THE ARTIST

Genre: Horror

 

 

 

THE ARTIST

By Randy Romero

 

Nathan Gray did his best to navigate the treacherous, poorly lit road of Old Montauk Highway. And though they called it a highway, it was really just one long road in and out of town. The maximum speed limit was thirty, and for good reason. The road was long, winding, hilly, and full of dangerous curves and sharp, sudden turns. It was like being on a rollercoaster, the road rising and falling, rising and falling with every stretch of pavement.

And if the roads in Montauk weren’t dangerous enough, you had to watch out for the deer constantly running out into the middle of the road. And if it wasn’t the deer, you had to contend with the fog.

And that day, a dense fog had crept in from the bay, slowly enveloping the sleepy hamlet of Montauk. Nathan traveled well below the speed limit as he entered town. He could hardly see a foot in front of him. And there were no stop signs or streetlights on the main road. He was terrified he’d smash up somebody’s car, or God forbid, hit someone trying to cross the street.

There were only three gas stations in town. He strained to see them, but he counted as he passed each one. He knew to make a left on Essex Street, after the third gas station. From there, he followed the road for two straight miles and then turned right on Fairmont. Then another right on South Federal Street. That’s where his Uncle Gordon once resided.

Craig Stillson was already waiting for him in the semi-circular driveway, smoking a cigarette. Nathan parked his red Dodge Dart behind Craig’s white Ford Cobra. The Cobra was from 2003, but it was a collector’s car. Cars were never really Nathan’s thing. All he cared about was getting from point A to point B. He didn’t care how rare the vehicle was, how fast it went, what it looked like. Four wheels and an engine was all he needed.

“This fog is a real bitch,” Craig declared. “I wouldn’t have found the place without my phones GPS. It’s been a long time. I think the last time I was here was the summer of 2002. How’d you fair?”

“I could barely see a thing. I’m lucky I got here in one piece. I’m surprised you beat me here.”

“Well, I do have a two hour head start. You live all the way in the city, I live in Riverhead.”

“You’ve got a point, I suppose.”

“How’s the city treating you?”

“It’s good for making a living. But it’s a lot different than Long Island, I’ll tell you that. This is the first time I drove my car in months. It’s a pain in the ass trying to drive around the city. I keep my car in storage unless I need it. I’m basically dependent on Uber and the subways.”

“Well, you’re not missing much here. If I didn’t have the shop in Riverhead, I wouldn’t left Long Island by now.”

“I passed the movie theater on my through town. It looked different but it was hard to tell with the fog.”

“That’s because they sold it. It’s a place for spin classes now.”

“You’re kidding me. That’s a heartbreaker. I saw my first movie there when I was a little kid.”

“Things are changing around here, Nate. You should see this place in the summertime. It’s worse than the city. It’s a zoo. So many tourists that come and trash the place. No respect.”

“I guess I’m lucky I came in the fall. Are you ready to do this?” Nate asked, jingling his keys.

“Ready, Freddy.”

“Thanks, by the way. Nobody else wanted to help. Not even my family.”

“Ah, don’t mention it. So, how’s life outside of Montauk?”

“It took a while to adjust. But the city has its charms.”

He fumbled with the keys until he figured out which one opened the front door. The door creaked as it blew open and kicked up a cloud of dust.

They passed through the spacious living room, with its retro blue-and-white checkered wallpaper and vintage furniture. The walls were adorned with various paintings, all creations of Gordon Gray himself.

Gordon was a recluse. He disappeared a year ago, but it took months for anybody to notice. Despite his reclusiveness, he was a successful artist up until the time of his disappearance.

His uncle’s painting were different, to say the very least. Nathan’s mom called them unique. His dad called them psychotic. Gordon Gray had talent and skill and grace. But his paintings were dark, shocking, wicked.

Nathan couldn’t help but look at them as they passed by. One painting depicted a scenic picnic, but the background was morbid and depressing. The trees were all rotted and decayed, the sky pitch black, rows of headstones slightly visible in the distance.

