Weeping Willow

Genre: Horror/Fantasy

WEEPING WILLOW

By

Daniel Skye

          ONE MINUTE, David Webber was following the same tired routine he had followed every Sunday night for three miserable years. He cleaned the floors of Joker’s Pub, wiped down the top of the bar and flipped the stools, and emptied the contents of the registers into the safe. The safe had a small slot installed where you could slip the cash right in without having to use the combination.

The next minute, a ski-mask-wearing thug was jamming a gun in David’s ribs and demanding cash from the registers.

Shit, David thought, forgot to lock the damn door again.

“I just cleaned the registers out,” David informed the robbing, trying to maintain his composure. In a situation like this, he couldn’t afford make the wrong move or use the wrong words that would set this gun-toting thief off.

“What’d you do with the money?”

“I put it in the safe.”

“You know the combination?” Dave nodded. “So open it then.”

          At that crucial moment, David’s mind had blanked on the combination to the safe. He was not the type of man who responded well to pressure. And the gun certainly wasn’t helping any. His hands were trembling as he worked the combination lock to hit the three magic numbers that would pop open the door to the safe. In between fidgeting and struggling to remember the combination, David found himself cursing that stupid tree again.

David’s sister, Claire, blamed that tree for everything. She believed it to be the cause of all their miseries and sufferings. If only they had obeyed their mother’s wishes…

          In his paranoid state, the masked robber was convinced he saw David reach under the counter after he had removed all the money from the safe and stuffed it into a brown paper bag.

          “Did you press the silent alarm?”

          “No,” David gulped as he could feel beads of cold sweat building up on his forehead. “I swear on my mother’s grave.”

          “Don’t you fucking lie to me, pal. You lie, you die. Got it?”

          “I swear I didn’t press the alarm. Just take the money and go, please.”

          “You ordering me around, kid?”

          “No sir.”

          “So you swear on your momma’s grave you didn’t press the alarm? That’s reassuring. But how am I supposed to be sure you’re not going to notify the authorities as soon as I leave here?”

          David gripped the edge of the bar to retain his balance. His knees were weak and felt like they could cave at any moment. The sense of impending doom had altered his tan complexion and turned him whiter than chalk dust. His whole body was quivering at the sight of the gun, which was now aimed steady at his head.

          “I’ll believe you if you do one thing for me,” the robber said.

“Name it,” David whimpered. “I’ll give you anything you want. You want more money? Take my wallet. Take my credit cards. Take my car keys if you want.”

“No I won’t be needing anything else like that. Just do me one favor and it will all be over. Raise your right hand for me and swear you didn’t touch the alarm.”

          “You’ll let me go if I do that?” David choked out the words.

          “Sure,” the robber chuckled. “Scouts honor.”

          As David’s arm extended upwards and his hand made contact with the air, the gun went off.

His arm dropped, his hand throbbed intensely. The robber bolted and David stifled his screams as he looked down and saw two nubs of white bone jutting up where his middle and index finger used to be.

David sterilized the wounds with alcohol from the bar and wrapped it tightly with a clean rag to slow the bleeding. He dialed 911 and requested an ambulance. He managed to avoid shock by downing a little tequila to numb the pain and picturing his white piano set atop the stage of a grand auditorium. He closed his eyes and could envision thousands of people lined up in rows of red cushioned folding chairs. The crowd would rise and applaud with adoration as he hit the last notes of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony with stunning precision.

This fantasy dissolved when the paramedics arrived promptly, only to inform David his fingers were too damaged to reattach. The doctors cauterized his wounds and then crushed his dreams in a matter of minutes. He was told he could still bartend, but the doctor had the misfortune of explaining to David that his real career was over.

          PIANO is an instrument of the soul. David didn’t just play piano. There was a small piece of him in every note he hit, every key he struck. It was also a steady gig for him. He played clubs and restaurants during the week, and tutored on the side to pull in extra cash. But now with a shattered hand, his playing and teaching days were over.

          Claire worked hard to console him. But she was having a rough time as of late, too. She had lost her internship at the hospital for oversleeping twice and for neglecting to call in once when she had gotten into a car accident on the way to work. Then Claire was forced to cancel and cut up her credit cards after bogus charges started appearing on her accounts. The culprit turned out to be a hacker connected to her spyware-infected laptop, which she caught onto just before the virus erased her entire hard drive.

On top of all that, she was then thrust into a situation where she had to the one thing she promised herself she never would: move back in to her old house. Albert, her father, had taken a turn for the worse and required constant care. Albert was bedridden for months, and it was Claire’s job to feed and look after him.

She always had a soft spot for her father. She was the favorite child, the spoiled child. She was the first one to have a car. Of course she smashed it up two weeks later, but Albert shelled out for a new one almost immediately.

          Whenever she needed money, Albert jumped for his wallet. When she was behind on her rent, daddy took care of it. So it made sense to her that she return the favor after all those years. She ditched her apartment and moved back home to look after him between her job, which she didn’t have to worry about anymore. Now her problem was finding a new job.

          “Things will turn around,” Claire tried to assure David. But she was also trying to assure herself.

          “It’s that fucking tree,” David insisted. “We never should have disturbed it.”

          “Moms story was just an urban legend,” Claire said, changing her tone. She had started that as of late. At first, she went on blaming that tree day and night for every little thing that went wrong. Even when she cracked one of her acrylic nails. Now her new game was to pretend it was all just coincidence. A streak of bad luck that would end soon. “We were younger and easier to fool when she told us that story. She was just trying to scare us. That’s all. We’re not cursed or jinxed or hexed.”

          During their college years, Monica Webber had shared a childhood story of hers with her children.

When she was living in Whitestone, her neighbors had this huge oak tree in the front of their yard. The branches were so long they almost touched the second-floor windows. One good storm was all it would take for those branches to snap or go sailing through the bedroom windows. But the mother of the house refused to cut it down. It was her tree, and she forbade it. Three months after her death, they cut the tree down without hesitation. From there on out, it was like the Jennings family had a dark cloud looming over their heads twenty-four-seven. The curse of that tree pursued the family wherever they traveled.

Even after they moved from Whitestone, the Jennings continued to suffer profusely. The father died in a terrible auto wreck on the way to his own dad’s funeral. The youngest son, Hank Jennings, died of a heroin overdose. The oldest son, Brad, made a series of bad investments and had to file Chapter 11. The daughter, Jessica, discovered her fiancé was cheating on her, with her best friend Juliana. She went on a bender and never recovered. They found her two days later, dead from alcohol poisoning.

