Dinner Drinks and Ectoplasm

Phil Thomas
Dinner, Drinks, and Ectoplasm
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3 AUDIOBOOK COLLECTIONS
6 BOOK COLLECTIONS
Phil Thomas
Forward
Greetings, and welcome to my laboratory—the place where I create cauldron-bubbling fables
and monstrous tales from a bevy of ingredients too horrifying to comprehend.
To be honest, I don't believe I've ever written a story about monsters except for “Tinfoil
Bullet” featured in Monsterthology 2, and it's not included in this collection. So why am I talking
about it? I don't know. What I did include is a gathering of short stories and flash fiction that I've
written over the last few years.
Although this is not a Halloween collection, a few of the stories revolve around the
spooky holiday—the best holiday, in my opinion. “The Pumpkin Carvers,” “Smiling jack,”
“Bonnie,” and “That Time of Year,” celebrate All Hallows Eve in all its orange and black glory.
A few other themes you'll find here range from a creepy family that arrives at a boarding
house in “The Boarders,” a businessman who decides to date a ghost in “Dinner, Drinks, and
Ectoplasm,” and a possessed priest who hunts his parishioners during his nocturnal hours in
“Lynn,” to name a few. Many have been sitting on the shelf for some time, so I decided to
release them all in one place to further implement my plan of world domination by poisoning the
masses.
I'm currently working on more ideas to rot your mind. And as my father used to say when
I was a kid, "Phil, stop watching those horror movies. They'll rot your mind." I didn't listen.
Be on the lookout for my upcoming novel, The Poe Predicament, released by
Foundations Publishing, and also Worst Afterlife Ever, published by, well, I'm not sure yet. But
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I'll keep you posted on that. You'll find the first few chapters of those two novels in the back of
this book. Enjoy, and I love feedback, so drop me a line and let me hear your thoughts.
You can get in touch with me on my website at www.philthomas.net and sign up for my
mailing list so I can further control your mind. You can email me at
extraordinary117@gmail.com. Follow me on Twitter at philthomas@filmauthor1 and Facebook
at facebook.com/phil.thomas.50115
And if the mood strikes you, check out What Are You Afraid Of?—a horror and
paranormal radio show that I co-host with author T. Fox Dunham. It airs on Friday nights at 9:00
on Para-X Radio, and you can find the complete episode list on our show's website at
www.whatareyouafraidofpodcast.com
There you'll find interviews with wonderful guests such as Lloyd Kaufman, Katrina
Weidman, Joe R. Lansdale, Grady Hendrix, Greg Bear, Daniel Krause, and many more. We'd
love to have you—because the basement isn't full yet.
I hope you enjoy the collection.
Phil Thomas
October 2020
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This book is dedicated to my mom and Colleen and Ryan and Jamey and Fox and another Ryan
and Matt and that lady at the supermarket—I didn't set the fire on purpose.
Cover design and artwork by Dawne Dominique
Copyright 2020 by Phil Thomas

All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents
are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations
is coincidental.
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Table of Contents
The Darker Season……………………Page 6
That Time of Year…………………….Page 13
The Boarders………………………….Page 18
Smiling Jack……………......................Page 23
The Clown Code……………………...Page 25
Dinner, Drinks, and Ectoplasm……….Page 29
Lynn……………………………..........Page 34
The Pumpkin Carvers…………………Page 48
The Floating Guillotine………….........Page 54
The Elf on the Fireplace Mantle……...Page 57
The Static Age………………………..Page 60
Bonnie………………………………...Page 98
The Poe Predicament (Sample)….........Page 111
Worst. Afterlife. Ever. (Sample)……...Page 120
Closing Thoughts……………………..Page 143
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The Darker Season
(Based on real events)
Not a soul could be seen. The beaches were empty. The welcoming rows of storefronts were dark.
The amusement rides were silent. Luke and his cousin Jonathan stood at the base of the Giant
Ferris Wheel on Morey’s pier and marveled at its stature.
One of the last relics of its time, its surroundings had been replaced long ago by flashier
rides and attractions. Every few moments, the circular metal structure creaked and swayed,
reminding them of its enormous presence.
It had been many ocean tides since he’d stepped foot on Wildwood’s boardwalk. The last
time proved itself too painful, and it took six long years for him to return comfortably. He
decided to give it another attempt when his cousin, Jonathan, asked to accompany him to the
Jersey shore on a cold January weekend. Jonathan had grown-up in the Midwest, having no
access to the beaches or ocean, so Luke felt obligated to chaperone his cousin’s first visit.
They checked into The Avalon Motel—a place he and his family stayed when he was
growing up. After they located their room, the first one next to the bottom-floor office, they
unpacked and locked up before heading to the boardwalk. Luke received an alert on his phone
about an approaching snowstorm as they made their way from their temporary residence to
Morey’s Pier.
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As they stood at the base of the Giant Ferris Wheel, listening to the gentle creaks, the first
snowflakes began to fall. “It’s too bad we can’t ride it,” Jonathan said, admiring its circular
height.
“It’s January,” Luke countered. “I don’t think either one of us wants to be up there right
now.” They left the Ferris wheel behind and moved past the bumper cars and Sea Serpent and
The Musik Express—with a k—approaching the main boardwalk.
Conditions escalated, and they agreed to head back to the motel to get warm. But as they
exited the pier through a wall of flurries, Luke noticed a giant advertising billboard overhead that
he’d not seen since he was a child. A cartoonish picture of Count Dracula and a giant bat rested
between the forgotten words: Now better than ever, Castle Dracula.
“It can’t be,” Luke said, staring at the impossible, experiencing a spasm of denial. After
he shook the uneasiness, they proceeded to a section of the boardwalk formally known as
Nickels’ Midway Pier. The pleasant aroma of popcorn and hotdogs began to ride the gusty winds,
and the distant sounds of organ music crept through.
Luke recognized the music to be Bach’s Toccata and Fugue. It was Dracula’s theme. And
appropriate for this occasion because once the cousins reached the end of the pier, the same
castle advertised on the billboard somehow welcomed them. Luke felt his energy plummet, and
his vision pinpricked when he realized that Dracula’s Castle had rebuilt itself to its original
grandeur.
Its blood tinted windows glared back at them as they approached the entryway to the
castle. And the raised drawbridge echoed a release, crashing just inches from where they stood.
“Whoa,” Jonathan said. “Look at that!” But Luke didn’t share his cousin’s enthusiasm,
especially when the statue of the infamous vampire rolled out on wheels and stopped on the
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right-side balcony. The small light bulbs in its eyes flashed green and red while its arms
stretched out, turning and pointing in Luke’s direction.
“That’s odd,” Jonathan added. “Does this operate all winter long?” Since this was
Jonathan’s first trip to Wildwood, he wouldn’t have known the difference, but Luke had visited
the coastal resort every summer with his parents and siblings since he was five-years-old. And he
knew that this was not only strange—but also impossible.
The castle had burned to the ground in the early morning hours of January 16th, 2002.
Nothing was left. But here it was, existing on the anniversary of its demise, eighteen-years-later.
What did it want?
“Step right this way,” a smooth voice whispered from somewhere. Luke craned his neck
to the drawbridge, just as a nebulous figure in a black-hooded-robe and skeletal face-makeup
materialized from the castle’s entrance and made its way across the bridge. The grim reaper
apparition seemingly glided on air, carrying a realistic-looking scythe.
Jonathan smiled and clapped Luke on the shoulder. “Hell yeah,” he said. “We can kill
some time until the storm passes.” Luke shook his head and pulled Jonathan aside. He took a
deep breath and whispered, “This building shouldn’t be here.”
Jonathan raised an eyebrow and glanced up at the castle. “I don’t know what that’s
supposed to mean, but here it is.”
“It means that the structure burned down almost twenty years ago.”
Jonathan looked down at his cousin, and the expression on his face told Luke that he was
losing his mind. “So, this is a ghost castle,” Jonathan continued. “Is that what you’re saying?”
Luke pondered the question for a moment, realizing any response would make him sound
crazy. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying,” he replied, looking deflated. “There was nothing left.”
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“Luke,” Jonathan spoke up, “a torched castle can’t just reappear. What you’re claiming is
impossible. I’m going in. You can either wait here or—”
“Gentleman,” the grim reaper interrupted, “the time is now.”
Jonathan flipped his hood up to curb the numbing sensation on his face and started
toward the apparition.
Fate had dealt its ugly hand, and Luke reluctantly followed, seeing no other choice. Not
only was he frightened, but a part of him was also curious. He had buried a secret long ago. A
secret that he’d kept hidden for almost twenty years.
A range of childhood memories returned to Luke while they followed the figure across
the bridge and into the first darkened room of the castle where a portrait of Count Dracula hung.
His eyes were still, but they appeared to watch Luke wherever he went.
The ghostly tour-guide marveled at the portrait as if it were a showroom car display. He
explained to Luke and Jonathan how the vampire had been unhappy with the current state of his
castle. How boardwalk visitors now walk by like it no longer exists, ignoring it altogether.
The specter appeared to only look at Luke when it spoke, burrowing its kill-shot eyes into
his. “The master is planning something big, I can assure you,” was the last thing he said before
leading his guests out of the circular room and down a long hallway. It had been decorated to
resemble a medieval castle, complete with suits of armor lined along the hallway passages, battle
axes on the walls, and hanging chandeliers with dancing flames and phantom groans that
lamented through the castle hallways. It was just like Luke remembered. The interior’s past had
come alive, reverting to the way it had been.
At the end of the corridor was a skeleton sitting on a throne between two suits of armor,
stomping its feet. It was obviously fake, probably constructed of plaster and paste. But after the
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group passed and turned left, Luke heard its stomping pattern shift, as if it were standing and
walking towards them. He decided not to check.
When they arrived at the half-way point, Luke encountered the same dark passageway
that resulted in a panic attack as a young child, prompting his father to escort him out through the
emergency exit.
In its smooth voice, the figure pointed at Luke and said, “Many a man and child have
been reduced to tears at the sights and sounds of what we’ve experienced thus far. Isn’t that
correct?” Luke felt white shock strike through his body. He didn’t know how the guide could
possibly know a thing about him.
The reaper only answered Jonathan’s questions, and anytime Luke made an inquiry, he
simply ignored him and continued with his duties. Uneasiness pressed down on him as they
continued deeper into the heart of the castle, and Luke got the sense that he would never leave.
After a few more harrowing rooms—one of which required Luke to climb into Dracula’s
rudimentary casket so he could experience how the legendary vampire spent his days—they
exited via the drawbridge and into the continuing blizzard. Jonathan appeared to be walking on
air from the experience, but Luke was just elated to have made it out in one piece.
Just as the cousins were about to emerge onto the boardwalk, the phantom spoke up. “We
are not finished with our tour, just yet,” it seethed. “I must insist that you accompany me on the
castle’s underground boat ride. It’s just right down there.” He motioned to a wooden staircase
that descended to a moat where various paddle boats floated, attached to steel underwater tracks.
There was no way Luke was about to push his luck a second time. “The master is waiting, just
beyond the tunnel,” the reaper added.
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Luke turned to Jonathan, who simply shrugged his shoulders and said, “Let’s do it, cuz.
We’ve already gone this far.”
“Thank you for the tour,” Luke said to the phantom, “but I think we’ve already taken up
enough of your time. We should get going.”
The looming guide stood stock-still, twisting the scythe in his bony hands. “Time is
something I have plenty of,” it moaned. “I have too much of it, in fact. You must now come with
me.”
Before Luke knew what happened, the phantom reached out and clutched his wrist with
its bone-cold hands, squeezing into his skin until it felt as if his ligaments would tear. He
attempted to pull away, but the reaper’s grip tightened, twisting and digging.
“Okay,” Luke relented, nodding and looking up into the ghoul’s blank eyes. “I’ll go with
you.” The figure eased its grasp, allowing him to break free. Jonathan wore a grin, assuming that
the reaper had remained in character for effect. Luke knew differently.
He felt it.
He concluded that if he took that ride, he would never make it out. Through thin breaths,
he hung back from the phantom and quickly, carefully, explained his most guarded secret to
Jonathan as they followed their escort down the stairs and towards the rickety wooden boats.
“Why are you telling me this right now?” Jonathan asked.
“Because I’ve never told anyone before. I have a feeling that—”
“That’s enough talking,” the phantom interrupted, turning to them, flipping the switch on
the wall, snapping the ride’s motors to life. The boats swayed and vibrated on the steel rails,
ready to make their departure. “Now enter the vessel.”
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Jonathan glanced one more time at Luke and attempted to climb aboard. The figure held
out a wrinkled palm. “Wait,” it moaned with soft-spoken intensity, moving his hand towards
Luke, extending a bony finger. “Only Luke.”
“But,” Jonathan protested.
“I said, only Luke.”
Luke knew that he had never given his name, nor was it ever spoken in the reaper’s
presence. But he fulfilled his destiny and willingly climbed into the boat, leaving Jonathan to
wait by the entrance.
Terror sang in Luke’s veins as the motor sputtered, and the reaper guided them down the
inky moat, past the lion’s head fountains attached to the castle’s stone wall. He only turned once
to his cousin before the tunnel’s darkness consumed them.
Jonathan waited for hours at the castle gates. No Luke. He left the motel door unlocked
that night, hoping he’d return. No Luke. He went back the next day, but nothing remained. No
castle. No moat. No boat ride. No Luke. He thought about the secret his cousin had told him. At
the time, it seemed ludicrous, but now there was no mistaking the truth. Castle Dracula hadn’t
just accidentally caught fire; it was intentionally burned down by two adolescents. One of the
teens responsible was a fifteen-year-old named Luke Briars. Adolescent clemencies only remain
for so long before they eventually catch up.
And Jonathan knew that Luke and the castle were together, somewhere.
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That Time of Year
It was the first day of October in the small coastal town of Rockport, Massachusetts, and the
locals were hard at work decorating their respective properties. Styrofoam tombstones, cheap
cardboard skeletons, and harvest displays began popping up all over. At the same time, their
mayor, Paul Taylor, was busy transforming the old vacant library into a haunted house for the
"youngsters," as he called them.
As the whole town gradually turned black and orange, Detective John Sturgis was unable
to share their enthusiasm. His nineteen-year-old daughter, Cynthia, disappeared in late August
while returning home from a late-summer party with her boyfriend, Rocco.
Sturgis always despised him and immediately placed blame on the delinquent by
throwing him to the top of his suspects' list. Deep down, however, he knew that Rocco wasn't
responsible. This was a phenomenon that repeated itself every autumn in his town. Like
clockwork, a resident would mysteriously go missing, never to be seen again. The first being
Lucy Chambers back in 2005. It was the only significant black mark on the community and the
one thing the detective had dreaded for the last fourteen years on the force. And now it had
become personal.
Five agonizing weeks had passed, and still no trace of Cynthia. If the past were any
indication, those weeks would almost certainly turn into years, and his daughter would be just
another victim on the growing list of statistics. As time slipped by, it had become more
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challenging for Sturgis to function daily, so he took a leave of absence from the force to care for
Cynthia's mother, who had suffered a full nervous breakdown after the first week.
On the second day of October, Sturgis was returning home from his morning coffee run
and passed the spacious property of Mr. Pritchard, who had already unboxed all of his
Halloween decorations and prepared his property two weeks prior for his favorite holiday. He
had started with the interior before moving outside to his front lawn, where he established
himself as the town's most elaborate decorator with scaled life-size replicas of zombies and
ghosts and mummies and scarecrows, each with a disturbing depiction of torture or mutilation.
Some of the creatures were carefully seated in vintage rocking chairs with others chained up or
secured in padlocked stocks.
It was an annual occurrence that started shortly after Mr. Prichard had lost his wife to
breast cancer. Still, every year since her departure, the townspeople could look forward to a new
addition to his collection, which now equated to an appropriate fourteen pieces displayed behind
his secured wrought iron fence—one decoration for each year that had passed.
The detective wasn't sure what had made him pull his car over to the side of the road that
particular day to soak in the creepy atmosphere. It might have been fate or a low whisper in his
subconscious, but as he left his car and walked to the front gate, he smiled for the first time since
Cynthia's disappearance. The iron gate was unlocked, so he slipped in and circled around the
property, admiring the goblin that sat along a tree branch, and the zombie that stood along the
walkway, arms outstretched, seemingly searching for more brains.
An eerily familiar sight then caught his eye on the life-sized emerald witch shackled to
Pritchard's tree. On the woman's left wrist was an elaborate tattoo of a black cat and the number
13 below it—the same tattoo his daughter had acquired earlier that spring.
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As Sturgis entered the property and approached the witch, his skin pimpled at the
realization that the arm wasn't made of plaster or fabric, but human skin. While sweat beaded on
his forehead, he carefully pulled back the pointed nylon hat and lifted the rubber mask, laying his
eyes upon the grey lifeless face of Cynthia. As he jumped back and assessed the other
decorations on the lawn, he immediately concluded that these were the same folks that had
delivered his mail, waited on him at the local supermarket, or fine-tuned his vehicle during
annual inspections. They'd become a part of the twisted old man's permanent collection. He
gingerly unmasked a tall ghost and scarecrow that were seated on a wooden bench, the familiar
preserved faces of Bob and Donna Reilly slammed him like a steel girder as their unnatural grins
and clouded sapphire eyes sliced back at him.