Nathan’s favorite was the one of the Merry-Go-Round on fire. It was an oddly beautiful painting. And thankfully his uncle didn’t paint any people in it. He shuddered at the painting of the creepy clown with smeared white makeup and black, rotting teeth.

“I really like this one,” Craig said, admiring a painting aptly titled Shipwrecked. In it, a sea monster with myriad tentacles was devouring a large ship. “Your uncle was a very interesting fellow. Does mental illness run in your family, or was it just him?”

“Uncle Gordon was different to say the least. Now come on, you can check this stuff out later. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”

“Where to?”

“Let’s start in the basement. That’s where most of the clutter is. I brought some empty boxes with me.”

Craig went ahead, but Nathan stopped at the last painting on the wall. For some reason, his uncle called it Genesis. A beast of unimaginable terror. No matter where he stood, it seemed to stare directly at him with its narrow red eyes and jagged, uneven teeth. Its had spikes covering its entire exterior, all varying in size and shape.

There was a story that went along with the painting. Only Nathan couldn’t remember it. A lot of his uncle’s paintings had creepy stories attached to them that he used to scare Nathan and his brother growing up.

Nathan finally tore himself away from the painting and joined Craig in the kitchen. He unlocked the door to the basement. He ran his hand up and down the wall until he found the light switch. Nathan went down first, Craig following behind him.  

“So what’s the story with your uncle? I mean there’s plenty of rumors floating around town. But what do you think really happened to him?”

“Nobody in the family knows. He just disappeared one day. He didn’t call anyone. Didn’t send any letters. He just vanished. But my dad came to check out the house. He said it didn’t look like any of his stuff was missing. You mentioned the summer of 2002. That was the last time I was here too. My parents bought a place out here after that and we moved here full time. And my dad didn’t want me coming over here anymore. The whole family kind of cut my uncle out of my picture. His paintings used to be normal. Sunsets and oceans, bowls of fruit, flowers in vases. But in 2002, everything changed. His work started getting darker and more intense. He sort of lost touch with reality.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“A year or so before he disappeared, he was convinced that his paintings were real, that they had taken on a life of their own.”

“The old life imitates art cliché. Or would that be art imitating life?”

“I think it would be the latter, if he thought what he was painting was real. But that was the last time my dad talked to his brother. Before he disappeared, my dad was thinking about having him involuntarily committed.”

They stumbled around the basement, trying to find room to move among all the clutter. The basement was indeed a mess. His uncle had been a bit of a hoarder. They started sorting through everything, dividing things up. They had one box for photo albums and other sentimental items that Nathan’s family might want to keep or look through.

The other boxes were for junk. How depressing, Nathan thought. When you die somebody just takes your stuff and hauls it off to the dumps or Goodwill.

They spent several hours clearing out the basement. In all that time, they never noticed the door. It blended right in with the wall. Craig finally spotted it when he was moving an old nightstand out of the way. He tried to open it, but the door was locked.

“Is this where your uncle kept the lotion and the basket?”

“Very funny. I have no idea what’s in there. Probably a utility room or storage closet.”

He went through all the keys on the ring, but couldn’t find the one that unlocked the door.

“I guess your uncle didn’t want anyone to see what was in there.”

“Thanks for the help, Craig. I think we should call it a night.”

“Where are you going to crash?”

“Here, I guess. I’ve got some fresh bedsheets and pillows in my car. I can rough it here for a few days until I’m done cleaning the place out. Then it’s the real estate agent’s problem.”

On the way out, they passed Genesis.

“Whoa,” was all Craig could muster at first. Then he added, “That’s pretty fucking metal. Your uncle was one twisted dude. You think he’ll ever turn back up?”

“If he does, it won’t be any time soon.”  

 

 

***

 

 

Nathan barely slept that night. His mind kept going back to the painting, back to Genesis. He wondered what could have possessed his uncle to paint that monstrosity. If the thought wasn’t enough to keep him awake, the noisy pipes in the basement did the trick.

The incessant thumping noise was maddening. If he didn’t know any better, he could swear it wasn’t the pipes at all. He could swear something was pacing back and forth, stomping around down there.

And that made him think about the door and what could possibly be behind it. Why was it locked? What was his uncle hiding?