          She told them this story after Albert, David, and Claire expressed their desire to chop down the weeping willow tree in their backyard.

The tree was a nuisance to Albert especially. The leaves would dry up and with the slightest gust of wind they would drift into the pool, clog up the skimmers or sink to the bottom. The tree also served as a hazard because Albert noticed one of its branches extended over their side driveway. If the branch snapped, it could easily smash up one of their cars. “That’s why we have insurance,” was Monica’s defense.

Monica planted that tree herself and meant the world to her. She would not let anyone lay a hand on it. She was convinced the curse would haunt her family forever. She made them swear they would never touch it, even after she was gone.

They all swore.

A month after the cancer ate Monica away, the tree came down.

CLAIRE sat on the edge of the bed, swirling a spoon around a steaming bowl of chowder. “Come on, dad. It’s your favorite. I made it with fresh diced clams, not the chunky frozen kind.”

“I’m not hungry,” Albert replied with a cold washcloth wrapped around his head to keep his temperature down. The fever was making him weaker and destroying his appetite. Claire bit her tongue to stop from laughing at the fact that David was right. Their father resembled a wrinkled bag of bones. A few pounds lighter and he’ll fall through his ass and hang himself, David would joke.

“You have to eat something,” Claire stressed the fact. “You’re getting too skinny. The doctor says it isn’t healthy.”

“I’m as healthy as I ever was,” Albert begged to differ with her.

Seconds later, he was clutching at his head and complaining of a terrible migraine. Claire rushed to the bathroom to fetch the aspirin from the medicine chest, and returned to find her dad slumped over, eyes dilated and unresponsive.

“DAVID!”

As David rushed in to see what the commotion was about, Claire rushed out to call for an ambulance. When she returned to the bedroom, David gave her the news.

“He’s dead,” he said, his eyes fixed and narrow. David and his father had their scuffles here and there, but he cherished the old man. He also embraced the musical talents Albert had passed onto him. Albert was a guitar player in his better days, a damn good one at that. He once opened for Peter Frampton. Now his glory days were behind him, and much like David, his musical career was officially over.

“Check his pulse,” she begged. “He can’t be dead.”

“I already checked his pulse. How do you think I reached the conclusion that he’s dead?”

“No,” Claire shook her head with disbelief. “This can’t be happening.”

          “That fucking tree,” David muttered, eyeing up his deformed hand.

          “Stop blaming the fucking tree!” Claire screamed. “We’re not cursed. It’s all in your mind.’’

          “Is it?” She didn’t respond, but Claire couldn’t help but ponder when this would be over. The streak of bad luck seemed endless and her heart couldn’t bear another loss. 

          THE RESULTS were in. It was a brain aneurysm that killed Albert Webber. The only man who suspected foul play was detective Dennis O’Reilly. He stopped by the house to inform Claire and David of their inheritance, which they were already made aware of by their father’s lawyer. They stood to inherit all of their father’s money and assets, including the house.

          “Too bad that money is going to be worthless,” O’Reilly told them, and a hint of a smirk spread across his face.

          “What are you talking about?” David asked.

          “Your father has been scamming the IRS for years with shell companies set up to look like legitimate business operations. Once they audit, you can wave bye-bye to all that inheritance money. It all goes to them. I can’t promise if you’ll keep the house or not. So tell me, was it worth it?”

          “Was what worth it?” David was perplexed.

          “You tell me. I really want to know how you did it. A brain aneurysm. It’s perfect. No one would suspect a thing, especially considering Albert’s age and his poor health as of late.”

          “Get out,” David demanded. It was just three days after the funeral and he was in no mood for these false accusations.

          “What happened to your hand?” O’Reilly asked before leaving.

          “I got robbed last Sunday at Joker’s Pub. The robber shot me. This was all reported to the police. You can check it out if you don’t believe me.”

          “Uh huh,” O’Reilly muttered as he headed for the door. Inside job, were the first words that popped into his head. Why didn’t the robber just kill him? O’Reilly wondered, but he didn’t bother to ask. All he had to do was keep a watchful eye over David and wait for him to slip up.

          DAVID’S only main chore was to tend to his mother’s garden. He made it a daily task to cut, trim, and water every plant Monica had grown before she passed away. He figured if he did the job just right, the curse might somehow be lifted or reversed.

          While trimming Monica's rhododendrons that afternoon, he watched Reggie Cunningham pass by on his skateboard. “Fag,” Reggie muttered to David as he rode by with his knapsack full of spray-paint draped over one shoulder. He loved pretending nobody knew what he had inside that bag. But the truth was Reggie and his friends were responsible for every act of vandalism in town. But with the cops looking at David and Claire now, they had no time to meddle with petty vandals.

          Debbie Cunningham was a divorcee who liked to flaunt her body around town like she was Marilyn Monroe. But David found her to be more akin to Marilyn Manson. They bumped into Debbie one evening in town square before their father passed.

When Reggie’s mother heard of the news of Albert’s illness, her patron-izing response to David and Claire was, “oh how the mighty have fallen.” It was no wonder where that little punk got it from.

          Just as O’Reilly predicted, a letter from the IRS soon arrived. The letter confirmed their assets were being seized to pay for their fathers debts. The house, which was in their father’s name, would also be seized and sold at auction.

          “When do we have to move?” Claire sobbed as David read the letter.

          “I’d start packing immediately,” David groaned. “It doesn’t sound promising.”

          “Where will we go?”

          “I can get another bartending gig, find us an apartment.”

          “Don’t you get it? You were right and I was wrong. This curse isn’t going to let up. It’s going to follow us wherever we go.”

          David’s face sunk into his hands. That fucking tree, he thought.

          THE NOOSE was knotted tightly in the center and tied twice around a thick support beam in the living room. David removed his shoes and positioned a kitchen chair below the dangling noose. He felt like a convict being led to the gallows. Only in this case, he was his own executioner.

          David stepped onto the chair and placed the noose firmly around his neck. Tears sprawled down his cheeks as he thought about Claire and Albert and Monica. The thought of leaving Claire behind sickened him. She had already lost so much. Could she cope with the loss of her brother, too?

          “I can’t do it,” he sobbed, trying to loosen the grip of the noose. The chair shifted as he struggled with the noose and slipped out from under him. His legs kicked and flailed with a mind of their own, trying desperately to reach the floor. His face grew redder and redder as the fingers of his good hand clawed away at the circular rope that was cutting into his windpipe.