As he impulsively reached for his sidearm, he caught dead air, and a "click" sounded
behind him. The officer spun and noticed Pritchard securing a padlock on his iron fence, a pistol
tucked inside the waistband of his sweatpants. The old man grinned and slowly started towards
him, cocking the hammer, aiming it towards Sturgis. "My displays are meant to be enjoyed from
street level," Prichard said in a glassy voice. "I can't imagine what you must think of me." Sturgis
remained stock still, only raising his hands slightly. "I'm really not as bad as you might think,"
Prichard continued. "My displays bring joy to so many people each year. All of the faces you
recognize here; their sacrifice hasn't been for nothing."
Sturgis broke himself from a numbing trance, glaring at the old man through kill-shot
eyes and whispered, "The witch here, that's my daughter, you son of a bitch." He sensed the rage
coursing through his veins like poison. As a cop, he was sworn to uphold the law. But as a father,
he wanted to kill this fuckin' prick.
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Prichard lowered the gun at the realization. "You mean, you're Cynthia's father?" Sturgis
nodded, his vision pinpricked, his fists clenched, and he knew that there would be no arrest made.
There was no other scenario but to see the old man dead. "Oh my," Prichard added, "she was a
lovely woman, and I'm sorry for your loss. But that is why I wanted her for my display." Prichard
walked to the tree where Cynthia's body was shackled. "Look at her, resting so majestic,
immortalized, and frozen in time. I think she can bring more joy in her resting place than she
would otherwise. Don't you agree?" Sturgis felt something snap inside. He rushed towards the
old man, hoping to commandeer the firearm and discharge a strategically placed bullet between
his eyes.
The whole scenario happened so quickly but played out almost in slow motion. When
Prichard noticed Sturgis lunging towards him, he raised the pistol, but not before Sturgis
grappled his arm, twisting it back and slamming his wrist against the tree. The firearm broke
from the old man's grasp and landed on the lap of Cynthia. Her body hunched forward despite
the shackles as the men struggled. Sturgis palmed Prichard's face and slammed the back of his
head against the tree—over and over.
As far as Sturgis was concerned, he wouldn't need a gun after all and was more than
happy to kill the old man with his bare hands. After the fifth or sixth slam, Sturgis experienced
an odd sensation on the nape of his neck, and then another on his top right shoulder
He craned his head and noticed a syringe dangling loosely from his flesh, the plunger
depressed, its contents emptied. He made a desperate struggle to grasp the pointed instrument,
but quickly comprehended he was unable to control his actions. His arms felt like fifty-pounds of
rubber, and his legs lost all sensation, failing him, collapsing underneath, landing him on his
back. He then stared straight up into the afternoon sun that beamed through the tree branches.
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And the last thing that Sturgis saw was Prichard hovering over him before his world fell
to dusk.
The detective's car was discovered three days later in a wooded area off of Route 9. For
the rest of the month, Mr. Pritchard wore a sinister smile because that particular autumn, he'd
acquired not only one, but two decorative trophies for his collection. He displayed them together.
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The Boarders
Journal Entry One:
I’d be dead if they knew I was writing this. I was sixteen years old when I first met the traveling
family of four. It was the second week of December, and I was in the process of hanging a
holiday wreath on the front window of my mother’s recently inherited townhouse when the
Isaacs’ arrived at our doorstep looking for a place to stay until Christmas.
They were a traditional family that appeared to encompass our same values and morals.
This was so important to my mother that she didn’t even put them through the usual screening
process that was required to stay at our boarding house. Maybe it was because they paid upfront
for the entire duration of their stay, or perhaps it was because Mr. Isaac reminded her of my
deceased father. In any case, we’d already had five boarders staying with us, and the Isaacs’
filled the final vacancy.
I was able to meet their oldest child, Madeline, on the first night. She was around my age,
and I soon realized we had a lot in common. We talked for hours that evening while she
graciously helped me decorate the Christmas tree that sat in the center of the small lobby.
She was my first crush. I never fell so hard for anyone before or since, and I now owe
everything I have to her.
For the next three days, I rushed home after school, heart-pounding, runnels of sweat
soaking my shaggy tumbleweed hair, hoping to cross her path in the lobby. But each time I was
met with disappointment.
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“Why don’t you knock on their door?” my mother suggested. “Invite them to eat with us
tonight.” My mom and I provided a complimentary dinner each night for the guests, which we
included in the price of the room. Their family had yet to join us, so I decided to knock on the
door to their second-floor residence and invite them.
No answer.
As I sat at the dinner table that night listening to the Christmas carolers outside, I
observed something peculiar. I can’t believe it took me that long to realize it, and I feel a bit
foolish looking back. Three empty chairs sat across from me, intended for our long time boarders,
Mrs. Winter, Mr. Lewis, and Mr. Becker. None of them had missed a meal in over six months,
and now all of them were absent. My mom noticed it too, as well as our other two remaining
tenants, Miss. McGill and Mr. Brandt.
I usually worked at the front desk in the morning and realized I had not seen Mr. Lewis
or Mr. Becker leave for work that day. It was a rare occasion when I didn’t have to help Mr.
Becker crank his Ford Model T to get it started, but now it made sense.
When I finished eating, I retrieved the brass room keys and knocked on Mrs. Winter’s
door. The purr of her Tabby Cat followed, along with the beast’s incessant scratching of the
lower door frame. I don’t remember much about the cat, except that it attacked my mother and
me on more than one occasion, confusing our legs with scratching posts. I still have the scars to
prove it.
Mrs. Winter didn’t answer. So next, I tried Mr. Becker’s room, then Mr. Lewis. Same
result, except their rooms were silent. I wouldn’t ordinarily take it upon myself to enter a guest’s
room without permission, but it felt warranted in that situation. I retraced my steps and tried
every doorknob to no avail. The brass key ring I held contained every key to every room in the
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boarding house. It was the heaviest damned thing and felt like dead concrete. I located the key
for room 208 and knocked one last time.
“Mrs. Winter,” I called out. I’m coming in.” The door creaked open, revealing a
menagerie of belongings strewed across the floor: overturned chairs and heaps of clothing and
jewelry thrown about—but no Mrs. Winter, only the cat who squinted up at me and purred.
I did the same thing with Mr. Lewis and Mr. Becker’s rooms. Both occupants were
absent, their rooms ram shackled. I relocked the doors and told no one.
Things progressed the next night. Mr. Brandt hadn’t shown up, leaving only Miss McGill
at the table. Halfway through the meal, the front door opened, and I glimpsed Madeline’s
incandescent smile as she entered the lobby. She was alone and later explained to me that she
had gone for a walk to clear her head. I’d never been so happy to see someone in my life.
We talked for about an hour after dinner and discussed things I couldn’t have imagined a
girl her age would know. The conversation was lighthearted at first but soon took a downward
turn. She appeared anxious, nervous, and showed an odd concern for me.
She lowered her voice.
“You and your mother have to leave here,” she explained. “You don’t have much time.
The man you think is my father...” She took a breath and continued. “Haven’t you noticed that
your guest list has been dwindling?” She held out a key and placed it in my clammy palm. “Look
in the trunk of our horseless carriage if you don’t believe me.” Then a voice from the top of the
staircase called out.
“Madeline!” Mr. Isaac said. I quickly placed the key in my pocket. “What did I tell you
earlier?”
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Her cheeks turned pallid. “Don’t forget what I said,” she whispered. As she stood, I
noticed Mr. Isaac glaring at me; he didn’t blink or move until she reached the top of the stairs.
I took Madeline’s advice and decided to investigate the car. After waiting a short time, I
walked outside and unlocked the wooden trunk that rested behind the spare tire.
It was dark inside, but the mystery of the missing houseguests had been solved. My heart
plunged when I realized the trunk contained human extremities that appeared to have been
cooked and partially eaten. Bloody arms and legs stained the interior, and the disembodied head
of Mrs. Winter stared up at me. I recoiled and slammed the trunk.
I was afraid to go to bed that night as I had no way of locking my door. The best I could
do was to prop a chair under the knob and hope it would hold. In the back of my mind, I knew it
wouldn’t, so each time I heard an outside noise, I jolted awake and abruptly sat up. But fatigue
eventually won out, and sleep took over.
The next time I awoke, I was greeted by four blurry bodies that hovered over me and
circled my bedside. I tried to move, but I was held down by what turned out to be a large harness.
I noticed Madeline’s tears glint in the moonlight as she stared at the floor, sobbing, while Mr.
Isaac reached down and pulled something from my right arm. He asked how I was feeling as he
eyed the sharp syringe.
I don’t remember my response. I was queasy, and this was ninety-seven years ago, so I
apologize for the lack of detail. What I do remember is their odd proposition. I was to come with
them and never look back. They agreed to spare my mother if I conceited, but I was never to
have any contact with her again, or she’d meet the same fate as the others. I already knew the
answer, but foolishly asked what had become of them. “Dinner,” was Mr. Isaac’s response.
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I am now exactly like them. A lifetime of experience hasn’t changed my sixteen-year-old
appearance, even as my mind has matured with one hundred and thirteen years of existence. I
can’t say it was all bad, but I sometimes wish they’d just gone through with their original plan to
end my life and make me their next meal. But I did it to save my mother, and if Madeline hadn’t
convinced Mr. Isaac to spare us, we’d have been dead before morning.
I left with the Isaacs that night, and I kept my word never to see her again. It hurts to
think of the hell the following years must’ve brought my mother, never knowing what had
happened to me. I did return to the boarding house about six years later, but only to peek through
the window to see if I could spot her. She wasn’t there, and to this day, I don’t know if she was
dead or still alive, grieving me, and I hate them for it.
The Isaac’s gave me immortality but made me an animal. I’ve killed many people in
order to survive, but I can no longer do it. I will cease my actions no matter what my wife,
Madeline, says or does.
We aren’t superfluous vampires or zombies—we’re something much worse: a machine
that survives only on human beings to keep ourselves young and viral and immortal. It’s a
terrible trade-off, and one that I’ve loathed my entire existence, but now I’m tired of hiding and
have decided to expose my race as the monsters we are. There are many of us, thousands. We
blend well with society, which makes us even more dangerous. As this entry goes public, let me
just say, I’m sorry.
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Smiling Jack
Tennessee’s local legend explains the strange case of Smiling Jack, a jack o’ lantern scarecrow
who either smiles or frowns, depending on the actions of the local townspeople. As long as Rob
could remember, Jack rested against his wooden post, grinning from side to side.
No one knew where the scarecrow came from, and even Mr. Farley, the cornfield’s
owner, made no claim to him. But for close to fifty years, Jack showed up every October and
hung around for thirty-one days, disappearing on November 1st. Rob made sure to pass Jack
every day from school to see if he was smiling and if all was well within their town. Rob actually
began to doubt the legend, considering Jack always looked cheerful.
Shortly after his twelfth birthday, Rob befriended Pete, who had moved earlier that spring to
their small rustic town of Haven Falls and immediately made his presence known by bullying
some of the smaller children in the schoolhouse. It wasn’t until months after their friendship
started that Rob began to notice this dark side. When his mischief turned from harmless pranks
to downright demented, Rob distanced himself out of fear for his own safety and the safety of his
friends.
It had been weeks since they’d seen each other when Pete showed up at Rob’s barn on a
late autumn afternoon while he tended to the horses. As they walked through town, Pete would
occasionally vandalize their neighbor’s property by soaping windows or smashing jack o’
lanterns onto the dirt road. When Rob threatened to leave, Pete promised he’d stop, but he
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became more aggressive as they approached the farm and stole fresh fruit and other items from
the local stores, which he used to hurl at the startled horses hitched to their posts.
When they reached Farley’s cornfield, Jack’s usual jolly demeanor had grown into a sad
frown. After Rob explained the legend, Pete mocked him for believing such nonsense and hurled
insults at him. With each offense, Jack’s frown worsened until he no longer looked sad, but
outright angry. While continuing to mock Rob, Pete walked over to Jack and plucked his head
from his body and hurled it to the ground, splitting it to pieces. Rob left, intending never to speak
to his so-called friend again.
Before bed that night, Pete heard his voice called from outside. It sounded hollow and thin but
quickly grew louder. Peeeeeeeeeete. He jumped up and looked out his window. The shadow of a
headless scarecrow stood at the foot of his yard, slowly making its way up the path. He was
frozen with fear. He couldn’t move, and he couldn’t scream; all he could do was watch the
shadow draw closer. The lock on his front door clicked, and it slowly creaked open while the
unearthly voice continued to call his name. As the shadow entered the house, Pete let out a
shattering scream.
Early the next morning, a crowd of horrified townspeople gathered around the cornfield. Jack
was again resting on his wooden post, but his face was that of a young boy. He was smiling.
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Phil Thomas
The Clown Code
Only two people made it out alive. I was one of those people. It was many years ago in the early
summer months of 1953, and the “Smithstone Traveling Circus of Wonders” was in full swing.
People traveled long and far to witness the newest and most dangerous live shows ever
performed, with the secret intention of experiencing a tragedy firsthand. On June 2nd of that year,
many had their wish fulfilled when Jenny Bracket met her fate at the hands of a malfunctioning
tightrope while performing her first-ever net-free extravaganza. Some said it was just her time.
Others said it was a higher power punishing her for her promiscuous activities with a clown
named Squeaks. But I know the truth.
I was there that evening, watching from a ground perspective. The snapping of the rope
screamed across the nylon tent, the crowd silenced as Jenny plummeted face-first to the hard
gravel surface. An audible cracking followed as her neck twisted sideways upon impact. Her
body remained motionless for minutes as onlookers stared in disbelief.
It was determined that the tightrope in question required replacement. Since the circus
was too cheap to follow proper procedures and hire a professional maintenance crew, the neglect
fell upon the performers in charge of inspection. The tragedy was the worst in Smithstone’s
history up until that point, but it was nothing compared to the darker days to follow.
The circus shut down for one month and resumed in another stateside location as if
nothing had happened. News didn’t travel as quickly back then, and most of the locals that came
out to see the show were unaware of its recent disaster. The lion tamers, circus clowns, and
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Phil Thomas
trapeze artists continued with relative ease, but one performer found it considerably more
difficult. His demeanor had taken a disturbing turn; isolation and emotional strangulation
occurred.
Squeaks, the clown typically had a cheery disposition, always joking and laughing. There
was a spring in his step and a squeak in his tap, hence the name. But that deteriorated until only a
hollow shell remained. He felt that the circus folk were solely responsible for his darling’s
untimely demise and needed to pay for their negligence.
There is a little known incantation known as “The Clown Code,” which is present in a
tome of dark spells and curses titled What Thou Wants. It was written by the first of their kind
named Milo Chapman, a vicious clown who dabbled in the dark arts. Few copies of Milo’s tome
exist, but Squeaks was lucky enough to be one of the few to possess its mystical contents. It had
been passed down to him from his father, who received it from his father, and so on. It was in the
family for centuries, but as far as Squeaks knew, nothing in the tome had ever been implemented
by anyone other than Milo in a real-world scenario, until now.
During the first week of August, the circus witnessed another tragedy, unlike anything
they’d ever experienced. Burley Jim, the Strongman, was crushed during a performance by a
seven-hundred-pound barbell that he’d typically lift with the ease of a teaspoon. It resisted him
with external force and buckled his shoulder blades downward, essentially ripping his arms from
their sockets, causing him to bleed out as fresh sheets of pain surged in front of a frozen audience.
It was a horrific sight, an event that went off with malfunction because Burley Jim was supposed
to be only one of many in a series of tragedies that evening.
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In the early morning hours, Squeaks studied the tome and attempted to uncover a missing
component while the rest of the circus packed quickly to move to the next town. After an hour-
long scavenger hunt, he found the passage he’d been searching for. He’d missed a crucial
ingredient in the spell casting process, but this time he was sure to implement it. And since all of
the parts were circus-related, he had everything right at his disposal.
After leaving his tent, he searched the grounds and returned with a lion tamers whip, a
rubber balancing ball, and an acrobatic costume which he set ablaze while reciting his chants.
The circus set up their tents and settled into their next location: a small town just outside
of New Orleans. With construction underway, Squeaks decided not to take any chances and
performed the spell a second time to ensure it would successfully work during the next scheduled
show.
The arrival of the circus attracted the New Orleans masses, and the sold-out spectacle
began promptly at 7:30 with the sharp crack of Oscar the lion tamer’s whip. But it wasn’t long
before Theodore the lion became unresponsive to his commands and backed Oscar into a corner
of the high rise tent. With nowhere to run, he quickly became a play toy, and the enraged lion
mauled and mutilated his body. His intestines spilled from the foot-long stomach gash like
spaghetti, becoming visible to the standing crowd.
