1 Dark Fire As a preacher and a farmer, my father's faith was forever being tested.

"Either by the weather or the whether," he would say referring to the forces of nature and the whims of man. At the supper table at night he related to us some of the minor problems people had brought him that day. "Why, Brother Harris wants to know whether or not he should let Susan go to Saturday night's dance at the high school." Or, "Sister Willadean's havin' heart spells again. She asks us to pray for her." And that was it. Just a sentence--two at the most. Daddy was sparse with his words except when in the pulpit. I reckon he saved them up during the week so he'd have enough come Sunday. Only once do I remember Daddy cautioning me not to repeat what was said at supper. "Jeremiah, this won't leave the table," he said. Daddy was the only one who called me by my given name. Everyone else, including Mama, called me Jeb which comes from the initials of my name--Jeremiah Ezekial Bonner. It wasn't hard to see the mark of Daddy's calling in the names of his children. He named my younger sisters Sarah, Rachel and Ruth. Daddy was Old Testament in his thinking. Whatever problems came his direction, Daddy seemed to weather them all in his steady, quiet way. At least that's how i t always seemed to me until 1964 the year I turned 17 and Ray Paschall and his daughter moved home. I don't know how he did it, but somehow he managed to fit farming in between the sermons, funerals, and prayer meetings. Like nearly everyone else we knew, Daddy was a tobacco farmer. In Calloway County, Kentucky, a man might grow two hundred acres of corn and have a hundred head of cattle but if he grew an acre of tobacco he was a tobacco farmer. That's because, like time, tobacco work never stopped. Daddy started the cycle in February by preparing his plant beds just about the time last year's crop went to the sale barn in Murray. In May, after any chance of cool temperatures was gone Daddy hitched the tobacco setter to the Farmall and planted 4-and-a-half acresall that would hang in the tobacco

2 barn. In the heat of the mid-summer the tobacco was ready to top and oil which is a back-busting job where you snap off the flowering top of the plant and break off any extra shoots or "suckers" which might take away from the strength of the main stalk. We also managed to get in one or two hoeings before it was ready to cut in August. Life comes to dead stop when tobacco's ready to cut. We'd get up before dawn and head to the tobacco patch at first light. Some of the neighbors would show up towing scaffold wagons and the few extra hired hands Daddy brought on just for cutting. No one is ever in a hurry to begin cutting tobacco, so the hands would stand around drinking last cups of coffee or sit on a tailgate while working an edge on the thin-bladed, hatchet-shaped tobacco knives with a file. Daddy or one of the neighbor men whose crop we'd help cut over the next couple weeks would get us started with a "Well boys, time's awasting." Then we'd start down the rows of plants wielding the ax-like tobacco knives like so many Paul Bunyans in a stand of trees. After cutting the plant at the base we'd set em down with the care a mother gives a sleeping baby so as not to break any of the valuable leaves off the stalk. We'd do several rows like this then take a water break while the stalks wilted a while in the heat. Then we'd take up the five-foot long, slender tobacco sticks and the cone-shaped metal spike and skewer the tobacco stalks eight to a stick. Later with some of the hands pulling the scaffold wagons behind tractors and others walking the rows, we'd hoist the heavy sticks onto the racks of the wagons. Four and half acres, fifteen pairs of hands, over two days. On the third day we'd pull all the wagons down to Daddy's tobacco barn and spend most of the day setting the heavy sticks of tobacco stalks with their sticky leaves into the three tiers in the barn. We'd start at the top of the barn, some twenty feet up, with the young men and boys standing on the cross pieces lacing the top of the barn and the men standing on the ground or in the back of pick-ups handing the tobaccoheavy sticks up to us. After the top layer was done we'd fill the lower tiers.

3 It was an unwritten rule that women could help in the field but not in the barn. The barn was off limits. I don't ever remember Mama cutting tobacco but she worked as hard as any man. It was her job to feed all the hands lunch. Mama started lunch while she was cooking our breakfast and didn't finish cleaning up until late into the evening just in time to plan the next day's meal. Daddy always said there's three things that make life worth living: the first is God and the third is Mama's cooking. He never gave voice to the second item but he made it clear that the order was important. In September, just before autumn revival, time came to lay the low-burning, smoky trench fires under the tobacco which gave it its cure and its name. Daddy grew dark fire tobacco instead of burleigh which is air cured and needs no firing. I asked Daddy once why he didn't grow the less troublesome burleigh -they brought the same price at auction. He shrugged his answer. Firing time was a trial because the fires had to be kept low and constantly watched. Daddy bought a truckload of sawdust every year from the sawmill to keep the fires smothered. Any tobacco farmer who cut corners on his fires ran the risk of watching his crop and barn go up in flames. After eight weeks of curing Daddy'd let the fires burn out. The tobacco, brown and leathery but almost weightless with all the moisture smoked out of its leaves and stalk, would hang through the coldest part of the winter until it came time to strip. Daddy'd hire on old hands--men in their seventies and eighties, as wrinkled and leathery as the tobacco itself , who were experienced at sorting and stripping the crop. These men stripped the leaves from the stalk and tied them into neat ropes an inch or so thick which were then baled up and hauled to the auction barn in February or March just in time for the whole cycle to begin again. August, 1964 came on as Augusts always do in southwestern Kentucky like a blast of dry furnace air. Daddy's tobacco was ready for cutting, and he'd called up Junior Harris, Lloyd Hart and the others he cut with and had set Monday mor ning to begin in his patch.

4 "Junior, we'll cut our place Monday and Tuesday, put it up in the barn Wednesday, and get to your place Thursday," Daddy told Brother Harris Sunday evening after church. "Be fine, Brother Bonner." It was funny how my father was always Brother Bonner Wednesday nights and on Sundays but just Nate the rest of the time. Junior turned to me, "Jeb, Susan told me to tell you hello," he said winking at me like this was just our secret. "She's lookin' forward to comin' home Saturday." Susan was a junior girls' counselor at the Sandy Creek Bible Camp on the other side of Paducah. She'd been gone a month and had written me three post cards. We'd known each other as long as I could remember and had played together when we were toddling and followed each other through the county school system. Last spring we went to a couple movies together. "I think she's missed you, boy," he said and thumped me on the back as he walked away. "See you tomorrow." Junior stopped about ten feet away from us and t urned around. "Did you hear the news, Nate? Ray Paschall's moved back into his mama's place. He's got that girl of his with him. Can you imagine bringin' that little half-breed back." "Junior," Daddy didn't raise his voice to cut Brother Harris off. "Sorry, Brother Bonner. I just thought you'd like to know seein' he used to be a member here. See you in the mornin'." That night after we got home Daddy was making preparations for tomorrow's cutting. "Sarah, your mama will be needin' help tomorrow. There'll be bout sixteen hands to feed if Mose comes through with four coloreds for me." Mose Bias, was the biggest, blackest man I knew and according to Daddy was worth any two whites in tobacco. He had worked in Daddy's tobacco for wages since before I was born and also in the fields of many others so that every August since I could remember I saw Mose Bias and some of his people as we cut and hung tobacco. Daddy and I got to the field at six-thirty. We parked next to the line of scaffold wagons at the end of the field. Daddy was setting out coolers of ice water on the tail of his truck when Junior and his oldest son Jimmy pulled up in his blue Ford. We exchanged "mornin's" and busied ourselves by laying out bundles of tobacco sticks loaded on a flatbed trailer beh ind

5 Daddy's truck. In the next few minutes more of the hands showed up and stood around, a few drinking sodas while others drank coffee. Finally, Mose and his crew showed up in 45 flatbed Chevy at five til seven. Mose opened a creaking door and climbed out of the flatbed and walked over to Daddy with his hand extended. "Mornin' Brother Bonner," he said to Daddy in his deep preacher's voice. "Mornin' Mose," Daddy returned. "You know my boys, Samuel and George," he said motioning toward two men in their twenties standing alongside the flatbed. They were big and strong and almost as black as Mose. "I don't b'lieve you've met my youngest boy, David." David appeared to be a couple years younger than me but was my height and stockier. "Glad you could make it, boys," Daddy said tilting his head back. They answered Daddy with nods. The passenger door groaned and a slender girl in bluejean overalls wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat climbed out of the Chevy. She kept her eyes down as she moved toward Mose. "This here's my granddaughter Jess'ca. This'll be her first time in tobacca, but she'll do fine, I spect." She acknowledged her presence by looking up at Daddy for a moment. "Mornin'," Daddy replied. Next to her grandfather's dark bulk, Jessica looked out of place. If Mose was the color of midnight then Jessica was like the first pale of morning, neither light nor dark. She resembled Mose in only two things: the shiny blackness of her wavy hair which was tied back from her face and the intensity of her dark eyes. It seemed like all eyes were on Jessica until Mose spoke again, "We're ready." "Let's get to cuttin'," I heard Daddy say. This shook us into movement. Hands were reaching into toolboxes and pickup beds for tobacco knives, and hats were being placed on heads as protection against the impending heat. As I headed for the first row of tobacco, I saw Junior Harris's eyes follow Jessica into the field. He shifted his glance to my father and

6 moved like he was going to say something but stopped and put on his cap and headed a couple rows over to start cutting. We cut for two hours, stopping only for water and to wipe the sweat off our faces with tobacco-stained hands. Then came time to stake what we'd cut onto the tobacco sticks. We started down the rows punching the thick end of the tobacco stalk over the cone and onto the stick, eight per stick. When we had finished staking the tobacco Daddy and Junior pulled the scaffold wagons alongside the rows with the tractors while the rest of us lifted the plant-heavy sticks onto the wagon. We worked that way until lunch. I didn't get another close look at Jessica until it came time to eat. I had filled my plate with country ham, vegetables, and corn bread. Daddy, Junior and some of the men sat around one of the tables while the rest of us found shade under the walnut trees. I sat off to one side with my back to a tree but not too far from Mose, his sons, and Jessica. Jessica was seated on the grass at an angle to me. When she sat down, she took off the hat she'd worn in the to bacco and let her hair down. It fell thick and wavy across her shoulders and back. One of the straps of her overalls was unbuckled and the front of her blue shirt clung to her with sweat revealing curves the overalls hid. For all the sticky tobacco grime, I couldn't keep from looking at her. All through lunch I found reasons to glance her way. When I got up to refill my glass I made sure that I walked around the backside of the food tables so that I could see her from the other side. When I headed back to my spot under the walnut, I walked near the men's table and heard Junior's voice rise in hushed anger. "I'm telling you, Nate, that girl's Ray Paschall's half -breed daughter," Junior said trying to keep his strained voice low. "So what if it is the Paschall girl, Junior," my father answered him. "Ray's got no business bringing her back here," Junior hissed. "Forget it, Junior, you cain't blame the child for the sins of the father," Daddy said. "Let's get back to the tobacca." "I'll tell you one thing, Mose ain't bringing that half-breed to cut my tobacco." I couldn't stop to listen without being obvious, so I moved back to my spot under the walnut. I tipped my tea to my mouth and

7 at the same time glanced over past Mose right at Jessica. I blinked hard and looked away because she was looking at me. We returned to the tobacco at 1:30 and worked til seven. Daddy and I were the last ones to leave the field. We'd stayed to move the loaded scaffold wagons down to the barn where they'd sit until Wednesday morning. When we finished we got in the pickup and headed back to the house. "Daddy, who's Ray Paschall?" Daddy was driving slow so as not to raise a dust cloud on the gravel road. Daddy didn't say anything at first but finally gave a short sigh and said, "You know Billy Paschall who lives across the river. Ray's his brother." "What'd he do?" I asked knowing that Daddy didn't really want to talk about it. "He left his wife and run off with Mose's oldest daughter bout the time you was born," Daddy was trying real ha rd not to say more than he had to. "Is that girl his daughter?" "That's the talk," he said. "Jeremiah, what's your sudden interest in Ray Paschall and his family?" "I heard Brother Harris talkin' bout him." "Brother Harris is a good man, but he has been k nown to talk too much," Daddy said." "What's got Brother Harris so riled up about Jessica?" Daddy raised an eyebrow at the mention of her name but said only, "God didn't intend for whites and coloreds to mix. That's the way it is." "But, Daddy. . . ." "Jeremiah," Daddy started out slowly. "Ray Paschallthis girl's daddywas married to Junior's sister when he run off with Mose's daughter. There's some things a man has trouble forgivin' as much as he might need to." Daddy and I didn't talk anymore about Jessica. She worked Tuesday, and I watched her as much as I dared. The sun was working magic on her skin as it turned her a golden caramel color. Our eyes met a couple of times when we were loading tobacco onto a scaffold wagon and again during lunch. Our paths finally crossed when the cutting was nearly done. She came down the row I was cutting my way up, and I stood up

8 and turned sideways for a moment to allow her to pass between me and the tobacco. Her face came within inches of mine as she turned her back to the row of plants and slowly side-stepped past me with a stake of tobacco over her right shoulder. The sweat on her face and neck stood out like the dew in the morning sunlight. I wanted so much to take the load from her shoulder, to slip my hand around her waist and pull her closer to me, to reach out and push aside a lock of hair that had fallen from under her hat across her face. But, I couldn't. Fear prevented me. Fear of what Mose and Daddy would do. Fear of what others would say. Fear of Jessica. "Pardon me." Her voice was soft and clear and she looked down as she said it. Then she was gone. On to other rows to collect tobacco filled sticks to hang on the wagons. The next day we hung the tobacco in the barn. The unwritten code of tobacco farming prevented Jessica from helping, so I didn't see her that day or the next at Junior Harris' field. Whether Brother Harris had anything to do with it or not, Jessica didn't cut at his place or any other I worked at that summer. Most evenings after working in tobacco I went down to the creek that ran along our property below the tobacco patch to go for a swim. I was on my way to the creek one evening after cutting all day at Lloyd Hart's place. I turned the old blue Dodge pickup off the blacktop and onto the gravel. I raised a hand at Jimmy Harris as he passed by me going too fast in his daddy's pickup. He gave a wild wave back. The county road runs straight for half a mile before it takes a sharp turn right and then immediately left. After that it straightens o ut for a short ways before coming to an old wooden bridge that crosses over the creek. Our place begins past the bridge and follows on both sides of the road for a quarter mile. The drive to our house cuts off to the left, but the tobacco patch and the swimming hole are to the right. I saw the form sitting on the edge of the narrow bridge after I came around the second turn. I thought it was one of the neighbor kids fishing in the creek, but then she turned toward me and got up quick and I saw that it was J essica. As she turned to face me I saw that she had a sizable rock in her

9 hand. As I got closer I saw also that tears had made trails in the dust on her face. I slowed to a stop as I got to the bridge. "Somethin' wrong?" I said through the open window. It sounded lame but I didn't know what else to say to her. She stared at me, her dark eyes fierce, as if she wasn't sure what I was going to do. "Are you all right?" I said. "I'm fine," she finally answered. She wiped the tear trails from her face staining the short sleeves of her blouse with the dust. "You 'customed to fishin' with rocks?" I'd meant it to be humorous but she just continued with her hard gaze. "I thought I'd go fishing for the beer-bottle-throwing driver of a blue pickup," she said. My eyebrows went up in confusion, but I thought I saw the beginnings of a smile as she saw me struggle to make sense of her words. "Your buddy in the blue Ford ran by here whooping it up and throwing beer bottles. I thought you were him coming back to take another shot at me." My eyebrows righted themselves as the picture came clear. Jimmy. Jimmy Harris--the blue Ford pickup I had passed when I turned onto the gravel. "Are you all right?" She nodded her head. "He threw three, so he must've been at least half way through the six-pack. His aim was awful." "Can I take you home. . .just in case." I was either desperate or inspired. Please, God, let her say yes, I thought as she gave the idea thought. "I'm not far from Grandma's, and I can take care of myself" she said hefting the rock. "But, okay. . .just to keep me from hurtin' your friend if shows back up." I watched her as she walked around the front of the truck. My eyes followed her as I reached across to open the passenger door. As she climbed in I realized that this was the first time I'd ever seen her without the grime of tobacco covering her. She wasn't in overalls, but was wearing bluejean cut -offs that came above her knees. Her hair stood out darkly against the stark whiteness of her blouse. "Is everybody around here always so hospitable?" she asked. "You must be talkin' bout Jimmy," I said.

10 "Are you and Jimmy real close or what?" I could tell she was having fun with me. "Jimmy? He's four years older than me. We just work tobacco together sometimes. His family goes to Daddy's church." "Is that where he learned to talk so sweet?" "What'd he say?" I was on the defensive. "It isn't worth repeating but let's just say he compared me to a striped African herd animal and a female dog." "Son of a . . ." "Close but not quite," she pointed up the road as I slipped the Dodge into gear. "You know my grandma's place?" She said. "Mazy Paschall?" "Sure, it's just up the road from our place." "Daddy and I are staying there. He's helping Grandma with the farm." "For how long?" I know this sounded too hopeful. "Daddy says he's not sure," she said more seriously. "He says we'll have to see how things work out." We were almost to the Paschall place and I didn't know how to answer when Jessica said, "Umm, all you do is work in tobacco?" Embarrassed, I looked down at myself and realized that I was covered in tobacco grime and dust and must have smelled like a hog. I was pulling into her grandmother's drive and was still fumbling for words. "I, uh, was goin' down to the creek for a swim when I stopped." Great! She probably thinks I don't know what a shower is, I thought after I'd said it. "Sounds like fun," she said as I came to a stop in front of the small brick house which sat on a hill rising sharply above the road. "Who knows, you might look respectable when you're cleaned up." My head was swimming as she gave the passenger door a shove behind her. "Thanks for the ride." She smiled, waved and headed into the house. "I'll see you," was all I could manage as I backed out. I'd neve r been paid much attention by any girls other than Susan and that just in the last year. I looked at my dirty face in the rearview mirror but didn't see anything remotely respectable. Everything about me was filthy. My sandy-colored hair, which hadn't seen a comb since the night before, was plastered

11 down by my hat. My face was narrow and my hazel eyes a little big. I guess it was an okay face. I thought about the rest of me. I was in decent shape from working all summer but the only tan I had was a farmer's tan stopping at my work clothes. I was just over five foot nine, almost a full inch shorter than my fatherevidence to my father's way of thinking that evolution wasn't all it claimed to be. I was too tired to go swimming the next night, but Wednesday we finished up early at Hart's place. It wasn't five yet, and I was hot and filthy as usual, so I told Daddy I was going for a swim. He told me he'd have Mama keep a plate warm for me. I parked the truck above the creek near where we'd cut our tobacco. Before I got out of the Dodge, I pulled off my clothes and put on the shorts I kept in the back for swimming. I opened my door and slipped my work boots back on my bare feet and headed through the trees and down the embankment to the wide spot in the creek. I took off my boots and set them under a willow along the bank and made a shallow dive into the creek. The water was about four feet deep this time of year but cool in the shade of the trees. "You do clean up pretty good." I nearly jumped at the sound of Jessica's voice but then I thought about it and wasn't so surprised. Just happy. "How'd you know I was here." "I saw your truck from the house. Grandma's house sits up high." Her voice was cool as the shade. She sat down between the roots of a willow. She laughed. "What's so funny?" "It's just that Jimmy called me a zebra the other day," she said. "You're the one with stripes." I was two-tone. Deeply tanned from the neck up and on the arms but pale elsewhere including the white band on my wrist where I wore my watch. "Farmer's tan," I smiled at her. "Can I join you?" she asked as she leaned over to take off to untie her shoes. She was wearing shorts and a shirt tied at the waist, but I could see a shiny material of a blue bathing suit peeking out from under her shirt. "Sure."

12 "It's Jeremiah, right?" She said as she unbuttoned her blouse and took it off. "That's what Daddy calls me," I answered. "Everyone else calls me Jeb." "Jeb," she said trying out the name like it was a new word. "I'm Jessica." She stepped into the creek wearing the swimsuit and her bluejean cutoffs. "I know." We swam for better than an hour. We splashed at each other, and I showed her the beaver dam at the far end of the bend in the creek. The sun was getting low in the sky and its light was filtering through the trees on the west side of the creek when Jessica stepped out of the water and took her seat in the willow roots. "I've got to get home before Daddy gets worried about me." She lowered her voice, "He worries a lot." "I'd better head for home, too. Can I give you a ride?" "You're sweet, but I don't think Daddy'd understand me driving up in your truck soaking wet. You'd better let me walk. You coming back tomorrow?" "Depends how dirty I get in tobacco," I answered. "Well then, its a cinch you'll go swimming," she said with a laugh. We were both sitting on the bank putting on shoes when she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. "I didn't thank you for stopping the other day," she said softly. "Thanks." With that she got up and headed out of the woods and across the field. The creek became our meeting place. For two weeks, missing Sundays, we swam together closing the distance between us a little each day. We talked more than we swam, and soon she left the safety of the willow and stretched out on the bank with her head resting on my leg as we talked. September was closing in and it came time to fire the tobacco. The next day was Saturday, and Daddy and I didn't have to get so early since we were working in the barn. After breakfast he headed over the road to the tobacco barn, and I went to the tool shed to put the front-end loader on the tractor. After I finished I drove it over to the field so we could load the rough wood planks we used to burn under the

13 tobacco. Daddy had already scooped four low trenches in the dirt under the tobacco. We laid out the fires in the trenches. Daddy poured diesel sparingly along the wood and lit the fires. I used the tractor to bring two loads of sawdust up to the barn so we could spread it over the fires as t hey burned. It was three-fifteen when Daddy said the fires were burning right. "I'm gonna go work on my sermons. If you need me, I'll be in my study." Daddy's study was just a desk in his bedroom and a Smith-Corona portable typewriter he used to type his sermons and church bulletins. As Daddy drove back to the house, I drew in a deep breath and entered the smoke-filled world of the tobacco barn. It was like working in a house fire, yellow smoke rising from the glowing trenches and filling the air. It was difficult to see and almost impossible to breathe. I spent the afternoon feeding the fires a careful diet of planks and sawdust. About nine or ten, depending on how I felt, I'd quit adding fuel and keep an eye on them until they burned low. I heard a truck pull up about six and stepped out of the haze to find Mama setting dinner on the fender of the tractor for me. "Your Daddy sent me to feed you and see how you're doin'. Everything all right?" "Tell Daddy, everything's fine." "Well, I'm gonna go give him his dinner," Mama said. "Bring the dishes back when you come." After dinner, I drove the tractor back to where we'd dumped the sawdust and planks and got another load of each. It was getting dark when I smothered the fires with the last shovels full of sawdust for the night. I didn't hear Jessica arrive but saw her silhouette outlined in the barn door. From across the smoke-filled barn her shape seemed to shift in the doorway. I stuck the shovel in the dirt and walked over to her. She didn't say a word. She stepped up and kissed me on the mouth and as she did she pulled me close to her. My hands slid around her and into the small of her back. My left hand slipped up her back searching for her neck. I opened my fingers and ran them slowly through her hair. After a minute she pulled her head back and looked at me. "You know, just once I'd like to know what you smell and taste like without the tobacco."

14 I laughed and kissed her again. "That's a date." There we stood at the threshold of the barn, a foot in two worlds-one ethereal, the other harshly real--recognizing neither. Just each other. I look back now and don't know what made us think it possible that somehow we could have a place in either. I don't know how long we stood there holding on to each other before I saw Daddy standing on the other side of the Farmall. His silence cut through our embrace like no knife could. "Daddy." He turned and walked back to the pickup and left. "Damn." Jessica's eyes darkened as she shifted her gaze back to me. "Damn who, Jeb? Damn him? Damn me? Or damn us. Which is it?" I had no answer. The earth seemed to shift under me as I reached out to her. I was too late. I watched as she ran across the field toward the Paschall place. When I walked through the front door it was after midnight. Daddy was seated at the table drinking coffee. His Bible was open in front of him. He looked up from the book as I entered the kitchen. We stood there looking at each other, each of us daring the other to break the silence. Daddy won. "Daddy, I. . . ." I started but he cut me off. "Jeremiah, I was just finishin' my sermon for tomorrow. I was going to preach on Joshua and God's promise to his people, but maybe I need to change that to Luke chapter 15." I thought for a moment. "The prodigal son." I said softly. "The prodigal son." He said it like a verdict. "There's right and wrong, Jeremiah." He rarely raised his voice at me but now I felt like I was sitting in the first pew in church. "This is wrong!" "What's wrong, Daddy?!" I had never spoken to my father before. "What sin have I committed? Kissing Jessica? Holding her? Or is it her color? Which is it, Daddy?" "That girl's the product of sin, Jeremiah! Her parents broke the commandments!" "What commandment have I broken?" "Jeremiah. . . ."

15 "What commandment has she broken?! Which one, Daddy?!" Now I sounded like a holy roller. "You always preach about God's forgiveness. About God's love." "Love? What do you know about love?" He shouted back. "I love her, Daddy." "No," his voice retreated. "This is lust. Lust, Jeremiah. It's sin! Stop or God will. . .will punish you." "Let Him." I turned and left the house returning to the safety of the night. I knew where I had to go as I jumped in the pickup. The Paschall place was less than a mile from our farm. When I got there, a man answered the door after the second knock. At first, it didn't register with me that he was completely dressed. "She's not here," he said not waiting for my question. "Where is she?" "She came home and left a couple hours ago. You're Jeb." It wasn't a question. "Is she at Mose's?" "You can try, but I don't think you'll find her there," Ray Paschall said. I stared at him. "Maybe she's like her mother. Can't stay one place too long." I'd heard enough. I was scared. More from what Ray had n't said than from what he did say. I climbed back in the Dodge and drove as fast as I dared across the river to Mose's place. I'd been there several times dropping hands off during tobacco season. His dogs announced my arrival. Lights came on and a large dark shape filled the doorway. It was Samuel. "I'm lookin' for Jessica," I said. "Is she here?" Samuel eyed me but didn't say anything. A few seconds passed and Mose pushed his way past his son. "Who is it?" he asked as he stepped onto the porch of the fra me house. He was adjusting his pants. "It's Jeb. Jeb Bonner. I'm looking for Jessica." "She don't stay here," Mose said. "What you want her for? It's after one." "I don't know where she is. She's not at home." I couldn't explain what had happened. "I've got to find her. . .to talk with her."

16 "You say she isn't home? What's all this, boy?" "She. . .we. . .she was up to the barn earlier, but left. I went to the Paschall place to find her but she'd left there, too. I thought she might be here." Mose looked at me. "You leavin' out some details. We'll get those later. Samuel, we'd better help find her." I headed out of Mose's place not knowing where to look. I'd lived here all my life and knew the county as well as anybody but didn't have clue where Jessica might be. The thought came to me that she might be down at the creek, so I pointed the truck back toward the farm. I parked near the barn and was glad that the fires were still giving off light--it cut the darkness and helped me find the break in the trees leading down to the creek. "Jess! Jess!" Please God, let me find her. My last words to Daddy came back to haunt my thoughts as I searched for her. Please, God, punish me, not her. I stood on the bank of the creek calling her name over and over and bargaining with God to myself. Behind me I heard the sound of a vehicle coming down the lane toward the barn. I turned and ran thankful again for the light of the tobacco fires. Two things became clear as I ran toward the barn. The first was the set of headlights coming my direction and the other was the awareness that the barn was bathed in light. Too much light. I knew the cause before I crossed the threshold into the barn. Fire. The trench fires had found something more to their liking than sawdust and wood scraps. Flames were crawling up the far side of the barn consuming wood and tobacco. The fire hadn't spread past the one wall. There was hope in that, I thought, as I ran to the back looking for the hose and faucet near the back door. I might be able to save the b arn and the crop! All other thoughts left my mind as I worked my way through the black and yellow smoke. I found the hose and groped for the free end with my right hand as I reached to turn on the water with the left. I was startled when I burned my hand turning the spigot, but my first thought that the fire might be beyond my control didn't occur until I grabbed for the hose only to have it melt into the flesh of my other hand. I yelled and pulled my hands back. Flames were everywhere. I couldn't see but thought I heard voices from far

17 away. The tobacco above and around me was smoldering and feeding the fire. Flaming pieces of tobacco were dropping all around me when I felt strong hands grab me from behind. I twisted my shoulders and turned to fight back but a fist smashed into my stomach and I doubled over. I watched the flames engulf the tobacco as I was dragged across the floor of the barn by the strong hands. I was fighting for breath as the smoke thinned. When we were well clear of the barn the hands let go and I found myself looking straight up at Mose Bias. "Jeb, you alive?" I coughed my answer. "Let's look at you," he said hauling me to my feet. "Lord Jesus, God in heaven, boy. Look at you." I looked down and saw what was left of my pants. As for my shirt there was more holes than cloth left. Pain registered in my hands and the patches of skin where my shirt had burned away. "I'm alive," was all I could think to say in answer to Mose's question. I didn't have time to take complete inventory because as I looked down the lane I could see two pairs of headlights approaching. Daddy got out of one truck and Samuel out of the other. Daddy stood silently watching the flames devour his barn and tobacco. He looked at Mose and then me. "Jeremiah?" I could hear the fear in his voice. "I'm okay, Daddy." "I'll call the fire trucks," Mose said turning toward his truck. "Don't." Daddy spoke calling him back. "There's no need a wastin' their time. Let it burn." We stayed and watched the fire burn itself out. By dawn t here wasn't anything left except a smoldering pile spread out where the barn had been. Daddy, Mose, and I were the only ones left as the dawn crept out of the east. Some of the neighbors had come to help and check on us but had left when it was obvious nothing could be done. Mama had stayed most of the night and wanted to take me to the hospital to have my hands looked at but quit after it was obvious I wouldn't leave. "Nathan, go home and get some sleep." I'd never heard Mose call my father by his first name.

18 "It's Sunday mornin', Mose." Mose smiled. "Come on, Jeb. Let's get you looked after." All my anger toward him had burned up with the barn. "Daddy, you go on. You got a sermon to preach. I've got to find Jessica." He looked straight at me. "No, I'll give you a hand." We both turned our heads at the sound. Mama's car was headed back up the lane in our direction. It was hard to look very long because the sun was up over the horizon and staring straight at us, but I saw she had a thermos in her hand as she got out of the car. "I brought coffee and something for your hands, Jeb." "Okay, Mama." Tired of squinting I turned back toward the pile that had been the barn and Daddy's tobacco. "I brought something else, too, Jeb," Mama said. As I turned toward Mama, I heard a car door open and saw the familiar outline stand and move my direction. "Look at you, Jeb Bonner," Jessica's voice was uneven. "Always covered in tobacco."

GRAUDELIA Chapter One By Jodi Behncke

19 I Hazel Trundell swung her long legs over the porch railing and sprinted across the yard, over the pasture fence and into the adjacent woods followed closely by a large, black and white dog named Janus. She entered the wood and quickly glanced around behind her, no sign of them, she thought to herself. Then she notice Janus' pricked ears and alert stance directed to Hazel's left, she looked just in time to see a tiny pair of feet shoot behind the trunk of a large walnut tree. Janus immediately darted to the tree, stuck her nose to the ground near the base of the tree and silently, suddenly, she too disappeared. Hazel gasped and approached the walnut tree cautiously. She walked carefully around the base of the tree circling it twice. Nothing unusual, but no Janus either; Hazel stopped, puzzled and slightly frightened. What would her aunt and uncle say if she came home without Janus? "Janus? Janus?" Hazel called softly. She paused to listen, but heard nothing but the dry leaves, high above in the trees, crinkling in the breeze and the distant crowing of her aunt's chickens up in the yard. Hazel circled the tree again and there was a loud pop as her foot crushed a walnut fruit, as the sound faded a hollow soundlessly opened in the base of the tree at Hazel's feet. Ah-hah! She crouched down and peered into the hollow, she could see nothing, but could barely hear the gentle tinkling of Janus' tags and collar. "Janus? Janus?" Hazel whispered carefully. Janus' nose appeared inside the hollow of the tree barely perceptible against the surrounding blackness. "Come on, girl, come out." Hazel cooed. Janus began to turn away, but Hazel darted her hand into the hollow to grab her collar. She instantly found herself standing in a long, dark tunnel. Hazel looked behind her and saw that the tree hollow she had just passed through was high above her, about 25 feet, and the walls were steep and slippery with moisture. Janus was quickly disappearing down the long dark tunnel corridor. Seeing no way out from the way she had come in and noticing that Janus was fearlessly continuing on, Hazel trotted after Janus as quickly as she could in the low tunnel.

20 Hazel reached Janus who was still following her nose down the long corridor. Although the tunnel was obviously underground it was strangely light once she was inside. The walls themselves seemed to emit a strange brownish yellow light, creating a candlelit atmosphere. Janus and Hazel continued on down the tunnel, Hazel continually glan ced all around looking for glimpse of sunlight that would indicate a way out. After what seemed like hours, sunlight appeared ahead in the tunnel. The end was in sight finally; just as this thought formed Hazel heard a strange music. It was singing, voices, but they had a strange instrumental quality. Hazel saw a low opening at the end of the tunnel and she could glimpse sunlight and a grassy field within the frame of the opening. Janus bounded out of the opening with loud ringing barks as she joyfully left the tunnel. Hazel followed her and found that she was in a great, green field with a bright white sun shining high in the blue sky. Hazel called to Janus, but stopped abruptly as she became aware that faces were emerging from the blades of grass, the low growing bushes, and the abundant wildflowers. She stooped close to one of the wildflowers and peered at the small face within. "Hello, miss," said a voice from a small purple bloom on the stalk. Hazel moved closer and could see a small lavender girl curled within the blossom. "Hello," Hazel replied, hardly knowing what she was saying. She continued to stare and the girl slowly stood and stretched leisurely. Hazel noticed that the girl was very young and she was wearing a dress made out of two white lily petals. "We've been waiting for you to arrive," said the small lavender girl. "We've been waiting a long, long time for you to come. Won't you sit down and join us for some tea?" The lavender girl motioned to an area directly behind Hazel. Hazel turned and saw a large brown toadstool rising up out of the green turf, a second green toadstool even larger than the first also appeared and as it reached its full height a tea service appeared to be blooming from the flowers surrounding the toadstools. Hazel took a seat on the smallest toadstool and immediately noticed that small forms were

21 emerging from the grass and flowers and were surrounding her. "I'm sorry," said Hazel. "But who has been expecting me and where am I, anyway?" At that moment Hazel heard excited barking coming from the opposite side of the hill, it was Janus whom she had quite forgotten about until that moment. "Oh, please excuse me," Hazel said starting up. "I must go find my dog, Janus; we need to be getting back right away." "Don't worry about her," said the lavender girl. "She knows where she is and she is among friends whom she hasn't seen for ages, let her enjoy herself and we will entertain you." "Friends? Ages? Why, Janus is only two years old, we got her when I was 10 and she was just a puppy. She doesn't have any friends besides me and the cats at my aunt's house, she has never left the farm to go anywhere before." There was a low chuckling and murmuring all around the circle of strange people at this comment from Hazel. Several of the shorter, plump green men were sniggering and whispering behind their hands. Hazel noticed that several young and old women had gathered around the tea service and were pouring tea into the upturned blossom of a sunflower. A young bluish maid wearing a dress of light pink rose petals brought the sunflower teacup to Hazel, carefully balancing the large blossom on her head. "Really, where has she gone?" said Hazel again, as she took the teacup in her hand. "I must go get her so we can return home before we get in trouble." She set the cup down on the toadstool table and rose to her feet. "Sit, child!" this came from an older, plump woman who was a strange mixture of green and orange, she wore a dress of purple crocus petals and a regal adornment of berries in her yellow hair. "You must join us for tea; Janus has sent word that she will be back to you by sunset." At this the plump woman handed Hazel a small note written on a bit of birch bark, the note had her name at the top, but after that all the other words were unintelligible except for the signature which was a large and sloppy "J". "Janus sent this?" Hazel glanced again at the note as several heads nodded. Quickly, and she hoped discreetly,

22 Hazel pinched her arm; it hurt and left a blotchy red mark. The pinch seemed to bring her to her senses if nothing else. Several thoughts crowded into her mind at once. What was she doing here? Who were these somewhat bossy little people? Why did she have to do what they said, anyway? "Listen, I really must be going. I have no idea who you are or how we came to be here, but I really think I ought to at least find Janus myself." Hazel got up, brushing away the rose petals that had appeared on her lap. As they fell against the grass the petals made a lilting music then settled to the soft earth. At that moment, Hazel spotted Janus a ways off with two men walking at her side. Janus appeared to be quite comfortable, jumping back and forth playfully between the two men. Amid protests from the various small people surrounding her, Hazel strode toward Janus and the two men. As she approached them she realized that one of the men was older, with graying hair and a stout frame, the other man was younger with dark, shining hair and a broad smile. "There she is, finally come back to us," cried the older man, quickening his steps. "Hazel, daughter, come and say hello to your uncle." At this he held his arms outstretched to receive Hazel who hung back with a strange expression on her face. The man dropped his arms and said to Janus, "I see you were right she has no remembrance of us or this place. A shame, a terrible pity she should come to us i n this state." The younger man nodded his agreement and his smile faded. "Yes, we will have to begin by telling her her own story and maybe she will begin to remember." From behind the two men stepped two tall young women, one with long straight red hair and the other with wavy chestnut brown hair. They each wore flowing dress robes of emerald green and carried golden arrows on their backs and bows slung over their shoulders. They smiled benevolently at Hazel each with a slight twinkling in her eye. Upon seeing them materialize Janus, jumped up to greet them with loud slurping kisses on their faces. The two women gleefully returned Janus' affections and the red haired woman produced a few small round shining berries from the folds of her robes and gave them to Janus who ate them greedily.

23 "Hazel," the older man began. "We should introduce ourselves to you although it seems strange to have to do it. I am your uncle, Thebian, I am your sister's brother, this is my son Phillipi and these are your sisters, Renne, and Jeuels. You'll remember Renne, she is your older sister, and Jeuels is your younger sister." Thebian said indicating first the red haired woman and then the brown haired woman. "Do we seem at all familiar to you, Hazel?" asked Renne, her green-gold eyes searching Hazel's face intently. "Do you remember anything about us, your family, or this place?" "Uh, um, no, I can't say I know any of this. I don't even know what this' is," Hazel said glancing at Janus wh o had come to recline at her feet and was gazing quietly up at her. "I guess the only thing keeping me sane right now is the fact that Janus seems to know what is going on at least. She doesn't seem to be afraid." "Of course she isn't afraid, she has been a faithful companion to our family for generations," said Renne. "She knows she is home again. Thebian, let's tell her about ourselves and about herself." Thebian was about to answer when a long low sound was heard, like the noise of a fog horn, came echoing across the meadow to them. For a moment everyone seemed to be frozen to the spot, but then there was a mad scrambling of colorful bodies as the small people dashed to find safety in their homes of flowers and grass. Thebian and Phillipi placed their hands quickly on a small silver object hanging at each of their waists and Renne and Jeuels turned quickly to scan the hills behind them. Hazel too found herself squinting against the setting sun in the direction the sound had come from . She could see nothing but mile upon mile of green field dotted here and there with small groves of trees and the occasional stream or river. "They're coming, Father," said Phillipi shortly. "We should get to safety before we lose any more light ." "Yes, we must be quick. The woodland people have hidden themselves, so they should be safe. Hazel, quickly take hold of Phillipi's hand, we must leave here," whispered Thebian urgently.

24 Hazel extended her hand and Phillipi snatched it quickly, immediately she was plunged into an overwhelming shadow of light and she lost all sense of place and direction. She realized she was being transported somewhere by Phillipi but where to and how, she did not know. Bad Luck by Mike Hilkin Jake Rawson had always been an unlucky kid. Jake was always the one who would trip on the sidewalk or fall down the stairs. Jake's clumsiness, however, wouldn't get in the way of his greatest love: sports. Unfortunately, Jake's clumsiness always showed itself on the field or court. Jake had two scars and a missing tooth, each one from sports, and each with a story. The scar on Jake's knee came from basketball. In third grade, he decided to play basketball with the fifth graders. The fifth graders were much stronger than him. They also played a very rough game. While in most games, an elbow in the gut would be considered a flagrant foul, in the fifth grade game, it was considered better than a punch in the face. Everyone told Jake that he should have known better than to play with the fifth graders, but basketball was his favorite sport, and he never turned down a challenge. A few minutes into the game, Jake was introduced to basketball, fifth grade style. Jake tried to take a three-point shot, but Kyle blocked the ball right into his face, giving him a black eye. But Jake wouldn't give up. Jake continued to play, and Kyle decided he was going to teach Jake a lesson. When Kyle was attempting a throw-in, he instead threw the ball square into Jake's stomach. Jake grimaced in pain, but refused to give up. Kyle, determined to bring Jake down for the final time, waited for his next opportunity. That opportunity came when Jake had the ball and an open lane to the basket. Jake dribbled as fast as he could to the hoop, but when he was only a few paces away, he tripped on a rock and slipped on the concrete like he was sliding for home. Jake

25 busted into tears as he looked at his knees, covered in blood. Kyle sat down with a smile on his face, satisfied even though Jake's clumsiness did what he couldn't. Three years later, in sixth grade, Jake decided to start a roller hockey team. He purchased a hockey stick, three hockey pucks, and two hockey nets. However, he never purchased any pads or a helmet. Jake got together some of his friends from the north side of his town (Gladstone, Missouri) and they practiced together for two months. They called their team the Falcons and decided to challenge the team from the South Side of Gladstone, the Eagles. Andy, Mike, and Steve were the forwards. Troy and Colin were the defensemen. Jake was the goalie, and Jake did not have any pads. But Jake, as clumsy as he was, never got nervous. He just wanted to win. Each team was to bring a net to Central Park at noon. Jake and the Falcons arrived a half an hour early to prepare. When the Eagles arrived, it was clear that the Falcons had no idea what they were in for. The Eagles came decked out in pads and helmets. The goalie actually had goalie gear and a goalie stick. The Falcons had no chance. Eight goals later, the best player on the Eagles, Jared, had a breakaway and was charging towards the net. The defensemen, who seemed more interested in the feeble attempt to score goals than defending, were on the other side of the court as Jared was raising the stick. Great, Jake thought. He already has 5 goals. This will be his sixth. Jared powers the puck towards the goal, but instea d of hitting the back of the net, it hit Jake right in the center of his forehead. Jake instantly fell to the ground and everyone on his team came to see his situation. Jake had his hand covering his forehead. His hand was already covered in blood. Nobody had thought to bring a first aid kit. "Let me see!" Steve yelled, seemingly excited about Jake's misfortune. Reluctantly, Jake removed his hand, showing a three inch gash on his forehead. Twelve stitches later, it was explained to Jake that he would have a scar on his forehead, "Kinda like Harry Potter's," the doctor said. Jake is now in seventh grade, and just a few weeks ago, he lost one of his front teeth. The culprit: softball. During the fall, every kid in Jake's neighborhood

26 plays softball. They have been playing for four years now, and with the exception of the occasional window, nothing and nobody ever got hurt. That is, until Jake pitched for the first time. Everybody knew of Jake's streak of clumsiness and bad luck with sports, and nobody wanted him to get hurt again. Unfortunately, Jake still refused to step down from a challenge. Jake had been demanding for days that he should be allowed to pitch. Finally, everyone relented and Jake was given his turn. As it turned out, Jake was an excellent pitcher! His pitches had the speed of sports car with the accuracy of a well-trained hunter. For three straight innings, Jake struck out everybody who stepped up to the plate. Pete, the best player in the neighborhood, changed that. After striking out once already, Pete was determined to prove that he could hit Jake's pitch. Pete had the look on his face of a beast ready to attack. Undaunted, Jake threw his first pitch. Strike one. Pete's determination was only fueled. Next pitch: foul tip, the first time anybody had even made contact with one of Jake's pitches. Pete knew he could do it now. Jake, however, knew he would have to pitch even harder if he wanted to get that final strike. Jake wound up for his pitch, using a windmill for the first time. Pete had his eye all over it and placed all of his power into the ball. All of that power slammed into Jake square in the face. Jake fell like a bowling pin. It took three hours to find Jake's tooth. It reached third base. None of this, however, could deter Jake. He was determined to be a sports star, and it didn't matter what sport he played. Wrestling team tryouts at Gladstone Middle School were in three weeks. His parents didn't want to let him try out. Jake refused to give up. Jake first tried to negotiate. "If you let me try out," Jake said, "I will do the dishes every night." His parents said no. Next, Jake tried showering his parents with kindness. His parents saw right through it. "When we said no, we meant it," his dad said. Finally, Jake tried the silent treatment, but instead of making his parents give in, it made his parents give him more chores. Jake tried tactic after tactic, all to no avail. "What am I going to do?" Jake asked his best friend Ray, who, while being just as unlucky as Jake, didn't ever try

27 out for sports. "I don't know," Ray said. "Have you considered chess club?" "Clubs and activities just aren't the same, Jake said. "I need competition. I was born to compete." "Yeah, I bet the gap in your smile thinks you were born for sports too," Ray joked. Jake was determined. He had to try out for the team. Even if it meant trying out without telling his parents. On the day of tryouts, Jake told his parents he was going to Ray's house after school and would be late getting home. Amazingly, his parents weren't suspicious. When Jake arrived at tryouts, he was ushered to a scale. Jake weighed 107 pounds. "You'll have to try to get that down to 103," Coach Bill Johnson said. "Yes sir," Jake replied. "Oh, don't 'yes sir' me, I ain't no drill sergeant," said Coach. "Anyway, you ready to wrestle?" "Absolutely," Jake said. "Warm up, then. You got next." Jake was going to wrestle Matt Samuelson. Matt was the quietest person Jake had ever met. Let's hope he is as timid on the mat as he is in class, Jake thought. "Rawson, Samuelson, you're up!" Coach yelled. Matt and Jake shook hands, and Coach began the match. Jake's strategy was to move quickly. Jake instantly lurched at Matt and reached for his arm. Unfortunately, Matt tripped on a seam in the mat and fell down directly upon his arm. "Ouch!" Jake cried as he grabbed for his arm, which only made the pain throb more. "Get the trainer!" the Coach yelled as he came to Jake's side. "Try and straighten your arm." Jake tried, but the pain just wouldn't let it happen. "Tough break kid," Coach said. Then the trainer came. From the look on her face, he knew the news wasn't going to be good. "It's broken," Ms. Anderson said. "Let's get him to the hospital." Oh great, Jake thought. I have no idea how I will explain this to Mom and Dad. .

The Overplucked Eyebrow By Randi Stafne

28

During second period, one of the office runners, this fat girl, I mean really fat girl, named Kate walked in and handed a pink slip to Miss Harmon. "Hey, Brian, did you know there was supposed to be an eclipse today?" I asked. Brian gave me a puzzled look. I motioned toward the front of the room where Kate had walked in front of the projector, casting the massive round shadow of her body across half the screen. Brian laughed. "Jake Keller, you have a date with Mrs. Chambers ," Miss Harmon smiled. It was a concerned smile. Mrs. Harmon was one of those teachers who somehow escaped from the alphabet covered walls of a kindergarten room in order to come haunt our bleak and monotone high school with inappropriate flare and optimism. She was the embodiment of an exclamation point. When students stumbled over answers, she boiled in agony, leaning further and further forward, trying to will the answers out of them, propelling every ounce of her ESP toward their fumbling minds. She hid her inclination toward impatience with an unnatural and painful silence. She wanted to scream out the answer for them, but her forced manners resulted in huge encouraging smiles and constant nodding. She was like one of those little bobble head characters. She was earnest and good and pure and ignorant of all the bad things in life, like cheating and violence revenge and depression, and especially, me. You see, I am a pig. At least, that's what this one girl, Amy told me. I tried to tell her that I liked her new hair cut one day, and she assumed that I was making fun of it. Then she went off on this unprovoked rant about how bad of a person I was. She said she didn't care what I thought, I was just a jerk who picked on everybody for attention. She said I was immature and mean and that I should drop dead, and then she said I was a pig, because pigs were cruel and ruthless animals who would sniff out the smallest, the sickest, the weakest, and the most vulnerable of their own kind and eat them alive, hooves, snout, bones, and all. She said that's what I did. I picked on the weakest people and that I just tore them apart without even caring. "Well," I had said, blowing her off, "I was just trying to give you a compliment, but seeing

29 as you are so touchy and that I have already offended you, I might as well let you know that maybe next time you go to the beauty salon, you should fork over the extra money to get that mustache of yours taken care of." And with that, I had walked away. Unlike Miss Harmon, I am all too aware of the bad things in life. I notice things about people. I know that when you ask someone how they are doing and they say "good" or "fine," they are lying. I know that the world isn't fair, that someone will always make more money while a better person goes poor, that the bad guy will always get away while the good person gets punished. I don't believe in that happy world Miss Harmon lives in. Everyone takes this place too seriously. I think they should just lighten up. Laugh at themselves. Laugh at each other. Laughing is the only way that you can fight the bad. Otherwise, you just think about all the bad things and know that you are helpless to change them. Maybe I am cruel, but the world is cruel. I just laugh at the world and its problems. It keeps the bad away from me. It makes me feel less helpless. It is a force field that keeps disillusionment from sinking in. I got up to go to Mrs. Chambers' office. I knew what this was about. I was failing my yearbook class, Miss Harmon's class. It was a stupid elective. What did I care about some goofy, nostalgic book that had pictures of all my "friends" in it? I just needed the credit hours to graduate. But because of that stupid elective, I was most likely going to get kicked off of the football team for not keeping up my GPA. If I got kicked off the football team, I would probably get kicked out of school too. Coach Linden was the only one really standing up for me. It wasn't out of kindness that he persuaded the administrators not to kick me out, he just needed me to get a few more wins before the season was over. I guess a lot of people wanted me suspended from school because this one guy, Dustin, the only guy on the cheerleading team, was crying to everyone that I was harassing him. What can I say? He was an easy target. All I did was ask him if he had to wear a jock strap to cheerleading practice. And once when Brian was over flirting with all of the girlies before a game, I blew Dustin a sarcastic kiss. I just didn't want him to feel left

30 out; all the other cheerleaders were flirting with the football players. All this on top of the other complaints. There was this one kid whose pants had a little trouble staying all the way up. We called him The Plumber. One time I asked him if he only took change, or if he had a slot for dollar bills too. Before he could figure out what I was talking about, Brian dropped a quarter down his pants, which I had dared him to do for a dollar. Then I left the kid with a good piece of advice crack kills. That episode didn't go over too well. Anyways, I was pretty sure that this was the last straw, and they were going to get me outta this school as soon as they could. "Jake, come in," Mrs. Chambers said gravely. I sat down. "It appears we have had another complaint. It seems that you have started a petition to kick one of your peers out of school because he smells?" I nodded. Mrs. Chambers was looking for an explanation. "Well, he does," I said in my defense. Mrs. Chambers sat in silence. I'm not sure if it was anger or disbelief. So I went on. "He doesn't wear deodorant. I even asked him. He said no, it's against his beliefs." "Jake, you should be more respectful. And you know you don't have the power or right to kick someone out of school just because they smell." "Well, I thought about it, but it really disrupts my learning environment. I can't concentrate with that stink bomb around. If we can send students with inappropriate clothing home just because it is disruptive, why can't we send home smelly people too? "To be frank with you, I don't think you deserve to be in this school. YOU are disruptive to this school's learning environment. Do you think your peers can learn when they are in constant fear of you making fun of them?" "Free speech," I said. "Everything I say is true. Are you going to kick me out for saying the truth?" "I'm going to give you one more chance," she said. Oh great. The Little Bunny Foo Foo routine. I had heard this before. "It was not my idea," she continued, "but Coach Linden persuaded me. I talked to Miss Harmon. She is willing to give you an extra assignment that will give you a

31 chance to replace one of your bad grades. She thought you would be the perfect person to write a special article on McKenzie Harris. It will be a feature piece for the yearbook, in remembrance of her life. You have one week to turn it in. After that, we will reevaluate your behavior and maybe you can finish out the school year. That's all." I was dumbfounded. I was sure they were going to boot me, but this was a thousand times worse than anything I had expected. How could good, sweet, Miss Harmon have done this to me? This was cruel and unusual. I didn't pay that much attention in Civics class, but I knew this was illegal. I hated McKenzie Harris for three reasons. First, she was this beautiful goddess that every guy drooled over. I hate beautiful people. Secondly, then she started losing all this weight and had to go to the hospital because she was anorexic. I hate people who think they're fat when they are not. And third, in the middle of the summer, she took a bunch of pills and killed herself, supposedly because her boyfriend broke up with her for another goddess. Everyone thought it was this huge tragedy, but not me. Yeah, this place was bad, but she had it good. I hated people who thought that killing themselves would solve anyone's problems. They just made the world that much worse for everyone left behind. And now I had to write some sappy article about her? I caught Miss Harmon just as class was getting over. "I can't write this article," I said. "I thought you'd be good for it," said Miss Harmon. "Not just for your grades, but for you. Interview her parents. Her friends. Find out about her. See what she liked. Maybe it will help you understand things about your own situation." I winced. Miss Harmon was apparently a little more conniving that I had expected. A wolf in sheep's clothing. She was referring to my dad. He died when I was little. His plane crashed into a cornfield. No one could find out anything that was wrong with the plane, they could only find things that were wrong with its pilot. I overheard my mom crying to my grandma, "Why would he do this to himself?" No one ever talked about it to me. As far as I was concerned, it was fine that way. What could they say to make things better? You're father was a selfish loser who killed himself and left his family

32 behind to deal with the aftermath of his failures? My ears burned with shame. "It's not the same," I said, glaring at Miss Harmon. She didn't seem to mind or notice. "Well, it's up to you," was all she said. I went home that night feeling angry and helpless. There was nothing to laugh about. I wanted to plea to my mother to intervene, but she brought up the subject before I did. "Miss Harmon called today." Who was this woman? Surely no kindergarten teacher. She was sadistic, looking for ways to torture me. She was invading my world. "She said she was concerned about your grades." "Who cares, it's just an elective. It's not like I'm going to flunk out of school. Plus, I'm not going to college. I'll get my GED if I have to. You don't have to have good grades to get into the Air Force," I said confidently. "You know, if you don't keep your grades up and get your act together at school, that means no flight school this summer." "What?" I felt like I had just been hit in the stomach. All the wind was knocked out of me. She had found my weakness. Not school, not football, those were meaningless, but now they were going to take away the only thing that mattered to me. "You can't just say that," I pleaded. "It's just a stupid class. This has nothing to do with flight school." "Well, like it or not, that's the deal. Your father would have done the same thing." I knew it was no good to argue. Whenever she brought up my father, it was final. You can't argue with a dead man, and she knew it. My other weakness. I went into my room and slammed my door. This was not fair. They were playing dirty. What did they care if I passed this class or not? This was all Miss Harmon's fault. She thought she could save the fricken world. I didn't need saving. I didn't need charity. They thought I was helpless, but I wasn't. They were the ones who were helpless. I was beginning to feel like I didn't have control over my own life. I didn't like that feeling. When I was little and my dad would take me up in the plane and go into a dive, I would feel that kind of helplessness. My stomach would lurch out of place and I wouldn't be able to

33 breath. I hated it. As I got older, sometimes he would let me take the controls. The first time I went into a dive, it was the greatest feeling. Suddenly I had the power to control my fear. If I created that feeling, then I could stop that feeling too. I had the power. I was no longer just a helpless copilot. I realized that was what I needed to do now. I wouldn't comply with them. I would take control. I would run the show. Okay, I would do this stupid obituary, but I would do it on my terms. I dug under my bed until I found my old yearbooks. I had looked at them each maybe once. Some of them I had taken the time to draw mustaches and glasses on the faces of some of my classmates, and some had funny comments beside them, but after I had had my fun, they had gone neglected until now. I opened up my sixth grade yearbook and flipped to the "H's." I found McKenzie's picture in the middle. She looked pretty much the same way I remembered her in high school as she did in sixth grade. Perfectly sculpted features, perfect teeth, wonderful smile, her hair was a little dated, but whose wasn't. She had this aura about her. It was like a movie star appeal, a kindergarten teacher quality, a glow, a charisma, an I-don't-know-what, something that made you jealous that you couldn't capture but made you feel that much better just for being near to. Oh, and she had these huge, bushy, caterpillar eyebrows. ..

