.

"We told you, didn't we Norma. They couldn't give a rat's ass about you. You must make them see how important you are. What would they do without you? Taking care of them all these years, wiping their snotty noses and their soiled asses, waiting on them hand and foot and for what? Sorry Mom, we're toooooo tired...show them Norma. Show them how important you are. You know what you must do."

Norma sat at the kitchen table, her head swimming, her blood boiling. She gazed at the potatoes and yams in front of her. Setting them on the stove, she switched on the burners and waited for them to boil.

She put the finishing touches on her pies, layering them with spoonful after spoonful of whipped cream then sliding them into the fridge.

"Do it Norma...do it."

Beads of sweat rolled down Norma's face. She glanced around the kitchen, looking at the mess on the table, the dirty dishes in the sink, the overcrowded counters, the enormous meal cooking on the stove and noticed that she sat alone in the room. All alone. She was the only one that worked here, the only one that contributed to the household.

In her mind's eye she saw the faces of Henry and her children Steve and Karen, they were laughing, their faces distorted and twisted. There was maliciousness in their laughter, cruelty, an insulting taunting that Norma knew was directed at her.

"What did I do to deserve this?" She felt her heart beat faster, her pulse racing. Feeling a bit dizzy, she sat herself down, the calls and frenzy of the football game echoed in the background, other than that, the silence that surrounded her was deafening, stifling, swallowing her whole. "They are laughing at me." The laughter still rang in her head. "I do everything for them." A tear came to her eye.

"Do it Norma, do it."

Her fingers tingled; the hair on the back of her neck stood up and her legs trembled. She heard the turkey calling to her from the oven. She thought she could see it shimmying in the oven door window.

Rising from the table she approached the oven, yanked the door open and stared at the turkey. Among the sizzling and cooking she heard them, heard the whispers-speaking to her, encouraging her, egging her on.

"You know what you must do. You know. Do it, Norma, do it."

Leaving the door open, she searched within the kitchen drawers, shuffling through egg beaters, whisks, spatulas, spoons, tongs, skewers, knives, until it came into her hands; the flavor infuser.

Opening the cabinet under the sink she pulled out the ammonia and some other cleaning fluids. With the turkey baster she took some of the turkey's juices and poured them into a bowl. Into the bowl she added the cleaning solutions and stirred briskly.

With the infuser she sucked up the concoction and without hesitation injected it into the breast of the turkey. The whispers came to her again. "Yes...yes...teach them all Norma."

Henry's snoring filled the living room as Norma walked in. Shaking him gently, she watched his eyes pop open. "Jesus, you scared the hell out me," he grumbled, as he came to. "Don't you know not to wake someone like that? What is wrong with you anyway, Norma?"

"Nothing dear, I just wanted to let you know dinner is served."

After waking Karen and Steve as well, she walked back to the kitchen and sat at the table, a large grin on her face.

The table was filled with the fruits of her labor, steaming bowls of vegetables, mashed potatoes, candied yams, stuffing, squash and homemade gravy. Her crowning glory sat in the center of the table-a perfectly golden brown turkey.

Their eyes widened as they approached the table, they were salivating at the sights and smells before them.

As Henry took the carving knife to the bird, Karen and Steve began scooping side dishes onto their plates with reckless abandon.

"Wait a minute everyone," Norma interrupted the feeding. "We need to say grace."

She stared at Henry who rolled his eyes, as did the kids. "Okay fine. Um, we thank thee for this potato, vegetable and delicious meat, so if you don't mind, good God let's eat!"

Laughter rang out, Henry belly laughing to exaggerated effect, much like the snoring that kept poor Norma awake each and every night. The kids joined him

Norma was not amused.

Within moments, the family dove into the meal. As if they hadn't eaten in weeks, they devoured the meal in a mere fraction of the time it took Norma to fix it. She watched as they scoured and scavenged over the food, leaving the table to look like a war zone.

"Vultures," Norma whispered to herself. "Ungrateful vultures." She nibbled on a vegetable and potato. Her plate was vacant of turkey meat.

"Becoming a vegetarian Mom?" Steve snickered, stuffing turkey and stuffing into his mouth.

"Not quite dear," she smiled, dining delicately on squash and yams.

"Y'know, this is a great meal Norma but there's something different about the turkey. It taste's different somehow."

"Does it?" She acted surprised. "I prepared it the same way I have every other year."

"Daddy's right," Karen said. "There is something different about it."

"Oh you're right," Norma smiled widely. "I did just add one new thing to it. Retribution."

As the words filtered through them they froze, forks dropping out of their hands. Norma watched as her family was overwhelmed by coughing fits, that shifted into gagging, gagging so severe she could see their faces turning red.

Norma ate her dinner calmly as they vomited on the table. Henry fell out of his seat and began to crawl across the floor, blue fluid trickling out of the corners of his mouth.

Karen held her throat as she reached for the water in front of her but instead knocked it across the table in her panic. Norma watched the water soak the table like a flood but was oblivious to it.

Steve gasped and choked, falling face first into his plate and lying still.

Henry made it to the kitchen door before vomiting one last time and then going still as well.

Slumping back in her seat, head bobbing, Karen let out one solitary cry: "Momma, why?" It was all that escaped her before she died.

Norma quietly finished her dinner.

The turkey carcass, nothing but skin and bones now, shuddered a bit, its platter vibrating until two shadowy, wispy forms slipped out of it and into the air. Norma looked up to see two tiny black creatures hovering above her. They were black as pitch, their bald heads sporting blunt horns, their eyes blood red, their clawed hands and feet webbed.

Floating on bat wings they cackled to each other, giggling and laughing maniacally, their pointed tails curling like pigs' tails. "Another has been damned," one cackled to the other.

"Stupid, weak-willed humans," the other giggled. "They make it too easy."

"The Father will be very pleased," they said lastly as they vanished into the air as if never there.

As if coming out of a dream state, Norma blinked and screamed, staring at the bodies of her family. "What have I done!"

Stumbling out of her chair she fell to the floor and cried. She looked up again and saw the turkey remains sitting on the table. There were no more whispers.

Norma always knew that there were bad things in the world, dark, frightening things. She knew of evil but no one ever warned her that turkeys could be possessed.

JOHN GROVER

is a thirty-two year old writer residing Massachusetts of the United States. He's been writing since he was 18 and has taken a creative writing course at Fisher College in Massachusetts.

His credits include over 60 tales both in print and online in such markets as "Rogue Worlds, Dark Dungeon, Horrorfind.com, Blood Moon Rising, Thirteen Stories, Eternal Night Ezine, Shadowkeep, Abstracts magazine, Alternate Realities, Art of Horror and many more.

He also has been recently accepted into the upcoming Anthologies Of Flesh and Hunger, Vicious Shivers, The Fear Within and Scriptures of the Damned.

He is the co-author of Space Stations and Graveyards published by Double Dragon Publishing and Poisoned Graves soon to be released by DDP.

His story "Black Out" was recently made into a 4-minute short film by a group of Canadian Film students. "Black Out" can be found on the website "Short Scary Tales."

He is an affiliate member of the Horror Writers Association. Visit his website at www.shadowtales.com.

EASTER HORROR TALE

Christian countries celebrate the springtime holiday of Easter to commemorate the resurrection of Jesus Christ. The period of Lent leads up to Holy Week, which starts with Palm Sunday-the day Jesus entered Jerusalem and crowds reverentially laid palms at his feet. The Last Supper is remembered on Maundy (Holy) Thursday, followed four days later by Easter itself. For Christians this is the most holy of days.

However, the many traditional customs surrounding Easter have "pagan" origins. The very name alone is derived from the names of two pre Judeo-Christian goddesses. According to the English scholar St. Bede, who lived in the 6th century, the Teutonic Eastre (as known as Ostern) and Scandinavian Ostra were fertility goddesses who were celebrated at the onset of spring.

Both rabbits and eggs-long-standing signs of fertility-are also associated with Easter. The rabbits are typically used as marketing ploys or are giving to children as pets. These pets are soon neglected and either given away or killed. As for the eggs, every Christian culture has a different custom. In Greece eggs are dyed crimson to signify the blood of Christ, whereas Slavic peoples use gold and silver to decorate eggs. In omnivorous cultures the contents of the eggs are drained through a small hole and used for cooking. The remaining hollow shells make excellent ornaments are are hung from trees during Easter week. Easter eggs are also used in various children's games, including Easter egg hunts and the Easter egg rolls.

In Europe many refer to the holiday as Pasch, which is derived from Pesach (the Jewish holiday Passover). Most early Christians had been raised as Jews and merely considered Easter a new addition to Passover. Those Christians still residing in, or close to, the Middle East frequently hold Easter according to the Passover festival. The Western churches don't adhere to historical elements, instead opting to observe Easter on the Sunday after the full moon on/after the spring equinox, which occurs March 21. Therefore Easter can occur anywhere between March 22 and April 25.

-John Edward Lawson

Forsaken

By Jason Brannon

When I finally crawled beneath the covers, Jessica was already dozing peacefully. It was the general order of things around our house. Because of my insomnia, I needed the rhythm of her breathing to help me get to sleep, and Jessica was usually more than willing to turn in first. I'm sure I could have gone to sleep much sooner each evening if it weren't for the eyes of the enormous ceramic Christ staring down at me from his illuminated cross, judging me for each and every sin I had ever committed. But the hideous thing had belonged to Jessica's grandmother who had passed away only a few months earlier. Which meant I was stuck sleeping under Christ's watchful eyes.

On that Good Friday, however, I didn't even pay the hideous fluorescent god much attention. I was too busy thinking about Easter. The day of resurrection was coming up in two days, but the Christian significance was lost on me. All I could think about was getting dressed up, going to church, and having to endure a painful afternoon of being dissected like a med school cadaver by Jessica's parents. I was already dreading it. Fortunately, the dread soon turned into drowsiness.

As I slept, I imagined that I heard the noisy clanging of a massive sledge being used to drive railroad spikes into unyielding steel. Once, I even thought I heard the wielder of the large hammer strike his hand and scream out in pain, but I didn't stir from the noise. Instead, I simply tried to dream of something else, like a silent bedroom. Almost instantly, the clanging stopped and I dropped off further into that nocturnal abyss.

Sometime later during the night, I remember kicking the covers off of my legs, sweating desperately in the heat. The ceiling fan spun erratically overhead like the rotor of an out-of-control ship, but it didn't seem to help much. Maybe the night was just too humid for comfort, or maybe it was the Lord's penetrating stare making me nervous in the dark. With the gaudy ceramic crucifix hanging over my head like a cheap neon sign outside a Las Vegas hotel, I listened for the metronomic pulse of Jessica's breathing to lull me back to sleep. Yet where there should have been inhalations and exhalations, there was only the whir of the overhead fan and the perpetual hum of electricity running through the Messiah like an unspoken litany.

"Jessica," I mumbled. But she didn't answer. Her side of the bed was empty.

I listened for the flush of a toilet or the sound of water draining from a tap. I think I may have even dozed off again while listening. But Jessica didn't return.

Needless to say, I was slightly bothered by Jessica's disappearance, but only because I was unable to go to sleep without her. More than likely, she had just gotten up to get a drink of water. It was at that very time, while dreaming of a cool drink on such a hot night, that I felt something moist splatter on my forehead. Still not entirely awake, I wiped the wetness from my brow with the back of my hand, realizing by the sticky touch of the stuff that it wasn't water. Another drop hit me in the face, splattering on my cheeks. Immediately, I opened my eyes and sat up in bed.

The ceramic cross was empty. A sign still hung above the dogwood crucifix.

"Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?" it read.

Thinking detachedly to myself in the way that people do when they're still dreaming of sleep, I staggered to my feet and hit the light switch. Frozen to the spot by shock and fear, I couldn't help but notice that the plaster Christ hadn't taken the crucifixion spikes with him as I had previously thought. Instead, he had used them to tack my wife to the ceiling like a frail, torn butterfly in an insect collection. Hers was the flood that pattered on my forehead like the blood of martyred saints. And what was more, her arms were outstretched in a crucifixion pose. I suddenly realized that the hammering and screaming hadn't been a dream after all.

"Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?" the bloody message above her head read cryptically.

"My God, my God," I translated, "why hast thou forsaken me?" I felt like asking the same question of the Creator.

Bloody footprints ran from the edge of the bed all the way to the open front door, marking the path that the assassin had taken. I thought about giving chase, and then decided against it. I still had Jessica's body to tend to.

As fate would have it, I didn't have to do anything once I returned to the bedroom. Jessica's weight had been too much for the small nails, and her flesh had torn under the strain like cheap tissue paper. There she was, lying on the bed, her blank eyes staring up at unseen heaven, her silent mouth voicing the very words that the ceramic Christ had written in his rage: "Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?"

Knowing I would have to make this believable for the police, I began breaking windows, smashing vases, destroying whatever I could find in an attempt to make it look like robbery. After I had obliterated the china in the kitchen and strewn the entire contents of the refrigerator across the shiny linoleum, I took one of the knives from our cutlery drawer and began slashing myself. Above all else, I had to make it look like someone else besides the Christ had been in the house. After all, who in their right mind would have believed that a three-foot tall ceramic Messiah in a fit of rage would have been the culprit?

The police, as could be expected, were immediately suspicious. However, they didn't have any real reason to suspect me in the murder of my wife. The self-inflicted cuts and gashes helped convince them that someone else was responsible. Still, I knew they would be watching me.

Once I finished making my statement and answering the detective's questions, I knew that I had to find the crucified Nazarene who had murdered my wife in cold blood. After all, if every man on the face of the earth was going to be judged for his sins, I couldn't understand why this plaster messiah should be any different. The only problem with this vigilante scheme of mine was the fact that I had absolutely no idea where to begin looking.

I scoured the streets, looking for anything strange, listening for screaming, hoping to hear tragedy manifest itself as a cry for help. But the city was quiet. I went home feeling dejected and miserable. It didn't help that Jessica wasn't there waiting on me. Despite the name, it certainly hadn't been a Good Friday for me.

I didn't even try to sleep any more. I knew somehow that the significance of the upcoming holiday had something to do with what had happened and I immediately began reading everything I could find about Easter and the crucifixion. As it turned out, I knew just about all there was to know. Jesus was crucified on Good Friday and rose three days later. Easter is the holiday that recognizes Christ's resurrection from the dead.

I thought about this and wondered why a ceramic replica of the savior would tear himself down from his cross and murder my wife. Maybe this Nazarene didn't want to die for the sins of the world. Maybe this one had a more selfish motive.

Fortunately, I happened upon a story outlining the murder of a young priest named Father Daniel in the morning paper. Although the report didn't say as much, there was mention of a cryptic message being left at the scene of the crime. I couldn't help but think that there was a connection and realized that this might be the starting point I had been looking for.

Although I knew it was a risk, I snuck under the police tape at St. Peter's. To my horror, "Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani," had been smeared in blood on the old oak lectern at the head of the church. Yet, instead of reassuring me that I was on the right track, the message was a foreboding omen that revealed the lengths this plaster Christ would go to in order to be heard.