He tried not to think about it anymore. Just shut his eyes and waited until morning. He knew it would be a few days there, so he came with food and supplies, including coffee. He made a fresh pot and called Craig. But Craig didn’t answer. So he got to cleaning; dusting and sweeping and polishing the furniture, clearing out the bedrooms. By noon, he still hadn’t heard a word back. He was starting to get concerned.

So he called Craig’s mom. He could tell from the muffled sobs on the other end of the phone that it wasn’t good news. Craig was dead. Apparent suicide. He stopped at a bar after he left Nathan, came home late, drunk and disoriented, mumbling something about a painting and a creature that was following him. She found him in his room that morning, hung by his neck. She said he left a note, long and rambling. None of it made any sense. But it implied he was doing it to prevent this creature from getting to him.

Nathan got very quiet. He offered his condolences and ended the call in a hurry. He stared at Genesis and tried his hardest to recall the story behind it. He couldn’t deny the painting was terrifying. But paintings don’t kill people, or drive people to kill themselves. What was it about this painting that scared him so much?

Art imitates life.

He considered, for a moment, the possibility that his uncle was right. That his paintings were real. That were inspired by things he saw, or things only he could see. Maybe that’s what drove him mad. Maybe he was seeing visions.

Nathan stopped himself from thinking too much about it, before he drove himself insane. He called it a day. He had done enough work. And after the news about Craig, he didn’t feel like cleaning. Didn’t feel like doing anything at all.

 

  

***

 

 

Nathan didn’t sleep a wink that night. He couldn’t stop thinking about Craig, about his poor mom. His whole family was devastated. And Nathan couldn’t help but feel responsible.

The pipes were sounding off again, the noise so loud Nathan could feel it inside his skull. It’s just the house, Nathan thought. The house is old. Old houses make strange noises all the time. Old…old?

That word seemed to trigger Nathan’s memory. The stories his uncle used to tell came flooding back. Genesis was a creature that had existed since the beginning of time. It outlasted the dinosaurs, and according to his uncle, it would outlast us too, because Genesis cannot be killed. Genesis can only be contained, locked away. But it cannot be destroyed.

The door in the basement…

But he had to stop himself again. He realized how absurd all this sounded, even inside his own head. The painting was just a painting. Craig’s death was tragic but it had nothing to do with his uncle. And there were no monsters hiding in the basement. And to prove, Nathan decided to put an end to it once and for all. He went down to the basement and sorted through his uncles tools until he found a crowbar. The door was metal but he worked feverishly to pry it open. It took some work, but the door finally gave.

The room was dark and damp. And the smell hit him like a punch to the throat.

He used the light on his phone to inspect the room. It went back farther than he had imagined.

Nothing at first. Then, spots of dried blood on the floor.

Then, he identified the source of that foul, pungent odor.

The body of a man that was likely his uncle, though it was impossible to tell. It had been so many years since he last saw him, and there wasn’t much of his body that remained. Something had been feeding on him for a while, long after he had rotted away.

Trembling, he moved forward. There was only so much of the room that the light on his phone could cover. But he didn’t have to go far to see it.

It lurked in the darkest corner of the room. The creature from his uncle’s painting.

Its narrow red eyes were locked on Nathan. Spikes covered practically every inch of its body. But that wasn’t what scared Nathan the most.

The spikes were moving. Pulsating. As if each spike was its own living, breathing organism. Paralyzed with fear, Nathan couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He could only think. He thought about his uncle. How his family would never know that he was telling the truth. His paintings were more real than they ever could have imagined.

THE INN

Genre: Horror

 

 

 

THE INN

By Randy Romero

 

It was 3 AM and Meredith was running on gas station coffee, chocolate, and nicotine. A perfectly healthy diet for a thirty-five-year-old divorcee. Of course, she couldn’t smoke with Amy in the car. So she had to pull off somewhere whenever the craving struck.

When she drove, her eyes burned like hot coals as she tried to keep them focused on the road ahead. Meredith hated the thought of disturbing Amy, who was sound asleep in the backseat of her red Honda Accord. But she couldn’t keep this up for much longer. She needed a good night’s rest to recharge her batteries.