"The Insignificant Details of the Very Insignificant Seventh Grade Year of Maggie McMadden" By Jill Trumm

Monday: I'm gonna to tell it to you straight. This is my first diary and I'm thirteen years old and, as you will notice, the front of this diary is completely clear of flowers, hearts, kittens, Britney Spears, rainbows, or any variation of pink. I'm keeping this diary as an assignment, got it? An A-S-S-I-G-N-M-E-N-T. Which means that my English teacher, Ms. Kleine, is going to check this every day to make

34 sure I've added a new entry, so get used to hearing lots of insignificant details about my very, very insignificant life. Listen to me, going on as if you, "dear diary" (ha! Tha t's a laugh!), are a personand you better not be (Ms. Kleine, I'm talking to YOU) because the instructions stated that no one was going to read any of this and that it was supposed to be private. So stop reading. Ok. Third period is almost over. I'm calling it quits. Going to stare at the clock and tap my foot against Joe Mueller's chair until the bell rings. I don't like him much. His head is too big for his body and he talks like he needs to blow his nose. Buenes tardes. Heading to Spanish class. Later. Oops, sorry. Back again. Even though I'm sneaking this one instead of going over more Spanish vocab. We're supposed to be learning the names of clothing. Zapatos, camesas, pantalones, and the like. See how good I am? You're getting two entries in one day, mostly because I forgot to introduce myself (even though this part of the assignment is pretty much crap, Ms. Kleine, if you ask methe "diary" meaning YOU already knows who I am and I know who I am, so who else is gonna read this thing anyway?). Anyway, my name is Margaret Elizabeth McMadden. People call me Maggie, Marge, Magpie, M&M, McHadderway (that one is from Skye, who picks fights all the time about anything she thinks needs a good arguing), but mostly it's just Maggie. I've lived next to this tiny, boring little town since I was born. Live on a farm about a mile outside it, which is close enough to ride my bike to the pool in the summer and over to Skye's house when my mom won't drive. I have one younger brother. Two parents. No criminal history or Academy Awards as of yet. Pretty standard issue for living round here. Watersville, Iowa, doesn't exactly stand out on a map, and I suppose you could say that none of us do, either. What else do you wanna know? Let's see. Things I like: playing third base on the upper-level little league team every summer, bowling on Friday nights at the only ally we have here, hanging out with Skye, sucking on butterscotch disks, and watching infommericals late at night. Saw one on this cool set

35 of knives last night. One of them could cut straight through a can of frozen orange juice concentrate. And the guy selling it was fat and wearing this chef's outfit with a floppy hat even though he didn't cook nothing through the whole thing. Just used every knife from the set. Looked dangerous, though. Wouldn't last three innings of a Cubs game at our place. Things I don't like: homework, learning Spanish vocab, my gym uniform (the shorts are too damn short), Joe Mueller' s big head, Monday mornings, writing in this stupid diary. So I'm gonna sign off for the day. Tuesday: Today's topic is what we did last night. I watched TV. Called Skye to answer her geometry questions for the test this afternoon (which SUCKS, by the way). I ate a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream while watching more TV. Successfully managed to avoid both of my parents, which wasn't hard since mom was out for most of the night. Tuesday night's her bowling night. Dad ordered pizza for dinner. Pepperoni and greasy, really good. Then he watched more TV in their bedroom. So I got the remote to myself all night. Caught the end of the Quik-Chop infommerical. I like watching them make tuna salad with it. They get the celery cut real little, so little you can hardly tell how gross it is. Then I went to bed. Like I said, standard issue round here. Wednesday: Assignment #3 is to tell our diaries a deep, dark secret, and sorry, but mine isn't anything real juicy. Man, did I write you a little novel about me on Monday, so I'm just gonna cut to the quick. And like I said, this isn't nothing special, just something I've been thinking about for awhile. It's kinda been on my mind. See, last week I turned thirteen and the official celebratio n was dinner at this lame pizza place with mom and my little brother, Turd (real name = Michael William McMadden, Jr., but I think he's been a turd since birth. He's eight now, so that's eight long years of having a turd walk around my house). The unofficial, and what was supposed to be much more fun, celebration (and Ms. Kleine, if this ever, ever, ever gets out to anybody especially my mom, I'll know FOR SURE that this

36 whole diary thing is just one of your ploys to weasel out information on us and report it to the principal for funI'm testing you here, Ms. Kleine, so watch your step) was when me and Skye sneaked some of my mom's wine coolers out from the basement and went to the park to meet up with Rob and Chris (he's her boyfriend of forever even thou gh they argue all the time and I think it's pointless to have a boyfriend in the 7 th grade before they get all good and mature in high school). We didn't do too much; just sorta sat around and shot the shoot until Skye said her stomach hurt from the peach-flavored drinks and then we went home. Peach wine coolers aren't nothing grand. Big disappointment. It was my third time drinking anything with alcohol in it, and to tell you the truth, it don't do nothing but make my toes numb and head hurt. Just kept worrying about how hard the shoot's gonna hit the fan when mom notices two wine cooler packs are gone. Hoping she thinks dad ran dry and tore into them one night when she was out. Which'll probably be the case. Spent most of my birthday annoyed, mainly with Chris and Skye. They fight ALL the time about stupid little stuff that don't matter. It's like hanging out with my parents. And I'm not about to waste a BIG punishment by doing something that extreme like sneaking those two fools my mom's wine coo lers to listen to them bicker about why Chris didn't call after school like he'd said he would or why Skye paid more attention to Brad Carlson in U.S. history that morning. Who cares? They're only gonna break up eventually anyway. I mean, doesn't everybody? There's no point. At. All. Rob's okay, though. He just started school here in September. Moved up from Arizona, and man, is he gonna be in for a shock next month when it starts getting bite-ass cold after Thanksgiving. That should be funny, but I hope he's not a whiner. Doesn't seem like one. Seems kinda cool. Thursday: Hey. Nothing new. Ms. Kleine says we're supposed to write about what we wanna do when we grow up. I want to play third base on an all-girls team that wins the World Series. Seriously, I do. We wouldn't be in a separate league or anything because people wouldn't go to our games, so instead we'd just join the

37 men's league and start whipping their butts and making the Hall of Fame like that! That's what I want. Now here's what I think will happen: I go to high school. I play ball. I hang out. I go to the Prom and do that whole thing. I graduate. College? Maybe. But listen up, diary and Ms. Kleine, I have no idea what I want "to be" when I grow up. Sorry. Just don't know yet. I don't like school, but I don't hate it, either, so college might not be a bad idea. Could play ball maybe. I'm just not like Skye, whose been dying to be a professional make-up artist since she first found out that lipstick comes in different colors. She says she's gonna go to cosmetology school someplace and eventually do make -up for movie stars. And I bet she could. That girl's never taken no for answer before, and that's probably why we're such good friends. I'm like that too. I like being like that. Alright. Now time to locomote to la clase de Espanol. Adios! Friday: Weekend's coming. No big plans, other than hanging with Skye in the least lamest place we can find. Chris'll come out, too, like always. Hope he brings Rob. Gives me another set of ears to listen to Skye and Chris with. That guy's alright. He went out for basketball this year, and they haven't played any games yet since it's only the middle of October, but the guys say he's real good. Didn't play football, and I don't blame him. That's just a gross sport any way you look at it. Mom left a note saying she'd be heading out tonight for the girls' night out thing they do. Been doing it more and more, almost every Friday now. Pair that with Tuesday's bowling league and her Sunday night manicures from Maureen (mom's best friend from high school; I sometimes think that if mom doesn't talk to Maureen at least once an hour, her tongue'll swell up and explode right in her mouth), and we've been eating our fill of fried egg sandwiches, pizza, and broiled hamburgers. When the weather's good, dad goes crazy on the grill, barbequeing everything he can get his hands on. Eat all kinds of good hamburgers during the summer weather. Living on a farm has its perks: you never ever ever can run outta fresh food. Mom

38 pulls in ripe cherry tomatoes by the armfuls in the summer and pops them in her mouth to eat em whole. Turd did that once, but started choking, so now mom doesn't do that anymore. Said a good example is better than yelling. Wish we still had some of those tomatoes around. Broiling hamburgers isn't anything, especially when I gotta wash the pan after we finish eating. Dad doesn't really stick around in the kitchen when mom goes out. Don't really see him much except for when he comes out of the bedroom to grab another beer, though lately he's been taking them in a six-pack at a time. If the room didn't emit the M.A.S.H. theme song throughout the evening, I'd start to wonder just what he's doing in there. But I kinda wonder anyway. Not that it's anything to get all depressed about or think about too much, but I just wonder sometimes. Turd does too, I know it. He keeps looking at the bedroom door a lot and sits real close next to me on the couch while we watch our shows. Start to feel sorry for the little guy. Then he goes and does something super annoying, like a few nights ago, the Turd swiped the remote and turned the channel to Wheel Of Fort une and then hid it while I was grabbing a soda and wouldn't tell where he'd stuck it, not even when I stuffed him on the couch and sat on his butt and bounced. I told him he's got a thing for Pat Sajack and teased him on that for awhile, but really he ju st likes to look at the cars. Talks about the way they shine in the crappy TV lighting. But hey, Ms. Kleine (if you're still reading this, but I don't think you are because you never said anything about the wine-cooler confession and I'm pretty sure it's your job to run straight to the principal to make the biggest possible hullabaloo outta that and get me in loads of trouble), anyway, Ms. Kleine, Turd could do worse than Wheel of Fortune it does teach him how to spell. Whoa I just wrote a lot about stuff this dumb old diary doesn't care about. My hand hurts. Monday: Didn't go to school today, so I'm not writing anything. Tell you about it tomorrow. Starting to think this diary thing isn't such a bad idea. I get to lip off and vent about how much PEOPLE SUCK without getting back -handed for it. And let me tell you, diary, you're saving me a world of

39 hurt after what I gotta talk about tomorrow. All I'm gonna say is my parents can be real uncool, especially to each other. .. James Delloitte was having a bad week and had his mind on other things when he went through the intersection-without stopping-at the four-way stop sign. A rusted, little Ford Aspire kissed his GMC Envoy on the passenger side, front bumper. He slammed on the brakes. "Sonofabitch!" he yelled. As he climbed from the SUV and went around to inspect the damage, a haggard, old woman, almost as small as her car, was already there, a look of surprise awash on her face as she looked things over. "Are you okay?" she asked in a voice as frail as her countenance when she saw him come around to the front of the SUV. "I should be asking you that grandma," he said in a voice tinged with irritation. "I could've went over you as easily as going over a speed bump." She smiled at him weakly and ignored his obvious sarcasm, deciding instead to examine the damage. "Looks like not much more than a scratch for you." She started digging through a dingy hand purse and pulled out an insurance card. James peered over his abraded bumper and saw the broken headlight and dented quarter panel of the Aspire, but only said, "It's gonna cost you a pretty penny to put another coat of paint on this truck; it's only a month old." "I won't have to pay for anything," she said sheepishly. "I think we can both agree that it was your fault. You never stopped at your stop sign." James looked around him. There was no one around, which meant no witnesses. This intersection was usually busy, but he'd left work three hours early for a much-needed long weekend, so rush hour traffic hadn't yet clogged the streets. He cleared his throat and with a feigned gasp of surprise said, "Excuse me? My fault? I don't think so. You ran the stop sign, not me. And how the hell could you have not seen me? This thing is a beast. Don't you have any eyes?"

40 The old woman glowered at him. "I have eyes, and my eyes are just fine," she quipped with a voice quivering now as much from anger as from old age. "Just because I'm old doesn't mean I'm senile. We both know who was really at fault here." James smiled confidently at her. "Yes-you were. You are an old woman who can barely see past her steering wheel. I am a prominent businessman in this town who just happens to employ more people than any other employer in the county. So, who do you think the police would believe if this should be pursued? So, if you would so kindly let me write down you insurance information, we can both be on our way." The old woman's face saddened at that reality, and she ra n her hand along the dented quarter panel. "I don't make much money with my social security. I don't think I could afford it if my insurance went up because of this. Couldn't you just -." James put his hands up to stop her. "Don't even go there, grandma. I didn't get to where I am today by having a soft spot for boo-hooing. You should've been watching where you were going. Maybe you need to get those bug-eyes of yours checked out." He shook head pitifully. "I don't know how the hell you could miss a beast like this." She handed him her insurance card and said through a clenched jaw. "My eyes are fine!" "Yeah, whatever," he shot back as he transferred the information to the back of one of his business cards. "I know a good optometrist if you want to get those babies looked at. It couldn't hurt-especially if you're going to keep driving at your age." As he gave her back the insurance card, she grabbed his hand in a vice-like grip not expected in a lady of her age and stature. She closed her eyes and mumbled something under her breath. When she reopened them, they glowed an eerie red, only for a moment before their gray-blue tinge returned. James yanked his hand away; it was now red from her grip. "What the hell was that all about? Are you getting physical with me old lady? Maybe I should call the cops right now." She smiled at him, a stronger smile than before. "Now, do you think the police would believe that you were being harassed by a little old lady. How would you look in their eyes, Mr. Big Employer, being intimidated by someone like me?"

41 Rubbing his hand, he said, "Well, we'll see who has the last laugh, grandma. I hope your insurance does go up. Maybe it'll take away the money you need for your heart medication. That'd be nice, hmmm?" He turned to round the front of the Envoy and said over his shoulder, "Get those freaking eyes of yours checked lady. You're as blind as a bat." As she got into her little car, she said, "You'll soon find out first hand just how well I can see." James backed up and waived the old woman through the intersection before he headed onward. As she drove by in front of him, she smiled devilishly, and her eyes had the red glow in them again. He'd never seen eyes do that before. Maybe she had some weird disease that made them do that. That would explain why she obviously didn't see him and his big SUV. He didn't care. He'd have his truck looked at on Monday and it would be patched and painted by Wednesdayall without a penny of his own money. He put the Envoy into gear and headed home. ........... It was just past midnight when James realized that he wasn't alone in his house. A furtive sound coming from his kitchen woke him from what was already turning out to be a sleepless night. Earlier in the evening, a neighbor's dog had got ten loose and decided to camp outside his bedroom window to serenade potential mates. By its low, mournful bay it had sounded like Lincoln, a black lab owned by the Stuarts next door. His ability to escape chains would have even made Houdini proud. When it had grown tired of its fruitless task and moved on to more animally-populous parts of the community, heartburn had sent him to the bathroom for a handful of Pepcid AC. Now, almost an hour later, as he lay atop his sheets waiting for the pills to take affect, he swore he heard rapid footsteps scraping across his tile floor. He leaned up onto his elbows, tilted his head toward the hallway, which ended in the kitchen of the ranch-style house, and squinted as if that might somehow give him better hearing. Five, ten, thirty seconds passed. The only sound he could identify conclusively was a light scratching against the side of the house near his bedroom window from a tree

42 animated by a stray evening breeze. He'd decided that maybe what he'd heard was, in fact, the wind-tossed branches, but then he heard the noise again and was sure it was coming from within his home. Its faint but rhythmic clap, clap, clap sounded oddly similar to that of an animal's paws as it trotted across an uncarpeted floor. Paws? A dog's paws . . . That dog! That damned pooch must've come back, he finally realized. It had been such a sweltering night that he'd spent some time before bed cooling off in his pool just off the back patio. Though his mind objected to the late-night usage, he thought back for a moment. As much as he tried, he couldn't remember locking the patio door behind him when he'd decided to retire for the evening. Even so, he lived in one of the safest communities in Kramersburgh so the patio door was often left unlocked but never open. Never ever open. Maybe he'd left it ajar--just a sliver. Maybe enough for some mangy pooch to get its nose in and pry open farther in search of the leftover steak in his refrigerator. Well, the door had been breeched somehow, and now he was being burglarized by a damned dog. It seemed his bad week was threatening to spill over into his weekend. He cursed under his breath as he got out of bed and groped among the shadows beyond his nightstand for the housecoat crumpled up in his reading chair. Finding it, he threw it on and headed for the bedroom door. "I'll take a baseball bat to that mutt if he's scratched up the tile," he said as he stepped out into the comparatively darker hallway, tightening up the belt on his robe. "I just had that put in." The hallway ended and opened abruptly into an expansive dining and kitchen area. The entire space was encased in windows along the outer wall and skylights in the vaulted ceilings above. Even in the darkness, the room gleamed like black onyx, as though it had a luminosity all its own. Although the full moon hadn't yet reached high enough into the night to pour completely unveiled through the sky lights, it took the tree-filtered glow that radiated through the queue of windows at the back of the house and seemed to increase it ten-fold. But despite the sparkle of new tile, polished oak, streakless

43 glass, stainless steel, shadows persisted throughout and clung to the various surfaces like tar. He looked around but saw no dog-and heard no more noises. "Hey!" he shouted to see if that would startle anything into movement. His voice reverberated slightly in the cavernous space. Nothing. Maybe he was hearing things, after all. It must've been that steak he ate for supper, which hopefully the Pepcid would take care of. Well, there was no sense wasting this time up. He decided that maybe a couple more quick shots of whisky would help him sleep-the first two before bed obviously weren't enough. He walked around the dining table and down into his sunken living room. In the darkness, he felt for and found his coffee table. And there, he found his bottle of Chivas Regal. He might have been well to do, but he was still a man, and men left their whisky out, not put away. Besides, with the amounts he consumed, there really was no sense in putting it back. James opened the bottle and took a quick swill, savoring it in his mouth a moment before swallowing the burning liquid. While he waited for the burn to subside before taking another drink, he thought for a moment about just how rotten the past week had been, hoping that maybe tormenting his mind would be enough to shut it down and bring about the onset of a much needed sleep. It had started with the break-up of a really good relationship-sexual speaking, that is, though sex was really the only good component of a relationship. Then, it continued it's plummet with budget cuts and the inevitability of having to lay off possibly ten percent of the employees at the refinery, which translated into almost one hundred jobs. And since all things come in threes, he should have expected the accident at the intersection today with the bug-eyed, old woman, though it was her fault, he reminded himself. If she had been driving a bigger car, maybe he would have noticed her and stopped. Well, she clearly should have seen him and given him the right-of-way. And all of those wonderful happenings consummated with the finale of his third sleepless night in a row. As he took another drink, he turned to look up at the moon peeking in through the trees beyond his back windows--and

44 noticed something odd. The darkness that had blanketed the house-as with most other houses at this time of night -had suddenly come alive. Little red eyes began appearing in the black spaces under the dining table, in the corners, on counter tops, anywhere the moonbeams couldn't reach. They were glowing crimson, like the eyes of an animal when a light hits them at just the right angle. "What the hell is this?" James demanded. "What'd you do, bring back the whole fucking dog pound to help you eat my food?" He stomped on the floor. "Shew, you damned mutts." He stomped again, but the eyes never moved, never even flinched. Just stared. It was then that he was taken with the strange notion that these weren't the eyes of dogs, not even the eyes of animals-at least none he'd ever seen before. They were oddly shaped and of varying sizes, but all had a singular quality that made the Chivas boil in his gut: hatred. And that hatred seemed to be locked onto James Delloitte. A cupboard opened in the kitchen up and off to his right. A glass dish or maybe a coffee cup smashed across the new tile. The sliding glass patio doors slid open then closed slowly, deliberately. It made an eerie sound as it traveled across its track like the sound of a coffin lid being closed over its dead occupant. There were more, little clattering paws then more eyes appeared from around the corner. When one of these little creatures passed a spattering of feeble light on the tile floor, James could see their misshapen outlines. The fact that they all walked up right, on two feet, affirmed the fearful fact that these, indeed, were not animals. With their molten lava-colored eyes, these things-these eerily animated little mannequins, stared down unblinkingly at him. One of them gurgled a phlegmy noise then snorted. Another began chattering its teeth, its radiant eyes squinting as it made the awful sound. The strange pack slowly began to close the gap. Suddenly, sleep was the last thing on his mind, and James let the bottle slip from his grasp and spill onto the floor. He was briefly aware of the stain it would make in the plush carpeting as the liquid moistened the area around his feet, but that seemed irrelevant, now.

45 He took a step back. His calf brushed up against the co ffee table. He reached out into the darkness, found the arm of the sofa and followed it around to the back. He raced down to the opposite end, keeping it as a barrier between him and whatever they were that were gathering at the top step to the dining room. There had to be six or maybe even eight or ten of them. Panic, darkness and their shifty movement barred him from seeing them clearly, though he was fairly certain that he was seeing as much of them as he cared to. The queer chattering and clicking and gurgling they made grew slightly, as though they were becoming more courageous with their numbers and with the night on their side. They took another step down into the living room. James wanted to take another step back but was paralyzed with fear. The foyer and the front door were fifteen feet away behind him and to his left. All he had to do was turn and run, but what he might encounter in the shadows that separated him from freedom scared him as much as just standing there. So, he stood there. Suddenly, one step from the living room, the group stopped their progression. They all stood motionless, like little pillars, just staring. They made no more noise, and their silence was more chilling than their chatter. Then, with the precision of an army drill corps, the group as one shifted their gaze. They were no longer staring directly at him but somewhere else, somewhere beyond him. Behind him. The fear that had kept him shackled to the back of the sofa loosened its grip just enough to let him turn around. The swipe came quickly and hit its mark, tearing out terrycloth and flesh from across his chest. He reeled back from the force of the blow and almost fell over the back of the sofa. It had happened so quickly that initially, he felt no pain. But as he righted himself, his chest suddenly felt as though it was on fire. I must be dreaming, he thought as he touched his chest and felt dangling pieces of garment, wet tissue and bone. This can't be happening. Another swipe from something unseen. There was a ripping sound. What was that?

46 The searing pain cracked like a lightning bolt down his shoulders, his back, his legs. He collapsed to the floor and into a sticky puddle. Was that the spilled whisky? No, it was his blood. He knew that his scalp had just been torn away. He'd just paid for that hair, too. Eight thousand dollars worth of micro-grafts gone in one swipe. He tried to scream, but it only came out as a weak "Unh, unh." Something, a darker shadow among the shadows, lifted him into the air with one cold, greasy, claw-like hand around his neck. He couldn't swallow, so he could no longer taste the coppery blood spilling from his scalp. "Unh, unh, unh." Big eyes. Big, bulging, vermilion eyes stared at him. Quiet laughter filled the room from the crew of de vilish munchkins in the background. "Unh, unh." The shadow-hidden monstrosity spoke through what sounded like a mouthful of broken glass. "As I said earlier, Mr. Delloitte, my eyes are just fine!" The last thing James heard was the crack of his sternum. 2002 StoriesByEmail.com James Delloitte was having a bad week and had his mind on other things when he went through the intersection-without stopping-at the four-way stop sign. A rusted, little Ford Aspire kissed his GMC Envoy on the passenger side, front bumper. He slammed on the brakes. "Sonofabitch!" he yelled. As he climbed from the SUV and went around to inspect the damage, a haggard, old woman, almost as small as her car, was already there, a look of surprise awash on her face as she looked things over. "Are you okay?" she asked in a voice as frail as her countenance when she saw him come around to the front of the SUV. "I should be asking you that grandma," he said in a voice tinged with irritation. "I could've went over you as easily as going over a speed bump."

47 She smiled at him weakly and ignored his obvious sarcasm, deciding instead to examine the damage. "Looks like not much more than a scratch for you." She started digging through a dingy hand purse and pulled out an insurance card. James peered over his abraded bumper and saw the broken headlight and dented quarter panel of the Aspire, but only said, "It's gonna cost you a pretty penny to put another coat of paint on this truck; it's only a month old." "I won't have to pay for anything," she said sheepishly. "I think we can both agree that it was your fault. You never stopped at your stop sign." James looked around him. There was no one around, which meant no witnesses. This intersection was usually busy, but he'd left work three hours early for a much-needed long weekend, so rush hour traffic hadn't yet clogged the streets. He cleared his throat and with a feigned gasp of surprise said, "Excuse me? My fault? I don't think so. You ran the stop sign, not me. And how the hell could you have not seen me? This thing is a beast. Don't you have any eyes?" The old woman glowered at him. "I have eyes, and my eyes are just fine," she quipped with a voice quivering now as much from anger as from old age. "Just because I'm old doesn't mean I'm senile. We both know who was really at fault here." James smiled confidently at her. "Yes-you were. You are an old woman who can barely see past her steering wheel. I am a prominent businessman in this town who just happens to employ more people than any other employer in the county. So, who do you think the police would believe if this should be pursued? So, if you would so kindly let me write down you insurance information, we can both be on our way." The old woman's face saddened at that reality, and she ran her hand along the dented quarter panel. "I don't make much money with my social security. I don't think I could afford it if my insurance went up because of this. Couldn't you just -." James put his hands up to stop her. "Don't even g o there, grandma. I didn't get to where I am today by having a soft spot for boo-hooing. You should've been watching where you were going. Maybe you need to get those bug-eyes of yours checked out." He shook head pitifully. "I don't know how the hell you could miss a beast like this."

48 She handed him her insurance card and said through a clenched jaw. "My eyes are fine!" "Yeah, whatever," he shot back as he transferred the information to the back of one of his business cards. "I know a good optometrist if you want to get those babies looked at. It couldn't hurt-especially if you're going to keep driving at your age." As he gave her back the insurance card, she grabbed his hand in a vice-like grip not expected in a lady of her age and stature. She closed her eyes and mumbled something under her breath. When she reopened them, they glowed an eerie red, only for a moment before their gray-blue tinge returned. James yanked his hand away; it was now red from her grip. "What the hell was that all about? Are you get ting physical with me old lady? Maybe I should call the cops right now." She smiled at him, a stronger smile than before. "Now, do you think the police would believe that you were being harassed by a little old lady. How would you look in their eyes, Mr. B ig Employer, being intimidated by someone like me?" Rubbing his hand, he said, "Well, we'll see who has the last laugh, grandma. I hope your insurance does go up. Maybe it'll take away the money you need for your heart medication. That'd be nice, hmmm?" He turned to round the front of the Envoy and said over his shoulder, "Get those freaking eyes of yours checked lady. You're as blind as a bat." As she got into her little car, she said, "You'll soon find out first hand just how well I can see." James backed up and waived the old woman through the intersection before he headed onward. As she drove by in front of him, she smiled devilishly, and her eyes had the red glow in them again. He'd never seen eyes do that before. Maybe she had some weird disease that made them do that. That would explain why she obviously didn't see him and his big SUV. He didn't care. He'd have his truck looked at on Monday and it would be patched and painted by Wednesdayall without a penny of his own money. He put the Envoy into gear and headed home. ........... It was just past midnight when James realized that he wasn't alone in his house. A furtive sound coming from his kitchen

49 woke him from what was already turning out to be a sleepless night. Earlier in the evening, a neighbor's dog had gotten loose and decided to camp outside his bedroom window to serenade potential mates. By its low, mournful bay it had sounded like Lincoln, a black lab owned by the Stuarts next door. His ability to escape chains would have even made Houdini proud. When it had grown tired of its fruitless task and moved on to more animally-populous parts of the community, heartburn had sent him to the bathroom for a handful of Pepcid AC. Now, almost an hour later, as he lay atop his sheets waiting for the pills to take affect, he swore he heard rapid footsteps scraping across his tile floor. He leaned up onto his elbows, tilted his head toward the hallway, which ended in the kitchen of the ranch-style house, and squinted as if that might somehow give him better hearing. Five, ten, thirty seconds passed. The only sound he could identify conclusively was a light scratching against the side of the house near his bedroom window from a tree animated by a stray evening breeze. He'd decided that maybe what he'd heard was, in fact, the wind-tossed branches, but then he heard the noise again and was sure it was coming from within his home. Its faint but rhythmic clap, clap, clap sounded oddly similar to that of an animal's paws as it trotted across an uncarpeted floor. Paws? A dog's paws . . . That dog! That damned pooch must've come back, he finally realized. It had been such a sweltering night that he'd spent some time before bed cooling off in his pool just off the back patio. Though his mind objected to the late-night usage, he thought back for a moment. As much as he tried, he couldn't remember locking the patio door behind him when he'd decided to retire for the evening. Even so, he lived in one of the safest communities in Kramersburgh so the patio door was often left unlocked but never open. Never ever open. Maybe he'd left it ajar--just a sliver. Maybe enough for some mangy pooch to get its nose in and pry open farther in search of the leftover steak in his refrigerator. Well, the door had been breeched somehow, and now he was being burglarized

50 by a damned dog. It seemed his bad week was threatening to spill over into his weekend. He cursed under his breath as he got out of bed and groped among the shadows beyond his nightstand for the housecoat crumpled up in his reading chair. Finding it, he threw it on and headed for the bedroom door. "I'll take a baseball bat to that mutt if he's scratched up the tile," he said as he stepped out into the comparatively darker hallway, tightening up the belt on his robe. "I j ust had that put in." The hallway ended and opened abruptly into an expansive dining and kitchen area. The entire space was encased in windows along the outer wall and skylights in the vaulted ceilings above. Even in the darkness, the room gleamed like bla ck onyx, as though it had a luminosity all its own. Although the full moon hadn't yet reached high enough into the night to pour completely unveiled through the sky lights, it took the tree-filtered glow that radiated through the queue of windows at the back of the house and seemed to increase it ten-fold. But despite the sparkle of new tile, polished oak, streakless glass, stainless steel, shadows persisted throughout and clung to the various surfaces like tar. He looked around but saw no dog-and heard no more noises. "Hey!" he shouted to see if that would startle anything into movement. His voice reverberated slightly in the cavernous space. Nothing. Maybe he was hearing things, after all. It must've been that steak he ate for supper, which hopefully the Pepcid would take care of. Well, there was no sense wasting this time up. He decided that maybe a couple more quick shots of whisky would help him sleep-the first two before bed obviously weren't enough. He walked around the dining table and down into his sunken living room. In the darkness, he felt for and found his coffee table. And there, he found his bottle of Chivas Regal. He might have been well to do, but he was still a man, and men left their whisky out, not put away. Besides, with the amounts he consumed, there really was no sense in putting it back. James opened the bottle and took a quick swill, savoring it in his mouth a moment before swallowing the burning liquid. While

51 he waited for the burn to subside before taking another drink, he thought for a moment about just how rotten the past week had been, hoping that maybe tormenting his mind would be enough to shut it down and bring about the onset of a much needed sleep. It had started with the break-up of a really good relationship-sexual speaking, that is, though sex was really the only good component of a relationship. Then, it continued it's plummet with budget cuts and the inevitability of having to lay off possibly ten percent of the employees at the refinery, which translated into almost one hundred jobs. And since all things come in threes, he should have expected the accident at the intersection today with the bug-eyed, old woman, though it was her fault, he reminded himself. If she had been driving a bigger car, maybe he would have noticed he r and stopped. Well, she clearly should have seen him and given him the right-of-way. And all of those wonderful happenings consummated with the finale of his third sleepless night in a row. As he took another drink, he turned to look up at the moon peeking in through the trees beyond his back windows --and noticed something odd. The darkness that had blanketed the house-as with most other houses at this time of night -had suddenly come alive. Little red eyes began appearing in the black spaces under the dining table, in the corners, on counter tops, anywhere the moonbeams couldn't reach. They were glowing crimson, like the eyes of an animal when a light hits them at just the right angle. "What the hell is this?" James demanded. "What'd you do, bring back the whole fucking dog pound to help you eat my food?" He stomped on the floor. "Shew, you damned mutts." He stomped again, but the eyes never moved, never even flinched. Just stared. It was then that he was taken with the strange notion that these weren't the eyes of dogs, not even the eyes of animals -at least none he'd ever seen before. They were oddly shaped and of varying sizes, but all had a singular quality that made the Chivas boil in his gut: hatred. And that hatred seemed to be locked onto James Delloitte. A cupboard opened in the kitchen up and off to his right. A glass dish or maybe a coffee cup smashed across the new tile. The

52 sliding glass patio doors slid open then closed slowly, deliberately. It made an eerie sound as it traveled across its track like the sound of a coffin lid being closed over its dead occupant. There were more, little clattering paws then more eyes appeared from around the corner. When one of these little creatures passed a spattering of feeble light on the tile floor, James could see their misshapen outlines. The fact that they all walked up right, on two feet, affirmed the fearful fact that these, indeed, were not animals. With their molten lava-colored eyes, these things-these eerily animated little mannequins, stared down unblinkingly at him. One of them gurgled a phlegmy noise then snorted. Another began chattering its teeth, its radiant eyes squinting as it made the awful sound. The strange pack slowly began to close the gap. Suddenly, sleep was the last thing on his mind, and James let the bottle slip from his grasp and spill onto the floor. He was briefly aware of the stain it would make in the plush carpeting as the liquid moistened the area around his feet, but that seemed irrelevant, now. He took a step back. His calf brushed up against the coffee table. He reached out into the darkness, found the arm of the sofa and followed it around to the back. He raced down to the opposite end, keeping it as a barrier between him and whatever they were that were gathering at the top st ep to the dining room. There had to be six or maybe even eight or ten of them. Panic, darkness and their shifty movement barred him from seeing them clearly, though he was fairly certain that he was seeing as much of them as he cared to. The queer chattering and clicking and gurgling they made grew slightly, as though they were becoming more courageous with their numbers and with the night on their side. They took another step down into the living room. James wanted to take another step back but was paralyzed with fear. The foyer and the front door were fifteen feet away behind him and to his left. All he had to do was turn and run, but what he might encounter in the shadows that separated him from freedom scared him as much as just standing there. So, he stood there.

53 Suddenly, one step from the living room, the group stopped their progression. They all stood motionless, like little pillars, just staring. They made no more noise, and their silence was more chilling than their chatter. Then, with the precision of an army drill corps, the group as one shifted their gaze. They were no longer staring directly at him but somewhere else, somewhere beyond him. Behind him. The fear that had kept him shackled to the back of the sofa loosened its grip just enough to let him turn around. The swipe came quickly and hit its mark, tearing out terrycloth and flesh from across his chest. He reeled back from the force of the blow and almost fell over the back of the sofa. It had happened so quickly that initially, he felt no pain. But as he righted himself, his chest suddenly felt as though it was on fire. I must be dreaming, he thought as he touched his chest and felt dangling pieces of garment, wet tissue and bone. This can't be happening. Another swipe from something unseen. There was a ripping sound. What was that? The searing pain cracked like a lightning bolt down his shoulders, his back, his legs. He collapsed to the floor and into a sticky puddle. Was that the spilled whisky? No, it was his blood. He knew that his scalp had just been torn away. He'd just paid for that hair, too. Eight thousand dollars worth of micro-grafts gone in one swipe. He tried to scream, but it only came out as a weak "Unh, unh." Something, a darker shadow among the shadows, lifted him into the air with one cold, greasy, claw-like hand around his neck. He couldn't swallow, so he could no longer taste the coppery blood spilling from his scalp. "Unh, unh, unh." Big eyes. Big, bulging, vermilion eyes stared at him. Quiet laughter filled the room from the crew of devilish munchkins in the background. "Unh, unh." The shadow-hidden monstrosity spoke through what sounded like a mouthful of broken glass. "As I said earlier, Mr. Delloitte, my eyes are just fine!" The last thing James heard was the crack of his sternum.

54 2002 StoriesByEmail.com The shotgun's blast was deafening, the hollow double boom multiplied by its confinement within the walls of the barroom. From where the gun was fired near the doorway, a thick cloud of smoke, grey-black, drifted out into the street. It thinned slowly in the cool, still air. A few feet outside the door a tree showed the fresh scars of the double load of buckshot. Leaves drifted down, and the remnants of a man's flat-topped Western hat, torn and shredded, lay in the dust. Big John turned away from the door and swaggered back to his post behind the bar. He broke open the short double barrels of the sawed-off shotgun, pulled out and dropped the empties. He shoved two more ten-gauge shells into the breech and snapped the barrels closed. Then he slid the gun back into its usual place beneath the bar and glared at George. "There, by God. You got any more questions about my shootin'? Your hat's deader'n hell." John's expression was dour, as usual, but he made no effort to hide his satisfaction. George said nothing, only shrugging his shoulders and drifting back to stand at the bar. He waited while Big John poured a shot of bourbon for each of them. They were alone in the saloon. The saloon was the Magnolia Room. It adjoined the Jeffery Hotel in Coulterville, in the foothills of Central California. Two hundred yards west, the main branch of California's Mother Lode lay, angled along the foothills from northwest to southeast. Its snowy white quartz showed as outcrops here and there, at ridgetops and along steep slopes. Once, in the 1850s, Coulterville had been home to thousands of miners, but now, in 1887, it would have been hard to get

55 more than a couple of hundred folks to show up for anything, no matter how exciting. But the town wasn't too big for its population. The coincidence of accidental but devastating fires, in '59 and '79, had kept the town down to the size its residents needed because they rebuilt accordingly. There wasn't all that much to do in town, what with nothing but the few gold mines still running, and the sawmill, and a few cattle and some farming. And the general store, of course. But the people, the ones remaining, still had spirit. They worked hard, and long hours, but there was time for enjoyment, too. And the local saloons were a large part of it. The Magnolia was the biggest saloon in town, and the busiest, except when Big John Thompson, owner and bartender, decided to take a day or two off. When he did the bar was closed, unless George Tiscovia came into town, and then it wasn't open to anyone else. The two, despite their differences in appearance and manner, had been friends for years. When George came in, and Big John decided on it, the two men holed up in the saloon and drank. And lied to each other, boasting of whatever each thought he could do better than the other. They'd had angry confrontations now and then, but never fights. John was too big for that. At six feet five he towered over everyone, and he was burly, strong as the drink he served and tough as any mule he'd bossed in the old days. His face was as rough as the bark on an oak, his mind as inflexible as the tree itself. But he was a peaceful man, unless he was riled. George Tiscovia was smaller, no more than average size, with shrewd grey eyes and quick movements. He was devoted to practical jokes, not unusual for the time, but he carried his farther than most. He delighted in baiting Big John into bets he couldn't win or maneuvering him into being the b utt of his pranks. Not that George was an idler. He worked hard, rode hard, and

56 got drunk only on occasion, mostly with John. George's uncle owned the stage station in town. Stages stopped there to change horses on the way from Modesto to the Yosemite Valley, and George drove the route from Coulterville to Yosemite and return. George had driven a stage down late the day before, eight horses and the flimsy stage swinging and sliding down the steep grades and hairpin turns of the Coulterville and Yosemite Turnpike. It was a tough job, and service was important. The competition was fierce from the Big Oak Flat road, not like it was at first, when the Coulterville road was the only way for anything on wheels to reach Yosemite. George had made three hard trips up and back without a rest, and now he wanted a little relaxation. He had come into the bar early, just after seven, while Big John was cleaning out and getting ready for the day. George threw his hat atop the big, wheeled safe that stood just to the right of the swinging doors, against the front wall, as he cam in. Everyone did that, and sometimes when it was busy there were so many hats on the safe they kept sliding off to the floor. Now, though, there were just the two, George's and Big John's. They had a drink apiece, and then John decided to close up so they could have a talk and another drink or two. It started off innocently enough with talk about the weather -- heat, dust and no rain -- and what had been going on in town. The conversation went on in an idle way until John mentioned that the Riverside Saloon, over on Ferry Road the other side of Maxwell Creek, had been held up several days before. "Sheriff catch 'im?" George asked idly. "Naw, hasn't even been over yet. Only been a few days." "He git much? The hold-up man, I mean." "Naw. You know old man Vigna. He starts out with hardly any

57 change in the box of a morning. Hold-up man didn't know that, I guess. Came in early, before any customers." John scowled. "Don't matter, though. I know what I'd'a done." He stooped slightly and slid the sawed-off shotgun out from under the bar. "I'd'a let him have it with this." George's eyes brightened, but he looked doubtful. "Come on, John, you couldn't hit the wall of a room from inside it with that thing. How come you think you could stop a robber?" John glowered and swung the double barrels around to line up on George's chest. "You wanta find out what I can hit?" George's hands came upward off the bar. "Yeah, but not with that thing pointed at me. Can't tell, you might get lucky." He hesitated, then, "Tell you what. See if you can hit my hat. For a dollar." He flipped a silver dollar onto the bar. John covered it with a dollar of his own. "Okay, but not in here. Git yore hat and hang it on a tree outside, along the edgeof the street. I'll show you how to stop a robber." He raised the gun's muzzle so it no longer threatened George. George picked up the hat from the top of the safe and pushed open the swinging doors. He moved to a wisteria vine at the street's edge where it wound around the porch support, about ten feet from the door, and hung the hat on one of its trimmed branches. Then he scooted back inside and stopped just behind John, where the latter stood in the doorway, and waited for him to fire. Back at the bar, George picked up the drink John had poured and drank it down. Then, just ahead of Big John's, his hand swept the two silver dollars off the bar and into his other hand. "Hold on, there, you little piss-ant, them's my dollars. I won 'em fair and square." The quickest thing about John was his temper, and it was coming up fast.

58 "Nope." George had skipped across to the safe, scooped up the lone hat left on its top and was on his way to the doors. "Big John," he shouted as he went through, "I bet you couldn't hit my hat. You didn't. That was your own hat you shot, not mine." By then Big John had the shotgun out again and let fly in the direction of the swinging doors. The blast tore one door loose from its hinges and sprayed the other, and the doorframe, with a double load of Number Two Buck. Still see the scars today, if you go into the Magnolia. George? Oh, he got away clear. He usually did. TREASURE!* "Sure, there's treasure stories in all these old California gold rush towns. We've got our share. There's the Frenchman's Mill story, and one about a small cabin in town with a fortune buried under it. And several others." George Tiscovia, the speaker, sat slumped in his chair, booted feet thrust straight out before him under the tab le. The table was in the Magnolia, the biggest and busiest saloon in Coulterville. It was late in the fall of 1883, with a cold, raw wind blowing outside. Warm enough here, though, in the barroom. George still wore his hat. It was tilted low over his eyes , hiding most of his face and the quick, sharp glances he threw at the two young men facing him. Dried mud, the result of road conditions after the season's first hard rain, was spattered thickly across his clothes, dull red-brown clots against the faded blue of Levis and mackinaw. George drove the stage, and the eight-horse team that pulled it, from Coulterville to Yosemite and return. The two young men he was talking to had ridden the stage down from Yosemite with him, arriving in Coulterville that afternoon. They were a friendly pair, both in their early twenties. Ben was the dark one, Luke the blond. They were of

59 a size, tall and muscular, and both eager to know more about the history of the region. And since they'd asked when the stage reached town, George had agreed to have a beer with them. "Coulterville was a good sized town in the early days, not like now," George went on. "That's because of the fire back in '79. Anyhow, a lot of gold was found hereabouts, years ago. And wherever there's gold there's stories about it. Gold hidden, and buried, and lost as far as anybody knows." Ben spoke up. "But has anyone ever found any of it?" "Sure. There's been a couple of times when somethin' turned up. But the big one that everybody know about, that's neve r been found. It's gotten to be a joke around town." "How's that?" This time from Luke. "Well, my grandfather was s'posed to've hoarded most of the gold he ever found, and he'd found a lot of it. Finally, the story goes, he buried it for safekeeping. Never dug it up, as far as anybody in the family knows." "Where'd he bury it? Does anybody know?" This from Ben again. "Sure, according to the story. He's supposed to have buried it under the hangman's tree just across the street. Nobody around town believes it. The story keeps getting' repeated, and laughed about, but sometimes I get to wonderin' . . ." His voice trailed off and he sat silent, his eyes on the two. Luke asked the next question. "But why? Why hasn't somebody local dug it up?" "Story's been told so often nobody here believes it, I guess. Besides that there's a hangin' tree. S'posed to be bad luck to mess around with it. That's just superstition, prob'ly, but I guess nobody wants to chance it." Taking a final pull at the

60 beer in front of him, George pulled himself erect. "I got to get going. I need a bath after that stretch of road." The other two stood as well. Luke asked, "We were going to take the stage on to Modesto in the morning. If we decided to go on tonight is there a livery stable where we could rent a rig?" "Two of 'em. One's around the corner on Stockton, the other right up Main Street." "Well, it's been nice meeting you. Hope we'll see you again." Luke extended a hand, shook, and watched as George shook hands with Ben, turned and left. Then he sat, motioned Ben to do the same, and waved for another beer. The two argued through two more beers before they left the saloon, and continued to argue on the way to the livery stable. Then they went to the El Capitan for supper, still arg uing. After a clean-up and a change of clothes George had a leisurely dinner in the dining room of the Jeffery Hotel. Later he stopped in the Magnolia again, this time standing at the bar where Big John Thompson presided. At his nod, Big John drew a stein of been and slid it across the bar. Then, from his greater height, John glared down at George. "What'd you tell them two young scalawags you brought in earlier?" Big John never talked around what he wanted to say. He just jumped right in. "What'd I tell 'em? What d'you mean?" "After you left they stayed a while. Asked questions of anybody'd talk to 'em, whenever they wasn't arguin.' Wanted to know about hidden treasure. Gold, I guess. Even tried to pump me." "What'd you tell 'em? "

61 "Not much. They was askin' about the hangin' tree. Said something about gold bein' buried there. I told 'em I didn't know nothin' about it." "Come on, John. That's an old story. Everybody around here's heard that one about my granddad. He was supposed to have buried gold there." "Huh. Jist talk, and with you and all your jokin' I wouldn't be s'prised you started it. I didn't tell 'em nothin.' But I guess enough other folks already had, anyway." For a long moment George just stared at Big John, but he didn't say anything. Then he shrugged and turned away, picking up his hat as he headed for the door. It was late the next afternoon before George got back into the Magnolia. By then he'd already heard the talk around town. Couldn't help it, even if he had gotten up late. There was quite an uproar, with everybody talking about the same thing, so he wasn't surprised at Big John's hail as he came in. "Hey, you, George, you hear what happened last night?" George tossed his hat onto the big safe just inside the door and walked over to the bar. "What's that?" "Somebody dug a hole under the hangin' tree. There's marks there shows where there'd been a big chest buried . Just the marks where it was. And them two young fellers you was in here with? They're gone. Rented a team and wago n last night from Goss. Whatever that treasure was, it was real. And now its gone. Whatta you think of that?" He slapped a beer on the counter in front of George, glaring at him. George flipped a nickel on the counter and reached for the beer. His eyes met Big John's steadily. "Not much. How'd you know it was the young fellers?" "Figgers, don't it? They was in here last night, and askin'

62 about treasure. This mornin' they're gone. And somebody dug up a treasure last night." "How'd you know it was treasure?" "I don't, but it figgers. What else would anybody bury like that? Say, you didn't have anythin' to do with it, did you?" "Now John, why would you say that? I don't know any more about it than you do." "Well, you're always funnin' an' playin' jokes o n people. 'Sides, somebody did a lot of work last night, diggin' and pryin' that chest outa that hole. And if you din't have anything to do with it, what's the matter with you today? You look plumb wore out." "Had to go up on Schilling Road. Spent most of the night with a shovel tryin' to patch up the dam for Uncle Nick's reservoir. Worked my tail off. And a shovel sure wasn't what I'd planned on spending the night with, either." "Well, you should'na offered to take care of your uncle's place while he was gone. Serves you right." But Big John wouldn't let it rest. "Whatta you think? I think we should send somebody after those two." "Why, John? What have they done wrong? Even if they did what you say, that tree's not on private property. I can't see how you could do anything." "Well, it jest ain't right. If there was a treasure there it should'a been ours. Us folks here in town. A lot of 'em are pretty upset." George drank off his beer and put the glass back on the bar. "Well, I'm not. I'm headin' for my place. I'm still tired." He retrieved his hat from the top of the safe and left. George decided to go to bed early. It wouldn't matter if the

63 folks in town did send somebody after the youngsters. Not even if they caught up with them, which wasn't likely. There'd be no iron chest in the wagon, just their carpetbags. He'd seen them leave last night, after dark but not too long after they'd rented the rig. That's why he figured his idea would work, the one he'd gotten from Big John's talk The lack of a chest in the wagon wouldn't prove anything to the men from town, though. They'd be sure the two had re hidden the treasure, figuring to come back for it later. But with no way to prove it they'd have to let the boys go on. George was smiling as he got into bed. He was still tired. He'd done a lot of work the night before. Digging the hole hadn't been so bad. The rain had softened the dirt so that part of the job was easy. But shaping the sides and bottom of the hole so it'd look like a chest had been removed, that was a lot harder. Especially when he'd had to work alone, completely in the dark And silently. George himself had started the story all in fun a long time ago, knowing his grandfather hadn't hidden any gold. Not under the hanging tree, anyway. But now nobody in town would ever believe there hadn't been a treasure buried there. That was the best part of the joke. George was still smiling when he fell asleep. .. SALT! * "You know who's back in town and lookin' for you?" Big John Thompson, owner and bartender of the Magnolia, the biggest and busiest saloon in Coulterville, blurted it out. It was the way he usually opened a conversation - no hesitating around the edges - he just jumped right in. George Tiscovia turned from depositing his hat atop the huge iron safe against the front wall, his grin quizzical but not quite carefree. "Doesn't look like a husband does he?" "Aw, cut it out. Naw, it's them two young scalawags was in here last fall. You remember, it was just before the two of 'e m,

64 or somebody, dug up that treasure under the hangin' tree. Claimed it wasn't them, though." "How'd you find that out?" "I ast 'em, how else? Says they didn't know nothin' about it, but I don't believe 'em. You want a beer?" George nodded. "I never could resist a salesman." George drove the passenger stage, and the eight-horse team that pulled it, from Coulterville, in the California foothills, to world famous Yosemite Valley and return. So it was a few days, and another round trip for George, before the young men caught up with him. And not surprisingly, when they did it was in the Magnolia saloon. Big John was clearly annoyed when George led the two youngsters, after greetings and handshakes, to a table in the corner, too far from the bar to be overheard. Nor was John's mood improved by George's taking off and leaving him hanging, his curiosity unsatisfied, until the next day. There was no one in the saloon when George came through the swinging doors, early, and Big John wouldn't even wait until he reached the bar. "What'd them two want with you, anyways?" Big John stood with both hands braced on the bar, glaring down from his greater height at the other man. George shook his head, his expression dour. "I don't like it, John. I wish they'd waited to talk to me, first." "Waited for what?" "They came back because they'd talked some with the Shinn brothers when they were here before. Now they've bought that worthless mine the Shinns owned, the Lost Chance over east of Greeley Hill." "Hmpf. Why should you care? Nothin' to you, is it?"