I called a friend of mine, Philip, who is a reporter at the local newspaper to inquire about Father Daniel's murder. I hated to lie to my journalist buddy, but I did anyway, telling him that the priest and I had become good friends since moving to the city. Begrudgingly and only because he knew me, Phil gave me a few sketchy details about the estimated time of death, the known suspects, and police leads. But he knew that I was after more than that, and after badgering him over the phone for five minutes, he eventually told me the way that Father Daniel had been killed. Personally, after everything I had seen and experienced, I would have guessed crucifixion as the method of death, but Philip said differently. Apparently each and every bone in the young priest's body had been shattered like glass. He had been beaten to death with a hammer.

(This is my body which is broken for you. Do this is remembrance of me.)

As it stood now, nothing save for a word from God Himself would stop the renegade savior.

When the next priest was found in the early hours of the evening by a vagrant who had stumbled into the open church in search of some air conditioning, there was more than the standard, "Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?" This time, it took a police scanner and a little sneaking around to hear about the message. In addition to the ceramic savior's latest entreaties to God, there was also a scripture reference from the book of Luke. I immediately recognized it as a story I had heard when my grandmother used to take me to Sunday School. It was the parable of the lost sheep.

"What man of you," Jesus spoke from the scriptures, "having a hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it? And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing. And when he cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbours, saying unto them, Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost."

It was at that moment that I felt I truly understood the statue's motivations. Not only was it angry because it believed that God had forsaken it there on that ceramic cross but also because it felt like the Master should have been out looking for it. That led to the motivations for the killings. If God wasn't going to search for his wayward son, then it was going to spill enough of His servants' blood to draw some attention. After all, that was how they did things in the Old Testament, slashing the throat of a lamb to garner the notice of the Almighty.

As it turned out in the case of Father Steven, the ceramic Christ had attempted his first miracle. The basins in the church where the holy water was kept had been filled with wine in some symbolic bid to turn the former into the latter. In an even worse turn, the empty glass bottle had then been smashed and the broken end used to slash the aging priest's throat. Yet, the miracles had stopped at turning water into wine. Unlike Lazarus, there would be no resurrection for Father Steven.

In my mind I kept thinking that the only way this mess would end would be with a message from God. And then it hit me. Although it seemed like a sketchy plan at best, I suddenly thought I knew of a way to lure the confused messiah out into the open and stop the killings for good.

To anyone who read it, the flier would seem vague and mysterious at best. But the message wasn't just meant for anyone. For the sake of the remaining priests in the city, I only hoped the plaster Christ would see it and recognize what it meant. Undoubtedly, it was a lot of trouble to go around to every church, temple, and synagogue in the city, posting fliers in conspicuous places. Yet, I was betting that the effort would pay off. Today, after all, was Easter. The replica would be sure to be out and about, if for no other reason than to show he was very much alive and well.

"And lo," the flier read, "I am with you always, even unto the end of the age." It was signed Jehovah. My address was listed at the bottom.

When I finally made it home, it was a few hours before Easter sunrise. The sky was still dark with only a hint of stars, and the moon was pale and milky like a death omen. I knew, given the messiah's penchant for church killings, that it would see the flier I had posted and be here before daylight. That was why I had to hurry up and get ready. It seemed foolhardy, I know, but I made certain that all doors and windows were unlocked and left ajar an inch or so to provide for easy access. After all, the prodigal son was about to return home, despite his crimes, and I had to make certain that his welcome was a warm one.

As I waited, the only weapon that felt comfortable in my hands was the carpenter's hammer that I sometimes used for odd jobs around the house. And as I thought about the origins of the killer that was even now approaching my house from the west, I couldn't help but think that my choice of defense was somewhat ironic. Not only had Jesus grown up with a father who was particularly handy with a hammer, but the Roman soldiers had used a hammer to nail him to the cross. Of the two, I pictured myself more as a Centurion, bent on putting this murderer back where he belonged. And for a little while that seemed to help my state of mind. But only until I heard the sound of something shattering in the silent night.

Gripping the hammer tightly in my hand, I ran toward the source of the noise. It sounded like it had come from the living room. Once there, I saw that the lamp had been overturned, shattering hard against the ceramic tile.

"Eloi," the word in the window read like a prophecy.

Hurriedly, I began to run through every room, locking all conceivable exits in an attempt to keep the murderer trapped inside the walls of my house. Above all else, I couldn't afford to let him escape, especially after the way he had destroyed my life and taken Jessica's in a fit of jealous rage. Although I knew I might run into the plaster messiah and be forced into confrontation, I took the risk of running back through the house to double check all the exits. That was when I realized that I had forgotten the garage door. This slip-up could have actually proved disastrous, but in reality it gave me the chance to exact a proper sort of revenge for Jessica's death.

I had bought the bag of sixteen-penny nails that lay beside the garage steps about a week earlier with the intention of doing a few repairs around the house, and as far as I could tell, nothing had changed since then. There were simply a few things that needed to be nailed to the wall, foremost among them being the Christ who had come down from his cross.

Duly armed, I shut the door behind me and listened for any sound that might betray Jessica's killer. That was when I heard the dial tone of a phone buzzing like a grounded insect in the living room. Hastily, I ran toward the receiver, putting it to my ear and then slamming it down hard as I heard the sirens approaching in the distance. Suddenly, I knew what had happened. Nails had been driven into Jessica's hands and feet, and here I was holding a hammer.

But I had little time to contemplate this. No sooner had I begun to run frantically in search of the crucified than I felt the deep anguish of something sharp piercing my side. Although the pain made my vision a little blurry, I could see well enough to notice the screwdriver jutting out of my side like a Centurion's spear. And what was more, it had been driven in up to the hilt.

When I actually laid eyes on the Christ, it was hard to believe that he was capable of such strength. Just looking at him was like looking at a ghost, pale and haggard from blood loss and fatigue. In retrospect, however, I suppose I didn't look much better than he did. The blood was rushing from my side in crimson spurts, and I felt dizzy. Yet that didn't stop me from remembering the way Jessica had died and attacking with all the rage I could muster.

The first blow from the hammer cracked the skull of the plaster messiah in several places, eliciting what I thought was a shrill cry from the crucified. Then, with the murderer incapacitated, I set out to finish what should have been finished on Friday. Using the sixteen-penny nails, I crucified the silent Christ once more. That was when I realized that the ceramic Jesus hadn't screamed. Those were sirens that I had heard. Yet, I realized it too late, as I heard the front door being broken down.

The policemen aimed their guns and ordered me to drop the hammer which I did willingly. The Christ looked down at me, his plaster skull cracked in several distinct places; and for a brief moment, he smiled at me sardonically before the pain in his hands and feet became too much to bear. Without wasting any time, the arresting officer quickly snapped the cuffs on my wrists, and read me my rights as dictated by Miranda. And the plaster Christ wriggled against the nails, cursing his fate and me for putting him back where he belonged.

The police were insistent on getting me out of the house and into custody as soon as possible. But I resisted until I was convinced that the ceramic messiah wouldn't grow tired of his destiny again and come down. Yet, when a chunk of his fractured skull fell to the ground and turned to dust, I relented and let them lead me away. It was only as I was being loaded into the ambulance that I crumbled beneath the enormous pressure of the situation, and having nowhere else to turn, said the only thing that came to mind.

"Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?"

Nobody else knew what I was talking about. But I'm sure if the messiah had been there, he could have sympathized.

JASON BRANNON

grew up reading Richard Laymon novels, Ray Bradbury short stories, and anything by Lovecraft he could get his hands on. He is the author of over 100 published short stories, four short story collections, two novels, and two chapbooks. His writing has appeared in such diverse publications as Dark Realms, The Edge, Wicked Hollow, Black Petals and Dark Karma. He is also scheduled to have fiction appear in Hour of Pain, Fangoria Frightful Fiction, Bible Black, AlienSkin, Circus, Vicious Shivers, and The Best of Horrorfind II. When not writing or attending to his duties as editor of The Haunted or as a book reviewer for SpecFicWorld, Jason can sometimes be found lurking in one of the dark corners of his webpage at www.angelfire.com/rant/puzzles/

MAY DAY HORROR TALE

May Day traditionally embodies the return to life and the planting of crops. Originally known as Beltane by the Anglo-Saxons, or Florialia by the Romans, this holiday is the most festive in some cultures. "Spring Fever" has long been celebrated by couples and communities alike in the hopes of fertility in the fields as well as the home.

Customary activities include dances, songs, feasting, and the construction of tall maypoles as the center of it all. Some activities are exquisitely simple, such as "going a-Maying", wherein one traverses the countryside gathering flowers. It is natural, then, that the Puritans looked upon the holiday with extreme displeasure. Their efforts to ban the celebration of nature in England proved ultimately futile.

All throughout western Eurasia customs vary. German boys will plant a May pine tree under their sweetheart's window; in Czechoslovakia it's a maypole. Grecian children will try to locate the first swallow of spring, and then when the bird is found they'll go door to door singing springtime songs. The children are then rewarded with fruits and sweets. In Ireland and Wales flowers are sprinkled outside the door to ward off malevolent spirits. In the United States the Puritan heritage has largely delegated May Day to a second or third tier holiday.

Hawaiians celebrate a differing version of this holiday, called Lei Day. On Lei Day people gift each other with a lei which is traditionally accompanied by a kiss. The United States government made this an official holiday in 1928 to respect the customs of the islanders.

Internationally, May Day is celebrated more as Labor Day in commemoration of the Haymarket Riots of May, 1886. This Chicago tragedy sparked the international labor rights movement. See Labor Day.

-John Edward Lawson

Firestar of the May Queen

By Susanne S. Brydenbaugh

They were speaking to her again. Voices with frequencies beyond her capacity, intended for the old woman's ears.

Lethe peered through the mesh screen door as Aida Berwyn sat in the Birchwood rocking chair, gently rocking back and forth on the whining and creaking front porch. She tried not to stare, tried not to see herself in the old woman's mercury-white hair and stubborn jaw line pushed up and defying gravity. One precision eye the color of peat moss, the other milky-blind, locked in the direction of Capel Mountain's highest peak. Arthritic-twisted hands rested on the arms of the chair, seeming demure and frail; but they were hands that commanded fire through trick or truth: only she knew which in her ancient hidden thoughts.

Too thin, Lethe thought, as if she'd lived a hundred years instead of the sixty and two. And she was all Lethe had left in this world that didn't exist beyond the furthermost mountain she could see. Best that her thoughts didn't travel too far, anyway; what would her Grandmere do when she left for school in September? Shook her head and wondered just who she was kidding, don't you mean what will you do?

Elder-sweet air cavorted and rippled the tree limbs and grassy waves, but soon, Lethe knew, the eastern Tennessee hollow would be adrift in ash and smoky air. The time was drawing near, renewal was in the sprouting buds, peeking green and white from the dogwoods; smatterings of wild daffodils poking yellow noses to the sky.

***

Lethe moved across the porch until she stood at her Grandmere's side and she laid her hand on the old woman's shoulder, eyes searching the mountain, listening for the whisper that her Grandmere heard…

"Only a couple of days remain; the ewe has grown fat with readiness," Lethe said, breaking the uncomfortable trance that she felt isolated from.

Aida kept her focus on the cloud-shrouded mountaintop. "Two hundred, twenty years the Berwyns have lived on this land so like dear mother Wales. But this year is going to be different. You need to tell the folk that. We wait until the fifth this year. Signs have been sent and we must heed them."

Silent gasp and Lethe stooped to the old woman's side to look at her face, trying to understand just what she was saying. "But we've always celebrated on the first. It is custom."

Aida nodded, finally took her eyes from that epic mountain to gaze steadily at Lethe. Old world severity collided with fresh world wonder and Lethe knew that she shouldn't question, that maybe she should just say okay and leave it at that.

"This year we celebrate the old Beltane," Aida said, those piercing eyes seeing far ahead and back beyond time. "Go tell the others what I have told you. No fires until the fifth." A knowing nod and quick click of her tongue as Aida Berwyn looked to the trees, her seeing eye darting from spruce to oak, "Take your coat with you, the northern winds will blow soon."

Lethe stood. It was end of April and mild enough for late afternoon; and on the tip of her tongue words that wanted to argue that the wind was blowing eastward and gulf-stream-warm; but she turned and went to get her wool coat, only coat she owned, that would surely prickle her sweat-damp skin.

She followed the serpentine trail down the mountain and valley to the Hendricks and Ruberts; the Nichols and Hodsons, and further into the valley where the Cheevers and Blaylocks homesteaded. She created a nervous buzz of awe with each home she stopped in on; husbands and wives looked at each other in confusion, reaching back into their memories, searching for a time when Beltane had been delayed-but coming up empty.

When the people tried to question her: "But it has always been celebrated on the first," she shook her head and repeated the message her Grandmere had given, and none dared reproach Aida Berwyn, not 'the fire witch,' not even indirectly. And it was the sudden hush and wary look in their eyes that revealed their secret truth: though they feared her Grandmere, she made them uneasy as well. Perhaps she had all the time, even as a child, but in the way of children did not sense the edge of apprehension; or perhaps it was only since the scarlet curse of monthly bleeding that signaled her entrance to womanhood. Maybe they thought she would eventually take her Grandmere's place, although she could not conceive of that ever happening. But there it was staring her in the face, this separateness that made her an entity all to herself.

She remembered her sweet mother telling her in the years before she became ill: Lethe, put up your shield so that all the world cannot see your softness…It is a lonely life, to be born into the Berwyn family.

Lonely, how inadequate that word. Her birthright of pity and scorn: walking in the gray shadows of neither here nor there; a puppet to her family name. Not even a father to place a name to, only this matriarchal name handed down nipple to mouth. And now this crown of thorns biting into flesh not yet healed from death inflicted wounds scarcely three months ago.

With the last home visited, Lethe made her way home in the wake of dusk. The wind had shifted to a brisk northern blow and the accompanying chill was distinctly noticeable. By the time she reached the footpath to the old stone and wood house, her hands were deep in her coat pockets and buttons fastened to her neck. The fire witch had spoken.

She was tired when she walked through the front door, tired and weary of earth-shattering revelations that seemed eager to crash into her world; the same damning despair all over again, same gut-wrenching loss as watching her mother's body float out on the pyre in the middle of that bottomless lake, flames licking heavenward.

She stopped at her Grandmere's bedroom and eased her head around the door. Her Grandmere sat upright on her thick feather mattresses reading one of the old books that lined the bookshelves along the wall; one good eye following the words while the other drifted white and unseeing into dull space.

"I've told everyone," Lethe whispered and waited for her response.

Her Grandmere paused, laid the book upon her lap. "And Brother Evans, you told him of the change?"

Lethe winced, she had not. But what good would it do to tell the disagreeable man? The old preacher did not follow their ways, and went so far as warn others the ills of pagan ritual and the punishment from God for doing so. What good?

The old woman uncannily answered her thoughts. "Everyone must be welcomed whether they choose to follow or not; is it not the same with his Christian god?"

It was enough, these words, to quell the rebellion of words clinging to her lips. And although Lethe did indeed see the wisdom of her Grandmere's words, she dreaded the encounter; even as she grabbed her coat once more from the hook beside the door and urged her weary legs and spirit to make one more calling.

Brother Evans' squat little farmhouse was on the eastern side of the valley, closer to the eastern star, he would say. Closer to protection, Lethe thought, and inhaled the cold night air between her smirking lips. The firelight glowed through the gray-dingy curtains as she knocked at the door and blew her breath into her hands to warm them.