The problem was they were smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Meredith wasn’t even sure what town or even what county they were in anymore. The roads were dim and full of unexpected curves and sharp turns, and the landmarks were few and far between. So she drove on and on, sipping her coffee, eating her chocolates, until finally, a beacon of hope. She spotted a green sign with big white letters that promised food, gas, and lodging. She took a quick right and followed the signs all the way to the Lamplighter Inn. The neon sign read VACANCY.

She turned in and parked next to the only other car in the lot, an old station wagon.

Amy started to come around, yawning, her eyes blinking rapidly. “Where are we?” she asked.

“A motel, sweetie. It’s late and mommy needs to rest for a little while.”

“Can we get two beds so we don’t have to share? No offense, mom.”

Meredith chuckled. “None taken, honey. Yes, we’ll get a room with two beds. Now come on, grab your suitcase and follow mommy inside.”

The main office was deserted. There was nobody behind the front desk. But there was ledger on the desk, and a bell right beside it. As soon as Meredith’s hand reached for the bell, a man emerged from the back room, startling her. He placed his palm over the bell to prevent Meredith from hitting it.

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. I wasn’t expecting anyone to show up so late. You need a room?”

“Yeah, one with two beds, if you’ve got it.”

“Not a problem.” He was a portly man, somewhere in his late forties, with a puffy face and coke bottle glasses. His hairline was badly receding, forming an almost horseshoe-like pattern around his head.

There was a wall of keys behind the desk, and the man turned and plucked one down.

“Room 3. Just a few rooms down from the office. I’m here till dawn if you need anything. Name’s Myron. Myron Reed. All we ask here is that you please keep the noise down. You wouldn’t want to disturb the other guests.”

Other guests? Meredith wondered. There was only one other car in the parking lot. What other guests is he referring to?

She accepted the key to her room uneasily. She filled out the ledger in a rush, scribbling her name, and paid for her room upfront.

“Ya’ll have a good night,” Myron added.

Meredith hurried Amy to their room. Their were two double beds, as Meredith had requested. A writing desk. Antique mirror that hung above a small dresser. Beside the dresser, an old television set. No kitchen, no mini fridge, no complimentary mints on their pillows, no frills. But Meredith didn’t need anything extravagant. She needed a warm bed and a good night’s sleep.

Meredith laid down once she got Amy tucked in. She closed her eyes tight but couldn’t sleep. The noise kept her awake. She could hear people in the other rooms, rummaging around, talking softly, or making other strange sounds Meredith couldn’t decipher.

All we ask is that you please keep the noise down. You wouldn’t want to disturb the other guests. And why had the desk clerk phrased it the way he had. Why did he emphasize the word ‘you’, as if there was something about Meredith the other guests would find particularly offensive?

The noises persisted. Shuffling and scratching, coughing, talking, loud banging noises.

Thud, thud, thud.

Thud, thud, thud.

The noises grew so loud, Meredith was convinced the aforementioned ‘other guests’ were in the same room as her. She looked over and saw that Amy was fast asleep again. Meredith slipped out of bed, took a smoke from her pack, and snuck outside. A cigarette pursed between her lips, she lit it and took a look around the Inn. It was the first time that she noticed, despite the lack of automobiles in the parking lot, the lights were on in every room. She could see them shining through the curtains. She could even make out silhouettes behind some of those curtains.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

Meredith squealed. She twisted around and saw the desk clerk standing behind her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean startle you…again. I was just going to ask you for a cigarette.”

“I left my pack inside. I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright. Couldn’t sleep?”

“Too loud.”

“Yeah, it gets like that sometimes. Still, best to keep the noise to a minimum. The other guests can be rather ill tempered.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Myron simply shrugged at first. Then he said, “Lady, it’s their motel. We just run it.” With that, he left Meredith alone with more questions than answers. She finished her cigarette and made sure Myron wasn’t still lurking around.

On the way back to her room, the door to Room 1 creaked open and an older woman peered out.

“New here?” the woman asked.

“I’m on the road. Just spending the night.”