65 "No, not really, but they're nice young fellers. I like 'em, and I'd hate to see 'em lose all their money, but I guess that's what'll happen." Big John shrugged. "It was a good mine once. Rich ore, and it paid well, but I guess it played out long before the Shinns bought it. Only way they could, prob'ly. What'd the kids have to give?" "Six thousand dollars. Pretty much all they had, I reckon. I told 'em I'd come up and look it over with them, show 'em how to hand drill holes and set powder. They say the Shinns showed them gold, in place at the tunnel's end. If it's there I'd bet the Shinns salted the rock face." "Yep, prob'ly loaded up some gold into a shotgun and fired it at the tunnel face." Big John shook his head. "L ooks pretty real, shooter knows what he's doin.' Wouldn't be the first time for somebody to salt a gold mine. Hard to prove, though." George went on, "The Shinns gave them the pocket country story, too. Said mines in that area give up gold in pockets, rich concentrations with stretches of barren rock between. True, as far as it goes, only the Lost Chance is outside the band where that applies. But they told the boys the gold they showed them is the edge of a pocket, which is why they're so excited. I told 'em I'd be up to see them today." It was worse than George had expected. He was able to pick off the visible gold, and stayed with Ben and Luke, the two young men, until they'd hand drilled holes enough for the first blast. He'd placed black powder and set it off, bringing down a lot of rock but no traces of anything except quartz and country rock. It took another day for the next shot, with the same results. Then George faced the two, leaning on an empty ore car at the end of the main tunnel where shatter ed rock had been knocked down by the blast. "You might as well face it, fellers, you've been took. Saltin' a gold mine is an old trick, and you fell for it. I'll bet the Shinns

66 are laughin' theirselves sick." Ben, the dark-haired, more intense of the two, showed his despair. "But what can we do, George? We gave them almost all the money we had. Can't we get it back?" George straightened. "Not without showing fraud, which you can't prove. I'm afraid the two of you are stuck." Luke, the blond one, aimed a kick at the ore car, lost his balance and fell against it. The car tipped, teetered and settled back on the rails. George looked at the car, at the rails it sat on, back to Luke and Ben. His expression was peculiar. "You two want to try something? Could be a lot of work for nothing." "Anything, George, if it might get us back our money." That was Ben, but Luke was nodding. "What do we have to do?" George didn't get back into the Magnolia again for over a week. He showed up early one morning, shortly after Big John had opened the iron doors that protected the saloon when it was closed. Big John hailed George as the latter cleared the swinging doors. "Hey, you little pipsqueak, where you been?" George looked tired, and even his grin was a little worn. "Been helpin' out those two younguns. Just made a delivery for 'em, over to the Wells Fargo office." "Yeah? Whatta you shippin' for 'em?" "Gold. But not shippin' it. Got a draft from the agent to cover it." "Gold? Where'd you git that? Not from the Lost Chance." "Yep. Sure did." "How much?"

67

"Just short of nine thousand." "Dollars?" And at Georges nod, "Y'r jokin.'" "Here's the draft," as he held it out. "I'll be damned. And it all came from the Lost Chance? I thought it was plumb worked out." "So did the Shinns." George waved the draft and turned. "Got to get back and give this to the boys. Don't tell anybody, huh?" "Sure not. Them two'll be leavin' town now, huh?" "Why would they do that? They'll be working the mine." And George headed for the door. Knowing Big John, George was sure he couldn't keep the news to himself. It'd be all over town in an hour or less, and Big John would make sure it got to the Shinn brothers, a pair George knew he didn't like anyway. George went on back to the mine, knowing he'd have to get the boys calmed down and change their minds. They were all set to leave as soon as they got the draft, but George wasn't through with the Shinns. Not yet. They showed up at midafternoon. Ben and Luke were in the mine, leaving George to meet the Shinns. The older brother, Watt, did the talking. He didn't sound happy. "You, George, where's them two boys? We got to see 'em, and right now." "Sorry, fellers, they're busy. I'm their agent, though. Anything I can do for you?" Like almost everybody hereabouts, George was wearing a gun, a late-model Colt repeater. Carelessly, his hand hovered close over the handgrips. "We been thinkin' it over. We want to buy the mine back."

68 "How come? Bought it fair and square, didn't they? For cash, right?" Watt's voice turned plaintive. "We sold too cheap. We figger they owe us." "They don't owe you a dime, and you know it. But they might sell you the mine back, long as they get a profit. They're not really miners, in it for the long pull." "That's not fair!" It burst from Watt. "They already got a profit. We want the mine back." "Paid you six thousand, didn't they?" "Well, yeah, but . . ." George's voice hardened, riding across Watt's words. "Tell you what, boys. You bring nine thousand cash up he re, before dark, I'll try and talk the young fellers into selling back to you. I'll get a Bill of Sale signed and ready." "What? That's highway robbery! Whatta you think you're doin,' George?" The smile on George's face was suddenly wolfish, his eyes hard on Watt's face. "The same thing you told those young fellers you were doin,' sellin' the mine at a bargain price. Oh, yeah, and you better add five hundred. I figer I oughta make something for my trouble." "Hey, no way. We can't get back here by dark, anyway." "You can, but that's your problem, gents. Up a thousand after dark." George backed away, eyeing the two men. "Better get going if you want to make it." He continued to watch until the two had swung their horses and left at a gallop. The three of them were back at the corner table in the Magnolia, with Big John glaring from behind the bar, burning

69 to know what was going on but unable to overhear. The two young men were effusive in their thanks to George, with Ben, as usual, doing most of the talking. "But the whole thing was your idea, George. And you even got the Shinns to buy the mine back. That doubled the money we came out with. You ought to have part of it." George shook his head, smiling. "I got my five hundred. That's enough. Profits are made on risk, and I didn't take any. Besides, Luke stumbling over that ore car was what tipped me, so he deserves part of the credit." "But how did you know, George?" "I didn't, but when I looked at the tracks the cars ran on I realized the mine had been worked for years, processing half a mountain of rich ore before it played out. Some had to have fallen through or spilled off the cars while they were being moved through the mine. That's why I had you tear up the tracks and ties. Sweeping up all the gravel and powdered rock from the tunnel floor got nearly all the gold lost from the cars. Close to nine thousand dollars worth." Luke grimaced. "Hard work and sore muscles, but it sure beats losing our six thousand." "Yeah," Ben chipped in, "and the Shinns paid extra to get the mine back, besides. I'd no idea you'd dare to do that, George. Won't they raise a stink when they find out the tracks're torn out? The mine is really worthless now, isn't it?" "Yeah, prob'ly, but who knows? And besides, they might eve n think the story they told you, that the mine's in 'pocket country,' is true. Anyway, they were so anxious to get it back they didn't even look inside, and the bill of sale is nothing but a quitclaim releasing your interests, with nothing said about condition. There's nothing they can do.

70 "And next time," George said with a grin, "they might think a little harder before they salt a gold mine." ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 1new All for nothing All or Nothing a serial by Kit Tunstall Malachi blinked his eyes as the sun peeked through the improperly closed blinds. Judging by the quality of light, it must still be early. He had plenty of time to finish packing and make it to the airport. If Kelly hadn't stopped by last nigh t, he would have been ready to go this morning. His eyes snapped open when he thought of Kelly. How had she gotten home? When had she left? He didn't remember much beyond the second bottle of wine. As he moved into a sitting position, causing the crisp, wh ite sheet to fall against his waist, he realized he wasn't alone in the bed. He looked beside him and saw Kelly sleeping peacefully. Her mocha skin was a beautiful contrast with the pure white linen of the pillowcase. Her ebony hair fanned out across the pillow, and her full lips were parted as she breathed deeply in sleep. The bruise under her eye, now a bright purple, was the only thing that marred the perfect vision she made. Had he made love to Kelly last night? Malachi lifted the sheet and saw they were both nude. He felt sated and relaxed, while tense at the same time. Mostly, he just felt different in a way that wasn't easy to define. He didn't doubt he had made love to the women he'd been in love with for over a year. He had made love with his best friend's wife. "Shit," he cursed as he slid from the bed. His movements caused Kelly's eyes to open. He saw a soft smile form on her face, but it quickly changed to a look of panic as she realized where she was and what they had done. She sat up quickly, pressing the sheet to her chest. "Oh, my God," she whispered. "We didn't..." He nodded, unable to speak. Even the repercussions their actions were sure to have couldn't diminish his joy in looking at her, sitting on his bed, knowing he had held her last nigh t. "We did. It must have been the wine." She had been so

71 distraught when she arrived, and wine had been a good way to calm her down. Unfortunately, they had both over -indulged. It was more than the wine for him though. He had wanted her since the day he met her, just a scant week after she married his friend. She looked at the clock on the nightstand that read 6:00 A.M. "Justin must be so worried about me." Malachi couldn't hold back a snort. Kelly's shoulders hunched defensively. "He is. I was gone all night." He shook his head. "He probably isn't even home yet. You know how he likes to pull all-nighters after beating his wife." He knew he sounded bitter, but he was tired of trying to make Kelly see reason, and he was tired of pretending Justin wasn't hurting his wife. She touched the bruise on her cheek, and her eyes slid from his. "It was my fault. I pushed him about having a baby." "So he hit you?" He walked to the closet and pushed open the sliding door. "Yeah, that's all your fault." He heard the rus tle of sheets behind him and knew she had slid from the bed. He waited to turn to allow her a moment to cover up. "I knew he'd had a vasectomy when I married him. Justin says I was okay with it then..." "'Justin says'," he bit out mockingly, as he whirled to face her. "Do you have any idea how sick I am of hearing you say that? For God's sake, Kelly, think for yourself. You don't need him to tell you what to think, how to dress, or who to be friends with." Tears splashed down her cheeks. "Please, don't." "Don't what? Don't tell the truth? Don't point out you've stayed with a loser for no damn good reason?" Malachi could see the hurt in her deep brown eyes, but he couldn't stop the tirade. The words had been lodged in his throat for over a year, and they demanded to be uttered. "Justin is my best friend, but I hate how he treats you. I hate how you let him treat you." She wiped at her defined cheekbones with slim, tapered fingers. Soft pink polish covered her long nails. "What am I supposed to do? He doesn't mean to hurt me." He didn't bother to address the excuse she always proffered for Justin's temper. Instead, he said, "Leave him."

72 She shook her head. "I love him." He lifted a brow. "Then why do you come running to me every time you fight? Why did you sleep with me last night?" "I..." She turned her head away, and a soft sob issued from her. Malachi strode across the room and grasped her chin, forcing her to look at him. "You know I love you, that's why. You know I'll be here whenever you need me. I'm safe, so you run to me whenever you feel like it." "You shouldn't say these things," she whispered. "I'm married..." He sighed in disgust and dropped his hand. "You know I love you. You have to know." She nodded, and fresh tears flowed from her eyes. "I should have married you." Her voice was choked. "Come with me," he said impulsively. Kelly looked shocked. "You want me to go with you to Africa for a year? Just leave my whole life and run away?" He nodded. "I know you love me." A brief memory whispered through his mind. Holding her in his arms, as they drifted off to sleep, the words "I love you" issuing from her with an exhaled breath. "You said you did, last night." She bit her lip. "I do, but I love Justin too. I can't just pick up and leave." She touched his arm. "Stay with me. Cultures will find another photographer." She laid her head against his chest. "Please don't leave me. I can't make it without you." He wanted to take her in his arms, but Malachi forced his spine to remain stiff. He pushed her away. "No." He couldn't stay. She hadn't said she would leave Justin. If he didn't leave, she would always run to him whenever they fought, trusting Malachi to pick up the pieces. She would never leave her husband or put an end to his abuse. "You can come with me , but I'm not staying." She shook her head. "Why, Malachi? If you love me..." "I'm not going to be your safety zone anymore." His eyes burned with unshed tears, but he refused to allow a flicker of tenderness to cross his face. "You can't have us both. Unt il you decide I'm who you want, I don't want to see you again." A sob escaped her. "Please, please don't leave me. I need you." He kept his expression firm. "My flight leaves at ten. If you aren't at the airport, I'll know your decision." She recoiled from him. "How can you be so cruel?"

73 "Don't you think it's cruel to use me whenever it's convenient?" He turned away from her and walked back to the closet. As he lifted a pale blue shirt that brought out a hint of gray in his brown eyes, he said, "This is your last chance, Kelly. If you don't show, you've made your choice." Her bare feet made a scuffing sound as she walked to the door of the bedroom. "I made a promise before God, for better or worse. I won't come to the airport." He nodded, allowing the tears he'd been holding back to slide down his cheeks since he wasn't facing her. "Goodbye, Kelly." The soft click of the bedroom door closing was her answer. 2 He exited the airport and slipped into one of the cabs lining the curb at LAX. After giving the driver his address, he leaned back in the seat, struggling to keep his thoughts from where they wanted to wander. Kelly. God, how he had missed her the first few months in Tripoli. He had thought of her seemingly non-stop as he and the reporting team headed into the countryside of Libya, to meet all of its various groups of people. Every chance he got, he phoned his answering machine, praying for a message from her. As the messages accumulated, and none were from Kelly, he had stopped calling. Eventually, he acc epted she made her choice, and he had tried to move on tentatively with one of the reporters in the team working on the documentary. Once the cab dropped him at his apartment, Malachi let himself in. He glanced at the clock. It was a little after one P.M., so he had plenty of time to get settled before meeting Ana for dinner. Her flight had been booked earlier in the day, and he thought about calling to see if she was finding the adjustment back to American culture as difficult as he was. He dropped his bags by the door and walked to the phone. He saw 213 on the indicator light and abandoned thoughts of calling Ana at that moment. Malachi took time to shower and slip on a blue button-down shirt and khakis before returning to the answering machine. Armed with a pencil and paper, Malachi began to wade through the calls. Within the hour, he had listened to the first 150. He paused the machine to get water before he returned to the

74 chair and pressed play. He had just taken a drink when Kelly's voice filled his apartment. He choked at the unexpected sound of her soft words. ***"I miss you. I need to talk to you. I have to tell you..."*** He frowned when the message trailed into silence, before it clicked onto message 152. He hit the back button and listened to her words again. She sounded upset. The time stamp placed the call at three A.M., three months before. He wondered how badly Justin had hurt her. His resolve not to call her was tested, but Malachi made himself press delete and listen to the next message. She had made her decision. They both had to adhere to it. Ten messages later, he frowned again. ***"Mr. Norden, my name is Angela Baldwin. I'm Kelly's sister. She wanted me to call you. Please return my call when you get back into the country. It's urgent."*** He wrote down her number on autopilot, noting it was an L.A. area code. He forgot about the remaining messages on the machine as he lifted the phone and dialed Angela Baldwin. She answered on the third ring, and her voice was similar to Kelly's, but without the husky warmth. "Uh, hello. I'm Malachi Norden. I got your message." There was a note of coolness to her voice. "Yes, Mr. Norden." He cleared his throat, unaccountably nervous. "Malachi, please." She hesitated, but didn't respond to his invitation to use his first name. "Could you meet me today?" He looked at the clock. He had several hours until dinner with Ana, but he was reluctant to meet with Angela for some reason. Instinct urged him to slam down the phone. Instead, he said, "Tomorrow might be better." "This is very important, Mr. Norden." He sighed. "Alright. Could we meet for coffee?" "I'm sorry, but I'm unable to leave my home today. You'll have to come to me." Malachi bit back another sigh and copied the instructions to her house. "I'll be there within the hour." "Fine." Without so much as a goodbye, she hung up. He stared at the phone with confusion, wondering why Kelly's sister wanted to see him. A dart of excitement pierced him as he wondered if she had a message from Kelly. He tried to

75 deny the fluttering of hope as he rushed from his apartment and hailed a cab. Despite his earlier reluctance to meet Angela, suddenly he couldn't wait to get there. If Kelly wanted to see him, he wouldn't hesitate. Things weren't serious with Ana, so she wouldn't be hurt if he broke it off before it started. Justin was still be a problem, but he didn't feel too badly about the pain his friend would feel, knowing how much he had inflicted on Kelly. 3 The driver took him to a suburb several minutes outside the cit y. Malachi leaned forward on the edge of the seat as they turned down Willowcreek Drive. The street was lined with two and three-story homes. They were all of similar design, with the only variations as landscaping and paint choices. Most homes had a minivan parked in the drive, and a swing set visible from the backyards. Obviously a middle-class family community. The driver stopped in front of a beige home with tan trim. Malachi peel off several bills and stepped out. "Wait for me, please." Who knew how long it would take to get a taxi sent back to suburbia? He walked up the neat walkway, paved with unimaginative cement blocks. A tricycle was turned on its side near the porch, and several balls dotted the lawn. He stepped onto the porch and rang the bell, feeling out of his element. The family scene had never been his thing. He was uncomfortable around other people's children, and from the looks of the Baldwins' yard, they had at least one. When the door opened, he was assaulted by the sound of a baby crying. The baby in question was tucked against the shoulder of a woman whose resemblance to Kelly was so striking she could only be Angela Baldwin. She had the same slim body frame, delicate features, and full lips. She lacked Kelly's elegant fashion sense and poise, dressed as she was in a sweatshirt and jeans. She frowned at him. "Are you Malachi Norden?" He nodded, waiting for her to open the screen door and invite him in.

76 She pushed it open with one hand, while jiggling the baby on her shoulder with the other. "Come in." She made no effort to sound welcoming. He stepped inside wearily. As he had suspected from what he had seen of other suburban families, they had a dog. It was a lumbering, slobbering beast, with friendly eyes, and a dangerous tail that smacked against his legs. The black dog was large enough to be a small pony, and it pressed itself close to Malachi's leg. He patted it once on the head. "Good boy," he said half-heartedly. Angela took the dog by the collar and pulled on it. "Go lay down, Sasha." She spoke brusquely, but it was obvious her irritation wasn't with the dog. "Have a seat, Mr. Norden." He didn't repeat the invitation to use his first name as he took a seat on the couch. Malachi yelped when he sat on something sharp. He fished out a child's toy with dangerous looking spikes attached to the head of the doll. She took a seat in the recliner, focusing on the baby in her arms for a few minutes, obviously trying to calm it. He was left to his own thoughts as his eyes scanned the room, taking in the simple 27-inch TV, older model DVD player, and collection of children's VHS and DVD movies. They didn't even have surround sound. He shook his head, wondering if he would ever end up like this. But if this was what Kelly wanted, he would oblige her. He cleared his throat to capture Angela's attention, deciding the soft whimpers coming from the baby wouldn't fade. "Why did you need to see me, Ms. Baldwin?" She curled her lip. "My sister made me promise to speak with you." He raised his brow. "About what?" Her eyes left his to focus on the wall. Her thoughts appeared to have drifted, but she finally spoke. "Kelly died three months ago." He sat, frozen, staring at her. Shock overwhelmed him, followed by a wave of nausea. He wanted to deny what she was saying, and he went so far as to shake his head. Sympathy flickered through her eyes, but faded when the baby cried. Her gaze dropped to the infant in her arms, and she stroked its profusion of dark hair. "She died in childbirth."

77 He didn't know what to say first. Malachi couldn't believe Justin had consented to reversing the vasectomy he'd gotten during his first marriage. He couldn't believe Kelly had agreed to have a child with her abusive husband. He couldn't believe she was gone. How could it have happened? She was young and healthy. "Women don't die having babies in this country," he said in a raspy voice. Angela's head whipped up. "Kelly did. She was practically a damned ghost by the time she went into labor." Her dark eyes shone with anger. He shook his head. "I don't understand. How did this happen?" "You left her here to cope alone. You had to be selfish and demanding. You couldn't let her figure out what she wanted before you rushed off." She closed her mouth with a click when the baby's cries increased. Malachi's eyes widened at her diatribe. "What're you saying?" "Justin didn't want any part of your child, and he threw Kelly out." Angela rubbed her hand across the baby's back. "After he left some souvenirs on her. I thought she was going to miscarry that night." Malachi found it difficult to draw in a deep breath. She couldn't be saying what he was hearing. "You're saying it's mine. The baby is mine?" She nodded. "Kelly told me what happened during the week she spent in the hospital after Justin finished with her. I begged her to call you, but she said she didn't know how to reach you. She thought you wouldn't want to hear from her anyway." A painful breath was trapped in his throat, and he coughed to clear it. It sounded suspiciously like a sob. "I wanted her to be independent. I didn't want her always running to me. I didn't know..." Grudgingly, she nodded. "Kelly was too weak. She's always been that way with men. Our father was a strict man, and she was never good at standing up to him." Angela sighed and shifted the baby. "She was afraid to call you, I think. She told me you weren't the family type." He nodded, swallowing the lump of moisture in his throat. "My job...I travel a lot." She nodded once. "Well, I've kept my promise. You know abo ut Makai. There are papers..."

78 "She named him after me?" "Yes." Angela's angry expression faded slightly. "Do you want to hold him while I get the papers?" He nodded, unable to find his voice. His mouth was dry as Angela stood up and brought him the baby. He felt awkward as he held out his arms. When she carefully transferred the baby, he held him at a distance. "Tuck him against you," she said. Malachi pulled the baby closer, amazed at how right it felt to have him in his arms. He looked up as Angela left the room, and then his gaze returned to the baby. He drank in his son's tiny features, thick hair, and bowed mouth. He could see a resemblance to Kelly, but his own features were visible in Makai's face too. Why hadn't she called him? He would have come ba ck to her immediately. Malachi closed his eyes, searching deep inside for the confirmation to his hasty thought. He didn't feel any doubt. He would have been there for Kelly. He could have been if he hadn't been so stubborn and insisted she either come with him to Africa and change her entire life, or stay with Justin. He hadn't given her any other options. He was an all-or-nothing kind of guy, and he had ended up with nothing. The baby mewled, causing him to open his eyes and look down. No, not nothing. He had a baby from the woman he loved. Malachi knew things were going to change, but sitting there, holding his son, he didn't think the changes would be so bad. Angela reentered the living room, holding a thick sheaf of papers. "Our attorney drew these up a couple of days after we brought Makai home. It's a standard release, but if you want an attorney to examine it..." He blinked. "Excuse me. A release for what?" "Your parental rights." Malachi shook his head. "I'm not signing that." "Mr. Norden, my husband and I can't officially adopt Makai until you sign these papers. Right now, we're temporary guardians." He nodded. "I understand. I appreciate what you've done for my son, but he's my responsibility." Her mouth fell open, and she seemed to be struggling to find words. A strange squeak emerged from her, and a flush swept

79 across her cheekbones. "You? You honestly think you can raise a baby?" A hard laugh escaped her. "Do you have any idea what's involved? You'll have to give up your fancy job and quit traveling. No more war-torn countries, dangerous jungles, and foreign cultural studies." He felt a pang at the thought of leaving behind one aspect of his career, but he shook his head. "I'm prepared to do that. I'd photograph kids at K-Mart if that's what it takes." She shook her head, blatantly skeptical. "You'll be up day and night, seeing to his needs." "I'll hire a professional," he countered. "Women!" she said loudly. "You won't have time for casual flings. You can't parade a constant stream of women in and out of Makai's life. A child needs stability." He nodded. "I've never been into casual flings." She snorted. "Just busting up marriages, Mr. Norden?" "I'll accept my share of the blame for Kelly and Justin divorcing, but only a share. Justin didn't treat her well, and I don't think Kelly really loved him. She was young and awed by an older man. They married two weeks after meeting. How could she have known what she was getting into?" Angela sighed, and her shoulders fell. "And Daddy liked him. He encouraged them to stay together." She brushed at the tears on her cheeks. "You can't really mean to take Makai. He'll be happy with us. We have two older children, and they love him like a brother. My husband and I love Makai." "He's my son. I owe it to him-" "Stop being so selfish," she snapped. "You always have to have it your way. Look what that did to Kelly." He flinched. "She should have called me. I acted like an idiot when I left, but I would have been there for her, if I had known." His voice dropped. "I called my answering machine every day for months, praying she had left a message." "She finally did, the night she went into labor." Angela's eyes closed. "I think she knew she wouldn't survive the delivery. She called you, and then she made me promise to tel l you when you came home. She also made me promise to take care of the baby if you didn't want him," she said gently. "I do want him." Malachi tightened his hold on his son, trying to deny a dart of doubt. He wanted to do the right thing. He

80 wanted to take Makai home, but he was scared of what it would mean to his life. How would things change? He had always been responsible just for him, and never for another person's life before. "She told me not to be angry if you didn't take him. She said she wanted what was best for him." Angela's voice softened. "Are you certain you raising him is the best for Makai?" He hesitated, torn between what he wanted and what he should want. "You can still see him. If you don't want to relinquish your rights, we'll work around that." Angela stood up and approached the couch, speaking in a soft, reasonable voice the whole time. "You can be part of his life." She lifted him from Malachi's arms. He tightened his hold briefly, and then relaxed. He looked up at his son, held so tenderly in Angela's arms. He felt bereft without him already, but was it right to take him? What did he know of being a father? He was a self-centered person, and he knew that. His needs had always come first. Even now, he couldn't focus on what Kelly's death meant, beyond how it affected him. Could he shift his priorities for a child? What would he do to Makai if he wasn't able to? What kind of life would he give his son? "What did she want? Please, tell me honestly." Angela bit her lip, and her eyes darted around the room. Finally, she lowered her head. "She wanted you to raise him if you were willing. She wanted Makai to know you. She said he would be good for you." His breath left him with a whoosh, and he felt ridiculously giddy. Kelly had faith in him. She had believed he could do it. He just had to believe too. "Will you help me, Angela? Will you teach me what I need to know?" She didn't speak for a long minute, as tears rolled down her cheeks. Slowly, she nodded. "If that's what you want." He stood up and lifted Makai from her arms, cradling him close. "It's what Kelly wanted." "But is it what you want?" Her hands were on her hips, but her voice lacked the note of challenge she seemed to have tried to interject.

81 He touched the back of Makai's head, inhaled the smell of baby shampoo and powder, and felt a rush of pleasure at the scents. "Yeah. It's what I need." He exited the airport and slipped into one of the cabs lining the curb at LAX. After giving the driver his address, he leaned back in the seat, struggling to keep his thoughts from where they wanted to wander. Kelly. God, how he had missed her the first few months in Tripoli. He had thought of her seemingly non-stop as he and the reporting team headed into the countryside of Libya, to meet all of its various groups of people. Every chance he got, he phoned his answering machine, praying for a message from her. As the messages accumulated, and none were from Kelly, he had stopped calling. Eventually, he accepted she made her choice, and he had tried to move on tentatively with one of the reporters in the team working on the documentary. Once the cab dropped him at his apartment, Malachi let himself in. He glanced at the clock. It was a little after one P.M., so he had plenty of time to get settled before meeting Ana for dinner. Her flight had been booked earlier in the day, and he thought about calling to see if she was finding the adjustment back to American culture as difficult as he was. He dropped his bags by the door and walked to the phone. He saw 213 on the indicator light and abandoned thoughts of calling Ana at that moment. Malachi took time to shower and slip on a blue button-down shirt and khakis before returning to the answering machine. Armed with a pencil and paper, Malachi began to wade thr ough the calls. Within the hour, he had listened to the first 150. He paused the machine to get water before he returned to the chair and pressed play. He had just taken a drink when Kelly's voice filled his apartment. He choked at the unexpected sound of her soft words. ***"I miss you. I need to talk to you. I have to tell you..."*** He frowned when the message trailed into silence, before it clicked onto message 152. He hit the back button and listened to her words again. She sounded upset. The time stamp placed the call at three A.M., three months before. He wondered how badly Justin had hurt her. His resolve not to

82 call her was tested, but Malachi made himself press delete and listen to the next message. She had made her decision. They both had to adhere to it. Ten messages later, he frowned again. ***"Mr. Norden, my name is Angela Baldwin. I'm Kelly's sister. She wanted me to call you. Please return my call when you get back into the country. It's urgent."*** He wrote down her number on autopilot, noting it was an L.A. area code. He forgot about the remaining messages on the machine as he lifted the phone and dialed Angela Baldwin. She answered on the third ring, and her voice was similar to Kelly's, but without the husky warmth. "Uh, hello. I'm Malachi Norden. I got your message." There was a note of coolness to her voice. "Yes, Mr. Norden." He cleared his throat, unaccountably nervous. "Malachi, please." She hesitated, but didn't respond to his invitation to use his first name. "Could you meet me today?" He looked at the clock. He had several hours until dinner with Ana, but he was reluctant to meet with Angela for some reason. Instinct urged him to slam down the phone. Instead, he said, "Tomorrow might be better." "This is very important, Mr. Norden." He sighed. "Alright. Could we meet for coffee?" "I'm sorry, but I'm unable to leave my home today. You'll have to come to me." Malachi bit back another sigh and copied the instructions to her house. "I'll be there within the hour." "Fine." Without so much as a goodbye, she hung up. He stared at the phone with confusion, wondering why Kelly's sister wanted to see him. A dart of excitement pierced him as he wondered if she had a message from Kelly. He tried to deny the fluttering of hope as he rushed from his a partment and hailed a cab. Despite his earlier reluctance to meet Angela, suddenly he couldn't wait to get there. If Kelly wanted to see him, he wouldn't hesitate. Things weren't serious with Ana, so she wouldn't be hurt if he broke it off before it starte d. Justin was still be a problem, but he didn't feel too badly about the pain his friend would feel, knowing how much he had inflicted on Kelly. 2003 StoriesByEmail.com

83 .. It was a stormy week in late March, not the driving blizzard conditions of the previous months, but a constant mix of light snow and drizzle that enveloped the town in a pall of gloom. Folks became surly and were apt to snap a sharp retort at any question. The dark weather did not affect everyone. The romantics, those people that read, or wrote the books for others to read, those people found such conditions inspiring. Jake Grady didn't feel inspired, but he didn't mind the constant precipitation. He was a reader, but more than that; he was a smelt fisherman. Since a smelt could care less what happened above the surface of the water and ice Jake didn't either. He rather liked the feeling of sitting in a shack with his dog Mitch, feeling secure that no matter how much snow fell they would be safe and warm in the tiny building. The fact that he paid a dollar for every little bundle of kindling didn't enter into it. It was the feeling of security rather than the blunt truth that he was interested it. For the uninitiated, smelt fishing is done when the salt water ice in the bays and river mouths freezes solidly enough to support an ice shanty equipped with a bench and a stove. People with good locations sometimes own a dozen or two shanties and these are rented to fisherman for the length of a tide. On a good tide one might catch a bucket of the tasty little fish, but as in most fishing, the size of the catch really isn't that important. It's the experience that counts. Jake always offered to take Mildred, and she replied she could buy smelts right in the store for $1.99 a pound. But she always wished Jake and Mitch good luck and told them to be careful. There was good reason for this. Many people have died when they broke through the ice. The shanty village where Jake went had plenty of ice and a strong rope alongside the pathway to shore. Still, worried Mildred, ice was ice.

84

Plus, she had rekindled an old pastime. While at a flea market Jake had expressed an interest in a patchwork quilt. Many were the quilts she had made in times past and she was not about to spend money on one now. Out came her old black Singer sewing machine and boxes of old sheets and scraps of cloth from the attic. When Mildred started on a project she knew no rest until it was complete. Jake loved to hear her tell the history of the quilts. "In the old days, those of my mother and my grandmother, nothing was wasted. Cloth was much too precious to be used just once. Instead, when the clothes could be patched no more they were cut up and used to make quilts. Clothing was dark and drab as a rule, so my mother used to buy a piece of red and used a small portion of it in the center of every square. She said every quilt needed a splash of color. She also said the red represented the heart's love that went into the making of the quilt." Her quilt for Jake had more than a splash of color, for she knew how much he loved the hues of daybreak and sunset. Instead of a traditional New England crazy patchwork she made one which featured strips of red, brown and gold. All circled around that one red splash in the center, which represented the heart's love. Jake often tried to help her by ironing the cloth and cutting the squares and strips, but she was more fastidious than he was and usually said in mock exasperation, "Jake, why don't you take that mixed up dog of yours and go fishing." To which Jake would flash his boyish smile and reply, "Certainly, my dear, whatever you desire." So on one such evening Jake and Mitch spent a relaxed evening in a shanty, catching few fish but having the time of their lives. The dog had a way of tipping his head that made Jake think he was listening intently, so he had no qualms

85 about talking to him. "I'm tired tonight, Mitch. More than I should be. Maybe I should get a check-up. I've never been sick so I haven't even got a doctor. If I'm still this tired I'll go to that little medical center in town. Probably I just need some vitamins or something." In the morning he was still tired and he did go to the medical center. There the doctor showed a lot more concern than Jake had expected. "I'm taking you to Mid-Maine Medical. You need a pacemaker." "Right now?" Jake asked. In his mind he was wondering how to tell Mildred without worrying her. "Right now. Let's go." A quick call home, and then Jake was in surgery. It went wel l, with no unnecessary probing and pushing, and before he knew it he was awakening in a hospital bed, feeling good. Mildred was just leaving the elevator on the floor of intensive when the nurses started running. Jake was totally surprised when he was shifted to a gurney and wheeled out the door. In thirty seconds he was strapped in a helicopter and being transported to Portland. "What's going on?" Jake asked. "A strand of wire went through the side of your heart. Don't worry, Portland has one of the best heart surgeries in the country." "Worry? I didn't even know anything was wrong." In fifteen minutes he was back under anesthesia and entering another surgery. Mildred got only a glimpse as they wheeled him out of his room and toward the helipad. How helpless he looked,

86 strapped to a gurney and surrounded by burly male nurses. She instantly made up her mind and went out to jump in her car. If Portland was where he was going then she was too. She had never liked to drive. Her normal route did not str etch more than eight miles from her house and she was quite happy to keep it that way. Mildred was loath to admit it but the pictures of the wrecks in the papers scared her deeply. She had never driven on a road featuring more than two lanes. But no matter - if Jake was going to Portland then she was too. With a look akin to a claustrophobic person striding into a closet she clenched her jaw and went to a gas station, where she filled up and bought a road map. Then she headed south. And who can blame her if once, well, maybe twice; she laid on her horn as she forcibly changed lanes? She finally arrived at the hospital, a bit frayed; but safe and sound. When she found Jake in intensive he was awake, waiting for her. "I knew you'd be here. I could feel you getting closer." "Oh, Jake, I was so afraid. I don't like being away from you." "You're here now. That's what matters." He looked around the room. "I wish there was some way you could stay right here with me." A nurse, one with experience in emotions as well as physical ailments, said not a word, but wheeled in a folded bed and parked it snug against Jake's. "You'll need a blanket," she said to Mildred. "No," came the reply, "I've brought one with me." In ten minutes the nurse looked in again. Mildred was already asleep, and a smiling Jake was close to it. Their entwined hands were visible over the top of the quilt. It was a home made quilt, with strips of color to represent the hues of daybreak and sunset, and each center contained a

87 piece of red, which signified the heart's love that went into its making. .. Secret Fantasies Although she was a very sweet girl, Sara Dolly was a bit of a nag when it pertained to certain safety issues. She had a list of "things" that a person should never do, no matter the circumstance, and no matter the importance. The list included obvious "things" such as feeding wild animals, eating undercooked meat, avoiding hitchhikers, either picking up one or being one, and such trivial "things", as talking to clowns and watching fireworks. Pierre never fully understood the clown "thing", but he knew that the fireworks "thing" was from an ugly incident involving Sara's father, a roman candle and some missing digits. There was one "thing" on the list that Pierre always disobeyed, to the dismay of his girlfriend. She had a particular nervous phobia about anyone walking home alone, after dark, and Pierre frequently took that walk. It wasn't that Pierre liked to make his girlfriend worry, he had no desire to fight with her, it was just that he was a grown man and he felt that a grown man shouldn't be scared to walk to his dorm after studying in the library. On this night, Pierre never actually thought about his girlfriend's objections as he packed up his bag and headed fo r the doors. Pierre passed a table where the "goth" people sat and studied. One of the "goths", a cute freshman that Pierre thought was named Dana or Diana looked at him and smiled. She was very pretty, except for the dark black lipstick and the "way too white" blush on her face. Pierre gave her a smile, never wanting to discourage a freshman, a cute one at that, from talking to him at a future party. Pierre had been single for his first three years at college and even though he now, as a senior, had a girlfriend, was always wary to make a good impression with girls that he may try to talk to if he became single, again. Using his left shoulder to push open the door, he slid his

88 backpack over both his shoulders as he stepped into the cold November air. He began to button up the top two buttons on his overcoat and briefly contemplated calling for the safety escort, only to dismiss the idea. The escort is always too crowded on Tuesday nights. Pierre began to walk the quarter mile towards his dorm; his coat collar pulled up above his ears in a weak attempt to shield his face from the chilly wind and suddenly began to wish he had called for the escort. It is just too damn cold out here to walk home! Pierre decided that he would warm his frigid body by thinking about what Dana or Diana may look like naked. He imagined her body, it had to be imagination because he only saw her from the waist up while she sat at the table, and was quite pleased with the image he constructed. He pictured her, minus the ridiculous makeup, walking towards him as he lay in his bed. Her long auburn hair bounced off her shoulders with each step. Her skin was still light, but darker than the pale that she tried to create. Her eyes were light green, almost talking to him through their movement. Her nostrils moved out and in tiny motions as her breathing became frantic, the excitement of being naked in front of a new man for the first time. Her lips were flushed and full, constantly licked to entice Pierre. Her shoulders were narrow and seductive, a creamy white texture that appeared to be extra soft, begging to be kissed. Her breasts, larger in Pierre's imagination than in real life, seemed to bounce in rhythm with her steps. Her nipples were fully erect and demanded Pierre's full attention. Pierre forced his eyes downward; knowing this was his best chance to drink in the vision of her full nakedness. She had a pierced belly button, and the stomach that deserved the piercing. Pierre imagined that she would have dark hair below her waist, but in the fantasy, like all his fantasies, she was shaved. Dana/Diana stopped at the threshold of his bed, allowing Pierre to take her in. He proceeded to look downwards, admiring the shape and tone of her thighs and calves. Her feet, Pierre normally hated feet, were little and cute. Her left foot was propped behind her right in a gesture

89 of nervousness. He allowed his eyes to return to hers. She smiled and raised her eyebrow, seeming to ask, Do you like what you see? Pierre almost answered the question out loud, the fantasy totally controlling his whole being. She lay on the bed with Pierre and licked her lips. Pierre ran his hand over her naked hip and watched her shiver in anticipation. Dana /Diana grasped at his crotch, rubbing him seductively. Pierre sta rted to move to her rhythm. He began to kiss her neck and she moaned loudly as the kissed grew deeper. Suddenly, she took Pierre by the back of the head and locked her eyes on his. She spoke in a whisper, but Pierre was able to read her lips. Watch out f or the board! Pierre started to ask what she meant, almost speaking out loud, again, but tried to repeat the statement in his mind, hoping the repetition would clear his thoughts. It didn't help, but it wasn't necessary. As Pierre repeated the sentence, a sudden pain snapped him out of his fantasy and into unconsciousness. P2 The Attackers Mike Barrister liked the way the cold concrete felt underneath his sweaty palm. He gripped the corner of the wall, an old, and cracked white concrete, nervously, hoping t hat he would have the courage to go through with what he was attempting. His father always said that he lacked any type of courage, but then again, his father wasn't the type to lend support to any of his children. The only thing that Mike's father ever di d with great regularity was drink Miller Lites and fondle his children. He wasn't an outright sexual abuser, but he touched his children enough for it to count as child molestation. Mike was very sure that his mother, the saint that she was, would have done everything in her power to prevent Mike's father from his escapades, but she had died giving birth to Mike's younger sister, Carly. "Is this the guy?" Mike shot a glance towards the voice and wasn't a bit surprised to see Ted standing in front of him, shaking from the cold, and

90 probably because he needed a fix. Ted was a tall and pale young man that looked like he hadn't eaten a good meal in over six months. All of the residents of Bridgewater knew who Ted was, the son of a garbage collector and a full -blown heroin addict. Ted had grey eyes that were always bloodshot and usually teary. He always looked sick and his skin was usually slick with sweat. It was easy to understand what Ted's motivation was for taking part in this job, he needed money for his candy. "Is this the guy?" Ted repeated again, much louder than before, too loud as far as Mike was concerned. "Would you shut the fuck up!" Ted leaned back against his section of the wall and decided to shake in silence. A hand went to Ted's forearm and gave it a slight shake, a notion of comfort. Ted looked at the hand on his forearm and then at the face of Riley, his only friend. Riley was also hooked on the candy, but he wasn't as far along in his addiction and dependency as Ted. Riley hadn't begun to shake on a daily basis, before and after his fix. He was the shortest and pudgiest guy that Ted had ever seen, but his charisma made up for anything he lacked in appearance. Riley was the kind of guy that always made a new guy feel welcome at a party. That was exactly how Ted had met Riley, four long months ago, right in the middle of a glorious summer. Riley seemed to sense that anyone with the name Ted Theodore was cursed by his parents to either have to change his name, or become the laughing stock of his school because of that name. The school children teased Ted every day that he went to school, never relenting as they got older, the way some children do. It was always the same teases and taunts. Do you stutter stutter, Ted Ted? Ted hated those kids, every o ne of them. He hated the teasing and the name-calling. Sometimes, Ted even hated his parents for giving him the same first and last name. Why would parents ever do that to their only child? Lots of kids had silly names that were made fun of by the other children; but that usually stopped as the kids grew up. Not for Ted Ted. The teasing got worse as the years went by, sometimes it was so much worse for Ted as an adult that he cried like he was a child. But, that all changed

91 when Ted met Riley. The teasing stopped and, for the first time in his life, Ted found a way to like his name. He was given a nickname. Riley began to call him Teddy Ted. It wasn't a big change, but it was cool. Ted was finally cool. He decided that he owed Riley a favor, as many favors a s he wanted. He didn't know the favor involved jumping some guy and robbing him, but hey, if he could help Riley and possibly get some money for a hit, then all the better for him. Plus, Riley was a scary looking guy, so Teddy Ted wouldn't have to do much of anything to help. Easy money was the best money. "Alright, when he comes by, I'm gonna whack him with the board. You guys better not shit the bed and run away. Especially you Teddy". Mike barked these orders to his two fellow criminals, as the cowered behind the wall, ready to strike out violently at whomever happened to come along. "Why do you have to single me out?" Mike didn't answer the question. He raised him arm, in a motion that meant to be quiet, and stole a quick peek at the person that was walking towards them. The guy had his collar pulled up over his face, trying to block the wind, but all it really did was make it impossible to see clearly. This is almost too easy. I don't even think this guy is paying attention! Mike steadied himself behind the wall, stretching his arms out and shaking the cold away. He would only need one good shot with the board if the guy wasn't ready. Mike needed this to be quick, one swing, grab his money and run. Mike closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the leaves crumpling with every one of the man's steps. The guy was closer, almost close enough! Mike's fathers voice echoed through Mike's head, angering him, making him grip the board harder, too hard. Splinters began to seep into his hands. You don't have the balls to do it. You're a coward! "Shut up!" Mike whispered to himself. He checked to see if Ted or Riley heard him. If they did, they didn't show it. The crumpling of the leaves was almost there. Mike took a deep breath and swung the board around the corner. The board struck the guy in the face, a perfect shot. After the loud smack of the board and the sound of crumpling leaves, the guy lay silently and motionless on the ground. Mike stood over the

92 guy and looked at him for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for the guy to breathe. Jesus Christ, I hope I didn't kill this guy! Finally, he started to breathe, slowly, but regularly. "Grab his wallet, I'll check the backpack", Mike ordered his conspirators. Ted and Riley immediately started to rifle throu gh the guy's pockets. Blood had begun to trickle from his nose and his eye was beginning to puff slightly. Ted felt a little guilt looking at their victim, as he lay motionless on the cold grass. Teddy reached into the guy's right front pocket and felt the lone jingle of a set of keys. Riley pulled the left front pocket out, exposing white fabric and school identification. Pierre Forgues. Riley took the identification and showed it to Ted. Neither knew this guy. That made it easier. Even if they had recognized him, it was too late now to stop. They'd already broken the law; they might as well get the money. Teddy needed the fix. They had scoped the college for weeks, searching for potential victims. When none had seemed more enticing, or easier than the rest, it was decided that they should choose their victim at random. The idea to stand behind a wall with a two by four was actually Mike's, and it had proven very effective on its maiden experiment. The victim never saw their faces, and they would be long gone before he, or she, if need be, woke up. There was the sound of crumpling leaves from behind Mike, rousing him from his search through the backpack. He dropped the backpack, the lousy thing was only full of books anyway, and took hold of the board. He whi rled around, prepared for anything. Ted and Riley had their backs to him, they had found the guy's wallet in his back pocket and were busy counting a large wad of cash, probably ones, but at least it was money. Mike saw an empty field, dark and frightening . A stiff breeze chilled Mike to the bone as he turned to resume his pillaging. He stood face to face with a man the likes he had never seen. In an instant, he took in the man's entire appearance. It was impossible not to see it all. The man was tall, giga ntic even. He was easily 6'5, with broad shoulders and the darkest hair he had ever seen. The hair was long, too, draping the tops of

93 his shoulders. His face was unnaturally elongated, mostly at the jaw-line. The man smiled, exposing a mouth full of razor sharp teeth, too many teeth to fit inside of a normal jaw. The incisors had to be an inch long, and sharp at the ends. Mike felt his bladder letting go and began to shake. The stranger's nostrils flared and he smiled, smelling Mike's fear and urine. Mike looked upwards, into the stranger's eyes. His eyes were blood red. They weren't bloodshot; the actual color of his pupils was red! Mike opened his mouth to scream, hoping to alert Ted and Riley to the stranger. The only sound that emerged was a whimper. I knew you were a coward! Mike's fathers voice echoed through his head. Mike tried to scream again, but the stranger, almost to quickly to be seen, had his mouth clamped over Mike's throat, stifling the scream. Mike felt a warm liquid run down his chest and onto his shoes. His father's voice tormented him. Are you too scared to fight, you coward! After a moment, the voice stopped and Mike eased smoothly into death. The stranger moved through the darkness, hunting for the remaining men. They smelled different than the first, diseased and weak. They hadn't even been alerted to his arrival the way the other had. The stranger didn't even know if they were worth feeding on, but food is food. He attacked. Ted had turned his attention to the credit cards in the guy's wallet, hoping they could yield as much as the cash that Riley was counting. At last count, Riley had said there was ninetyeight dollars. Not an entirely wasted effort. "Hey, Riley. You think this guy has more money than most of the students? Cause ninety-eight bucks ain't bad". Ted, head down, thumbing through the wallet, paused when he heard no reply from Riley. Ted looked up and Riley was no longer there. Where the hell had he gone? Where was Mike? Is it the cops? Did they run from the cops and not tell me? A million questions raced through Ted's head in the instant he realized that he was alone, barring the unconscious guy on the ground. "Where the hell did-", was all that came out of Ted's mouth as he saw the stranger rise from the ground. The stranger seemed to float up out of the mist. I don't remember it being foggy at

94 all! Teddy tried to step back, wanted to step back, needed to step back, but was paralyzed with fear. The stranger continued to rise. How tall is he? This can't be real; he's too big to be real! The stranger locked eyes with Teddy. The stranger's mouth had blood splattered underneath, dripping from his teeth as he smiled. Teddy finally took a half step backward. The stranger stood motionless, his tongue out of his mouth licking blood off his chin. A voice spoke inside Ted's head, a voice he had never heard before. The voice wasn't human. It was so loud and powerful it seemed to make Ted's eyes bleed with each deep pronunciation. The voice only asked one question, but, even if Ted lived through this night, he would be completely insane. "DO YOU STUTTER STUTTER, TED TED?" The drugs, the years of relentless teasing and the horror of this night all proved too much for Ted's damaged psyche. His mind splintered into a million pieces, each one more insane than the next. When the stranger finally moved in to take Ted, he welcomed it with open arms. A moment later, Ted's lifeless body dropped to the ground. Although he never knew it, he landed on top of Riley. He had finally found his friend. The stranger licked his lips. Even the weak and diseased pitiful tasted good. Once, the stranger had felt guilt killing these people, but that had long since passed. But, he still enjoyed killing those that were evil. They were never as evil as he was, nor could they fully understand what real evil, his evil, was. They had tried to rob this man that lay on the ground. This young man smelled different than the others but that was only the first thing that made him different. He was a full grown man, not the height of the stranger, but only an inch or two shorter. He was strong, too. Not as strong as the stranger, but no human could be that strong. It was the strength of the un-dead. The stranger looked at the unconscious man for a long time, admiring him. This one was different. He was more powerful than the rest. He was almost conscious. A blow like that would have killed a normal man, but this one was only temporarily out of it. He was unique.

95 The stranger continued to admire the unconscious man on the ground. Slowly, he approached. In a moment, the stranger was on him. P3 The Cell In The Field Bright light shone through the window, destroying the dark serenity that owned the room. Four concrete walls, each splintered and cracked from age, surrounded the room. A single window, smaller than that of a car door, served as the catalyst for the shining light. The window, square and composed of hard glass, was the only break in concrete. In essence, the room was simple and ugly. The floor was covered in bright and colorful flowers. Each flower, fully blossomed and beautiful in their composure, achieved a color spectrum almost impossible to describe. There were no red roses, or any color that simple. Instead, the roses were blue and although bright and pleasing, an entirely impossible, green. Each flower, of the dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands of them, grew out of the cracked concrete. It seemed that the ugly concrete obscenity that was the room couldn't contain the outside beauty that would eventually creep in from any angle. The flowers blew from an unseen and impossible breeze. Pierre sat up and then stood in the midst of the flowers. He wasn't leery from sleep, or downtrodden in the least. He was fully awake, aware and ready to move. He examined the room, hoping to find another method of escape than the tiny window. The room was solid, impossible to enter or escape from. How did I get here? Pierre went to the window and looked out. The world outside the cell was comprised of a sea of black roses. Each rose, blowing in a different direction, dancing to a breeze. The flowers rose and fell, like hills and valleys. Over a hill far off in the distance, a figure approached. It was Pierre, dressed in white, innocently walking towards the cell. He walking through the flowers, while each one moved out of his way. The flowers created an opening for him to pass, bouncing back and resuming their dance when he had gone. Pierre in the cell watched as Innocent Pierre walked closer to the cell. Mesmerized, he tried to talk; hoping to alert Innocent Pierre to

96 his presence, but the words floated out of his mouth, crystallized and fell to the floor, shattering into pieces of ice. Innocent Pierre continued to approach the cell, never looking directly in that direction. Finally, Innocent Pierr e stood directly outside the cell, seemingly unconcerned with its contents. Pierre in the cell tried to pound on the concrete, realizing the futility of speech, but the concrete echoed loudly but densely in the cell. Innocent Pierre circled the room, retur ning to the window's view after a moment. Pierre in the cell stared out the window, waiting impatiently for Innocent Pierre to look at him. Instead, Innocent Pierre began to run his hand lightly over the black roses, admiring their motion and soft texture. Never looking up, Innocent Pierre smiled at the feel of the roses at his fingertips. A dark figure emerged from the roses behind Innocent Pierre. The figure, tall and broad, his hair as dark as the black roses, towered inches above Innocent Pierre. In the cell, Pierre yelled, but not a sound was uttered, ice crystals crashing to the floor created echoes inside the concrete hell. The dark figure smiled and looked directly into the cell, locking eyes with Pierre. Pierre in the cell stepped back, but couldn't force himself to break the stare. The dark figure, his eyes blood red, seemed to put Pierre into a trance. The figure raised his head and opened his mouth, revealing a sea of razor sharp teeth. The figure leaned in over Innocent Pierre, inches from his neck. The figure paused an inch from his neck, Pierre still staring at the flowers, totally unaware of the imminent danger. The dark figure looked directly into the cell, smiled and moved in. The roses suddenly grew to heights unimagined. The black roses grew over the dark figure and Innocent Pierre, hiding them from sight. Pierre in the cell tried to move his head, hoping to find the pair through cracks of vision. The roses began to shrink back to normal size, revealing emptiness. Inside the cell, Pierre continued to stare out the window. From nowhere, a mist began to rise from the floor, through the blue and green roses. The figure slowly rose from the mist and approached Pierre, raising his hands. The roses in the cell withered, died and grew back instantly in the same desperate black as the roses outside the cell.