Must be twenty degrees, she thought. Her booted feet, numb with cold, stamped at the cinderblock floor of the narrow porch. April cold snap and maybe that was why the celebration was postponed until the fifth. It wouldn't be much of a stretch for her Grandmere to know that…to feel the weather deep in her aged bones; even caterpillars, rabbits, and squirrels sensed that much.

Just more instincts than other people, and holler folks didn't understand, and she almost convinced herself, ready to cast off the veil of magic and expose it for fraud, but then a quick glimpse into yesteryear and that autumn day in the forest, undeniable and sharply infused in her memory even as thirteen years had passed.

Brother Evans must have looked between the curtains, when he flung the door open his teeth were bared and insincere. "Yeah?" he greeted her, tall hunchbacked man with narrow shoulders and wet, shiny lips from constantly wetting them with a seldom still tongue. His hair hung like sparse yarn the colour of spent coal, it fuzzed and cow-licked around his ruddy face; ruddy like he'd just hurried back from somewhere important to someone less important-like her.

Still, she was kind-faced, respectful, "Brother Evans," she said, not quite able to keep the shiver from her voice, not quite sure if she wanted to be invited into the warmth of his home. "I have a message from my Grandmere," and she watched as his mouth twitched in disdain, curling in on itself as if the very mention of Aida Berwyn brought with it the demons from Hell. She half expected him to sign the cross in front of his chest, but no, he was a Baptist preacher and more likely to shout his offense with scriptural references, fire and brimstone words that carried the weight of an angry, vengeful God. But he didn't shout. His eyes squinted, curious despite the scowl. Impatience fell from his mouth, "Well? What is it, girl?" And she became cognizant of the rhythm of rain pellets on the roof overhead, mixed with icy tings, like nails spilling onto the tin.

"Grandmere wanted you to know Beltane would be celebrated on the fifth of May this year, like in the old times. You're welcome to come." And there, she'd said it, fulfilled her duty; hurry home.

Brother Evans took a prolonged wheezing breath, rattles and humph went on for a few seconds, and then he lurched backwards into the door as if unbalanced, and expelled his lungs in a squeeze of laughter-coughs that condensed to fog in the cold air. "Beltane," he laughed, "witches and devils paradise," and still he laughed while she felt a warm flush travel from her head to her toes. Lethe turned from the old man, this pillar of morality, no more enlightened than what breath he could draw and flay her open with.

"You tell Aida Berwyn that the devil will never get Malcolm Evans. Never! Oh, the very thought of dancing with sprites and evil doers…"

Lethe stepped into the wind and sleeting rain, flipping the hood of her coat over her head still hearing his litany of pulpit threats: "Tell her she's an old woman and she hasn't much time to repent from Satan's ways. Run Girl! Go tell your Grandmere God's message!"

Almost to the dirt road, her labored breath beating upon her eardrums, and his voice still carrying, "I'll pray for your soul too, girl. Can't help you were born into Lucifer's family." More laughter followed her down the road as she increased her pace. The rain fell harder, a welcome muffler of his voice, and soon she was far enough away to hear only the grunt-slosh of wet sneakers in the red mud, sucking and pulling her closer to the ground in gravity's sweet lure to the grave. She cut through the forest running along the path with only the moon cutting a hole in the black night to guide her. Running until her breath was stolen and her heart could not pound any harder, she stumbled and went to her knees, crawling through the tearing shrub and briars; cold sharp pricks and scrapings along her palms and knees, muted raindrops onto the lush of moss and pine needles.

Not easy to be a Berwyn, her dead mother whispered from the sodden leaves overhead where she stopped and leaned against a solid tree trunk, her lungs raw and too heavy to go on. She ripped the hood back and raised her face to the sting of frozen rain. No going back to the innocence of childhood, and the road of the future spelled nothing but pain and ridicule… and a slow pariah's death.

"Where, mother, do I belong?" she spoke aloud, voice catching deep within her throat and carrying along the wayward winds.

An owl broke its silence from overhead, strange stutter of clicks before the "Whoo-whoo-whoo." And she pressed her face upward again and found the bird in white animation of stretched wings against the dark shadowy trees, refractory yellow eyes staring soberly into her own. Hoot owls tell you when something's afoot, her Grandmere always said. And simply because her Grandmere was never wrong, she heard the wet-push of something moving in the foliage, and pushed her back firmly to the trunk of the owl's tree. She wondered who would be coming into the dark forest in the cold of winter's last chill. She almost called out then, almost stepped out from behind the tree, but some greater instinct held her immobile and she heard the approach and deep breaths of someone-something, as it ambled along coming closer to the oak. She shuddered and clamped her jaws shut to keep the Morse code of her teeth from giving her away. High above, the owl took flight with a fanning of wings and piercing call. She heard the figure directly behind her now and she craned her head around ever so slightly to see.

Human shaped. Heavy jacket and fur-lined hat, heavy boots with a portion of pants leg caught in one of the lips-rushed donning as the boot strings dangled untied over the muddy ground. And then a profile and she gasped, although she should have suspected as much. The scraggly gray hair, beaked nose and grim-lipped mouth of Brother Evans chilled her. But more than that, she felt danger as she'd never experienced before. A tingling sensation that spread not within her bones or any organ or cavity, but somewhere inside that was connected to another place; impossible sensation that went on and on as she stood shivering against the sturdy oak, borrowing its strength.

A sudden rustle in the thickets opposite sent his head around and eyes wide, and it was then that she saw he held a large bowie knife in his left hand. A hunter: To rid the world of the scourge of Berwyns, demon spawn that would be the last of their line. Eradicate her, and the God of Light would triumph. Oh, she could just hear the righteous wheels turning inside his head. But it made her heart heavier still, this hatred, this bloodlust. In spite of her instincts, she almost stepped out and faced her condemner, her accuser and would-be executioner, and did take a step beyond the tree, back as straight as that massive oak. Stepped out in time to see Brother Evans stumble back in panic and take flight through the vine-choked pathway not bothering to even go back the way he came. Running headlong into the great tangles of creeper which he thought were phantom hands grasping as he shouted and wailed into the night, finally breaking through and careening through the forest in manic departure.

Lethe looked to the branches overhead; searching for the owl that most probably saved her life. But the branches were bare.

From the tail of her eye there was movement in the thick patches of oleander where Brother Evans had heard his phantasm. She steadied herself, half expecting to see the moon-feathered owl flap and take wing from some hidden point.

But then the motion caught stillness in the form of a shadowy outline and she gasped so hard it felt as if someone had struck her chest. There in the intertwined confusion of vine and tree, was the figure she had glimpsed in the forest as a child, thirteen years ago...

The goatman, she had called him for lack of the word satyr on that day in the forest when she was a small child, green enough that she'd just since been able to use all her fingers on her hand to demonstrate her age; the thumb vital as a milestone. And in that forest, as the sun's rays broke through in bright blades forming colored halos in the air, she'd helped her mother gather walnuts. One nut here, another there, sighting the pretty butterfly-and wondering if she could catch it. So many enticements in the forest and so hard to concentrate on finding the best walnuts for her Grandmere. And off she'd chased the cottontail-just one touch of its silky fur, that's all she'd wanted. But the rabbit had led her down too many paths and she halted at a fallen tree suddenly, the barrier a bold warning that jarred her. Nothing looked familiar as she looked at the pattern of trees, clusters of shrub, and the overgrown trail that had thinned to barely passable. Looking back at the path she was at once panicked. She'd paid no attention to direction. And then the sun had beamed brighter around a cloud and she gasped when the large oak she'd been looking at had a face within the narrow fork of twin halves. The face was almost as grey as the tree bark, his beard short and pointed. There were short blunted horns atop his head-she'd never seen those before on anyone…But it was the legs that erupted from the man's waist that sent her thrashing through the forest, pulling air that suddenly smelled dank and foreign into her lungs so forcefully that it seemed she'd never get enough. Goat legs attached to a man's body! A monster! The birds called out to her as the trees blurred, she followed their sound in faith, for on her ears their shrill caws echoed 'Mama'.

She remembered twisting her ankle in a rut and falling slow-motion to the ground. Gasping sobs lost for a few seconds as she fought to find the breath that was knocked from her; trying to keep away the scary thoughts of the Goatman behind her and would she ever see her mama and Grandmere again? Once, she'd come across small bones in the forest before her mama had quickly pulled her away. Did that happen to little girls who wandered off from their mamas? Forever-with the goatman. Noooo!

The birds became more fervent, urging her on, as she scrambled to her feet and hobbled through the widening path. And by a miracle of the goddess, there her mother had stood in a small clearing, worry pinching her face as they ran to one another. "There's a goatman back there…" she'd repeated over and over to her mother, and the only reply given to her hysterics: "Shhhh, it's okay. It's okay, don't cry."

It's okay, her mother had said and she wondered how deeply she had offended him with that degrading moniker. In mortification, she slid to her knees once again, ignoring the sting where the briars had bitten into her skin earlier.

"Do not be afraid, little Berwyn, least of all, that you should be afraid." he whispered; far away whisper that the wind captured and carried to rest upon her ears.

Then, his cloven hoof pounded the ground. He snorted and his voice grew gruff, "Best to be home and under the Firestar's care." He looked out in the direction that Brother Evans had run. "Evil takes many a form, but it loves to hide behind the seemingly virtuous facade."

After not knowing what to expect from the mythical creature, she stood in mute awe. Only when the satyr's words penetrated her wondrous thoughts did she abandon reverie.

"But what am I to call you?"

He was slipping into the shadows even as she asked and she thought she would be denied an answer, when his voice, no longer coarse with emotion, wafted from the darkness. "Call me… Romulus."

Never had the walk home seemed so short. She hardly noticed the footpath as her shock-filled mind tried to grasp in all detail; the satyr's words and elliptical eyes underneath small protruding horns. Throughout history he'd been called 'devil' for a likeness that drew not on the inner workings of the heart and soul, but physical likeness to the just as mythical Satan. In an ironic world the devil himself would have angel wings! For he was once a purported fallen angel, and all of humanity in God's image, though fallen children…

***

The house's small windows stared blankly at her as she climbed the porch steps. She eased into the narrow hall and passed by her Grandmere's bedroom door. From the hallway she could hear the heavy breath of sleep. She decided she would not mention the night's events for a time, or maybe not at all. She thought she would be up and restless the whole night, digesting the strange and mysterious world in which she lived. But as soon as she grew warm beneath the covers she drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

***

The night before the celebration of Beltane, and at a late hour, there was a loud and persistent knock at the front door. Lethe drew her robes about her and hurried to the hallway only to see her Grandmere already at the door and intercepting the caller, fully dressed. Expecting the knock, thought Lethe. Their voices were low and her Grandmere finished the communication with a nod and a 'good night'.

"Who was that at such an hour?" Lethe asked, and how did you know they would be coming? Always the one question that couldn't be asked, intimidating question that begged to be answered if only she could find the strength and conviction to give it voice.

"Samuel Hodson. Brother Evans' home burned down but an hour ago. They fear he perished in the flames."

Lethe guarded her expression as she shuddered uncontrollably. "I'm cold. I think I'll go back to bed," she murmured and padded down the hall to her own room. There, she lay awake gazing out the window at the completed moon's perfect mold, watching the fog gather, drape, and tease itself across it-or was it the smoke and ashes of a man drifting to the stars. Seemed everything was made up of moondust and madness and Gods that shake thunderous fists at pitiful man.

At next glance the moon seemed to be pulsating, and then it slowed to a rhythm-the same rhythm inside her chest-and the drifting fog settled into a sneering grin on the craters.

***

"…ssshhh, Lethe, you've worried yourself long enough over this; made yourself sick, you have." The cool dampness of a cloth swiped over her face lovingly. Her Grandmere pressed a cup into her palms and supported her head as she encouraged her to drink. "This will bring the fever down and give you rest."

Lethe grabbed her Grandmere's thin wrist. "I see him in the moon; I see him and he smiles at me, but he's not of this world any longer-how can this be?"

Her Grandmere bent slowly and stared into her eyes. Lethe thought the cataract eye might be following her thoughts, penetrating her skull and siphoning the madness from her. Just when Lethe could take no more of the probing eye, her Grandmere turned away. She looked to the window and the amorphous moon, her voice barely a whisper, "You must decide child whether you want to live in a world of fear. Most of the world does, you know. But there are a few of us who aren't afraid to look beyond the façade; our parents and theirs before them taught us there's more to see and hear than just fables and fairy tales."

Lethe swallowed the tears rising in her throat. "He was real and I spoke to him, Romulus. I thought him beautiful, in a different way." And Lethe's fingers tightened around her Grandmere's wrist, "Are there more?"

Her Grandmere's shoulders slumped a bit and Lethe bit her lip knowing there were none.

"All creatures of the goddess Maia have long since perished except for Romulus. He is the last."

"Is that why there is such sadness in him?"

Her Grandmere tried to conceal her surprise, but Lethe had seen it and there was something more…

Her Grandmere bounded from the side of the bed and started for the door. "Romulus brings the message of Maia. She's not happy with us this year, Lethe. If the tides of Beltane are not turned…the Berwyn name will cease to exist. Romulus is the keeper of the balance, and he will take it from us if Maia demands it."

Lethe, for the first time in her life, felt some of the conviction she'd lacked come streaming through her veins. The Berwyn name deserved more than this whisper and retreat. Her voice found strength and she halted her Grandmere with a sharpness she never knew she possessed. "How did this happen?"

"Go to sleep child, we can talk of this another time. You must rest."

But Lethe allowed the strength to grow. "I asked you, Firestar, how?"

She stopped then, and slowly turned to her granddaughter. She looked unbearably tired and Lethe was almost sorry for wearying her further, but she had to know.

"You've rejected the gift, Lethe. As did your mother. Perhaps your daughter will as well, when the time comes."

The words still came as a shock to her, even when she half expected them… and she remembered his words, and they came creeping into her mind from the night in the forest. Do not be afraid, little Berwyn, least of all, that you should be afraid. And another important question that must be answered: "Did Romulus kill Brother Evans?" but the strength was gone from her voice and it broke in fractured whispers.

"No Lethe, but he will die. Not for stalking you into the forest, not that, but for destroying the temple yesterday. It's gone. Hundreds of years that temple stood blessed upon the mountain and now it's been destroyed. Maia demands vengeance. So it shall be done."

Lethe's head moved, barely a nod, but it represented the emptiness in her heart. The temple was gone. Gone. And she was so tired. Too tired for any more questions, too tired for pondering, too tired to contemplate what the destroyed temple meant for them. She didn't hear her Grandmere, the Firestar, leave the room. She heard only one reoccurring thought as it reverberated through her mind: Maia help them all!

***

She dreamt of black forests. Charred and spidery branches reached for her and she heard every tree's moan and husky whimper. Tearful trees and scored earth, stones unturned and scorched as ashes fell around her in disarray. Sacred temple of memories-all she held precious in this life, and where she'd last seen her mother's face before covering the flesh in swathing and carrying the pyre to the river. The Beltane of previous years came flooding back in her dreams as she watched herself grow and stand taller and taller.

And she woke suddenly as the rays of the sun broke through her dream and as the Goddess was whispering something in her ear from one of those years before…something she couldn't recall. But she had no time to think on it. No one had woken her for the ceremony at dawn. How could they not include her! Anger consumed her as she dressed quickly and flew from the house.