“Well, seeing as how we’re both awake, can I interest you in a drink?”

Meredith thought about it for a moment. A drink would ease her frayed nerves. It might even help her sleep. Then she thought about Amy.

“I really should be getting back to my daughter.”

“I’m sure she’s fine. Come on in,” the woman invited her.

She was older, maybe by ten or fifteen years. She was a short woman with shorter hair, auburn in color. Her skin was starting to wrinkle and sag. She wore a green turtleneck sweater, which Meredith found odd considering the heat, but she wasn’t going to question her host. She had a bottle of wine on ice and poured two glasses. She waited for the woman to drink first before she took a sip.

“I’m Leslie.”

“Meredith Burns. My daughter, Amy, is in the next room. Maybe I can introduce you to her tomorrow before we leave.”

“Sure, that would be lovely. So, have you met any of the other guests?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“Good, because some of them have quite the temper. Me, I like to keep to myself for the most part. But it’s nice to talk to someone every now and then.”

“Where is it that you came from?” Meredith asked.

“Oh, I’ve been all over the place,” Leslie said, avoiding the question.

“And how did you end up here at the Lamplighter?”

“Fate?” the woman said and shrugged, though she posed it as a question, as if she was uncertain.

Leslie took a sip and one of her sleeves rolled down, allowing Meredith to catch a glimpse of the deep scars on her wrist. No blood, but the skin was completely opened up. By all rights, she should be dead. Meredith didn’t address it. She finished her drink in a hurry, thanked her host, and said her goodbyes.

She let the door slam behind her and sprinted past it, but came to a stop at the next room.

The door to Room 2 was slightly ajar and she could hear voices on the other side…

 

 

***

 

 

Amy woke in darkness but not silence. It sounded like somebody was stomping around on the roof. Thud, thud, thud.

Thud, thud, thud.

It got so loud, it sounded like someone was stamping around the room.

“Mom,” Amy called out. No answer.

When she got no reply, she became frantic. “Mommy!” she wailed. “Mommy, where are you?”

“Hush,” a voice said. It was whisper quiet, but it was undeniable.

“W-w-who s-said that?” Amy asked, stumbling over her words.

In the corner of the room, she saw it. A dark figure, dressed all in grey. She couldn’t see its face. All she could see were its hands. No skin. Only bone.

 

 

***

 

 

The door opened on its own and Meredith saw things she could not unsee. The carpets saturated with blood. The walls streaked red. Fragments of brain and skull. Several body bags. Detectives mulling over the crime scene. Rainbow unicorn sneakers that no doubt belonged to a little girl no older than Amy, spotted with blood. She felt physically ill. She didn’t linger. Just turned and walked away.

Meredith returned to the room and found Amy waiting for her.

“Mommy…we have to go now.”

And Meredith seemed to concur. They left without even checking out. She left the key hanging in the door. She had already paid for the night. No reason to linger or say farewell. They were on the road in a couple of minutes and Meredith didn’t stop until she reached the next county, and that was only for more coffee.

 

***

 

 

Nine years later.

Veronica Hale was facing the ultimate teenage dilemma. She couldn’t decide what to wear. On one hand, her and her friends were only going to the movies. On the other hand, Shane Beecher was going to be there, and she wanted to make an impression. But she didn’t want it to seem too obvious.

“Should I dress casual? I don’t want Shane to think I’m desperate. But I don’t want to blow my chance either. Maybe I should wear a dress? No, that’s too much. Maybe a blouse and a skirt instead? Shit, I can’t decide.”

“Veronica, take a chill pill,” Gina Caruso told her. “It’s Shane Beecher. He likes anything with a vagina. Whatever you wear is fine.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re perfect. I’m a mess. My skin is terrible. My hair is all frizzy. My wardrobe is my one shot at standing out.”

Gina sighed. “What are you reading about?” she asked, turning her attention to Max. Max wasn’t dating any of the girls. But he was Veronica’s next-door neighbor and they grew up together. They enjoyed a platonic relationship and trusted each other for advice on the opposite sex. They hung out together, ate together, went to the movies together, and that friendship extended to Veronica’s circle.