When Squeaks raised his finger to invoke the spell’s grand finale, a burst of flames
started on one side of the tent and circled the entire structure in a matter of seconds. It quickly
spread to the exit points, leaving the performers and audience members trapped in a nightmare
furnace. Hundreds ran in a thick wave of panic and pleaded for help that would never arrive as
fire nibbled at their flesh, eroding their life.
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Phil Thomas
I was present on that evening, and I still hear the splintering screams as everyone inside
became charred briquettes. Hours later, when the smoke cleared, nothing was left. Everyone
perished except one other person and me. I don’t know who he is or how he managed to escape,
but I noticed him disappear through a wall of black smoke. It was Squeaks’ intention all along
for everyone to perish within those nylon walls, spectators included—but that didn’t happen.
If you’re wondering how I know as much as I do about these mysterious events, I’d like
to explain something. I have a spring in my step and a squeak in my tap. After all these years,
I’ve never stopped searching for that one that got away. And I never will.
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Nothing could have prepared Adam for the sudden absence of his family upon returning home
from his June business trip. His wife Gretchen and their two children, Robby and Lynn, were
gone.
He dismissed it at the time. After all, he’d just spoken to his wife on the phone before
boarding flight 117 from Boston to Cincinnati. No layovers, just like he preferred. After
unpacking his luggage, he checked his watch and attempted a phone call, assuming they’d gone
to the beach.
The hours crawled by, and soon it approached the midnight hour. He tried to reflect on
their conversation, wondering if his wife had hinted at packing the kids up and heading to
greener pastures. He recalled nothing; she was the pinnacle of excitement to hear he was
returning home.
That was ten months ago, and in that time, he’d exhausted every avenue in his attempt to
locate his missing family. His desolate five-bedroom, three-bathroom, Cape May Victorian home
had grown more massive with each month, each day, each minute. There was no way out of his
emotional prison, and he began to accept the truth that he would never see them again.
Since he hadn’t worked in months, he spent his days hiking the lush pathways of the
nearby gardens, and his nights devouring Swanson T.V. dinners in front of his cold, burned-out
fireplace while watching reruns of Gunsmoke.
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Adam returned home one April evening to notice the frozen dinners in the garbage can,
along with his six-pack of Coors Light.
He was confident that he’d locked all the doors before leaving, but someone had been
there and removed more than just his perishables. His sword collection that usually hung on the
living room wall was missing, along with his collection of model airplanes on the parlor bureau,
and his prized fishing trophies.
His laptop, which he’d left in his upstairs office that morning, was resting on his usual
dinner tray at the foot of his recliner, powered up, and playing some soft violin music. A Google
search page was open on the screen with the results for various dating websites, including Match,
eHarmony, Plenty of Fish, and…he looked closer…Dateaghost.com? You’ve got to be kidding
me.
After clicking the link, a robust page appeared with the corresponding title and cartoon
graphics of transparent specters floating around the edges of the screen. Under the main title, it
read: No credit card required, click here to begin.
He followed the on-screen prompts, more out of curiosity than any real expectation of
dating some sort of ghostly apparition.
He scrolled down and continued reading: Do you enjoy long glides on the beach or the taste of
Ectoplasm in the morning? Was your last date as dead as our 1.5 million members are? Well,
simply fill out our easy compatibly form, create a profile, and you too can connect with one of
our eligible bachelors or bachelorettes, actively seeking a death partner.
A smile crossed his face as he proceeded to follow the on-screen instructions and
complete the process. After he added a few pictures of himself, each of which taken ten years
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Phil Thomas
prior, and a not-so-witty one-liner that said, Your coffin or mine, he clicked “Enter,” and his
profile went live.
He sat back for a moment, and then it hit him. Jumping up, he quickly accessed the
search bar and typed “Gretchen Myers.” He figured if his wife really had passed away, maybe
she was in the database, searching for a hot date. After taking a deep breath, he clicked the left
mouse button, and the words, “no search results” abruptly appeared. He frowned and hung his
head. “You’re losing it, man,” he said, as his frown dissolved into a chuckle.
As he started to close the laptop, a tinted beep rang out: “Congratulations!” flashed on the
screen. “Amy has sent you a message!” He played along and opened the email. She looked
cute—not dead at all. Her blonde hair and chestnut eyes immediately caught his attention as he
read her message: “I would love to meet sometime.”
“Well, Amy, you certainly pull no punches.” He smiled and began to type, “How about
tonight?” Send. After ten minutes of exchanging messages, they confirmed his place at seven
o'clock, with the simple plan of going for a walk together.
He wasn’t sure why he was so nervous during the hours leading up to the date, especially
since he was sure this whole ghost date thing was a load of bullshit. Still, when his grandfather
clock chimed seven, his doorbell screamed to life in unison, and the silhouette of a woman
shadowed the pane of rippled glass from outside. After quickly tucking his shirt in, he took a
deep breath and opened the door.
She looked terrific in her shimmering turquoise dress that perfectly matched the color of
her feathered headband and cigarette holder. It reminded Adam of something he’d seen in an old
gangster movie. “You look nice,” he said. “I’m Adam, but you already know that.”
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She smiled and held out her hand. “Yes, I do. It’s nice to meet you. Oh, you have a very nice
place,” she said, peering over his shoulder into the living room.
“Yeah, I like the old Victorian look. It has character. Shall we go?” Amy nodded and
stepped aside as he closed and locked the door.
They walked and talked for over an hour, passing many of the local pubs and hot spots.
Adam figured if this was just some elaborate role-playing masquerade, she certainly took it
seriously. She never broke character and insisted that she’d died in 1925 from a batch of tainted
bathtub gin. It was the only time she appeared genuinely depressed. Another element he found
out of place was the continuous distant audio of Jazz music that appeared to come from a few of
the gathering places. Not entirely odd, but he’d never noticed it before.
When Adam asked her about what she’d been doing for the last ninety-one years, she
simply replied, “Being lonely.” She then explained how the internet age gave her hope of finally
finding a permanent death partner to end her solidarity.
Adam laughed and continued the charade. “Well, here I am,” he said. The sun pressed
down as they approached the garden maze where he took his daily walks. Amy clammed up, her
eyes fastened to the entryway. “Interesting place, isn’t it? I come here every day to clear my
head.”
“Let’s keep moving,” she replied and grabbed his hand, leading him further away. When
they made it down a few blocks, the sound of old Jazz resumed. “That was where I died, along
with three of my friends.” She lifted a metal flask and examined it. “We all drank the same
tainted gin. My best friend Mindy secretly acquired it from her father’s stash, and she wound up
keeling over on the Daffodils.”
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Phil Thomas
Given her grim condition, they decided to head back to Adam’s place and call it a night.
When they arrived at his front steps, Adam said goodbye and proceeded to unlock his door. “I
don’t want to sound too forward,” Amy spoke up, “but would you mind if I came in for a bit? I
just don’t want to be alone right now.”
He agreed, and they both entered his Victorian estate. She stood in the middle of his large
living room and looked around at the various objects that decorated the walls. “You have a very
nice home, and a very lovely family,” she said.
Adam turned to her and frowned. “What family?”
“Well, at least you have a sense of humor about it. That’s what I like about you.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked. “My family is gone.”
“No,” Amy rolled on. “Your wife is right over there in the kitchen making some
macaroni dish, and your daughter is on the sofa playing with her phone.” Amy’s face went vapid.
“You don’t know, do you? Adam, your family is very much alive…but you’re not.”
Adam’s legs crumbled, settling into his recliner. And then he remembered everything:
The turbulence, the frantic pilot, the smoking engine, the passengers’ shrill screams for help that
never arrived. “You died in the flight 117 plane crash,” Amy continued. “Everyone in the
afterlife knows about it; no survivors, that’s why I sought you out.”
As his memory returned, he began to notice his family for the first time in ten months.
They slowly faded into view, attending to the activities that Amy described. He immediately
decided he would never leave them again.
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Lynn
“Sarah walked through her front door as I watched from behind the sofa,” Father Andrew started.
“I knew her name and everything about her. I’d been watching her for weeks and presumably
knew her schedule better than she did. But tonight was different; I was finally taking action.”
Father Andrew paused, took a sip of water. He glanced up at Dr. Lynch, who sat across from him
and the tape recorder that spun on the table between them.
He sat the glass of water down, sat up, and continued. “So, after locking the door behind
her, Sarah put her keys on the table and walked to the sofa. I was afraid she might notice me, so I
ducked a bit further. She sat, picked up her remote, and powered on the TV. Since she was a
twenty-six-year-old single woman who lived alone with her Persian cat, Pebbles, and I was
hoping that no one else would show up.
I retrieved the steel blade from my knapsack and slowly stood from behind the couch. I
Love Lucy was on the television, but I don’t think she was paying attention. I watched for a
moment, almost forgetting why I was there, celebrating the realization that she wasn’t aware of
my presence. When I gripped the blade’s handle, she stood suddenly and started towards the
kitchen. I could hear dishes clanking around. I assumed she was about to make dinner. Should I
let her have this one meal? I remember thinking to myself. I quickly dismissed the idea, however,
and focused on my mission. She stood over the stove, dispensing dry pasta into the metal pot.”
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Father Andrew stopped and took a brief moment to study Dr. Lynch’s expression. The
doctor wore a frown. His eyes popped, an eyebrow raised. It was the reaction that Father Andrew
expected. Lynch didn’t say a word but gestured at Andrew to continue.
“I quickly realized I had more than one option,” Andrew rolled on. “I sneaked to the
opposite kitchen doorway and entered as slowly as possible. The center counter was my saving
grace, as I was able to duck out of sight while she went about her business. The water boiled, as
did my blood, and as I got closer, I could hear it gurgle and steam. Pebbles sat on the counter,
watching me.
This was it. Her back was to me, and she hummed a familiar tune that I couldn’t place.
For only a brief moment, I almost lost my nerve and pondered the idea of sneaking out. But it
didn’t last long. I moved to the side of the counter and stood just feet behind her. I white-
knuckled the blade’s handle and slowly raised it as I watched her pull the scrunchie from her
ponytail, allowing her auburn hair to flow over her shoulders and down to the center of her back.
I just wanted it over with.
With my other hand, I quickly grabbed the coif of hair on the back of her head. She
screamed with impulsive reaction, scratching and clawing at my face in self-defense, inflicting
minor gash wounds. I remember swinging the blade down and missing her, catching the counter-
top. We struggled for a moment, and as she elbowed me in the stomach, I thought she might
have the upper hand.
Due to the blow, I dropped the knife to the ground, causing it to spin voraciously as if we
played a twisted game of spin the bottle. While Sarah bent down and struggled to retrieve the
knife, I grabbed the bottom part of her hair; she was now in my control. I quickly whipped her
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Phil Thomas
neck back and led her to the stove where the water gurgled and popped. She turned her head to
see me, but she only saw the top of her stove as I hammered her face into the scalding water.
I will admit that plunging her into the boiling water was also painful for me. I felt the
agony spiral through my body, and she managed to break my grasp; the boiling pot fell off the
stove and onto the floor, spraying her extremities with its acidic effects. I almost slipped but
managed to keep my footing. She was not as lucky.
She went down like a sack of hammers, cracking the left side of her skull against the
sharp corner of the counter. As she lay on the floor, she looked up at me. She called out my name,
and I remember thinking that she couldn't possibly know me—but she did. I couldn’t bear to
look at her any further, for the molten water had all but consumed her facial features. I watched
her skin bubble up like fresh tar on a ninety-five-degree day. But she was alive, and I needed to
end it. I retrieved my blade from off the floor and plunged down viciously into her chest
approximately six…no wait; ten times. I can still picture it plain as day. The blood-spattered the
sink counter, and the high-pitched screams titillated me beyond expectation. I stood and looked
down at her mangled carcass—it’s the last thing I remember before waking in a hot panic. Father
Markley rushed into my room when he heard my gasps. I told him I was fine; nothing more than
a nightmare. He seemed relieved and retired back to his quarters, leaving me in a puddle of sweat.
So, what do you make of all this?”
The doctor listened but was distracted by the priest’s bandaged hand. This was not the
first time Dr. Lynch formally met with Father Andrew. But he’d wished the timing had been
better since he was going through some personal problems of his own, and he secretly pursued
answers.
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Father Andrew only asked that the doctor bring one item: A cassette recorder. It was a
strange request considering he was not a journalist.
***
When Dr. Lynch first walked into the rectory’s dining hall earlier that day, he noticed the priest
seated at a long banquet table. He stood to greet him. Being of middle age, approximately 6’5’,
the priest was unusually tall. He always reminded Dr. Lynch of a basketball player more than a
man of the cloth. It struck the doctor odd that he was dressed in his vestments; he simply stated
that he preferred it that way.
Now that Father Andrew had finished his disturbing account, Lynch was relieved to hear
that it was merely a dream, nothing more.
“As you might know, doctor, this is very difficult for me,” Andrew explained, “but I
didn’t know where else to turn. I hope what I just revealed didn’t frighten you?”
“Of course not,” he replied, keeping his gaze on the bandaged hand.
Andrew nodded and continued where he left off. “So, after Father Markley left, I got out
of bed because it’s difficult to go back to sleep after such an ordeal. I sat up and watched the
morning news until the sun beamed through the curtains. I checked my watch and saw that I
needed to say mass in a few hours. After brewing my morning coffee, I took my shower, ate my
breakfast, and went about my regular routine.
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Phil Thomas
I was standing on the main altar, halfway into the second part of the service, when I
noticed something unusual—the victim’s identity registered with me. It hadn’t surfaced until that
moment. She always sits in the front pew at my 8:30 morning service. I can count on her like
clockwork, yet this particular Sunday, she was absent.”
Lynch shifted in his seat at this new information. He appeared uncomfortable and fidgety.
Father Andrew noticed the change but continued his explanation.
“To be honest, doctor, I don’t think she’d missed a single Sunday in over five years.
After mass cleared out, I got in my car and decided to take a drive. My schedule was clear of any
weddings, funerals, or baptisms that day, so I figured I’d take advantage of the time off. It was a
brisk day in early October. The leaves were starting to fall, and it was the first time in six months
that I needed a jacket. I wasn’t traveling any place, in particular, that morning, but I found
myself on Sarah Beckley’s block. When I pulled up to the front of her apartment building, I
noticed nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Excuse me, Father,” the doctor interrupted, “but for the record, are you absolutely sure
this was the same place in your dream?”
“Yes, without a doubt. As I was saying, I found myself in front of Sarah’s apartment
building and decided to walk up the decrepit walkway. I didn’t remember her place being so
dilapidated the last time I visited. Broken glass and a few used condoms lined the crumbling path.
Disgusting as it were, I pushed forward, making sure not to step on anything. There it was: S.
Beckley, apt B2. I walked through the hallway and immediately noticed a sense of dread as I
counted down the numbers. After finding myself at her door, I saw no signs of a break-and-enter,
so I knocked, hoping she would answer.
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Phil Thomas
I knocked once more, and after waiting a few minutes, I decided to try the doorknob.
After assessing the hallway to be sure I was alone, I turned the handle and quietly crept inside.”
“So, you broke in?”
“The door was open. I realize it was wrong, but I had to be sure. So I walked into the
living room, and the television was on. I called her name as I walked further in, and Pebbles
greeted me with a friendly meow. Feeling a streak of relief, I bent down to pet the top of the cat’s
head while she purred contently. Again, I called for Sarah with the same hollow result.
Pebbles followed alongside as I reluctantly walked to the kitchen, where my greatest fear
was realized. Sarah was slumped across the kitchen floor in the same clothes that I’d imagined
her in, her face unrecognizable, her expression frozen.”
Dr. Lynch recoiled in his seat. “I don’t think I need to hear anymore,” he insisted as he
clicked the “Off” button on the tape recorder.
“Wait,” Father Andrew announced. “Look, I apologize for what happened a few months
ago, but things have been getting worse.”
“Worse? Is that what you call it? I did you a favor by supervising that travesty, and my
life hasn’t been the same since—the things I witnessed and the experiences that followed. I
wouldn’t wish it on anyone. And in case you forgot, I know Sarah as well as you do, considering
her mother was our subject in question,” the doctor reminded him, lighting a cigarette with a
shaky hand.
“It was awful, I admit. Please know that I didn’t mean to bring you into it, but we needed
witnesses and a medical professional present. You were aware of that going into the situation.”
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The doctor took a long drag of his cigarette and pressed the “On” button to the recorder.
“Fine, you want to continue, we will. Let’s just get it over with.”
“Please don’t think this is easy for me,” Father Andrew said. “As you can see, I’m
dealing with my own demons. I’m convinced something inhuman may have transferred itself
from Sarah’s mother to me during the exorcism. What I haven’t told you is that these nightmares
aren’t only limited to sleeping hours. There are large chunks of the day I cannot account for, like
a hole in my consciousness that I only subtly recall. I’m terrified of what might happen next.”