97 From within the cell, a shadow began to rise in the shape of the figure, but the remainder of the wall blackened and the shadows were lost. The figure stood behind Pierre, breathing heavily in anticipation. Pierre stood at the window, lost in his efforts to locate the dark stranger and his own self, innocently lost in the beauty of the sea of roses. The dark figure slowly approached Pierre, trampling the roses in the cell, but not creating a sound. Standing behind Pierre, the Dark figure wiped a tear of blood from its left eye before it fell to its cheek, opened its mouth and moved in for the kill. Awake Pierre came awake on the cold concrete. He could feel dampness under his back and wanted to stand. What the hell happened? Why am I on the ground? Why do my head and my neck hurt? Pierre slowly began to try to sit up. The cold night air sent a chill through his bones. His head whirled and nausea crept over him. Pierre closed his eyes, waiting, hoping that the feeling would pass. It did. When he felt stronger, he stood and took his first look at his surroundings. He was alone, in between two buildings, Miles Hall and Dinardo Hall. He remembered walking in between these buildings, thinking about , what was her name?Then, he couldn't remember anything. What the hell happened? What tine is it? Pierre checked his watch and saw that it read eleven thirty. He had left the library only thirty minutes ago, but why had he only gotten this far on his journey. The entire trip from the library to his dorm would only take ten minutes, but yet he was five minutes away from his dorm and a half- hour had passed. Pierre started to feel the dampness on his back, possibly from the grass? But, he looked down and saw that he had been lying on concrete. The concrete was bloody! What the hell? Pierre felt his back and his hand came away covered in blood. The blood was still warm.Am I bleeding? Pierre put his hand under his jacket and the shirt underneath but felt no gashes or wounds. He quickly removed his hand and put it to his face. There was a little blood on his nose, over his lip, and his right eye felt swollen, but that could have happened when he passed out.

98 A stiff and frigid breeze answered all of Pierre's questions an d he quickly found his backpack on the ground. Maybe it's animal's blood. Am I laying in an animal's blood? He looked all around his surroundings and saw nothing out of the ordinary, except for the fact that he had woken up in this field only a moment ago. I am really lucky that nobody came by and robbed me while I was unconscious! Deciding that whatever the circumstance was that led to Pierre waking up on the gravel, in the middle of November, with blood on his clothes, it would be smarter to remove himself from the situation and get to his room. With that in mind, Pierre walked away from the area and towards his dorm. At the dorm, a girl sat outside smoking a cigarette. What an addiction! I can't understand such an addiction. Pierre walked to the front door and started to search through his right pocket for his identification. Why isn't my I.D. in my front pocket? That's where I always keep it. All of Pierre's pockets were empty, but after checking his backpack, he found his keys, I.D. and money. I must have put everything in my bag as I left the library. The warm building did little to cure Pierre's frigid shivers. He quickly walked by the check in desk, absently flashing his school I.D. and proceeded directly to the elevator. In the elevator, Pierre noticed that he could see his reflection in the mirrored shine of the elevator doors. I look like shit! Pierre noticed that his skin was slick with sweat and his eyes had bags underneath them. That wasn't the real problem, though. Pierre saw that he had blood on his collar from a puncture wound in his neck. I must have landed hard on a stick when I passed out. The puffiness under his right eye was already fading and, although it was a little sore, his nose didn't appear swollen or bent. With the exception of the disorientation, Pierre felt fine, considering the fact that he had woken up in the middle of a dark field. The elevator doors opened and Pierre took a left once outside them. His door was the third on the left, the Residents Assistant's room. The only single in this wing. That was the main benefit of being an R.A., actually, besides the meager money and tuition stipend the job provided, it was the only benefit.

99 The room was small, but it was comfortable. Pierre entered the room and let his backpack fall to the floor. He stepped away from it and took off his jacket as he walked to the closet. Pierre hung the jacket in the closet, and pulled his shirt off, tossing it into a laundry bag at the floor of the closet. Closing the closet doors, Pierre walked to his dresser and looked at himself in the mirror above the top cabinet. His reflection startled him. His face was fine! Pierre still had blood on his neck, but the wounds were gone. The puffiness under his eye had also disappeared. I must not have seen myse lf clearly in the elevator doors. Pierre turned away from the mirror and went to his bed. He was completely exhausted, even though he had been wide -awake when he left the library. That felt like it was weeks ago. I wonder if I should call Sara? No, I should wait until she calls me. Why is it so hot in this room? Pierre rose from his bed and went to the window. He opened the window and sat on the ledge, letting the cold November air cool his hot body. His blood felt like it was on fire.Great, I caught a fuckin' cold from passing out on the cold cement. Leaving the window open Pierre went back to his bed and wondered if he would sleep immediately? Pierre decided that he would go to Health Services tomorrow and tell them that he had passed out. Maybe they could give him something for the cold he was quite certain would be gripping him tomorrow. Sleep was now the farthest thing from Pierre's mind. He had never passed out before or felt dizzy and weak. Pierre hoped that there wasn't something seriously wrong with him. That was the last thing that he needed, a serious illness. But, Pierre wasn't excessively worried. In the last half -hour since he had found himself laying on the concrete, he felt fine, great, even. It was like all the rest on that cold ground had helped him gather all his strength. Either way, Pierre was going to go to Health Services and get an examination. After twenty minutes in bed, trying to fall asleep, wondering if he would, he did. Sara couldn't believe what she was doing. It all started out so innocently, no intention of doing wrong. She had decided that she would go to the lacrosse house for a party. It was Tuesday night, not the normal night for partying, unless you

100 were one of the slutty freshman girls, the type that she always caught trying to flirt with her boyfriend, but a party is a party. At the party, she had a lot to drink and that's when things became a little fuzzy. She remembered standing at the keg, pouring her cup, talking to a cute boy. He poured beer after beer, and she drank them all. She didn't know how much time had passed, but by the time she checked her watch, the only thing she was wearing, it was twelve-thirty. What am I doing? I don't even know this guy, and I have a boyfriend! We need to stop. The guy, she still didn't know his name, Cute Boy?, pulled away from her. His penis slid out of Sara, a feeling that sent flutters up her spine and made her climax. Oh my God! He's not wearing a condom. I'm such a slut! Cute boy looked at her, his blue eyes seemed to seduce her further. How did it get this far? Although the night was only remembered in fractions for Sara, she did indeed leave the party with Cute Boy and went to his room. In the room, it was Sara, not Cute Boy that went to the bed. She began to kiss his neck as soon as he closed the door to his room. He kissed her back, but was trying his best to go slow and get constant reassurance that every step they took, was a step she wanted to take. Cute Boy pulled away from the kiss and asked her to slow down, something tha t very few guys had ever done with a girl this drunk. But, she smiled seductively and took off her shirt. Cute Boy stared at her, obviously impressed by her confidence and the appearance of her breasts. She raised a finger and told him to follow. She sat on the bed and started to pull off her pants. She stood up and slowly pulled her underwear to the ground, removed her left foot from the leg-hole and kicked the underwear away with her right foot. The underwear flew past Cute Boy, but he never broke eye contact with Sara, a true vision of beauty lying naked on the bed. He went to her. They began to have sex, passionate at times, but slow and easy mostly. Cute Boy asked if he should get a condom, but Sara, enraptured in sexual ecstasy, couldn't be bothered wi th stopping her pleasure for anything as needless as a condom. That's when she started to pass out.

101 The rest of the night came back to her, as she took the fabled late night walk of shame to her own room, in bits and fractions. The most vivid memory being when she woke up, asked him to pull out, achieved orgasm, and then proceeded to want more. Sara wasn't entirely sure if she felt guilty because what she had done was trampy, a freshman girl act, or if she felt bad about cheating on her boyfriend, again. She had cheated on Pierre before, but never with a boy from the same college, and never so blatantly. She had walked out the door with Cute Boy, hand in hand, in full view of anyone watching. Here she was now, almost at her dorm, scared to call her boyfriend, scared to wonder if he was going to ask where she had been all night. You swore you weren't gonna do this again! No more random hook-ups. Why are you such a slut? Questions pounded inside her head. Even as mad as Pierre might get, he still wouldn't com e close to punishing and tormenting Sara as much as she was going to do to her self. Sex, even really good sex, like the kind she had tonight, wasn't worth the torment she always put herself through. It never happened when she was sober and she enjoyed the feeling that men desired her. I may have just given that Cute Boy the greatest night of his life! Sara reached the front door to her dorm and found her I.D. in her bag. She was past the check in and in the elevator in the blink of an eye. She entered her room, after a quick stop in the bathroom to wash up, and started to throw her clothes in the closet. Her roommate, a petite girl that never had been on a date, was fast asleep. It was a wonder that they got along. Sara was tall and blonde with blue eyes and in possession of the body that every man wanted to touch and every girl wanted to have. Her roommate, on the other hand, was only four foot eleven, if that, with dark brown hair and an almost non-existent chest. But, for what she lacked in appearance, she made up for with humor and class. Her roommate, Jenine, was probably the funniest girl that Sara had ever met. But, what set her apart from the other girls that Sara had met, and called friends was that Jenine was the only girl that she trusted alone with Pierre. Pierre was perhaps the hottest guy at Bridgewater and even Sara's friends admitted, only when

102 completely shit-faced, that they had secret crushes. Jenine, although she was honest enough to admit that Pierre was a great looking guy, would never step over the boundaries of good taste or violate her roommates trust. Why did I do that tonight? Why couldn't I have just kissed him? Did I really need to fuck him? Unprotected! Last time! Last time! As Sara proceeded to torment herself about her scandals, sleep took her. P6 The darkness of night seeped through every crevice of Bridgewater State College. Buildings, which had previously sat in the safety of daylight, saw the shadows begin at their base and rise over their top. The opaque darkness attacked like and army, proceeding forward and upward with malicious intent. Shadows were lost, images blurred and a different species set about their nighttime authority. In the darkness, Pierre slept. He did not toss and turn, or move in any way. He slept the way people did in television commercials, on his back, hands crossed over his chest, the smile of peace on his face. Inside of Pierre's mind, in the very recesses of his psyche, images came forward that were anything but peaceful. As a child, Pierre was haunted by nightmares that caused him to awaken in the night, screaming for his parents, shaking beyond belief. These dreams were usually comprised of demons and unmentionable child created monsters that came to punish him and hurt his parents. These demons, h umorous in their exaggerated frightening appearance, represented the embodiment of children's fears. They were the fears of losing ones parents because of mistakes that they made, or the idea of those parent's abandoning the child, being left alone to battle the forces of evil. In short, the nightmares that every child experiences. Pierre had the same types of dreams as other children, but he had the ability, or curse, to remember them in total when he awoke. Sometimes, remembering those dreams the next day was the scariest part. This night, Pierre lay in bed and dreamed things that he would pray that he might not remember when daylight began to shine. Although he was much different from the child that dreamed, Pierre still remembered everything and sometime s

103 carried the fear of these dreams throughout his day. The monsters Pierre dreamed of as a child were large creatures that emanated terror by shear appearance alone. But, now that Pierre was a full grown adult, 6'3 and 235 lbs., the demons had ceased their physical terror, and become the psychological terrors. No longer were the demons and monsters hulking masses of flesh, ready to pounce on a timid and undersized Pierre. Instead, they were often smaller demons, hidden in the shadows, playing mind games tha t were impossible to solve. But, even those nightmarish creatures were nothing compared to the monsters that Pierre dreamed about. The monster that terrorized Pierre's dreams on this night was the scariest monster that Pierre had ever encountered. In the daytime, when the demons were powerless and their fearful grip loosened, was the only time that he dare think of his frightful visions. Tonight, the demon was vicious, demonic and worst of all, guiltless. The demon that Pierre imagined tonight was himself. A church stood in the middle of a field. Empty grass surrounded the church for miles at every side. The grass, long and green, blew to the right from a strong breeze. The church, tall and white, served as the only block to the breeze. The shudders of the church were a dark black that looked dark enough to have been painted recently, as recently as this morning. The front door to the church was ten feet high, with a circular top and a wide base. The windows of the church were painted with pictures, enough to block any view inside the church. Each window was stained with images of suffering. Normally, the images on church windows were of Christ's suffering, but not these windows. The images were of men and women, tied to poles, burning in the sunlight. The land surrounding the church had a gate around it, and tombstones inside. Each tombstone, old and simply etched with names and dates, was slanted. Brown soil formed a fresh mound in front of every tombstone, indicating that the graves were fresh, the deaths recent. A black iron fence with a gate in the middle separated the church from the grass. The grass inside the church was short,

104 freshly mowed and green in places, dead in others. The grass beyond the gates was as high as a grown man and thick enough for a person to lose himself in. The building seemed to not only be silent, but it seemed to produce silence. It was so quiet around the church, the grass could be heard, fluttering in the wind. Each blade of grass could be heard whipping off the next. A church bell shattered the silence. The bell seemed to chime for an endless period of time. There was no echo because there was nothing for the bell to echo off of. The bell stopped, and the large church doors flew opened, revealing throngs of children. Each male child was dressed in a white shirt and pants with a black tie that dangled over the shoulder as the child ran. The female children wore white blouses and black skirts, with a black bow tie. The children all looked very innocent and pure in their attire and their facial expression showed no malice or evil intent. They were the stereotypical children, happy and eager to love someone that deserved their affection. Each child sprinted through the open doors and ran towards the front gate that, when opened, see med to invite the impregnable grass inside the land. The sound of the children's steps wasn't the typical noise associated with a child's stampede. Instead, each child sounded like they were stepping on an over-abundance of dead leaves. The crackling was inexplicably loud, almost giving the idea that the leaves were suffering when crushed by the little feet that ran over them. The first child opened the gate and ran into the grass. The rest of the children, one at a time, followed. They were lost in the green abyss and the footsteps seemed to lose their volume. The sound of crackling leaves was gone and the wind could be heard again. The church doors stayed open, inviting entry for anyone daring enough to come forward. Almost as if he were stepping into the picture, Pierre walked in front of the church from nowhere. Casually, in no rush whatsoever, he approached the gate and stood facing the church. He was dressed in a light blue denim long-sleeve shirt and tan khaki' pants, the most common and typical outfit that he owned. Actually, it was the same outfit that he was wearing earlier tonight.

105 Pierre walked slowly through the gate, entering the church grounds. Suddenly, it was if the volume of the world seemed to turn on and become ear-piercingly loud. Each blade of grass, blowing in the breeze sounded like a leather ship smacking exposed flesh. The gate crashed closed behind Pierre and the noise, the sound of a steel staircase landing on the pavement after being dropped off a two story building, startled Pierre out of his trance that was leading him towards the open doors of the church. Pierre whirled around and stared at the gate, surprised that the thin metal made such a loud and obnoxious noise. He turned and resumed his walk towards the open doors. The church seemed to swell like an old man waiting for a grandchild's hug, appearing to breathe in heavily in anticipation. Pierre stopped and pondered leaving the church grounds. Even though it was a dream, he was scared of the church, scared of what he may find on the other side. Stubbornly, he pressed forward. It's only a dream. Pierre tried to look beyond the open doors and into the church. It was beautiful. The front hall was dark pine, stained recently and shiny. There were pillars inside the room that gave it the impossible appearance of a limitless ceiling. Father back, Pierre could see unoccupied pews. The pine was darker than in the front room, perhaps still wet. More impossible than the pillars in the front room, was the limitless number of rows leading to the front of the church. Pierre had to strain his dreaming eyes to see all the way to the front. But, at the front he could see a figure that he could never mistake for any other. At the front of the church, conducting a sermon, was Jesus. Jesus was wearing a long white robe with gold trim along the middle and on the end of the long sleeves. His hair was long and a very clean brown. His face was beautiful. He had clear and compassionate blue eyes that seemed to invite peace into a person's heart. Light beard stubble etched his face, making him look unconcerned with appearances, never having the time to worry about how he looked, instead he worried about helping others. Pierre approached the doors, no longer scared, an intense desire to meet his maker compounded his heart, forcing him

106 to go forward. At the doors, Pierre paused and took a deep breath. He stepped forward, and was pushed back. That was weird! Again, Pierre stepped forward, trying to enter the church's threshold. This time he was knocked bac kwards by an unseen force that didn't want him in the church. He backed up a few steps and tried to run into the church. The momentum he carried from the run only served to push him back further, causing him to be thrown backwards where he landed on his back. Dazed, he sat up quickly and tried to gather himself. Pierre walked to the doors and watched Jesus. He could see his white robes fluttering as Jesus became more worked up practicing his sermon. Pierre began to hear children's laughter coming from the g rass. The laughter confused him at first, but slowly, it became an annoying taunt. The children, still hidden inside the tall grass, began to chant. He doesn't love you, anymore. He doesn't love you, anymore! Pierre ran to the edge of the grass, behind the gate and tried to spread open the tall blades, hoping to see the children. Stop it! Jesus loves me. He loves me the way he loves you all, Pierre yelled at nobody...everybody...anybody. The children continued the song, louder than before. Pierre could feel intense rage building inside of him, threatening to spill out. He swung blindly into the grass and felt only the blades of grass course through his fingers. Realizing that he couldn't get to the children, he turned his back to the grass and looked into the church. Jesus was standing at the edge of the church threshold, waving Pierre to approach. Humbly, he began to walk forward towards Jesus. Jesus stood still, waiting for Pierre to stand in front of him. The children's song stopped and Pierre stood in front of Jesus. A strong breeze made Jesus' robe flap loudly. They both stood in silence, waiting for the other to speak. Why did I find you? Jesus raised his hand quickly, and a thought began to fill Pierre's mind. Jesus was speaking to Pierre through hi s mind. Words were no longer necessary. His voice felt like silk inside of Pierre's brain, causing his arms to break out in goose bumps and his stomach to drop in excitement. The facial

107 expression of contentment never changed or left Jesus' face as the words echoes through Pierre's mind. You don't need to talk. I can hear your thoughts. You did not find me, I found you. There is something that I must tell you, my son. Pierre was awestruck by the power that the voice had over him. With each word, Pierre fell deeper into the spell of the Lord and wanted to know more. He spoke out loud, not accustomed to using his mind for communication. Why did you find me?" You are no longer welcome in the house of God! Jesus' voice echoed in Pierre's head, causing his nose to bleed and his ears to pop. Suddenly, Jesus no longer looked peaceful and saintly, he instead resembled a demon, frightening and powerful. Pierre began to cower in front of Jesus, as if he expected to feel his powerful wrath. I will not hurt you, but you are no longer my son. Pierre began to try to think of any possible reason why he wouldn't be welcomed in the house of Lord, but nothing came to mind. As if Jesus was reading his thoughts, which is precisely what he had done, words began to hammer through Pierre's mind. You have committed no sin, but your are no longer my child. You are no longer pure. You are... changed ! The gate flew open behind Pierre and the children began to run into the field, through the small graveyard and into the church. As each child passed, Jesus affectionately patted the tiny heads, seeming to bless every child. Pierre began to long for that affection, hating the children that received what he could no longer have. Don't hate them, they are innocent. "What am I?" You were innocen t, but now, you aresomething else. "I have not changed." You have! You don't know it, yet. You are now the enemy of the Lord. You will spend your life-eternity- in the shadow of the Lord's back. You are no longer in his grace! Pierre couldn't understand what he had done. He had lived a good life, never hurt anyone or offended his parent's. Why would the Lord spite him?

108 The last group of the children ran by him and Jesus and entered the church. Some of the children seemed to mock Pierre as they ran into the church he could not enter, as they were touched by a Lord that would not touch him. Pierre began to hate the children, he hated what they stood for. He was no longer like them, no longer one of them. It was then, truly then, that Pierre realized that he w as different from other people. This is a dream. My actions have no real consequences. The last dozen children began to run by Pierre and to the church. One of the boys, the stereotypical cute kid with blond hair and blue eyes, gave a quick smirk towards Pierre. That was the last straw. Pierre snatched the child off the ground and raised him above his head. He started to shake the child and wanted to hurt, maybe even kill the little bastard! He began to hear a noise that he had never heard before. It was as if he could hear the child's blood flowing through his veins. Then, when he looked at the child as he hung upside down in his hand, it was as if Pierre could see the blood running through his veins. The blood looked tasty! A sudden hunger swelled up inside of Pierre, a hunger that no food could satisfy Pierre could feel his jaw expanding, his teeth felt like they were growing inside his mouth. With the tip of his tongue, he touched the tips of his incisors. They had grown the most, extending a half-inch further than normal. They were sharp, too. The tip of his tongue tasted like blood, but not the blood that ran through the child's veins, a different blood. The blood in the child's vein would tasty different, it would taste like.. food. Pierre began to realize that this was how he was different. He had become something, or maybe he always was, different. That was why Jesus couldn't let him into the church. The thought that he no longer felt God's love ceased to feel disheartening. Instead, it began to infuriate Pierre. Why can't he still love me? Why am I no longer in his good graces, just because I am different? It's not fair. I never heard from you when I was in your good graces, and when something happens beyond my control, I am punished so you can love this...child! Fuck you!

109 Pierre said the last words while looking directly into the eyes of Christ. For his part, Jesus seemed to not take offense, instead looking at Pierre with pity. Pierre let the boy drop to the ground and snatched him up again by the nec k, instead of the feet. He tilted the child's head to the side, the child screams not abating him in the least, and opened his mouth. The Lord moved quickly. He stepped from the threshold and took the child in his arms. With an unseen force, Pierre was knocked through the air and onto his back. When he looked up, Jesus was carrying the boy into the church. The doors closed behind him and the church lay silent, giving no trace of previous activity. Pierre, on his back and propped up on his elbows, lay on the ground for a long time watching the church. Why doesn't God love me? Pierre let his head fall to the ground as a stiff breeze blew. Very slowly, like a small crack the moment before it spider webs into a large hold, a feeling took hold in Pierre's heart. It was the feeling that the Lord was no longer concerned with his actions. That he was no longer concerned with his thoughts. What should have been a horrible realization, was actually quite pleasurable. An instinct and feeling slowly etched its way out of Pierre. It went a little at first, but, by the time Pierre finally got back on his feet, the feeling was gone. That feeling was guilt. When Pierre finally stood, he no longer felt like he was a child of God. He no longer felt as if he was forced to obey t he same rules as everyone else was forced to abide by. With that feeling came a sense of freedom. In his bed, a small smile arose on Pierre's face as he lay dreaming. P7 Tommy Hill was, among other things, a drug dealer. It would be great if he could say that he felt guilty about it, but he didn't. It wasn't that he was proud of his activities, or hoping to move into more lucrative drug selling, it was just a matter of caring. Tommy didn't care about it. It was just a way to make money. At first, it was an easy way, but that all changed when he became the sole supplier to every marijuana dealer at

110 Bridgewater. That was not an intentional development, he just sort of stepped into it. He came to Bridgewater an avid pot smoker, but, he soon realized that there was enough smoker's at this school, that he could buy extra, sell what he didn't want and get the rest, for free. Within a month, his name had gotten around and he was receiving phone calls from random people, random in that they didn't know him but only knew someone that he knew, desiring to buy some marijuana. By the second month, he was clearing a little over two pounds a week, and making a boatload of money to go along with his free smoke. As more time passed, Tommy ceased selling smoke to smokers , and began to only sell, in much greater quantity, to other dealers. By the time his freshman year ended, he sold a pound a day, and had more money in his safe then he could spend in four more years of college. On of the things that people found most surprising about Tommy, was that he was a great guy. He was a good student, a caring person that actually thought that people and their feelings mattered. Maybe it was this notion that originally drew him and Pierre together as friends. But, for whatever the reason, they were friends. Needless to say, Tommy's job gets him into every party, no matter how crowded and no matter what crowd had gathered. So, Tommy happened to be at the Lacrosse House on Tuesday night, when he saw Sara, Pierre's supposed girlfriend, leave the house with some random guy. He wouldn't have thought twice about it, knowing that it was safer for a girl to have a guy walk her home from a party, but they were holding hands. Tommy watched things develop from behind a four foot bong that the ho use proudly named Grimace, because it was purple and they usually got McDonald's after smoking. He watched intently as they snuck out of the house, and he even followed behind, trying to be sure he was seeing her cheat. As he got to the back door, he was just in time to see her start to kiss the random guy and then take him away. That little friggin' bitch! Tommy was irate that she would cheat on Pierre. He could think of fifteen girls, all great looking, that were eager to get in Pierre's pants. But, Tommy couldn't think

111 of one time that Pierre thought about it, let alone act on the offers. Tommy watched the pair head off and decided, before heading back to the bong, that tomorrow he would have a little discussion with his friend, Pierre. I never liked that bitch anyway! P8, At three a.m., Pierre's second horrible dream began. It started off pleasantly, a far cry from the first horrible dream that began in a somewhat creepy fashion. Pierre found himself standing in a room, dressed in all white, almost like Jesus earlier. His outfit wasn't a robe, but it was white pants and a white shirt. Somehow, Pierre knew that the white clothes symbolized purity and goodness. He was alone in a room, standing in the middle, not being able to see the walls. It was possible that the walls were white, and that he was seeing them, but compounded with the white floors, it was impossible to tell where things began and ended. Pierre looked and felt good in the dream. He was neither cold nor lonely, a feeling that had secretly filled him during the previous dream. He could also feel no hunger or extreme hatred, two of the uncontrollable emotions that had come out during the first nightmare. The room, much like his soul, felt warm, even though he was expressionless in the dream. A light mist began to rise from the floor. It was faint at first, but eventually, it thickened and Pierre could no longer see below his knees. He tried to brush it aside with his hand, like smoke, but as soon as the mist was displaced, more rushed to fill the void. Slowly, five women rose from the mist. The first, a tall blonde with blue eyes and a perfect figure, was to Pierre's far left. She was extremely attractive and naked. She stood in front of Pierre and smiled seductively. The second woman, to the blonde beauty's right, was Asian. She was shorter than the first, but equally beautiful and equally naked. She had long black hair that was perfectly straight and hung to the middle of her back. She had breasts that were smaller than the buxom blonde, but they were not small. In essence, she too was perfect. The third girl, standing directly across from Pierre, was the exact replica of the first. The only difference was that her hair was

112 red. In fact, her hair was bright red. It was curly and captivating. She was also naked and also smiled seductively. Pierre wondered if she was red everywhere but the mist covered the women to their waists. The fourth woman, to the right of the middle redhead, was black and absolutely beautiful. She had an incredible figure and large breasts. But, her best feature was her supple lips that were possibly the sexiest thing Pierre had ever seen. She had big, innocent brown eyes that sparkled when she smiled. The last woman was the exact same as the redhead and the blonde, except, her hair was brown. She was as equally beautiful as she was naked. She looked even more seductive because the dark hair gave her a sinister and somewhat trampy look. It wasn't that Pierre thought that brunettes were trampy, but because he had seen the features first on the blonde and then the redhead, he associated a different appearance to the darker hair. But, she was attractive and Pierre could feel that he wanted her. In fact, he wanted them all. The women began to encircle Pierre, touching his arms and sliding their hands under his chin. The red- head leaned in and kissed him on the nose. The Asian girl reached out and took hold of his crotch, squeezing then releasing. Pierre started to breathe heavily, his anticipation building towards an erotic climax. The blonde gently ran her fingers over Pierre's face, closing his eyes and playing with his bottom lip. With his eyes closed, Pierre anxiously waited for the women to take him. One of the women, he was not sure which because he kept his eyes closed, was on her knees, pleasuring him. It was incredible. Her tongue felt longer and more powerful then any he had ever felt. Almost immediately he released, but the girl never faltered or stopped. Sara never let me do that! Pierre opened his eyes and looked down at the girl. He was not surprised in the least to see that it was the brunette. She stood and walked away, the black girl passing her and walking towards Pierre. She approached him gracefully and began to kiss him. She pulled away, Pierre's lips and face stret ched forward, unwilling to break the embrace. She turned her back to him and bent over. She was fully exposed, utterly naked and tempting. She turned her head and looked at him,

113 winking. Pierre stepped forward and entered her. Even though the brunette had just taken him in her mouth, Pierre was surprised that he released after only a few thrusts. The black girl felt so good inside, like velvet. He pulled out and stepped back, taking a deep breath. The black girl straightened up and turned towards him. She kissed him lightly on the forehead. She walked away, while, the blonde and the Asian girl began to kiss his neck. His knees began to feel weak, and his mind began to swirl. Sexual euphoria overcame Pierre and he went headlong into the feeling. A painful pinch snapped Pierre out of his daze and his eyes opened. The brunette, once again with liquid in her mouth, smiled. Red droplets etched her chin and the corners of her lips. There was more red liquid on her teeth. Pierre suddenly began to feel frightened, and then terrified. His penis shriveled the first part of his body to cower in fear. He felt more bites to his arm, realizing the Asian girl was biting him hard enough for blood to spew down to his wrist and off the side of her face. He began to pull away, b ut he felt hands, hands that were much stronger than his, holding him, not letting him move. He began to feel powerless and incredibly vulnerable, literally with his pants down. He used all his might to move away from the girls, but he couldn't move an inc h. They all began to attack, biting and drinking his blood. The brunette put her hands on his penis and began to stroke him gently. The pain was fierce and the terror was mounting, but Pierre still became aroused at her stroke. Pleas, God, don't let her bite me there! The brunette stopped her stroke and looked at Pierre, her eyes sparkled with the knowledge of his fears. She winked at him and playfully began to kiss his penis. She took him whole, and then let go, standing. She turned her back to him and took him in her hand. She put him inside her. Pierre couldn't believe that even with four other women, each biting him and sucking on his blood, his main concern was intercourse with the brunette. The male mind at it's finest. Pierre could feel himself getting weak, his legs were wobbly and his vision fuzzy. The women were unrelenting, their lust and thirst insatiable. He could feel his blood leaving his body from various punctures. In an oddly sexual way, the women sucking on his wounds was almost as erotic as the

114 intercourse and the oral. He began to climax, again, and he was certain he was about to pass out. It was most erotic moment of his life, and the most dangerous. The danger served to heighten the eroticism. Pierre began to pass out, but one of the girls, if that's what they were, held him in place. The Asian girl stood face to face with him as he slowly opened his eyes. She was grinning at him, a mouth full of sharp teeth catching his immediate attention. These women are all Vampires! The realization of his impending and then immediate danger began to anger Pierre, an anger that was stronger than any emotion he had ever felt before. A surge of strength ran through his body, making his blood boil. He took the brunette by the hair and threw her across the room. She slid on the floor until she crashed into the wall. There are walls in this hellhole! The rest of the women (vampires) began to back away from him, their fear showing in their eyes. Pierre remembered that the women were the same height as him, but as the anger grew inside him, he sensed that he was growing physically, too. He began to feel as strong as these demon women, and then, much stronger. These women serve me! Pierre looked at the women with disgust, the contempt for their attempted insolence controlling his mind. You would dare to feed on me? The women were petrified of Pierre. They were communicating to each other, but none of them spoke a word. Pierre could pick their thoughts out of their minds. They spoke, or thought in confused unison. He is one of us, but more powerful. I didn't sense it. Me neither. Pierre listened to their thoughts and then echoed his own. "I AM YOUR LORD. OBEY ME"! The women nodded and went to their knees, bowing. Pierre began to understand that whatever they were, was exactly what he was. The only difference was that he was much more powerful than these thralls were. Although he had never heard the word before, it just felt right. The women were vampire thralls. They should provide service to him, their L ord. The feeling of power was full fledged inside of Pierre, and he liked it!

115 Pierre thought about having the women stand by his side and they obediently stood and went to him. He could feel the power inside of him. He wasn't sure why he had the power, and what it may mean to him later on, but for now, he was happy to have it, no matter the cost. Pierre found himself staring into the eyes of the beautiful blonde. He could see his reflection in her clear blue eyes. In the reflection, his eyes were blood red! Secicion2 p9 Section Two- The Hunter He stood looking over the cliff. He was a man of medium height and weight, 5'10, 170 lbs. He had short brown hair and light brown eyes that were not attractive, or ugly. The kind of man that others looked at, and then immediately forgot about. But, that was exactly the appearance that he had tried to create. In the line of work that he was in, it was important to be forgotten and virtually invisible. As the years had passed, and he grew older, unlike the others he had to grow older, he had taken several steps to ensure that his look was current and forgettable. Keeping his hair short was always in fashion and far too common to cause a person to do a double look. His complexion was clear, and he never wore facial hair. He kept his weight low, overweight people were easy to stare at, and he was all too happy to have stopped growing at 5'10, the average height of a white male. He had learned from his father, the first lesson, to never stare at a person. Eye contact was all right, if necessary, but it was smart to never hold the eye contact. People that stared were suspicious and, once again, memorable. But, it was important not to immediately look away after eye contact had been established. For that, he had to learn to use a technique his father called the impartial grin. The impartial grin was a sort of half smile that was completely forgettable. After eye contact has been established, he had been taught to smile slightly, not enough to expose any teeth, and then look away. It was very polite and usually ended the eye contact. Of course, these habits had destroyed his sex life, and that partially explained why he was currently standing over a cliff.

116 The idea to kill himself had festered into his brain about four years ago. He had been in Baltimore, investigating a sighting, when he had met a girl. She was the first girl in ten years to address him by his name, or the name that he had given her. His real name was Cole Bouchard but he told her that his name was Cameron Parks. Currently, his name was Jamie Dyer, but the girl, her name was Kristie, didn't live long enough to hear his new name. Upon arriving in Baltimore, Cole, then Cameron, went immediately to his contact at the local church. By this point in his career and life, all the churches looked the same and all the contacts seemed like the same person. Cole decided years ago to call the contacts father, regardless of their religious denomination, most were Catholic anyway, so it never became an issue. At this church, the contact told Cole that he had heard reports about several enemies gathering at a local club, seeking out the intoxicated and drug addicted. Even though these people were missed, the incidents surrounding their deaths seemed to lend itself heavily to a drug or alcohol induced accident. In other words, the vampires in Baltimore were having a field day with the locals, and feeding had been plentiful. The local father, was an old and shaky arthritic who told Cole that three of his parish's parents had lost their children and others were becoming worried. I understand that you are a man that I would like to call upon to rid my city of these demons, was the exact words that the old man used. He placed a swollen and shaking hand on Cole's shoulder as he spoke. Physical contact wasn't a thing that he appreciated, but he felt it would be rude to shake off the old priest. I am a man that you would call. What club is most popular with the kids in this city? The old man reached under his robes and, hopefully, int o a pant pocket, removing a folded band creased blue flyer. The flyer read, The James Club. Cole left the church immediately; courtesy wasn't a vampire hunter's prerequisite. He went to the local hardware store and purchased a dozen pieces of spiked wooden poles. He told the curious clerk at the counter, who probably didn't think a

117 man, dressed in black fatigues was a carpenter, that he was helping his Dad build a fence and needed the posts. The clerk seemed to believe the story, and after the impartial grin, forgot all about Cole. He had filled a jug with holy water, even though that really didn't do shit at stopping any vampire more powerful than a thrall, but it was always good to have some. There was no reason to waste a stake on a thrall when a few drops of water burned their flesh. The vampires were attacking at night, so sunlight wouldn't help. Direct sunlight over an extended period of time could kill a vampire, even a Lord, but any exposure weakened the demons. Cole went back to his hotel room to situate his weapons. Constant inventory checks were crucial to a hunter. Cole took no chances. He stayed at a local and extremely trashy motel on the opposite side of the church. You never could be too careful with vampires and he was sure not to stay nea r the church. Some of the Lords were smart and would assume that a hunter would consult a church before his hunt. The chances of encountering a Lord were slim, but they were out there, and sometimes boredom drove them to accompany the thralls and lesser vampires on their feedings. Lords were extremely difficult to track and kill. If you were a lucky hunter, or unlucky, depending on your personal opinion, a Lord would hear of your hunts and come looking for you. That's why the hunters are impossible to socialize with. The constant fear of attack makes them anti-social, and virtually a-sexual. Cole hadn't had a woman in three years and was a little concerned that it didn't bother him. Years of restless nights and constant moving had left Cole feeling like as much of an outsider as the vampires he hunted. Sometimes, the desire to quit was so strong, he almost decided to try. But, the constant reminder that kept him from quitting was that vampires would still attack people and very few people had the skills to st op them. Even fewer actually believed in them enough to accept their existence, let alone learn their weak spots to destroy them. Cole had learned how to hunt from his father, an old -school hunter. The most important lesson he learned was that once you became a hunter, the only true way to quit was suicide. It

118 was only after death that you were safe from a vampire's revenge. The supply check at the hotel gave Cole confidence in tonight's hunt. He had plenty of silver daggers and with the posts, carved down into sharp one-foot spears, he was fully prepared to battle. Crosses didn't do anything to the vampires, but some would occasionally use the popular misconception to bait an inexperience hunter into coming to close. Cole had heard a story of a young hunter, supposedly the next great hunter, who had been on his third hunt. He had encountered a wily old Lord that squealed in pain and agony at the sight of the little iron cross. The Lord fell to his knees and acted like his intestines were on fire in his stoma ch. The young hunter approached with cockiness and stood over the Lord. He raised his stake and actually put his other hand on the Lord, to turn him over. The Lord grinned and, as quick as possible, he stood up and tore the arm that held the stake, right off the shoulder of the hunter. With one arm empty, and the other a bloody stump, the hunter was decapitated. That was the story that all the old-school hunters told the younger ones. It was designed to teach and to scare. It worked on both levels. Cole slept on the uncomfortable motel bed until eleven, then woke, showered and went to the James Club. Inside the club, he made sure to look like he was drinking heavily and having a grand time. He ordered fifteen glasses of water, with no ice, and always slid the bartender a five-dollar bill with each glass. The bartender thought he was on ecstasy, but any vampires that were watching, hoping he would get drunk and go into the alley to vomit, would think that he was drinking straight vodka. They would think he was easy pickings and easier feeding. That was the only advantage he would need. At around one a.m. Cole was quite certain that a young looking raver was a vampire and he was positive that the raver had been watching him. Cole ordered vodka, swallowing it who le to add to his drunken appearance. He shook from the awful taste, his reaction to drinking any alcohol, and clutched his stomach. He left the barstool, and went to the side door. He passed a short and chubby blonde girl. She was dressed in black pants and a low cut blue shirt that showed her midriff

119 and a fair amount of cleavage. She gave Cole a quick glance, and then resumed her dancing. Cole continued to look at her, but waited until he had lost her attention before he really stared. He was not interested in her, but he was interested in what she was wearing. She had dark tinted sunglasses on and a red glowing necklace. The necklace illuminated her face and more importantly, the glasses. In essence, the glasses were mirrors and Cole could see behind him when he looked at her. From behind, he could see a tall black man approaching, trying to be careful and stay inconspicuous. The man was very skinny and, even though he was black, he looked pale. He had a slight limp, but that was probably a clever ploy to make him appear weak. When Cole stopped, pretending to be watching the girl, the black man stopped with him. He started to look around the club, but was certain to continually keep Cole as his reference return point. Cole walked towards the door and used his shoulder to push it open. He stumbled into the alley and bent over. He stayed hunched over, his right side to the door, his left hand reaching into his jacket pocket, grabbing the stake, waiting for the predator to come out. The stake sat in his left ha nd felt sturdy and the familiar hunting "coolness began to sweep over Cole. He never got nervous, but stayed cautious. He was the best hunter alive and he knew it was because he never underestimated the cunning and ferocity of the vampires. The door opened slowly and the black man stood in the doorway. He closed the door behind him and looked at Cole. He stepped to the left, and tried to get a look at the hunched over drunk guy from behind. Cole could feel the predator's overconfidence. Come on. Get close to me. I'm easy pickings. Just a drunk guy, throwing up in the alley. Get close. Attack me! Cole felt the urge to whip around and bury the spike in the predator's heart, but held it at bay. Normally, it was smart not to even think about attacking because the Lord's could read your thoughts. They weren't complete mind thieves, but they could hear enough for it to be dangerous. But, this predator was no Lord; he was barely above a thrall. Cole couldn't really sense any vampire's power in him, a stench that he usually could smell when they were close. This one is young, a new

120 vampire. He isn't grown and possibly as weak as a vampire could be. Cole tried to observe the predator's movement, trying his best to foresee the method of attack. He figured that if he really was a new vampire, he would be full of pride and conceit at the feeling of power that he has discovered in himself. That was the vampire's biggest weakness, pride. Their jealousy reaches phenomenal levels, but their pride was their strongest emotion. The vampires felt like they were superior to any and all humans. That was why hunters used themselves as bait. The predator was smiling behind Cole's back. He was waiting for the drunk to straighten up, and then he would attack. Cole didn't want to disappoint. He stood up and clutched his stomach with his free hand, the other holding the stake at his chest. Cole could feel the predator's breath on his neck. He whipped around and brought the stake to the attacker's chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the predator had a knife. A knife. Why does he have a weapon? Cole knocked the knife away easily and stood looking into the predator's eyes, the stake pressing against the man's chest. The man was definitely not a vampire. He was weak and dug addicte d. A vampire would never have a weapon; it would be an insult to his or her pride. A true vampire felt that their whole body was a weapon. Cole continued to study this man's features, as the stake was poking through the man's shirt and a spot of blood was showing. Hey man, easy with that, I wasn't gonna do nothin'. Honest. Cole continued to study the man, contemplating whether or not he should kill him, anyway. This man preyed on the drunk and helpless that sought temporary refuge in the night air. He, because of his drug addiction, sought to exploit people in their weakest and most vulnerable moment. If Cole let this guy go, he would probably swear that he would never do it again. He would swear to go straight and get himself cleaned up. Cole knew the addiction; it's the same for the vampires. They were always cunning, always trying to keep an advantage. If they realized they had encountered a hunter and were about to die, they would swear that they had never fed before and would never try it again. It was obviously a lie. They had to feed. They had no choice in that. If they didn't feed, they would die.

121 If I let him go, he'll be back tomorrow night. He will tell me now that he is done, but the sincerity in that will wear off and the habit and dependency will take over. I should kill him. Cole finally looked at the man and saw a tear fall from his eye. Are you gonna be here tomorrow night? The man started to cry more heavily and shake. He was either very frightened of Cole, or he needed a fix. No man, I ain't gonna be here no more. I seen the light. I'm goin' straight after this. Swear it. Cole pressed the stake against the man's chest and felt the tip pop into his skin. The man let out a small squeal, and urinated on himself. Cole stepped back and looked at the man. If I kill him, I am no better than the vampire's that murder humans. This man is a piece of shit, but at least he is human shit. I'm going to be here tomorrow night. Are you? The man started to shake his head furiously in the negative. Cole pushed him back with the stake and waved him away. The man ran off into the alley and out into the street. Cole stood alone in the long dark alley and cursed himself for not seeing that the man was an ordinary thief and nothing more. He put the stake back into his jacket and went to the door. He stopped with his hand resting on the doorframe. He heard a noise. Deeper into the alley, he could hear commotion. He closed his eyes, and listened. He heard a light whimper and clothing ripping. It sounded like someone was being attacked. Cole ran down into the dark alley, stake in hand, concentration in his eyes. The alley was longer that he had originally thought. He felt like he had been running for longer than he would have needed. He wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. It just seemed like there would be no way he would have heard a person's struggles from that far of a distance. Am I becoming like the vampires, or am I losing my mind? Most of the hunter's, usually the best of the best, didn't meet their end through a vampire. Usually, they went insane. The pressure of having to constantly watch their back and the knowledge that they would never have a moment's peace couldn't allow it weighed heavily on their minds. Sometimes, it was too much and they went crazy. Ironically, the bullets they found after the suicides, were silver tipped. It was like they

122 believed that they could only be killed like the vampire's they hunted. The alley had almost reached its end, but Cole could see the commotion. A young girl was laying on the ground, shirt torn open, breasts exposed. A man stood over her, ready to pounce. She was tall and exceptionally pretty. Although her eyes were wide with fear and wet with tears, Cole could see that they were extraordinarily beautiful eyes. Her eyes were light blue, the color of the ocean's shore. Her hair was red, with enough shades of dark orange for it to look like fire. She had perfect teeth and supple lips. As Cole studied her face, he felt something he hadn't felt in a long time. He felt lust. He never knew his type of girl, until now. His type of woman, was this type. But, even the intense feelings of lust couldn't deter Cole from his mission. A man was about to attack her, or, since she was already half naked and on the ground, he was about to finish her off. Cole didn't know if the man was a vampire, but, as he raised the stake and prepared to turn the attacker around, he found that one thought cleared all the confusion from his mind. This man may or not be a vampire, but if he is human, than he is a rapist. A stake through the heart will kill a human the same way it kills a vampire. Either way, he dies! Cole approached the man from behind and tried to get a good look at him. He was short, but thick all around. He had short brown hair and was wearing a tight black shirt and khaki pants. Basically, he looked like very single guy inside the club. Cole whistled and the attacker turned around. Cole grabbed him by the right shoulder, using his momentum to put the man's chest directly in front of the stake. The man's eyes grew wider as he realized that the stake was going to be buried in his chest and he would be powerless to stop it. The eyes were red and evil. He was a vampire. Cole's eyes burned with hatred for the vampire. He buried the stake in his chest and pushed it deep. Cole pushed the demon to the ground and saw smoke escaping through the sides of the hole. The smoke drifted off in light tendrils and the man started to shake on the alley pavement. The man was definitely a vampire, and now, he was definitely going to die.

123 He convulsed on the ground as his red eyes began to bleed the final sign of a vampire's death. In a moment, the smoke caught into a large fire and the vampire burned whole. Vampire's never left a trace after the ir death. In five minutes, all that would be left of the nightmarish creature would be a pile of dust to blow away in the breeze. Cole looked at the girl lying on the concrete. She had passed out, but he hadn't noticed. Cole took his coat off and bundled the girl inside of it. He usually left the victim in the place they were, hoping they would never speak a word of the events, but he didn't think it would be safe to leave beautiful, half naked women in an alley, unconscious. Cole also thought he would have to check her to make sure that she hadn't been bitten. Is that the only reason you want to take her with you? Cole picked her off the ground and ran through the alley to his car. Luckily, the club was full and there wasn't anybody on the street. Cole had parked around the back, hoping that if he had to make a quick exit, he wouldn't run into many people. He didn't. He lay the girl in the back seat and hopped in the car. In a moment, he drove off. P10, Kristie walked through the club with a confidence she h adnt felt before. The last time she had been to the James Club had been a year or two before she became involved with a guy that treated her like she was his possession. He abused her as much physically as mentally. In the three years they had been together, he had destroyed her self-esteem and almost broken her spirit. But, John, that was the bastards name, couldnt break her. He had been a drunk and a womanizer, and she had put up with that shit for three years. But, the last beating her gave her turned out to be the last thing that he ever did. He came home from work drunk one night and it was the wrong day to be almost incapacitated. She was twenty-two, and he was twenty-six. They had been dating for three years, and only the first was good. John had been a good man, but, as soon as she fell in love with him and moved in with him, become dependent on him, he changed. It started with a push after an argument, then it became a slap. Within six months of

124 the first push, it was a closed fist punch that spli t her lip and gave her a mild concussion. She put up with his beatings, and even started to believe that she was as worthless as he told her she was. But, one night he came home and she had decided that he would never hurt her again. She had been pregnant, and although he never knew it, she had lost the baby. It had only been four months into the pregnancy, barely into the second trimester. She woke up one morning; sore from the punches to the kidney he had given her when his dinner was not hot, only warm. She had peed blood throughout the night, but she was only slightly alarmed. She knew she was pregnant, but she was scared to tell John. He didnt want kids and wouldnt understand that the pill didnt always work. She sat on the toilet and peed. She finished and stood up, an intense pain ripping through her abdomen. She called an ambulance. Two hours later, at the hospital, they told her that she had a miscarriage. She didnt cry or even falter in the least. She thanked the doctor and refused to stay the ni ght. She was home three hours after she had first ridden in the ambulance to the hospital. The staff was amazed at how well she dealt with pain, but they never knew what it was like to have a grown man punch the skin of you body when he got a little drunk and a little bored. She sat in Johns favorite recliner and thought to herself that she was kind of glad that she wasnt going to have his baby. She felt sadness beyond description at having lost her baby, but she knew she could have another. This time, a baby that wasnt his. Sitting in the chair was normally something that she would never, and could never do. He didnt allow it because it was his chair. She wore perfume and it permeated the chair. Sometimes, he just wanted to be alone and if he smelled he r, he wasnt alone. She thought he was joking, but thirteen stitches across her knee from a belt loop tearing her skin when he slapped her convinced her that she should never sit in his chair. Today, she sat in the chair making sure to wear extra perfume. It would be impossible to tell what made her finally decide to end things with him. It could have been the look on the doctors

125 face when he told her that she had lost the baby. Or, it could have been the emptiness she felt when she was searching through her cabinet for the receipts for the baby stroller she had put on lay-a-way. Either way, at some moment, Kristie had decided that she wanted a separation from John and it needed to be permanent. She sat in the chair. It was actually quite comfortable. But, more importantly, it was located at the end of the living room, across from the cellar door, a cellar door that opened to reveal steep and dangerous concrete steps. The steps were old and cracked, leading to a concrete floor. The door was always closed, except, today it was open. She sat in the chair and waited. It was Friday, Johns favorite drinking day. Everyday was a drinking day, but, Friday was the day that his friggin fat bastard boss let him leave after lunch and enjoy his weekend. John usually came home at six, hungry for dinner and eager for a shower before he and the boys went out for some real boozin. Kristie knew his schedule, because for the past two years, it had been her schedule. She had to be home when he was home; he may need something from the fridge. She had to be home and make sure things were clean around the house. He liked to have friends over last minute and wouldnt have time to clean and pay the bills. When she thought of the abuse she had endured over the last two years, she got mad at herself. Why hadnt she left? Why did she stay? She didnt have answers to those types of questions. Partly, she stayed because she was afraid to leave. Mostly, she stayed because he would find her if she left. He wasnt a big and scary man, but sh e was scared of his temper. However, today, she was afraid of her own temper. She promised herself that she would say her story and then leave, but she hadnt packed. She had a vague idea what she was actually going to do. The cellar door was open and she was the person that opened it. She also remembered putting a shovel at the bottom step, although she only suspected why she had done such a thing. It was seven thirty when he finally stumbled through the front door. Kristie could smell the beer the second the door opened, and that was exactly what she had hoped for. She

126 had her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep in his chair. Oops, sorry honey, I must have dozed off. He would be upset that she had been in his chair and he would want to talk to her about it. But, she had a surprise for him. It all happened so fast, she couldnt remember the exact details. She remembered he had walked in to the house and slammed the door shut when he saw her in the chair. She didnt move in the chair, still pretending. He walked over to her in the chair and nudged her with his fist. Wake up. Im hungry. She stirred a little and made a noise that sounded like a whine. He hated whiners. He poked her again, but she turned her back to him, forcing him to re-position himself to look at her. He was standing in front of the cellar door, but he didnt know it was open. Come on you bitch, get out of my fuckin chair. Im hungry and I gotta get back out to meet the guys. He nudged her harder, but she stayed in the chair. She heard him sigh, and could almost feel his anger. She was waiting for him to be on the verge of pulling her off the chair. The moment she felt him leaning in, she had a big surprise. Thats it. I warned you about my chair! He leaned in, and thats when it happen ed. She jumped out of the chair as quick as a cat, pushing him backward with all her power. She didnt believe she had the power, but something, maybe the adrenaline, made it feel like he weighed almost nothing and she could push him through a wall if she had to. She couldnt remember everything, but she knew she had frightened him. She could see his expression change from fear to anger as he realized that she had been capable of scaring him. His expression, or what she could see of it as he fell backward, changed from fear, to anger, to bewilderment. He was falling backwards, and was going to fall hard to the floor. He still didnt know that the door was open behind him, and by the time he realized it, it would be much too late. He was drunk and was more concerned about what he would do to her when he got off the floor, then trying to brace his arms to cushion the fall. He was falling back, and he was letting it happen.

127 Kristie watched as he fell through the open doorway. He must have sensed something was wrong because he let out a slight whimper when he felt himself falling past the angle of the floor, but that was the only noise she heard. Well, the only noise she heard except for the disgusting smack of his head off the concrete steps. He slid to the bottom of the floor, lifelessly, with his neck craning at a skewed angle. She went to the top of the stairs and looked down at him. Slowly, she walked down the stairs. She expected this to be the hardest part. Just like the horror movies she watched when he was asleep, late at night. The part where the scared female heroine walked around the not so dead body of the killer and the audience waited for him to grab her ankle. But, unlike the movies, his neck was almost completely turned around and she knew her ankle s werent going to be touched. By the time she reached the bottom step, she had seen that she could go back upstairs and call the ambulance. She had a shovel next to the last step, but she wasnt going to need it. It was over. P11, The police figured that he had gotten drunk and fallen down the stairs. Kristie found it easy to cry when the police questioned her, all she had to do was think about the baby and the two years of her life that she had lost because of John. The tears flowed heavily and they were believable. As luck would have it, she was awarded a settlement from his life insurance and his company, which allowed her to sell the house, and buy a new one, just for her. She had originally intended to keep the house they had lived in, but it was too full of his choices. She moved almost immediately, and his compensation checks came almost as quickly. At first, she wasnt sure she would want his money, but that all changed when the first check arrived and she needed the money. She hadnt gotten a job, yet, but she was taking classes at the local community college. Within a month, she had the confidence in her own ability to look for an office position. Earlier in the day, she received a call from the boss of the company, asking her if Monday was too soon to start? She would be making 34,000 dollars a year,

128 three more than John made. That would have really burned him up. The thought made her smile. She kept the smile on her face as she pranced through The James Club. It was her first time out in almost two and a half years. If anyone asked, she wouldnt talk about what she had been doing for the last three years. She wasnt married to John; therefore, she saw no reason to keep his memory alive. The checks from his work would continue to come. His having no other family used to bother Kristie. Now it elated her, and the sale of the house would leave her with money to buy a condo and furnish it nicely. Life couldnt get any better. She stood at the bar, ready to order a drink, when a short handsome man in a tight black shirt approached her, striking up a conversation. He was very cute, with brown hair and a nice body. He had soft brown eyes that she found comforting. John had gray, lifeless eyes that seemed to always squint. From the moment his eyes met hers, it was like she was locked in to him. She could sense her control fading over her sensibilities. He was speaking to her, but his eyes were controlling her. She was in a trance and she couldnt break out. For each sentence his mouth spoke, his eyes said th e truth. Hi, my name is Terrence. You will listen to me! Im Kristie. Terrence extended his hand and she found that she was shaking hands with the stranger, but couldnt remember putting hers in his direction. Still holding her hand, he began to speak, again. Would you like to dance? Desire me! Please me! Want me! I would. They went to the dance floor; he was leading her by the hand. He danced close, his body always touching her in some place. His lips grazed her neck and collarbone several times as they gyrated. She was excited now, his trance having peaked her sexuality. He began to kiss her ear, nibbling on it and whispering. Youre a great dancer. She couldnt see his eyes, and the words he spoke were the only she heard. He seemed to sense this as he pulled her closer, locking his eyes into hers. Now, he didnt speak a word, but his eyes commanded her.