          Claire, he thought. I don’t want you to find me like this. Please forgive me.

          CLAIRE took several minutes to get over the initial shock before she dialed 911. The paramedics cut him down and wheeled David’s blue corpse away. Right on cue, detective O’Reilly showed up on the scene.

          “I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” O’Reilly said sincerely.

          “I know what you’re thinking,” Claire rolled her tear soaked eyes. “For the record, I had nothing to do with this.”

          “I’m not thinking that,” O’Reilly said. He seemed hurt at the accusation. “You had nothing to gain from this. The IRS is already confiscating your dad’s money and the house. I was never even suspicious of you to begin with. It was David I had my theories about. I guess I’ll never know for sure now.”

          “Yes you can,” Claire assured him. “My father died of natural causes. David was a good man who tried his best to take care of the family. He would never hurt any of us.”

          “Only himself?”

          “It’s all my fault,” Claire cried.

          “I’m sorry,” O’Reilly apologized. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sure your brother was a good man. And you can’t blame yourself. If your brother cared as much as you say he did, he wouldn’t want that.”

          “Thanks,” Claire said, dabbing her tears away with a tissue O’Reilly had given her.

          “This probably isn’t the best time, but if you still have my card, you can call me sometime. I’ll treat you to a cup of coffee, and you can tell me a little more about yourself.”

          “Are you asking me out?” Claire was slightly amused.

          “I guess I am, sort of,” O’Reilly chuckled nervously. Claire thought it was cute.

          “I might take you up on that one day.”

          She walked O’Reilly to the door and almost broke down again when she saw Monica’s garden. Reggie Cunningham and his friends had gotten to it that night. They stomped through the whole garden, ripped her plants out by the roots. She smelled urine and she had no doubts that Reggie or one of his asshole buddies had relieved themselves there.

          The curse, she almost said aloud as O’Reilly walked to his car. When Reggie vandalized the garden, the curse must have been transferred to him.

          It sounded crazy, but it was no crazier than what she had experienced in the past few months. And there was only one way to find out. The first thing she did was set arrangements for David’s wake and funeral. The second thing she did was dig out O’Reilly’s card from her purse.

          EVEN WITH DAVID GONE, Claire’s life improved considerably over the course of the next few months. She hit it off with O’Reilly instantly and knew a proposal was already in the works when she checked his laptop and found Google searches for wedding rings.

          The same could not be said for Reggie Cunningham. After vandalizing Monica’s garden, his father gambled away his family’s savings in one short trip to Las Vegas. He had to sell their house just to cover half the debt. A week before they were set to move, they found Reggie’s father in the garage. He died of asphyxiation from exhaust fumes.

          To make matters worse, two weeks later Reggie snapped his arm falling out of a neighbor’s tree. His mother was forced to send Reggie to live with his aunt while she resorted to stripping as a means of supporting herself and paying off Reggie’s hospital bills.

Claire saw Debbie one night leaving The Lizard Lounge, a local strip joint. As she passed, Claire whispered with joy, “oh how the mighty have fallen.”

Mating Ritual

Genre: Horror/Fantasy

  

MATING RITUAL

By

Daniel Skye

Cameron Davis had never seen a deer up close before. On his daily nature walks, he’d see herds of deer trailing in the distance. Whenever he tried to inch closer, the sound of rustling leaves and fallen branches snapping under his feet would send them scattering.

The good news was he finally got to pet one. The bad news was he rammed it down with his pickup truck. It was a fawn that must have been separated from its mother. The baby deer lay in the center of the road, twitching for ten minutes before it quietly settled down. He tried to comfort it, gently petting its side when the twitching ceased and he knew there was no time to save it. There was minimal damage done to his vehicle, but that wasn’t his primary concern.

An older man drove by in a red convertible and made a smartass comment about Cameron killing Bambi before he sped away. Cameron was shaking his head, but this insensitive stranger actually made him feel better about himself. At least he had the decency to stop and call 911, who put him in touch with animal control. They sent a police officer who took down his basic information.

“Is there any damage to the vehicle?” was the officer’s first major question.

“Not really,” Cameron said. “A slight crack in one of the headlights. I’ll get it fixed as soon as possible.”

“Well,” the officer shrugged, “Don’t feel too bad about it. Happens all the time around here.” Then the officer put on a pair of dark gloves and apathetically dragged the deer carcass to the side of the road, leaving it behind for animal control to cart away.

Cameron returned home that evening and spent four hours on his laptop, meticulously scouring every dating site, every chat room, every personal ad. He needed a good lay, a one-night fling to get over the trauma of killing another living creature.

He felt sick over the whole ordeal. Though he believed getting struck down was a bit more humane than what those poor deer had been through in the last few months. Carcasses found maimed and mutilated; the damage so deliberate that no vehicle could have caused the tissue injuries sustained.

Cameron lived in Dorchester, and most of the town had already written it off as the work of twisted teens or some devil-worshipping cult that sacrifices animals to their demonic savoir. And the cops seemed in no rush to catch the culprits. They were wrapped up in the disappearance of Ed Lee, a local auto mechanic.

The lengthy search turned up nothing more than a severed ear that was found discarded by the entrance ramp of Route 25. The ear could have belonged to anyone, but the bullet-shaped earring dangling from the pierced lobe gave it away. Cameron didn’t know anyone else in town who’d dare wear them.

Ed Lee was an avid hunter. He was last seen by his wife, packing his rifle and hunting gear into his truck. Half of Dorchester drove trucks, but Ed’s was more than conspicuous. It was a shiny yellow pickup with a Confederate flag painted across the back windshield. Under it were the words the south will rise again! Cameron was convinced the poor bastard was delusional. That didn’t stop him from feeling bad when they mentioned his disappearance in the paper.

If a gun-toting redneck like Lee was vulnerable, that made Cameron a moving target. He had never fired a gun before in his life. He barely even had to raise his fists. The closest he ever came to a fight was when he shoved some drunk who was trying to sweet-talk his ex-girlfriend. And when the papers mentioned the cops finding his ear, he knew if they found Lee, he wouldn’t be alive. But he wasn’t going to let this gruesome discovery prevent him from carrying out his business.

It took Cameron four hours to connect with Tara; a slim, athletic brunette from Ocean City. They chatted for thirty minutes via Skype and a meeting was set for the following evening.

Cameron arrived at the pub fifteen minutes early only to discover Tara was way ahead of him. She had arrived fifteen minutes before him to prepare herself.