Dr. Lynch extinguished the butt in the tall ashtray stand as a disturbing revelation
occurred to him. “So, you’re telling me this has happened more than once?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Two, maybe three times I’d say—the last time being a few nights
ago.” The overhead lights of the dining hall flickered as the priest finished his sentence.
“A few nights ago? And what night would that be?”
“If I’m not mistaken, I believe it was Tuesday,” the priest replied. “That’s not the worst
part.” Father Andrew raised his vestment sleeve to reveal a branded L burned into his right wrist.
“It appeared a few days after the exorcism.”
The doctor jerked back in his chair, distancing himself from the anomaly. He nervously
lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Could you please lower your sleeve?” he requested. “I
would prefer not to see that.” The priest complied, feeling a tinge of embarrassment.
“I apologize.”
The doctor squinted as he stress-dragged on the Marlboro.
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Something you mentioned is troubling me. Could you please explain the events of Tuesday?”
Closing his eyes, the priest shook his head as he recalled the experience.
“I remember a man and woman leaving a fancy restaurant while I watched from around
the corner, keeping myself hidden in the darkness. He put the woman in a cab, waved, and lit a
cigarette as he proceeded alone down the desolate sidewalk. I feared I might lose him as he
turned the corner and disappeared behind one of the apartment buildings, so I accelerated my
pace.
After a few blocks, he stopped in front of a studio apartment and fumbled with a key ring;
that is when I made my move. His distraction served me well as I wrapped my hands around his
neck and squeezed tight, cutting off his oxygen. The man struggled in vain to break free, and
almost did when he bit my hand and twisted one of my fingers back,” the priest said, raising his
bandaged hand. “But his minor triumph didn’t last long. He was already too weak, and the pain
he inflicted only motivated me further. After a few minutes, he hung lifeless in my arms. I acted
quickly and dragged his body to the nearby dumpster, lifted the lid and—”
“Left me to die,” the doctor cut in.
“Excuse me?”
“Someone attacked me a few nights ago—Tuesday night if I remember correctly. As you
can see, they didn’t finish the job. Luckily, I awoke a few hours later in the isolated darkness of
the dumpster.”
Snuffing out his cigarette, Dr. Lynch lifted himself from the chair and glared into the
priest’s eyes.
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“Maybe you haven’t heard, but Sarah’s mother is dead too. Someone snuck into her
apartment and sliced her throat from ear to ear,” Lynch snarled.
“I’m aware. It was all over the evening news, plus, I remember killing her,” the priest
replied, hiding his face in his hands. “I need this to stop. I don’t know what to do. That’s why I
called you here. Except for us, everyone that was present in the room that day is dead.”
“Was I last on your list? Is that it? Because I wouldn’t be alive if you hadn’t fucked up!”
“Please don’t swear in here.”
“Why not? Because this is a house of God?” Lynch asked, putting the recorder in his coat
pocket. “Look who’s talking, you hypocrite.”
“I understand how you must feel, but I didn’t mean to do any of those things.”
The doctor pushed the chair back and grasped his crinkled pack of Marlboro’s from off the table
and said, “It’s time for me to leave and take this recording to the authorities,” as he paced past
the table. “Do not go anywhere. You stay right here.”
He didn’t wait for a response and rushed towards the exit. As he approached the double
wooden doors, the overhead lights flickered once more, and the doors slammed shut, ceasing his
advancement. A deadbolt shot from the other side with finality.
He initially believed the icy sensation across the back of his neck to be nothing more than
a curious breeze, but quickly realized it was that of a cold steel blade, embedded deep in his
vertebrae. Using his last bit of strength, he turned to see the priest directly behind him, extracting
the knife, white-knuckled, gripping the handle.
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***
Gasping for air, Father Andrew awoke and quickly assessed his surroundings. As his eyes
adjusted, he noticed Father Markley and two other people glaring down at him. When he
recognized the room, he panicked and attempted to stand from the wooden chair from which
he’d been securely tied.
Father Markley laid a hand on Andrew’s wrist and said, “Calm down. It isn’t safe to
stand just yet.”
“Where’s Dr. Lynch? The last thing I remember is—”
“I found him in the dining hall earlier this morning with a banquet knife jammed into his
back.” Markley sighed and, after a moment, said, “You were in your bedroom, speaking in some
unrecognizable language. The rest of us decided an exorcism might be needed, and you went
crazy, attacking Father Claire and me. It took over an hour for us to drag you in here and tie you
down.” Father Andrew stared at the ground, too ashamed to look anyone in the eye. “I can’t say
for sure if we succeeded,” Father Markley continued,” but you’ve exhibited no further symptoms
of infestation or possession.” An unrecognizable participant stepped forward and stood next to
where Father Andrew was seated.
“Father,” he spoke up, “Does the name, Lynn, spark any recollection?” The priest glared
at the ceiling, accessing his memories.
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“I can’t say it does. Why?”
“During the cleansing process, we asked if you remembered your name, your birth date,
and where you were born. You said that your name was Lynn and that you had lived and died in
Salem, Massachusetts. Do you recall any of that?”
“Could someone please untie me?”
“First, answer the question.”
“I will answer the question once you identify yourself,” Father Andrew demanded.
“I’m detective Stuart Chapman with the Salem Police department, and the only thing
keeping you out of jail right now is my belief in your innocence. You’d already be under lock
and key if it weren’t for my friendship with Father Markley and his trusted word. So please,
answer the question, and don’t make me second guess you again.”
“I don’t remember any of it,” Andrew quickly responded. “Lynn? I’ve never known
anyone with that name. You believe me, right?” The detective he proceeded to the foot of the
basement staircase and leaned on the brittle railing. He then turned to Father Markley and
instructed him to untie Andrew.
“I will have more questions for you soon,” Chapman informed him. As the ropes fell to
the cracked concrete floor, Father Andrew immediately noticed the absence of the branded L on
his right wrist.
“Lynn,” he said. For the first time, it made sense.
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***
Bright moonlight cut through Father Andrew’s bedroom curtains as he said his evening prayers.
A peaceful calm enveloped him that hadn’t been present for weeks, and a sense of relief surfaced
as he glared down at his unblemished wrist. No remnants of the engraved L mark remained—the
curse lifted, but guilt remained. The nightmare, he hoped, was over.
After finishing the last of his bedside prayers, he crawled between the welcoming covers
of his king-sized bed when a faint tapping sounded from the doorway. It was rare for someone to
disturb him at this hour, so he answered with hesitation.
“Who’s there?” He asked. As the tapping grew louder and the handle erratically jiggled,
he called out again, “Father Markley? Father Claire?”
No response.
With apprehension, he climbed out of bed and walked to the other side of the door and
held his ear to its thick oak frame. A sharp pounding rumbled through the structure, tearing
through his head. He jumped at the sound, almost tripping over the ruffled throw rug.
Anxiety took over. Andrew’s heart thumped inside his eardrums. Runnels of sweat
poured down his face and neck as his fears took over. He imagined the malevolent spirit of a
long-dead Salem woman on the other side of the door, enraged at him for being extracted from
her host.
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“It wasn’t my fault!” He called out. “It was the others!” Another flurry of pounding
followed, and a familiar voice muffled through the wooden barrier.
“Father Andrew, it’s me, Markley! Open the door! Someone has broken into the rectory.”
There was a stretch of silence.
“Oh, I didn’t realize it was you! One moment!”
As soon as Andrew shot the lock back, the edge of the frame flung forward and cracked
him in his forehead. The priest lost his footing and stumbled back a step onto the throw rug,
slipping and slamming his head along the bedside table, producing a deep gash across his
forehead. As blood cascaded over his eyes, he glanced up to see the darkened shadow of Father
Markley ambling towards him, holding the ax that usually hung above the parlor fireplace.
As he approached, the distinct face of a young woman could be seen overlapping Father
Markley’s features. The blade gleamed in the dimly lit room as shards of light bounced off its
wicked point, catching Father Andrew’s line of sight as the shadowy silhouette raised it high
above his head. It was the last thing Andrew saw before the blade fell upon his skull.
***
Father Markley abruptly awoke from his nightmare and quickly jolted upright, his heart
pounding and his breathing heavy; his face wet, and his senses shattered. Wasting no time, he
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threw back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed to catch his breath, wiping the moisture
from his cheeks and forehead.
When his breathing settled, he climbed out of bed and walked to his dresser table. After
flipping the wall switch, he plucked a few Kleenex from the box and began to wipe his face
when he instantly noticed the tissues had turned dark red. He let out a gasp, realizing his hands
and clothes were also covered in gore.
Recalling his nightmare, Markley felt his extremities go numb as he entertained the
possible reality of it. And then he thought of Father Andrew. His room was just down the hall,
and he could put his anxiety to rest by verifying that everything was fine. It was an easy task, but
one that the priest dreaded.
Breathing deeply, he gathered himself and proceeded down the narrow hallway, passing
several other rooms and a large decorative mirror located around the halfway point. He forced
himself to look away from his reflection, but his attempt was a failure. Markley caught a
bloodied image in the mirror, but what he witnessed was not familiar. The shallow portrait of a
young blonde-haired woman stared back at him. He relented, and quickly turned his head,
grunting in panic as he proceeded towards Andrew’s room and approached the door. Without
hesitation, he twisted the handle and barged inside, instantly noticing the bloodied corpse
sprawled at his feet. The head split down the center, a familiar ax resting next to the body.
Father Markley fell to his knees and sobbed as he crawled to the mangled victim. After laying his
hands on the body, his cries grew louder, and he begged for God’s forgiveness. As Markley
lifted the ax off the ground to examine it, he noticed something on his skin—something he’d
never seen before: an L engraved on his right wrist.
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The Pumpkin Carvers
Dean and his boy, Jonathan, waited in line at their neighbor’s house. It was the young child’s
first trick or treating experience. He studied his son’s ghost costume, prompting memories of
Dean’s own childhood, not all of them pleasant. He remembered his ninth birthday party that his
parents threw for him at the neighborhood roller rink. Most of his classmates were there, but one
friend, in particular, was painfully absent. He recalled glancing at the empty chair, the same one
Michael always sat. His friend was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.
The police never caught anyone, citing a lack of evidence. But that was lazy as far as
Dean was concerned. He knew the truth, except no one wanted to listen to an eight-year-old kid.
They’re dismissed like beggars on the street. Even after he explained the logical scenario, the
officer in question replied, “Thanks, kid,” and pretended to write the statement on a blank pad.
But as time passed, the memories faded. He went to college, got married, and started a
family. Michael was almost forgotten by Dean, until one particular Halloween. Standing directly
behind him and his son on the neighbor’s walkway, wearing the same dark stockings peeled over
their faces, were Michael’s killers. Only now, there were four of them, one appearing much
shorter in height than the rest. Four blank, faceless expressions leered at him in unison while
Dean clutched Jonathan’s clammy hand and pulled him closer. More memories surfaced,
remembering the days leading up to his friend’s demise all those years ago.
Michael was Dean’s best friend. They did everything together, which included dangerous
stunts on their BMX bikes that led to a compound leg fracture for Michael, requiring surgery.
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His leg never fully recovered, and he continued to walk with a limp one year afterward. Even so,
every day after school, the two boys would head to Michael’s home to watch their favorite
cartoon, ThunderCats. That was when Dean first noticed Michael’s pumpkin on the front porch,
a single triangular-eye carved into its upper left side. “When did you start carving a jack o’
lantern?” Dean asked.
“I didn’t,” Michael replied. “It just sort of appeared this morning.” That one instance
wouldn’t have been too odd, but every morning leading up to Halloween, a new feature had
materialized with expert care. Another triangle eye appeared the next day, then a matching nose.
Michael and his mother insisted they never touched the pumpkin, baffled with its mysterious
transformation. When the police discovered their bodies on November 1st, both victims rested
side-by-side, stockings draped over their faces, and the jack o’ lantern that had been mysteriously
carved and ignited was absent from their porch.
The same situation occurred the following year with Mr. Reynolds’s pumpkin seemingly
carving itself. He was also found on November 1st, draped unnaturally backward out of his
bedroom window, glazed eyes to the sky, a single stocking resting across his frozen expression.
And just like that, the odd occurrences ceased with no disruption for thirty years,
forgotten like a bad dream. That was, until earlier in the month, when Dean noticed an
abnormality with the fresh pumpkin his wife had placed on the front steps: a triangular cutout in
the top left corner, leaving a glowing eye to stare back. Even after half a lifetime, his reaction
was the same as it would’ve been a quarter-century earlier. After he dropped his briefcase,
darting into the house and disrupting his wife and son’s breakfast, he asked her the dreaded
question.
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“No, I never touched it,” she replied. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It wasn’t
the response he’d hoped for. He nodded and walked outside to his car, ignoring the looming
eye’s presence. He avoided any contact with the pumpkin for the week leading up to Halloween,
realizing it would only cause distraction within his daily life.
Halloween arrived on an unusually cold Friday, colder than it had been all month. And
against his better judgment, and to appease his son’s nagging pleas, he promptly got the boy
costumed and led him outside to start their night of candy collecting. But then, he caught a
glimpse of the object that rested on his porch, the one he’d avoided all week, and stood stock-
still while sheets of silent terror screamed to life inside him, prompting his son to tug on his arm.
“Doesn’t it look great?” his wife, Lilly, spoke up behind him, exiting the screen door. “I
don’t know what Good Samaritan carved it for us, but they even went to the trouble of lighting
it.”
Dean never told Lilly about his suppressed childhood trauma—or the horrible demise that
every person or family suffered after their pumpkins had been carved by a mysterious group of
entities that only appear on Halloween night— and he wasn’t about to start now.
Dean and Jonathan managed six houses before spotting the Four entities in line behind
them. After thirty years, the scenario was the same. They didn’t speak, and they moved their
heads in unison, like thinking with a single mind. They glared at Dean the same way as when he
was a child, brushing past him in line, in the same way, holding their brown woven bags at arm’s
length and refusing to answer anyone addressing them.
“Well,” Mr. Marvin said, standing at his front door with a large bowl of candy, “I’m not
obligated to legally give you any treats until you say the magic words.” They ignored him and
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turned to stare back at Dean. “So, what are y’all supposed to be?” he nervously pried for any
response. “Well, okay, then. Here you go,” Mr. Marvin continued, grabbing fistfuls of candy and
tossing it haphazardly into each of their bags, causing fallout casualties to miss their mark and
scatter to his feet. “All right, thank you for coming. Goodbye, now. Goodnight. Adios”
The Four kept their heads twisted towards Dean, but Mr. Marvin’s instructions prompted
them to turn their lower bodies towards the front of the yard, again in unison, and glide past
Dean and his frightened son, who now had the eyeholes of his ghost sheet pulled down to his
chin. “Well, I wonder what all that was,” Mr. Marvin said, stepping out of his doorway.
As the men watched the quartet make their way down the street, Dean replied, “I’m not
sure. But I should be getting my son home.”
Marvin gave Jonathan an extra-large handful of Reese’s Cups before Dean rushed him to
the sidewalk. The wind wailed its displeasure as they made their way through the neighborhood,
crunching through forgotten hills of dead leaves, the spear-cut moon lighting their way. Dean
compulsively checked over his shoulder for any sign of stocking faces, but all he caught were
some witches and a few assholes in hockey masks, attempting to extend Mischief Night by
soaping windows.
They turned the corner to their street, and Dean saw his house looming ahead, waiting to
make them safe. They were almost home. But his relief was premature, because standing on the
corners were Four fractured shadows, standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the crossroads of their
block, peering in his direction. He realized Jonathan would only slow them down, so he scooped
the boy up in his arms and sprint-walked quickly to his front yard, ignoring their advances from
his peripheral vision.
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“Lilly!” Dean yelled as he burst through the front door, looking out the living room
window at the Four shadows gliding gracefully towards his front sidewalk.
His wife rushed from the kitchen, frantic from her husband’s sudden emotional disruption.
“What’s the—”
“You need to take Johnny and go to your parents!”
“I don’t understand what—”
“Don’t ask questions, leave right now! Go out the back door!” Jonathan was sobbing
uncontrollably by the time Lilly grabbed her keys and tore outside to her car. Once Dean saw
them pull out of the driveway, he rushed through the dining area to the living room, switching
the lights off as he went. After plowing onto the couch, he peered out the windows, expecting to
see the shadows converging on his front lawn. But the outside street was desolate, and Dean
briefly wondered if he’d just imagined everything, experiencing a slight surge of stupidity.
That was immediately before the pounding at his front door snapped him back. It
continued, repeatedly hammering the wooden frame in rhythmic beats, cutting into his eardrums.
The pounding stopped as quickly as it started, leaving Dean sunken down on the couch as if
shrouding himself from their view would somehow protect him.
After a lull, the pounding resumed, and his breathing ceased. Exhaling and easing himself
off the sofa cushions, he felt relief that his family was safe but also realizing that he might never
see them again. Whatever these damned things were, they had finally come for him, just like
Michael, and he knew that he couldn’t run. If they didn’t get him this year, they wouldn’t rest
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until he was theirs, and he wouldn’t, no, he couldn’t jeopardize his family that way. He was
ready to make that sacrifice.