129 Kiss me! She began to kiss him, more passionately than she had ever kissed John. She felt his tongue in her mouth, and liked it. His hands were touching her all over, rubbing on her body and massaging her flesh. She could feel his hot lips on her neck, the feeling of his breath making her shiver. She couldnt believe how much she wanted him. Lets go outside. In a dream like state of confusion, she was leading him to the back door. She had not been to the club in over four years, but she seemed to know the way to the alley like she was a regular. They stepped into the warm summer night and she could immediately feel his hands on her body. He was touching her breasts and kissing the back of her neck. She had her back to him and she could feel his power slipping and her fear growing. She could barely control her passion, but the fear kept creeping over her. She wanted to run, and began to step away fro m Terrence. He pulled her back and laughed. Running? I guess well do it my way! He knocked her to the ground. She crashed to the pavement and a tiny squeal escaped her as the air rushed out of her lungs. Her shirt had torn in his hand and she was aware th at her breasts were exposed. He stood over her, his lips pulled back to reveal a menacing grin and a smile full of big teeth. His eyes were the color of hell, a sadistic deep red. Did I come so far to die in this alley? Terrence, or whatever he was, began to lean in on her. She saw a figure running through the alley, coming towards them. Maybe he can help? Maybe hes here to save me? Or, maybe he is going to help Terrence? The last morbid thought was too much for Kristie, and she passed out. P12, The old priest sat on the far end of the first pew. He had never sat in any one of the pews at the church. The feeling disoriented him. This is like sitting in the passenger seat of your own car. He didnt actually drive anymore, didnt need to.

130 He had assistants at the rectory that did his errands, and he walked a great deal. Life had assumed a familiar pattern for Father Donnelly in the last forty years, but that had all recently changed. All his life, he had been a devout Christian. Religious, possibly fanatically religious, parents in the Deep South had raised him. He had gone to seminary school in Virginia, and liked what he had seen of the north. Being that he was from Mississippi, Virginia seemed like the north. He decided that he would seek assignment at a church a little farther north. When he finished seminary school, he got located to St. Michaels, in Baltimore. He immediately fell in love with the city, the church and most importantly, the parish. The people all took to him like family, which was very important for any new priest. Even though he had come to the parish in 1960, he felt like he still had good advice and guidance for the youth he saw on a day -to-day basis, as he did for the young kids he saw in the sixties and seventies. Good morals and heartf elt concern dont change from generation to generation. Now, as the arthritis was trying to destroy his body, he found comfort in his mind, for it had not deteriorated in the least. Just as he had been at twenty-two, the age when he first came to Maryland, he was the same at sixty-three. His mind was still sharp as a tack. But, something new and evil had been troubling him and his parish as of late. He had dealt with three separate parents; each stating those there children was missing, only to turn up later, dead. The reports always said that it was a drug or alcohol related death, but the parents knew their children and they knew better. The children werent the types to be running the streets at night, looking for a high, or something worse. These were good kids, from good families. They would be missed, and they hadnt been given justice in death. Although Father Donnelly never tried to use his power as a priest to his benefit, he did use it to gain entrance into the morgue on the night the third victim was discovered. Immediately, he could tell the death was not from drugs or alcohol. The victim, a young girl named Tracey, had been found in an alley, half-naked, her skull crushed. She had no drugs in her system, but she had been drinking. The police

131 had assumed that she had gotten drunk at the club, left with the wrong man, and wound up dead in an alley. The police saw about ten murders a year of this sort; three in one month was a high amount, but not enough to raise eyebrows. Father Donnelly would have believed the police findings more, had he not been from the south, and not had a superstitious grandmother that liked to tell the children stories on Sunday, after church. Every Sunday, after the mass had ended, the families went to their patriarchs hom es for a late lunch/early dinner. The Donnelly family, was no exception? The adults would eat the prepared feast, and then retire to the living room to watch the races. The children, usually glad to be together, would run to Grandma Donnelly, for one of her fabled stories. Usually the stories were about life in the years before the turn of the century. These stories fascinated Father Donnelly. He wasnt sure if it was the content of these stories, or if it was the way his grandmothers eyes lit up when the childrens interest was peaked. Sometimes, her little hands, surrounded by skin so old and wrinkled that it looked like it was fragile and clear, would leave her knitting during the stories and wave about the room, adding to the passion of the story. When Father Donnelly was eleven, he remembered a story so scary and shocking, that it had never left his mind. He had gone over to her house on a Saturday, instead of after church on Sunday. He was bored with playing baseball, and wanted to hear a story. He remembered thinking that he may hear a special story if he was the only child there. Looking back on that thought, he shuddered at how correct her really was. His grandmother sat in her rocking chair, a white sweater covering her body like a blanket and told him the story she had heard from her grandmother. It was 1796; the Donnelly family still lived in the County of Cork, Ireland. Father Donnelleys grandmother, a beautiful sixteen -year old girl name Rosella, was in charge of care taking the richest man in t he lands home. The home was a castle, far removed the rest of the shacks in the County, resting beside a lake. The castle was grand in stature and appearance, but it exuded a cold dread that made it seem cursed. The local clergy wouldnt enter the castle to collect for the poor and the owner had

132 never been seen in the town. But, the owner was reportedly wealthy beyond imagination, and it wasnt uncommon for the wealthy in Cork to keep to themselves, and thus be subject to rumors and fables of their lives. The current rumor regarding the owner of the castle was that he was a Lord from Romania, and didnt enjoy the daylight. The idea of a vampire wasnt new to the townsfolk, but by 1796 the legends had become as unbelievable as they were today. Rosellas job was to go to the castle every morning to pick up a list of things needed from the town market and to tidy up any mess that had occurred. She too was filled with dread at the thought of entering the castle, but the pay was better than any other girl had at the time, and as she was unmarried and still living at home, her family needed the extra money. She approached the castle slowly on the first morning. She wasnt sure if she would need to see the castle owner before she went to work, or if he would leave a list. As luck would have it, he had left a list. The writing was beautiful and, since she couldnt read, completely useless. Because of her illiteracy, a plight that affected all but a few of the townsfolk, she was forced to enter the castle, and see the nightmare. The drawbridge had been lowered, but that had not originally surprised Rosella. She was happy to walk high above the filthy moat that separated the castle walls from the land surrounding. At the end of the drawbridge, Rosella entered the castle. She walked into an empty area that was cornered by high walls and a grass floor. Normally, there would be piles of hay, or carts, even animals in the front part of the castle, but this castle was anything but normal. The front area was empty, and foreboding. With the note clutched in her hand, she walked deeper into the castle and towards a large door. At the door, she stood motionless, contemplating whether or not to knock. The ideas to leave, turn to run and never come back, crossed her mind. But, Rosella knew that her family needed the money and she couldnt leave. You see, in that era, the girls were married by fifteen. You kids today wait until you are in you twenties, was what Father Donnellys grandmother had said. She would have been shocked today to see marriages taking place in peoples thirties, and even older.

133 Rosella raised her hand to knock on the large wooden door, but she paused, noticing that it was already slightly open. She put her hand in the small opening and pushed the door open. She stole a quick peek inside, and saw darkness. She used all of her might to push the door all the way open, hoping that light from outside would lighten the castle interior. It worked slightly. She entered the front room, and found it to be as empty as the grassy entrance she had left. There were three doorways, each going to different part of the castle from the look of them, in front of her. The way the light was shining into the room, only the middle passage was slightly illuminated. The middle passage became the only choice. The passage was very long, possibly running through the entire castle. Rosella found several torches, hanging from the wall at ten-foot intervals. She ran back outside to the front grass area and found some sticks. She ran back to the cave and after five minutes of furious rubbing, a spark generated. A moment later, she had the first torch lit. As she walked through the passage, she lit all the torches she passed. The hallway was considerably brighter than the front room with all of the torches on the wall flaming. Although she was happy that the passage was brighter, seeing her surroundings wasnt very comforting. The hall was very long, farther than she could see, and even though she was inside and the flames were burning brightly, she felt a chill running through her body. Also, the passage was damp. It was indoors, and Rosella didnt see any windows, or holes, but the walls, Rosella having made the unwise decision to touch them, were slick and damp. She was sure, or hoping that they were damp from rain, or something of that nature but a part of her mind told her differently. It is the castle. It is slick and sweaty with evil! At the end of the passage, Rosella found herself inside an already well-lit chamber. The chamber was exactly li ke the passage, bricks that were windowless and slick with perspiration. In the middle of the room, she saw a large wooden crate, its lid closed, resting on the earth below. She entered the chamber and walked to the box. Its a coffin; you know it is!

134 The box, (coffin) was new looking; the wood still a tan color and not splintered or water stained. She stood to the back of it, not wanting to keep her back to the passage. The deeper she had gotten into the passage, the farther apart each torch on the wall had been. By the time she was near the opening, she had been forced to walk in periods of darkness before she reached the next torch. That darkness was alive, her imagination working to create creatures that tried to grab at her and bring her to them. Her step had quickened and her pulse accelerated, but she made it through. But, she had no intention of turning her back to the creepy darkness of the passage. She bent over the coffin, and stared at it. She started to lean in, ear first, trying to listen to the inside, figuring, and hoping, that she wouldnt hear anything. She stopped. Rosella, what the hell are you doing? Get away from that coffin! Get out of this room, away from that passage. Get out of the castle! She fought against her better senses and continued to lean in. Gingerly, she placed her ear against the coffin and heard nothing. Satisfied that the coffin was empty she decided to open it. Wait a minute! She looked inside the coffin? Is she crazy? Father Donnelly, a precocious young boy felt th at he needed to interrupt his grandmothers story to receive clarification. It just didnt seem right that a girl, alone in a scary castle, would want to open a coffin lying on open concrete. His grandmother didnt deter from her story at all; instead, she shushed Father Donnelly and proceeded to tell the tale. Rosella reached forward, placing her thin fingers in between the top of the wooden boxs edge and the bottom of the lid. She started to pull, hoping the lid would open without much effort. As soon as an inch had been lifted, it was if a cold breeze, which chilled her to the soul, blew out of the box. She slammed the lid back down and stepped away from the coffin. An intense feeling of dread entered her, causing her to fully realize her surroundings. She began to get very scared; appalled that she had let her curiosity led her into the dark castle. Rosella went to the middle passage and decided to leave. But, she heard a noise from the other end. Someone was coming towards her!

135 Rosella backed out of the passage and went back into the room. She was alone with the coffin, again, a feeling of fear splashed over her like a powerful wave. She began to shiver and wanted to leave the room, the passage and the castle. I dont need the money this badly! She knew that she didnt want to be seen by whoever was coming down the passage, but the only place she could hide was in another passage. She chose the left and ran twenty feet inside. She stood in the darkness, listening to the sound of heavy feet, numerous pairs, walking towards the chamber. She had to extinguish her torch, knowing that a light shining in a bright passage would attract attention, and waited for the intruders to appear. She could see the light from their torches illuminating the darkened chamber as they walked closer. The room, previously engulfed in darkness, was fully lit up when the strangers entered. They appeared to be a scary group, but, as Rosella would soon learn, it was their purpose that was truly frightening. P13, The first man to appear in the chamber, carrying a torch in his left hand and a long blade in his right, walked directly to the coffin and bent over it. He put his ear to the box and listened. He closed his eyes and stay in the position for a long moment. His back to Rosella, sh e couldnt accurately describe his face, only his body. He appeared medium height, with the long hair typical to the men of the area and time. He wore drab, but clean clothes that showed his physique to be of normal size, not overweight but not well muscled. All in all, he was a man that was easy to forget. The stranger stood and went to the other side of the coffin. He peered down at the box and motioned for whoever was in the passage to enter the chamber. Rosella was able to see the strangers face, but f ound that his looks were as forgettable as his body. He had light beard stubble that she saw on a majority of the men in the county of Cork as protection from the damp and often cold weather. His eyes, lifeless and gray, brought no extra attention to his face. But, Rosella did admit that the strangers eyes contained a ferocity and intensity she had never seen before that day. Walking towards the coffin, a priest appeared, holding a cross in his hand and chanting in Latin. Rosella assumed that this

136 castle passage had led to a burial tomb and she had walked in on a funeral service, or, at least the presentation of the last rights. The priest splashed holy water onto the coffin, and she remembered that the lid appeared to have smoke rising in the places where the water splashed. The priest took a step back from the coffin, but continued to speak. The other man stood over the closed coffin lid, long blade in hand, concentration locked on the box. The priest began to raise his voice as he proceeded to become worked up by his reading. Rosella, her curiosity having gotten the best of her, had stepped forward to watch the scene, but as the events grew in seriousness, she had retreated further back into the cave. The priest continued to speak louder until his voice was almost a yell and his arms had begun to wave wildly, seeming to increase the force of his words. The box began to shake. Smoke began to pour out of the coffin, from under the lid. The smoke was thick and smelled like must and dead leaves. The chamber began to fill with the thick smoke and the priest paused in his reading. Dont stop now you bloody fool, yelled the stranger, his English accent surprising Rosella. The priest went back to his reading. A weird white light began to shine from the box, bathing the chamber in daytime like brightness. The priest began to back away, but the stranger held his ground. A dark figure rose from the coffin and struck a hand out at the priest. The hand, more of a beasts claw, had razor sharp nails at the end, and those nails severed the priests head. The priests body continued to move with the sermon as the head rolled to the edge of the coffin. The creature in the box stepped out of the coffin, but the stranger, never having faltered with fear or trepidation, swung his blade, slicing the creatures head clean off the body. Ironically, the creatures head rolled next to the priest, their lips almost touching in a kiss. Rosella bit back a scream, her body shaking uncontrollably. She couldnt believe what had just happe ned. The creature, a being she had never seen before, looked less like a human than it did an animal. Even in death, the body reached for the stranger, trying to take hold and squeeze.

137 The hunter, unfazed and calm at the events, casually knocked the hand t o the side and went to gather the creatures head. With great efficiency, the stranger took hold of the creatures head, and picked it off the ground. Rosella got her only good look at the face of the man/beast as it sat in the strangers hand. The face was a long and pale, with red eyes and long tooth. The face belonged to a man, but a man those children saw in nightmares. She shuddered at the thought of having been alone with a demon such as this, almost having opened the coffin and seeing the creature. The stranger dropped the head inside the coffin where it landed on top of the decapitated body of the creature. The stranger, moving very quickly, brought the torch to the body in the coffin and set it ablaze. The body caught fire, a roaring and flaming fire, almost immediately. The stranger took hold of the priests head, and tossed that into the coffin fire. He then grabbed the priests body under the arms and dragged it out of the chamber. Rosella stepped out of the passage she had hidden inside of and peered down the passage the stranger had left through. She watched the stranger as he dragged the priest down the long passage and back into the front entrance. After waiting five or ten or the longest, scariest and most agonizing minutes of her life, or maybe it just seemed that way because Rosella refused to turn and look at the burning coffin, she decided it would be safe to leave the chamber and journey down the passage. But, she needed to look into the coffin, had to see what the creature was. With frightened hesitation, she crept towards the coffin. The flames had settled, leaving only a charred mass of flesh to rot inside the box. The smell was nauseating, turning her stomach more and more with each step she took towards the smoking box. At the edge of the coffin, Rosella peered inside. The creature sat up, smoke still rising from its hollowed eyes and blood pouring from its charred mouth. Rosella fell back in fear, her back crashing to the hard ground of the chamber. She turned away from the box certa in that the creature was stepping out, ready to pounce on her. She closed her eyes and waited to die, to scare to anything else. Its still not safe to be near the box.

138 A strong voice silenced the nightmarish fantasy. Rosella turned around and saw the stranger, torch in hand, entering the chamber. She took him in again, a longer look this time, surprised to notice things about him that she hadnt seen in him the first time. It was like she had forgotten what he looked like the moment after she saw his face. He still had the same appearance, but the way the torch lit his face in its glow, she saw that his eyes had a certain animal cunning that she had only begun to see upon her initial glance. The glow of the torch, the way the flames jumped and danced at random, made his eyes look red like the creature in the coffin. She realized that the creature attacking her from the ashy remains in the coffin, had been her imagination. She laughed quietly at herself, her silliness. The stranger walked into the chamber and went to her. He extended a hand and helped her to stand. She stared at him, into his eyes. He gave a slight smile and nod and went to the coffin. She followed. They both looked inside the box saw the charred body of the demon. Rosella could hold back her intense curiosity no longer. She looked at the charred demon, and then at the stranger and let the questions explode from her mouth. What is it? Who are you? Is it dead? The stranger smiled. A small smile that did nothing for his appearance, neither taking away or adding to his face. It seemed that his appearance and expression were crafted to allow him to be easily forgotten. Later, when Rosella told the story of this day to her daughter, she found it hard to remember how the stranger looked, admitting that she may have created some of his appearance in her mind as she told the story. He remained calm at the tornado of questions she unleashed at him and very casually answered her questions exactly as he she had asked. The creature is called a vampire. I am Francis OCallahan, a vampire hunter. Yes, it is dead. She stood motionless, her mind telling her that Francis was a crazy man, not to be believed, her heart telling her he was speaking the truth. What is a vampire?

139 Francis began to walk around the box, removing a canister from behind his back and splashing its contents on the steaming creature in the box. Vampires are creatures of the night. They are the undead that walk the earth, feeding on the blood of the living. They are neither alive, nor dead. Almost impossible to kill, unless beheaded by a silver blade, exposed to sunlight, or a stake through their heart. They area ageless monsters that can never grow old and die. They are evil. Rosella stared at Francis as he told her the story. His e yes never left the charred creature in the coffin, never trusting its death. And you? You hunt these,..things ? He gave her a quick glance and continued to pour the canisters liquid onto the body. In several places, steam rose on the creatures body whe n the liquid touched. Yes, I hunt these creatures. My father was one of the original hunters, and he taught me the legends. Rosella was speechless, for the moment. The hunter put the canister back into his pocket and bent over the coffin. He stuck his hand in the box, grabbing the head of the demon. He pulled the mouth open and exposed the huge teeth. They feed with these. He said this as he pointed to the teeth. He removed a small silver knife from his front coat pocket. With the blade, he cut the teet h from the vampires mouth. The sound was sickening; a loose tearing of flesh that sounded like a fresh scab being picked by a child. He took the teeth in his hand, and wiped them clean on his pant leg. Rosella watched with keen fascination. He took the te eth, now an impossibly clean and almost sparkling white, and handed them to her. She took the teeth in her hand and looked at them. They were each almost as long as her fingers. At their ends, they were pointed like animals teeth. She poked the tip of her finger with the tip of the tooth, and wasnt really surprised at how easily the tooth entered her skin. They were incredibly sharp. You can keep those, as a remembrance of this night. Rosella tried to give back the teeth, but Francis wasnt listening. Instead, he closed the lid to the coffin.

140 What about the man that came here with you? The priest. Is he dead? For the first time, the hunter broke his stride. He stopped working, or hunting, and looked at Rosella. A somber look crossed his face and he seemed as if he was actually very sad. He was a good man and he died doing something worthy and just. Gods work. The hunter stared deeply at Rosella as he spoke, but then quickly resumed his undertakings. He gripped the coffin by the smaller end, where the feet went and dragged it a little. It seemed fairly easy. The hunter smiled and looked at Rosella. My work here is done. This is going outside, in the sun. Just in case. Isnt it dead? The hunter didnt answer as he took hold of the coffin again and began to drag it behind him as he walked backwards down the long passage. Rosella quickly followed. At the end of the passage, they emerged into the front room, but they quickly left that room and went to the front entrance. The grass in the front entrance, mostly dead and yellow, blew from a strong breeze. The hunter stepped out into the center of the entrance, dragging the coffin behind him. Rosella, walking timidly behind Francis, noticed that the sun had set, and it was getting dark. She couldnt underst and how that was possible. She had come to the castle early in the morning, and she felt like she had only been there for an hour, two at most. But, she couldnt deny the impending darkness. She also couldnt deny the fact that she wanted to flee from this castle, never to come back. Francis dragged the coffin into the center of the grassy area. He splashed more of the canisters liquid onto the box and walked towards Rosella. The sun will finish whatever I couldnt. Rosella stared at the hunter with horrified fascination. She was curious about this man: who he really was, where he was really from, where he had really been? But, she was too intimidated by him and his means to ask any of these questions. Instead, she backed away from him as he

141 approached. He sensed and saw her apprehension at his closeness, and backed off. I mean you no harm, he said, sounding more than a little hurt. Rosella felt bad, but she couldnt deny that this man revolted her as much as he intrigued her. She tried to nod it off, ac ting as if her backing away was less about him and more about, something else. Its okay, I am just still a little shaken from seeing that thing kill the priest. I know you mean me no harm. The hunter smiled and said, I must be going now. He turned and walked away. Rosella was on the verge of saying something, anything, to keep him here, but the words never came. Francis, arriving at the beginning of the drawbridge, turned and looked at Rosella, for the final time. Remember, fear what is in the night! With that, he turned, walked across the drawbridge, returning to the darkness of night he had told Rosella to fear. P14, The priest sat alone in the church, waking from his deep sleep on the uncomfortable pew. He sat up straight, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He tried to remember what he had been dreaming, and it came easily. He had dreamed about his grandmother, and the first time she had told him about real evil. He had been thinking about that day ever since he had first laid eyes on the hunter. The man reminded him of the man that his grandmother had described on the day of that story. Meaning, that the hunter he had met, was as indescribable and vague in appearance as the hunter from the castle in Cork was, over one hundred years ago. Father Donnell y reached into his shirt, underneath his priests collar. He pulled on a chain, releasing it from his undershirt, where it fell on his chest, in the open. Two white, over -sized incisors were hanging from the silver chain. He clutched the teeth firmly; letting them cut his flesh, causing his hand to bleed. He had known about vampires, and the hunters that rid them from our world, from the days of his early childhood, but the church restrained him from actively taking a stand against the creatures. The church, like Father Donnelly, was well aware of the demons' existence, but did nothing to aid the hunters.

142 With the exception of calling on the hunters, the church stayed out of the vampire business. Donnelly wasnt sure if, even if he was allowed to fight against the demons, or if he would be able to contribute more than his blood, but he had always wanted to try. With those thoughts in his head, the old and arthritic priest rose from the pew, blessed himself and left the church to find the hunter. P15 Section Three- The Predator The Union soldiers had been advancing the field for the greater part of the day. By nightfall, they had pushed the Confederate army back thirty feet. That amount of land wasnt great, but, considering that the men of the South had fought , bled and died for that land, it was heartbreaking to see the Northern aggressors take it over. The overall tone of the Southern army, a band of brothers if ever there was one, was bleak. Most assumed that the war was almost over. Lincoln had issued the Proclamation, and the tide had swung shortly after. Rumblings had started around the campfires weeks ago, and become more prevalent nightly, that the war was over and the men would be wise to flee to their homes and avoid capture and possible execution. But , Private Enson Brigade didnt feel that way, not at all. In him, the fight was never over. Unlike most of the soldiers that volunteer to die for the southern way of life, Enson didnt own slaves, never had and never wanted to. He didnt believe in it. But, he did believe in each state governing themselves and he definitely believed that if the south lost their best workers, or slaves, they would surely fall into a depression and forever be inferior to the north. Everyone in the South knew that slavery was a luxury of the past, a forgotten era, but nobody was willing to give up their land, plantations and lives so that they could become second tier citizens to a more industrious northern half of the country. Enson walked by the campfires of the despondent so ldiers and felt the same feeling deep in the darkest crevice of his heart that he had felt for too many months to remember. That feeling was uselessness. He had joined the Southern army because he wanted to belong to something. As a young man

143 in Mississippi, there were so numerous ways to lose your morals in society. There were brothels on every dusty corner, bars on every street, and a shady criminal with shadier intentions, everywhere. But, Enson had stayed away from that, mostly. He had been with three girls, two of them he had dated, one he had to pay for, but that was far below the average of the other nineteen-year old men of his era. In the future, when he settled down to a plantation, wife and family, he would try to forget about the woman he payed f or, try to forget that he had payed for a womans affection. It wouldnt be difficult to forget, then, but it was difficult to forget, now. In front of the warm and blazing campfire, Enson warmed his frozen fingers and thought about Amber. She had hair lik e black satin, long as the winter and as shiny as a lake at sunrise. She had a smile that could take the evil out of the Devil, and the laugh that could make an old man smile. Her eyes, a light green that sparkled as hypnotically during the day as the nigh t, could hold Ensons attention for as long as time. It was those eyes he thought of on those cold and miserable nights. It was those eyes he thought of looking at when he passed his front gate and went to his home, finally. Tomorrow. Sometime tomorrow, during the day or night, I will leave this army and go home to my wife. The war is over, its been over for a long time, we just havent surrendered, yet. They wont miss me, much. Tomorrow, I will leave tomorrow! As the fire blazed, and Enson drifted off into a fantasy about locking his arms around his wifes hips and touching her face, her neck and her, everywhere, a lone figure walked through the dark night, cutting the blackened serenity like a sharp knife through a soft tomato. The figure was Colonel Ryk irk, a man as cowardly as a sheep and as witless as a retarded horse. How he had ever risen so high in the ranks of the southern armies was a complete and baffling mystery to Enson. He could think of a dozen men he had met during his three years of service that would be better suited to lead. Too many men similar to Rykirk were the main reason that the Northern aggressors were winning, and going to win the war. Even now, Rykirk was the recipient of dirty stares and hateful glances from the dozens of soldiers that sought refuge from the cold. Unwilling to admit his hatred from the troops, and as

144 unwilling to admit the fact that he should have surrendered his army a month ago, he still concocted ridiculous schemes aimed at changing the tide of the war. His bes t ideas, the best of the worst, centered around finding good soldiers, brave and able young men, to prance through the night like children at recess, trying to kill the enemy leaders when the army slept. These schemes always ended in death for the soldier sent. Either they died getting to the other army, or they died getting back, shot by their brothers in the darkness that gave them the appearance of the enemy. Twelve soldiers had dies in fourteen weeks by these orders of assassination, and tonight, Enson had been volunteered to be the thirteenth. Private Enson, stand and salute your Colonel. Enson stood and gave a half-hearted and discourteous salute to a man of no character. He had despised the Colonel since the day he first served him. They had been a prosperous and optimistic army, before Rykirk took over and proceeded to lose every encounter with the enemy. The moral of the soldiers had sunk and the number of dead brothers had risen. But, Rykirk continued to lead like he was the new Napoleon. He even walked through the camps with a red scarf tied to the brim of his hat. Most of the soldiers believed that Rykirk thought the scarf made him look dashing and it was what he would be remembered for when the war was over, but all of the soldiers thought it made him look like the kind of man that enjoyed looking at men. The Colonel grimaced at the sight of his volunteers rotten salute, but needed to hide the depths of his contempt because the mission was not required as much as requested. Ive got a little ch ore for you to do, Brigade. You feel up to helping us win the war? Enson laughed, but bit back anything more than a smile. Win the war? This man really is a fool. This war is over. How can I help, sir? The Colonel led Enson by the arm, away from the war m fire, towards the center, and least populated area of the camp. He explained, in dangerously scant detail, how he needed Enson to cross the battlefield under the cover of darkness and locate General Erilus, the Northern leader, and a much better one at

145 that, and put a bullet into his head. Then, Enson was to sneak back into camp and never tell a soul what he had done. I cant do that. The Colonel looked over the private with a sour look of contempt. He had the look in his eyes that said, oh, you can do it, and you will do it! But, the Colonel sensed that Enson wasnt the typical southern farm boy, with little education and sense of things other than farming and daily labor. He was intelligent, cunning and quick thinking. It would take more than a stern look and a silly order from a Colonel, especially one as dumb as Rykirk, to entice Enson to assassinate another human being. But the Colonel had an ace up his sleeve, so to speak. I understand that you have a young wife? I do. Kill the General, bring me his stripes, and you can go to her. Enson studied Rykirks face for a long moment, trying to judge his sincerity. It was hard to judge anything about Rykirk. His eyes were impossible to read. They were small and beady, never really looking straight at the person to which he was speaking. But, Rykirk unburdened the investigation by simplifying the persuasion tactic greatly. Tomorrow, you can leave immediately after I have his stripes. Full discharge, with continued pay. P16 On the way to assassinate General Erilus, Enson began to realize how dark nighttime really was in places where there was no artificial light, or flames burning. In compete darkness, a dark that the human eye could never fully adjust to; he stepped slowly through a field, circumventing the fighting grounds. He had no knowledge if the troops that lay on the bloody field were truly dead, injured or waiting for a spy to creep by. Waiting to kill a killer. In the total darkness, Enson moved slowly and carefully, each step as silent as the last. He made it into the camp without incident or worry. As he entered the slumbering camp of the aggressors, he noted that the atmosphere seemed more pleasant, almost joyful, compared to the downtrodden and disheartened southern armys attitude of defe at. The aggressors were sleeping, but the remnants of their previous

146 meal and celebration were evident everywhere. The smells of carefully prepared and marinated food permeated the air, making Ensons stomach growl. When was your last really good meal? He couldnt remember the exact date, but he knew what he had eaten. The meal had been meat loaf with bacon on the top for extra flavor, also; corn, broccoli, mashed potatoes, fresh and warm biscuits that Enson tasted in his mouth for two days after the meal. He and Amber had made love feverishly after the meal. He was sure he had given her a baby on that night, but to no avail, he was still childless. But he had dreamed of the fun to be had when he returned home. Hopefully spending the remaining nights of his life trying again. He passed by a campfire, the ashes still orange and warm, and spotted a large bowl tied above where the flames would reach. He looked around the campfire and saw that there were no soldiers sleeping on the grass, as was the normal arrangement in the Southern army, and decided to sneak over and look inside the bowl. He saw a beef stew that made his mouth water, and his hands shook as he reached forward, taking a large handful of the stew in his hands. He greedily gulped it down, savoring the taste of well-prepared food. He reached into the bowl and stole another handful. Actually, when he finally finished, he had taken four handfuls. He felt as though he had rekindled an appetite that had been suppressed by three years of bad meals, but was careful to leave the area. If he stayed too long, he risked being seen. Before he left, he spit into the bowl. Enjoy your stew, you friggin aggressive bastards! It wasnt hard to find the Generals tent; it was the largest in the camp. Although, unlike the Southern camp, the General wasnt pulled away from the men, he was among them. That was probably why it had been so difficult for the assassins to accomplish their mission, Rykirk had assumed that the Northern General would be as stubborn as he had, req uesting to be isolated from the troops. General Erilus felt no such need to act better than the soldiers he commanded did. It was a decision to increase moral among the soldiers, but, unknown to the General, it had saved his life twelve times.

147 An idea suddenly occurred to Enson as he crept through the campsite. He began to wonder what would happen if anyone were to wake up and see a man creeping through their campsite; it would be obvious that he was a spy or, at the least, an enemy. So, with that in mind, he began to walk at a more leisurely pace through the camp, the way the Northern soldiers would. Im just a soldier from Massachusetts, walking to the edge of camp to take a leak. Nothing to notice about me. The walk to the Generals tent was easy, but not entirely uneventful. As Enson walked within one hundred yards of the tent he saw something that caught and held his attention. There was a sentry, a night guard, sitting by a tree, watching the area for assassins such as Enson. Normally, the sentry would be standing, at full attention, but this night, he was sitting, his back against the tree, while another man was kissing his neck. It wasnt the first time that Enson had seen two men kissing during the war. It was a well-known secret that many of the men were into each other, but it wasnt discussed. The men would wait until it was dark, like these two men, and find a hidden, withdrawn area to meet. Enson could remember a dozen times in the last three years that he had walked into something of this nature, and he was happy this time that he had noticed it before it was too far along. He wasnt intimidated or sickened by the men that sought each other; it just wasnt for him. It got very cold and lonely at night during the war, but, for Enson, it never got that cold and lonely. >He left the men to themselves, actually relieved that the sentry was occupied with, whatever. It made his mission that much easier. He stood outside the tent, pressing his ear lightly to the front door, listening to any sound other than the heavy breathing of sleep. He heard only a faint snore. Slowly he unbuttoned the first of the four latches, and slipped into the tent. The General was asleep in a bed of comfortable looking furs atop a long wooden bunk. Enson looked enviously around the tent at all the creature comforts that a General received. There were chairs throughout the large tent; not the uncomfortable ones that he and the other soldiers sat in, but

148 soft and plush chairs with thick fabric. There were several paintings hanging about the ceiling, and one additional, almost finished painting, resting on the easel. I should have been a general. Enson decided it was time to complete his mission, and go home. He had disregarded Rykirks advice immediately in his mind. Rykirk wanted the General shot in the head, but the Colonel obviously lacked the mental capacity to realize that firing a hand cannon in the dead of night may possibly alert the other soldiers to the assassins presence. Deep down in his paranoid mind, Enson figured that Rykrik knew that firing a gun would be suicide, but didnt much care about the assassin after the job was done. Enson removed a long hunting knife from his belt and walked to the General. He stood over the Generals bed, knife in hand ready to pounce. A calm coolness swept over him, and he was ready to kill the General. He started to lean in, and then his eyes fixed upon the mirror that hung over the Generals bed. The image in the mirror froze Enson, causing him to pull back from the General. It wasnt his reflection, per say; he had gotten used to the wreck he had become. Before the war, Enson had been a healthy looking nineteen-year old man, with black hair, blue eyes and a chiseled 62 physique. But, three years of war had changed Enson to a haggard, skinny and tired looking twentytwo year old man. But, that wasnt what troubled him. What troubled Enson was the look he saw in his eyes as he leaned over the bed. It was the look of a killer. In his haste to get home to his wife, he had never contemplated what he was going to do to achieve his goal. He was going to murder a man he had never met, in order to benefit himself. He knew he had killed many men in the last three years, but that was during battle. This was purely murder. He knew that if he went home to his wife, by this method, he would never feel like he deserved his happiness. How fair would it be if he deprived this mans family of him, just so he could start his own family? After all, this man was his comrade in war. They were enemies, true, but soldiers had honor. A General deserved to be killed in battle by a warrior, not murdered while he slept in his tent by a man seeking to leave the war. Because of this, Enson put the knife back into this belt and

149 slowly slipped out of the tent. He opened the door slightly and looked into the darkness. The sentry was gone, probably off in the woods to finish his affairs. He stepped outside the tent, and turned to face the door to secure the latches. If he left no traces, they would never know he had been here. He secured the final latch, and that was when he felt the hand gripping the back of his shoulder. He closed his eyes and waited for the click of the gun that would end his life. P17 The hand that was gripping his shoulder, squeezing it hard enough to bruise, was long with fingertips pointed like daggers. The fingers were long, but the actual length was derived from the nails, which were over two inches long, white and looked like blades at the end. The hand itself was long and skinny, with thick, dark, black hair along the wrist bone and on the fingers. Enson's eyes surveyed the hand all the way to the wrist, and then continued slowly to the arm then the entire man. The man's arm was long, and the black shirt he was wearing was tight, showing tensed muscles all the way to his shoulder. His shoulders were thick and muscular, leading to a thicker and pulsating neck. The hand squeezed Enson's shoulder again, the pain flaring inside the bone, into the nerves. The man's neck was long and led to his face. The man's face was unlike any Enson had ever seen. From a distance,he may have appeared normal, but up close, he was anything but. His face was elongated, especially at the jaw line, which seemed to have the width of two jaws. The man was smiling, but Enson felt the smile lacked any sincerity, and was more a smile of the man sensing Enson's terror. His face, pale and sickly, was almost too fearful to detract from the mans eyes, which were blood red, but that seemed to be all that Enson could stare into when he glanced upon the demon's face. The hand of the demon squeezed again, the pain was unbearable for Enson by this point. The demon eyes looked directly at Enson, controlling his movement with its cold stare. Enson felt his body being lifted off the ground, and t hen he was flying through the air. He landed hard on the soft grass underneath a tree. He sat up immediately, unaware of the extent of his injuries. He looked to the sky for a moment,

150 noticing that the moon was full and bright. He then quickly looked towards to where the demon was, before he through Enson through the sky. The demon was standing there, his eyes shining brightly with their bloody look of evil. The demon crouched slightly and then was flying through the air with a mighty leap. It was then that Enson was first able to guess at how far he had been thrown. He estimated it at thirty or forty feet. The demon had thrown him easily, as if he was a small ball or child's toy. When the demon jumped, it appeared an easy and careless leap, but he flew through the air with such quickness, landing almost on top of Enson, that it was apparent that it could have leaped much further, if it had desired to do so. Enson stood face to face with the demon, smelling it's warm and pungent breath. The demon was breathing heavy, not from exhaustion, but more form excitement. It was exciting for the demon to torture Enson before he killed him. The demon reached out and seized Enson by the throat, squeezing it intensely and lifting Enson off the ground. Enson was 6'2, by no means a small man, but now that he was hoisted off the ground, he was finally eye to eye with the demon. Their noses were close enough to touch, and Enson tried to pull back his face, thinking a demon as frightening as this may take a bite out of his face, for fun. Enson looked deep into the demon's eyes and said, What are you? The demon laughed and opened its mouth, exposing a sea of razor sharp, oversized, white teeth. All the teeth appeared to be sharp and long, but the teeth to the right and left of the top center pair were the longest by far. I'm am your nightmare come alive. I am a real Devil. Enson began to shake, the blade, still clutched in his right hand, almost fell to the ground, but Enson gripped it tighter. The demon was waiting, for apparently no reason besides the sheer fun of seeing Ensons terror, before he attacked. The demon said, If I drink of your blood, you die. If you drink of my blood, you will live, forever. Which would you rather? Enson repeated the statement to himself in his head, trying to figure out what the demon meant by his question. The idea to live was always the preferable one, the chance to see Amber again, hold her in his arms, tell her he loved her, but he

151 wondered what he would become if he drank this demon's blood. As Enson thought of his choices, live or die, live as a demon, or die as a man, he glanced up to the moon, admiring its beauty. It was so full and so bright, that he actually smiled. A gunshot ripped through the night air, striking the demon in the neck, causing him to drop Enson to the ground. The demon, stunned and slightly injured from the shot, fell on top of Enson. Its blood, flowing in great clouts from the neck wound that was closing before Enson's eyes, flowed down the demon neck and into Ensons mouth. Before he could move or close his mouth, Enson felt the blood on his tongue, flowing down his mouth. He had drunk from the demon blood! The demon quickly rose, smiled at Enson, and jumped to attack the person or persons that fired the shot. Enson didn't think to look in the direction of the gunshot, instead opting to stand and run as fast as he could. As he ran, he heard more gunshots and the sickening sound of tearing flesh and total chaos. The commotion from the shot had awoken the camp, and sent soldiers scrambling towards the commotion. Enson ran as fast as he could, almost falling and stumbling profusely as he galloped in large strides, away from the demon, the soldiers and the threats. He had no idea how long he had been running for when he finally stopped, but when he did stop, he was nowhere near either camp, instead finding himself by a lake, where he collapsed from exhaustion. P18 By the side of the lake, Enson sat on his knees and tasted the blood in his mouth. I swallowed the demon's blood! What does that mean for me? He began to throw up onto his lap, disgusted from the taste of the demon's blood, but more disgusted from the idea of what having that blood in his mouth would mean. If I drink from you, you die. If you drink from me, you live, forever! Enson didn't want to live forever, especially if the cost of that eternal life was becoming a creature like the demon that had tried to take his life. He wondered what would become of the creature, or the men that had saved his life, possibly at the cost of their own? He stood and looked at the dark and peaceful lake, wondering if this was the beginning or the end

152 of his life. If it was the end, then he was glad to have these few moments to think things over, but if it was the beginning, then he wondered what it was the beginning of? He took off in a sprint, running anywhere but the direction from which he had come. He guessed he was running from the demon that may still be searching for him, but in truth, he knew that he was running from himself. After tonight, he knew his days as a soldier were over, but he wanted to wait until he knew the consequences of his bloody drink, before he went to his wife. If that demon suffered from a contagious disease, he didn't want it to spread to his wife. Through the serene darkness, Enson ran like a madman trying to escape his own body. A terrible feeling had begun to awaken in his body, in his stomach and in his heart. He could feel something powerful at work inside of him, something that made the night seem alive and in tune with his senses. He could feel himself changing, but he didn't know, and wasn't sure he wanted to know, what he was changing into. His blood felt as if it were on fire, and his mouth and soul were incredibly thirsty. But, the lake full of clean drinking water he was galloping past didn't look like it contained anything that would help quench his thirst. I wonder what will become of me? I wonder what will become of my wife? Where will I go? What will I do? What will I become? Deep down in his heart, he thought he knew some of the answers to these questions, but he didn't like those answers. Instead of contemplating what was happening to him, he ran. He ran until he could run no longer. He found himself in a field of corn stocks higher than himself, where he collapsed. He was completely exhausted from his running and the night adventures that had led to the strange process that he could feel changing his body. He looked up into the night sky, and saw the moon shining above him. He could feel sleep taking him, and prayed that he would wake up in his bed, alongside the rest of the southern army. Sleep took him almost immediately after and terrible dreams of being ostracized by Christ followed. He dreamed of demon woman attacking him, but then cowering in fear at his power. He dreamed of himself, searching through the night, preying on humans and drinking their delicious blood.

153 When he awoke, the next night, having slept through the entire day under the shade of the high corn stalks, he felt well rested, powerful and thirsty. He rose slowly and walked in the direction of the stalks that he had crushed the previous evening. It was a remarkably bright and clear night, and he made his way to the lake with no trouble. He stripped under the cover of darkness by the edge of the lake and stepped into the cool water for a refreshing bath. He followed the trail of the moonlight as it cascaded off the dark water. When he finished his swim, he walked back to the water's edge and sat by the side of the lake, st aring into the night, amazed by how peaceful it looked. He stood and began to dress, staring into his reflection in the water. It was then that he noticed his eyes. His eyes were shining brightly in the reflection he cast into the lake. It was then that he realized what he had become. It was then that he saw his eyes in his reflection off the lake. The image he saw back was of himself, looking into the water, with eyes as red as blood. P19 Section Four- The Innocent Awakens Guilty The rain poured down to the concrete as the sun descended into other parts of the world. The moon rose slowly into the sky, its eerie shine illuminating the night. It was a quiet night, so quiet that the only sounds were the heavy falling of the large raindrops. The campus of Bridgewater State was calm in an eerie sort of way, the students hiding from the rain in their dorms, making the campus look deserted. The large brick dorms flanked almost every corner of the campus, leaving the middle, or heart of the campus, to the classroom buildings and cafeterias. Each dorm was adorned with a maroon wooden sign with gold lettering, proudly exclaiming the date the buildings were erected. Wood Hall, the latest building to be added to the campus, had two wooden benches outside its door, one on each side of the large set of stairs leading to the door. The benches, locked into the concrete in 1993 after several of the fraternities took turns making their pledges steal them during rush, were empty, the rain having scared the students into rooms. The raindrops slammed onto the bench, landing on accumulated puddles that poured down the legs of the bench, darkening

154 the underbelly of the bench, normally blocked by the bench and untouched by the rain. To quote the clich, it was raining cats and dogs . Lights were on in a majority of the rooms, but many were only visible behind curtains and blinds. In the bottom floor of Wood Dormitory, Tommy Hill sat on his sofa and counted a thick stack of twenty-dollar bills. When the final bill was counted, and totaled at five thousand, Tommy rose and shook hands with a small Latino man named Hector. Hector, his eyes wide and alert at the paranoia and stress of his impending drive home with six lbs. of marijuana in his backpack, thanked Tommy and left the room quickly. Tommy sat back in his favorite chair, and old and green chair that was truly beyond description. It was green leather over a white plastic frame. It looked like something out of the Star Trek command center, the 1970's version of furniture of the future. He loved that chair, sometimes falling asleep in it while watching television and never finding the desire to go to his bed. It was also a fun chair to have sex in, as he discovered and re-discovered countless times. He stood up from the chair, relishing the crack of his back and the blissful stretch that shook his body. Tommy walked over to his bed and reached underneath, brushing by the red, white and blue quilt his grandmother had made for him three Christmas gatherings ago.Take good care of the quil t cause it took Gramma ten weeks to make it. That was what his mother had said when he opened the box and revealed the comforter sized quilt of patriotism. In truth, Tommy loved the quilt and couldn't imagine sleeping in any bed without it wrapped around his large body. Under the bed, Tommy laid his hand upon the familiar cold metal of his safe. He withdrew the safe and carried it with him over to the chair. He opened it, staring at the money that lay inside. It was hard to believe that he only had one hund red dollars, a gift from his father, in his pocket when he arrived in the dorms for the beginning of his college experience. He quickly realized that college was a good time, especially if you had the money to spend. That was the last time he remembered only having a hundred dollars to his name. Since then, he usually carried at least five hundred in his pocket, at

155 all times, and was in the process of counting the accumulated two hundred thousand he kept in the safe. He had a safe at his mother's house that had one hundred and fifty thousand, but that was strictly for emergencies. There really was no reason to count the money, he knew how much was there, always knew how much he had in the safe, but old habits die hard, and he was meticulous. There was another reason he was counting the money: boredom. He was very bored. Pierre hadn't been in class today, but that wasn't unusual. They were seniors, and seniors only went to the important classes. But, it was troubling Tommy that Pierre hadn't been at lunch, and hadn't answered his cell phone or room phone. Tommy wondered if Pierre had found out about Sara's infidelity, and he was stepping out for a few days to deal with the trauma. If that was the case, Tommy understood, but he wished he could have given Pierre a bit of smoke to help take his mind off things. He closed the safe, locking it, and returned it to under the bed. Fuck it! Tommy left his room, walking to the elevator, headed to Pierre's room. He stood outside Pierre's door, listening to the silence inside. He knocked and waited for the reply. He knocked again, once more receiving no reply. He turned to walk away and suddenly a horrible image flooded his mind. It was the image of Pierre hanging from a noose in the middle of the room. In the image, Pierre's neck was purple from bruising; distorted to a left angle, was frighteningly realistic and possible. He pounded on the door, actually feeling that the image was real and letting it increase his paranoia. A door opened on the other end of the long hallway, and a short and skinny girl emerged from her room. She walked down the hallway, staring intently at Tommy. He knew who she was, and she, along with everyone else in the school, knew who Tommy was. He was known to most as the nicest guy, but those who didn't recognize him for that, recognized him for being the campus dealer. The girl walking down the hall, Cynthia was her name, knew him as a nice guy and best friend to Pierre, her R.A. floor partner. Cynthia stood by the door, looking at Tommy as he b egan to sweat and explain his reason for pounding on the door. She

156 quickly understood, and immediately opened the door, with a quick knock. You have to wait here for a minute, while I make sure he is there, before I let you inside. Okay? Tommy nodded, moving away from the door to allow for Cynthia to pass. She entered the room, only stepping inside a foot or two, before turning around and walking out. All set. Take it easy. She walked away, leaving Tommy standing outside the room, peering inside. He walked in and saw Pierre lying in his bed, sleeping. He went to the phone next to the bed and picked up the receiver. Tommy cast a quick glance to his friend sleeping on the bed. Pierre was the epitome of the expression, out like a light. His mouth was open , and drool had dried on his chin. His hair was running rampant, and looked as if it needed to be cut three weeks ago. Tommy dialed the number for Chessman's Pizza, the only place he knew that had a barbecue chicken pizza that wasn't gross. He turned his b ack to Pierre, hoping that his pale appearance was due to the light and not a severe sickness. Tommy noticed that Pierre was smiling about, but dismissed it as the Pizza place answered the phone. Can I get a large bar -b- q chicken, delivered to. Tommy let his thoughts drift to Sara and how she had cheated on Pierre, as he mechanically ordered the pizza. He finished, hanging the phone up, and looking out the window. New England had slowly crept into winter, and it got darker earlier every night. It was only five thirty-seven, and it was already pitch black outside. It was a Wednesday night, and Tommy had a certain errand he ran every Wednesday night, and this Wednesday night was no exception. He had to drive to Brockton to a house he lovingly referred to as the Crack Shack', to pick up his drugs for the weekend. Usually he traveled alone for the pick-ups, but the last time he had gone to the shack, he got the feeling that the people in the house were sizing him up. He watched their eyes, because the eyes never lie; it isn't possible. They had the look of men that were contemplating an action. They were obviously consumed with greed, everyone in the business was. It was the nature of the beast. But these men seemed to

157 spend it quicker than they earned it. It was entirely possible that they were trying to decide if they could take Tommy's money as easily as possible. Tommy was no slouch at 6'1 and a solid 235 lbs., but sometimes men got crazy ideas that led to bad decisions. It wasn't all the men that he was worried about; it was one in particular. The new guy that had been living in the house for the last month or so, looking like a free loader but talking like Pablo Escobar. He was trouble, and he made it obvious that he neither liked nor respected Tommy. The last time he picked up, he got the feeling that Pablo', or Freddy, which was his real name, was really taking a look at Tommy, trying to decide if he was packing any weapons and if he was at all cautious of his surroundings. Tommy was always cautious, but he never brought a weapon, never felt that he needed one, until now. But, he didn't want to get a gun. Instead, he would be extra cautious, and he would enlist the aid of his good sized and faithful friend, Pierre. He broke his gaze from the window and turned to face the sleeping Pierre, dreading having to wake him to ask if he would accompany him for the favor. He turned and started to walk to the other side of the room, when he noticed that Pierre was not only awake, but sitting on the side of the bed, staring at Tommy like he didn't recognize him. Tommy stepped back, intensely startled from the despondent and blank look on his friend's face. He had known Pierre for years and had never seen that look before. Tommy looked at his friend, frozen in fear for the moment, and then walked to the comfortable recliner on the other side of the room. The side that was farther away two seconds before. How are you feeling, buddy? Pierre looked at Tommy, as if he had never seen him before, and then the look was gone. For a moment, his face was vacant and pale, but then, the color returned, somewhat, and he began to show signs of recognition. Hey, what's up? Have you been waiting long? Are we late for class? Tommy laughed. Does he really think it's Wednesday day? Tommy sighed, trying to hold back his laugh. He didn't need to make Pierre upset with him, especially when he needed to ask for a favor. He stood, went to the fridge and

158 removed two beers. He opened both, using the index fingers of both hands, and passed one to Pierre. Pierre took the beer, and let in hang in his right arm absently, as his left hand rubbed his forehead. You missed class. It was about, oh, seven hours ago. Pierre looked confused, and that troubled Tommy. As long as he had known Pierre, he had admired how his friend had always been in charge of himself. He controlled his emotions, kept his life in order, and never lost his temper. Seeing him this disoriented made Tommy more than a little curious. Tommy stared at Pierre as he moved slowly off the corner of the bed and took a look behind the desk for the alarm clock he had knocked onto the floor when it refused to be silenced earlier this morning. Finally, he found the alarm clock, and placed it back on the desk. Pierre looked at the time, then confirmed it with his wristwatch. Is it really six fifteen? Really is. Did you sleep all day? Pierre cracked the beer, and took a long swallow. He smiled. I guess I must have. Oh well. I must have needed the rest. Have you talked to Sara? She's gonna be pissed that I blew her off all day Tommy felt the impeding dread in his stomach when Pierre asked about Sara. Sara, oh yeah, I saw her. She took some random guy home last night and fucked him. But, I think she might still act mad that you didn't call her today! Haven't seen her. Are you hungry? I should be. Christ, I slept for eighteen hours. Let me grab a quick shower, then we can eat the pizza." Pierre stood, both his knees popping loudly when he made the motion, and walked to his closet. He opened the door, grabbed a towel and walked to the door. Tommy turned around in the chair and faced his friend. Hey, when you get back, I have a favor to ask you. P20 On the ride to Brockton, Tommy did his best to fill Pierre in on what he was needed to do. What Tommy needed Pierre to do was basically, nothing. Don't say a word, don't make a move.