He recognized her, though he was used to seeing her in a pink tank top, sports bra, and skin-tight sweatpants. He had spotted her jogging many times on his daily walks.

“I’ve seen you around before,” he commented as they ordered their first round of drinks.

“Dorchester is a twenty minute commute from Ocean City so I drive down here a lot to use the trails. I jog a lot.”

“I can tell,” he grinned. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the sweatpants.”

“I almost wore them tonight,” she giggled. “But I didn’t think it was appropriate for a first date.”

“Is that what this is, a date?” He sipped his drink.

“If you play your cards right,” she winked as she downed her vodka martini. “Did you know that guy from around here who disappeared? What was his name…?”

“Ed Lee,” Cameron answered for her. “He worked on my truck a few times. But I didn’t really know him personally.”

“It’s kind of scary when you think about it,” she said. “If that can happen to someone out here, it can happen to any of us.”

Three drinks later and Tara was already insisting on heading back to his place. Cameron knew this was going to be easy, just not that easy. But he wasn’t one to question his luck. It usually came in streaks. He was convinced his bad luck streak had climaxed when he struck that baby deer. Tara was now the kick-start of his good luck streak.

“I’m engaged,” Tara confessed as they entered his bedroom.

“That doesn’t trouble me if it doesn’t trouble you.” Cameron smiled nervously. The fact did trouble him a bit, but he was feeling buzzed and his judgment was fogged by alcohol consumption. The words emanating from his mouth were not his but merely the words he thought Tara wanted to hear.

“No trouble at all,” she smiled, a little tipsy. Her soft lips pressed against his. But Cameron felt the time for smooching had passed.

Cameron lifted her with authority, but laid her down on the bed gently, the way a caring lover would. He unbuttoned his silk shirt and lifted her purple blouse. Before he could unhook her bra, she was already pulling the straps down and unzipping her miniskirt. He ditched his pants and boxers and slid Tara’s panties down slowly, caressing her glossy legs and thighs.

“I like to be on top,” Tara insisted.

“Whatever gets you off,” Cameron smirked.

He rolled over to let Tara mount him. She leaned over and dug into purse at the edge of the bed, producing a pair of metal handcuffs. “Do you have a kinky side?”

“Not normally, but I can make an exception for you.”

Tara cuffed his wrists between the vertical bars of his iron headboard and straddled his waist. She began to slowly roll her hips back and forth, bending closer to his chest and then rising up.

With Cameron’s wrists bound, his movements were restricted. He responded by thrusting upwards and falling back. She reached up and clasped his hands, pulling them together tightly. They started to move in unison, rising as the other fell. Sweat glistened on their bodies as the room grew hotter and they began to quicken the pace.

Tara clamped her thighs tightly around Cameron and dug in with her heels. She started grinding more forcibly against him. He thrust harder with his pelvis as she moaned with delight. Cameron’s curtains were open and the crescent moonlight seemed to beam off her ample breasts as they bounced with every thrust or shift of her waist.

“Don’t come until I do,” she commanded.

Cameron fought to hold on as she rolled and worked her hips faster and harder. The effort was draining him and he wasn’t sure if he could abide. Tara was breathing rapidly, crying out in pleasure. She began to gasp as she emitted soft little moans. He could feel her smooth skin growing hotter. She sucked in the air and arched back, her nails digging into his hands. He couldn’t hold out any longer and started to climax.

Tara bucked wildly against him, her own orgasm consuming her. She moaned as she fell atop his chest and lay motionless for several minutes, panting heavily. Then she reached up and stroked his face, nuzzling hers against his. She planted a wet kiss against his scruffy cheek.

“You usually get all cuddly and affectionate after sex, ’cause I’m not really down with that.”

“Not usually. But tonight is a special occasion. I want you to enjoy it as long as you can.”

“What do you mean special occasion? And my wrists are getting sore, you feel like unlocking these cuffs for me?

“And spoil the fun? Not just yet. I think you have some more left inside of you.”

“Two in a row? You’re quite the energetic gal.”

“Ever heard of sexual cannibalism?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he chuckled. Oh, Cameron, he thought, you sure know how to pick them. First she cuffs you to the bed, now she’s talking about people eating each other. What’s she going to do next, show off her bracelet from the loony bin?

“After sex, the female praying mantis will devour the head of the male. It’s often connected to reproduction. The female needs the nutrients necessary to feed her offspring. Essentially, one dies so others can be born in its place. They do this after sex because that’s when the male is in his most vulnerable state.”

“You’re making me hungry,” Cameron joked. “We should get dinner.”

“That was dinner. Now it’s time for dessert.”

“Dessert?” Cameron asked, bewildered.

Her naked body quaked, the skin bubbling and pushing outwards as her figure increased in mass. The nails of her fingers slipped off one by one as sharp, prodigious claws forced their way to the surface and became whole with her fingers. Her legs were no longer the silky smooth runner’s legs he had encountered that evening. They had swelled to the width of telephone poles, and they were sprouting hair. The hair kept spreading until every inch of her body was consumed by it. Her face had become distorted, taking on the shape of an animal’s snout, with two rows of fangs jutting from her mouth. Her eyes were yellow and glowing.

She leaned in and sunk her teeth into his neck. He spent his final moments twitching, his mind flashing back and forth between Ed Lee and that baby deer that lay helpless in the road. He understood now how Lee and all those innocent deer had met their fates. Unfortunately this newfound information would never leave Cameron’s bedroom.

Hunger Strike

Genre: Horror 

HUNGER STRIKE

By

Daniel Skye

Amy Larson’s husband had not touched her in six months. Not so much as a pat on the back or a kiss on the cheek. And though she took his lack of affection as a personal insult, she was relieved he hadn’t raised his hands to her either. Six months earlier, if she so much as spilled a drop of water, Dennis would’ve blackened her eye faster than she could get a towel to wipe up the mess.

Dennis Larson was too preoccupied with Roscoe to even acknowledge his family’s existence beyond the dinner table. Amy would swear he loved that dog more than he did his own wife and child. Roscoe was a Saint Bernard that Dennis had rescued from the Greenville shelter, looked just like the dog from those Beethoven movies. The week he brought Roscoe home, Dennis spent five hundred dollars on a dog house, bed, personalized collar, and a cage for when a visit to the vet or kennel was required.

While the family scrounged and scraped to survive, Roscoe was treated like royalty. When they went to the beach, Roscoe rode shotgun. While the family dined on macaroni and cheese, Roscoe munched on raw sirloin. There was nothing too expensive for that adorable little mutt.