The front door wasn’t locked. He wondered why they hadn’t simply walked in and what
would happen once he opened it, hoping they wouldn’t take it as a welcoming gesture. As he
reached for the knob, another pounding came, this time louder than the last, and he felt a warm
bib of wetness down his left leg.
After ignoring the fact that he pissed his pants, he quickly twisted the knob and threw the
door open. Standing at the edge of the porch were the Four shadows, their face stockings
strongly lit and more pronounced.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Dean asked. “Come and get me if that’s what you
want.” The three taller shadows began to move forward but were stopped when the shortest of
them extended its arm to block their advancement. The others backed off as it nodded at Dean.
Then picking up the jack o’ lantern, it turned and began walking down the path with its
companions.
Something about the way the shorter one walked triggered a memory in Dean.
“Michael?” he blurted. The shadow turned and nodded again, then disappeared into the night.
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The Floating Guillotine
The castle shadows haunted the courtyard as Bartholomew Adams watched the hulking
guillotine blade ascend into its top position and lock into place. A montage of thoughts raced
through his mind as the moment of truth arrived. His palms perspired, and his heart spirited
while he focused on the glistening machine of death with total concentration.
He heard specific directions for the blade to be readied while the tinted echo of the
townsfolk rumbled in his ears. Through bleary vision, he switched his gaze from the towering
monstrosity to a clergyman in long black garb, gesturing the sign of the cross in seemingly slow
motion.
The distant instructions became louder, counting down from ten to one, and then the
voice bellowed, “Release!” Bartholomew squeezed his eyes shut and twisted his expression,
waiting for the end to arrive. A rope snapped, and the heavy blade descended to its final resting
place, first severing the nape of the neck before tearing through the spinal vertebra and
esophagus with precision. With a resounding “thump,” the bloodied appendage hit the woven
basket and, after a moment, came to a standstill, never to move again under its own pretenses.
The crowd became silent, and the only sound heard were the squawks from the circling crows
above. The deed was carried out, and Bartholomew was done.
As a guillotine executioner for most of his seventy-years on Earth, this was his final act,
his swan song. Although his career was officially over and retirement loomed from the gruesome
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profession, he didn’t know how to feel about it. It had saddened him more than expected, but
rules were rules, and he couldn’t rebuke the wishes of the council when asked to step down and
make room for his successor.
After the execution, he attended a ceremony commemorating not only his own retirement
but also that of the guillotine which he’d operated for the past five decades. While the machine
was set ablaze and reduced to ash in his honor, the court savored delectable food, consumed
strong ale, and participated in the king’s entertainment until nightfall when the celebration ended,
and Bartholomew returned home.
His modest abode felt especially cold as he entered his single bedroom, and with only a
candle to light his way, he began to hear a “thumping” emission from the black void. He
investigated a corner of the room but found no source and went about his business. After he
changed into his nightclothes, he stoked the fireplace and noticed a deep sapphire gleam
hovering above the flames. It pulsated, fading in and out of view until it disappeared from sight.
He figured it was nothing more than his worn mind playing tricks on him. It was late, and
it had been a long day, so he shrugged it off and climbed into bed. As he pulled up the thick
blanket, the “thumping” sound returned, and he jumped up and immediately detected the source
of the occurrence. Floating impossibly inside the fireplace was a white-hot ghostly guillotine, its
blade releasing and falling repeatedly.
With a spasm of denial, Bartholomew stepped back as the apparition materialized from
the fire into the room, growing at an alarming rate to its natural scale, the blade continuing to rise
and fall, mocking him, spilling fractured shadows across the bedroom ceiling. His cold shock
sounded off the walls as he dashed into the hallway, down the staircase, and out into the dry
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autumn air, turning briefly to see the guillotine pursue him out the front door, floating like an
inflated balloon.
Another screech left his lips as he released his mare from its hitching post, grabbing and
whipping the reigns in a quick getaway attempt. The horse had other plans. It bucked and threw
him back before galloping away in a very uncharacteristic fashion. As Bartholomew lay on the
ground, he managed to get on all fours, his frail bones wailing, attempting to push himself to his
feet—but something restricted his efforts. He couldn’t raise his head, and he couldn’t stand, as if
frozen in place like a sculpture. He then realized that his neck was tightly secured to the base of
the device that he’d dedicated his entire life to.
The death knell of the blade rising and locking into place pealed throughout the desolate
streets, and when the rope echoed its release, the last thing he heard was his own shrieks.
When morning arrived, and the townsfolk started about their daily chores, they were
greeted by the sickening sight of a headless body on the cobblestone street, liquid demise oozing
from its neck, staining the streets with a bib of red death.
His head was nowhere to be found.
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The Elf on the Fireplace Mantel
Tracy and Martin have a happy life. Married for fifteen years with two children and their trusty
dog, Sparkles—who passed away two years before the beginning of this story—but either way,
their rosy-glass-tinted existence appeared shatterproof.
It was a snowy day in early December when Martin returned home from his errands with
an oversized red bag. While his curious children made numerous access attempts, his wife Tracy
asked about the absence of groceries.
“This is better,” he said while pulling the contents into view: A grinning Christmas elf
with emerald clothing and a pointy red hat greeted his excited children and un-amused wife.
“The Elf on the Fireplace Mantel? Are you serious?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” he replied, “but it serves the same purpose and is more
than half the price of The Elf on the Shelf.”
“I can see why,” she said, walking away. Despite her initial disdain for the elf, Tracy
eventually accepted their new family member when she realized the joy it brought to the children.
Every night for two weeks, Ann and Moxie placed their tiny friend in various areas of the house,
waiting to see where he’d reappear the next day.
It was always somewhere different, and Martin got a kick out of moving him to unusual
spots after they’d gone to bed. His personal favorite was leaving him on the toilet for his startled
wife to discover in her disoriented morning state. The next two nights on the couch were worth it.
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It wasn’t until the third week of December that Martin perceived something odd. The elf
had moved from where it sat on the rocking chair to the fireplace mantel. He wasn’t sure if the
kids or Tracy had done it, but he was always the last to go to bed and the first to awake. Keeping
it to himself, he shrugged it off and put it out of his mind until it happened again the next day,
and the day after that.
His breaking point was waking to Tracy’s screams and discovering the elf had been
sitting on the dresser watching her all night. “I had nothing to do with this, babe,” he explained
to his distraught wife. “Maybe it was one of the kids.”
Against his children’s sobbing protests, the elf went out in the garbage that night, only to
make another appearance the next morning in its usual position above the fireplace, sitting stock-
still, its dim eyes expressionless. In its hand was a note scribbled in red crayon that read: Santa is
displeased with you, Martin.
“Tracy, I swear to you it wasn’t me,” he said. Out again in the trash, it went, and its
appearance surfaced again the next day.
This routine went on for close to one week, with a different note discovered each time.
One said: The children are behaving themselves, are you, Martin? Another read: Don’t look
under the dining room table Martin—which, of course, prompted him to look under the dining
room table. Surprisingly, nothing was out of the ordinary. The last note said: I told you not to
look under the dining room table. This isn’t going to end well. It was three days before Christmas
when Martin put the elf in the garbage for the last time. He didn’t know what to think anymore,
assuming it was either Ann or Moxie messing with his mind the whole time, but he still laid
awake that night, wondering if the pint-sized atrocity would come for him in his sleep, but it
didn’t, and it wasn’t on the mantel the next morning.
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Figuring the kids had grown tired of their practical joke, he got ready for Christmas day
as if nothing had happened. He displayed the milk and chocolate chip cookies, then told them
that Santa was on his way and put them to bed. He spent the next four hours decorating the tree
as if Santa had been there, placing a modest amount of presents underneath and hanging each of
their stockings above the mantel.
When the sun rose, Ann and Moxie were right on schedule, jumping on the bed, waking
him and Tracy, anxious to see what Santa had brought. After they’d gotten dressed, they lead the
children to the living room and couldn’t believe what was there: A mountain of presents no less
than eight feet high surrounded the tree. Their stockings overflowed with small gifts and candy
canes.
As the kids ran to the tree to dig in, Tracy looked at Martin and hugged him. “When did
you do all this?” she asked, but he wasn’t listening. Terror sang in his veins, his eyes fastened to
the elf on top of the fireplace mantel. As he walked over, he noticed the crayon scribbled
message in its hand: Merry Christmas, Martin. Look in your stocking. He did—it was filled with
coal.
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The Static Age
Mrs. McKenzie greeted her neighbors as she and her teenage daughter walked down their front
pavement and climbed into a small van that read: Valerie’s Bouquets. She waved again as she
eased out of the driveway and ripped down the asphalt.
An elderly white-haired resident continued his daily task of reapplying fresh paint to his
withered picket fence. He listlessly changed the stations on his tinted mono radio during frequent
coffee breaks as a nearby middle-aged housewife raked her leaves into a large trash bag leftover
from the previous day.
At first, no one noticed the red and blue paint peeled tow truck that chugged down the
road and rounded the corner onto Buyer Street. It slowed in front of the McKenzie’s house and
made a slight U-turn, sounding its obnoxious reverse warning. It careened into the driveway, ass
first, replacing the flower van’s previous spot directly behind a pristine silver Volkswagen Jetta.
The piercing screech caused the white-haired gentleman to drop his paintbrush and cover
his ears; the housewife leaned on her rake and watched intently. As the disturbance sliced across
the neighborhood’s usual silence, other neighbors appeared at their doorways to investigate the
source.
The siren ceased, but the engine continued to hum. A short, pudgy man with blue denim
overalls and long black greasy hair emerged from the passenger’s seat. Another man sat on the
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driver’s side. He moved to the back of the truck, getting on all fours to inspect the back
underside of the Jetta.
After giving a thumbs-up gesture, he yelled over the engine’s roar, “Raise it!” The sound
of hydraulics kicked in, and the rear tires lifted off the driveway into the air. The Jetta came to a
full stop four feet off the ground while the neighbors watched.
The back door of Mark McKenzie’s kitchen was closed as he sat at the table, leering at the empty
e-mail inbox on his laptop, unaware of the events in his driveway. The sight discouraged him to
the point where he thought the pounding on the front door was a video game his ten-year-old son
was playing upstairs.
After the third knock, he quickly sat up and approached the front door as his son jumped
in front and shot the deadbolt back.
“It’s all right, Tim, I’ve got it.” His son stepped aside as he turned the last lock and
opened the door, revealing the man in blue overalls. He noticed the insignia etched across the top
of his sweat-stained T-shirt that said: Uncle Herb’s Towing.
“You Mark?” asked the man.
“Look, I just sent a check yesterday.”
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“I’m sorry, but you’re five payments behind. This is how it has to be.” The man reached
in his pocket and handed Mark a business card.
“When you have the money, just call this number, and you can get your car.”
Mark quickly glanced over the man’s denim strapped shoulder and noticed several
neighbors standing by their doorways, wayward eyes glaring at him as if he were a sideshow
circus attraction. A guttural sickness took over, his cheeks turning red with frustration, sensing
their judgment wash over him.
He closed the door without saying a word and stared at the card as he leaned on the frame.
It was bad enough that his neighbors already figured him for an unemployed deadbeat who was
unable to provide for his family, but this little display just added fuel to their already raging
accusations.
He decided not to call his wife or daughter at work to inform them of the bad news. His
daughter already hated him enough for forcing her to get a part-time job alongside her mom at
the nearby flower shop. “It’s was minimum wage, but better than nothing,” he explained. She
didn’t see it that way and decided to hold the kind of grudge that only a teenaged girl is capable
of. Her rebellious nature had worsened in the months since her father had been laid off from his
position at the textile factory.
There was a large part of him that was happy to see the job go—it allotted the
opportunity to spend more time with his family and to pursue a part-time buying and selling
business venture that he’d hoped would have flourished a bit more that it had.
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He shook his head and placed the business card in his pocket. “Does this mean we aren’t
going to the flea market today?” his son asked.
Mark took a deep breath and asked, “Where’s your little sister?”
Tim pointed to the staircase. “She’s in her room watching some baby show.”
Mark pulled back the curtain on the front door and peered outside. As he suspected, a few
of the gossiping neighbors had convened across the street. He couldn’t hear their conversations,
but he didn’t need to.
Trixie, the family’s eight-year-old Dotson, joined his side, scratching at the door’s wood
panel and whimpering.
“I’m taking her out,” Tim said, hooking the dog’s leash to her collar.
“Not out front,” Mark instructed.
Tim looked confused. “But dad, we always walk her out front.”
“Not today. Take her out back.”
The sun had already disappeared below the western horizon when Mark heard the crunch of
gravel as the flower van pulled into the driveway. Tim was upstairs in his room while Alexis
played dress up with her headless Barbie doll in the center of the living room floor.
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It was the moment Mark had been dreading since earlier that morning. He switched the
oven off and took out the two pizza boxes, sitting them on the top of the stove. Mark would
usually cook something from scratch before they arrived home, but he wasn’t in the mood that
night. So he had two large chicken and broccoli pizzas delivered about thirty minutes earlier—
hoping it would soften the blow. The sound of two car doors slammed, and the footfalls
approached the porch.
“Alexis, could you put your toys away please and go wash up for dinner?” he asked his
four-year-old daughter, who immediately frowned at the thought of her playtime ending. She
reluctantly agreed and proceeded to toss her dolls and coloring books into the large toy chest
under the living room window. At the same time, Mark moved frantically around the kitchen,
placing plates and cups on the empty table.
The front door opened, and the flurry of footsteps on the linoleum flooring rung out,
followed by the distant creaking of the wooden staircase as someone rushed up. Mark knew it
was his daughter. She never bothered to say hello anymore after coming home—or anytime, for
that matter. His wife entered the kitchen and untied her work apron.
“I’m surprised to see you home,” she said. Her complexion was dull from the long day’s
work, and Mark felt achy just from looking at her. She still managed a smile that extenuated the
thin crow’s feet around her eyes when she saw the flat pizza boxes awaiting her in the center of
the table. Mark pulled out a chair for her.
“I didn’t feel like cooking tonight. I hope you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine,” she said, taking a seat. “But where’s the car?”
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Mark sighed. He’d hoped to avoid the question until after dinner. He slid out a chair and
sat across the table from her. “Maybe it’s good the kids aren’t here for this.”
He couldn’t sit still. He stood and opened the refrigerator to retrieve a cold beer.
“The car was repossessed about an hour ago,” he said, popping the cap off a Heineken.
She sat silently, nervously scratching a dried piece of food off the table surface when the sound
of hungry footsteps rushed down the stairs, breaking through the tense moment. The three
children hurried through the living room and entered the kitchen.
“Why didn’t you tell us you ordered pizza?” Adeline asked as she and her brother threw
the lid up and quickly ripped slices from the box.
“Well, hello to you too,” said Mark. “As you can see, I set the table so we can all sit
together and talk for a change.”
“And can’t you see that I’m busy?” Adeline held up her cell phone. “Anyway, I’ll be in
my room.” She piled a second slice onto her plate and disappeared into the hallway. Her brother
followed, citing an intense online gaming match as the excuse.
“And I’m helping,” Alexis added, following her older siblings. Cheryl glanced at Mark,
but no smile followed.
“Kids, nothing you can do,” she said.
Mark took a sip of his beer and sat back in his chair. He said, “I will fix this.”
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The air was chilled when Mark and Tim set out to Hungry Harry’s Flea Market. He’d already
had a productive morning, displaying most of his Halloween decorations proudly on the front
lawn and attending the Sunday nine o'clock service at St. Vincent’s with the rest of the family.
He decided to wear his church attire to Hungry Harry’s, hoping it would influence the sellers’
perception of him as a successful businessman. Before leaving, he grabbed a stack of business
cards that read: Mark’s Buying and Selling.
His son continued to tease him about the lack of effort put into the title, but he refused to
change it, explaining that sometimes simplicity is the most effective means. However, he began
to doubt his own philosophy lately, as most everything he’d purchased from pawn shops and flea
markets still sat around the house collecting dust mites, no bidders or buyers to speak of.
The flower van rolled down highway 91 at a leisurely 35 mph, mostly due to the lack of a
fourth and fifth gear. It had been years since Mark had driven a stick shift and almost popped the
front grill of the van through the garage door while he acclimated himself to the clutch.
But as he reached the highway, his muscle memory kicked in, and he recalled how easy it
was to drive one. It was smoother than his old ‘79 Firebird that met an untimely end back in
senior year, only three weeks after his parents purchased it for him as an early graduation present.
He and high school sweetheart Cheryl McCreary logged exactly two dates in the thing
before skidding off the road and plowing into a tree on Route 6 during a sunny spring day. His
parents asked questions. Her parents asked more: “Were you driving too fast?” “How did this
happen?” “Did someone run you off the road?” In the end, he blamed a faulty brake line as the
excuse, realizing he’d lose more than his car if he’d told the truth.
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He begged the police to leave out the part where they’d found him and Cheryl
unconscious with his pants around his knees and her head in his lap. One of the cops cringed, but
reluctantly agreed with the request—and when the ambulance arrived, they kept their promise.