“Spirits,” Max said casually.

“I worry about you sometimes,” Gina said, shaking her head.

“What’s wrong with being curious about the afterlife? And you’re telling me ghosts aren’t real? Nobody here’s ever had a spiritual encounter?”

“My bedroom door slammed shut one time,” Veronica chimed in. “There was nobody here. No windows were open. There was nothing that could have caused it to slam shut like that. But I swear to God it happened.”

“One time, I felt something touch my arm when I was sleeping at my grandparent’s house,” Gina confessed. “There was no one in the room with me.”

“You sure it wasn’t your grandpa?” Max asked.

“Very funny, wise ass.”

“I had a pretty creepy experience once,” their friend said. “It was years ago. My mom and I were on the road, which is a nice way of saying we were on the run from my dad. My mom had finally divorced him and wanted to get as far away as possible. She was tired one night so we stopped at this place, the Lamplighter Inn. Just thinking about it gives me the creeps. I remember waking up and my mom was gone, but I heard footsteps. Then I saw someone standing in the corner of the room. We left immediately. My mom was afraid of that place too. She never told me what it was, but she saw something that really spooked her that night. I try to forget about it, but I can’t.”

“You said the Lamplighter Inn?” Max asked.

“Yeah, why?

“That place was legendary. A lot of crazy shit went down at the Lamplighter. Murders, drug deals gone wrong, mob executions, overdoses. Some broad went berserk and slit her wrists, then her own throat. Another guy fried himself in the bathtub. When did you say you stayed there?”

“Oh, it was years ago,” Amy said. “I was six at the time. And it was just one of many stops my mom and I made on the road.”

“So that would’ve been about nine years ago…it couldn’t have been the Lamplighter. I’ve read a lot about that place. The Lamplighter burned down twelve years ago. The guy who worked the night shift just snapped one night and doused every room in gasoline. Started the fire while he was still inside. Sick fuck. Some say the lingering spirits drove him to do it.”

A chill ran down Amy’s spine. “Do you remember the guy’s name?”

“Yeah, Myron. Myron Reed.”

THE NOISE OUTSIDE

Genre: Horror

 

 

 

THE NOISE OUTSIDE

By Randy Romero

 

Friday, October 8, 1993.

It was an unusually brisk, windy evening in Ravensville, Pennsylvania for early October, so Ray and his friends decided to stay in. Not like there was much to do anyway in a town like Ravensville. There was a house party four blocks down, but none of them were invited. They were freshmen and weren’t exactly popular with the sophomore or juniors, hence the lack of invitation.

“Who’s holding?” Smith asked. Of course, Smith wasn’t his first name. His first name was Matt. But everyone called him Smith to avoid confusion with the other Matt in the group, Matt Morgan.

“I thought you were holding,” Morgan said.

“And I thought Morgan was holding,” Kevin said.

“So nobody’s got any weed?” Ray asked. His parents were away until Sunday night. They left his grandpa in charge, but Ray knew he would be passed out by seven-thirty or eight. And right on cue, his grandpa was asleep in front of the television by eight o’clock sharp.

“This sucks,” Kevin exclaimed. “It’s Friday night and I just want to get stoned and play some Mortal Kombat on Super Nintendo.”

“We’re not playing Mortal Kombat, we’re playing Sonic,” Morgan said.

“Sonic is for the Sega Genesis, dumb ass,” Smith said.

“Chill out, dick wad. I know it’s for Sega. I brought mine from home.”

“Boys, boys, no need for childish name calling,” Ray said. “It’s my house and I say we’re playing Street Fighter 2. As for the weed, give me a minute.” Ray left his bedroom and came back less than a minute later with a Ziplock bag. The buds were little green nuggets that looked dried out and aged. They were light green, almost yellow in color, and looked as stale as it probably tasted.

“What decade is that weed from?” Smith asked.

“Shut up. It’s my grandpa’s stash. He rarely smokes anymore. An ounce can last him for years.” He tossed the bag at Kevin. “Roll it up.”

“Kev sucks at rolling,” Morgan said. “Let me do it.”