Where would they be? The temple was gone… Lethe turned about, trying to think of where the ceremony might be held now. She looked up at the overhead sun, late morning. She'd surely missed the rites. Oh blessed goddess, please forgive me this disgrace upon your day! she said aloud. She ran to the forest, into the green and lushness of healthy living trees. She followed an invisible thread, its mental twine within her soul, pulling her eastward toward Capel Mountain. The more she followed the sensation the more she was convinced it was right. And she realized within moments that she was being led to the destroyed temple.

She rushed on, shoving vines and shrubbery out of the way, wondering if she could bear seeing the temple dishonored and in ruins.

Lethe burst from the trees into the clearing where one stood for Beltane. Aida Berwyn looked to her as if waiting for her arrival to begin. But over the wood pile and lodged to the sacred pole that had withstood the destruction of the temple, was another.

Above the unlit coals and splintered wood, a sarcophagus was suspended in the shape of a man, framed by twisted twigs of the mighty oak. An arm reached out from the cage of entwined branches, rigored fingers that clawed the air in her direction, charred and crimson flesh that moaned and strained against the Holy Oak. Feral eyes that had lost what little humanity there was to lose stared out at her with seething hate. She knew the face that peek-a-booed within the spaces: Attacker; destroyer of ancient temples; blasphemer against the sacred Goddess. Although he was now almost featureless, she knew him well. And she stared at the white pustules that covered his destroyed skin; blisters that as he struggled inside his prison, began to burst, oozing and shimmering as if his whole body wept.

Her Grandmere took her hand into her own. "He will make a fitful gift to the Gods, Lethe." Then, she squeezed Lethe's palm and, "I will ask only this one time. Will you honor the ways of Maia to restore our name?" And Lethe nodded, decision made, forsaking neither her mother nor Grandmere but hearing the breath of trees within her own swelling heart.

Aida Berwyn smiled. "His time on this earth is almost over. Soon, though, Maia will arrive and she will enact her own justice. But for now, you must finish this." And through her Grandmere's hand to Lethe's hand ran a current that brought each nerve in her body alive. Lethe thought it was not unlike the sensation she'd had that fateful night in the forest, but a hundred times stronger, yet it carried with it none of yesterday, only the present, and the feeling of home.

From a place faraway, she heard her Grandmere's soft voice. "You, Lethe, are now the Firestar of the May Queen. It is your duty to light the pyre and lead us in dance around the May Pole."

And with the strength of convictions new, she held her palm out level with her eyes and lit the fire ablazing.

SUSANNE S. BRYDENBAUGH

Susanne S. Brydenbaugh is the author of over 80 short stories and poems published in both the genre and literary small press. Her most current work can be found in the following anthologies: Cemetery Poets: Grave Offerings, Atrocitas Aqua, Femmes de la Brume, and forthcoming in such anthologies as: Scary! Holidays to Make You Scream, Scriptures of the Damned, Double Dragon Publishing; and Experiments of a Different Vein. She is finishing her first novel, Midnight Cry, for publication in late 2004.

Other than writing and reading voraciously, she enjoys the outdoors, craves music, and is a classic car enthusiast. She lives in the southern U.S. Her website can be found at: www.mywriterstooth.com

VETERAN'S DAY HORROR TALE

Originally known as Armistice Day, Veteran's Day stems from the end of "The Great War", now known as World War I. The cease-fire agreement between Germany and France was signed in Rethondes, France on the eleventh day of the eleventh month, at the eleventh hour, in 1918. This of course led to the notorious Treaty of Versailles, and World War II, but for some time it was celebrated in remembrance of the great peace brought by the day. For many survivors of battle, it often proved a time to remember the suffering they had witnessed.

President Wilson declared the first Armistice Day November 11, 1919. Originally business would halt for a two-minute period starting at the eleventh hour, followed by speeches and parades. In 1921 church groups swayed President Wilson and he named the nearest Sunday Armistice Day Sunday, for events focusing on international peace. While the Federal government can't declare national holidays-each state determines its own schedule-Armistice Day was declared an official holiday in the District of Columbia and for Federal employees in 1938.

In 1953 the town of Emporia, Kansas referred to the day as Veteran's Day in recognition of veterans of both World War II and the Korean War. On June 1 of the following year legislation was passed by President Eisenhower officially changing the name to Veteran's Day. The 1960's and 70's saw rapid fire exchanges of dates on which the United States celebrated Veteran's Day, leading to some confusion and frustration for citizens. Due to legislation passed by President Nixon, Veteran's Day continues to be observed by the Federal government on the second Monday of November.

People still solemnly reflect on the human sacrifices of war with a moment of silence at 11:00 a.m., and look to support those Veterans in our communities. Some charities sell paper poppies constructed by disabled veterans; poppies became a symbol of World War I after the Battle of Flanders Field in Belgium, where many died among the poppies that densely populated the field.

There are currently 550,000 disabled veterans in the United States of America, with countless others worldwide.

-John Edward Lawson

Locked and Loaded

By Steven L. Shrewsbury

(A Story Featuring MAJESTIC Agent Thor Alexander)

"And they have rewarded me evil for good, and hatred for my love.

Set thou a wicked man over him: and let Satan stand at his right hand.

When he shall be judged, let him be condemned: Let his prayer become sin."

King David

Psalm 109; 5-7

1023 BC

Listen up, here, Marine, 'cause I'll be doin' all the talkin'. Seein' as I gotta carry yer ass all the way back to the base on Veteran's Day, ya can do me the common courtesy of keepin' yer trap shut. I can lug 'bout any weight, it's yer mass that bugs me. I got ya strapped on good, so take in the scenery, such as ya can at night. I hope ya ain't scared of the damned dark, heh, 'cause ya never know what is lurkin' out there in the night.

Hey, there's another one who doesn't respect the night or Mom N' Apple fuckin' Pie! I'll crouch down here and get him. Night vision goggles work anywhere in the world, ol' son! Afghanistan ain't nothin' special, save for they're too tribal to know when they are bein' controlled by dorks from outta country. Some folks dunno when there is a hand up their ass, but I digress. POP! Got him! Yeah, this nasty ol' government agent from a covert black ops program bagged another one of our enemies. Shit, damn, enemies. These are just the fingers, Hell, the foreskin of the beast. My superiors won't listen and let me chew off the head that controls this unholy war declared on the good ol' U. S. of A. I'd sooner dine on the throat or the brains of the operation, but that would lead to a bigger-assed war than the Prez wants. Yeah, yeah, they are just puttin' off the apocalypse, I tell ya what! Maybe the fear of the final curtain is all that keeps peace, aye? Good man, keep quiet like I said!

Damn, some of his evil buddies are nearby. They didn't hear the shot. Wanna know why? 'Cause I used a silencer on my rifle, Marine! See how simple this is? POP, POP! Two more heads in the bag for ol' Thor Alexander, agent of Majestic Services! Long may our banner wave, long may it be invisible, and long may I drop my jeans and give it to the dire people of the Earth in the kiester! What business interest do black ops folks from a cabal have in this war? TERROR. Heh, well, there are too many cameras for the regular military. We are gettin' right bored keepin' the New World Order at bay laborin' behind the scenes and all. A lot of other agents have other assignments abroad, Like Dack Shannon, Alex Dalton and Jess Boorman, but I ain't talkin' on them folks today. How did a big, blonde cracker like me get in such a program? My incredible singing voice…and that I ain't scared of nuthin', save for a world without blondes.

Yeah, three dead, but no where near enough, ol' son. This is how I celebrate November 11th, Marine, cleanin' up after our true blue boys. Couple of them Taliban bastards got lucky, knockin' yer chopper outta the sky with that mortar. Every so often these suckers get one lucky-like on 9/11. Ordinarily, they couldn't hit a cow in the tit with a banjo. I'm here to make sure their luck dries up and heals over like an eighty-year-old whore. Let's get goin'. Yer not gettin' any lighter, partner, and I got other folks to honor.

Don't worry none on my account for the labor, partner. We are both soldiers; just we use a different manual. So many wet nosed pussy fucks hate the idea of war and think death is hard. Naw-bullshit. Death is freakin' easy. It's life and livin' it everyday that is a bitch. It ain't just the bleedin' heart commie cocksuckers that have no grit for this kinda work, it's most of the saber rattlin' douche-dicks that ain't hardly ever looked at a gun, much less fired one. I guess I fight fer them too. Always plenty of us good men to make sure the leftist twerps and rightwing strokes can have their debates. That is why Armistice Day evolved to honor all Veterans, I wager. Not just for the guys who served, but to remind the others who didn't the price of the sacrifice. Ya know, all sacrifice requires blood, from the shores of Iwo Jima, to a heifer in a temple right down to Jesus Christ his-ownself.

Sumbitch, I think there is another one down there in the ravine. This country has more hidden spots that Liz Taylor has alimony checks. POP! Sent another one to Allah…or whoever. Yeah, this ain't no friggin' holy war to me, ol' son. They all wanna divide us up and make it all about Allah or Jehovah or Jesus or some such stuff, but they'd find another reason to hate us if we were all the same stripe. Remember what I said, bud, killin' is easy, no matter what direction ya pray in. It may not solve every problem today, but it made sure them fucks down there shufflin' off the mortal coil in the dirt won't stop me from returning you to your Commanding officer. One of them limp rags will never highjack a plane, tie on a bomb or stick a finger in his ass and face Mecca ever again.

Glad yer keepin' it down back there. If ya did talk too much I dunno what I'd do. I respect ya jarheads, I really do. My adopted Pa was a Marine, tough as nails. He could drink boiling stew and piss ice cubes, sure as I'm jogging here. I miss the ol' bastard, such as he was. Cancer kicked his ass. Hell of a way for a Marine to die, huh? In a bed being made the bitch of radiation-never for me. Never. I follow the credo to a degree, fella, Semper Fi, do or die…always faithful. Wish I coulda been there for him…

Dunno why I'm so talkative tonight, ol' son. Maybe I'm bored with life, maybe I'm tired of being pushed around even with all the freedom I get in covert operations. We still follow some guidelines even though we miss the newspaper. Still, someone will miss ya after that accident in the field with the choppers. Sorry things didn't work out like ya planned, but war is a bitch, huh? War ain't Hell. General Sherman was stoned when he said that, true enough. Hell is fulla liars, whores, lawyers, and evildoers, not kids or innocent bystanders.

Hey, check this out! I can see the entry to yer camp, but there is a sniper in the weeds. I think he's just watchin' what the Marines are doin'! What say we introduce him to the business end of my bowie knife? I'm tired of shootin' motherfuckers at a distance. Kinda makes it impersonal. I reach out the gun and they explode, better than fireworks. End of story, game over. Big bogeyman like me will make this scumbags' day. Hold on, Tex, yer along fer the ride! Bet he craps his pants from fright! Let's test his faith!

AHHH! Easy as ice cream. I knocked out his wind, then his life. He got a chance to look me in the eye, well, visor, and know he was had. He knew it was too late fer him when I probed his guts and made him envious of a fish caught on the Mississippi. Fuck him. He never probably heard of Ol' Miss. I imagine he knows of it now. Ya see, Marine, I think when yer dead, ya know it all…everything from all time if yer in Heaven or Hell. What if his God is the right one? Screw it. Who cares? I'm dealin' with today. Judgment day comes for all, dude. If he was right, I guess I gotta fight for eternity. Then the game will REALLY begin. Sounds fun to me, almost like Valhalla.

I radioed into the camp and they know I'm comin' in…this ways they won't shoot my beautiful ass. My body armor would fend that off, I reckon, but they know me, hell, they fear me. Lucky fer ya I was in the neighborhood. Luck is funny sometimes. Lucky I tamed luck-that savage bitch-for my own means, but enough 'bout me.

Here, ol' son, I give ya unto yer comrades. We must part company now and the good Lord take a liking to ya. I did what I could for ya, but at least yer wife and kids will have a grave to visit with their Pa in it. Arlington is a gorgeous spot and they guard ya well. I'll visit ya there someday, Marine. Say hello to Gale Alexander, my sister, who never knew what hit her at the Pentagon on 9/11. I reckon that angel tends the door to Heaven. She will be my only chance to get in some day.

I held to the mark, faithful until the end. Rest now. Leave the rest of the war to us bastards with no conscious.

Damn, dawn is comin' fast. It's gonna be a beautiful Veteran's day.

STEVEN L. SHREWSBURY

34, creator of Dack Shannon, Thor Alexander and the MAJESTIC Universe, is the author of over 190 published tales online or in print. His tales have appeared in print magazines like ELDRITCH TALES, FIGHTING CHANCE, BLACK PETALS & MYSTERY BUFF. Over a hundred of his poems are out there in magazines like PENNY DREADFUL, BIBLE OF HELL and DEATHREALM. His first book, NOCTURNAL VACATIONS, was released in the summer of 2002 by PUBLISH AMERICA. His second book, DEPTHS OF SAVAGERY will be released in the summer of 03 from DOUBLE DRAGON PUBLISHING. He has appeared in many anthologies, most recently the hardback CEMETERY POETS & ATROCITAS AQUA, and soon will appear in SCRIPTURES OF THE DAMNED and SCARY from DDP. Last year his work appeared in the high fantasy epic GRIMOIRE DE SOLACE from iUniverse. While working endlessly, revising several novels, he resides in Central Illinois with his wife, Stacey and son, John. His website is www.stevenshrewsbury.com

ST. ANDREWS DAY HORROR TALE

Saint Andrew was one of the original twelve disciples of Christ. He was originally a fisherman from Galilee, a follower of John the Baptist, and older brother of another of Christ's disciples, Simon Peter. After spreading the teachings of Christ throughout the Mediterranean and Asia Minor he was captured by the Romans. In one version of the story he is crucified on two beams of wood in the shape of an "X" while in the second version he is nailed to an olive tree.

Three hundred years later Emperor Constantine decided to move Saint Andrew's remains from his death place in Patras, Greece, to Constantinople. What happens next is also subject to various interpretations. The more religious view involves the Saint Regulus, a monk, receiving a vision from the angels. The angels warned that the bones of Saint Andrew had to be sent to "the ends of the Earth" in order to protect them. So far as the Roman Empire was concerned Scotland fit the bill, and his bones were taken to Scotland by Regulus (interestingly, the tale splits again here: Regulus either landed at what is now St. Andrews or he shipwrecked there, depending on who you ask).

The more worldly version of the tale involves a collector of Catholic relics, the Bishop of Hexham, who purchased the bones and brought them to Scotland himself in 733 AD. Regardless, the bones were kept in a Cathedral in Scotland until the Reformation swept through and destroyed all relics of "Catholic idolatry."

Nonetheless, Saint Andrew remained the patron saint of Scotland and is remembered with Saint Andrew's Day on November 30th. The event is considered a bit more important by Scottish expatriates than by those still living in their homeland. The X-shaped cross of Saint Andrew is still used in the national flag of Scotland, reputedly the oldest national flag in Europe.

-John Edward Lawson

Night of the Saltire

By Alex Severin

St. Andrew's Day is hardly recognised in Scotland, never mind celebrated. St. Andrew's is a place for golfers in garish sweaters and plus-fours these days, rather than a man, a Saint.