Dennis let Roscoe roam free whenever he pleased, which angered some of the neighbors. But they were too afraid of Dennis’s awful temper to speak up. When it rained, Roscoe would track mud in the living room and shake himself off, soaking the furniture or whoever was unfortunate enough to be standing in his way. Dennis thought this was adorable. Amy found it to be a pain in the ass seeing as she was the one expected to do the cleanup.

It was a grey December afternoon when Evan Larson strolled in early from school. His brown jacket was stained red, his knuckles skinned down to the bone. He had been in another fight. Ten years old and he was already taking on kids twice his size.

Evan used to stay up late to watch amateur boxing on the sports networks. He loved it so much that on his ninth birthday Dennis bought him gloves and a punching bag. He figured wailing on a heavy bag wouldn’t hurt anybody and might help work all the aggression out of his boy. But the bag didn’t quell Evan’s rage; it only seemed to feed it.

This recent incident involved a young boy named Ronnie Henderson who pegged Evan in the back of the head with a dodge ball during gym glass. Evan leapt over the dividing net and threw the first punch, which crushed poor Ronnie’s nose. Kids were going around school saying when it was over Ronnie’s face looked like raw hamburger meat, all mashed and bloody. The verdict was in on Evan: Permanent expulsion. The doors of Greenville Middle School were closed to him forever.

“What were you thinking?” Dennis shouted, his face turning beet red. Roscoe got so worked up over his master’s fury that he started barking along with Dennis’s screams. “Do you know how hard it’s going to be to find a new school? And what about the kid you sent to the hospital? His parents are probably going to sue us.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Evan shrugged it off, shaking his hands to alleviate the pain from his throbbing knuckles.

“You can’t go around beating people up. It won’t solve your problems.”

“It seems to work on mom,” Evan remarked. That snide comment sent Dennis sailing over the edge. Amy was preparing supper in the kitchen and heard the crinkle of leather as Dennis slid his belt from his jeans.

“Boy, I’m going to whip the skin off your ass.”

Amy turned her back in the kitchen, fearing that Dennis would belt her too if she interjected. As Dennis raised his belt, Evan planted his fist in his father’s gut. Roscoe jumped up and sunk his teeth in Evan’s forearm. Shaking Roscoe off, Evan swung again. This time Dennis was prepared and as he ducked, Evan’s tender knuckles smashed against the wall.

Dennis’s belt swung through the air and snapped across Evan’s back. Roscoe backed away as Dennis lashed his boy again and again until his son’s back was raw as his knuckles.

“Now get your worthless ass upstairs, boy. If you thought that was bad, let’s see how you like going to bed without your supper.”

“You can’t starve me,” Evan protested.

“Like hell I can’t. Until we find you another school, you’re going on a mandatory hunger strike. Now move it!”

Defeated, Evan retreated from the living room without further resistance. Dennis kneeled down and petted Roscoe behind the ears; gave him a treat for helping out.

In the kitchen, Amy trembled like the last leaf on a dying tree. Dennis and her son had their disagreements in the past, but it never came to blows before. As many times as Dennis raised his hands to her, he never raised his hands to his boy. 

Evan rearranged his room looking for a source of food. A stale bag of chips or stray candy bar he had brought up and forgotten about. A whole night without food and even the church shoes in his closet were starting to look appetizing.

Dennis retired that evening with a big smile plastered across his chubby face. His son had stepped out of line with him, and he had remedied the situation in his own savage way. Was it any wonder where Evan got his anger and violent tendencies from?

Amy lied awake in bed, reading silently. She never once mentioned the incident. She didn’t even bother to ask Dennis why Roscoe wasn’t planted at the foot of the bed like usual. She just enjoyed the silence, took it as a brief reprieve.

Evan’s room was side-by-side with his parent’s bedroom. Dennis pressed his ear to the wall, expecting to hear his boy snoring away. Instead, he could hear Evan chewing softly, slowly. Whatever he was munching on, he was really savoring the flavor.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Dennis yelled, making Amy twitch again. “I think he’s eating in there. I’ll teach him, that little bastard. Where’s my belt?”

“What the heck could he be snacking on?” Amy wondered. “There were no leftovers. And there’s nothing else in the fridge. I haven’t been shopping since Sunday.”

Dennis Larson’s eyes widened. “Roscoe,” he whispered, and a single tear sprawled down his cheek.

Mother's Day

Genre: Horror (Zombies)

MOTHER’S DAY

By

Daniel Skye

          In the darkest corner of the Fisher family kitchen, Casey Fisher used a stepstool to reach the countertop. Using a pitcher he had filled at the sink, Casey dumped some water into a mixing bowl and added pancake mix. Casey had studied his mother make pancakes for him and Bo every morning. She always added the water before the mix to prevent the formation of lumps. Then she would stir clockwise with a metal whisk, just as Casey began to do.

          He was a young boy, nine years old to be exact; short and skinny as a pencil. His dark brown hair was shoulder-length and covered the sides of his face, hiding the faded scars that marked him.

          Casey stirred until the batter was nice and thick. He dipped his finger in the bowl and ate a glob of raw batter just to certain it was ready. His dad would’ve caned him good for that one, had he been around to see it.

          Sunlight peeked in through the thin cracks of the wooden planks and boards that were nailed across every window. This made both entry and escape quite impossible.

          The clocks still ran and Casey could see it was just past dawn. He was learning quickly how to operate on little to no sleep. He and Bo, his younger sister, took turns sleeping in shifts. He had been keeping track of the days on a calendar tacked to the kitchen wall.

          It had been two weeks since the chaos erupted. Two weeks and the cavalry had yet to arrive. Every day, Casey’s hope would dwindle. But he fought to stay strong for Bo and for his mother.

Casey lifted the bowl from the counter and dragged the stool across the kitchen floor, scraping the linoleum in the process. That was the least of his concerns. He turned the burner on the electric stove and Bo passed him a frying pan which he set atop the burner. He tipped the bowl gently and let the batter drip into the pan.

Casey was astonished the water and electricity were still flowing, though he figured it wouldn’t last for long. Once the power went, Casey had a box of flashlights and candles set aside. The clocks all ran on batteries. And Ben, his father, had stocked up enough firewood to heat the house for a year. They had plenty of dry and canned foods, and Casey was certain the conflict would be resolved before supplies ran scarce.

          “Don’t forget to flip them this time,” Bo reminded him.

          “You just keep an eye on that toast,” he whispered. “Don’t let it burn. And remember to keep your voice down.”