As the RPMs revved to six down highway 91, Mark thought about the cop—and Cheryl
McCreary. One was the mother of the bright-eyed ten-year-old boy sitting next to him, and the
other was Walter, the old white-haired retiree living across the street that blared his mono radio
and repainted his picket fence daily.
Mark heard rumors years later that the boys at the police station got a kick out of the
incident, with some even going as far as to call his future wife Cheryl “Mac-Ready if you are” —
but it was just a rumor, or at least that’s what he told himself.
After one hour and forty-five minutes on the highway—an hour more than it should have
taken—a giant billboard came into view: Hungry Harry’s Flea Market, next right.
“Well, it looks like we’re here,” Mark spoke up. His son closed the game app on his
phone and groaned.
The parking lot was crowded, even for a Sunday, but they managed to find a spot at the
far end of the last row. “Z13, remember that,” he said, as they navigated the slew of parked cars
to the main entrance.
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The massive neon sign and the mechanical wave of Harry greeted them. Most of the
lights on the sign were out, and Harry’s arm got momentarily stuck each time on the up-swing,
but it had an old 1980s charm that most other places in the area lacked. It reminded him of the
spots his father would take him as a child on weekends and holidays.
As they entered the double glass doors, Mark re-evaluated his objective. “Keep your eye
out for anything that looks rare and expensive,” he reminded Tim.
“Rare and expensive, got it.”
Towering signs beckoned above each store, with everything from vintage toys to
homemade sweaters and dishtowels that appeared to go on endlessly on either side of the large
warehouse. Feeling overwhelmed, Mark said, “I guess we’ll start on the right and work our way
down.”
Almost everything was shit at Hungry Harry’s. The majority of the items for sale were shoddy at
best and appeared overpriced for the quality.
Tim was obviously bored and had resorted to playing on his phone until his dad had
finished his unending scavenger hunt.
Figuring it wasn’t worth his time and to appease his son, Mark asked if he wanted to
leave. “Yes!” was the resounding consensus. They agreed to skip the final store and head for the
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exit, but as they rounded the corner and closed the home stretch, Mark spotted a small marble
table that displayed a quaint wooden radio.
He gripped Tim’s sleeve and said, “Wait one minute,” as he walked to the antique. A
price tag hung from a string on the volume knob, but he purposely ignored it as not to spoil the
moment. It was small, only about a foot and a half high and would be simple enough to transport.
“It looks old, dad,” said Tim. He heard his son’s voice but forgot to respond while he
examined the silver dials and tuner buttons and felt fabric speaker walls. Feeling the excitement
build, he took a deep breath and turned the tag over.
Traffic had doubled, and the ride home took twice as long, but Mark didn’t notice as his mind
wandered to the new purchase sitting on the floor between the front seats. Before they left
Hungry Harry’s, Mark wrapped the electrical cord around the stubby-legged base of the radio
and propped it against a weighted cardboard box that contained gardening supplies. He instructed
his son to secure it with one hand during sharp turns to keep it stabilized, and they headed for
home.
The motor sputtered as he dropped the gear into reverse and receded into his driveway.
From the porch, Cheryl closed her book and watched the van come to a standstill while Walter,
the white-haired gentleman, emerged from his concealed spot behind the half-painted fence. He
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gripped his paintbrush and rose to his feet to get a better view of what his neighbor carried in his
hands.
Judging Mark was nothing new to the old man, but this was not judgment—it was
intrigue. He squinted through his thick-framed eyeglasses and caught a glimpse of something
he’d not seen in over sixty years. He dropped the brush into his paint bucket and crossed his
arms on the top of the splintered fence, not noticing that he’d draped white streaks of fresh paint
along his underarms.
He observed Mark carrying the radio from the van to his front porch, stopping briefly to
have a conversation with Cheryl Mac-ready—as he still referred to her. Mark then disappeared
through the front door, leaving Tim on the front lawn to fix a downed scarecrow. The old man
glanced at his clouded watch face and realized the second hand had stopped.
Mark found the perfect spot for the radio in the upstairs guest room—on top of an old wooden
table that his parents had left him when they’d passed. He placed it down and unwound the cord
while calling for the rest of the family to join him. The only one that showed up was Carl, his
six-year-old Tabby cat. “Well, it looks like it’s just you and me,” he said while Carl jumped on
the table and rubbed his head along the front radio dials.
He couldn’t find an unused outlet, so he pulled the old Zenith T.V from the socket and
replaced it with the radio. He got to his feet and took a step back to admire the layout. Two
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ample potted ferns sat on either side of the table that the radio rested upon, and with the old
Zenith and grandfather clock along the left wall, it reminded Mark of something out of a Mad
Men episode; late fifties, early sixties he figured. There was even his grandfather’s old brass
ashtray stand, positioned next to the vintage recliner to further his impression.
It had been a long time since he’d been in the room and he’d almost forgotten it’s time
warp effect. It was more or less just unoccupied space used for storage. Still, he and his wife
tended to it regularly and kept the tables clean, the grandfather clock wound, and the carpet
vacuumed, mainly when a friend or relative stayed over.
Mark crouched in front of the radio and examined the dials. Except for the volume, most
of the writing had worn off the wooden exterior, and Mark had to guess what each dial’s function
was.
He removed the $50 price-tag and stuffed it in his pocket while he talked to Carl as if the
cat understood what he was saying. “What do you think? Should we test it out?” Carl meowed
something, and Mark took it as a yes. “This looks like it could be an ‘on’ button.”
As Mark reached for the dial, he noticed the faded gold paint of something written on the
right base of the radio. He moved to the side and lifted it closer to his face, silently reading the
words to himself: Redwood Dolly. “I’ll have to look that up later,” he said to Carl.
He placed the radio down and turned the right knob. The tuner window illuminated, and a
harsh rip of static popped from the fabric-covered speakers. The sudden burst of audio sent Carl
scrambling under the recliner as Mark quickly twisted the volume to a more respectable level.
“Sorry about that,” he said while Carl poked his head out.
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The static continued as he dead-ended the tuner needle all the way left, and then right.
“Figures,” he sighed, attempting a second left sweep. “I knew it was too good to be—” The
hulking bellow of a news announcer unexpectedly cut through the room as Carl darted out of
sight again. The sound was muffled and tinted, but Mark didn’t care—the Redwood worked. As
he adjusted the volume, the announcer’s voice became more decipherable.
The New York stock exchange suffered an immeasurable blow today as stocks plummeted,
and shareholders scrambled.
Mark smiled and listened.
Sell, sell, sell, was the consensus, but more on that later. Ford motor company is rolling
out a brand new line of automobiles for the upcoming year…
A female voice came from the hallway, “Dad.” Mark lowered the volume and turned to
Adeline.
“Hey, pumpkin, I didn’t see you there.” He rested a hand on the radio. “It works,” he
continued.
“That’s great, but can you not call me that? And mom wants to know if you’re coming
down for dinner?”
“Tell her I’ll be right there.” She began to walk away. “Oh wait, could you come here and
look at this first?”
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Adeline glanced at her phone screen and said, “Maybe later,” as she disappeared from the
doorway. Mark remained kneeling on the floor, contemplating his daughter’s rude reaction for a
moment. He then got to his feet and switched the Redwood off.
After dinner, he briefly checked on the radio to be sure it still worked. The subject of discussion
had shifted from the stock market and Ford motor company to politics and the mobilization of
U.S. armed forces against an unseen threat. The voice from the speakers was flat and tonal as if
the presenter had gotten his journalism degree from the school of robotics. The broadcast
appeared out of place, and Mark wondered what this “unseen threat” was.
He’d only listened for a few minutes before performing his nightly duties, tucking his
two young children into bed, then reading Alexis her favorite bedtime story: Maxine and her
Mystical Magic Machine.
Since both of the younger siblings shared a room, Tim usually listened to his earphones
while Mark read, as if hearing his sister’s girly story would somehow make him less of a boy. He
also complained that there were too many M’s in the title.
After the kids fell asleep, Mark laid on his bed, watching the outside streetlight that
reflected off his dark ceiling, absorbing the cool breeze that frequently rushed through his
window curtains.
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His wife was curled in a fetal position breathing heavily, slumber embracing her, and
Mark felt a sting of jealousy as he lay awake too excited to sleep.
His thoughts drifted to the Redwood in the next room, and the sum of money he could
fetch for unloading it to the proper buyer. It would require some extra legwork, but it could be
his first big sale—enough to give him the confidence he needed to continue with his venture and
silence the naysayers.
The light across the ceiling eventually dimmed as his eyes grew heavy, and his focus on
the radio wavered to nothingness.
The first thing he heard was Cheryl calling his name, hand on his shoulder, nudging him awake.
The second thing was the dull sound of a man’s voice leaking from the hallway. He squinted and
glanced at the table clock through sleep-filled eyes. 4:35. He’d already been out for five hours.
The voice continued its inaudible vent from the hallway.
Cheryl looked frightened; her grip on Mark’s arm reinforced it. “What is that?” she
whispered. The voice grew louder, and certain words became decipherable.
“Wait here.” Mark got out of bed and crept to the bedroom door. He made his way down
the hallway in his sleep induced state until he reached the spare bedroom. He peeked inside. The
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solo glow of the tuner greeted him in the darkness, along with the broadcaster’s droned reciting
of the current news.
As he entered the room, the radio’s dash light flickered periodically off the walls and
blank T.V. screen with intervals of static that interrupted the broadcast.
It would be light soon, and Mark didn’t give a shit what this guy had to say. After
tripping over a misplaced stool, he continued for the radio, intent on shutting the damned thing
off. But as he reached for the dial, he heard something he couldn’t ignore.
Mark, the announcer whispered in an otherworldly voice. Come closer. A loud burst of
static screamed to life, and the Redwood’s brilliant glow darkened, bringing immediate silence.
Mark stood frozen. A panicked chill choked out his breath, and runnels of sweat streaked
down his cheeks. He couldn’t move. A faint shuffling sound along the carpet behind him
quickened his pulse, and another tiny whisper cut through the silence. “Mark.”
“Fuck!” he screamed and whipped around. His wife jumped backward, tripping over the
stool but catching the wall frame in time. Reality returned, and he felt stupid for his ridiculous
outburst. Still, he wanted to get his wife out of the room.
He apologized and blamed the reaction on his nerves, leading her down the hallway. She
asked him about the voice as they entered their bedroom. “It was just the Redwood,” he
explained. “I must’ve forgotten to turn it off; nothing to worry about.”
Cheryl didn’t notice, but after she drifted back to sleep, he retrieved the key from his
nightstand drawer, snuck back to the guest room, and locked it.
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The sound of an outside buzzsaw jarred Mark awake. It was later than he usually slept, and the
two youngest children would already be off to school according to his alarm clock. He got
dressed and thought about the night before and wondered if it had really happened.
As he opened the bedroom door and entered the hallway, he heard the distinct voices of
his oldest daughter and wife on the bottom floor, arguing and cussing. As usual, most of the foul
language came from Adeline. It became commonplace for at least two or three outbursts to occur
each week, and Mark was getting numb to them.
Ignoring it the best he could, he continued down the hallway towards the bathroom when
he noticed the guest room door was open. Trixie and Carl sat in the hallway entrance, staring
blankly inside. Trixie whimpered an unusual sound, and Carl’s long white hair stood on end.
Mark approached the doorway and picked Carl up, who responded with a deep meow.
“Is everything all right, buddy?” he asked while scratching him behind the ears. As he
looked inside the room, his eyes immediately fell upon the Redwood. It was the way he left it the
night before: silent and dormant, but something was out of place.
He lowered Carl down and stepped inside the room. The healthy green leaves of the fern
plants had turned dark brown, tinged with black as if someone had taken a match to them. Pieces
had fallen to the floor, littering the basin with ebony foliage.
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Mark was no fern expert, but he knew Cheryl had brought the plants home from the
flower shop less than a week ago, and they should have lasted longer than they had. After
scratching his head, he returned to his bedroom and opened the dresser drawer.
The key was there.
An obnoxious “fuck you,” seethed from downstairs, followed by the sound of footsteps
on the wooden staircase. Adeline appeared at the top of the stairs, rushing into her room,
slamming the door.
“Christ,” Mark managed. He figured he’d better do something. He closed the drawer and
quickly made his way to Adeline’s room.
“Young lady,” he called gently, knocking on the wooden door frame.
“Go away!”
“Not until you tell me what the problem is.” The door swung open.
“It’s nothing!” she said, brushing past him and disappearing into the bathroom.
He didn’t want to press the matter any further, so after re-locking the guest room door, he
decided to finish with the Halloween lawn decorations. It would give him time to think and to
enjoy some much needed alone time.
He didn’t bother with breakfast and went straight to his chores after greeting his wife
with a kiss before she dropped off Alexis at preschool. Most of the neighbors seemed to
hibernate that day, save for the white-haired gentleman who made his presence known from time
to time by blaring his radio.
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The temperature had dipped dramatically in the afternoon, going from a light cool breeze to a
crisp chill that arrived around the same time Tim stepped off the school bus at the end of the
driveway.
He admired the new additions to the lawn as he approached the house. A hanging ghost, a
dilapidated scarecrow, and a large inflatable nylon jack o’ lantern—that couldn’t stay inflated—
greeted him with cold stares. He shivered unexpectedly as he walked inside.
The house was quiet, and it seemed like no one was home until the sounds of continuous
typing came from the kitchen area. “Dad, is that you?”
“I’m in here!” Mark yelled back. “Do me a favor and go upstairs and ask your mom what
I should make for dinner!” Tim stood by the front door and took his schoolbag off.
“Where is she?” he asked. Mark stopped typing.
“I just told you, she’s upstairs!”
“I didn’t hear you!” Tim replied as he ran up the stairs, taking it two steps at a time. Mark
sighed and went back to his eBay listing.
He had already posted pictures of the Redwood, and the description was complete. The
asking price of $800 stared back at him, and he wondered if it was too steep considering what
he’d paid for it. The description had been more difficult than he’d expected, as a Google search
of the Redwood yielded no results. After taking a deep breath, he clicked the mouse, and the
listing went live. Now all he had to do was sit back and wait for the bids.
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As he closed the laptop, his son’s voice rung from the top of the staircase, “Dad,
no one’s up here!”
Mark shook his head—too exhausted to answer—and wearily made his way to the second
floor. The strong scent of cigarette smoke instantly tickled his nostrils as he approached the top
step. “I think ‘you know who’ was doing ‘you know what’ up here again,” Tim laughed, making
a smoking gesture.
“I’ve about had it with her,” Mark scoffed as he rushed to the first bedroom door and
pounded on it. “Adeline! Open up!”
“Stop, dad. I told you nobody’s up here.” Mark ignored him.
“I said, open up!” A faint “click” and a dull hiss from down the hallway caused Mark to
slow his pounding to a standstill. Distant static and the familiar voice of the broadcaster followed.
Mark felt his throat run dry, and his attempts to swallow became ineffective as he turned
to his left and noticed the guest bedroom door ajar. “Just wait here a moment,” he said, putting a
hand on Tim’s shoulder, keeping his eyes locked on the doorway.
The announcer’s voice grew, and the scent of smoke intensified as he made his way down
the hallway. It seemed to narrow the closer he got to the room, and he wasn’t sure if it was just
his imagination anymore. Tim’s big brown eyes watched his dad from the opposite end of the
hall, anxious and impatient.
“Seriously, how long do I have to stand here for?” Tim complained. Mark turned to him
as he approached the room.
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“I’m not kidding around here. You stay right there. You got it?” Tim rolled his eyes and
sat on the soft carpet, resting his hands under his chin.
As Mark closed his distance on the room, the door slowly creaked open until it tapped the
inside wall. The impossible sight forged denial in Mark’s mind as he thought of turning and
running.
The ferns had withered entirely to the ground since that morning, leaving bare, brittle
branches, and the usual pendulum sway of the grandfather clock had ceased.
The broadcaster recited a breaking news story. President Eisenhower has released a
statement announcing the release of Sputnik, the Russian satellite, into orbit today.
What the fuck? Mark thought.
It launched without incident and has been a success thus far—end quote. You are
listening to 102.1 WWRL, Jacksonville Vermont’s only news station.
The announcer continued his story as Mark took a single step inside and noticed the
source of the scent. A smoldering filterless Lucky Strike rested upon the old brass ashtray stand,
wisps of smoke rising from the half-smoked cigarette, coiling around the room’s furniture.
He carefully avoided the radio as he walked to the grandfather clock to adjust it. After
opening the pendulum encasement, he glanced at his wristwatch for the correct time. The second
hand had stopped. He popped the knob out and wound it. Still nothing. Scratching his head, he
closed the encasement as Tim rushed in the room and jumped on the recliner.
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“So, what did you find?” Tim asked, noticing the lit cigarette. “Oh, man! She was
smoking in here?”