But it wasn't right to Ruaridh. As a child his dreams were haunted by the age-old tales his Great Grandfather told him about the bloody history of Scotland - the great battles, the martyrs to the cause, the injustices and the outrages.

The old man was a fierce patriot; Ruaridh had inherited it from him. Even as a middle aged man now, he had never forgotten those tales and his dreams still ran with red as his subconscious mind re-told those dusty old stories.

But it was always the story of St. Andrew that came back to him, his moans seeping into Ruaridh's sleep. What would stab him through the heart was that St. Andrew refused to be crucified on a cross the same as Jesus's; he beseeched his persecutors to change the shape of the cross - he felt unworthy of dying in the same way as the Messiah.

His dreams of St. Andrew were so vivid that he would awaken slick with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, pyjamas sticking to his skin.

The dream was always the same, right down to the minutest detail, but its regularity and his familiarity with it did not dilute its potency. The images never ceased to horrify and outrage him - the Saint would hang there, a limb painfully nailed to each bar on the Saltire cross he was crucified on, a cross-shaped like an X.

Something had to be done about the apathy of this country. He would sit and think to himself, staring out the window at the driech day…when did we lose the pride, that rabid patriotism that used to make us walk tall and sing loud? And not just at bloody football matches either. That's what we're reduced to - cheap kilts and tartan tammies with ridiculous curly ginger monofibre hair attached and a slurred rendition of Flower of Scotland in the face of the auld enemy. Football. The only battle left. Things have to change.

A simple fisherman from Galilee he may have been, but he was loved by Jesus Christ and was one of the Apostles - and died for his crime of spreading the word of Christianity.

How dare the world forget about the Patron Saint of Scotland.

But what could he do to make them all remember?

The image of Saint Andrew on the cross burned behind his eyes and…a moment of epiphany. It was clear to him now. He knew what he had to do to make them all remember.

It was only a few weeks until 30th November was here again - St. Andrew's Day. He had to begin preparations immediately.

***

Ruaridh sat at his computer; he'd never used the graphics software before and turned the air blue with curses, unable to decipher how to use it. He got the manual out and studied it for an hour and finally managed to put together a simple flyer and save it to disc. He immediately went to the local copy shop and had one thousand flyers printed - flyers advertising his free-for-all street party on St. Andrew's Day.

It would cost him a fortune but he didn't care - he had the money to do it and whatever the cost, it would all be worth it, worth it to re-establish St. Andrew's Day in the memories of Scots. He'd have to pay the price, of course, in more ways than monetarily.

Next on the list was ordering one hundred 10 x 6 oak beams. Even Ruaridh, as liberal with money as he was, gasped at the quote the salesman at the sawmill gave him over the phone. He recited his credit card number and requested that the wood be delivered the next day.

On to the food and drink - professional caterers would, of course, be employed for such an important function. No point in skimping here - he wanted every revelers who turned up for the party to stay the course - at least until he revealed his work of art in honour of St. Andrew to everybody.

He spent days fashioning the expensive beams of oak into fifty saltire crosses. The neighbours tolerated the hammering and banging and the cursing at smashed thumbs after he told them of his plans to re-instate St. Andrew's Day as a day in the calendar that would be remembered from now on. He didn't elaborate, of course - they would all be witness to the surprise too and he told them he didn't want to spoil it for them. Once he was done, he'd told them, November 30th would be permanently etched on the minds of every Scot in Scotland, every Scot around the globe and every other arsehole who claimed Scottish descent.

'Fucking synthetic Scots,' he would call them; like the fervent Americans he frequently ran across in Princes Street wearing tartan trews and waistcoats, blethering on a bout their 'Clan' and declaring that 'Edinboro, Scatland is so neat!' He very nearly punched one in the face in 'Deacon Brodie's.' The pub was always full of tourists and the only reason he went in there was to annoy himself, to fuel his xenophobia. This one was Japanese though, not American - he was a unilateral bigot; if you weren't Scottish born and bred, and left the country for more than two weeks of the year for your annual holiday in Benidorm, well, you just weren't worthy of even talking to him. The poor Japanese guy only asked him for directions to Edinburgh Castle.

'How in the fuck can you miss the castle! It's in front your nose!'

He walked away from the bewildered tourist and grunted a barely audible racial slur under his breath. The tourist did likewise in Japanese.

***

News of the party spread fast and the whole of Edinburgh was talking about it. There was much speculation as to what the 'unveiling' that the flyer mentioned was all about. Some thought that it might be a commemorative statue to St. Andrew but that couldn't be - Bonnie Prince Charlie Road was a residential street - there wouldn't be anywhere suitable for something like that, really. But what else could be unveiled except a statue or something similar, some work of art or other? Ah, but the party was actually in the field behind the road. That road's on the outskirts of Edinburgh, almost in the country. Nobody had a clue what was in store, but the buzz got louder and hundreds of people were sure to show up on St. Andrew's Day. Hundreds.

***

Ruaridh had to purchase three hundred heavy-duty tarpaulins to cover his work. He had to build a tunnel out of them to take the crosses one by one as he made them and set them up in the field. This, of course, would have to be completely obscured from view until they were ready to be unveiled. But how to stop prying eyes in the meantime? 24-hour security. Under strict instructions not to peek. They would also be under scrutiny, recorded 24/7 and if any of them peeked - curtains. Sacked. Fired.

***

The dream changed - the night of the 29th November - it was different. The first time in his entire life that the dream of St. Andrew had deviated from its original formula. This troubled Ruaridh. This troubled him a lot. Why now? What did it mean? Surely the timing of the change was significant. It had to mean something.

Instead of the suffering saint, it was himself nailed to the saltire cross, him bleeding onto the heavy wooden beams, him feeling life ebb and flow from his wounds. Then the meaning hit him - the result of his plan for the coming Feast of St. Andrew would be his sacrifice of self, an act of martyrdom for the reinstatement of St. Andrew into the culture of Scotland. The loss of his own liberty would be worth it. And he was sure that his place in Heaven would be secured.

***

All day people were arriving. Hundreds of them. Perhaps there were even thousands now, he thought as he looked down from his window at the throng of bodies in the back field. Like ants, he thought. Little ants I could step on and crush under my feet.

Time for him to make an entrance.

Ruaridh walked silently through the people; they parted to let him pass. Some stared slack-jawed at him and others stifled sniggers behind hands. Others just out and out guffawed. Edinburgh in November was no place for a man in a dress. He wore a robe made from sacking material - one that would have been extremely uncomfortable to wear and tied at the waist with a rough rope belt. His shoulder-length white wavy hair made him look every bit the biblical hero. He made his way to the front of the crowd, stepped up onto the small platform and raised his hands, Moses-style.

'Children, today marks the beginning of a new dawn for the people of Scotland.'

People nudged their neighbors and winked, charmed by he eccentric old fool in the fancy dress costume in front of them.

'Today is a day you will never forget. The entire population of Scotland and every Scot world-wide will never forget. Today, the Feast of St. Andrew, will now be celebrated in the manner it deserves. I demand it.'

The crowd roared with laughter, shoulders heaving with mirth, eyes watering, sides being held as the silly old fool began to fumble with strings attached to a row of tarpaulins behind him.

The tarpaulins fell.

The crowd was suddenly silent.

A lone voice began to laugh, a hysterical laugh, a laugh that said the owner wanted to believe this was a joke, a prank, but the sound of the laughter, the mania in its tones belied that.

It wasn't a joke.

It wasn't faked.

It was real.

The crowd began to run in all directions like cornered rats, fleeing, stumbling, falling, trampling other people in their wake.

But some people did not move.

They just stood there.

Staring.

They watched as the life flowed from the wounds of the fifty crucified Scots, people chosen at random. All ages and all walks of life were represented by the victims Ruaridh selected to represent his beloved St. Andrew.

Some in the crowd even moved closer to inspect the crucifixions, raised tentative hands to touch fingertips to the blood that flowed from the ripped hands and feet, touched the warm flesh wounds just to make sure that they were real.

***

Ruaridh never stood trial. Instead he was found incompetent and institutionalized. But Ruaridh wasn't insane - that was an insult to him. What he did, he did for the love of St. Andrew the Apostle, did for the love of his country and the love of his countrymen - past, present and future.

***

St. Andrew's Day would never be forgotten in Scotland ever again. Not that it would be celebrated in the way Ruaridh desired, but it would never be forgotten, at least.

***

Almost twelve months on: a young man stands in the field where he stood nearly one year ago. It's as if they still hang here in this field; he can still hear the death-rattle in the throats of the crucified, still feel the pattering of blood on his face as he looks up at a girl who stares down, her eyes pleading, immanent death and injustice in her stare. He can still smell the blood in the air, see the rivers that flowed from palms and feet, still taste that sharp copper explosion on the back of his tongue.

He stands there still, playing the scene over and over, a scene that never erases, never fades - like the dreams that Ruaridh has - pristine memories.

The man in the field realizes that people have short memories and begins to make plans for St. Andrew's Day.

ALEX SEVERIN

Alex Severin is a writer, editor and hell-bound blasphemer, apparently.

She has been widely published on the web on such prestigious sites as

Fangoria, Horrorfind, The Dream People, Short, Scary Tales, Suspect Thoughts, Ophelia's Muse, House of Pain and Death Grip to name but a few. In print she appears in Peep Show Magazine 1 & 2.

Alex is the editor and webmistress of the exquisite BDSM, Fetish & Erotic Horror e-zine, Shadow of the Marquis (www.shadowofthemarquis.com), and owner and webmistress of custom written erotica website Personal Erotica (www.personalerotica.co.uk).

Alex is the co-author of BROKEN - Twisted, Gore-soaked Tales of Sex, Death & Pain with Hertzan Chimera & Wrath James White, released in 2002 by Medium Rare Books (www.mediumrarehorror.com) and BoyFistGirlSuck, a deviant collection of horror/fetish-erotica co-written with Hertzan Chimera and due for release in February 2003 from Massacre Publications (www.massacrepublications.co.uk).

Alex Severin is married to horror author and publisher Kailleaugh Andersson.

Miscellaneous HOLIDAY HORROR TALES

The holiday celebrations in the world are numerous and varied-129-139 days in Japan and Korea, 145 in France, and 172 in Sri Lanka. While some of these are certainly religious events and others commemorate important national history, many are simply leisure days. Bearing that in mind, travel remains one of the most popular holiday activities. The experts provide us with some cheerful advice on the matter:

-luxury cruise liners are often registered in other countries, thus they are not under any obligation to report rape, theft, battery, or any other crimes to authorities in your nation.

-don't look lost or vulnerable.

-always check all areas of your quarters upon returning; cleaning crews often leave doors hanging open as they work and unscrupulous sorts might sneak in. Examine closets, showers, under beds, etc.

-keep all money and valuables locked in the central vault. The safes provided in your quarters won't be covered by insurance.

-insure that somebody you trust is watching your home while you are away.

As many of us know certain holidays provide an excellent chance to indulge in excessive amounts of alcohol, frequently resulting in poor behavior and vehicular deaths. Consumer-oriented holidays sometimes result in deaths and injuries as masses of parents crush each other in an attempt to snag the few "must have" gifts for children. Throughout the ages human sacrifice has been a feature of rituals and celebrations; the Aztecs had 20,000 human sacrifices per year, while unsubstantiated reports suggest sacrifices in the United States of America are in the tens of thousands.

Despite these somewhat disturbing occurrences we continue to set aside time for the mysterious, the unearthly, the relaxing, in days or even weeks at a time. More often than not the result is somewhat pleasant and provides us with a bit of gossip for the coworkers.

-John Edward Lawson

The Boy Who Fell To Earth

By Hertzan Chimera

We got this cheap old mobile home that takes us everywhere. All over the province. And sometimes out into the continent. A short ferry trip across a colourless sea twinkling with reflection. Every year since I was a drooling baby sporting a stinking puke bib. It has been the same. School breaks up and we already have the mobile home packed and ready to go. Then it's off on the open Summer highway. Me, momma, pop and Jessica (that's my kid sister, she's all right).

I guess this is what we do in life. Tell stories to hide the truth about ourselves. I admit now, as a younger boy, I would fib and tease my kid sister until she cried like a sniveling rat to momma. I would steal from momma's purse every now and then and she never thought to ask me. I had heard that most young children do these things. It did seem a natural thing to do. Not a criminal thing. Look at squirrels storing nuts for later. I was sort of upset that she never accused me of doing wrong. I was her son, maybe she knew it was me. Maybe she was ashamed of me. Wanted me to kill myself by throwing myself into the street where the big vans rumbled by hour after hour all day long.

I was always aware that there were things you shouldn't do.

We had something called a Constitution in our family. Some times, someone would get the Sermon. You should abide by the Constitution, they would reprimand us. I am not sure how it went, the exact wording of the Constitution. I always closed my ears off at the right time. I knew these things were out there, these things you shouldn't do. Like the face behind every closed door, screaming, dragging its nails down the splintering wood. I would be pestered by faces, always screaming faces as I tried to slowly dribble off into sleep. These faces were made of a strange clay. Cold to the touch. There was a slap every time one of them crashed down onto my face from on high as I tried desperately to fall asleep in the mobile home.

But what can a young boy do? It was supposed to be a holiday. Put it this way. I can pass for a local if I put my mind to it. Always a trick I could eventually pull. You know the form. You hear an accent. You take the micky out of it. And then you can't stop. You pick up the subtle nuances of the timings, the emphasis, the fake endings and trapdoors of speech. Oh, sorry, got beyond myself there. It is easy to slip into the culture of the place you are visiting.

The thing that got me a reputation, you could say.... Her name was Emma. A dull name for a dull looking girl. But she could scream like no vision I have ever had. We met on the first day of our arrival at the seaside campsite. She and I collected dead animals from the side of the road. And gave them a proper burial. I thought that was really great. That we should share something so private like this. She had this special 'train spade', as she called it. It was a flat wide Stoker spade her dad had given her when they closed the local steam train network. There was always something special to find when Emma had her 'train spade'.

On the seventh day, we found the body of a man. In the woods. He was a big fat bloated man with funny coloured skin like old plastic bags. He had no hair on his head and his fingernails were black and broken. We had the 'train spade' but there was no way he would fit on that, as big and flat as it was. Emma's eyes glistened when she first saw the hairy forearm leading to the hairy upper arm. Big muscles. Then the shoulder. Then we removed more and more of the twigs and leaves and dirt that was covering the body of the man. He was totally naked apart from a thin leather strap that was tied too tightly round his throat. A stick at the back had been twisted and twisted and twisted. In my head, I could taste the sap of the leather as it squeezed out of the tightening leather. I could hear all the sounds of his life leaving him in grasping clutching hi-resolution detail. Emma saw none of these things I am sure.

Emma thought this would be a perfect find to give a proper burial. She said that even though it wasn't 'technically' road kill, we had a duty. Before the digging began, Emma got intrigued by that which she had only seen in fleeting glimpses on her daddy's skinny body pre- and post-shower, Emma used the 'train spade' to move the man's shrunken circumcised willy from side to side. She was giggling at her jiggling like it was lots of fun. She kept saying that it was like a dead slug. She handed me the 'train spade' and knelt down beside the man. He was certainly not breathing, this dead person. This corpse.