          “Sorry,” she whispered back. “Do you think mom will enjoy this?”

          “I hope,” he said, flipping one of the pancakes with a spatula. “She hasn’t eaten in days. And it’s Mother’s Day, after all. What mom doesn’t love breakfast in bed?”

          Bo pressed the button the toaster and four crispy brown slices sprung up from their individual slots. She slathered butter on them and spread them out on a clear plate. Casey topped off the stack of pancakes with a little butter and syrup. He placed the food on a silver tray and considered pouring a glass of orange juice. But they were running low on OJ and Casey knew his mom wouldn’t drink it. Since the accident, she had acquired a thirst for something different.

          “Do you miss dad?” Bo asked as they walked through the hall, Casey carrying the tray and Bo toting their father’s shotgun. Casey didn’t have the heart to tell her the gun wasn’t loaded. He didn’t trust her with a loaded gun and let her carry it for false security. He always kept the shells in his pockets for when they were needed.

          He balanced the tray on one hand and brushed his fingers across the scars under his long hair. He had momentary flashes of the day his old man swung a coffeepot at him. He remembered the sound the glass made when it shattered across his cheek. It sounded like a rock being chucked through a window.

          Ben Fisher seemed to have it in for his only son. The beatings were a small fraction of his abuse. He would verbally abuse his son as he would curse the players on TV when they missed a field goal. Ben constantly ridiculed Casey for his long hair, and couldn’t help but wonder if he was raising a queer. “Cut your hair, faggot,” he’d say. “If your grandpa was around to see you, he’d buzz your head and boot your ass straight to military school.” One night, Casey accidently spilled his father’s Blue Ribbon and Ben snapped, ran to the kitchen, and grabbed a butcher’s knife. “Boy, if you pull that shit again, I’ll scalp you like an Injun, you understand?” Casey only nodded his head, the sharp knife glistening under the dim lights.

“Dad got what he deserved,” Casey muttered.

          “Still, we could have used him. He could have protected us.”

          “Dad was more harm than good,” Casey explained. “I’m here to protect you. That’s all that matters.”

          “You did a great job protecting me the other day,” Bo rolled her eyes. She was smart and sassy for her age. But she still required constant supervision.

          “I warned you not to get that close. Don’t worry, it’ll heal up.”

          They approached the basement door and Casey undid the latch. “I can’t go near her,” Bo pleaded, itching at the bandage that covered her infected wound.

“Stay back then,” he cautioned her. He twisted the knob and pushed the door forward, placing the tray on the top step. “Mom?” he called and peered into the darkness below.

Their mother emerged, ascending the staircase slowly. Casey locked eyes with her and almost caught a brief glint of recognition from those blank, lifeless pupils.

          Casey slammed the door, locked it, and watched silently through the peephole he had drilled with one of his dad’s power tools. The dry, rotted flesh still clung to her ample body. She leaned over, growling, drooling over the food as she sniffed and poked at it. In seconds, the tray was flung aside and she was clawing at the door, growling and screeching like the rabid lunatic she had been reduced to.

          “Happy Mother’s Day,” Casey whispered as a tear rolled down his cheek and grazed his scars. He relieved Bo of the shotgun, steering her away from the door.

          “She didn’t like it?” Bo asked, already knowing the answer.

          “Regular food won’t do the trick,” Casey sighed. “We tried. But she’s one of them now. And dad wasn’t enough to satisfy her hunger. The only option is to find her another source of food.”

          “There’s nobody out there,” Bo insisted.

          “There has to be. If we survived, so have others.”

          “We can’t do that,” Bo said, scratched at her infected arm. “Dad was one thing. Hurting normal people is wrong.”

          “Who said we? I’ll handle it.”

          They moved to the living room, where Casey tried the television again. All stations were down. Every channel he flipped through flashed a blue screen with white text that read TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES, PLEASE STAND BY.

          Casey heard the soft approach of footsteps, followed by the loud growling sounds that emanated from their front porch. The porch made him think of the day Bo fell running up to the house and skinned her knee. Ben Fisher was passed out in the recliner; empty Blue Ribbon cans were strewn about the floor. And their mother was working at the market that day. So Casey dabbed the wound with alcohol and bandaged it. Once her tears dried up, she gave her brother a peck on his scarred cheek and thanked him. It was that day that Casey realized he was more a father to Bo than Ben ever would be.

          Being the older brother is usually a tough chore to handle. But now he was playing the role of the brother and the parents. And he was charged with the task of dealing with Bo’ injury; the wound their mother had inflicted when Bo simply tried to pass her an apple. Soon, Bo would develop a bad fever and her flesh would rot to the bone. She would die and come back as one of them… unless he spared her from that misery.

          Bo shuffled away from the boarded windows until she could no longer hear the clawing sounds from outside. The sound of the zombies used to frighten her. Now what frightened her was the fact she was getting used to it. Little Bo was old enough to understand the concept of fate, and she had accepted hers. “I’m not going to get better. I’m going to turn into one of them, aren’t I?”

          “Not if I can help it,” Casey said, slipping one of the shells into his dad’s shotgun. “I love you, sis.”

          Outside, a horde of the undead continued to gather as a single gunshot rang throughout the neighborhood.

Teething

 Genre: Horror (Vampires)

TEETHING

By

Daniel Skye

          It was the first traffic jam in the history of Greenville. A minivan had swerved into oncoming traffic and its side was clipped by a milk truck. The cops had the only main road in town blocked until the wreckage was clear.

Stuck under the blistering August sun in her convertible, Bonnie Wheeler decided to take a detour. Driving through the back-roads of town, she saw a yellow sign poking up from someone’s lawn that implored her to drive as if her own children lived in that neighborhood. Bonnie shrugged and thought to herself, What if I don’t have any children?

          Her friends–all of them in their late thirties and married with children–could identify more. “You don’t understand,” her friends would lecture. “You’re not a mother yet. You don’t know what it’s like to have kids.” And some days Bonnie couldn’t help but thank the good Lord for that fact. But her perspective was about to change.

One night, towards the end of summer, Bonnie met a handsome stranger in the darkest corner of the grimiest watering hole in Greenville. She subtly inspected his fingers for a wedding band, or some kind of mark or tan line that would indicate one. Through this sneaky tactic, Bonnie was able to confirm this man was definitely on the market.

          Bonnie had tried her luck with all the single men of Greenville, but still couldn’t find Mr. Right. But that tingle running through her body said luck was on her side that evening.