Mark peered out the window curtain to check on the flower van; it remained in the
driveway. “I don’t think she was,” replied Mark as he moved to the door to examine it. “Tim,
when you got up for school today, was this door open?”
“Yeah, it was open just like that, why?”
“I was just wondering.” Shaking his head in disbelief, he glared at his son and added,
“They couldn’t have gone out without me seeing them. I ‘ve been here all day in the yard, and as
far as I knew, they were upstairs.”
He walked back to the window and glanced at the van. “We have to find them.”
Fall’s early dusk had arrived when Mark and Tim set out in the flower van. They headed down
Buyer Street and turned on Maple Avenue towards interchange 96. Mark had no destination; he
just drove, hoping to spot them. He back-tracked the events of the day and attempted to recall a
moment when they could have left unnoticed. As far as he could remember, there was no
window of opportunity.
He tried his wife’s cell phone for the fifth time as he sped down the interchange while
Tim fruitlessly beamed the flashlight out the passenger side window onto the passing meadows.
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“Maybe they went to grandma’s place,” Tim spoke up.
“Damn!” Mark pulled the phone from his ear and tossed it in the front console. “No, I
already called before we left. She hasn’t seen them all day.”
The fog grew thick on the interstate, making it difficult to see more than two car lengths.
They managed to check all of the possible places they could have gone: The Strand drive-in
movie theater off route 7, Ralph’s Delicatessen, The Blue Star Diner, and the Twenty-Four-Hour
Food Mart.
He even placed calls to a couple of area hospitals just to ease his mind a bit. Mark
decided after two hours of driving and searching that he needed to start for home and get Tim
some dinner.
Heading south, he veered off exit nine and U-turned on north 96, leading to Jacksonville.
Multiple billboards and route signs passed by as they sped down the desolate highway. It was a
road he traveled every day for over ten years on his way back from the textile factory, but tonight
a broken down building on the right side of the highway appeared as he approached his exit.
He’d never seen it before and didn’t think much of it until he read the faded lettering painted on
the front. WWRL station 102.1.
He instantaneously hit the brake and hurled Tim forward towards the dashboard, stopped
only by his secured seatbelt. “What are you doing?” his son asked in a scathing tone. The van
came to a stop on the property’s gravel driveway. He re-checked the sign to make sure he’d read
it correctly and assessed the rest of the cracked unpaved parking lot.
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It presented a multitude of overgrown weeds that pushed up through the asphalt and grew
alongside paint chipped siding and the broken-out windows of the building.
Parked along the left side was an untarnished white and powdered blue 1954 Chevrolet
Bel Air, complete with whitewall tires and a chrome grille and bumper. The vintage automobile
looked as if it had been garage kept for the last sixty-five years due to its glossy finish and
flawless appearance.
A frigid breeze blew in through Mark’s partially cracked car window and produced a thin
howling echo as he unclasped his seatbelt and retrieved the flashlight. “Stay here,” he said,
turning the engine off. “And keep the doors locked.” Tim didn’t argue.
Mark approached the front of the building, and a single unhinged door rested against the left of
an open entryway. He was unsure about what he’d find, but somehow, the condemned building
was transmitting broadcasts that his radio was receiving.
He ignored his fear and beamed the flashlight left and right as he cautiously stepped into
the darkened entryway, catching the scent of heavy cigarette smoke and a glint of light from an
adjacent room to the far right. Florescent bulbs flickered overhead and brightened the station
long enough for him to notice the outdated desks and overturned chairs. Cockroaches scattered
and spiders scaled the crumbling walls with each flicker, while the low murmur of static
resonated from the right corner room.
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Mark wanted to run. He imagined himself jumping in the van and skidding out of the
driveway, but curiosity kept him moving over the broken glass and debris towards the room. He
stopped at the doorway long enough to take a deep breath before stepping in.
A vintage radio transmitter and microphone rested upon an outdated desk. Next to the
transmitter were a soft pack of Lucky Strikes and an ashtray with a freshly lit cigarette that
joined a steaming Styrofoam cup of black coffee and an unopened bottle of Schlitz.
Mark kept his distance, backing out of the room towards the office area. He explored a
few other areas of the building while calling out for anyone to hear, but only the echo of his own
voice answered back.
The static cut the uneasy silence in the transmitter room. The voice was garbled, but as it
grew louder, Mark was able to decipher individual words:
Tim…if…Mark…I’m…let…Cheryl…calling. His skin pimpled at the sound of his family’s
names.
He glimpsed the unsettling sight of the lit cigarette stubbed out in the ashtray, the
remnants of smoke drifting up. The cap on the bottle of Schlitz had been twisted off and rested
on the desk, crooked and bent, its contents removed. He knew it wasn’t possible, but he quickly
realized that he was not alone.
Rustling footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor, grinding against his nerves, drawing
closer and stopping directly behind him. Mark sensed the deep breath of whatever stood behind
him on his fine neck hairs. He was afraid to turn, his pulse fluttered rapidly, and he lunged from
his spot, tripping on the over-turned chairs by the exit, slipping on broken glass as he stumbled
outside, calling for Tim to unlock the doors.

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Tim reached across to the driver’s window and popped the metallic lock as his dad swung
the door open and jumped in. The engine revved, the headlights beamed on, brightening the front
of the building and the open entrance. In the doorway stood the faceless transparent outline of a
thin man wearing a 1950’s style suit with shiny wing-tipped shoes and a stylish fedora. In his
right hand, a cigarette glowed.
The apparition did not move. It watched from the doorway, occasionally raising the
cigarette to its invisible lips. Mark watched his son’s face run pale white as if someone had
instantly drained the blood. “Shit!” Tim sounded.
Mark had never heard the boy use profanity before, but he didn’t stop to reprimand him.
Instead, he whipped the gear into reverse and slammed the gas, causing debris to kick forward
where the apparition stood.
As they skidded onto highway 96, Mark threw it into first gear, then second, leaving the
phantom and the radio station behind in a thick cloud of smoke. From the doorway, the phantom
watched.
Two miles from the station, the van’s tires screeched at high speed onto exit seven towards
Jacksonville. Mark slammed the brakes as they approached the off ramp’s red light while
holding Tim in place.
“What the hell was that thing?” Tim panted. It was the first words spoken since they’d
left the station.
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Mark hoped to give his son a solid answer, possibly a rational explanation of what they
had seen. “I’m not sure,” was the best he could manage.
After the light changed and they turned left onto Myers Avenue, Mark kept a more
moderate speed, occasionally wiping the remaining sweat from his face with his shirt sleeve. He
tried to comfort his frightened son. “It can’t follow us,” he continued. “There’s nothing to worry
about.” He didn’t believe his own bullshit.
As Mark and Tim turned down Buyer Street and slowed in front of their home, a muddy
darkened shape appeared on their front porch. Mark couldn’t make out who or what it was, but it
seemed to move past the living room windows occasionally. He parked the van in the street,
skipping the driveway to keep a safe distance.
The occasional Halloween lawn decoration blinked their purple and orange lights on and
off, casting a muted glow across the porch area. As his eyes drifted around the yard, he noticed a
glow in the upstairs window of the guest room. Elongated shadows with no complete form
moved across the drawn curtains while the glimmer of what appeared to be a candle—or
multiple candles—flickered rapidly. He was sure all the lights were off before he’d left.
Mark killed the engine and told his son to stay put, then slammed the door shut. He
retrieved a crowbar from the back of the van, grasping it tightly with both hands, standing at the
edge of the curb, realizing he’d had no real plan.
As he stepped onto his driveway, the freezing wind crushed through the yard, whipping
the brittle leaves around the glowing decorations. At the same time, the obnoxious cackle of a
motion-activated witch greeted him.
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The sudden outburst caused Mark to jump backward and fumble the crowbar onto the
asphalt with a piercing ring. A string of profanities followed, and he kicked the witch out of the
soil.
After his tension eased up, he gathered the crowbar and continued. The abnormal shape
on the porch appeared dormant as Mark drew closer to the front of the garage and walkway—and
then someone spoke.
“Just the man I was looking for,” the voice said as it stepped from the shadows and onto
the lawn. Mark’s breathing decreased, and he lowered his steel weapon, managing a slight grin.
“Christ Walter, you scared me half to death,” Mark managed between heavy breaths.
“I saw people upstairs, and I figured you were home. No one is answering, though.”
This was the most Mark had spoken to the old man in the last seven years. It was strange
to see him on his property instead of peering over his picket fence.
“I know it’s late, so I’ll make it quick,” he continued. “The other day, I couldn’t help but
notice the antique radio you were carrying into your house, and I was wondering if it might be
for sale?” The question surprised Mark. He hesitated a moment and waved Tim out of the van.
“Yes, I’m actually looking for a buyer, but now isn’t a good time. My family is—”
“How does five-thousand dollars sound?”
“Excuse me?” Mark said. Tim came up behind them and re-staked the witch into the
ground. “Did I hear you correctly?”
“I believe you did.”
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“Well, that’s a very generous offer, but I can’t accept it. I was only asking eight-hundred
for it.” Shit, why did I say that?
“I know you’re going through a bit of a financial, uh, crisis at the moment. Let’s just say
I notice things, but I don’t think you understand what you have there. It’s a substantial item.
Only one of them was ever manufactured—and you have it.” Mark continued to listen,
attempting to keep his mind from drifting to his more pressing matters. “So you can see why I
want it so badly.”
Mark understood the money would more than pay to get his car out of storage with
enough left over for business and household expenses, so he agreed to Walter’s offer with a
handshake. The old man informed him that he would make a run to the bank the next day and
have the money for him by mid-afternoon.
“Hell, you might even have that car of yours back in the driveway by tomorrow night,”
Walt laughed as he walked down Mark’s driveway towards the street. But Mark wasn’t listening.
He watched a car that approached from a block away—an old white and powdered blue 1954
Chevrolet Bel Air. The car slowed as it passed Mark’s house, and the driver flicked a cigarette
out of the rolled-down window, landing at Walt’s feet. The vehicle then sped up and disappeared
around the corner.
“Can you believe this?” Walt said. “Littering on our street.”
Walt was about to crush the butt under his shoe when Mark called out, “Wait! What
brand is it?”
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“I don’t know.” The old man hunched over and squinted. “It looks like a Lucky Strike.
Shit, I didn’t know they still made those,” he said, stomping the ember.
Mark looked at Tim. “Neither did I.”
The house was dark when Mark and Tim entered—save for a subdued glow that crawled down
the right side staircase and a flurry of low voices that leaked from upstairs.
Mark’s attempts at turning on the downstairs lights had been in vain, as each lamp
produced the same empty results, cloaking them in darkness.
As Mark continued to obsess on what he saw outside and at the radio station, tiny
footsteps creaked overhead as if someone were walking from room to room.
Tim swallowed and glared at his father’s silhouette. “Is someone up there?” he asked,
looking at the blackened staircase. Mark joined his son and stared at the orange flicker above
them.
“Stay right here,” he instructed, starting up the squeaky wooden staircase.
Tim nodded and watched his father slowly climb the stairs, one at a time in an attempt to
keep the creaking to a minimum. Mark turned to his son for a brief moment to make sure he was
still there.
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Behind him, a tiny voice spoke. “We’re glad you’re home.” Mark spun and instantly saw
his youngest daughter standing on the top step.
“Oh my God,” Mark smiled, wrapping his arms around her. “I was out looking for you
and…”
The girl touched her small finger to her lips. “Shhhh, come with me,” she said, taking his
hand and pulling him down the hallway. Mark squinted at the overwhelming glow that fanned
from the guest room.
“Where were all of you? I was so worried.” The young girl acted as if she didn’t hear him.
As they approached the room, Mark was greeted with the static hiss of the Redwood and
a large circle of crimson floor candles, wrapping around the four walls. Standing next to the
radio in the center of the room were Cheryl and Adeline. The clothes they wore were typical
1950’s era attire. His wife and daughter were draped in matching pink petticoats and handbags.
Their makeup was exaggerated, and it looked as if they’d jumped from the page of a Norman
Rockwell illustration.
“We have a problem,” Adeline spoke up. Her voice sounded monotone as if someone had
jammed a wind-up crank into her spine and turned it. “We saw you speaking with the nosy
neighbor.”
“He wants you to sell the Redwood,” Cheryl said, finishing her daughter’s thought.
“We cannot have that,” Alexis started, removing the grip from her father’s hand. Mark
looked down at her and noticed the dilated pupils and blank expression. He blinked and stepped
into the room.
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“Is this a joke?” he asked. “I’ve been out looking for the three of you, and this is what I
come home to? You haven’t even told me where you’ve been!”
“We’ve been here, you just weren’t looking hard enough,” his wife softly replied as she
moved to the window and parted the curtain. “I want to show you something.”
Mark reluctantly joined her and peered across the street. His vision pin-pricked when he
noticed the familiar powdered blue Chevy parked in Walt’s driveway.
Walter’s old twenty-one-inch CRT television broadcasted a warm glow across his otherwise dark
bedroom as he rested on his mattress, flipping through the channels and thinking about his good
fortune.
The last time he was in the presence of the radio was shortly after his eleventh birthday
when his neighbor invited him over to listen to the broadcasts. Since his family hadn’t owned a
radio at the time, it was a routine he continued daily for close to two months.
He reminisced about sitting on his neighbor’s living room floor, listening to the latest
broadcasts—Inner Sanctum and The Shadow Knows being his favorites. Mr. Jansen would sit in
his rocking chair, drinking Schlitz beer and smoking Lucky Strikes. Walt could still recall the
man’s voice. “You sure do like those scary programs, don’t you, son?”
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Walt smiled as more details trickled loose in his memory. Mr. Janson was the sharpest
dresser in town, always wearing a stylish suit of some kind with his dark blue fedora tilted
slightly to the right, his wing-tipped shoes spit-shined to capacity.
Jansen was a radio broadcaster by profession, and from what Walt recalled, the Redwood
was a gift to him from the manufacturer. Sometimes Walt would sneak over to the man’s yard
while he was working at the station and listen to his voice bellow through the radio from an open
window. It was one of Walt’s earliest and fondest memories.
It was a shame that Mr. Jansen hadn’t had the opportunity to enjoy the Redwood for long.
The man upped and disappeared one day, leaving behind his radio, his possessions, and his
pristine powdered blue 1954 Chevrolet Bel Air.
Walt sat up quickly in bed when he recalled the Lucky Strike and the Chevy from earlier.
No, that’s ridiculous.
He remembered begging his parents to attend the estate sale so they could buy the
Redwood, but his dad informed him in his usual callous tone, “We have no need for such
atrocities. Go read a book.”
And now, more than sixty years later, it was finally in his reach. But this time, the old
man had no intentions of keeping it on his living room mantle, or anywhere else for that matter.
The poultry five-thousand dollars was a drop in the bucket to what his anticipated return on
investment would be, estimated at well into the six-figure range. He had a connection in the
antique industry that would snatch this up just as soon as…
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The sudden sound of footsteps and a waft of cigarette smoke from the hallway interrupted
his greedy thoughts and vibrated through his closed bedroom door. Grabbing the remote, he
lowered the volume on the toothpaste commercial and flicked on the nightstand light. He pulled
his blanket back and sat on the edge of his bed.
“Who’s there?” he called out. The footsteps ceased directly on the other side of the door,
and there was silence. Walt listened while he carefully retrieved his father’s WWII M1911 pistol
from the bedside drawer.
The room remained still, and Walt thought he might be hearing things when the doorknob
began to turn slowly. He recoiled on his bed and held the gun with a shaky hand at arm’s length.
“Don’t come any closer!” he announced as the door opened wide, revealing a familiar
man dressed in an expensive suit with a dark blue fedora and shiny wing-tipped shoes.
The apparition was faceless, but Walt instantly realized who the visitor was.
“Oh my God, Mr. Jansen?” The figure started towards him, and Walt jumped from his
bed, gun outstretched. After cocking the hammer, he pulled the trigger once, twice, three times.
Bullets passed through the apparition, hitting his T.V. in an eruption of sparks.
Mark continued to stare out the window at the Chevy when he heard gunshots, followed by a
man’s scream. Silence, then the shattering of glass as Walt burst through his upstairs window, an
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eruption of glass splintered in multiple directions as he plummeted to the yard below, impaling
himself through the chest on the white picket fence.
The neighbor’s dying screams continued as the apparition appeared in the broken-out
window. After the menacing shape examined Walt’s corpse, it glared across the street to Mark
and Cheryl.
“Father will be here soon,” Alexis said. “He’s come to take us home.” The young girl
approached the window and smiled.
“Yes, it won’t be long now,” Cheryl added. Mark glimpsed at the flushed faces
surrounding him and took a step back.
“What the hell is wrong with all of you? We have to call the police,” Mark said as he
pulled his cell from his front pocket and thumbed it on. A pale hand swatted the phone to the
floor, shattering the screen.
“You saw what happened to the nosy neighbor,” Adeline said. “We can’t have
interruptions. Father is coming.”
Mark glared into his daughter’s black eyes and realized it wasn’t her.
“What are you and Alexis talking about? I’m your father.”