“No way,” Smith said. “You never take out the stems or the seeds.”

“What are you talking about? My joints are perfect.”

“Would somebody just roll it so we can get this game going?” Ray said.

Kevin passed the bag to Morgan. He took out a few smaller buds that looked like dry moss and started grinding them up with his fingertips. Ray passed him the rolling papers.

“Wanna hear something totally fucked?” Kevin asked as they waited on Morgan to finish.

“Always,” Smith said.

“You know how people sometimes try to smoke magic mushrooms instead of eating them like you’re supposed to? I heard a story about this dude who tried injecting shrooms.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“I shit you not, bro.”

“So what happened to the guy?”

“What do you think? Dude almost died. The shit started growing inside his veins. He was nauseous, disoriented, his skin turned as yellow as that weed we’re about to smoke. Eventually the dude started vomiting blood. His organs were all starting to fail; liver, lungs, kidneys.”

“But the guy made it?” Ray asked.

“Yeah, he was hospitalized, but he pulled through. Crazy shit.”

“Where did you hear that from?” Smith asked.

“My mom,” Kevin said. “Dude was a patient at the hospital where she works.”

“Done,” Morgan said. “Are we smoking it here?”

“Yeah, fuck it,” Ray said, opening his bedroom window. “Just don’t get any ash on the rug.”

“If we’re smoking in here, I’ll do the honors,” Morgan said, lighting the joint. He took a few puffs and passed it to Ray, since it was his house. Ray could tell from the smell that Morgan had used too much paper, and had neglected to remove the seeds and stems.

Ray took a few small tokes, seeing as he was the light weight of the group and passed it to Kevin. They went around in a circle. Puff, puff, pass, as they called it. You take two puffs, pass it to the next person.

The noise was sudden and brief, but it made Kevin nearly rise out of his skin. He had been in a daze, his mind on video games and Doritos until he heard that horrible din. His head pivoted towards Ray’s bedroom window, then back to the circle of chairs they had formed.

“Did you hear that?” Kevin asked.

“Hear what?” Smith asked.

“The noise outside.”

“And what noise was that?”

“I don’t know, it sounded like a shrieking, screeching noise. Like a bat, or a raccoon or something.”

“Dude, I think you’ve smoked way too much of that weed,” Morgan said.

“Wait, none of you guys heard that?” Kevin asked.

They all shook their heads. “I didn’t hear a thing,” Ray added.

“I’m telling you, I heard something outside.”

“Smoke this,” Smith said, passing him the joint. “You’ll feel better. Or maybe you’ll have a few more auditory hallucinations. Either way, enjoy.”

They resumed passing the joint around, all the while Kevin’s head drifted back and forth between the window and his friends. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something dash past the open window. All he made out was a tall, dark figure, and, if his eyes weren’t deceiving him, a black cape…

“What the fuck! Please tell me you guys saw that.”

“Saw what?” Morgan asked.

“Something just moved past the bedroom window.”

“Dude, now you’re tripping for real,” Smith said.

This time, they all heard the noise, and it made their blood run cold.

Kevin was the first to stagger to his feet. “I’m going outside,” he announced.

“Whoa! Hold the phone, bro,” Morgan said. “Haven’t you ever seen like any horror movie ever? You never go outside to investigate a strange noise. That’s a death sentence.”

“If there’s something out there, I want to know who or what it is.” Call it bravery or curiosity. Call it stupidity, but something inside Kevin made him move from Ray’s first floor bedroom to the front door without even thinking twice.

He opened the door and tiptoed out to the front porch. “Is somebody there?” he called.

It happened so fast. He saw only quick, terrifying flashes. A dark figure descending upon him. Wings. Fangs. A black cape with red lining.

His friends didn’t see it happen at all. They only heard the screams and saw the aftermath. Saw the bloody stumps that were once his feet. Whatever it was, it came down with such force and strength that it ripped him out of his shoes, literally. Two shiny white knobs of bone pierced through the meat of his ankles. In the distance, they saw it take flight, its vast, membranous wings flapping effortlessly in the breeze. And it was carrying something with it, or rather, someone…