          He wasn’t a regular. Bonnie knew all the bar flies that frequented Joker’s Pub. And this guy stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb amongst the other drunken slobs that serve as the bars clientele.

          He introduced himself as Max. No last name, which didn’t strike Bonnie as odd because she was lost in his dark eyes. Bonnie had spent a few short hours with this man, but she already had wedding bells chiming in her head. Max was an out-of-towner, claimed to be from Tampa. He was only in town on business.

          “What kind of business do you have out here in Greenville?” she asked.

          “I’m just following orders from my company. Got to spread our product around.” Handsome as Max was, he seemed a tad bit shy about his teeth. He had this annoying habit of cupping his hand over his mouth when he spoke. “Who knows? Maybe fate brought me here. To Greenville, to this bar. Do you believe in fate?”

“I do,” she smiled, her green eyes shining with affection.

“Well maybe fate brought me here to meet you, Bonnie.” That was the line that cemented her plans for the evening.

          By last call, they were back at Bonnie’s place. What ensued was a steamy night of lust and burning passion that Bonnie fooled herself into thinking was genuine love.

          The next morning, Bonnie awoke and rolled over to an empty bed. Max was gone. No number, no note, no nothing. She had never felt so used in all her life.

          What shocked her friends the most was she continued to pursue him. She called every hotel, motel, and apartment building in town. She checked the shelters and soups kitchens, called every hospital and police station in a thirty mile radius. Bonnie even went as far as to hire a private detective in Florida to track Max down. But he wasn’t in Tampa. Wherever Max was, he didn’t want to be found.

          Her friends encouraged her to let it go, to move on. They couldn’t see what she felt. Bonnie was in love. She wanted him, needed him in her life. What Bonnie couldn’t accept was that true love is not always mutual. It’s usually unrequited.

          Eight and a half months later, Bonnie was carrying Max’s child. Her belly swelled and bloated like wood exposed to constant moisture and even her maternity clothes seemed tight. Her back ached and the cramps made her not want to leave the bed every morning. But her desire for Max had not faded. She still thought about that night, about waking up the next morning alone, about that embarrassing hickey that she had to cover with makeup.

          It was a Friday in early May when her water broke suddenly. She was at the mall with her friend Julie to shop for baby clothes and satisfy her latest craving for hot chocolate. She really wanted yogurt, but the yogurt had become too much for her unusually sensitive teeth. Since the pregnancy, a lot of things about her body had changed. She wore dark-lensed glasses outside to protect her eyes from the sun, as the light was now blinding to her.

          Julie escorted her to the nearest exit and pulled her car up. Bonnie spent the first six hours in intense labor, breathing heavily and sucking on ice chips. Her screams were so agonizing that Julie couldn’t stick around to watch. By the last two hours, Bonnie was ready to perform the delivery herself. She just wanted that little bugger out of her already. Doctor Meyers was summoned when it was time.

          “You’re doing great,” Meyers encouraged her. “Keep pushing Bonnie.”

          Bonnie wailed as she pushed with all her might. The pain was more extreme than her friends led her to believe. It felt like squeezing a huge fridge through a narrow doorway.

          “That’s it, Bonnie,” Meyers continued. “Keep pushing. Just a little more. You’re doing fine.”

          Bonnie dug her nails into the mattress and pushed harder, the pain growing more unbearable with each passing second.

          “Almost there, Bonnie,” Meyers shouted. “I can see the head now. It’s a boy! I can see… fangs?”

          Doctor Meyers swallowed the air and all Bonnie could see was the white of his eyes as they rolled in the back of his head. A nurse tried to catch him as he tumbled to the floor and a soft pink lump slid from his mouth. Meyers had bit down on his tongue when he fainted, and severed the tip.

          One of the nurses covered her eyes as she snipped the umbilical cord and wrapped the baby in a crisp blue blanket. The nurse passed the baby along to Bonnie and tended to a fallen Meyers. A second panicked nurse was already phoning for help.

          Bonnie marveled at her beautiful new baby. All her friends were going to be so jealous. She was pleased to see the boy had Max’s dark eyes, and his sharp teeth. The only problem now was figuring out how she was going to breastfeed.

          Cradling that baby in her arms, she realized it was a mutual attraction between her and Max. He had chosen her to bear his seed, to help carry out his legacy.

          It was love at first bite.

Last Night

Genre: Horror/Mystery

  

LAST NIGHT

By

Daniel Skye

          The sound of Preston Kelly’s lawn mower wakes me every morning at six o’clock sharp. I swear that guy must mow his lawn two or three times a day. At this point, Preston will take any excuse to distance himself from that ball-busting wife of his. He even helped organize the neighborhood watch just to get more time away from her.

The watch basically consists of Preston and three other disgruntled spouses who pound beers as they patrol the neighborhood after dark. The watch was formed amidst the slew of recent break-ins and missing person’s reports, so I can’t really complain. My only gripe is with the empty beer cans I find tossed over my fence from time to time. 

          Like clockwork, Kelly’s mower revs up at six A.M. and shakes me from my slumber. I awake with an awful migraine that’s only intensified by the racket of Kelly’s lawn mower.

I roll over and realize I’m not in my bed, but rather sprawled out on the floor of my hot, windowless guestroom. The stale taste of alcohol in the back of my throat could explain this. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I was hung over. But as a professional alcoholic, I know a hangover when I feel one. And as an alcoholic, I’m practically immune to hangovers.

          No, this is something entirely different. I can’t recall anything from last night, the likely result of another sudden blackout.

          The blackouts started when I was thirteen. I’d just nod off and wake up in strange places. Walk home caked in dirt or mud, or sand if I woke up on the beach. It got so bad that my parents had to issue a curfew and lock my bedroom door from the outside when I went to sleep. The blackouts stopped when I graduated high school, and started up again my second year of college.

          Then I met Evelyn and things improved. The blackouts ceased and my life was normal again. Nine years passed and not a single blackout. The only loss of consciousness I experienced was alcohol induced. I was finally past this bizarre spell… so I believed.

          I’ve experienced ten blackouts in the last several months. I’ve been to three doctors and all tests have yielded negative or inconclusive results. It’s not cancer or a brain tumor. My blood pressure isn’t too high or too low. It’s not heart-related. I’m not suffering from seizures. It’s not even the massive amounts of alcohol I consume on a regular basis. It’s just another medical mystery. The only downfall is the lapses in memory. Some mornings I wake up and can’t even remember my own name.