159 Act like you're watching everything and everybody. I need you to look like you don't trust anyone in the room. They drove in silence after the instructions were gi ven. Tommy was now officially concerned for his friends, well being. He had never known Pierre to be this quiet. There were periods that any person went through when they were very not talkative, pensive or down right shy, but he had never known Pierre to be completely absorbed in his thoughts. He was truly oblivious to the outside world. Tommy turned the volume of the radio higher, letting the bass from the song and his almost obnoxiously loud system, shake his car and clear his thoughts. The scenery passed by quickly in the slightly illuminated darkness of seven fifteen in November. Snow had fallen briefly on the road, and it lay on the yards and sidewalks in front of the houses, white and unblemished. In the morning, it would have either melted away, or been dirtied by footprints, but now, it was the most beautiful thing in the world. The fresh snow reminded Tommy of when he was a young boy, innocent and precocious. He remembered the first day of Christmas break. It was always a Friday that the schools let their students loose on the world to celebrate the holidays with their families, and it always seemed that the world was on the verge of a great snowstorm on those Fridays. It was ironic that they even tried to conduct classes on those Friday's, considering that each and every student was thoroughly engulfed in what they were going to get for Christmas or the teams for the snowball fight on Monday morning. The game could have been on Saturday, but there was more fun being together on a Monday, and knowing that there was no school for the entire week. The bell rang and the students exploded into the hallway and then out into the air that seemed a little fresher now that the school lost its spell on the students, momentarily. A thousand little feet destroyed the white snow that covered the ground lightly. Footprints going in every direction, straight, left, right and sometimes in circles. The students would meet outside, as far away from the school as possible, and plot that following Monday's activity. Even though the students all gathered together outside the school, they still felt it was appropriate to run as

160 fast as they could away from the school, before they made their plans. It was a matter of the school reaching out and grabbing the slowest or laziest students, and pulling them back inside for more dreaded education. It was mandatory that each and every student run as fast as they could out of the building, never looking back and never slowing down, until they were far away from the school, and safe. When they reached a safe distance, the popular kids would gather and make the plans for the Monday snowball fight. Even at a young age, Tommy had already exhibited undeniable charisma that had drawn the other students to him. He stood in the middle of the circle and started to set the times for the snowball fight. He was thirteen, and as precocious and wild as any of the boys that gathered, but he was already a born leader that was always fair and level headed. He stood with his running mates, John and Casp er. Caspers real name was Chris, but nobody ever called him that. He was the whitest person that had ever lived, in the minds of the boys of St. Mary's Elementary School. He was a blonde haired, blue eyed boy whose skin was very fair. The boys used to rag on him constantly, saying that he got sunburned at night, under the moon. He was a good shit, though and never let on that it bothered him. What time can you meet us, Casper? said John in his pre pubescent voice that had just begun to crack and show sig ns of manhood. I dunno, like, fuckin', eight , eight thirty. My Mom's been a bitch lately. Tommy stepped back and then stepped forward into his footprint that he left in the fresh snow. Tommy said, Can you get there at eight? Casper looked at Tommy and then shot a quick glance at Johnny. He looked nervous, like he always did. With a complexion that led to a name like Casper, it was a constant struggle to look cool, and he was used to having to disobey and annoy his parents at the expense of his ass, in order to earn points with the boys of St. Mary's. I can be there, he said timidly, he added, What's going on with you and Steve Shithead Walsh?

161 Casper was referring to the well-talked about and already overblown shoving match that had ensued betwee n Steve and Tommy during recess. As the truth went, Tommy had tagged Steve in kickball at second base. Apparently, Steve thought the only reason that the tag was made, was because his foot was blocking the base. Tommy disagreed, and was shoved hard for his disagreement. Tommy shoved back and the teachers broke it up. As the story went, Tommy shoved Steve of the base and then started to punch him in the face. The fact that neither boy was suspended, nor Steve had no bruises, didn't make a difference to the boys of St. Mary's as they eagerly set the stage for a big confrontation Monday morning during the snowball fight. He started a fight with me. He's a dick. He's a super - dick, said John with a smile. The boys all laughed for a moment, but stopped when St eve and his group of friends walked over to their circle and started to push and shove. Tommy stood with his fists clenched and prepared himself for a fight. That year, Christmas was on a Sunday. Tommy awoke to find the presents all accounted for under the tree, the dinner in the oven, but the fight was on his mind. All day, while he should have been playing with his knew toys, riding his new bike, around the living room at least, or trying on his new clothes, he was agonizing over the outcome of the fight. It wasn't Steve The Shithead he was worried about, not at all. He knew he could beat Steve in the fight. It was his boys he was worried about. Tommy knew that Steve would have his friend's jump in to the fight when it was undeniable who would win, but he wasn't sure if they would wait that long before getting involved. He expected that they would get into the fight almost immediately, but he needed to be positive that if and when they did, his boys would be there to help him. He knew John was a tough talker, but by thirteen, he had already learned that tough talk didn't amount to much more than talk. He knew for certain that Casper would get involved, and would fight until it was over. That was just the kind of person that Casper was, he was a fighter. He had been fighting the cancer that destroyed his immune system, he had been

162 fighting the sun that attempted, on a daily basis, to ruin his skin, and he had been fighting the teasing boys of St. Mary's that tried to destroy his ego and good humor. As Tommy would later find out, none of the attempts worked, because Casper never stopped fighting. The morning of the fight, Tommy was up at six a.m.. He ate a quick breakfast of Kellogs Wheaties, he needed the strength, and four pieces of toast. he walked out his front door at seven thirty and felt the cold air smash against his warm cheeks. Immediately, the harsh and bitterly cold wind, froze his cheeks, making them red and puffy. They also made them numb. Win or lose, I am not going to feel a thing until mu ch later. He walked to the field alone and waited for more students to show up. A few minutes later, the first of the students trickled to the field, dressed in the best play clothes they had received the day before. They were girls, so they were neither helpful, nor harmful in the potential fight. The girls stood far away from Tommy, because they had heard of the fight, and they didn't want to pick sides, until the fight was over. Each girl took turns stealing peeks at Tommy as he rubbed his hands against the cold and waited for either John or Casper to show. Ironically, the boys showed up a moment later and neither looked intimidated. What did you get yesterday?, Tommy asked the boys as the stamped their feet against the biting cold. Casper smiled and s aid, I got a bike and Nintendo, with Mario Kart, and a bunch of dress- up clothes. What did you get? Tommy smiled for the first time all day and said, I got a bike, too, and lots of clothes. John interrupted the pair by saying that Steve was coming down the hill and towards the field. Three or four other kids who included his older brother and his older brother's friend surrounded him. That wasn't fair to involve a bigger kid, a fifteen-year old, in the fight, but it was nonetheless happening. The snow had begun to fall in large flakes, and the wind made the temperature fell sub arctic. Tommy, John and Casper stood in the middle of the field, watching the large group approach. Steve was a normal sized

163 boy for his age, with a dark complexion and brown hair . He had brown eyes that always seemed to squint, later in life he indeed needed corrective surgery to repair his bad vision. He as a little on the heavy side, but not fat. His brother, on the other hand, was the biggest fifteen-year old in the ninth grade. He was also the meanest kid in the ninth grade. It was the schools most popular rumor that he beat up every student that gave him a bad look. Even more, he spit on the kids after he beat them up. Tommy had even heard, that he used to pee in some kids mouth instead of spitting, but quickly dismissed that as pure bullshit. The large group squared off against Tommy and his comprades. A cold breeze blew and all the boys shivered in unison and a few teeth chattering was heard. Ready to get you ass kicked?, S teve said to Tommy, his brother instilling in him a new confidence. Why is he here?, Tommy answered, extending a frigid finger towards Steve the Shithead's larger brother. Just to make sure it's a fair fight. Got a problem with that?, interrupted Steve's brother, spitting after he spoke. The snow began to fall harder onto the frozen field, and the boys began to grow impatient with each other and the weather as the other students began to emerge from everywhere to witness the fight that now looked as if it would be a slaughter. A cold breeze blew the beautiful flakes of assorted sizes about the air between the groups of boys. The crowd had gathered and an electrical charge had filled the air, the way it always does before a fight. Tommy's snow covered shoulders shrugged up and down towards the fifteen-year old, in a weak answer to his question. Steve began to walk forward and Tommy followed suit. The stood within arms distance of each other, Steve overconfident because of his brother, and Tommy feeling the confidence drain from his body, being replaced by nervousness, also because of Steve's brother. Tommy had heard his grandmother talk about her stomach before she had her gall bladder removed, and the intense pain it caused her to go to the bathroom for Number Two (as she liked to say). Tommy thought how awful that must be, but now, he would have gladly changed places with her at this very minute. Better to

164 have a painful shit, then to have someone beat the shit out of you!. Steve pushed Tommy weakly, and Tommy immediately, to the dismay of Steve's older brother, pushed Steve's brother back. Tommy was a lot stronger, and Steve fell backwards, causing the crowd to laugh and snicker. Steve shot a pained look at his brother, who looked away. Steve stood and c harged at Tommy. They collided hard and both fell over. They erupted into a flurry of rights, lefts, kicks and head butts, that all were wild. Even with the intense barrage from both boys, neither was harmed during the exchange, because neither connected solidly. The boys stood and squared off from each other. Steve backed up and stood in front of his brother. He ran at Tommy, who quickly punched Steve in the face and knocked him down. Steve fell to the hard ground, blood flowing from his mouth in a little drip. He turned and gave a pained look to his brother who stepped forward and started to crack his knuckles. Tommy's stomach began to churn hot iron towards his bowels. Tommy heard the heavy scampering of feet behind him, and turned to watch his two best friends, Casper and John, run away. Tommy stood alone, prepared for the worst beating he was ever going to receive, and watched the snowfall to the ground. With the snow falling prettily from the sky, Tommy promised himself, that he would never count on an yone again. Tommy returned to reality at the moment, and took a long look at Pierre as he sat in the passenger seat of the car. After almost ten years, he was actually counting on someone, except this time, the stakes were deadly serious if this friend t ried to run away. Yesterday, he wouldn't have been concerned about how Pierre was going to act inside the house, but yesterday seemed to be one day too late. Today was important, and today, Pierre was acting very strangely. He hadn't said a word after the shower, and barely had more than a bite of the pizza. They arrived at the house and Tommy killed the engine. He turned to Pierre, ready to give him some more last minute instructions, but noticed that he was sleeping. I can't fucking believe this guy. The one time I really need him to b e on

165 point and he is fuckin' sleeping! He better not screw the pooch inside this house, or we are both gonna get smoked! He leaned over and gave Pierre a firm shake, waking him immediately. Pierre looked at Tommy with eyes s o glossy they could have been used for skating on. Are you ready?, Pierre said to Tommy, with a look of incredible calm on his face. Yeah, are you? You bet. I'm ready to go. Let's do it. They got out of the car and walked up to the house by way of the long front walkway. Tommy shook his head and smiled at how prepared and alert Pierre seemed, considering he had been asleep two seconds before. They arrived at the front door and Tommy knocked. The wind blew harshly and Tommy shivered. Pierre seemed not to notice the biting cold, instead looking alert and full of vigor at the darkness of night. The front door opened and a tall and fantastically slim Mexican man stood before them, dressed in a pair of baggy light -blue jeans and a white wife-beater. He was obviously not armed and looked extremely friendly. Tommy smiled when he saw the man, and the man smiled back, his dark brown eyes lighting up at the sight of Tommy. Que pasa, holmes? How are you, Tommy?, the Mexican man said through a drunken voice. Tommy extended a hand and smiled at the Mexican man with the dark brown eyes. Good, really good. Sonny, this is my boy Pierre, answered Tommy as he nudged towards Pierre. Pierre shook the man's hand and immediately looked into his eyes. For an instant, he saw a flash of what the man was thinking. Sonny was thinking about Pierre, naked and kissing Sonny's neck. Sonny was gay and Pierre knew it, even though it was probably his darkest secret. Hey, it's good to meet you, Pierre said to the secretly gay, Sonny. You too. Come in, come in. fuckin' freezin' outside, ain't it? Kind of night that you snuggle up real close with your lady for some warmth. Pierre laughed. He tried to hold it in, but the image he received from Sonny didn't match up at all with what he was thinking

166 about, and it was damn hilarious. Tommy looked at Pierre with a glance of total astonishment. Pierre found that he could read Tommy's thoughts as well, but not as clearly. What the fuck? Did you just laugh? Jesus Christ, don't fuckin' laugh at these guys! Pierre shrugged and walked further into the house. Tommy looked at his friend and then around the house. He saw the occupants, one at a time, as they sat around the living room, smoking marijuana. He saw each man. The first, sitting on the love seat comfortably, was a very young looking white boy, with a bald head, and eyes so narrow from smoking, that it was impossible to tell the color. He looked too high to be any type of threat. On the sofa across from the young white -boy, was his twin, literally.. He appeared to be the total identical match of his brother, but he looked somewhat less stoned. Last, but certainly not least, was Pedro. Pedro was the epitome of a little shit. He was no taller than 5'3, and couldn't have weighted more than one hundred and fifty lbs. He walked into the living room from the kitchen as if he owned the world and immediately stared down Tommy and Pierre, before walking to the other end of the sofa and seizing the joint the men were in the process of smoking. He clutc hed the cigarette hard enough to break it between his thumb and forefinger, and took a long pull, his eyes never leaving Tommy or Pierre. His light brown eyes burning a hole through Tommy as a mouth full of crooked teeth expelled smoke in a great cloud. Finally, Tommy thought it was time to get down to business. What's the deal? Are we all set? Sonny looked at Tommy and then extended a long arm, patting him on the back. We are right as the rain, my friend. Let me get the stash, you grab the money. Tommy reached into his pocket a removed a wad of hundreds. He began to thumb through the wad, counting softly, out loud. When he finished, Sonny had walked back to the room, holding a backpack that was obviously filled with something. Tommy extended the money to Sonny and took the backpack. Sonny winked, and then called for Pedro. Hey, count this, he said, holding up the wad of money, preparing to throw it across the room.

167 Tommy's eyes lit up when he heard and saw the whole transaction. He put his hand up to block the throw, catching Sonny's arm in mid-toss, but in plenty of time to stop the throw. No. I'd prefer if you counted it, Sonny, he said quickly and quietly to Sonny. Pedro, looking as mad and volatile as his little body would allow, jumped off the couch and approached Tommy, a look of distrust in his eyes. He walked like he was in a movie and he was the main character, emerging from some desolate place, prepared to right whatever wrongs the bad guys had caused to the innocent. He thought he was a drug dealing justice keeper. He swayed a little when he walked, the drugs and alcohol of the day finally beginning to get the best of him. Try as hard as he may, he could not look tough or the least bit imposing. But, he came nonetheless. Pedro stood in front of Tommy and Sonny and immediately had to look up to make eye contact with either of the men. Sonny, who was at best a shade under six feet, was still a great deal taller than Pedro was. What, you don't trust me to count the money? Tommy shook his he ad in annoyance and said, No, it's fine. Go ahead. Pedro snatched the money from Sonny's hand, and said, Damn right it's okay. He walked back to the couch, counting the money as he walked. Tommy opened the bag and peered inside at the product. Tommy elbowed Pierre in the ribs, trying to show him the open bag, but Pierre was staring at Pedro. He watched him all the way from the time he entered the living room, until he grabbed the money, and continued to stare at him as he counted the cash. A look of concern was etched on his face, and that was troubling to Tommy. Pierre's eyes were following Pedros every move, studying him. Pierre turned and looked directly at Tommy and his eyes were wide with excitement. He looked at Pedro, and then back at Tommy, then he rolled his eyes. It's good that I'm here. You were gonna die tonight.

168 Tommy didn't say a word to Pierre regarding that comment. Instead, he looked at Pierre for a long time, and then glanced to Pedro, in time to see him finish counting the money and stand. Pedro said, It's all here. You can go, now. Tommy nodded his head, put the backpack over his shoulders and looked at Sonny. He extended his hand to Sonny, who shook it immediately. Tommy nudged Pierre, who was still staring at Pedro, and they both walked towards the door. with his back turned to Pedro, Tommy began to feel the first bit of real nervousness. He didn't trust Pedro, and knew that a man of his character would take any advantage that he obtained, especially if the other man wasn't looking. At the door, Tommy extended his hand and thought about how this night went rather smoothly. No trouble at all. But, that is when the trouble began. Pedro said, Wait, the money isn't all here. You're short a grand. Tommy felt the cool door handle in his palm, and resented the fact that he had even paused. He knew that he had given the right amount of money, and he knew that Pedro wanted a confrontation. The world seemed to slow down for Tommy in that instant. He remembered the fight he had been in with Steve the Shithead when he was a kid, and prayed that he could count on Pierre. He thought of Sonny and how he was a nice guy, and was probably in the dark about what was really going on. He thought about the twins, and how they were two stoned to know or understand much of anything. He thought of Pedro, and how he probably had a gun readily available, if not already in his hand. and finally, he thought of Pierre, and how weird he had been acting. He also thought of how Pierre had been staring at Pedro. It's good that I'm here. You were gonna die tonight. Was that exactly what he had said? What did Pierre know, or think he knew? Tommy turned around and saw that Pedro was already walking towards him. Pierre had stepped to the side more, and Tommy had the brief feeling that he was about to be left alone, again. You're a thousand short. You tryin' to fuck us over, white boy?

169 Tommy stared at Pedro intently, looking (or hoping) that Pierre wasn't going to run away. He was happy to notice, Pierre was not only still there, he appeared to be glaring at Pedro, possibly plotting his next move. Sonny said, Hey, Pedro. Count the money again, man. Tommy ain't like that. If the money ain't all there, then he has the rest. No worries. No Sonny, Tommy said, The mone y isn't all there, anymore. It was when I gave it over, but it's gone, now. Pedro got close to Tommy, peering up into his face and said, You callin' me a thief? Tommy smiled and said, No. I'm calling you a piece of shit. Cause that's what you are. Admit it, you want us to disagree, you want me to look like I'm ripping you off. So all right, I'll call your bluff. I gave you the right amount of money, and you're not getting a penny more from me. Pedro stepped back and laughed to himself for a moment. The laughter was out o place in the room. The twins had risen from the couch and were standing behind Pedro. Sonny, more surprised and confused than anything, was caught in limbo in between the two groups. Sonny tried to calm matters by saying, Everyone kee p it cool. We don't need any static. Pedro interrupted and said, Fuck that. He's stealing our money. Pierre hadn't moved or said a word throughout the beginning of the disturbance. As the voice grew more agitated and louder, he seemed to stare harder at Pedro and then at the twins. Finally, when everyone was shouting and tensions were at the breaking point, Pierre stepped forward and stood in front of Pedro. His eyes were gleaming and intense, seeming to burn a hole through Pedro and then the twins. The money is in your pocket, he said calmly and rather quietly. Pedro stepped back, obviously frightened by Pierre. He look shocked for a moment, but then the look disappeared and was replaced by a look of burning anger. He reached around his back, into his waistband of his jeans, and removed a gun. He pointed the gun directly at Pierre's head, actually pressing the barrel into his forehead. That was when all hell broke loose. P21

170 Pierre could hear the knocking on the door, but couldn't find the strength to rouse himself from sleep. He had been ignoring the incessant knocking on his door all day, and he was planning on doing the same about this particular disturbance, but something was crowing in the back of his mind. Somehow, he knew that it was Tommy at the other end of the door. Pierre hadn't heard Tommy say a word, and it wasn't a familiar knock; it was like he could just smell him, or something. From the deep alcoves of sleep, Pierre could hear breathing and the increasingly louder footsteps of a large child or perhaps, a small or skinny woman. The footsteps grew increasing louder until they stopped outside the door. At the door was a woman, and it was her time of the month. Pierre couldn't say for sure, but he could smell it on her. She was speaking to Tom my, and he was removing her keys from her pocket. The door to Pierre's room opened, and although his eyes never opened, he could see her as she stepped into the room and cast eyes on him while he slept. She stared at him for the briefest of moments, and Pierre could sense her sexual desire and frustration welling inside of her. She hadn't had sex in a very long time, and she needed it. More so, she wanted Pierre. He plucked that thought directly from her brain, before her mind fully understood what she was feeling. She left the room, leaving the door open a crack behind her. Pierre could here her words now, but, he had been hearing them inside of her mind the whole time anyway, so the words being audible was no revelation. "All set. Take it easy." Her footsteps resumed again, but they grew faint in their distance. Pierre stirred a little as Tommy walked into the room and took a look at him in the bed. Tommy thoughts were of concern for his friend, and it caused Pierre to smile in his sleep. Tommy picked up the phone and dialed a number quickly. "Can I have a large bbq-chicken pizza delivered to...", Pierre let the words drift into the air like mist as he began to hear Tommy's heart beating loudly inside his chest. The beating of his heart sounded like a drum at a rock concert. The beat was strong and powerful. Tommy was obviously a healthy, and

171 delicious, man that took care of himself, physically. He would taste very good! Pierre stirred in his bed, the thoughts of dining on his friend's blood disturbing him. More disturbing than that was the fact that the idea of drinking Tommy's blood was pleasing. Suddenly, a thought entered Tommy' mind that intrigued Pierre. It was about Sara, and it was an evil thought about her. For some reason, Tommy disliked Sara immensely. Pierre's eyes shot open and the image of the room flooded his eyes like never before. All the colors of the room appeared sharper and clearer. It was like he was seeing shapes and colors and sizes for the first time. Or seeing them with different eyes? He sat up and noticed that Tommy was looking out the window and in a thoughtful trance. He was thinking about tonight, and the possible threats, problems or worries about some guy named Pablo. He was going to ask Pierre for a favor because of Pablo, and Pierre was going to agree to whatever it was because he could sense that Tommy felt threatened by Pablo, and he didn't like the scent of fear from his friend. Pierre swung his legs over the side of the bed and continued to stare at Tommy, who stood motionless in front of the window. Tommy turned around, and Pierre could tell that he was shocked to see him awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at him with empty eyes. Tommy took a momentary step back, but quickly gained his composure and moved to the seat across from the bed. He sat down and looked at his friend with surprise and concern. Tommy said, 'How are you feeling, buddy?" For a moment, Pierre answered him with his mind only, and then started to wonder if he would be capable of speaking. He had been asleep for a while, hours, maybe a day or longer, and he wondered if he would be able to talk, or if he would sound hoarse and raspy. Also, he wondered if he should let on how long he had been sleeping, and that he was well aware of it. Instead, the words seemed to fly out of his mouth. "Hey, what's up? Have you been waiting long? Are we late for class?" The words were perfect. They sounded like they were confused, but they weren't hoarse or raspy; instead they were natural

172 and clear. He realized that deceiving even his closest friend, was excessively easy. Tommy smiled and went to the fridge, where he opened it and collected two beers. He opened both with his index fingers, a trick that Pierre had never had much luck with, and passed one to Pierre. A thought passed directly into Pierre's mind, a thought from Tommy. Nothing better than a cold beer! Any other day, Pierre would have heartedly agreed, but today, he could think of another liquid that would quench his thirst far better than the beer ever could. But he kept that thought to himself as he watched Tommy crash back into the chair and take a long swallow. Tommy smiled and said, "You missed class, oh, seven hours ago." Pierre knew that, but he couldn't let Tommy knew that he knew it. Something deep inside of him was telling him not to trust (humans) Tommy. A thought that if Tommy knew his truth, he would find a way to have Pierre killed. Pierre forced himself to look at his clock, a thing that was harder said than done when he already knew the time, and knew that he knew it. Then, he was forced to ask another stupid question that he already knew the answer to. "Is it really six fifteen?" Tommy smiled again. Pierre was beginning to dislike that smile, a lot. Tommy said, "Really is. Did you really sleep all day?" The answer came out automatically, as if he had no control of it. "I guess I must have. Oh well. I must have needed the rest. Have you talked to Sara? She's gonna be pissed that I blew her off all day." Sara, oh yeah, I saw her. She took some random guy home last night and fucked him. But, I think she might still act mad that you didn't call her today! Pierre plucked Tommy's thought right out of his head, and began to understand that Tommy had seen Sara leave somewhere, with a guy that she may have slept with last night. But, ironically, he could have cared less about Sara. She no longer held any fascination with him. Pierre wondered what Tommy would actually say, but he knew that he wasn't ready to tell him the total truth, not yet.

173 Tommy said, "Haven't seen her. Are you hungry?" Pierre simply nodded, hoping he would appear tired of the questions, and they would abate. A thought occurred to him, and it was a timely one at that. He needed to take a shower, and that would give him long enough to get his head together, and possibly figure some things out for himself. But, he quickly realized that he would need to give some type of answer so that Tommy didn't think that he knew about Sara. The words came out automatically, again. " I should be. Christ, I slept for eighteen hours. Let me grab a quick shower, then we can eat the pizza." Fuck! I wasn't supposed to know he ordered a pizza. I hope he didn't notice! Tommy showed no recognition of catching Pierre in his deceit. Pierre was off the bed and to the closet in a flash. That was the moment that Tommy asked him about the favor. P22 The madness began a lot slower for Pierre than for everyone else involved. He had always been a fan of John Woo movies. It wasn't that those movies were plot driven or vastly important in the eternal scheme of things; they were fun. The best aspect of those fun movies was the slow motion scene. The main character, or the hero, would emerge from a hallway, room or spacious outdoor area with marvelous amounts of weather all around, in super slow motion. His long jacket would flap in the breeze, and his hair would blow from an unseen gust. While the speed of the scene moved at super slow motion, it was easy for the audience to see every detail of the events. That was exactly what Pedro's movements seem to look like to Pierre. He saw the scene in such careful detail, that when the events actually transpired, it was like dj vu'. He saw Pedro reach back into his waistband and pull the gun. He did it with a quick and smooth motion of a practiced gun handler. He held it out for a moment, and then pointed it at Tommy's head. It was like the world stopped, and everything was allowed a moment to ponder. As the gun hung in the air, the twins made identical expressions of shock, having finally grasped the seriousness of the situation. Sonny made the motions to put his arms up over his face, in case his forearms would block

174 the bullet from less than three feet. Tommy stood still, the gun being pointed into his forehead probably scaring him to death, but determined to not show if it did. The gun in his hand, Pedro smiled, then pulled the trigger. It was more of a loud pop, than an explosion. A splash of flame shot out of the tip of the gun, and the back of Tommy's head spouted blood in a fine red mist that colored the wall behind him. The expression on his face didn't have time to change to show the surprise. Ironically, the blood dripping down past Tommy's nose bone and onto the tip of his upper lip was what caused his facial expression to register the shock of having been shot in the head. The worst part of the whole scene was that by the time Tommy fully understood that he had been shot in the head, he was dead. Pierre snapped back into reality and saw Pedro's hand reaching into his waistband. This time, however, when the hand emerged with the gun, Pierre moved as quickly as a blink, seizing the gun and taking it out of his hand before his palm could settle its grip onto the handle. The movement was so fluid; it seemed that the smile that was blossoming on Pedro's face never came, instead turning into a look of complete bewilderment. As his empty hand hung in the air for only a moment, Pierre seized the hand and twisted it, breaking Pedro's fingers with loud and sickening pops and snaps . Pierre pointed the gun in the direction of the twins and said, Everybody sit down and relax. This will be over in just a minute. Pedro, still shocked by the whole scene took his right hand in his left and held it gingerly, staring at his crooked and ne wly deformed hand. He spoke in syllables of pain and agony, like a man with no tongue. Muh, ahh, urgh, wha Pierre reached into the right front pocket of Pedro's pants and removed a wad of cash. He thumbed through it quickly with only his left hand. He fanned it open, revealing a thousand dollars, the thousand dollars that supposedly wasn't there, and threw it on the floor. Pierre pushed him to the ground and turned to look at Tommy as the loud thump of Pedro's body hitting the floor reverberated. Pedro landed next to the money, scattering it about the area

175 around the floor. Pierre looked at Tommy and could see that he was in a state of disbelief at seeing how quickly Pierre had reacted and possibly (definitely) saved his life. He had a far away look, like a trance, where his eyes were open, and he looked like he was seeing things, but he was nowhere inside his own head at that moment. It took a pinch on the cheek from Pierre, hard enough to bruise, to bring him back to the present. When Tommy gained some coherency, he immediately looked all around the room at the results of Pierre and his quick movements. The twins were sitting on the couch, as meek and peaceful as lambs, while Sonny was still cowering on the floor, arms thrown up over his face in a baby li ke plea for mercy. Pedro was lying on the ground, courage gone and fingers horribly broken. Then Tommy looked at Pierre. Pierre looked completely at ease during the tense situation. He was calm and collectednot a sign of nervousness or apprehension. His eyes shone red, but it was probably just from the light. He casually leaned in towards Tommy and whispered in his ear. Go outside and start the car. I'll handle these guys. I'll teach them to never fuck with you again! Tommy stepped back and took a curious glance at Pierre, a friend he thought he knew. Something was different about Pierre. At first, he thought it was just the way he looked when he woke him earlier this evening, but now, after taking a longer and more thorough look, he saw that it was much more than just one change. Pierre looked taller. Tommy had read somewhere that men sometimes grow until they were twenty five years old. Never more than an inch or so, but they could grow a little taller. But Pierre looked significantly taller. He was probably closer to six foot six, instead of six foot three. Tommy shot a look down to Pierre's feet, sure he would find thick boots with three inch soles, but instead, he found dress shoes, with a low heel that gave no extra inches. But, even if he had seen the thick heel, it wouldn't have eased his mind any. It wasn't just his height, but his size that alarmed Tommy. Pierre lookedbigger. It seemed as if Pierre was wider than before, and something about him was larger. It was if he was larger in every way possible than other people. His

176 face appeared larger, especially around the jaw line where the top of his neck seemed thicker. As Tommy looked at Pierre, he noticed that Pierre's chest was thicker, too. There were so many things about Pierre's appearance that looked bigger than before, but Tommy had to go outside. Normally Tommy wasn't the type of man to do what someone else wished, unless he wanted to anyway, but this was different. He wasn't shy to admit to himself that Pierre scared him. It was something that he had seen in his eyes a moment ago. The way his retinas looked like they were flooded with blood. Do you understand me? Pierre said to Tommy. Tommy gave a distant nod of his head and walked to the door. Pierre stared at him and tried to steal his thoughts. Pierre was beginning to really appreciate being a thought thief. The benefits were astounding. The thoughts came softly, obviously because Tommy was scared of the situation. What happened to you? You've changed. Pierre stole the thoughts out of the air, and nodded to Tommy. You can go outside. I will handle these (humans) men. Pierre tried to direct these to Tommy, but if he heard them, he didn't show. Pierre was forced to use his voice, which he no longer felt was pleasurable, but was instead, a burden. Go ahead. I'll take care of this. Tommy stood at the door for a moment longer and looked at Sonny. He looked so scared. His eyes were teary and childlike. He was shaking like a coward, but Tommy was certain that if he knew that he was about to be le ft in the room alone with Pierre, he would be shaking, too. A small damp spot had emerged on the front of Sonny's pants, and Tommy knew it was urine. He wasn't that surprised. Nothing about tonight could surprise him. The whole evening had been a surreal experience that he hoped he would wake up from, only to discover that it was a fading nightmare. But deep down, he knew it was real. The only good thing, he thought to himself as he opened the door and took one last look at Pierre standing in the middle of the room, holding the gun, was that the night was over for him. He looked at the men on the couch, Pedro on the floor and Sonny, who was sitting so far against the wall it seemed he hoped it would absorb him and

177 he would fall into the next room. They all appeared to be pleading with Tommy, pleading with their eyes, that he might stay in the house. That he might save them from his friend, the monster. It was then that Tommy understood that what he had sensed about Pierre, was the same for everyone in the room. Pierre was drastically different, but that difference had saved his life tonight, the life that these men tried to take. When that thought entered his head, it was easy to close the door on the men, and close his mind to their pleas. He walked to the car, opened the door quickly and started the ignition, hoping the radio would be loud enough to muffle the screams. P23 When Sonny saw that Tommy was at the door, he immediately remembered the main reason that he had hoped that Tommy didn't show tonight for his pickup. He thought that Tommy was very cute and was sad that Pedro had decided to kill him. Sonny remembered the first time he had met Tommy. It was the summer of 1998, and he had just moved into the house. He needed a place to stay during the summer, because he was from Florida and couldn't afford the cost of going home and then coming back. Besides, all the friends he considered to be true friends lived in Brockton now, and he didn't want to leave them for Florida. Florida was hot and sticky during the summer, especially in Miami, and Sonny wasn't from the best neighborhood. But, the climate wasn't the only factor in his decision to stay in New England. His life was over in Miami, and he knew exactly why and when that happened. That Christmas break, Sonny told Pete, his best friend of ten years, that he was gay. He figured that Pete was gay, too. He had seen the way that Pete looked at him, and he knew how he felt about Pete. But he had tried to hide his feelings from Sonny, the way most people did when they were in denial about their real identities. Pete had started to tell everyone in the neighborhood that Sonny was a fag and a pillow - biter, and the neighborhood took to those torments with evil regularity. Everywhere that Sonny went, he was holl ered at and teased by almost every he had ever known. It was worse at home. His father, a man that was hardly ever around and never sober when he was, tried as best as he could tobeat the fag out of him with a belt. The fag stayed in Sonny

178 though, and it was deeper than the three-inch scars that Sonny had criss-crossing his back. He moved back to school the day he was released from the hospital and hadn't been home since. As a matter of fact, he hadn't spoken to anyone from Miami since that day in early January. In Brockton, things were better. He hadn't been accepted as a gay man, but that was mainly because he was too mortified to tell anyone that he was gay. Instead, he put up a moderate macho front. Not enough to be clearly a charade, but enough to pass. He even brought girls around the house and had sex with them. The sex had been bad, but he found that if he closed his eyes and thought of Brian, one of the twins he lived with that had a body chiseled from granite, he would climax eventually. The girls he slept with raved about his performance, which amused Sonny greatly, because they never knew it had nothing to do with him being a sexual champ, but instead it was because the girls naked bodies did nothing for him. Either way, the ruse worked. In Brockton, Sonny began to finally feel accepted, like he was as much a part of the scene as the straight kids that lived in the area. Sonny had friends, and they treated him like family. He and the twins started to sell weed out of the house, and it provided enough money to easily cover the mortgage and any other bills, still leaving them all ample spending money. Things were truly great. Tommy started to come around then, and they all knew that he was a serious buyer. He bought at least five lbs. a week, and he was a constant buyer. But, most importantly, he was a big, sexy man that Sonny enjoyed flirting with, at least flirting in his mind. Things were improving daily until Pedro moved in. At first, he seemed like a decent guy. He chipped in on the rent, and he did it on time. He helped buy the groceries and even offered to go and shop for them. Pedro kept his room clean and always picked up around the house. But, as time went on and he got a taste of the money that the house received, he got greedy. In the beginning, he had ideas to increase profit, and when they worked, he wanted a fair share. He was given his fair share, but he always wanted more. When he started to assume leadership within the group, he wasn't challenged.

179 There had never been a leader, it was an equal partnership, but still, the group felt that Pedro was smart and fair, both qualities lending him to be a good leader. He wasn't either of the two in reality. Pedro was a cruel and senseless jerk who was so eager to make money that he screwed people and made everybody angry with him and the other people in the house. One by one, the house started to lose business and respect. Finally, they were at a point where they had almost no customers, and they had to get part-time jobs to pay rent. The only client that was still constantly coming by the house to make a substantial purchase was Tommy. Twice a week, Tommy came by and bought several pounds, sometimes barely in time to help the guys pay their rent. Tommy was a true Godsend for the renters, and then Pedro said that he had an idea. Next time Tommy comes here, I say we rob him. He's a punk and his money could pay the rent for two months. Who knows, he might even have more on him, and we could jack him for that, too. Sonny and the twins disagreed. Although it was Sonny and Sonny alone that did the talking, the basic argument was that Tommy was their only customer that was reliable to come by. Why would they want to jack him? Even if the money they got from him paid the rent for three months, what about after that? It wasn't as smart to burn that bridge as it would be to use it to keep the bills paid. Pedro nodded his head and said that it was just him thinking out loud, and left the room. He never mentioned a word about it again. When Sonny saw that Pedro was reaching into the back of his pants, he knew what was about to go down, but was virtually powerless the stop it. He imagined the gun, the confusion, and then the look that would be in Tommy's eyes when he realized that it was a set up. His eyes would accuse Sonny of deceit, even if the words never came out of his mouth. Tommy would never believe that Sonny had nothing to do with the set up, that he was sure about it. Either way, it was an ugly event that was about to occur. When the gun came out, Sonny closed his eyes and prayed that nobody got hurt, especially himself. He expected yelling, shouting and overall loud voices, but what he heard was

180 completely different. It was total silence. When Sonny finally opened his eyes, and pulled his arms down from his face where they were weakly trying to block a bullet, he saw Pedro stand with his arm in the air while Tommy's big friend held the gun. What the fuck? How did he get the gun out of Pedros' hand so quickly? Tommy was still standing in front of Pedro, but he didn't look scared or nervous in the least. Instead, he looked shocked and just as surprised to see Pierre holding the gun as Sonny and the twins and Pedro. Somehow, when Pedro pulled the gun, Tommy's friend took it from him in the, the bli nk of an eye or faster. Now, instead of being worried about what Pedro was going to do to Tommy and his friend, he was worried about what Tommy and the now-armed friend, were going to do to them. Sonny could see that Pedro's hand was still hanging in the a ir, pointed towards Tommy's head, but the gun wasn't there, and the threat it posed was gone. Instead, Pedro looked foolish with his empty hand pointed towards a much larger and soon to be angry, Tommy. Suddenly, Tommy's friend, reached for that hand and again in the blink of an eye, snapped the fingers back and broke them. For a man that looked as sick and pale as Tommy's friend did, he broke Pedro's fingers like they were dry twigs under his foot. Pedro screamed and took his right hand to his lap, where it was cradled by his left hand. Everybody sit down and relax. This will be over in just a minute. Tommy's friend, Pierre was the name that Sonny thought that Tommy may have said when he introduced them, pointed the gun at the twins and moved them to the other room. Sonny started to feel dizzy when he realized that they were in serious trouble. The ease and thoughtlessness of how he broke Pedro's fingers told Sonny that Pierre was a very powerful man that was very capable of cruelty. But what scared him the most wasn't the power or the cruelty, but the ease he did these things with. He seized the gun from Pedro's hand like a child takes candy from an adult. He broke his fingers like he was snapping his fingers. And now, when the chaos of the scene was heightening, and he was the pinnacle, he was clearly the calmest head in the room.

181 Sonny looked at Pierre for the first time, actually looked at him, and found that it wasn't just the way he acted, moved and held himself that scared him. Looking at Pierre scare d Sonny. For one thing, he was huge. When Tommy and he had first walked into the house, he was struck by how tall they were. Tommy had always been a tall guy, much taller than Sonny had been and certainly much taller than Pedro, but his friend was significantly taller. When they walked through the door, Sonny would have sworn that Pierre was almost six foot five, but now, in the heat and excitement of the moment, and despite how crazy and absolutely absurd it sounded, Sonny would swear that he had grown to maybe six foot seven. But that wasn't all. He looked bigger, too. He was larger, in size and presence. He just looks larger cause he has the fuckin' gun! The size of Pierre wasn't the scariest thing about him, though, not at all. The scariest part about him was his eyes. When Pierre first arrived with Tommy, his eyes were green and sort of dead looking. But now, while he held the gun and ordered the twins to the couch and knocked Pedro to the floor, his eyes looked red. It wasn't just the actual eyeball tha t was still green. It was the retinas that were blood red in color. At that moment, Sonny wanted to scream as loud as his lungs would allow. He wanted to scream until his lungs no longer gave air. He wanted to scream until his voice box no longer produced sound. Then, when he would no longer be capable of noise, he thought that he might keep on screaming until he fell to the ground, dead. Then, and maybe only then, he would feel the terror that Pierre instilled in him abate. Sonny opened his eyes and looked at Pierre. Pierre was staring at him. From behind his head, he could hear someone's voice talking to him in a loud whisper. Hey there Sonny. Are you scared of me! Do you know what I am going to do to you as soon as Tommy leaves? I'm going to eat you whole . I'm going to eat your eyes and eat your nose. But first, I am going to eat your feet. I am going to eat you from the feet all the way up until you die! Then, I'm gonna eat some more! As Sonny began to understand that it was Pierre talking to him, talking into his mind, he started to understand a little what he was. For a moment, he saw the Pierre under the skin. He was

182 a muscular demon with a long jaw, mouthful of razor sharp teeth and eyes that teared blood. Worst of all, while Sonny stared at the real Pierre, Pierre smiled at him! That was when Sonny got dizzy and passed out. When Sonny woke up, he was still propped against the wall, and Tommy was shutting the door behind him as he left the house. Pierre was facing the door, his back towards the others. Sonny glanced to the living room. Pedro still lay on the floor, holding his deformed hand. The twins were sitting on the couch, quietly and calm, possibly horrified beyond fight. Sonny let his gaze come back to Pierre. He had to force himself to look at him, but he looked just the same. Pierre turned and looked at the men in the house. He stood motionless for a few moments, possibly sensing that the longer he did nothing, the scarier he became. Sonny couldn't remember ever being as scared as he was right no w. He thought he was going to pee his pants. Then, he looked down, and saw that he already had! When he looked up, Pierre was watching him and smiling. He liked that he was scaring them to death. Pierre raised his arms and let the gun drop to the floor. Pedro stared at the gun as it fell less than five feet from where he lay on the hardwood floor. Pierre saw Pedro looking at the gun and walked next to it. He tapped the gun with his boot, looking at Pedro to taunt him. Do you want the gun? Of course you do. What would you do with it? Shoot me? Do you think that would matter? Do you think that would help you? Pierre questioned the men in the house vigorously. Sometimes he spoke the questions, other times his mouth was closed but the words still rang loudly in Sonny's head. He was now legitimately horrified of Pierre. There was absolutely no way that he was a normal human being. Looking at him now, as he stood almost on top of Pedro with the gun next to his foot and an intense look of rage on his face, he resembled a demon. Pedro inched towards the gun. He was either really brave or incredibly stupid. Sonny had gotten to know Pedro fairly well in the last couple of months and hazarded an opinion on the matter. He was incredibly stupid.

183 Pierre stepped back a foot from the gun and looked at Pedro. His eyes flew wide, and it was obvious that he was going to take the chance that Pierre was giving him. Pedro, still crouching on the ground, dove for the gun, and got it. He fumbled with it, mostly because his good hand was broken. He held the gun in his hand and clicked off the safety. Sonny felt the slightest bit of hope for the briefest of moments when he saw the gun in Pedro's hand, but when he looked into the smiling face of Pierre, the hope vanished. Pierre was loo king at Pedro as he stood and pointed the gun towards him. Pierre had a grin on his face, taunting Pedro to fire a shot. Sonny stood, and waited. The twins looked up from the couch, nervously watching Pedro's last effort. Pierre looked at Pedro, the smile growing larger, and said, Do it! Shoot me! Pedro's knees were shaking as he continued to hold the gun in his hand. There were tears in his eyes as he yelled, I will kill you. You son of a bitch. He fired two shots into Pierre's hugs chest. Both bullets smashed into Pierre, sending blood spurting out of his back and onto the floor behind him. Sonny expected Pierre to be knocked onto his ass, thrown across the room or to see his insides fall to the floor. He expected the bullets from the gun, a Berretta-Nine Millimeter, to cause severe damage from the close proximity they slammed into Pierre's chest, but they didn't. Pierre took the first bullet in stride, never even flinching. He started to walk towards Pedro as the second bullet slammed into his chest. If it did any damage, he didn't show it. He walked over to Pedro, still smiling broadly and laughing with his mind. He knocked the gun from Pedro's hand and lifted him off the ground. Pedro squirmed and tried to kick Pierre, but the kicks did nothing. Pierre held him in the air with one arm and then he hoisted him higher. He held Pedro far above his head, at the farthest reach of his long and powerful arm would allow and then shook Pedro violently. Sonny watched Pierre, or the demon that looked like Pierre, as he shook Pedro like a doll. Pedro's head whipped violently back and forth, almost seeming to tear from his shoulders. As each moment passed, Pierre looked less and less like a

184 human, and more like a demon. Finally, Brian, the less stoned of the twins stood and raised a shaky hand. Stop it. Let him down, please. You're gonna kill him! Pierre stopped shaking Pedro and continued to hold him easily off the ground with one hand. Pierre looked at Brian and his grin turned to a hateful frown. Pierre lowered Pedro to his eye level and then snatched him by the hair on his head with the other hand. Pierre leaned in to Pedro's neck and bit. The sound was awful. It sounded like a piece of really fresh watermelon being sucked on by a child. The blood poured down from the side of Pierre's face and onto the floor. Pedro began to shake, his body going into seizure. A single streak of blood slid down his neck, but the rest pumped into Pierre's throat. That was when the twins started to scream. At first Sonny thought they were screaming to him to run. Then he was sure that they were screaming to the Pierre Beast to stop and let Pedro down. But then, when Pedro's lifeless body dropped to the ground, Sonny heard what they were screaming for. They were screaming just to scream. There were no words or even different sounds. Their screams were simple and ear piercingly loud screams of absolute terror. The twins continued to scream as Pierre leapt to them in a single and impossible jump across the room. He landed on top of both, knocking Brian to the ground and holding onto Bruce. He took Bruce by the neck and bent down to take hold of Brian. He lifted them both off the ground, crushing their windpipes and silencing their screams. Pierre brought his face towards Bruce and then towards Brian. He was smelling them! You, he said, looking at Bruce. You smell,..tastier! Sonny stepped off the wall, trying to run, but stopped. Where would you run? Where could you hide that he wouldn't smell you and come to get you? You're dead, accept it! The cowardly sentiments rang out inside Sonny's head, and he obeyed. He put his back against the wall and decided that instead of moving he would fight the subtle urge to be brave and just shake and cry. Brian hung in the air for a moment and started to punch at Pierre. He was trying to hit him in the face, maybe in the eyes. Pierre laughed, out loud this time. Very easily and

185 casually, Pierre twisted his hand and snapped Brian's neck like a branch. Immediately, Brian went limp and the punches stopped. Bruce watched as the lifeless body of his brother dropped to the floor. He tried to scream, but the powerful hand that was crushing his throat silenced any noise he sought to make. Pierre lowered Bruce and let go of his throat. Bruce's hands immediately went to his throat, trying to ease the damage that Pierre's hand had done. Bruce tried to step back, possibly the first step before an all out sprint towards the door towards a possible salvation and safety. The moment that the thought crossed his mind, Pierre was on him. In an instant, he could feel the demons mouth on his neck. He could feel the warm blood mixing with the cold lips of the demon. Soon, the edges of his vision stated to grow fuzzy and narrow and his lower body grew colder. Soon, Bruce's body dropped to the ground, and the demon looked directly at Sonny. The strength ran out of Sonny's legs, leaving him with just enough to stand. Pierre turned to face Sonny and then began to walk towards him. Sonny began to shake and cry. With the prospect of running gone, Sonny did the next bravest thing he could think of. He closed his eyes and prayed. The room was silent as he mouthed any and every prayer he could remember. He felt a cold hand slowly tighten around his neck and could feel warm breath being blown into his face. Once again, Sonny peed on himself. Pierre stepped back, trying not to get urine on himself. You cry like a woman. Oh, is that what you are? A woman? No, not a woman, but something else. I read your mind when I came in and saw your thoughts. You are gay as the day is long, aren't ya? Like to fuck men, but never had the courage to admit it? Sonny forced open his eyes and looked at Pierre. Pierre's eyes were wide and a darker shade of blood red than before. Once again, he was grinning. To the horror of Sonny, Pierre continued to taunt him, but his mouth remained closed in a smile.

186 Pissing all over yourself! How brave you are. You're a coward, and cowards have the sweetest blood. I am going to enjoy tasting your faggy blood! Sonny closed his eyes as the hand slipped away from his neck and waited for the demons cold lips to bite down on his neck and end his life. After a long moment he began to wonder what the demon was waiting for. Is he torturing me? Finally, after God knows how long, Sonny opened his eyes and realized that the demon was gone. He had walked away as quiet as a mouse. Sonny took a step away from the wall, certain that the demon would emerge from the wall behind him. It didn't happen. He began to walk slowly away from the wall and into the living room, all the while waiting for the demon to jump from the shadows of the house. Once again, the demon stayed hidden.Why is he toying with me? Sonny continued to walk towards the couches, keeping his eyes glued straight ahead into every dark corner that the old house had to offer. For the first time since moving to this house in Brockton, Sonny realized how many dark corners that the house contained. He began to feel as if he may be alone in the house. He stepped forward and felt a hand close around his ankle. He screamed as loud as he could and nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked down at the hand and saw that it was bloody and attached to the dead body of Pedro. Sonny began to cry softly to himself as he backed slowly out of the room. He went to the door and slowly opened it. All the while, he waited for the demon to emerge from behind him, tapping him on the shoulder and prepared to finish the job. But the tap never came. Before Sonny knew what had happened, he was running through the front lawn of the house and then down the street. He ran until he could run no further and then collapsed on an unfamiliar yard of a distant neighbor. As he lay on the snowcovered lawn panting, he thought that the demon would still step out of the shadows and finish him. But, he never saw the demon again on that night. Sonny knew, in the back of his mind and in the dreams that woke him in the night screaming, that the demon was still out there, waiting to finish him off.

187 For the rest of his life, Sonny waited for the demon to step from the shadows of the dark night. P24 Tommy watched Pierre walk out of the house at a leisurely pace and remembered thinking that everything may actually turn out all right. If Pierre had been running out of the house, or walking frantically, then he would have been nervous. But, Pierre was strolling to the car. Tommy could swear that, had he been closer to his best friend of four years, he might have heard him whistling a jovial tune. Pierre looked totally at ease, which, in turn, made Tommy relax. Five minutes before, Tommy was anything but relaxed. As a matter of fact, he would have had a difficult time thinking of a time when he had ever been more nervous. Ironically, he wasn't nervous for himself or even for Pierre. He w as nervous for Pedro and Sonny, and the twins, whatever their names were. It wasn't that they couldn't handle themselves, because most in this business could fend for themselves. It was the look in Pierre's eyes that let Tommy know that he meant business, and that business was going to be ugly. He had never seen Pierre act like this; but then again, he had never seen Pierre in this type of situation. The way he had seized the gun was incredible. Actually, no, it wasn't incredible. It was impossible. He took the gun so fast, that if he had reached out a moment before, Pedro wouldn't have even reached for the piece. But, that wasn't it. The fun didn't stop there ladies and gentlemen. No, not by leaps and bounds. It was what Pierre had said to Tommy in a breath y whisper of total seriousness. It's good that I'm here. You were gonna die tonight. He had said it in a way that let Tommy know that it was entirely true. The only question Tommy had about the comment was how the hell Pierre knew that they were going to kill him? Either way, he had been right. Amazingly, Tommy sat in the car, watching Pierre walk over to the car, and he felt a bit of pity for the inhabitants of the house. True, they had conspired to kill him and steal his money, but still, Tommy doubted th at anyone deserved to die the way they probably had. Some unknown feeling had come into Tommy, and it had enabled him to understand that even though Pierre had the gun, he

188 hadn't used it. He had heard gunshots, three to be exact, but sensed that the men in the house hadn't met their demise through bullets. Something told Tommy that Pierre had not wanted to shoot these men. It was something in his eyes. His blood red eyes! Pierre opened the door and sat in the car. He was looking out the passenger window, and Tommy couldn't see his face. We should go, Pierre said softly, still not turning his glance towards Tommy. Tommy started his car and drove away from the house as fast as the BMW would allow. He continued to take glances towards Pierre, but Pierre was still staring out the window.What the fuck are you staring at? What happened in that house? I heard shots. Pierre didn't answer, still staring out the window. Even if he had heard what Tommy had questioned, he didn't show it. Tommy was beginning to get a little scared. He had never seen Pierre act like this, and it was starting to make him feel that he may not be safe with him. Pierre had been acting strangely since Tommy had gone to get him. In the house, Pierre hadn't said a word, but he seemed to know that they were going to try to rob them, and he knew where the money was. Then, he wanted to be left alone with four men, to punish them? What the fuck are you staring at? Why won't you look at me? Pierre didn't turn or flinch, but he spoke in soft and slow words. You don't want to see what I look like. Tommy froze at the wheel, unable to move. Hell, he was barely able to breathe. What did he say? Why wouldn't I want to see what he look likes? I know what he looks like! I've seen him before! "What did you say? What's wrong with you?" Pierre turned slowly and looked at Tommy. His eyes were the color of blood, but the actual retinas were still an amazing blue. Pierre's face was covered in blood from the nose all the way to the bottom of his face. His chin was drenched in deep red, and several spots had dripped onto his sweater underneath. Pierre opened his mouth, exposing inch and one half incisors through a sadistic smile. When Tommy saw those teeth, a great wave of understanding rolled over in his brain,

189 like a boulder rolling from outside of a cave, sending brilliant light flooding inside. He's a Vampire! Yes I am, Pierre said calmly. Tommy pulled the car to the side of the road. He looked at Pierre for a long moment, not sure what he should say to his friend, that now was much, much different. I don't believe in vampires! Pierre laughed out loud in the idle car. I didn't believe in them either, until I became one. But now, I know they're real. Tommy still had no words to say to his friend that he talked to every day for four years. What could he say? Everything was different now. He was different now. Another flash entered Tommy's head, and he ceased thinking as well as talking. He can read my thoughts. It's harder for me not to read your thoughts , than to read them. So many times tonight I've been stealing your thoughts, and I didn't know how to stop. I tried to stop, but it's like you're talking to me. Do you think I wanted to find out that Sara fucked some kid last night? No. But you knew, so I knew. Pierre finished talking and sat back, staring at his friend in the driver's seat. Tommy wasn't sure what he should do. This was far from a normal event. There wasn't exactly a precedent set on how to act when your best friend tells you that he has become a vampire. A question arose in Tommy's mind, and he decided that he should vocalize it. How did it happen? When? Pierre smiled and began to wipe some of the blood off his face and chin with Kleenex he had kept in his jacket pocket. As Tommy stared at Pierre, he saw that his large incisors were shrinking. It was like he had seen in the movies when the vampires attacked, only in reverse. The teeth grew smaller and smaller until they were just a little larger than average. But it wasn't the size of the teeth that was frightening; it was how they gleamed white. They were long, sharp looking and extremely clean. It was like vampire teeth were new, like baby's teeth. I don't know when it happened, exactly. But, I know that tonight is the first night. When I woke up, and you were at my

190 window, I was a vampire. I could see the blood coursing through your veins and it looked delicious. Tommy reached for the door handle, his first impulse after hearing that his blood looked delicious, was to run. He felt a powerful and cold hand gripping the back of his neck. It was then that he began to understand something that was very important. Him being in this car, alive and breathing had nothing to do with anything besides Pierre allowing it. Also, he was alive because Pierre hadn't chosen to feed on him. No, I'm not going to eat you. I don't eat people; I drink their blood. Come on, eat people? That's gross. Pierre said this and laughed, obviously amusing the hell out of himself at the expense of his friend. He moved forward towards Tommy and looked directly into his eyes. He was speaking with his mind now; words had lost their meaning to Pierre. Listen. I don't have the answers to your questions, because I have too many of my own. This is very new to me, but it is now the only thing in my life that means anything. So, I have a question for you, my old friend. Do you want to live forever, or, die, at the hands of another's choosing? Tommy broke the stare and rubbed his temples. It hurt like hell when Pierre talked to him through his mind. It was like his brain was vibrating with bass from a powerful stereo. He wasn't entirely sure what Pierre was asking, but he assumed it was the question of whether or not he wanted to live his life as a vampire. YES!! The word echoed in his head, and Tommy swore the pressure would blow his eardrums or make his nose bleed. Tommy wasn't sure how he should answer. One question continually rang out in his head and that was what seemed most important. If I say yes, I will live forever, but would I want to live as a Vampire? The answer was No. Tommy looked at his friend? and said, No. I don't want to live forever. Just as long as I am supposed to. Pierre leaned back and nodded slowly. He reached for the door handle and pulled the knob. The door opened slightly, sending

191 a blast of cold air into the car. Tommy took the fresh air in a large gulp, realizing how much he needed fresh air. Okay then, my friend. Pierre extended a cold hand towards Tommy, who took it gingerly. Tommy was scared that Pierre would yank him forward and bite him anyway. But, it didn't happen. He shook his hand, one quick and firm pump, and then exited the car. Tommy sat alone in the BMW, and took a deep breath. He opened the window on his side and relished the fresh, c old night air as it flooded the front of the car. He took breaths in large, greedy gulps, seeming to be incapable of filling his lungs. After a moment, he began to get his wits about him and a single thought occurred. Sara. Pierre knows about Sara, and he'll get her! Tommy reached for his seat belt and extended it across his broad chest. He was going to have to drive fast if he was going to have time to find Sara and warn her about Pierre. What the hell would he say? Oh , hey, your boyfriend, yeah, he's a vampire. And, oh yeah, he knows that you fucked some other guy! It didn't matter what he said, as long as he tried. He reached for the gear knob, and felt a cold hand around his neck. He looked all the way down that long arm to which the hand belonged and really wasn't a bit surprised to see Pierre standing outside the car, his teeth long again, and his eyes as red as blood. Before he could think a single thought, he was yanked out of the car and was hanging in the air, looking down at the malicious eyes of his former friend as they glowed in the snow blistered darkness. I thought you said I could live? Tommy asked in a desperate plea to his old friend. Pierre pulled him close and said, I said that you could live forever or die by someone else's choosing, someone else's hand. Tommy shook his head vigorously. He wanted to live. He didn't want to die like this. He didn't want to be killed by Pierre, his friend, and a vampire.