Emma brushed her shiny blonde hair to one side and fixed it back with her hair grip. Then she tasted the slug. Her little pink tongue came out of her mouth and the triangular tip of it touched the hole at the end of the man's shrunken circumcised willy.

I felt the whole world sublimate into freckles of magnesium powder which themselves ignited like starburst. The whole scene became a burning special effect. No sound. No smell. All picture. Viewed from far away, I could see Emma over the dirty dead man's naked body. There was a creature beside them. It was a terrible looking creature that throbbed like a stammering Mongoloid. As Emma chortled over the man, saying how funny it tasted, her mouth opening to take it all in, the creature stood beside them slowly lifted the 'train spade' above its bent and distorted head, you could see the little white curly hairs on its toad head shining in the light beams that streamed through the trees. And I started to scream.

The creature hammered Emma's skull again and again with the 'train spade'. Until all her brains had fallen out all over the fat belly of the surrogate road kill. There was so much blood, pouring out for eternity. I dropped the 'train spade'. I will take responsibility for that much. I dropped the 'train spade' and the crows fluttered away, filling the sky with blackness. I knelt down beside the body of Emma and her lips were still moving. I could not believe a girl with her skull smashed open and her brains dished out like that would still have something to say. I put my ear next to her still-moving lips and listened to her whispered voice sing me this song.

"Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are. Up above the clouds so high. Like a diamond in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle, little star ...."

How I wonder what you are. She was calling back to me from the brink of her mortality. That special knife-edge where all truth is reflected. She had unveiled me as the monster. But her tale would go no further. Her secret was mine to hold forever. Just like the other girls and boys who had found themselves at the mercy of the monster. He cannot be stopped. He is not even from this world. But you have already guessed that, right? And that was what momma always told me - make sure the secrets stay secret.

I am a good boy.

Four days later on the news, just as we were packing up to move on to the next campsite across the Province, there she was - Emma. On TV in her school uniform and with such a pretty smile. So different from the sheared foreheaded scream I remember her having. That look in her popped eyes. She wasn't blaming me. It was the monster's fault anyway. She understood that and it was all she could do to hold back her tears. She knew of the burden I have carried since birth on this strange planet. We shared that secret and no-one would ever know what sort of a monster I was.

It didn't take them too long to find the dreadful scene. I think someone stumbled across it. That always happens when you are walking the dog. Dogs love finding dead bodies like that. And these two presented a perfect tableaux of desperate slaughter to anyone in the know. I have that perpetual crime scene over and over again as masturbatory fantasy in the time in between holidays. The crime scene the monster and I had caused. The poetry in our perversion. It is no use trying to get off on anyone else's slip of sanity. The music is all wrong, jangly wind chimes when it should be smooth rich vanilla ice cream.

We moved on to another campsite and no-one would ever know. That's just the way things are. For tea that night we had roast turkey and potatoes and carrots. But I didn't want a mouthful of it. I kept seeing Emma's soft pink mouth around the slug. I had throat choking visions of her eating a jarful of those slugs, gulping them down and gagging on the slime. It wasn't right. Suddenly I found myself awake early in the morning and many a time I would watch the sun rise. For the next two weeks it was like this. Bed by nine. Lying awake in dreamless half-sleep. The moon crawling across my eye like a razor slug.

That's when I had the greatest idea of my life. To kill my kid sister. We had always got on, there weren't many arguments between us. In fact our friendliness could be considered rather unhealthy, if you think about it. But that is how secrets work. Never let on. Never show the eye of the beast until you need to. It so seemed like the right thing to do. Like my body was calling out to me chemically, kill your kid sister, kill your kid sister. This time it wasn't the monster who did it. It was me. I did it. Momma and pop were asleep in the other part of the mobile home.

I took a pillow and put it over Jessica's face. I lay on top of her and I could feel my pubic bone rubbing against hers. Jessica woke up only when she had no more breath stored. She gasped and gagged and kicked. Then she tried to buck me off and I thought I would be discovered in the flagrante delicto of sister slaughter. I lifted the pillow a bit and punched her in the face. She merely snarled at me with a feral glimmer of hatred so I put the pillow back and tried with all my might to snuff out her angry life.

Momma and pop were woken up by their own cultivated monsters. They came rushing in like a river of blood and stood there at the foot of the bed watching me as I struggled with the little tyke under me. I got bitten scratched and torn apart by what my sister was destined to become. I never realized she had such power in her. An earthquake went off somewhere, Richter scale 7.9. And I felt like someone had opened my chest such was the force of the blast. The mobile home was shaking and outside everyone was running around with their heads cut off, fountains of gory shine stretching high into the rumbling sky.

"Who do you think will win, honey?" pop said to momma.

"How can I say?" said momma. "No one in my family thought I would win against my brother. Boys think they rule the world."

Momma elbowed her arranged husband in the ribs and he gave her a look. Oh, such a look. And how did I know this when I was supposed to be killing my kid sister? Well, I had lost the battle a long while ago. Indeed there was a heat in my chest. And a rib-toothed hole. That's what happens when a monster like hers tears out your heart and holds it up to your stunned face squashing all your life away like so much raspberry juice out of a sponge that you've just used to clean up some domestic accident.

I saw all this from a softly increasing distance. The victorious kid sister with her prize in her small white hand, the heart of the monster. I saw momma and pop hug each other in a warm gesture of forever togetherness. I saw in my last dying seconds exactly what my kid sister had been doing in her quiet moments in her room playing with her Barbie dolls. I witnessed the grotesque size of her monster. It was so well trained my little toad-form never stood a chance.

Lesson to learn: never underestimate the enemy. Next time, maybe.

HERTZAN CHIMERA

makes William Burroughs look like a social realist." Terror Tales review of the

sci-fi horrotica novel SZMONHFU.

Published paperback works:

RED HEDZ (novel 1990), explored the cliché of creativity and was damned to

Purgatory by none other than Penthouse Magazine for its lax moral standpoint.

SZMONHFU (novel 2001), a big fat wad of compressed man-cumm stuffed down the throat of the reader until he choked (also available as DDP ebook).

BROKEN (collection 2001), co-written with Alex Severin and Wrath James

White.

BOYFISTGIRLSUCK (collection 2003), co-written with Alex Severin, sexhorror

at its most extreme (also available as DDP ebook).

UNITED STATES (novel 2003), unrelenting horror and sexual intrigue (also

available as DDP ebook).

ANIMAL INSTINCTS (collection 2003), 32 short stories of crazed make-believe

(available as DDP ebook with a fully-illustrated paperback coming from DDP

in 2004)

Hertzan Chimera is a member of the Horror Writers Association.

Holiday

By Sarah Crabtree

It's easy to forget what day it is, especially when you're abroad. The English newspapers are usually late: yesterday's papers, yesterday's news. Often it doesn't matter anyway.

These were the musings of Chris as he awoke. So what if he couldn't think what day it was? He wasn't going to work. Instead, he struggled to piece together his thoughts in this morning after the night before. He wished he hadn't drunk so much the previous evening. But this was nothing new: he always said that. Given the chance, he would do it all over again.

He briefly thought of his colleagues at the Bank, wondering whether the dirty postcard he'd sent off yesterday would beat him back. He wasn't ready to wake up. He just didn't want to. That was the luxury of being on holiday, being able to lie back and forget the morning rush hour. Yet he'd forgotten how uncomfortable hotel beds could be. He couldn't even remember crashing out last night. Or had it been in the early hours of the morning?

Chris couldn't even remember staggering back to the hotel. God, he must have been drunk. Geoff and Lindsay would have carried him back. Still, they were on holiday, for heaven's sake.

Then he thought about his mother. He promised her he'd ring her when he arrived. Damn! Nineteen years old, and she still worried over him as much as when he was a kid. She'd even told him to pack a pullover in case he got cold. Cold? Jesus. It was sweltering. His T-shirt had turned a darker shade of blue with the perspiration; only Chris couldn't see it yet. Now he knew what blind drunk meant.

He struggled to raise his head, then gave up, allowing it to tilt back. Ouch! The headboard felt like a rock. His forehead was throbbing, too. Damn again! He knew he'd forgotten to pack the headache tablets. He'd gotten as far as removing them from the family bathroom cabinet, and left them on the windowsill by the shaving mirror. At this precise moment a thousand or so miles away, his mother was putting them back in the cabinet, shaking her salt-and-pepper head at the carelessness of Youth.

Chris tried to figure out what time it was. But it was so dark. He groped to where his watch should be. It was gone. Of course! What a clot he was! His mates must have removed it last night. It was no use, he had to find out what time it was. Breakfast finished at ten in the hotel and he and his mates intended sneaking out some rolls for lunch. If he didn't get a move on, he'd miss out on both meals, and the pick of the birds! That tasty little group they'd picked up with on the plane would be lounging around somewhere in their bikinis, or even topless! Ow! He tried to move his head again. Surely this was more than a hangover. He'd experienced enough of them to know how they felt, for Chrissakes. This time his head seemed to hurt in a dozen different places. It was just his luck to have picked up some fast-acting foreign bug.

He touched his forehead, tentatively dabbing at it with his right forefinger. Was it sweat? Or could it be…No, it couldn't possibly be blood. If only he could summon up enough strength to reach the window. He just had to see something. Panic struck him. Maybe that was it. He'd gone blind. Oh, God. He remembered reading about that happening to someone once. It sounded horrible. This guy had woken up at dawn, thinking it was midnight. He'd struggled to pull back the curtains. Nothing. He couldn't see a damn thing. He'd gone blind overnight. Cancer. Chris thought the guy had cancer. But he was only nineteen. Surely to God nothing like that could happen to him. Not yet.

He groaned. There was a muffled response. He groaned again. The other groaner answered more weakly this time. It must be either Geoff or Lindsay. Maybe they were in the same state. What bloody fools they'd been. A fortnight's holiday in the sun, and they'd spent a great deal the first night on drinking each other under the foreign table of a local bar.

It was coming back to Chris now in bits. Shreds of last night's happenings fluttered through his mind. The three of them had tracked down this water hole in one of the seedier parts of town. He couldn't even remember what the place was called. It was full of foreigners like themselves, some blonder, many swarthier. The bar was hot, sweaty, reeked of unwashed bodies. Through the smoke there had been a woman belly-dancing. Yes! He remembered her most clearly. She had black hair, almond eyes and an emerald pressed into her navel. The three of them had stared hard at it, willing it to pop out of that smooth, sensually swaying, taut, tanned, nubile stomach.

Then those fat guys came. For some reason they hadn't liked Lindsay. Maybe he had been staring just a little too hard at the emerald. They picked on him. The guy was just trying to relax with a quiet drink, harmlessly watching a beautiful dancer, and the bastards picked on him. It all came back to Chris now, like in a bad dream. That's what they say, don't they? His head fell back against the headboard. "Ow!" he screamed. It was a rock. It had to be.

The door was thrown open. Through the piercing light he attempted to adjust his vision. Thank God he wasn't blind. A moment's still view revealed the full drama: Geoff was sitting, or rather propped up about six feet in front of him. He looked thirty years older, unshaved, haggard, a rancid smell wafted over from him as he shifted his legs. Chris gagged, then looked up into the eyes of the stocky, swarthy stranger. But then this man was no stranger to Chris. Only the surroundings were unrecognizable to him. Unwittingly he had swapped a fortnight in an over-hyped one star, cramped, camp-bed style hotel room for a filthy, claustrophobic potting shed in the middle of God-knows-where for God-only-knew how long.

He felt an explosion coming from his bowels. Foreign water, or was something scaring the crap out of him? Not that there could be much waste matter to come out. Judging by the hollowness left in his guts now, and the length of the stubble on Geoff's face, they could have been in this Hell-hole for over forty-eight hours.

"Lindsay!" Chris tried to scream at his kidnapper, but a dry crackle like a poorly-tuned radio leaked out. "Lindsay!" he tried to scream again. Again it was only a whimper.

"Is this him?" sneered the sinister stranger.

He held out the battered, severed head, and laughed demonically until Chris passed out…

Sarah Crabtree

Sarah Crabtree is a freelance writer and reviewer, resident in the UK. Her stories, poems and articles have been published in a wide variety of magazines, print and online, including Terror Tales and Shadow Writers. A selection of her work can be viewed on www.sarahcrabtree.net

Happy Lemur Day

By Marc Sanchez

"Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

-Albert Einstein

The police cruiser rolled into the Ferry Point Park parking lot and pulled up alongside three prepubescent boys. Hats on backwards, flannels wrapped around waists, skateboards tucked in armpits.

The window slid silently down.

"You boys know this place closes at sunset. What the hell you still doin' here?"

"We're on our way home," the tall one lied, faking a smile.

Officer Pete nodded. The window slithered up.

Pete Richards swung around the lot and caught a view of the couple jogging past Turk.

Fucking Turk.

***

"Heeeeeere...duck duck ducky! Heeeeere...duck, duck ducky! Goose, goose goosey! Heeeeere...goose, goose goosey!"

...watch it Louie! Watch your back!...the place is crawling, Louie! Watch your back!

"Heeeeere...duck duck ducky! Heeeere....duck duck ducky!"

Turk scattered his specially mixed bird feed out onto the bank of the Ferry Point Park pond. "Heeeeere! Duck, duck ducky!"

Ducks swam over to him. Geese honked from across the pond. Mallards and Wood Ducks waddled up onto the muddy, dung-covered shore snapping up the tidbits of corn, oats, and dry stuffing mix. Three sprinkles later the geese arrived. Big, intimidating waterfowl that trudged through the flock and came bowing and hissing up to Turk; necks drooped, beaks skyward, like bullies after lunch money.

"Hey there, gooses!" he said. "Chow time, babies!"

He scattered more feed. The geese honked. The ducks quacked. The seagulls descended, piping and peeping and squawking and stealing.

Oh shit, Frankie! In the trees! Fuck me! Watch it, Frankie! Fucking gooks! Everywhere! Oh shit! I can't do it, Frankie! I can't do it! "Oh, you party poopers!" Turk barked at the gulls, pushing the thoughts away. He pulled a paper bag from the back pack at his feet and extracted a bag of popcorn, extra buttery. "I'm ready for you today!" And he dumped the popcorn into several piles. The gulls immediately left.

Scatter you sons a bitches! Watch it, Louie! Watch it! I got them fuckers! Scatter! Hah Hah! Happy fucking Lemur Day! Hah...hah...hah... "Hah!" Turk threw his head back and howled up at the clear September sky. "Watch your back, Louie! Shit! They got gooks in them holes, Louie! Happy Lemur Day! Hah...hah...hah..."

Duck tails wiggled. The geese nibbled. The gulls picked at their parasites and eyed Turk wearily from a distance.

A young couple in matching jogging suits cantered by. "Hey, Turk!" They smiled and kept running down the concrete path.

"Hey!" Turk shouted, his eyes never leaving the gulls. "Happy Lemur Day! Hah...hah...hah."

The jogging coupled glanced at each other, smirking. Good ol' shell-shocked, harmless, Turk, their expressions said.

The gulls sat on the other side of the pond, eyes never leaving Turk.

***

Midnight.

The rain-soaked and shining streets of the coastal town of Timber Bay reflected the tri-lobed streetlights that burned from dusk til dawn. The streets were usually empty at this hour.

Empty, except for Turk.

At midnight, most folks in this town are in their trailers sleeping, or watching Letterman. They have to watch Letterman. You only get one channel in Timber Bay. Even the public station doesn't come in out here.