          Evelyn has grown frustrated with me recently. It’s not the drinking that seems to trouble her, though I know she could live without it. It’s the blackouts.

I don’t know why my personal condition causes her duress, but she hates having to explain things to me repeatedly. I’ll wake up and she’ll have to recap the whole night for me because I can’t recall a thing. Every so often I get this odd feeling that she’s being untruthful with me. That she’s holding back information with her stories.

          I pick myself off the floor and mash my bloodshot eyes with my knuckles as I stumble to the bathroom. The bathroom tiles are clear, but sticky with some kind of invisible residue. I shrug it off and snatch two aspirin from the medicine cabinet. I swallow them dry and examine my face in the mirror.

          The egg-shaped lump that has formed on the side of my head answers the questions regarding my migraine. But I have no memory of falling or being hit.

          Alcohol on my breath. Scratches on my cheek. Specks of dried blood on my shirt collar. Signs of a bad night I have no recollection of. Was I at a bar? Did I get into a fight? Think, George. Try to remember this time.

          Downstairs in the kitchen, I find a Dear John note from Evelyn. I should be angry or disappointed, but I’m not. I should have seen it coming instead. Evelyn was an angel to endure me for as long as she did.

          Nine years is a deep commitment, but even the best fighters have to throw in the towel when it becomes too much to bear. The drinking. The lack of steady employment. The blackouts. Evelyn had finally thrown in the towel. After nine years, she was calling it quits.

          We've been married longer than most couples last nowadays. When you stop to think about it nine years with anyone is an accomplishment. I think a lot about how Evelyn looked the first time I met her. Her curly blonde locks. Her radiant smile. Her bronzed skin that seemed to be glowing under her turquoise bridesmaid dress. She always smiled, even when it was someone else’s big day and not her own. She knew her time would come eventually. And it did when she met me.

          But after nine rocky years that smile has morphed into a scowl. Even in the words of her letter I can feel her contempt for me. My condition has cost me jobs, friends, and now, my wife.

          Flies buzz around the fruit bowl that Evelyn has made the centerpiece of the Formica kitchen table. Not fruit flies either; plain old ordinary house flies. I’ve been seeing a lot of them lately. At least I can recall that.

          I toss Evelyn’s note in the trash, swat a few flies away with yesterday’s newspaper and open a window to get some air. The whole downstairs reeks of bleach or ammonia or some chemical odor. Why bother to clean if you were planning to bail on me? Women; I’ll never get them.

          The aspirin isn’t helping. I rub my temples and my fingers accidently graze the tender bump on my head. Then I search under the kitchen sink until I find the bottle of scotch I hid from Evelyn.

I know I shouldn’t drink this early, but it’s the only solution I can think numb the pain. I pour a glass, tilt it back, and drink it straight. I’m tempted to slam another, but I tuck the bottle back under the sink and rub my sore temples again. I started attending AA meetings awhile back for Evelyn’s sake. I missed one meeting and never went again. I plunged off the wagon and never hopped back on. I don’t know if that says my love for alcohol is stronger than my love for Evelyn, but I’m certain she sees it that way.

          My head still throbs as I ascend the staircase. In the bedroom, I discover two of Evelyn’s suitcases. Both cases are so stuffed they look ready to burst, not a chance that another piece of clothing would fit. If she finally left, why didn’t she take her stuff?

          The dry blood. The suitcases. The lump on my head. Something ugly occurred here last night. Showdown at the Hartman residence perhaps? Did I hurt Evelyn? No, I would never lay a hand on her. If I did, I’d be in jail right now. Evelyn may put up with a lot of shit, but she’d never put up some brute wailing on her.

          Returning to the kitchen, I check the answering machine. No new messages. I pick up the receiver, dial Evelyn’s cell number. It goes straight to voicemail. I hang up and consider calling the police. With some help from the booze, the throbbing pain from the lump on my head has departed. But that doesn’t change the fact that I still have alcohol on my breath, and I look like I’ve been on the wrong end of an LAPD beat down. Perhaps phoning the cops is not the wisest decision.

          I don’t even know what really happened to Evelyn. Maybe she wrote the note, packed her stuff, had second thoughts, and decided to take off for a bit. Think things over. Her purse, phone, and car keys are all absent from the house. She could be with family, friends. She could be out of state for all I know.

I decide to phone Doug, Evelyn’s brother. Doug was a football buddy of mine from my college days. He introduced the two of us at a mutual friend’s wedding. Two years later, he was best man at our wedding.

          Doug picks up after two rings and greets me with a jovial, “Hey, George!”

“Good morning, Doug. This might sound like a strange question, but have you seen Evelyn?”

After a delayed response, he simply replies, “No.”

“I haven’t seen her since last night, I think. I might have had another blackout.”

“I thought you had those under control.”

“Apparently not.”

“I haven’t heard from her,” Doug assures me. “If I see her or hear from her, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, Doug. I appreciate it.”

The door slams as the receiver clicks and Evelyn peeks her head into the kitchen. She glares at me disapprovingly. “Come back to gather your stuff?” I ask.

“I cleaned up the mess in the bathroom,” Evelyn says, almost seething. “Who was it this time? You know what, don’t even tell me. I don’t want to know the sick details. And don’t give me any of that crap about not remembering. I’m tired of the blackouts and the lies and bullshit excuses.”

“What in God’s name are you saying? Are you implying that I’m having some sort of an affair?”

“You’re so clueless,” she says, swatting away the flies that buzz around her face. “Wonder where all these flies are coming from? Check the crawlspace, George. You’ll know the truth then.”

She retrieves her luggage and leaves in a flash. Not even a stick of lipstick or a pair of earrings remains. You’d never even know Evelyn Hartman existed.

I head for the utility closet and yank the wood panel from the crawlspace. A swarm of flies come buzzing out and the stench that emanates makes me gag like a punch to the throat. I feel sick, dizzy. White spots of light obscure my vision, preventing me from seeing beyond the square frame of the crawlspace. My eyelids flutter, the air grows thin. I think I’m blacking…

Oh, George. Sweet, gentle George. That’s it. Stay in the dark. Don’t bother checking the crawlspace. It will be cleared out by this evening. Any minute now, the cops will be towing a car out of the river. The local news will report another missing girl. By tomorrow, it will be two missing girls. I’m sorry but Evelyn has become a liability. As your better half, I can’t allow her to send you to prison, George. I must deal with her so I can carry on my work. Don’t fret, you won’t remember a thing. It’ll be just like the old days.