192 I said you would die by another's hand, and the time would be at another's choice. That hand is mine, and the time I choose, is now! Tommy could feel Pierre's warm lips pressed over his neck. His skin popped like a plastic bag, and sudden warmth flooded down his neck. It hurt worse than anything Tommy had ever felt before did. And then, it didn't hurt anymore. P24 Cameron drove along 95 North in the middle lane, while Kristie slowly rose from her terror induced unconsciousness. As the exits whipped past, and the warm temperatures created a pleasant breeze through the open convertible, Cameron wondered what he was going to do with his new passenger. After the incident in the club, Baltimore would not be a safe place for her, and the Police would have some questions for her to answer. But, she wouldn't have any answers to give, and that was never a feasible statement to make to the cops. Yes officer, I was put into a trance by a good -looking vampire in the club; I went outside to have some unprotected sex with him, only to learn that he was indeed a blood-sucker! But, as my luck would have it, a mysterious man came out of the shadows and slayed the monster while I lay unconscious and my shirt lay open. Sure, I will sign this form. Sure, I will try on this jacket that has no arm holes and buckles in the front. What?. A nice padded room for me to go to do some thinking, that sounds like just the thing I need!. No way was Cameron going to save this girl, only to leave her alone and in a compromised position. He could do better. Cameron checked his watch. 1:58 a.m.. Without removing his eyes from the road, Cameron reached into a backpack that sat on the passenger seat. In a moment, he removed a long, thin tube filled with a dense and thick green powder. The tube looked like a chemist's beaker, complete with the thin cork at the top. Using his teeth, Cameron pulled the cork out and spat it into his lap. Reaching into the back seat, Cameron shook the bottle slightly, and as a puff of the green powder was sprinkled from the tube and blew into Kristie's face, her light unconsciousness became a deep sleep that would last for a long time.

193 Cameron pulled into a Super 8 Motel on Route 95 North of Boston. He parked in front of his room, 23B, and immediately hopped out of his car and went to the door. Cameron opened the door to the hotel, and in an instant, he had laid Kristie on the soft king-size bed and locked the door behind him. Accompanied by the feeling of intense perversion, Cameron removed her shoes and sat back on the chair to observe Kristie's sleep. If she was untainted, she would sleep peacefully, mostly. Even an unbitten person can have intense nightmares after the experience of seeing a vampire. If she had been bitten, she would suffer at least three vicious nightmares before awaking the following night with an intense and unholy thirst. But, if she suffered severe nightmares, and Cameron was forced to give her the test to determine her humanity, she would never wake to suffer the thirst. In fact, she would never wake again. But, that was thinking negatively, and Cameron tried not to do that. There was, in all actuality, a good chance that she had not been bitten. Honestly, she was a very lucky woman. Had she not been a female, and the vampire a horny male who lingered a little too long at her exposed breasts, she would be dead or worse. But, she was blessed with a buxom body, and in this case it had saved her life. In fact, Cameron found himself staring at her body now, and for the sake of decency, he placed a blanket over her, and went to check his weapons. P26 Cameron closed the door softly behind him, silently wondering if Kristie would awaken changed. There had been a moment when she had looked at him, before she passed out for good, where Cameron knew she had seen him, looked deep into his eyes and saw him. Their eyes had met, and Cameron knew that whether he liked it or not, he would be remembered by appearance. Shutting the thought out of his mind, Cameron opened the trunk of his car and scanned it quickly. Numerous inventories of his supplies was a faithful and important ritual, and Cam eron prided himself in living long enough as a Vampire Hunter to have formed rituals. The trunk was immaculate, uncluttered except for the spare tire, close to a dozen stakes and a long, silver sword coated with garlic. The sword had been passed to

194 Cameron from his Dad and was a priceless and life saving weapon. Cameron remembered from earlier that he had a canister of gasoline, a lighter and flint in his satchel in the back seat and closed the trunk confident that he had the necessary supplies for any mission that might arise. Instinctively, Cameron turned his attention towards his room, closing his eyes to listen for any sound of trouble. The room was as silent as a tomb. The sound of a car horn in the distance snapped Cameron from his trance and brought him back to his reality. He moved quickly, knowing that he had only an hour or two of guaranteed slumber for Kristie before she would require constant attention, in which he could get some food for himself. Remembering the store on the corner they had passed moments ago, Cameron walked across the parking lot and entered the store. He emerged 15 minutes later carrying three crowded bags of groceries. When he entered the room, Kristie lay peacefully under the covers, snoring softly and sleeping deeply. Cameron moved to a small table that sat in front of the hotel's well draped picture window. A tall lamp with a low watt bulb hovered over the table, providing a small but effective amount of light in which Cameron provided himself a feast of four peanut butter an d jelly sandwiches and a quart of chocolate milk. There was still plenty of food in the bags for Kristie, providing she woke up and didn't want to drink blood! Satisfied from his meal, and feeling the effects of the departure of his earlier adrenaline rush, it wasn't long before the darkness of the room, and the rhythmic sounds of Kristie's breathing ushered Cameron off to a light sleep upon the uncomfortable hotel chair. In moments, the light sleep turned deeper, and Cameron found himself dead to the world asleep, a mere 8 feet from a woman who may or may awaken as a bloodthirsty vampire. Kristie awoke with a start, sitting upright before even her first breath escaped her chest. She was covered by a thick blanket, dressed fully except for her shoes. Her h ead throbbed from the alcohol, but she felt decent; strong and alert. Licking her lips and and looking around the room, she

195 saw Cameron asleep on his chair, recognition of the evenings events flooded her memory instantly. She remembered the club, the man who attacked her, the man who saved her and then....nothing. Trying with difficulty to remember what had happened, Kristie tried to force the events after the alley to come about, but her only reward was a stab of pain in her brain that caused her eyes to w ater. She gave up trying to remember, instead gazing upon Cameron. He was good looking, about 5'10 or so, with light brown hair and an average build. But, what she couldn't see then, but would remember always, was the intense ferocity in his eyes as he charged through the alley bravely and attacked the man who tried to assault her earlier. At that moment, he was the most beautiful man in the world, her real life knight in shining armor. When she thought of that moment, her heart felt heavy, and she realized that she loved him just a little bit for showing her that some men in this world are valiant and chivalrous, not always looking for a quick and easy way into a woman's pants. I mean, even now as she lay here on the bed, in a room with a man she had never met, she found herself fully dressed, alone a bed as he slept uncomfortably on a chair. What a man he must be! But, as she let her thoughts linger on Cameron, she found that her gaze held even more steadily on him. In fact, she couldn't take her eyes off of him, and she knew the reason why in a way that she couldn't escape or put aside. He was dangerous and evil. The way he lay asleep in his chair, confident that his prey, (was that what she was?, it sounded right in her mind) lay on the bed, seemingly safe, but in reality, in more danger than ever before. He smelled funny, too, not foul, just different. She had never been one to doubt her instincts, and now did not seem a wise time to begin distrusting herself. Kristie looked at the table and the bags of food that sat in plain view. The bags were opened, and she could see a loaf of bread, covered in maggots and blue from age and staleness. Was this beast really going to try to feed her this shit when he woke up and resumed her torturing? She knew deep down that he was, and that he had been before she had fallen unconscious. Fallen unconscious? No, she had not fallen unconscious, he had slammed her head against the

196 headboard after he had finished raping her! The sick fuck had even taken the time to dress her again after, just to start the process anew when she woke up fresh from her sleep. She had to get out of the room before he woke up! Kristie slowly crept out of bed and began to tip-toe across the room towards the door. She reached the door and had her hand closed over the knob when she looked over to her capture, torturer, raper and the beast of a man who sat asleep, most likely dreaming of ways to drain every tear and sorrow from her until the moment she finally gave in and died. What would he do then? She shuttered with the thought. She should run. Leave the room quickly and escape this man and his deranged plans. But, something tugged at the back of her mind. A lone thought that compelled itself to be heard. What if he picks up another girl after I flee. Any girl, any age? What would he do to them as revenge for her escape? Suddenly, Kristie understood that she had not only been given the chance to escape, but she had been given the chance to end this monster's reign of terror on women everywhere, and she intended to take that chance! She came away from the door, and stopped, staring at HIM, as he dreamt of ways to torture other woman. She had no weapons on her, and she could see none in the room, but that was fine. She didn't need any weapons; in fact, she knew exactly the best way to kill this man. She could bite him to death. It wouldn't even take many bites; one, in fact. She could bite his neck, tear out his jugular and drink his blood! She could hear it now, coursing rapidly through his body, the source of his evil ways. If she tore his throat, and drank his blood, she would kill him, and..something else. She was thirsty, deathly thirsty and for some unknown and distant reason, she knew that his blood was the cure to her thirst. She would do it now! Quench her thirst, kill this monster and save the lives of women everywhere. As Kristie summoned the will to kill Cameron, she subtly changed accord in her body. Her hair darkened, seeming to grow fuller. Her skin grew lighter, making her lips look fuller, more red and flush like she was engaged in passionate sex. Kristie felt a sense of power and determination in herself she had never, ever felt before. Deep down, a tiny and scared

197 (pissant) voice tried to tell her that this wasn't her, that she was doing something wrong, but that voice was wrong. Scared and wrong! Kristie's anger and hatred could be contained no longer, and she ran at him. Her mouth opened as she neared, the teeth inside growing longer to help her suck his blood. She seized his jaw in her left hand, pushing it to the side and attacked his neck. She bit into his neck, letting the blood pour out and into her lips. He tried to move, escape her clutches, but he was powerless against her. She was killing him. Drinking his blood, and killing him! Cameron fell off the chair and crashed against the wall as he awoke from the nightmare. He immediately looked towards the bed, only to find it empty. Kristie was gone from the bed, instead, she was standing at the door, the handle at her grasp, staring wildly at Cameron. She blinked, breathed heavily and charged at him. Cameron only had a moment to utter his surprise before she was on him. "Wait, I wanted to help...", was all Cameron could say before she crashed into him, knocking them both to the floor. Cameron recovered his wits in an instant under the duress of danger, clutching her wrists and twisting her arms behind her back. She kicked, screamed and lunged at him, but it was no use. She may be acting like a lunatic under the threat she felt she was under, but she was definitely not a vampire. If she was, Cameron would have been dead long before. "Get your fuckin' hands off me you son of a bitch! I will kill you, get your hands off of me!", Kristie yelled over and over again as she fought to free herself from Cameron's powerful grasp. Cameron picked her up off the ground, and tossed her on the bed. She bounced once, but stayed on the bed, immediately looking at Cameron. Cameron took a step back, and said, "If you could calm down for a second, I can explain". Kristie stilled for a moment, and then she jumped off the bed and ran for the door. Cameron slid quickly to the door, caught her in his arms and tossed her back on the bed. "Please, I need to talk to you calmly. But you need to stay still and not try to escape. Believe me, I mean you no harm I just

198 want to tell you what happened, and then you can go. I promise." "What kind of a sick freak are you? Kidnapping a woman and bringing her to your room. You may think I am some defenseless woman, unable to protect yourself, but I'm not. I will cut your fuckin' balls off and feed 'em to you!", Kristie yelled from the bed, meaning every word of it. Maybe it was the stress of the night's activity; maybe it was the way in which she said the words with such power a nd meaning; but whatever it was, Cameron began to laugh like he had never laughed before. His laughter grew so strong and uncontrollable, that he had to hold onto the top of the chair to keep his balance. His laughter was so infectious, that after a moment, Kristie began to laugh, too, and then she was calm enough to talk. The Change, Part 27 by Scott Walker Shortly after Cameron had finished telling Kristie about what had happened to her in the alley and the events following that had led her to the present situation, Cameron sat back in the uncomfortable silence and waited for a response, any response at all. Kristie seemed to have nothing to say, instead choosing to stare at him incredulously. Finally, she cleared her throat and smiled. "You must think that I am pretty stupid? I mean, that is the stupidest thing that I have ever heard, and I worked at Wal mart for two months." Cameron rose from his chair, unsure about what to do now, but certain that further attempts to sway her opinion would be fruitless. He walked to the far corner of the room, hands on his hips, unsure about what action to take to convince Kristie that he was telling the truth. The whole experience was like nothing Cameron had ever experienced before. In all the years of being a hunter; t he battles with unknown enemies, the betrayals by close friends, and the countless close calls that almost led to undeath at the hands (or teeth) of a vampire, Cameron had never once had to actually explain to someone what he did and try to prove that it was real. In fact, he had never once saved someone and been there when they awoke to answer their questions. A

199 tiny voice in his subconscious asked him why she was different, but that same voice answered the question immediately. Because she reminded him of.... It was best not to think of her; it would only drive him crazy. Cameron was unaware that he had not said a word, had not answered the woman's question. He had instead stood in front of her, deep in thought, mouth closed, eyes open and blank. Kristie rose from the bed and looked at Cameron with furious intent. "If you aren't going to tell me the truth, or anything at all, I am outta here. I don't have to stand for this shit". Cameron motioned to stop her, opened his mouth to convince her to stay, but he never said a word, and his motion was only a reactionary movement. Truthfully, besides a small attraction, he had no reason to keep Kristie with him. It would serve no purpose and only risk her life again at the next sign of vampires. "Last chance, weirdo." Kristie stood by the door, hand on the knob, waiting for Cameron to stop her. Cameron wondered why she stopped. Maybe she feels something, too? Maybe she doesn't want to turn her back on me? No answers seemed to tell the entire truth, so maybe it was a little of both. But, the important thing was, she was still here. Still giving him the chance to keep her with him. "Fine". She opened the door, and Cameron watched her take a step out of the room, standing between leaving and staying. A sudden feeling gripped Cameron's heart, making him grip the knife clipped to his belt. He pulled it from his waistband, and ran to the door. Kristie stared at him as two hands from outside the room pushed her back and a man entered the room with murder in is feral eyes! Cameron was in front of him in an instant, taking in his appearance in the next instant. He was short, with a barrel chest and loose clothes. His red hair was cut close to the scalp, only giving the hint of hair. He had pale, white skin with freckles. He appeared to be every bit the Irishman, but his yellow reds, tinted with red, gave away his true nationality.

200 Cameron acted on impulse, stabbing outward with the blade, trying to end the battle before it began. The knife went towards Irishman's heart, but it was knocked away with a powerful blow that stunned Cameron's wrist, and drove him back a step. Kristie screamed as realization of what she was seeing dawned on her. She knew then, Cameron was not lying; she really had been almost killed by a vampire. They do exist! "Get back! Hide in the bathroom," Cameron yelled to Kristie when he saw the knife fall to the floor and slide to the radiator as his hand exploded with pain. Kristie tried to pull herself away from the vampire, but his eyes held her still. She knew that if he took a step towards her, she would not be able to control her bladder. Irishman straighted up, letting his hands drop to his side, while a smirk escaped his lips. A hint of his long teeth was evident. "I expected better from you, Hunter." The Vampire jumped towards Cameron, seizing his shirt in his hands. Cameron poked at the monsters eyes in vain, as the powerful arms gripping his chest held him back. The vampire pulled Cameron's arms to his sides, and pulled him close. "You reak of defeat, weakling. I will make you watch me kill your whore, and then I will turn you into one of us. That is the only justice for you, Hunter". Cameron squirmed in the Vampire's arms, but it did no good. Like quicksand, the more he struggled, the more he could feel the hands tighten around his arms, threatening to crush his bones to powder. His time was up. He had been lost in thought talking with Kristie, and the Vampire had struck at the opportune time. His feet were six inches from the ground, and even as he tried to kick the Vampire in the crotch, the blows were weak and caused the vampire no obvious pain. Cameron realized he was finished, but Kristie could escape now if she went immediately. He looked into the Vampire's eyes, and stopped squirming. The Vampire smiled, opening his mouth to show his razor sharp teeth. "How easily you give in." Cameron struck immediately, driving his forehead directly into the bridge of the creatures nose. Pain exploded in Cameron's head, making him see stars in his vision that appea red as

201 white fireworks on the side of his peripheral. Dazed, he felt the creatures hands loosen for an instant, and knew this was his only chance. He looked at Kristie, as she stood paralyzed with fear against the wall. He met her eyes, and screamed, "Run! Now, this is your only chance". The vampire gripped Cameron by the side of his face. The creatures hand was ice cold and dry, but it still made Cameron shiver with it's touch. The powerful hand shoved Cameron across the room, sending him crashing against and then over the bed, where he landed on the floor with a loud thud that racked his brain against his skull. The pain wasn't as intense as the head butt had caused, but the world was beginning to look dim. The vampire used his forearm to wipe the blood fr om his face and snarled at Cameron as he lay on the floor. Kristie felt her bladder loosen and still couldn't move. Cameron saw the urine running down her leg, and watched it puddle between her feet. "Kristie, for the love of Christ, get the fuck out of he re," Cameron yelled loudly, hoping he could break her trance. She straightened up, seeming to come back into reality a little, and her back slid off the wall an inch. She stepped to the side, standing towards the far window, ready to run towards it as an escape. The Vampire began to run towards her, and she finally moved. She stepped directly onto her urine underneath her, and felt her foot lose purchase, sending her crashing to the floor as the Vampire dived above her, crashing head first into the wall. The Vampire's face and head left a large dent in the wall, as pieces of white plaster began to fall next to Kristie, and she slid away from the writhing creature. On the other side of the room, Cameron tried to stand, but it was an effort. He shook his head, hoping to clear the mess in his mind. His arms and his head already screamed in unified agony from their injuries. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the handle of the knife from under the radiator. He reached for it, and took it in his hand as he stood. He faced the Vampire as it too began to stand, concentrating on Kristie as she tried to back away by crawling

202 on the floor. The creature's face was a bloody mess. Streams of blood flowed from it's nose and from it's scalp and face, where numerous pieces of wall plaster still stuck out of holes in it's cheeks. But, despite the injuries that would heal soon, it had lost none of its determination to kill Kristie and finish the Hunter. Cameron leaped on top of the bed and dove into the Vampire as it tried to stand, sending it crashing into the wall again, creating another large hole in the plaster. Kristie screamed, and crawled towards the bed. She stood and ran over the bed to the door. She paused at the door, looking back at Cameron as he lay atop the creature. Camerons eyes met hers, and he began to stand, again. "Go", he yelled as he felt the creatures hand trying to grip his back and pull him down. Cameron turned towards the Vampire, and felt his own blood run down his nose between his eyes. He turned the knife in his hands, and brought it down towards the vampire. He slid the blade across it's throat and saw blood spurt by his face, gushing from it's neck. Cameron wiped the blade across the already bloody shirt of the vampire, as he gripped the creature's shirt collar and pulled its weakening body from the wall. The Vampire fell to the floor lifelessly, but Cameron knew that despite its numerous wounds, the chance that the Vampire was playing possum was much better than average. Cameron acted fast, not wanting to wait to find out if this was an act, a clever trap waiting to kill a conceited Hunter. Cameron thrust the knife into the Vampires heart and felt the creature's body jerk violently and then fall to the floor. A disgusting belch of violently nauseous gas escaped its lips, as its face became grey and ashy. Finally, the creatures face began to crease entirely like a dry desert. The Vampires face turned to ash and then powder on the floor in front of Cameron. Kristie stood in the doorway, frozen with shoc k, but finally regaining some sense. She walked towards Cameron and helped him off the ground. He felt weak and needed Kristie's help to balance him as he walked to the door. She placed her arm firmly around his waist as she opened the door. A stiff breeze blew into the room, sending the ashes of the Vampire

203 into the air, spreading them across the room and out of existence. Cameron leaned heavily on Kristie as they walked out of the room, away from the nightmare that almost cost them their lives and into a nightmare that would leave one dead and the other on the verge of suicide. P28 Thirteen days following Black Tuesday, while most the entire population of the United States was still reeling from the reality of their newfound poverty, Enson searched for foo d on the streets of Roanoke, Virginia. The streets were crowded, filled almost to capacity with people idling by shops and homes, gossiping about the rumors of a catastrophic recession that would affect the nation. Only three weeks prior, America seemed to have had the strongest economy in the world, with a prosperity few nations had seen before. But, following record amounts of stock sales, the foolishness of bankers, brokers and businessmen, America had seen their stock market collapse, and thirty billion dollars of money virtually disappear from the pockets of the populace. Now, people walked their neighborhoods, spreading and recycling whatever gossip they heard from others, careful to add a fair amount of embellishment, but never certain of the original source of the news. From the crowded streets, one man, finely dressed in a tailored suit, with matching bowler hat and leaning on a cane with an ivory handle, walked alone among the people. He was the friend of no one in Roanoke, but he was also enemy to none in the small city. He listened intently to the rumors of the people, while appearing to not hear any. He noticed that whenever he passed a person, single or in groups, they would look his way and study his composure and movements. It was the same everywhere. People trusted a man in a suit. They assumed he was a banker, or someone of some importance, who could help them sort out their possibly bleak futures. A man in a suit symbolized the new America; wealth and education. A man in a suit could be trusted for guidance, especially in tough times. This is exactly why he wore this fine suit, to be trusted by all he passed, and all who saw him.

204 When he was certain that he had been noticed at least a dozen times, he casually strolled to a street lamp post and propped himself up about three feet off the ground. He stayed there silently for only a moment, but already he could feel numerous pairs of eyes on him. This crowd was easy. Lately, they had all been easy. The pedestrians observed the man curiously. His a ppearance was pleasing; tall, well built, with clear blue eyes, a finely etched jaw line, and straight white teeth. Think black spectacles made him appear older, and to most, more intelligent. Using the ivory cane head, he tapped loudly on the post, attracting the attention of the few who hadn't already noticed his elevation. "My good people", he began with a look of worry. "I am here as a representative of Virginia City Bank, and I am afraid that I have terrible news," he said, stopping for a moment to let the worried murmurs from the crowd grow louder, then die down completely. When he was sure he had every ear in on the street, he began again. "My sources inform me that the horrible events of late are only the beginning, and that most likely, this will be a terrible time for all." The distress in the crowd was great; grown men and women exclaiming worry loudly, which caused the children to begin to act up or cry. This time, he let the worry expand upon itself. When he was sure that he once again had the crowd's full attention, he began to speak. His voice was softer than before, purposely forcing the crowd to gather in tighter to hear him speak. This led to some pushing and shoving for best position, which was also something he wanted. "No matter what is done now, I promise you that we will all be on the bread line by December. And you with young ones might outlive your children, because when it becomes a fight for food, it will indeed be every man for himself," he exclaimed to the crowd. The crowd grew uproarious at the news, and minor pushing and shoving began to escalate into scuffles, fights, and stampedes to leave the main street for refuge on the curbs and in store doorways.

205 A young mother bundled her child in her arms and fled to the side of the street. Three feet from the curb, she tripped and was pulled into the melee like a frog pulls in a gnat. The child lay on the curb, crying loudly for his mother. The instigator of his whole riot, the trustworthy banker whom no one had seen before, and would easily be forgotten, slipped down the pole and escaped to safety on the next street. Ironically, while one street was a mass of chaotic violence, the next street over was desolately quiet and peaceful. He stepped from the shadows of the late afternoon sun an d strode confidently to his car, which sat in front of a closed deli. The car was a 1930 Ford 5 Window Coupe, still shiny and new, and in the custom light blue that was rare on most cars of the 1920's. Even then, a car was a rare sight, and most people gawked when they saw him pass by. He would give a wave, and for the kids, he would stop by and let them look around, but he never stayed long. Staying in one place too long was never a good idea. There was always the chance he would be recognized, or caught in one of his many lies. His real name was Jason Evvers, but he hadn't said that name to anyone in at least ten years. But he always used the initials, because they were here and there in his personal effects, and if something was ever found of his, well, that was an explanation he didn't want to have to give. Jason had been born into luxury. His parents were wealthy, and this wealth had afforded him a life like few others. But this life had also provided him with an outstanding education, without the need to work to support himself. This free time became a problem for Jason, the boredom, the loneliness and worst of all, the feeling of purposelessness. Ten years ago, Jason decided to strike out on his own and see what he could make of himself. But after about six months of living in hotels and cavorting with prostitutes and various escorts, the money he had taken with him was gone. For Jason, this was a terrible time. He wasn't completely destitute, but for a man like Jason, not being able to spend money frivolously, without a second thought was maddening. He would walk by a store and see a bowler in the front window that struck his fancy, and actually have to wonder if he could afford it, or if he would be better to go without. For

206 most people, a change in fortune like this may spark a new life, a new set of values and a new way to live and earn a living. Not for Jason Evvers. For Jason, his first close brush with middle class poverty, was enough to make him cower like a scared child and go home to his father. His father welcomed him home with open arms and subtle glee. Fully understood by Jason was that he was forever a man unable to make his way in the world in the same way his father had before him. He was a miserable failure who would be forced to take over his father's business to have a life. But, for the period of time before he took over, Jason was forced to live as a middle class person. He was not allowed to stay in the family mansion; instead he was subjected to living in a meager two-bedroom home on the far reaches of the family property. Servants quarters to be exact, except they were empty save for Jason and his numerous possessions. Demetrius Evvers, successful businessman, and now the torturous bastard father of Jason hoped this slight hint at a modest living would quell Jason's spoiled nature and make him more akin to the scores of people he would be in association with. This decision to make Jason's life a little less comfortable was not at all malicious, but instead a hope a father had to cure his son of some attitude problems geared toward less fortunate people. But, for the next 18 months, Jason learned little, and his resentment blossomed into full blown hatred. In the long nights when Jason sat alone in his tiny living room, on a meager couch and forced to eat meals he prepared poorly for himself, he kept himself amused by planning ways to punish both his father and those poor people that he was forced to live like by the unfair old bastard. Six months shy of two years of middle class life, Dem etrius did his son a favor and died. Jason sat through the funeral and the meetings after with a stoic expression of regret and panged sadness, but inside he cherished his chance. After the final papers were signed, the money tallied, and the legacy his, Jason sold the company, the house, and all the assets of his father's business for a grand total. But, instead of dividing the profits among his family, he left them penniless and homeless, never even saying farewell to his sisters and mother.

207 Rather than feel regret at leaving his only living family in absolute squalor, Jason found that he rather liked the idea of breaking people who were once so high in the social and financial ladder. In fact, he loved it. This more than anything was the emotion that set him on his current path of deceit and treachery that lead Jason to this moment in time. This moment when he would meet a man, of sorts, who knew more about taking from people than Jason could understand in a thousand lifetimes. P29 The 1930 Ford 5 Window Coupe rolled along slowly, with Jason sitting smugly behind the wheel. Not many could afford to keep a car on the road these days, and even fewer could have afforded to buy a new one, but Jason's fortune kept his cars new, his clothes trendy and his life mobile. The car was light blue, with shiny rims that were factory new and a chrome bumper that seemed to catch the glare of the sun even on a cloudy day approaching dusk such as this. The sun went behind the clouds as the Coupe took a slow left onto Cedar Avenue and strolled past slightly dilapidated houses that would soon be worse for wear than they now appeared. Neighborhood children stood outside the homes, some playing with small rubber balls which they bounced off the high concrete walls, while others simply stood around, seeming to have already become their fathers. Most of the children stared at the shiny new car that rolled by, almost as many pointed. They had seen this car in this neighborhood recently, and some knew that the driver was renting a sma ll apartment at the end of the block. But, aside from the idle gossip of the street parents, not much was known of the newcomer. He looked and acted wealthy, seeming to carry an air of superiority that rubbed more than a few the wrong way entirely. But, what bothered the people on Cedar Street most about the new stranger wasn't that he seemed to be doing so well while most were not; it was that he appeared to think it was their fault that they were having a run of bad luck. Many of the men on Cedar Street were fond of saying of their new resident, when the hour was late and the liquor almost gone, that they would like to see this man outside his car or home someday, and then see what kind of a man he was really. But,

208 this was just drunken chatter and idle threats, because as Jason's Coupe drove past the children of Cedar Street, this was to be the last time that any saw Jason again. The Coupe stopped in front of a small white apartment building numbered 462. It was in no worse or better condition than the others on the block, but the winos and the children stayed away, and the steps were clear and clean on most days. Jason didn't require that his home reflect his wealth during his little errands, but he refused to live like the people he found it so easy to deceive. Fighting the urge to skip up the stone steps leading to the large oak door, Jason couldn't control his grin as his key hit the lock and the door closed the darkening night out of the hallway to 462 Cedar Street. In a moment, he was at his door at th e top of the three floor building, using his last of three keys to enter his apartment. He entered the room, closing the door behind him with his foot and walked quickly into the den to find his only true travel possession aside from his small, yet expensive clothing. At the back of the den, to be seen after turning a corner and positioned between the two windows, was a wooden rocking chair that Jason couldn't live without. It was in his fathers office at home, never to be sat in by any of the children, and it was the only thing that Jason took with him when he left the mansion and sold the house. The chair was now his favorite possession, and every evening, when he returned from his daily habits, he would sit in the chair, maybe smoke a cigar and listen to the radio. As he turned the corner, he stopped suddenly, his mouth open in an "O" that would have appeared humorous at any other time rather than now. In his chair, staring straight at him while smoking a cigar and rocking slowly, was a man the likes Jason had never seen. The man in the chair wore a dark grey suit, most likely tweed. He was slim, but looked strong. His hair was longer, hanging below the neck and splashing onto the shoulders. It was dark and curly, and impeccably clean by the rich shine. His face was pale, but flush in the cheeks and lips. His eyes were green, with the slightest tint of yellow, almost like a wolf. The intelligence behind those eyes was evident and intimidating. He wore no facial hair, and although he looked to be in his

209 mid to late twenties, his face had the smooth look of a man who didn't shave and didn't need to bother with the daily routine. He appeared to be tall, maybe an inch or two over six feet, but his arms suggested his height as somewhat closer to six foot six. And his fingers were long, as long as any Jason had ever seen. They seemed to stretch to beyond five inches in length, which each finger ending in a long and perfectly manicured nail. Both hands lay wrapped over the ends of the arm rests, the right one tapped lightly. The chair rocked forward smoothly, as the strange visitor said nothing, just simply sat staring at Jason as if he was not the intruder in this home. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only slightly by the soft noise of the chair rocking, but this sound was faint and constant, becoming white noise that disolved into nothing. From outside, the sound of children playing resonated throughout the room. The noise seemed to snap Jason from his trance. He stepped forward, hand reaching behind his back. He removed a small pistol and pointed it at the stranger. "Who are you, and what do you want here"? The stranger continued to rock slowly, seeming to see the weapon but regarding it as next to nothing. Jason pulled back on the pistol, hoping the sound of the weapon a trigger pull away from being deadly would rouse the stranger, but already he sensed the danger this man seemed to exude. "I said, who the hell are you, and what do you want," Jason said, trying his hardest to control the quiver in his voice. The long fingers stopped their tapping, and the stranger ceased his rocking. His eyes didn't change in the slightest, and it seemed that he was going to say nothing. For a moment, the room lay in silence, Jason holding the gun towards the stranger, the stranger sitting idle in the chair, unmoving and menacing. Just as Jason was preparing to repeat his question again, the stranger spoke. "I had supposed that a man who made his living bilking others out of their slight savings would have taken better p recautions against a possible threat, but not much about you surprises me anymore. I understand that you think that nobody is your

210 equal, and naturally, none would be your superior and that in turn would mean none would catch you and none would be here to find you. Such as I have so easily". Jason studied the man for a moment, letting the words sink in, trying to understand what was being said, and more importantly, what the stranger meant. "Did my family send you? My mother possibly? I didn't think they would bother, but maybe I was mistaken," said Jason. The stranger smirked. "I didn't not come looking for you; you found me. You see, this is my city, where I have lived and survived for decades. It is you that are the newcomer to this area, and it is you th at I have to deal with now." A large knot was forming in Jason's stomach, seeming to do its best to drop to the floor. Goosebumps chilled his arms, and the gun began to feel slippery from where his hand was sweating. Jason stepped a foot or two closer, seeming to thrust the pistol forward, reminding the stranger that it was a weapon, and the advantage was his with this weapon. Jason tried to find some steel in his backbone, hoping it would steady his nerve and more so, his voice. "Listen, I don't know who you are, and I don't know what you want, but I want you to leave. You can go now, easily, or I can drag you out of here with holes in you, friend"! A small smile danced on the strangers face, as the threat passed between the two men. He nodded, and began to rock again. "Did you hear me, frien.." "I am not your friend, charleton! I am the enemy to all, such as you. Those who harm others who do not deserve it. Your punishment has long been put off, but I am here to correct that now," the stranger said calmly. Although the threat was spoken without great force, it only seemed to add to its dire seriousness. Jason felt his testicles slowly retreating into his stomach, and the urge to defecate suddenly seemed almost overwhelming. Before Jason could clear his throat to speak, the stranger stop rocking the chair and spoke again.

211 "Although you are the lowest form of humanity I have yet to encounter, and although I may not look that old, believe me when I say that by saying this, I am saying something!. In case you don't understand what I am saying, I will end the suspense and tell you. I am one of the undead, a feeder of the blood of those such as you. A vampire!. And, although the blood that pumps in your black heart is the same as others, I would not degrade myself to have what flows through you, in me. But, despite this, I do need you." Jason had begun to understand a little more what he was speaking to, and the mere thought made him tremble. He had heard his grandfather speak of a creature such as this, but he had never believed. But now, faced with this great evil, he came into full understanding that vampires did exist in this world, and one had found him. But, despite knowing the finality of his situation and the hopelessness of the attempt at confrontation, Jason was stubborn, and was willing to risk angering the vampire, to try his luck at escape. The vampire rose from the chair, seeming not to use his arms or his legs to propel himself upright, rather to simply float from sitting to standing. He stood perfectly still, his eyes remaining locked on Jason. "I tire of your stench, Jason, and need to finish with you now, so I will surmise my reason for being here. I need your money, and to some extent, your life. You see, you have money to travel, and squander it to harm others, so I will take it, and use it support myself throughout my extended undeath. While this may seem unfair, which I agree it is, I feel no regret because for years you have prided yourself on doing the same thing. I have seen it in your mind, your desire to ruin others who began less fortunate than yourself. Your evil desire to make those who claw their way up to the middle, scramble back to the gutter again. So, I have decided not to kill you, simply to even you out. Bring you where you have broug ht so many others. So, now that I have explained myself, I would like you to tell me the combination to the safe in the trunk of your car, and if you would be so kind, the keys as well." Jason stood in total disbelief, unable to comprehend what this vampire was saying. But, the important part, the part where his fortune would be gone and his way of life ended struck

212 home immediately with full force. Jason raised the pistol and fired three shots into the vampires chest. The reports echoed loudly through the room as the bullets tore into the chest of the vampire, burning through the outer coat and into the white shirt and flesh beneath. The impact of the bullets caused the vampire to move not an inch, or even a single centimeter. The smell of the gunpowder was heavy in the room as the smoke faded and the echoes died out. Jason raised the gun again, trying to convince himself that he had missed all three shots, although he saw the bullets strike home, and could see the holes in the clothing of the vampire. The vampire raised his arms in disgust, seeming to sigh loudly in frustration and disappointment. He fingered the hole in his chest where the bullet struck home but did no damage. Pulling the shirt from his torso by the small hole with black char marks still ashy, the vampire shook his head. "In an act that I believed to be of obvious generosity, I was fully prepared to leave you some of your dignity, and allow you to leave with the clothes on your back. But, I guess you saw to that well enough." Jason raised the gun again, seeming to still not comprehend its utter uselessness in the situation. "You son of a bitch. I will kill you before you take what's mine," he screamed before clicking the trigger. The gun never fired. Almost too fast for his eyes to see, the vampire was at him, lifting him off of the ground and heaving him against the wall hard enough to shake the ceiling and knock plaster to the hardwood floor below. The gun was knocked to the ground, out of reach of Jason's hands which lay stationary by his sides. The vampire looked at Jason as he lay against the wall, a barely conscious hump covered in white plaster dust. Jasons eyes finally met the vampires, pleading without saying a word. "Why me. Why do you do this to me," Jason asked desperately. Still not understanding that this day was a day of well deserved justice for all those Jason had deceived and whose lives he had ruined for sheer pleasure. The vampire walked towards Jason, crouching down over his victim and smiled. He spoke slowly and clearly, wa nting to be

213 understood, and understanding that this conversation would be the longest and most personal he had had in decades. P30 "I knew of love once," the vampire began slowly, his eyes looking down, away from Jason. He paused for a moment, looking despondent, and ..heartbroken? Does a vampire have a heart? Did this one? "I was once a soldier in the army.. some time ago, but, as they say, war changes a man". The vampire laughed at his cleverness. Jason winced at the sound of that laughter, it sounded like long fingernails on a dusty chalkboard. The laughter stopped, and a silence fell over the room. Jason stirred, his injuries beginning to come to life and speak up. The vampire noticed this and smiled. "I will keep it brief", he said with a small smile. He placed his hand on Jason's face and within a moment, Jason's eyes grew heavy and his pains faded away to a distant whisper. The vampire continued to talk, his words forming vivid pictures in Jason's mind. "I was a private in the war of Northern Aggression, remembered in history texts as 'The Civil War'. It was near the end of the affair for the South, and we were beaten. Although the treaties were still a ways away, we knew that it was over, and that we would return home saddened, bested, and in far f ewer numbers than had set off. I had a young wife that I yearned to see. She was beautiful. Long auburn hair that fell past her shoulders and curled at the end. She had pale, smooth skin, with a small nose that was perfect. Her eyes, hazel green, big and friendly... I stared into them forever, and knew happiness. I knew the war was over, yet I was fearful I would die in a foolish skirmish before I was sent home. I was fearful that I would never again hold my wife, and begin the family I had always wanted. I began to consider fleeing the army, running home and risking it all to be called a traitor. But, a traitors heart did not pump blood through this body, and I stayed and fought. One night, I was told that if I murdered the General, a brave and noble man from Massachusetts, I could return home a hero to my wife. I said yes, but when I arrived at his hut, I could not bear the thought of returning to my wife a murderer. I had killed in the war, but I killed with honor. How could I hold

214 in the hands of someone who had killed a man to go home. I would sacrifice his dreams of returning home, so that I could have mine. I could not put the blade in him, and I left the hut silently. When I stepped out of the hut, I heard what I believe to be the catch of a pistol, but now know it to have been the sound of a small twig snapping under the weight of a mans boot. I felt a strong hand on my shoulder, and came face to face with a vampire. In an instant, I was against a tree, his teeth piercing my neck, my blood flooding his mouth. I felt like slipping away, but I was rescued by soldiers. I wasn't saved, quite the opposite of that. But, they assumed that I was one of their soldiers and they fired at the vampire to save me. I do not know what happened as the first bullets pounded his flesh, but I fled as fast as I could. I ran away from the sounds of death and gunfire. I ran until my lungs ached and wheezed violently. My legs gave out at the side of a lake. I fell to its shore, my sides throbbing from the exertion. I lay back f or a moment, my eyes closed, relieved to be alive. I did not know it just then, but I had been attacked by a vampire, but the interference of the soldiers prevented my death, and provided my birth. I began to vomit, dark blood, that seemed to pour from my soul. I crawled slowly to the lake side, and tried to wash my mouth and face. The water felt cold and refreshing against my boiling skin. I peered into the water as the ripples my hand had caused faded, and saw that my eyes had turned from brown to red! I knew it then, that the daylight I had seen this day, would be my last. I knew of folktales from my family, and I understood that vampires were not a myth. I fled from the lake side, from the approaching sunrise that would char my skin. I didn't know if I truly wanted to live, but I knew that I did not want to die right now. I decided to walk home to my wife. I had not seen her in years, but I was certain she waited. I did not know my exact distance, but I knew I needed to head west to reach my home. For days, weeks and then months, I walked home. I saw town after town from the shelter of night. I fed on small animals that I caught, and I avoided people at all costs. My body cried out for warm blood, but I surpressed the desire.

215 One night, as I walked along the dark streets of Knoxville, still weeks from arriving home, I met the first people since I became the monster that you see before you. Had they been fine, upstanding people, this meeting between you and I may have been decidely different, but that was not the fate of it. These men that I met along the road that night, we of the troublesome lot. Full of anger and alochol, prepared to accost any whose path they might cross. They brandished a long blade, and told me they needed any nice possessions I carried. I had long ago left my possessions behind, but I still told these men nothing. They attacked, and I ...defended myself. Three men died by my hands in an instant, their terror and screams brought a smile to my face, and their blood.., I drank of it, and enjoyed. That night I realized what I was, and what I had to be. I hid the bodies after I fed, their blood giving me strength that I had never dreamed of having. I made it home in three nights, for a journey that should have taken weeks. Finally, I sat outs ide the home of my wife, and knew that I could never again go inside. I was a monster, and my wife the purest angel on earth. I would watch her grow old while I lived in eternal anguish. How would we live with me having to sleep during the day, and only ab le to live at night. I would be discovered and she would die to defend me. I thought of changing her to be like me, but I already knew that being a vampire was hell on earth, and I loved her too much to subject her to this. I watched her that evening. She cooked herself a small dinner, and ate alone at a table. She sat on the porch for an hour, reading by three bright candles. I wanted to go to her, but I knew that could not happen. She read a letter I had sent her over a year ago, crying my name softly into the night as she wiped tears from her soft cheeks. I cried with her, crying for the life that had ended. I watched her rise from her seat and go inside the house. She blew out the candles in the house and a moment later, my vampire eyes saw her lay in bed. I crept towards the house silently, sitting under the window. I could hear her soft prayers. Prayers for my return, and for my soul in the horrors of war. I heard the sounds of her soft breathing as she slept, and stood in the

216 window to watch her sleep. She was more beautiful than I remembered. I stood there until moments before sunrise, watching her sleep, and crying. As the sun was about to rise, I blew her a kiss, and ran off to the woods, never to see my beloved again. P31 If it weren't for his extensive injuries and discomfort, Jason might never have woken from the hypnotic ease he had fallen into listening to the vampire tell his story. In fact, long after the story had stopped, and the vampire fell silent, Jason continued to lay with his eyes closed, not sleeping, but not yet awake. It wasn't until the vampire nudged him that Jason awoke slightly. The tale was done, and the vampire was about to leave with Jason's sole possessions in life in tow. In an instant, Jason decided to try to kill this vampire one last time. He moved his fingers ever so slightly, making sure his arm had not fallen asleep, and would move when he needed it to. Satisfied that he had complete feeling in his right arm, he opened his eyes and saw that the vampire was holding a satchel that most likely contained all of the bank documents that held Jason's fortune. How easy he held the riches of a once dynastic family. The vampire walked to the far corner of the room, opening the blinds a bit to peer into the street. Full darkness had fallen on the crowded streets of Virginia, and the vampires hours had arrived. Jason slowly felt the floor for the gun. Holding his breath, Jason exhaled deeply when his fingers found cold steel. Seizing the gun slowly, he tightened his grip and slowly lifted the gun and tucked it into his shirt sleeve. He let out a deep breath, and listened. He heard the footsteps approach and could sense the vampire was near. Opening his eyes, he saw the vampire before him. He had the gun pointed at his head in an instan t, thought of saying something, and then thought against it. He fired once, a small bullet hole emerging in the pale forehead of the vampire. A look of surprise crossed the vampires face, as the bullets lone report echoed throughout the apartment, and a small trickle of blood coursed down the vampires face. The vampre fell to the floor, smoke rising from the gun, and from his forehead where the hot bullet had burned the skin.

217 Jason let out a deep breath, panting and sweating. His chorus of wounds was screaming bloody murder, but he had to stand and run out of this room immediately. He dropped the gun. Pressing his palms against the wall, he began to slide up the wall, keeping some of the pressure off of his stomach and chest, which felt as if a sledgehammer had struck. He stood against the wall, leaning against the cracked plaster. He thumbed sweat from his brow, feeling the sting as some ran into his eyes. Clutching his ribs on the right side, Jason lifted off the wall and tried to stand under his own power. The pain was immediate. Something was damaged in his chest and stomach, but he didn't have time for that right now. Jason took one last look at the vampire. It lay still on the ground. The smoke was now a thin tendril lofting from its face. Jason turned towards the door, and took a cautious step. The eyes of the vampire opened, and the creature began to rise. It was on it's feet in a second, already approaching Jason silently as he manuevered his first steps. Clutching Jason from the back of his neck, the vampire rammed him head first into the door. Jason let out a startled and more than slightly feminine shout and immediately his hands went to his face. The vampire laughed at the sound of the high pitched yell. He pushed Jason back across the room. Jason thudded hard against the far wall, but he didn't fall this time. Blood poured down his face where the gash split his forehead. The vampire walked across the room, closing in on his prey. "I was going to let you live. I was fully prepared to just take your money as punishment for the awful human that you are. You are truly a waste of skin, and I now do not like you!", the vampire yelled. Jason stammered forward, his bloody hands forming a cross at his chest. "No please. Don't hurt me, I don't deserve it. I am not that bad, just confused. I can be a better person", Jason pleaded. The vampire nodded. He had decided Jason's fate and was a moment from enacting it. "Let me understand. You wish me to let you live, and go about your business?", he asked.

218 Jason shook his head vigorously, tears falling from his eyes in large drops. "Ye..yes. Please! I won't ever use another person. I will only help others. I promise". The vampire considered this for an instant. He scratched at his forehead, where the bullet still sat lodged. The mark was ugly, with black char marks around the small circle. "You have done your best to kill me, and have failed. You may however had temporarily ruined my appearance, and that I can not forgive. But, Jason, I have travelled the world and seen many things, and although this is America, I do believe the worldwide creed should reign in this room. I will let the punishment fit the crime. Truly, an eye for an eye!" Jason pissed himself as the vampire approached. Cold hands, as strong as steel grabbed at this face. Long fingers with nails as sharp as blades found the gash on Jasons forehead, and took hold firmly. Jason screamed loudly as he head the skin being torn off of his face. Mercifully, he passed out as a large piece of his face was place in his hands, as the vampire continued to tear. Officer Barron patrolled Winston Street, and Dutch Ave at night like it was his own street. He walked up and down, speaking with children, residents and store owners alike. He liked these people, and although times were hard, soon to be getting harder, most were still optimistic. Barron was frail for an Irishman, with a shot of thick red hair and the customary freckled and green eyes. He had a confident stroll that forgave his lack of size. A baton hung on his right hip, although he never twirled it like some. He thought that the baton twirling was an unnecessary intimidation. He had heard a God awful scream only a moment ago, as high pitched as a woman, but sickeningly desperate. He was walking at a quick pace towards the general area of the scream, hoping desperately that it was not another wife finding a dead by suicide husband. He rounded the corner and saw a large group of people gathered. He began to trot, and then stopped dead in his tracks. He walked slowly, his hand reaching for his baton. He let it drop, the clanging sound of petrified wood striking the rough pavement.