Big Bird? Barney? Masterpiece Theatre? Never heard of 'em.

Jerry Springer? The VCR's roll daily.

If they're not sleeping, staring at a plastic and glass box, or creating more misery for themselves in the form of unwanted children, they're at one of the four establishments open and serving liquor until 2:00 A.M. Lynch's Tavern, where the seagoing type hang out, is down at the docks. The other three establishments run alongside each other at the south end of town. There's The Office, which is where all the legal poker machines in Timber Bay extract quarters from the town's compulsive gamblers, and you can get a Long Island Iced Tea and a dried squid for five bucks; One-Eyed Willie's, where most of the tough guys hang out, listening to country music on the juke, shooting pool, and occasionally shooting each other; and then there's The Peeping Turtle, a nice looking joint, with black light velvet tapestries of Vargas girls on the wall, a blackjack table that's honest, dollar beers, and the only place in Timber Bay where exotic dancers are legal.

It's also the town brothel. But you wouldn't know that unless you were very local, or Officer Pete.

Pete swung into the alley behind The Peeping Turtle. Van Stones was waiting for him.

The window buzzed down, Van leaned in. "Evenin', Pete."

"Evenin', Van."

"How's Trixie?"

"Same ol' bitch. How's business?"

"Can't complain." Stones pulled an envelope from his back pocket after glancing up and down the alley. He handed it to Pete. It disappeared into the darkness of the patrol car.

The window slid up.

Stones shot a glance over his shoulder at the back door of The Peeping Turtle. Tanya jiggled out, and got in the passenger seat.

Pete drove.

Fuckin' Stones, he thought. Fuckin' idiot. "Hello, sweetheart," he said, unzipping his pants and grabbing the back of Tanya's head.

***

Turk walked the streets. Chain-smoking Marlboros.

...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...

"Happy fucking Lemur Day! Hah...hah...hah..." He shouted at the top of his voice. His words echoed off of dark storefronts and rain-drop-dripping eaves.

Watch it, Frankie! They're in the trees! Watch the fuck out!

Turk flicked his butt into the gutter outside One-Eyed Willie's and lit another. Pondering.

Nope, not tonight. Gonna go to The Peeping Turtle tonight. Yep.

"Happy Lemur Day!" Turk called out into the foggy night. "Hah...hah...hah..."

He walked and smoked.

...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...

***

Turk walked up to the bar at The Peeping Turtle. Music pounded while some blonde that Turk never looked at spun around a pole. Joe the bald bartender leaned in with a grin. "Heya, Turk? Howzit hangin'?"

Turk slapped a five-dollar bill on the bar with a smile. He stared at the wood grain in the bar top. "The usual Joe!"

Joe returned with a shot of bourbon and two twenty-five. Turk slid the quarter toward Joe and pocketed the bills. Always looking at the grain. "Keep the change, Joe!"

Joe grinned. "Thanks, Turk. One step closer to that Rolls I've had my eye on."

"Hah!" Turk tilted his head back and downed the shot. Then he motioned for Joe to come closer.

Joe leaned in again.

Turk spoke very slowly, this time his eyes were locked on Joe's. His phrases came out in short bursts. "There's a Hoot owl...outside my house...in the Myrtle...hoots real loud...sometimes," Turk said. He gave Joe a somber look and a nod.

Joe nodded back.

"Right now," Turk continued, "you have formed...a mental image...of that owl." He studied Joe's face.

Joe nodded.

"But he ain't nothin'...like you imagine." Turk turned and headed for the door. Grabbing the brass handle, he shouted: "Happy fucking Lemur Day! Hah...hah...hah..."

Joe smiled. "You are one in a million, Turk, old boy."

***

Tanya got out of the police cruiser just as Turk was rounding the corner into the alley.

"Hey Turk!" she shouted. Everyone knew Turk. Sort of. Knew who he was, what he had done. He didn't answer her. She never expected him to, nobody did. Turk only spoke to bartenders, doctors, and animals.

Turk kept walking and smoking.

...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...oh shit! These fucks are everywhere, Louie! Give me a gun! Give me a fucking gun!

"Happy Lemur Day! Hah...hah...hah..."

Pete watched Turk pace past his cruiser. Seemingly oblivious.

He knows, thought Officer Pete. He knows.

***

Trailer Park City is one nickname given Timber Bay by the truckers that pass through. Very few residents actually live in a real house.

Turk was one of those that did.

It was on old, unkempt Victorian in the middle of Acacia Street. A moat of wild blackberry vines surrounded the house, and nobody could ever quite remember what color the house used to be. The paint had long peeled and chipped and leaked its lead into the groundwater. Tall Myrtle trees surrounded the blackberries, emitting their eucalyptus-like vapors and tapping on the windows of the upper floors of Turk's old house; which was Turk's father's old house, and his father's old house before that.

5:00 A.M.

Turk stepped out off the warped back porch. There was a small clearing amidst the blackberries where Turk had cultivated a little pond of his own. A self-contained ecosystem. Here he raised baby ducklings, goslings, and any young birds suddenly orphaned; whether by storm or by cat or by the cruelty of strangers with shotguns.

We're safe here, Louie. They don't know about this place. Don't worry, we'll get Frankie...

Turk tossed some of his seed mix into the pond, and along the bank. "Heeeere duck, duck ducky!" Peeps and quacks rose sleepily from the tiny houses lining the shore of the tiny lagoon. Turk had built them in his basement woodshop using a design from Audubon.

The sun broke the eastern sky.

Fucking gooks, man! Frankie we gotta get the hell out of here! Fucking gooks are all over us! Frankie, What the hell is that. What the hell are you doing?

"Happy Lemur Day!" Turk shouted. "Hah...hah...hah..."

Officer Pete cruised past Turk's place, stirring up the fallen Myrtle leaves that rested on Acacia Street. They fluttered back to the pavement like down feathers.

***

"He knows," Pete said to Stones. They were sitting at the closed bar of The Peeping Turtle.

"Who? Turk?"

"Yep."

"Sheee-it, Pete! That old nutcase is about as sharp as a bowling ball."

"I don't give a shit what you think, Stones. He fuckin' knows, and he has a fuckin' mouth."

"What would he do? Tell the geese out at Ferry Point? C'mon, Pete. You're being paranoid."

"Yeah, well I ain't takin' no chances."

"What are you gonna do, Pete?"

Officer Pete shrugged, sighed, stood back from the bar and zipped his pants up. Goldie got to her feet and headed for the Ladies Room. "Gonna make sure he won't talk."

Stones looked at the black light tapestries.

Pete left.

***

Midnight.

The rain-soaked and shining streets of the small coastal town of Timber Bay reflected the evenly spaced, tri-lobed streetlights that burned from dusk til dawn. The streets were usually empty at this hour.

Except for Turk.

...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...

Turk flicked a butt into the gutter outside One-Eyed Willie's and lit another.

Nope, not tonight. Gonna go to The Peeping Turtle tonight. Yep. Watch it, Louie! Them fuckers are all over the damn place! Louie! What the hell is that? What the fuck are you doing?

"Happy Lemur Day!" Turk shouted out into the foggy night. "Hah...hah...hah..."

He walked and smoked.

...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...

Turk walked up to the bar at The Peeping Turtle. Music pounded while some redhead that Turk never looked at bounced up and down on a stool. Joe the bald bartender leaned in with a grin. "Heya, Turk? Howzit hangin'?"

Turk slapped a five dollar bill on the bar with a smile. Eyes on the grain. "The usual Joe!"

Joe returned with a shot of bourbon and two twenty-five. Turk slid the quarter toward Joe and pocketed the bills. "Keep the change, Joe!"

Joe grinned. "Thanks, Turk. One step closer to that Jamaican dream house."

"Hah!" Turk tilted his head back and downed the shot. Then he motioned for Joe to come closer.

Joe leaned in again.

Eyes.

"My old grey cat...Wigglesworth...has been known...to raise the dead," he said. A suspicious look crept across Turk's face, followed by a short, quick nod. "Right now...you have formed a mental image of my cat."

Joe nodded back.

"But I will tell you...Wigglesworth...is not...what you imagine him...to be."

Joe nodded slowly. "You are definitely one in a million, Turk."

***

Officer Pete sat in a booth across the loud and smoky room, drinking and watching the redhead, then watching Turk and Joe.

Redhead. Turk and Joe.

Nodding heads. Private talk. Turk spun and headed for the door.

"Happy Fucking Lemur Day! Hah...hah...hah..."

He knows, thought Pete. he knows.

Empty stool. Piercing quiet.

***

Turk rounded the corner into the alley and walked past Stones, who was loading small boxes into the trunk of Pete's cruiser.

Turk marched past.

...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...

Stones stopped loading and watched Turk disappear into the fog enshrouded alley.

"Happy Lemur Day! Hah...hah...hah..."

"He does know," whispered Stones. "He has to know."

Pete came out the back door. Stones was staring at the fog.

"They in the trunk?" he asked.

"Yep."

Pete started up the car. The window slid down. Stones leaned in, looked down the alley, the way Turk had left. "He knows," Stones said.

"Yep."

***

5:00 A.M.

"Heeeeere ducky, ducky ducky!" Turk tossed a handful of special mix into the pond in his backyard.

Sleepy quacks and peeps answered his call.

"Mornin' Turk."

Turk wheeled around, startled by the voice that came from his back porch.

It was Officer Pete.

Turk set the bag of mix down, lit up a Marlboro, and walked up his back steps. He and Pete were face to face.

Turk looked at the deck, studying the wood grain.

"Whatcha doin', Turk?"

Turk's right eye twitched. He said nothing.

Awww, get the hell outta here, Turk! They're gonna fucking kill us! You can't take them all out! Save yourself! Forget about us, we're dead! You can't take them all down! You can't take them all...

He popped his head up, looked over Pete's shoulder and gasped. "Louie!" he screamed "Louie the gooks! The gooks, Louie! What the hell? I got your back, Louie! I got your back!"

Pete jerked back, his rump rattled against Turk's back door.

"What the hell are you doing, Frankie?" Turk shouted.

"Cut that shit out!" Pete barked.

Turk's face went from frightened to amused, "Happy fucking Lemur Day!" he shouted. "Hah...hah...hah..."

"Yeah, I got your fuckin' lemur right here, pal." Pete grabbed Turk by the collar and threw him to the deck. In an instant he had his pistol pressed into Turk's left nostril. Turk was shaking, sweating.

"What the hell do you know about my dealin's with Van Stones and The Peepin' Turtle, Turk? And don't you fuckin' lie!"

Oh mommy, help me, help me...Louie! Where the hell are you? Frankie! Where are you?...oh shit, ohshit, ohoshitohshitohshitohshitohit....help me Frankie! Help me!...

"Oh shit," Turk mumbled.

"Yeah, oh shit is right pal."

And Officer Pete squeezed his trigger.

***

...when they found Turk, he was inside of a large hut. Strewn about the floor like dirty laundry were bodies of several VC. Hands had been cut off, torsos emptied of their contents, heads missing from bodies. Laying on the floor at Turk's feet, was a bloodied Samurai sword. Lining the walls were cages and cages of lemurs. Ring-tailed lemurs. They skittered about in their cages when the squad leader entered the hut.

Turk sat at a table. In his hands was the head of a VC soldier. Perched on the table, picking nits out of the hair of the severed head, was one of the ring-tailed lemurs.

Turk turned to the squad leader. The squad leader had noticed that Turk now possessed the thousand-yard-stare. After a moment, Turk's face brightened with recognition, and he shouted out, "Happy Lemur Day, Sarge! Happy Fucking Lemur Day! Hah...hah...hah."...

***

Headlines in the Timber bay Times:

LOCAL FIXTURE APPARENT SUICIDE

A house fire in south Timber Bay claimed the life of one of Timber Bay's more colorful residents today. Floyd Ruby, 53, known more affectionately to local residents as "Turk," died in his home early this morning. The fire is still under investigation, but Pete Richards, Chief of Police, said that it appears to have been a suicide.

"We think that he doused his home with some type of accelerant, gasoline more than likely, set the fire, and then took his own life with a handgun while the place burned," Chief Richards said. Richards is in charge of the investigation.

Ruby worked for the City of Timber Bay, as part of their program to help employ the mentally challenged folks of the community. He was the caretaker for the waterfowl at Ferry Point Park. He was a fixture at the park, and could always be seen feeding the ducks and the geese, waving to folks, and keeping the pond clean.

He spent a tour in Vietnam, where he was decorated with the Medal of Valor, the Purple Heart, and this nation's highest honor, the Congressional Medal of Honor. His heroic experiences in Vietnam were documented by author Savanterio Nouveaux in his Pulitzer Prize-winning book entitled "Frankie, Louie, and Me." Shortly after the book was released, Ruby was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, and spent eight years in the state hospital in Salem.

"We'll miss him." Chief Richards said.

***

Three prepubescent boys sat on a picnic bench in Ferry Point Park. Hats on backwards. Flannels wrapped around waists. Skateboards leaning against the bench. They were watching an elderly couple feed the ducks.

"You hear about that crazy old guy?"

"The one used to feed the ducks?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"I heard he was some kind of Vietnam hero, or something."

"Yeah."

There was a honking overhead. A goose. The boys looked up. Mallards swooped in from the purple sky and alighted gracefully on the glasstop surface of the pond. They were followed by a large goose, still honking. The goose landed in the pond with a splash. The gulls flew away.

The massive goose honked, and the boys watched as the other waterfowl swam toward it.

"Biggest fucking goose I've ever seen."

"Yeah."

"Weird colors, too."

Blue body, brown neck, white face.

"Hooooonk!...honk...honk...honk..."

"Loudest fucking goose, too."

The boys chuckled, then skated away.

***

Pete swung into the alley behind The Peeping Turtle. Van Stones was waiting for him.

The window buzzed down, Van leaned in. "Evenin', Pete."

"Evenin', Van."

"How's Trixie?"

"Same ol' bitch. How's business?"

"Can't complain." Stones pulled an envelope from his back pocket after glancing up and down the alley. He handed it to Pete. It disappeared into the darkness of the patrol car.

Stones lit a smoke. "You hear about Turk?"

"Yep. Damn shame."

Stones coughed out the smoke from his lungs.

The window slid up.

Stones looked over his shoulder at the back door of The Peeping Turtle. Gretel came bouncing out, and got in on the passenger side.

Pete drove.

Stones left the back door open for Gretel's return.

***

The giant goose waddled through the fog in the alley behind The Peeping Turtle. Stuck its beak in the crack of light along the doorjamb. Opened the door. Waddled in.

A brunette it ignored spun around on the stage. Music thumped. No smoke at floor level. It waddled into Stones' office. Stones had his head buried in a girlie magazine. The goose fluttered up onto the desktop.

FLUTTER FLUTTER FLAP FLAP

Papers scattered. Beer spilled.

"Hooooonk! Honk...honk...honk..."

Stones was face to face with the biggest damn...{goose?}...he had ever seen. "What the fuck is this?" he shouted, looking past the goose and at the door, seeking the perpetrator of the joke. "What the fuck is this shit?"

SMACK!

The goose pecked him hard between the eyes. He toppled backwards, out of his chair, onto the floor.