219 A man was walking past the crowd. He was dressed well, rich, by the look of it. His undershirt was stained deeply red with blood. His hands were drenched in blood, and his stagger was uneven, off balance and clumsy. Although Barron wished now for the dead by suicide husband, the blood and the walk were by far not the worst of it. The man had no skin on his face. His skull was evide nt, complete with blood, veins and teeth. He had no lips, and his chattering teeth could be seen fully. But, the worst of all, the one thing that would haunt Barron for the rest of his long life, was the eyes of the man. With no eyelids to block his eyes, Barron watched as they darted from place to place, and then found the officer. The most horrifying thing about those eyes, wasn't their fright and terror, but their total understanding that he had no face. Barron vomited on his unifrom before bending to fi nish throwing up on the street. He held his stomach as he watched the man walk past. Barron crossed himself, but made no move to help or follow. The mutilated body of Tommy Hill wasn't discovered until three days had passed. Stuffed in the trunk of the car , it wasn't noticed until a few warmer than average January days turned the once popular college senior into a putrid stench machine. Police investigating the murder found no clues in the car, so a canvas of the surrounding neighbors began. The house most immediate to the car didn't answer the doorbell, or repeated knocking for two days in a row, prompting more than a little suspicion for the police. But, a "foul" odor from the house once again brought probable cause into the picture, and the door was booted open by SWAT and the mayhem discovered five days after it had occurred. The bodies of what was believed to be three or four people were found in pieces around the house. "Believed to be" was written in the report after the investigating officers were unable to ascertain with any great certainty which parts belonged where. All they knew for sure was that among all the blood, flesh and carnage, the vomit stains were from them. After a week long investigation, leading to the discovery of a history of drug dealing and trafficking, and other incriminating evidence, it was assumed that this was, in some form or

220 another, a drug deal gone bad. Detectives involved in the investigation were relieved to close the case unsolved, and do their best to forget about the entire scene. Some of the officers wouldn't remember the look of horror on the deceased faces, or the piles and pools of blood scattered throughout the house and on the walls. No, what they would remember, at night when it was dark and eerie, was the bite marks that covered the bodies of the murdered. They seemed animal in appearance, but what animal would bite their prey, and not eat them? The investigation into Tommy's death was lumped together with the house massacre, but Police didn't have any luck gathe ring evidence that would connect Tommy to the scene, aside from college police stating that Tommy was "believed to be" a drug dealer on campus. Because his list of friends was so extensive, police never even made it to interviewing Pierre. Instead, after speaking with five uncooperative "friends" they closed the case on Tommy as well. Like the students at Bridgewater State College that stopped by Pierre's room to pay their condolences to him in regards to Tommy, the Police would have found no answer at the dorm room. Pierre hadn't been seen in days after the events, and most believed he was either taking some time by himself, or that he had gone home to be with family. But, neither was the case. In fact, if they had met Pierre at all in those days following Tommy's death, they wouldn't have recognized him at all. Pierre sat in the dark room, wearing on his boxer shorts. The television was on, but the volume was so faint it was as good as muted. The window shades were drawn, with the corners taped to allow no light to enter the room. The bed was made, the room clean, save for scores of books strung about the floor. A book sat in Pierre's lap, his eyes scanning quickly. It seemed that television could not hold his attention any longer, but a book sparked his imagination and allowed him to concentrate. This was one of the several immediate changes he had noticed since.. since he had changed. Pierre had gained a physical intimidation about him in the last few days that was remarkable. He was always imposing,

221 being a tall and fit young man, but the change had made him stronger, leaner, and given his eyes a look of ferociousness that could challenge anyone without a word. His hair had grown almost to his shoulders, and had gotten curly at the ends. But, it had also darkened, seeming to turn black. His green eyes, once considered his best feature, were now a darker green, more like blue, and they shone yellow in the moonlight he noticed. But, that was another startling thing he had never read about in any vampire books, or seen in any vampire movies. He cast no reflection in a mirror, but he could see his reflection in water by moonlight. He had seen it once, and that had been enough to realize that not being able to see your reflection was a blessing, not a curse. His eyes were tinted red, fully red when he was aroused in any way, sexually or physically. His teeth were sharper on the ends, especially the ones next to his incisors which were normally flat. He had felt his incisors grow when he was in the house with the drug dealers and knew that his incisors grew to almost an inch in length when he needed to feed, but for now they hung just slightly past his other teeth. His hunger was constant. Even after he had fed on the four in Brockton, he had been unable to stop himself from feeding on Tommy. He could hear his warm, delicious blood coursing through his veins. He could hear his heart beating, inviting him to feast. He had tried to stop his hunger, to allow himself to be human, but had failed. He had fed on Tommy, kil ling him instantly, and then throwing him in the trunk to be found days later. He couldn't describe his feelings when it finally sank home that his friend had died, and he had killed him, and fed on him! That night, when he returned home, he could taste Tommy's blood in his mouth, and while regret tainted the taste, he still enjoyed it. The regret was the final human emotion he felt, now it was gone. Guilt, remorse, regret, shame, these were things of the past. Life had simplified itself in the immediate past. Goals were simple and life was relatively easy. Feed when he thirsted, avoid the sun, and try to not be notices as different. He had fed three times in the five days since the night of Tommy's death, the last being two days ago. He could feel himself growing weaker by the hour, as he waited for the sun

222 to go down fully, and his time to come. He would travel away from the campus, and find his food. He needed to feed. He needed to live. After all, he had changed. .. New Signs at Work, Part I by Kimberly Carson Aries: Working side by side with Aries will rarely be dull and you'll almost always find them working side by side with someone for working alone would be their idea of hell - Aries would wither away from contact starvation. Aries is energetic, dynamic, forthright and generally playful without sacrificing professionalism (a personal favorite of mine). Most Rams make excellent leaders, however, I've known plenty of Arians content to be accountants, bookkeepers, secretaries, film editors, race car mechanics, bankers and route drivers. Yes, they are the most forceful individuals in the office and imposter their leaders (translated: they act like they're the boss), but that's because they enjoy the spotlight not because they thrive on the responsibility. And just to keep astrology credible, I've known a few business owners who are fearless leaders in their own right. Taurus: Our Venusian ruled Bulls like to graze their way through the day, but are not without their capacity for hard work; they simply dig in when they're good and ready and woe to those who try to impose their pace on a Bull. Can you say, Toro, Toro? You can coax a bull to water (if you're desperate for human interaction and are an idiot), but you'll get mo re than the horns if you think you can make him drink. Taurus appreciates policy and procedure and demands that these guidelines are fully explained, constantly available and strictly enforced. I know Taureans who are emergency dispatch operators, bankers, teachers, business owners and cattle ranchers. Taurus is content to work alone or in a group, probably preferring the former over the latter; Venus thrives on appreciation and it's hard to feel appreciated by four inanimate walls. Most Taureans live to work, consider it a weakness to take a day off and will exert twice the effort as those around them and expect the same. They aren't guilty of double standards just really high ones.

223 Gemini: The individual in the office who's on the phone, adding a column of numbers on the calculator, searching for something on a computer file and sorting the mail all at the same time is Gemini. Multi-tasking is for light-weights to Gemini...macrotasking is more their speed. The intention is to keep the flow of activity moving along at a high rate of speed and accuracy of these performed tasks is not always of paramount importance to the Twin. I don't know this for a fact, but telemarketing is probably ruled by Gemini - mass communication with minimal focus on purpose. Gemini is a messenger, not a fact finder. Cancer: Moon children can show up in banks, insurance agencies, schools and frequently in positions requiring public speaking (Cancer rules mass consciousness). And while they may show up calmly, quietly and unassumingly don't expect them to stay that way. Cancer can surprise you with the volume of their otherwise soothing voice. Cancer values security and is unlikely to change jobs a lot unless there are other factors involved. The dominant quality to Cancer is often very subtle or simply slow to surface, but once it does it is unmistakable. Most Cancers avoid confrontation (crabs move sideways) so tend to avoid supervisory capacities and become quite motherly in positions of authority...okay, in any position. Cancer values family and will place this above any career obligations if push comes to shove. Cancer lives to nurture (in excess, smother). Leo: Leos are hard workers and if you want your day to run smoothly do not overlook this fact or forget to pass along your observations. Fur will fly! These big cats can be found doing anything (including lounging in a sunny spot in the lunchroom) from production line workers, bar owners, accountants to supervisors or actors. Hollywood and Broadway are filled with late July/August birth day celebrants. There are tasks that Leo considers beneath him so be prepared to accept this fact because coercing him will work in the short term, but eventually you'll tire of listening to the constant moaning, roaring and complaining. It's easier to do it yourself and Leo in this instance is not too proud to allow it. Virgo: Now here's the sign you can plant in a quiet, secluded corner office and never worry if the job is getting done or if

224 Virgo can work independently. Virgo can do both quite efficiently. Don't get me wrong, this sign enjoys the social aspects of living, but there's no minimum daily requirement like there is with other energy patterns. Plenty of hermits are born under this sign. The area where Virgo gets side tracked is in over-analyzing. Virgo will take something apart and refrain from putting it back together because the fun is in examining the parts. Whatever works for you, Virgo. Personally, I don't always bother with how something works; I'm happy that it does so I can move on. Not so with Virgo. They are happiest when they have some minute, microscopic, relevant or irrelevant (that part's irrelevant) detail to mule over for hours at a stretch. This comes in handy in the research department so thank God for their tenacity. Virgo can be found anywhere and just because the energy is detail oriented don't be surprised at the staggering maze of papers on this sign's desk. It's one of Virgo's not-so-rare dichotomies. Until next week, Your Will Is Your Life. Please feel free to ask me questions about astrology: you can write me at: Signs at Work, Part II by Kimberly Carson Libra: My nickname for Libra is the border collie of the zodiac and nowhere is this truer than in the workplace. Libra is methodical, tireless and organized; giving this sign a task is the highest compliment you can bestow. The cardinal qualities of this energy pattern show up most dramatically in this arena for they tend to set their own pace and tone yet expect to be considered "one of the gang" despite some obvious inconsistencies with this theory. While not the best decision makers, listen closely to their ideas and input for they have an amazingly accurate capacity for deciphering the importance of matters and filtering out what's unnecessary. Many judges are born in late September/October which may seem to contradict the above statement about decision making; judges typically evaluate the equity of statements and use the constant denominator of the law for any actual decisions. Scorpio: This creative energy pattern can be found in positions requiring them to deal with people, but it's really not their best

225 speed. The dichotomy here is that Scorpio has the strongest healing powers of the zodiac and this would suggest a need to relate to people which they do; they just do it a bit intensely. Researchers, analysts and doctors of a wide variety are professions that use this sign's energies to their fullest potential. The key for Scorpio to remember is that if they aren't healing they are misusing their power and des truction of some form is likely to result. This is not an easy energy pattern to assimilate, but an important one. Sagittarius: I knew a young Centaur boss once and this descriptor will forever be associated with him: a 200 pound, 6 month old puppy. Adorable, playful, but that wagging tail is certain to cause commotion wherever it hits. Sag's need lots of space and freedom and won't stay in an environment that doesn't provide this. Keep the first aid kit handy, listen carefully to their perceptive ideas and give them lots of rein. This sign isn't likely to take advantage of the freedom nearly so much as run galloping off into other pastures and forget to come back to the barn at the end of the day. He'll come back...eventually and when he does be prepared to be regaled with the adventures he has encountered. Capricorn: This sign was born old and ironically, improves with age. Cappy won't waste energy on meaningless frivolity and will move at a steady pace up through any ranks. Capricorn is the proverbial tortoise and doesn't bother with a second glance to any foolish hare who attempts to win a race against this sign. The mountain goat of the zodiac will go about his or her business without much fanfare, little complaining and engender more than a fair share of respect throughout the workplace. This sign doesn't do anything half-heartedly and you can literally bet your bottom dollar on the results (Cappy himself will advise against such a wager, but this simply restates his refusal at frivolity). Aquarius: Expect the unexpected with this sign. Their sense of individualism is stronger than any other energy pattern, but they're the last ones to die on a hill over it. They simply go about their merry way, living by their own rules and letting others live by theirs. Aquarius has a soft spot for social injustices and any hint in this direction will force them out of their otherwise easy-going natures and a formidable persona

226 will emerge. Any conventional impressions of this energy pattern will eventually be dispelled for they are anything but conventional. Aquarius is trustworthy, altruistic and willing to work hard at any venture they undertake. Pisces: Here's another sign who may give a brief impression of conventionality, but this won't even last as long as Aquarian' s. This gentle presence is rarely abrasive, a bit slippery in conversational realms and will dive into some pretty dark waters when wounded, but are completely worth the wait above the surface. Their sensitivity can make them difficult at times in the workplace for they seem to (and really do) absorb the surrounding energies and this is a lot to process in the course of a day in addition to the tasks of the job. Pisces uses this energy pattern the best when serving or suffering will likely result. This, like Scorpio, is an either/or. Serve or suffer. Saint or sinner. Remember: you can write me at: astrohealth@storiesbyemail.com . Your Will Is Your Life! The Mirror Never Lies by Caroline Sztaba Part 1 "Eleanor take the dog out now or you wont be going out tonight, I warn you!" Mrs Turnbalm shouted across the spacious kitchen, hands wet and foamy from the washing up. Eleanor remained engrossed in her teenage romance magazine, munching her toast at the kitchen table and wistfully wishing that the pretty heroine in her magazine was her. "Right young lady, you may as well go to your room, do your homework and then get ready for bed" Eleanor's mother said, wiping her hands on a tea towel. The word "Bed" made Eleanor look up "but mum I will take Oscar out, it's just that...." "No buts...you either do or you don't", her mother huffed and walked into the living room. Eleanor sighed, and then looked at the scruffy brown and white mongrel who was woefully wagging his tail, hopeful that a walk was in store for him. She smiled. Oscar was such a lovely dog but why did she always have to be the one to take him out, it was her father who needed the exercise, fat lump!

227 Eleanor took one last bite of her toast then went to get the dog lead. Oscar jumped around excitedly as put her coat on and hooked the lead to his collar. It was chilly outside. And the wind whipped her sandy blond hair into frenzy. Oscar pulled on his lead, jerking Eleanor's body forward and making her trip on a paving slab. "Oscar, quit it!" she yelled. They walked towards the park, the wind and chill driving its way through the padding of her puffa jacket. She looked at the park, with its dense bushes and thick tree stumps, anyone could be hiding behind there and she wouldn't know. Even though it was only 5.45pm, the sun was setting quickly on this cold winters evening, covering the whole neighbourhood with a foreboding and eerie blanket of darkness, which rapidly began to spread across the park. Eleanor walked briskly, which pleased Oscar, as he was impatient to get to the park. "Okay Oscar, this is the deal, we go in you do your business and we're out of there okay?" she said, making her tone sound authorative even though she knew the dog had absolutely no clue what she was saying. She just wished there were people around. There didn't seem to be anyone around, not even the usual group of teenagers that hung around smoking and drinking cheap cider. Tonight was definitely creepsville. The sooner she went ho me the better. Oscar began rooting around the grass, picking up scents and returning the compliment by lifting his leg occasionally, but there was no sign of him doing anything more, much to Eleanor's dismay. She knew she couldn't take Oscar home until he was done otherwise he would leave a very unwelcome present in the hall carpet the next morning. It was now completely dark, and as Eleanor tried to find her footing amongst the hidden tree stumps she heard a high keeling wail. She turned abruptly to find Oscar running off into the distance, still yelping. "Oscar! Come back! What's wrong!" she shouted, but the dig had no intentions of stopping. As Eleanor prepared to give chase she noticed something glinting amongst the leaves on the ground. She approached with caution and crouched down, straining her eyes against the darkness. She noticed it was an ornamental hand mirror. She held it up in front of her looking at the engraved patterns

228 surrounding the mirror. The design seemed to be made up of elves and fairies in a dull gold colour, peeling and cracked in places. The mirror itself was in fairly good condition. Eleanor giggled. The stupid dog must have seen his own face on the floor and scared himself half to death. She looked up to see if Oscar was within sight, however he was nowhere to be seen, her mother was going to kill her! She stood up, clutching the mirror in her hand and made her way in the direction that Oscar had taken off on. It was getting colder now and she was beginning to become impatient with the missing dog. "Oscar, for Christ sakes dog! Where are You!!!" there was no sound not even a distant bark. Where the hell could he be? She wondered. As she walked through the thick bushes of the park she noticed that the mirror she was holding was becoming very hot in her hand, so much so that she let out a cry of surprise. "OW! What the...." She dropped it on the floor and noticed to her amazement that the reflection in the glass was glowing red and yellow, like flames trapped within the mirrors confines . She bent down to take a closer look when suddenly a large flash of light illuminated the whole area bathing Eleanor in a glow as bright and hot as sunshine. Before she could cry out, the earth beneath her feet began to shake and Eleanor found herself toppling to the floor, outstretching her hands for support. She fell right on top of the mirror................................ The policewoman patted Mrs Turnbalm's hand, as she patted her tearstained face one more time. A neighbour found Oscar and it was then the Turnbalm's alerted the police. That was two days ago. Eleanor was nowhere to be fund and the police feared her dead. The only thing they did find was an old antiquated mirror lying on the leafy path in the park. They took it to forensics but could find no prints on it at all. They had decided to file it under lost property. The lost property room of Fulchester Police Station was crammed with all sorts of bric a brac. Old key chains, purses (no money in them of course), toys, shoes, the odd bracelet and of course an old antique mirror. The mirror was placed in a plastic bag and consigned to a dark corner of the room tagged lot no; 345. Irving Liste was the elderly constable

229 whom instead of taking retirement decided he would like the chance to work a little longer within the force so they gave him the job of lost property manager. His duties consisted of tagging and logging all new items that came to pass and handing them back to whoever came to claim them, with the relevant ID provided of course. It was while Irving was logging in the details of a lost watch that he noticed out of the corner of his eye a glint of light flickering in the far corner of the room. He rose out of his chair and walked towards the source. He noticed it was coming from one of the packs in the far corner, and as he got nearer he realised it was a mirror. "Silly old fool I am, it's only the reflection of the mirror" He picked it up and took it out of its plastic pouch. Suddenly the mirror became very hot in his hand and, startled by the sudden change in temperature, dropped the mirror on the floor. There was a crashing sound as the mirror broke into a hundred pieces, but it wasn't that which made Irving scream in terror it was the body of a young girl who suddenly appeared on the floor of the room, or what remained of the body of a young girl. Each and every part of her was dissected into a hundred pieces just like the shards of broken mirror. Lumps of flesh lay scattered around, blood mingling with putrid flesh, muscle and bone. Irving wanted to gag but he was rooted to the spot in shock, the smell overwhelmingly sickening. Suddenly he heard a faint voice coming in the direction of the floor " help me...please help..." Irving got closer to the source, covering his nose and mouth with his hand, eyes streaming from the effort to contain bile. "Over here, down here, quickly..." The voice was getting louder although not much more, it sounded like it was in a vacuum of some sort. The Irving saw something that finally made him give way to the nausea and terror that had built up. He screamed the scream of the damned. Lying on the floor next to a sliver of mirror was a pair of lips, held together by skin and muscle. It still had teeth and a tongue although there was no other part of the face near it and the lips moved fervently, pleading for help. Two eyes balls lay nearby moving of their own accord, the optic nerves trailing along the floor. This was when Irving decided to faint.

230 Part 2 Irving Liste came around with a throbbing pain in his left temple. He was lying face down on the floor of lost property, and his memory was somewhat vague as to how he got there. Then it all came flooding back.....the mirror.......smashing...pieces of glass and....what was it?...flesh?...bone?! He almost fain ted again but made an effort to lift himself up off the floor. His head spun around giddily, but he managed to steady himself. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed something remarkable, the floor around him was clear. There was no glass, no blood, nothing! He looked up at the shelf and saw that the mirror was intact. Could he have dreamed it? Surely not, he may be getting on in years, but he had definitely not lost his marbles yet! He went towards the mirror but made sure he stayed a relatively safe distance. It looked normal. No cracks, nothing at all. Then suddenly something caught his eye, he looked to one of the boxes stacked on the shelf. At first his brain didn't comprehend what he was looking at, and then he realized. All the words written on the box were backwards!!! He looked around frantically, and it dawned on him everything was the opposite way round. The door to the storeroom was now on the left hand side where previously it was on the right. Everything that had writing on it was written backwards. I t was like looking into a mirror........................he suddenly went very pale. He turned back to the mirror and decided to look into it. He screamed!!!! There was no reflection of himself, only the room behind him. Everything on the other side of the mirror was the right way. The door was where it should be, and the writing on the boxes was readable. By some unexplainable means, he was in the mirror or rather the other side of the mirror. Did that mean everything was the same except in reverse? Were the people the same? Or were there people? What if he was the only living soul in this weird dimension? He suddenly felt very, very frightened indeed. Memories of watching the Twilight Zone in his early years came flooding back. He felt apprehensive about leaving the room, but he had to know. He decided to take the mirror with him. What ever

231 had happened it was down to this thing, so he wasn't going to let it out of his sight. He also thought about the body parts he had seen when the mirror smashed. Where was she? Irving picked up the antique mirror carefully. It wasn't hot anymore; in fact it was decidedly cool, like it had come out of a fridge. He walked towards the door of the lost property, feeling disorientated. It was like walking through a fun house at a carnival. Everything was in the wrong place. As he came out into the corridor the first thing he noticed was the silence. The police station was completely deserted, even the front desk. There was no noise at all except for the sound of his footsteps. He quickened his pace and went out into the street. A perfectly normal, street except for the fact there were no people, no noises and everything in vision was either written back to front or upside down. The bus stop was on the opposite side of the road. The tree, which stood to the right, was now on the left. He also realized there were no birds. No animals. Nothing.......alive. He held the mirror up and through the reflection he could see people moving around, walking past, reality, normality contained within this small oval piece of glass. He couldn't hear anything, but he knew that the world he was no longer part of was alive and thriving. He on the other hand was, where?.....an empty space. The place in a mirror's reflection that you normally never see.......... The place beyond the reflection. "Alice Through the looking glass," yet he didn't think there would be any white rabbits or mad tea parties here. No. He had a dark sense of dread that whatever was here, whatever controlled this empty soulless worl d would come looking for him. He decided to walk towards the direction of his home; however he lived five miles away. He didn't own a car, and as there didn't seem to be any chance of a bus coming along (he felt like laughing), he decided he might as well hot wire one of the stationary vehicles parked along the road. He chose a flash little red Mazda MX5; if he was going to be stuck in this hellhole he might as well make the most of it. He wrapped his jacket around his arm and smashed the windscreen, opened the lock and got inside. It took him all of two seconds to start the car (one of the secrets of being a former policeman, you

232 get to learn all sorts!!). It purred to life immediately and he set off, with some trepidation towards home, not knowing what he would find. Robert Earlsfield left Fulchester Police station seething. He was always getting bloody parking tickets. This was the third one this week and he was sick of it. He marched towards the roadside where his shiny new Mazda was parked, except it wasn't. He stopped more out of surprise than anything else. "Where the hell did I park my car?" He turned his head to the left and the right. His little car was nowhere to be seen. "That's bloody marvelous!!" he boomed. Passers by looked at him as though he were mad. "They've only gone and bloody towed it away, right...that's it.....I'm going to give them a peace of my mind...its in a valid parking space...." He ranted and raved as he made his way back to the police station. However, a mile down the road, Robert Earlsfield's car was moving along the daytime traffic with ease. The only unusual thing was.........no one was in the driver's seat! Part 3 Irving Liste arrived at his home, or what was a mirror image of his home, around 5.30 PM. He noticed that, like everything else around him, there was no sign of movement from within the house. Normally his wife Lydia would be milling around the front garden or cleaning the windows or even chatting to the neighbors, but here was nothing but shadows and emptiness emanating from the house. He shuddered. What if Lydia was in there? But what if it was a different Lydia? The wife he knew was kind, gentle and placid. What if there was a monster waiting for him beyond the doors? Irving opened the front door and stepped inside. The first thing he noticed was the smell. Normally the house smelt of fresh pine cleaner and furniture polish where Lydia spent her days cleaning the house like a new pin. But today there was a rancid smell of rotting meat, like a garbage bag left unattended for weeks. It was overpowering and made Irving physically retch. He put his hand to his mouth and covered his nose. As he walked into the hall, he noticed the place was filled with flies, insects, maggots, rubbish and feces of every description. The walls

233 had green mould, which covered the bright floral Laura Ashley print that adorned the long corridor leading to the kitchen. He looked into the reception room and noticed this too was pretty much in the same condition. The upholstered armchairs were torn and dirty, smeared with....heaven knows what! The floor was littered with papers and more unsavory bugs coupled with rotten food and chemical waste. He continued to the kitchen where the door was firmly shut. He could hear movement, like someone preparing a meal, cutlery and saucepans cluttering around. His stomach lurched, he didn't know what he would find or who! The scene, which greeted Irving when he opened the kitchen door, can only be described as surreal. Irving's wife was poised over the kitchen sink, her arms bloody up to her elbows. She seemed to be cutting up poultry of some sort, however it was difficult to tell because the whole of the kitchen was in such disarray. There were even more flies in this room and more mess littered about. Excreme nt smeared generously over the walls, tabletops and floors. Food taken out of packets and left near to carcasses of rotting meat. Cheese white with penicillin and mould covering the normally pristine white kitchen tiles. There wasn't a work surface that didn't contain waste of some kind. Irving threw up onto the floor. His stomach couldn't take much more, and the fact that his wife was preparing food in such conditions made him feel worse. It was then that Lydia turned to him, and he finally saw what it was she was doing. She had cut the right side of her face off, clean to the bone. Here right eye was just a bloodied gaping hole and her dentures poked through the ravaged flesh, which hung in tendrils. He also noticed she was holding something in her hands. She offered the items to Irving, extending her bloodied arms to him. She gave him a deathly grimace that didn't quite make a smile. He could see in her palms, an ear, an eyeball and lumps of flesh.....the remains of her face. For the umpteenth time that day Irving fainted. When he came to he noticed darkness around him. But the smell was the same. He also felt restricted. His eyes became accustomed to the dark, and he noticed he was tied to a bed. He strained his eyes some more and realized it was his own

234 bedroom. Through the gloom he could make out the patterned wallpaper, which appeared torn in places. There was also black mould everywhere. His hands were bound together, and his arms were spread either side, tied to each bedpost. In the darkness he could see a shape moving, gradually walking towards him. He began to scream, his helplessness and fear escalating. As the figure drew nearer he realized it was Lydia or the 'alternative' Lydia. She held in her hand a large kitchen knife, the one she normally used for cutting the giblets off poultry. He knew it was razor sharp. His screams became louder as Lydia hoisted the knife above her head, and then plunged it into his stomach, puncturing his abdomen, which released a geyser of warm blood, splashing onto the walls. Lydia repeatedly stabbed Irving until his screams turned to a gurgle and finally fell silent. She stepped back to admire her handy work, seeing the blood drip from the bed onto the floor. The whole of Irving's body was covered in blood, his face a contorted mask of agony. Lydia started to giggle, a low nervous manic titter, which began to slowly increase in volume until she laughed hysterically, madness and insanity taking over completely. Suddenly, the room began to shake and quiver, like an earthquake. Lydia dropped the knife and held onto the bedpost for support, her laughter dying instantly. The house continued to shake for a few more minutes then....stillness. A smile began to form on what remained of her lips. It seemed someone else had looked into the mirror and was paying her and the master a little visit...... Part 4 Constable Malcolm Liddle arrived home around 8.00 PM. His wife Tessa was busily making the tea for their two boys, Anthony and Kyle. There was a lot of commotion. The 10 and 12 year olds were arguing about what channel to watch on the TV, Kyle being the eldest, insisting he got first pick. They stopped their yelling when they saw their father, and jumped up to greet him. He had a good relationship with both sons and laughed heartily as they both tried to tell him about their day at school, each one shouting over the other.

235 Tessa came in and said, "Enough boys, leave your father be, he's had a heard day." She crossed the living room and kissed Malcolm lightly on the lips. "Tea will be ready in five minutes, so wash those hands," she said to her husband before departing for the kitchen once more. "Eeew," Kyle said in distain, obviously kissing wasn't on his priority agenda as yet, and only viewed girls as nuisances. Malcolm looked at his son, and smiled; he'd soon change his mind in a year or two. Anthony noticed that his father was carrying something in his hand in a plastic bag. "What's that dad?" "Ssshh, it's a surprise for your mother, I got it from lost property," he said lifting up the ornate mirror. "That looks a bit old and knackered," Kyle said, screwing his nose in disapproval. "It looks antique; your mother likes things like that." Malcolm took the hand mirror out of the plastic bag and examined it in his hand. The gilt patterns framed the mirror beautifully. He didn't mean to just take the mirror, but he couldn't find Irving that evening, and he did promise him the mirror two weeks ago. He had left a note for the old boy before he left the station. "Dinner's ready" shouted Tessa. The boys ran cheering into the kitchen. They normally had tea at 5.30 but Tessa decided it would be nice to wait for Malcolm and have a family meal together for once. The family all sat down at the table, and the usual banter began, discussions between Tessa and Malcolm about their respective days at work, the boys arguing over the biggest potato on their plates. "Dad, why don't you give mum her surprise," Anthony squealed. "Idiot it's suppose to be a surprise!" Kyle replied, slapping his little brother playfully on the arm. "Surprise?" Tessa said looking at her husband. Malcolm raised his eyebrows, clarification that he had been rumbled. "Come on then," she said, "What is it?" Malcolm got up and went the living room to retrieve the mirror. The boys giggled in anticipation at their mother's reaction to

236 the present, both of them thinking she would hate it because of its age and condition. Malcolm handed it to her. Immediately Tessa's eyes lit up. "OH MALCOLM! Its beautiful!" She leapt up and kissed him fully on the lips. The boys gazed in amazement; they could never ever work their parents out. "I got it from lost property. I've had my eye on it for ages but I had to wait the required period of time in case someone came to claim it," exclaimed Malcolm. He and Tessa had put the boys to bed and were snuggling on the sofa like two young lovers. 15 years of marriage and still the spark remained. "I love it, its great, I've been wanting an antique hand mirror since I was a little girl. I think its got something to do with all the princesses in fairly tales having one to brush their hair," Tessa said, smiling. She held the mirror it in her hand and gazed at her reflection. As she peered into it she noticed that although she was smiling her reflection was not. The face that stared back had a cold sinister expression. Lips pursed and eyes narrowed. "Aaaaaaah" Tessa screamed as the mirror dropped onto the carpeted floor. "What's wrong?!!" Malcolm exclaimed, think she might have cut herself on the handle of the mirror or something. "The..The mirror...its...I mean it wasn't me..." Tessa stammered, she was physically shaken. The boys, hearing the screams both came running down the stairs. "Its OK boys, your mother spooked herself." "I did NOT spook myself" said Tessa indignantly. "There's something wrong with the mirror, look see for yourself" she said, pointing to the offending item still lying face down on the floor. Malcolm bent to pick it up, as he did so he noticed the handle of the mirror was very hot. "Blimey, that's warm, what did you do to it?" he asked, turning to his wife "Nothing! Why, what's wrong??" "Its hot, look."

237 He held out the mirror for Tessa to take but she backed away "NO WAY, I'm not going near that thing again, sorry love but its freaky." Suddenly, a large shaft of brilliant light came shooting out from the mirror, bathing the living room in an unearthly unnatural daylight. Tessa and the boys screamed and huddled together. Malcolm tried to drop the mirror but found he couldn't let go; i t was like it was glued to his hand. He shook his hand more. "Shit, I can't get rid of it! It's stuck. Get the boys out of here," he shouted at his wife. She was rooted to the spot in fear. "TESSA, GET OUT!" he shouted once more. This time she seemed to snap out of her trance and pushed the boys out of the room, looking behind her. She shouldn't believe what she was seeing. Malcolm's arm was being dragged into the mirror's small portal. Already it had him up to the elbow, it was surreal. Tessa ran towards him to try and help, but he backed any, not wanting her to come any nearer. Tessa's screams were drowning out the ones of her husband's, who was slowly and impossibly disappearing into the mirror. First his arm, then the side of his face, then the whole top half of him was dragged straight in leaving the bottom half of his torso and legs exposed, then the mirror zoomed towards the floor, swallowing the rest of him up. Then silence. The room was still. The screams had stopped. Tessa and the boys stood for what seemed an eternity, but in reality no more than a few minutes. Eventually Tessa went towards the mirror. "Mum don't!!" shouted Kyle; fearful the same fate awaited his mother to that of his father. "Its okay, I'll be careful," she said. She bent down and flipped the mirror quickly over. It looked normal now. No flashing rays of light, just reflecting the ceiling above, it was only until she looked into the reflection that she saw not her own face but that of her husband, mouth screaming in agony, as someone behind him cut deep into his throat. Tessa opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out. All she could do was stare in horror, looking at the images as though it were a film being played. There was no sound just rapid movement of her husband slowly falling down, throat

238 bleeding, gaping wound of severed flesh seeping the life blood from him, and from behind Tessa came face to face with her husband's murderer.................it was herself! What's For Dinner? by Caroline Sztaba Jenny Fisher was harassed. She had the roast beef shrinking in the oven, the potatoes boiling to mush on the stove, the vegetables steaming away to nothingness and on top of all that she had Nathan's mother dictating her every move. "You don't want to cook them that way. My Nathan likes his potatoes slightly firm, and you don't want to over cook the meat. It will be tough as old shoe leather," and so on. Jenny had been married to Nathan for over 4 years4 long years of which it seemed she had also married his mother. The woman was a living nightmare. No matter how hard Jenny tried it was never good enough for Eva her mother -in-law. The net curtains were never white enough. "That's because you don't use starch, she would say. Then there was the time Jenny prepared Christmas dinner for Nathan, his two brothers, and their wives, only for Eva to completely ruin the day by slowly dissecting each dish Jenny had made and criticizing the way it was prepared, cooked, and presented. Tonight was no exception. Nathan's boss was coming h ome with him this evening, and this was to be a special dinner. Nathan's promotion was on the line, and everything had to be just perfect. However, the dinner was slowly getting ruined, and Eva's persistent badgering was fraying Jenny's nerves. Jenny suggested that Eva go home as there wasn't much room in the kitchen for both of them, but she had no intention of going anywhere. She wanted to make sure her "little boy" got his promotion even if it meant eating "a tasteless meal." Someone had to explain to his boss the reason Jenny was a useless cook. Jenny was livid. She could see Christmas day all over again. The pitiful stares, the reluctance to try the second course, and of course the humiliation, oh the humiliation! No this was going to be different, very different. She knew Nathan loved his mother more than he loved her, and the only reason he married was because his mother told him it was a good way to ensure he had someone to look after him in his old age. No,

239 this time they were both going to get the lesson they deserved. Nathan arrived home with Mr. Charmers around 8.00pm. The aroma of garlic, herbs and spices wafted succulently through the air, and Nathan gave Jenny an appraising look as he walked through the door. Jenny was introduced to Mr. Charmers, and then Nathan queried his mother's absence. "She decided to leave as she had to go to your brother's house, they have a dinner party tonight," said Jenny. "But she knew how important tonight was for me. How could you let her go??" he bleated, "Don't worry, she gave me her best recipe tips that I'm sure you'll enjoy," she said, seating the men at the dinner table. Jenny started with an entre of grilled livers garnished with onions and lightly drizzled in olive oil. Both men were enthralled by the dish and demanded more, but Jenny refused, saying it would spoil the main course. Jenny approached the dinner table with a large silver covered platter. It filled the entire table to capacity, and the men had to move slightly away so that the hot steam from the dish would not scorch them. Jenny proudly lifted the lid of the tureen revealing her masterpiece. The men fell backwards, gagging at the sight before them. There on the platter surrounded by the overcooked vegetables and shriveled beef was Eva's head. The skin was black and crisp, and rivulets of pus trickled down the cheeks from the protruding bulbous eyes that were snapped open in sheer terror. Her mouth gaped open in a death mask showing a blistered tongue stuffed with several different herbs. Her hair was all but gone. Scalped by the deft fingers of Jenny who used the locks in a grotesque form of decoration to garnish Eva's entrails, which surrounded her head. Mr. Charmers ran for the door, vomiting as he went. However Nathan could only stare in stark shock, gibbering meaninglessly as Jenny stood before him and asked, "would you care for breast or leg?" Midnight Walk by Caroline Sztaba It was a bitterly cold night, the wind swept my hair into a wild frenzy and I could just about see where I was going. The

240 streets were totally deserted, as one would expect at midnight in the middle of a working week, however it did nothing to ease my sense of discomfort. I was never one to delight in walking the streets alone, especially at night, and what with all the news recently about the murders occurring in this area, I felt it was best to get off the empty street and move to a more busier walkway. The wind whistled relentlessly, as I walked passed the closed Fish & Chip shop, past the derelict houses that were in the throes of demolition, and walked towards the high street where I could see some cars and the odd pedestrian scurrying along. As I emerged into the somewhat busier atmosphere, my spirits lifted slightly. Not far to go now. My steps echoed on the pavement as I walked briskly towards the bus stop ahead. I knew the night buses were infrequent and the chances of one arriving in the near future were non existent. I carried on. As I approached the stop, I noticed a man standing there wearing a dark brown wool coat, collar up, hands in pockets, features hidden. He was lightly stamping his feet to keep out the cold and I could see the odd burst of white breath emerging from inside his collar. His hair was dark and spiky, trendy to some I would say, to me it seemed a mess, and the nearer I got the larger he seemed to be, a good 6 ft 2 I would say. I stood nearby, not too close but close enough so that he would be aware of my presence. He turned slowly, so that I could see his dark eyes. His face was swathed in a woolen scarf, which covered half of his features so that only the bridge of his nose showed. His eyes narrowed as though he were surveying me and questioning my appearance. A cold feeling began to creep upon me and the wind that chilled me seemed to turn my flesh into ice. I stared, my gaze never leaving those eyes. It was he who turned away, looked into the night hoping for a sign that a bus may be along soon. Tough luck sunshine, I knew the bus timetables, knew them well. I knew that it would be at least another 20 minutes before one was due and that was if they were running on time, which they never did.

241 I pulled the long thick bladed knife from my pocket. I silently approached the lone figure plunging the knife deep into his back before he had a chance to turn around. A dark black stain emerged pouring down from his broad back He let out a loud cry, part pain part surprise. His breathing turned guttural as he gasped for air. A car drove past but was too quick to see what was happening. I looked about me. Thankf ully there were no other people around or I would have had to dispose of them too. He dropped to the floor like a stone. He never uttered a word, never made a sound. Not like the others. Not like the woman who screamed and screamed until I cut out her tongue. Or the old man who wept as I cut off each and everyone of his fingers before finally slicing the blade cleanly across his throat. The man lay still. Silent. Only a black pool of blood seeped silently onto the curb, spreading evenly across the tarmac of the road. I put the knife in my pocket and walked away. It was as simple as that..... The Sun Newspaper 25th August 1992 Police are baffled at the recent murders in the White chapel area and what is clearly the work of a serial killer. Florence Judge aged 43 from Hornchurch was one of the first to be found butchered with her tongue severed; she was killed on Sept 1991 after visiting her sister. Harold Robards was the second and eldest victim at 82 to be murdered on 4th Dec 1991 in White chapel where his throat was cut, but not before all of his fingers were severed. The latest victim is 33 year old Brian Williams who was found only last night with a fatal stab wound to his back. Passers by spotted the body just after midnight at a bus stop. The only witness present was a young boy of 8 who was clearly shaken by the incident. He is currently in the care of social services who last night claimed the boy had merely gone out to get a soft drink from the all night petrol station and happened upon the body. Police currently have no suspects but are treating this latest murder as the work of a serial killer.

242 As I said, it was as simple as that. ..

Stride, part 1 by Kathy Neise I almost didn't notice her; she was just another walker at the park. Sure, she wasn't as slim and trim as the other girls I often passed by in my bike. But, I could see the determination in her...well, in her face--her eyes are always covered by sunglasses. Like I was saying, I almost didn't notice her except for the fact that one time as I was passing her, she tripped on a rock or something and her stumbling caught my eye. It was then that I noticed her: light brown hair, legs that told everyone she hadn't seen the sun in some time, headphones, and that...determination. Every time I would see her making her laps I would watch her. She was determined to walk away from whatever it was haunting her. That intrigued me. See, I know a thing or two about being determined. I've had a lot to overcome and so I have admiration for others who are in the throes of the fight for survival and have the attitude that they will make it to the other side. So, maybe it was curiosity about what she was walking from or to or maybe it was the cute way she would mouth the words to the songs playing from her Walkman or just wanting to see the eyes behind the sunglasses that prompted me to try and talk to her. I was really nervous--I mean, to her, I'm just a stranger, a nobody. I didn't want to freak her out by riding up to her and immediately asking her out, so I thought the subtle and slow approach would work best. I saw her first on a Monday and then I saw her again on Wednesday, so one time when I passed by her, I waved. She smiled back, but kept on walking. The smile was a good sign, though. It meant she wasn't snobby or unwilling to make contact. I continued to smile as I passed her a few more times that day and she always returned the smile. It made me want to go faster just so I could pass by her again. I've been coming to the park to exercise for over a year now. The walking trail is five miles long, winding around the lake

243 and through both clear and wooded areas. The trail is paved with a right and left side for people to walk, bike, roller blade, or run on. Looking out onto the lake, you might see the row team or windsurfers; nearby soccer fields house local school and college talent; and fishers of all ages can be seen on the docks and shoreline. The weather has just started turning warm, signaling that spring has finally begun it's a pproach. I love this time of year and heading down to the park to bike, taking in the freshness of the air and the earth. But it had always just been for exercise until she "stumbled" into my life. Anyway, Friday was quickly coming and I needed to figure o ut how I was going to talk to her. I raced to the park after work and got my bike out and ready and just casually rode along the path near the parking lot. Within a half-hour, I saw her pull up in a black Nissan Sentra--the same kind of car my brother has. She got out and began stretching on the grass near the path. As causally as possible, I rode over to her. "Sure is a great day, isn't it?" Weather is always a safe topic. She lifted her arms above her head. "Yeah. I couldn't wait to get out here and get walking. Being stuck in that office was torture." "Oh, where do you work?" "I'm a secretary at the Fitzsimmon's Group." She pulled her leg behind her in a quad stretch. "Yeah, my sister works in their Boston office. How long have you been there?" She pulled the other leg behind her. "Not quite a year. I'm enjoying it so far, so I guess I'll stick around for awhile." I chuckled slightly. "My name's Grant, by the way." "Hi, Grant. I'm Mindy." "Mindy...well it's nice to meet you. I'll see you around, I'm sure. " "Nice to meet you too. See you later!" She smiled and then leaned over to stretch out her abs. I considered it a success. She had enough language skills to carry on a conversation and she had a job at a prominent financial institution, so she was obviously half-way intelligent. I made sure to smile and say "Hi" or wave each time we passed and she did the same. I almost ran over two people that day because I spent too much time looking at her as I rode by. There was just something about her that I had to

244 figure out. She must have stopped walking early that day, because I didn't get to see her when she left. The next Monday it rained; let me rephrase--it poured. Tornado warnings were issued all across the state and there was no way any of us were going to the park that day. That night, the wind howled and moaned outside while the rain rapped upon the windows like nails. The electricity flickered once or twice, but none of that really bothered me. The thing that bothered me most was that I wouldn't get to see her tonight. That's all I kept thinking about that weekend and at work. My buddy Kevin from the apartment above mine came down to make sure everything was ok and I told him about Mindy. "So let me get this straight," he said after I finished telling him. "You've only seen her walking around the park for a week now and had a total of one conversation." "That's it." Kevin's face broke into a huge smile. "Good job, buddy! About time you start getting back into the dating scene." "Hold on now," I cautioned as I brought over some beers from the fridge. "Nobody's said anything about any dates. It just looks promising, that's all." "Grant, any girl would be lucky to have you. Christine's always saying that and it's true." Kevin popped the top off of his bottle and took a drink. "Yeah, but Christine's a little biased, being your girlfriend and all." "Don't tell me you're scared. After everything you've been through, you're going to let a little possible rejection stop you?" "I'm just trying to be a realist. Look at me, man. I'm not exactly the pick of the litter." "What are you talking about? I know guys that would kill to be in half the shape you are. You're running your own business, you don't live at home with your parents...what does she have to not like?" I look down at my feet and then take a drink of my beer. "Look," Kevin continued somberly, "she didn't appear uncomfortable when you talked to her, did she?" "No, she didn't."

245 "Well, see, there you go." He took another swig. "So, where are you going to take her?" My laughter was muffled by the crash of thunder that ripped through the apartment shaking everything like an earthquake. "Man, that was crazy," Kevin remarked. "I'd better get back upstairs and make sure Bandit's ok. You going to be alright?" "I'll be fine, man. Thanks." "Anytime, my friend, anytime." He finished the beer and tossed the bottle in the recycle bin. "Let me know how it goes." I went to open the door for him. "I will, don't worry. I'm going to need all the advice I can get. Denise and I have b een divorced for almost three years now and I haven't been in the dating scene in quite a while." "It's just like riding a bike...I mean..." I shook him off. "Don't worry about it. I know what you mean." I opened the door and immediately a gust of wind forced its way in nearly blowing me onto my back. "Auntie Em, Uncle Henry...it's a twister!" Kevin teased in a falsetto voice as he ran upstairs to his apartment and his dog. We were fortunate enough not to have gotten a tornado that night, but there were still tree limbs and debris strewn everywhere. The morning sun belied the violence of the weather from the night before. By Wednesday, everything had returned back to normal and I headed once again to the park. I thought I would try to get in a lap before she got there and try to figure out the correct thing to say for our next conversation. I was almost at mile three when I saw someone that looked exactly like her up ahead. The strange thing was that this woman was pushing a stroller. I got closer and decided that it had to be Mindy or her twin sister. I slowed down slightly. "Mindy?" "Oh...hi, Grant." "How are you?" "I'm good; how are you?" "Fine, thanks. That was some storm we had Monday night, huh?" "Yeah. Our electricity was out for most of the night." I looked into the stroller to see a young boy. "Who's this little guy?" I asked. "This is my son, Tyler."

246 "Hello, Tyler," I greeted, wiggling my fingers near my face. "He can't hear you--he's deaf. We really need to get going. See you later." And with that, she and the stroller took off again. I was in shock and surprise. I mean, obviously, we had never had any deep, in-depth conversations, so the fact that she had a child was surprising enough, but the fact that the cute, little guy was deaf just seemed so unfair. For me, at least, it may not have been fair, but I learned to deal with it and I had memories to go on, but this little guy--he would never know the sound of birds singing outside his window in the morning, or crickets chirping on a hot summer night, or the sound of his mother's voice reading a bedtime story. Suddenly, I couldn't just sit there anymore. I had to find her again. I turned my bike around and chased back after her. From behind, I could see her determination forcing each step with steely resolve as she literally pounded the pavement. "Mindy? Hey, Mindy--wait up." She began to slow down slightly and then walked over to a rest area off of the path. I rolled up next to her. "Are you ok? Did I do something wrong?" "No, you didn't do anything wrong. I just need to get Tyler home. His sitter was sick today, so I had to take with me to the work daycare and I don't think he had a very good day. We need to get home and get some dinner." "Speaking of which, I was wondering if you would like to have some with me Saturday night?" I don't know where the words came from, but once they were out, I was powerless to deny them. "Dinner? You want to have dinner with me?" "Well, Tyler can come too, if he wants. I'm afraid I don't know much sign language, so you'll have to ask him for me." She laughed. "No, I'm sure I can find a sitter for him. What time?" "Why don't we say seven-thirty at Angelo's? We could just meet there?" "Yeah, that sounds nice. Saturday at seven-thirty." At that point, Tyler started to get fussy. "I really need to get going. See you later." "See you, Mindy." I bent down to look at Tyler. "Bye, Tyler," I said and waved. His red-rimmed, wet eyes looked slightly

247 confused, but he opened and closed his hand in a wave back to me before starting to cry again. She smiled at me and then began to walk away. I watched her for a moment. The seriousness of her gait had been replaced with a lighter pace and I took that to be a good sign. I quickly finished up my laps and then went home to call Kevin to g et all the tips I would need for Saturday. Stride, part 2 by Kathy Neise Grant met Mindy at the park and they've made plans to go out Saturday night. Is their budding romance hitting it's perfect stride? Mindy wasn't at the park on Friday. I didn't know whether to take that as a good sign or not. I mean, I didn't even have the girl's phone number or anything. I didn't know for sure if she was even going to show up. I had hoped to finalize plans with her tonight, but she wasn't here, so now what? I only bi ked five laps and then headed back to the parking lot where I could see Mindy walking back and forth scanning for someone. "Grant!" she called out as I approached. "Hey, Mindy. What's going on?" "I had to work late tonight, so I couldn't go walking. I've s till got to go pick up Tyler, but I had to stop by just to make sure everything was still on for tomorrow." "Yeah, of course." My heart and spirit lightened. "Seven -thirty at Angelo's." "Great," she sighed, looking as relieved as I felt. "I went ahead and wrote down my home information on the back of my business card in case you would need to get a hold of me. Why don't you write down your number on this card?" She handed a card and pen to me and, after I wrote my number down, we traded cards. "I've got to go, but I'll see you tomorrow night." "See you!" I called out and waved as she dashed back to her car. I waited until she was out of the parking lot before I pumped my fist and spun wheelies in my bike. It seemed like seven-thirty would never arrive. I called that morning to make reservations and then tried to find non messy things to do to kill time until it was time to get ready. I

248 still got to the restaurant about five after seven and sat waiting until she arrived. She wore a black sundress with white polka dots. Her walks had lightly tanned her arms and legs and she had curled her light brown hair. "Mindy? You look great. I almost didn't recognize you without your sunglasses on." She looked slightly embarrassed. "Thank you. I almost didn't recognize you without your bike." I laughed and then the maitre d' led us to our table. He helped her into her chair and presented the menus to us before leaving. "I hear the salmon is really good, but I can never come here without eating the Chicken linguine," I told her as we scanned the menus. "I haven't been here in so long...everything sounds delicious," she remarked. The server soon brought some water and we ordered our meals and drinks. While waiting for our food, we munched on some bread and oil. "I have to admit," she began, "I was really surprised that you asked me out." "You were? Why?" "Well, I know I'm not the prettiest girl at the park and when any guy finds out that I have a deaf eighteen-month-old, they're off running in the other direction in a hurry." "I happen to think you're quite pretty and I like kids, so we're ok there. I never thought you would agree, considering..." I patted the side of my chair. "It's not a problem. My grandfather was the same way after he came back from the war. His greatest accomplishment was finishing the Chicago marathon one year." "I actually competed in my first mini-marathon last year in Indianapolis. It's great--part of the race is actually run on the Indy five hundred raceway." "Wow! That sounds really neat. Are you going to do it again?" "I'd like to. If I keep going, I'd like to try for the Boston or New York marathons someday." "I could never do that," she admitted as she dipped another piece of bread into the oil and I looked at her blue -grey eyes. "The only time I run is to the bathroom or to the store."

249 I chuckled. "I don't know about that. I think you could do just about anything you put your mind to." I looked at her and she seemed slightly embarrassed again. It was obvious that no one had given her compliments in quite a while, so I took it upon myself to make up for lost time. "Tyler's going to be a runner, I think. He runs all over the house -I'm going to have to put glue or Velcro down on the floors to slow him down." We laughed. "Quite active, is he?" "Oh yeah. He's starting to explore anything and everything, which is wonderful but he wears me out! Yesterday, he found out how to open and shut the dryer, so I'm going to have to be extra careful, lest he decide that's a new hiding place." The server brought our meals out to us and we began eating in silence. I desperately wanted to ask about Tyler's father, but couldn't figure out a tactful way to bring it up. As if reading my mind, she started again. "Tyler's father always had a ton of energy. I guess that's one of the things that attracted me to him. He was always on the go, always doing something." "What happened?" I asked, as gently as possible. "He couldn't be bothered with a pregnant girlfriend. I got his number from his parents and told him about Tyler but he wasn't interested in the least. Good riddance, really. Tyler and I do ok on our own and I don't want someone to be with me just out of obligation or pity." "I can't imagine anyone looking on you with pity." "Oh, you'd be surprised. That's why I won't put T yler in a normal daycare. Everyone thinks, when they hear the word 'deaf', that it means 'incapable'. Tyler is amazing and smart and funny and he's learning signs and he's going to be just fine. We both are. But just mention the word disability, and people get all weird." "People just don't understand and they fear what they don't understand." "Well, I'm not going to deny Tyler any opportunities just because people 'don't understand'. The sitter I have for Tyler used to be a deaf education teacher until she had children of her own. She's been an absolute Godsend. She even helps me with my sign language."

250 "How did you learn to sign?" "I'm taking a class one night a week at the community college. If I keep going, by the time Tyler's in first grade, I'll have a degree in interpreting." "Are you going to continue?" She shrugged her shoulders. "Might as well. I need to learn all I can to help me be the best mom that I can be to him." "He's a pretty lucky guy," I said and winked at her, which caused her to blush again. We had a wonderful dinner and agreed to see each other at the park on Monday. Kevin came over on Sunday to watch baseball and I told him about the date and that I thought things went well. "So, are you going to see her again?" "I'd like to, but we haven't talked about it yet." "Sounds like you've got yourself a winner there, buddy. So, when do we get to meet her?" "Not so fast. I don't want to scare her off just yet." We both laughed and Kevin threw a pillow at me. That night, I awoke to the telephone ringing. I looked at the clock next to the phone and it read 3:20. "Hello?" "Grant, this is Mindy. I'm sorry to be calling so late, but Tyler's got a 103-degree fever and I can't get it down. I'm taking him to Dawson Hospital. Can you meet us there?" "I'll be there in about ten minutes." "Thank you." She then hung up the phone. I arrived at the hospital and immediately went into the emergency room. Mindy was there holding a crying Tyler. She looked shaken and scared. "Mindy, what can I do for you?" I asked, once I reached where they are sitting. "Grant! I'm so glad you're here. I'm trying to fill out these forms, but it's impossible holding Tyler. Would you hold him for a minute, please?" I stuck out my arms and took the boy from her. His face was flaming and I could feel the sweat through his thin tee-shirt. I reached over to the table and grabbed a magazine to begin fanning him. He began to quiet down as the cool air soothed

251 him. Mindy turned in the forms and soon the nurse called them back. "I'll just wait here," I told her. "Nonsense. You're coming with us," she ordered and I was happy to oblige. The doctor did some examining of Tyler and gave him a shot of antibiotics and told her to go home and lay cool cloths on him. She thanked the doctor and he left. Tyler began to yawn as the virus and crying finally wore him out. "Thank you for being here for me. You'll never know how much it means to me." "I'm happy to do it. I think he's going to be ok now." "I'll see you tomorrow at the park, ok?" "I'll be there." She paused and leaned down to kiss me on my cheek before leaving the examination room. Suddenly, I felt alive and energized--I knew I wasn't getting to sleep anytime soon. At the park on Monday, Mindy was waiting for me when I pulled up. "Hey, Grant," she greeted, "How are you?" "I'm great, thanks. How's Tyler?" "Much better. His fever's gone down some and my mom came over to watch him for a little bit while I came up here to de stress." I got my bike ready and rolled out to the pavement. "Looks like things are looking up?" I said as I waited for her. She stood beside me and reached for my left hand as my right nudged the wheel of my Racer--my wheelchair bicycle. "I'd say we're just hitting our stride."