"Shit!" he screeched. He felt his forehead, blood ran down his temples and into his ears. His fingers penetrated a hole between his eyebrows, sparks of pain flashed in his vision. "Ouch! Fuck!"

"Hooooonk! Honk...honk...honk..."

The goose plopped down on his chest, knocking the air from his lungs. Stones eyes bugged out. He gasped for the air that refused to enter his lungs.

SMACK!

The goose pecked his forehead again...

...and again...

...and again...

***

Midnight.

Officer Pete cruised down Acacia Street. Turk's property was a mound of black, smoldering charcoal.

Burnt Myrtle permeated the atmosphere.

A large goose waddled along the sidewalk.

A hoot owl watched from a blackened Myrtle tree.

Pete slowed down, squinted. Flicked on his spotlight. Aimed it at the goose.

"Biggest damn goose I ever saw."

Realization crept across his narrow mind. "Must be one of Turk's." Sinisteria replaced realization. A grin etched itself across Pete's pock-marked face.

He swerved the cruiser to the right. Two wheels on the sidewalk. Lined up the goose. Floored it.

The engine revved.

The tires screamed.

The owl hooted.

The goose took off running, large wings flapping in the air, webbed feet barely touching the concrete sidewalk.

"Hooooonk! Honk...honk...honk..."

The cruiser bore down on the waterfowl.

The goose looked back at the approaching machine.

And was crushed.

Pete stepped out of the car. Lights on. Engine idling.

He saw the goose. What was left of it.

Feathers fluttered in the night breeze.

A call crackled over the radio. Garbled gibberish only truckers and cops can understand. Vandals. In Ferry Point Park. Pete flicked on his lights, and headed for Ferry Point.

So did the hoot owl.

***

Wigglesworth the old grey cat padded down the sidewalk to the heap of feathers and blood and beak that lay sprawled out.

"Meow."

Wigglesworth licked the feathers.

And the blood.

***

Pete swung his cruiser into the parking lot at Ferry Point Park.

Empty.

He got out. Headed for the pathway. A steel flashlight rested on his shoulder, illuminating the concrete walkway that led around the pond.

The cool night pressed in around him as he walked. Mosquitoes buzzed in his ear. Leaves crackled beneath his feet. He approached the pond. He could smell the algae. There was a splashing. He ran down to the edge of the pond, swooping the light back and forth.

Sleeping ducks. Sleeping geese.

The water swirled.

He stepped to the edge, shining into the depths.

An owl hooted. He shot a glance back over his shoulder, spraying the treetops with the light.

Two orange balls glinted. Then four. Eyes.

"Fuckin' hoot owls." He turned back to the pond.

Black water. Sleeping ducks. Sleeping geese. A rustle in the bushes behind him. Pete spun around, drew his gun. Light speared into the dark brush. Nothing.

The owl hooted.

Pete continued down the path. Light sweeping side to side.

Fuckin' punks...I'll nail your little asses to the dirt...fuckin' punks...

***

Over the tree tops. Gliding. Flapping. Gliding. Flapping.

The moonlight glinted off of the pond.

Descent.

Splash!

***

"Huh?" Officer Pete turned his light on the pond.

"Hoooonk! Honk...honk...honk..." The large goose with the blue body, brown neck, and white face paddled toward him. "Hoooonk! Honk...honk...honk..."

Waking geese. Waking ducks. Quacking and honking. A cacophony of avian winds. The large goose cruised toward him.

Pete raised his pistol and shined his light on the gargantuan goose.

"Fuck me runnin'," he whispers. This goose is like the one he just ran down. He pulled back the hammer on his .38.

"Hooonk! Honk...honk...honk..."

SMACK!

Something jabbed him in the ass. Pete spun around. A half dozen geese were there. They lowered their heads, wagging their tails and hissing in that intimidating way that geese like to hiss.

Bullies.

hisssss...hissss...hisssss...

They charged him.

Pete fired two rounds into the closest goose. Feathers flew up like dust motes. The other geese advanced. Pete stepped back, and shot again.

Another goose tumbled backward.

SMACK!

Again! Jabbed in the ass.

That giant goose! he thought, and spun around.

As he twirled, his patent leather shoe slipped into the water and burrowed deep into the soft mud on the bottom of the pond. Bubbles surfaced. Pete tried to pull out, but he was stuck.

"Hoooonk! Honk...honk...honk..."

Pete whirled again, fell, hearing and feeling the snap in his ankle. He screamed.

The ducks and the geese all watched him. Stared at him. The hoot owl hooted. In the bushes a few feet away, Wigglesworth licked his paws. And a little ring-tailed lemur leaped out onto the trail.

***

Excerpt from the Timber Bay Times:

The investigation into the murder of the owner of The Peeping Turtle, Timber Bay's local strip club, took a turn this afternoon when evidence was found by the Oregon State Police linking the alleged drug trafficking and prostitution ring run by the victim, Vandermeer Stones, to the missing Chief of Police, Peter Richards.

Although the State Police have not released an official statement at this time, a source close to the investigation stated, on the condition of anonymity, that the evidence found indisputably links missing police chief Pete Richards to Stones' drug trafficking and sex for hire operation.

This could help explain the disappearance of Richards, whose patrol car was found parked at Ferry Point Park two days ago, with no sign of the police chief.

"We hope that Chief Richards is not involved in any of this," said patrolman Rusty Sparks. "But things don't look so good right now."

The Oregon State Police have issued an all-points-bulletin for Chief Richards, and are asking for the public's assistance in locating the missing police chief. Richards is described as about six feet tall, two hundred sixty pounds, with a bald head, and clean shaven face. His distinguishing feature is his right eye, which is glass.

***

Three prepubescent boys, hats on backwards, flannels wrapped around waists, skateboards tucked in armpits, sat on the picnic benches, watching the waterfowl.

"Man, that is the biggest fucking goose I've ever seen," said the tall one.

"No, shit," said his short brother.

The boys watched as the goose harassed the seagull, chasing and pecking. Chasing and pecking. Eventually the seagull flew over to the picnic bench, as if seeking protection from the boys.

"Why do you think he's chasing that damned seagull around?" asked the short brother. His taller brother shrugged.

The third boy, the fat one, just stared at the gull, then said, "Probably cause that fucker's got only one eye!"

The three burst out laughing.

The giant goose sat at the water's edge, seeming to dare the gull to come back to the pond.

The gull, with its one good eye, wearily watched the goose.

From the branches of a nearby Japanese Maple, a little ring-tailed lemur looked on with glee.

***

Excerpt from the Timber Bay Times:

The little unidentified animal that has been spotted by several south coast residents at Ferry Road Park recently has finally been identified. The Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife has studied the photos taken by a local resident, and has come to the conclusion that the new resident is a ring-tailed lemur.

So far, efforts to capture the little leaper have been unsuccessful.

"He seems happy where he is," said ODFW's Hank Tiphefer. "We'll keep an eye on him, and see what happens." What is most puzzling to ODFW officials is how the animal arrived in Timber Bay. "Probably somebody's exotic pet that they got tired of." Tiphefer said.

Meanwhile, the ODFW urges curious observers not to frighten, or try to interact with the lemur. They have been known to carry rabies and other diseases.

In a gesture of good fun, the mayor has announced that this Friday will officially be known as Lemur Day.

MARK SANCHEZ

Since his first tale was published in September of 2001, three of Marc's stories have been recommended for the Bram Stoker Award, and he was nominated for the Literary Pushcart Prize in the Short Story category in 2001 and in 2002. He recently completed editing the FRESH BLOOD anthology due out in December from 3F Publications, and is currently editing the LINGERING DEMENTIA anthology. His writing has appeared in small press zines like Alternate Realities, Art of Horror, Bewildering Stories, the Cock-roach-Suckers anthology, Dark Legacy, Dark Moon Rising, Deviant Minds, Expressions, Gothic Gossip, The Haunted, the Horror Haven anthology, Horrorfind, House of Pain, Morbid Musings, The Murder Hole, Nightscapes, ShadowKeep, Sinisteria, The Star Chamber, Star Gate, and The Swamp. His short story collection SUNSET WITH NO TRAFFIC is currently available from Double Dragon Publishing, and his novel CTHULHU'S BANE will be available shortly, also from Double Dragon. He is also working on his new novel SKINNY LIONS. Marc lives on the Oregon coast with his wife Kari, and their daughter Acacia.

Baboshka

By Kailleaugh Andersson

Lugansk was lit up brightly in the early spring night. Everywhere around the city, millions of tiny, pale blue lights tinkled on the green clad branches of the hundreds of trees throughout the city's lush parks, while the overpowering fragrance of lilacs dominated the city's landscape.

Inside the city square, dozens of men were unloading large screen cages from the beds of trucks, carefully clutching their lightweight frames with their rough hands as they carried them from the vehicles for fear of dropping them, fixing them upon a wooden platform in preparation for the night's festivities. In an hour's time, at 10 'o clock, the men would open the mesh cages with a single lever to allow the flit winged prisoners to escape into the night sky to the awe of the crowd that had begun to gather throughout the evening.

Nastasia was sitting quietly in the lightweight folding chair she had brought with her. Every year, for as long as her memory allowed her to remember, she would make the long trip from Archangelsk to this city, Lugansk, in the lower Ukraine to attend this festival. Yearly the locals would hold this festival, their own official city holiday to celebrate the beginning of spring. As she relaxed in her chair, Nastasia reflected back on the first time her mother had brought her here, how it now seemed like so many years ago. At the time, she had been but a mere child, still clutching at the long skirt of her beautiful goddess-like mother. Her mother had now been gone for so many years, sleeping beneath the frozen permafrost near an isolated cavern outside of Archangelsk. Being the last of her family, Nastasia had buried her there on her own, seeing to it that her mother finally rested in the place she had chosen for herself. By then, she had finally begun to look her years of age, her long black hair turning to a color like the ice and her once gracious eyes looking tired and hollow, she remembered. How hard it had been for her to powerlessly watch her mother enter her final stage of life, the wings of her youth falling completely away until she was but a shadow of her former self.

The bustling of the growing crowd helped Nastasia to shake the image of her dead mother away from her eyes. Everywhere around her people of all ages had gathered to witness the celebratory spectacle at hand. They ranged from wild, laughing children who scurried around their parent's feet to the most feeble of the old aged who could only slump in the wheelchairs to which age had chained them, their bones barely strong enough to hold their heads up. At that moment, a light, weeping note was heard from behind a thick screen where dozens of hidden violins had suddenly come to life to signal the beginning of the night's festivities. That bleeding note, high pitched, slowly grew in its volume and clarity until it gradually became pleasing to the ears. Multi-colored lights suddenly came to life from above the large screen, sending a myriad hue of gold, blues, reds and greens, a nuance of pleasant colors, in front of the gathered people.

At that moment, a man hidden from the view of the crowd pulled a simple wooden lever attached to a series of tight metal springs beneath the platform. Immediately the mesh wire cages silently opened to liberate an army of thousands of multi-colored butterflies with stained glass wings. The cloud of tiny flit winged angels swirled upwards out of their prisons and into the myriad of colored rays streaming from the filtered lamps above, their vividly marked transparent wings creating a living rainbow of ever moving, ever changing, flashing and delicate hues. Nastasia gasped at this sight, taking in the splendor of the magical event as the awe inspired crowd around her cheered in delight. Slowly the nuance of millions of tiny colored wings ascended into the heavens like so many vibrant prisms into the night sky, only to later alight throughout the city's lush green parks.

As the townspeople of Lugansk dined and danced to their hearts' content in celebration within the city square, Nastasia walked quietly through a nearby park, admiring the glory of the city night and recalling her childhood memories of her mother as the city rejoiced in their holiday celebration off in the distance. A single lime green colored butterfly fluttered in front of Nastasia, its tiny, black spangled, stained glass wings flashing amongst the tiny pale blue lights that tinkled amongst the trees in the park, the glint of its tiny crepe paper-like wings holding her fascination until a booming laughter inside the park had gathered Nastasia's attention.

Nastasia looked up from the tiny creature to see two young men some yards away who were both giggling at the top of their lungs. The two boys couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen and were both ecstatically drunk, for the two were running and giggling like nine-year-old girls and held wooden switches in their hands. The two boys were waving the switches around in the air in front of them as if they were sword fighting with the air.

Intrigued by their actions, Nastasia moved closer to them, only to see that the two boys were chasing around butterflies with the switches. Nastasia looked to the ground to see the corpses of hundreds of dead butterflies scattered about the ground with their wings broken or slashed. Dozens more trembled in spasms upon the ground, while others with shredded wings crawled upon the ground.

An anger arose in Nastasia's blood, making her heart as hard and cold as marble.

Her white skin suddenly began to change. Like Nastasia's mother's had when she was alive for so many millennia, her own skin now morphed into a nuance of brilliant golden-orange with fine black edging, upon the will of her rising anger. Stained glass wings broke through the skin of her back as if they had been sown there as mere seeds, until they finally opened like four beetle-green, shiny black, ovalish sails behind her back. In the center of her upper wings, a round, red beacon of color showed against the wings like two burning eyes representing her anger.

This was Nastasia's birthright; a gift from her mother and her mother's mother.

With a simple series of movements, Nastasia rose into the air with the quick burst of her appendages and appeared above the boys with a simple blur, her ice blue eyes now a burning red like an avenging angel.

The thousands of tiny butterflies that Nastasia was calling would take care of the first boy. Of that much she was sure of, as they furiously beat their wings and swarmed the fear stricken boy.

And the other boy?

Nastasia had a daughter who would soon merge from her pupa in the cavern outside of Archangelsk.

Surely, Svetlana would be hungry after being reborn.

KAILLEAUGH ANDERSSON

was born December 21st (the longest and darkest night of the year), 1972 in southwest Oregon and presently resides in the north east of Scotland. He is married to erotic horror writer Alex Severin.

Kailleaugh Andersson had his first publishing credit in NORTH WEST UNDERGROUND MAGAZINE and has over 200 horror fiction publishing credits since 1989, despite a six year hiatus of not submitting his work. Some of his more recent publishing credits include inclusion in HOUSE OF PAIN, SHORT SCARY TALES, LILITH'S LAIR, GOTHABILLY, SHADOW OF THE MARQUIS, HAVEN OF DARK BLOOD, GHOSTBREAKERS anthology, VAMPIRE'S REALM OF DARKNESS, SPLATTERPUNK and many more. In addition, he has also enjoyed a relatively large success in writing non-fiction, where he has had over 500 published credits since 1995.

Kailleaugh Andersson is also the co-owner and editor of Massacre Publications, which is a small press company featuring titles due in 2003/04 by such rising authors as Alex Severin, Hertzan Chimera, Rickey Windell George, Anthony Beale, C. Dennis Moore and Brian W. Cooke. In addition, Massacre Publications is also working on the release of several anthologies, most notably BLASPHEMY, which is being co-published with SST Publications.

Kailleaugh Andersson is presently trying to finish a novella entitled "BENEDICTION".

For more information, please visit the following web sites:

http://kailleaugh.homestead.com/entry.html

www.massacrepublications.co.uk

If you liked the Kailleaugh Andersson story in this particular publication and would like to receive updates about forthcoming work, as well as periodic, exclusive sample stories, please send an e-mail to: bannedfiction@netscape.net

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Table of Contents

The Night Of The Party