Adeline walked to the window and peered out. “Not anymore. He needs a family—me
and Alexis and Tim and mom. Unfortunately, you are not part of the equation. He’s waited
decades for the chance to escape, and that time has finally come.” Adeline turned to Mark. “You
understand, don’t you?”
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“But don’t worry,” Cheryl interrupted. “I feel he will be a good husband.”
An engine roared to life across the street. Alexis smiled and pressed her palms to the
window. “Here he comes.”
Mark stumbled to the window in time to see the Chevy pull into his driveway and come
to a standstill. The lights blinked off, and the car sat idle. A robotic voice shrieked with
excitement from the hallway, “Father’s here!” Tim entered the room and dashed to the window.
He was dressed in similar‘50s attire.
Mark gasped. “No, not you too!”
Police sirens blared in the distance as the slam of a car door sounded from the driveway.
“It won’t be long now!” Tim continued.
“This is insane,” Mark said. “This is madness. You can’t do this to me. None of you are
thinking clearly. Fight it, for me—for us.”
“There is no ‘us,’ not anymore,” Cheryl replied. The front door banged shut, and the faint
sound of footsteps on the wooden staircase drew closer.
Mark noticed a sudden flicker of blue static on his extremities. It increased in rapid
succession until his body slowly became transparent, and objects became visible through his
torso. “It’s only temporary,” Cheryl said. “You’re not dying.”
Weakness followed. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The room spun
as he collapsed to the ground. As Mark raised his head, the footsteps ceased while his sight
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adjusted to the phantom that stood at the doorway—his faceless form replaced by chiseled good-
looks and a radiant grin.
The man nodded as he stepped into the room, arms outstretched. Mark watched his
overjoyed family rush to the stranger’s embrace. His continued effort to speak yielded no results
as he watched the phantom lead his wife and children by the hand into the hallway. Frustrated
tears formed in Mark’s eyes, and mucus strung from his nose as he attempted to call to his family,
their footsteps fading, his world disappearing.
Mark was alone.
The red and blue police lights spun reflections off the guest room’s walls as Mark pulled
himself across the floor towards the window, propping himself on the base frame, assessing the
police cars across the street.
A medic wheeled Walt’s lifeless body to the ambulance as a few officers interviewed the
gathering crowd of neighbors. Amongst the party lights and sideshow attraction, Mark noticed
the phantom approach his powdered blue Chevy, followed by his wife and children. The figure
opened the door for Cheryl as the children piled into the back seat.
Mark watched his wife stop and wave to him before getting in the car. The phantom
slammed the door and took one last look at Mark before getting into the driver’s seat.
The engine erupted, and the car backed out of the driveway, passing the police cars and
ambulance as it traveled down the road towards its mysterious destination.
Mark heard himself call out to the Chevy as it disappeared around the corner. He wasn’t
sure what he said exactly, but it didn’t matter…his family was gone.
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The ringing in his ears continued and the static blue flicker increased on Mark’s arms and
legs. After one more attempt to get to his feet, he faded away, and there was silence.
The Redwood’s dashboard brightened the darkened room in a rip of static, and a
broadcaster’s voice slipped through the white noise.
“A man died today when he fell from the second-story window of his home…”
The voice was Mark’s.
Bonnie
The full-scale witch caught Bernadette’s eye from the yard-sale table. At five-feet tall and four-
hundred dollars, she knew her husband would hit the ceiling if she purchased it. Halloween was
her favorite holiday, and this was the first year in her new home. She finally had a lawn to
display decorations, unlike in the apartment she and Bill moved from. They didn’t even get trick
or treaters up there on the third floor, and any decorating she’d done fell on blind eyes.
But not this year. She was starting from scratch and building her display all in one shot. It
wasn’t the most cost-effective strategy, and she’d already collectively spent over one-thousand
dollars on the mechanical lawn-ghost and the flying bat that strung from her two front yard
maple trees. Not to mention the vast array of Styrofoam tombstones and solar activated jack o’
lanterns and hanging cobwebs and inflatable vampires and the screeching skeleton that stood at
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the end of her walkway, startling the hell out of passing pedestrians. Yes, the display was
growing, and Bernadette couldn’t have been happier. Well, almost.
Just when she thought her Halloween collection was complete, here it was staring at her,
red eyes ablaze, pointed hat drooping, emerald face twisted. It was the most realistic looking
witch she’d ever seen, but four-hundred dollars piled onto what she’d already spent was out of
the equation.
She shook off the disappointment as she wandered around the yard, browsing the other
less-than-impressive items and trinkets until she reached a foldout table with several stacked
books. She noticed a few of the titles: Wicca Book of Spells and Witchcraft for Beginners. She
picked up one entitled The Big Book of Black Magic and began reading the back.
“Do you like it?” a soft voice from behind her asked. Bernadette spun and saw a striking
young woman standing arms-length behind her.
“Oh, I’m not really into,” Bernadette trailed off and glanced at the book, quickly setting it
down.
“No, not that,” the woman continued. “Over there,” and she pointed to the witch on the
table. “I noticed you admiring it…for over fifteen minutes.”
Bernadette hitched her purse over her shoulder and said, “It certainly is impressive, and
so is the price tag.”
“Follow me,” the woman said, and she began walking away. Bernadette trailed her to the
table. The woman stood, hands on her hips, head cocked looking at the witch. “I acquired it last
year from my sister,” she rolled on. “That was before, well, before her departure.” The woman
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never broke eye contact with the witch’s deep red eyes, as if entranced by them. “Her name was
Bonnie.”
“Who’s name?” Bernadette asked.
“My sister, that was her name. Where are my manners? I’m Connie,” she said, looking up
and holding out her hand.
Connie and Bonnie, Bernadette thought, and wondered if they were twins. “I’m
Bernadette,” she finally said.
“I haven’t seen you around. Are you new to the neighborhood?”
“Well, my husband and I just moved here three months ago, just around the corner on
Blackwood Drive.”
Connie’s smile fell. She nodded and said, “I see. And may I ask which house you moved
into?”
“Oh, it’s uh,” Bernadette silently cursed herself for momentarily forgetting her own damn
street address. “It’s um, 312. Right, 312 Blackwood Drive.”
Connie’s smile slowly returned. “Oh, so you’re the new tenants there? I noticed a man
coming and going; I was surprised that the place had sold already.” She then reached up and
lightly touched Bernadette’s shoulder, closing her eyes after a moment. It seemed like an eternity
to Bernadette, and it made her feel uneasy. She was about to pull away when Connie opened her
eyes and released her touch. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
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Bernadette couldn’t wait to get out of there. She smiled and said, “Yes, well, I should be
going. My husband is waiting for me.” And she began to walk away.
“Wait just one moment,” Connie spoke up. She lifted the witch off the table and held it
like a baby. It was bizarre, and it sent uneasy chills down the nape of Bernadette’s neck. “How
badly do you want this?” The question took her off guard. She wasn’t quite sure what Connie
meant by that, but she still wanted the witch without a doubt.
“Excuse me?” she asked. “I don’t underst—”
“It’s yours for one dollar if you still want it.”
Why would this stranger, whom she’d just met, reduce an item from four-hundred dollars
to a buck? She couldn’t decipher Connie’s angle, or maybe there was no angle, and the woman
was merely being generous. No, there had to be an angle.
Bernadette was about to ask that very question when Connie added, “I have just one
condition.” Here it comes. “Be sure to display it inside your home, where no one can see it.”
It was an odd request, and Bernadette felt an immediate pulse of disappointment. The
main reason she wanted it was to display in her yard. She had already envisioned the witch
resting in a chair at the end of the yard. But for a dollar, it was too good to pass up, so Bernadette
agreed to Connie’s demand and rummaged through her purse, pulling out a crisp one-dollar bill.
The witch was hers.
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She wedged it in the front seat of her Nissan Sentra and, after a pit stop at the grocery
store and the Yankee Candle shop (which her husband had banned her from), she lumbered home
with two more boxes of Corn Pops and five additional pumpkin spice candles.
Bill shook his head when he saw Bernadette’s Yankee Candle bag entering through the
front door. He didn’t say a word, but that all changed after his wife’s second trip to the car,
returning with a five-foot green monstrosity.
“How much?” he asked, sliding to the edge of his chair.
“Huh? Bernadette said, brushing past him, conveniently pretending she didn’t hear. He
followed his wife to the dining room and watched her sit the witch in an empty chair at the end
of the table.
She looked at Bill and smiled. “Oh, I only paid a dollar for it. It’s kind of cool, right?”
“Well, as long as you like it,” he added and sauntered to the living room, calling back to
her, “Just keep it outside. I don’t want to look at it.”
Bernadette’s smile fell, but she knew how to handle Bill. “Okay,” she replied, hoping
he’d let it go.
“Could you do it now?”
Shit.
Well, what was the worst that could happen? Halloween was only two days away, so
Connie would probably never know. At least, that’s what Bernadette told herself. She lugged the
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witch through the living room and placed it outside on the porch chair, intentionally keeping it
obscured from the open yard. The witch gazed upon the empty street.
***
Halloween was still a day away, but Bernadette was up early to make the most of it. Bill, who
stayed up much later, didn’t hear her alarm croak. By nine o'clock, her kitchen was a warzone of
flour and pans and dough. She was so engrossed with her pumpkin chocolate chip cookie recipe
that she didn’t hear Bill enter the barracks.
“Four hundred dollars?” a deep whisper came from behind. Her husband scuffed into the
kitchen in his slippers and bathrobe, making his way to the coffee pot with precision focus. “You
need to return it to wherever it came from,” he continued. “I hope to God you still have the
receipt.”
“I bought it at a yard sale,” she answered with her back to him. “There’s no receipt. I
assure you, it was one dollar.”
“There I was, walking through the dining room just a moment ago when I saw the price
tag hanging from its wrist. Can you imagine how I felt?” Bernadette turned from the kitchen
island and watched Bill pour his morning coffee. Until that moment, it hadn’t dawned on her
how he could’ve seen the tag, considering it’s been on the porch all night. It wasn’t in the dining
room earlier that morning. She would’ve seen it. “I drove past that yard sale yesterday,” Bill
explained. “After I get dressed, I’m getting our money back.”
Bernadette looked up and said, “No, I’ll do it.”
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While Bill retreated upstairs, Bernadette cautiously approached the witch. It sat silently at
the dining room table as if waiting for a meal. A flurry of thoughts coursed through her mind.
How did it get inside? Why wouldn’t her husband believe her? Why would Connie sell her an
expensive item so cheap? Had Bill gotten her that diamond necklace she wanted yet? She
blamed herself for not removing the damn price tag. Bill would’ve been none the wiser. And he
wouldn’t be stomping around the house like a stressed-out ball of asshole.
She continued to curse herself as she returned to the kitchen. She finished hate-spattering
the baking pan with cookie dough and slammed it in the oven, then set her timer.
A thud came. Then another. It came louder and burst from the living room. Bernadette
dropped the tea she was sipping and rushed out of the kitchen. Lying on the floor, at the bottom
of the staircase, was Bill. His head twisted against the wall; the rest of him splayed across the
bottom five steps. One shoe was off, and his sweatshirt was torn on the shoulder.
His groans bounced off the ceiling and back to Bernadette as he attempted to stand. “No,
don’t move,” she instructed. “I’ll call for help.” After thumbing her phone on, she happened to
glance up briefly. Standing at the top of the staircase was a figure, staring at her, red eyes ablaze,
pointed hat drooping, emerald face twisted, stock-still, waiting, watching, analyzing. “What the
fuck,” Bernadette sounded. She rarely cursed, but she didn’t hear herself.
From the floor, Bill groaned and grasped the banister, pulling himself up. He retrieved his
shoe and said, “I’m fine,” slipping his foot inside. “I don’t know what happened,” he added, after
rotating his shoulder and cracking his back. “
Bernadette snapped her focus away from the witch and looked at Bill. “You don’t seem
fine. I should call an ambulance.”

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As she flashed her screen on, Bill reached out and palmed it. “I said I was fine. There’s
no need for that.” He leaned against the railing and smiled, adding, “That was a close one, huh?”
And he lumbered away, leaving his wife at the bottom of the steps with a direct view of the top
staircase. The location where the witch stood was empty, forging hot denial inside Bernadette.
She dropped her phone.
She couldn’t move.
She couldn’t breathe.
After a moment, Bill’s footfalls sounded behind her, but she couldn’t turn. His voice
spoke, but she couldn’t hear. The ringing in her ears increased, and his words echoed as if
transmitting from inside an iron lung. “Where did it go?” she shot back, turning to him. Bill held
the witch in his arms.
“Where did what go?” he replied, glancing down. “You mean this? It was in the dining
room, and that reminds me. Why is it in the house? Didn’t I ask you to please leave it outside?”
“No, it was standing at the top of the stairs.”
“Maybe you’re the one who hit their head instead of me,” Bill said, and he motioned to
the front door. “I’m taking this thing back.” He didn’t wait for a response and strode outside with
the witch under his arm. Bernadette watched in silence.
***
Bill parked in front of a suburban home; its white fence pale like a frosty windshield, its lawn
florescent green—even in October. The yard was empty, not like the day before when its resident
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displayed books and trinkets for sale. As he walked to the small enclosed porch, a green light
pulsed through the downstairs windows with a thrum of energy. A sticker to the right of the
doorbell read: Never mind the dog, beware of owner.
He knocked three times on the glass door, skipping the doorbell. He knew it hadn’t
worked in years. A dark silhouette appeared inside and twisted the knob. She stood for a moment
staring at Bill and the witch under his arm, the same witch she’d sold to a familiar woman the
day before. He glanced down into its deep crimson eyes, then back to the woman and said, “Can
I come in?” Connie stepped aside.
Bill followed her to a table in the middle of her living room. They sat, and he rested the
witch on his knee. “It’s good to see you, Bonnie,” Connie said after a stretch of silence, “even if
it’s not in your usual form. But what were you thinking?”
“It was an accident. I didn’t mean for him to fall. The nosy husband was interfering, and I
saw no other way but to act while he was upstairs.”
“I understand,” Connie sounded, “but what if he had died? You’d have no host.
Bernadette saw your empty shell at the top of the stairs. She’s getting suspicious, and we only
have one shot at this. You can’t inhabit a male body past Halloween. If we fail, back in the witch
you go.”
“It was tough,” Bill explained, “being in my old home, watching them inhabit my walls,
viewing everything through the eyes of a fucking doll. I’m tired of being dead.” He sat the witch
on the table and stared. “I can’t go back. I want things the way they were.”
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“And you’ll have it. We’ll have it. I’d been watching this Bernadette woman since she
moved in. She’s exactly what we wanted. And I told her what she needed to hear yesterday to get
the doll in her possession.”
“And here I thought you were trying to sell me for four-hundred bucks,” Bill said,
smiling.
“Nonsense. I knew what I was doing.” Connie stood and disappeared into another room.
She returned with a book with a pentagram on the cover and flipped the pages to the middle. The
floor spat a sharp cloud of green. “This is where I left off when you arrived. Shall we proceed
together?”
***
It was dark by the time Bill drove home. The spear-cut moon had morphed into a full ball of light
as their spell concluded. He watched it as he turned onto Blackwood Drive.
Bernadette was surprised to see him walk through the front door, still holding the witch in
his arms. He’d been gone much longer than she expected, and in those hours, Bernadette spent
half of that time on the sofa massaging her wrist. She had to put baking on hold because of the
biting pain that coursed down her arm. The discomfort appeared to have also moved to the other
arm and then up her right leg.
She winced in pain and popped an Advil. “I thought you were taking it back?”
“Oh yeah, well,” Bill replied, standing the witch next to the couch, “the woman
confirmed your story. Look, I know you already mentioned buying it for a dollar.” He shuffled
over to Bernadette and sat down next to her, placing a hand on her leg. “I apologize for doubting
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you. But Connie was very adamant about keeping it indoors, so I think that’s what we’ll have to
do.” Bill noticed the green tint on Bernadette’s hand and arms and smiled.
The evening wore on. Bernadette resumed her baking; Bill paced the house, periodically
analyzing the witch’s features. Its left hand had transformed from green to pale milky flesh, and
other extremities had begun to change. Its facial features had shifted; the nose shrinking, the eyes
morphing blue, the jutting chin retracting. Bill then heard a shriek from the kitchen, followed by
the sound of a cookie pan dropped to the floor. And he waited.
Bernadette began to sob as she darted to the living room. “Look at my arms!” she
screeched.
Bill shot an unconvincing frown and pretended to examine her discolored arm with
intensity, occasionally mumbling things like, “Interesting,” and “I see,” and “holy shit.”
“What the hell is going on here?” she added while instinctively attempting to scrape the
green away with a fingernail.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Bill said, standing and offering his spot. “Or better yet,
maybe you should go upstairs and take a nap. You look tired.”
Bernadette held her hand to her head. “I am, and I have an onset headache.”
“Go on up to bed. I’ll bring you some tea.”
She took his advice and climbed under the covers. Bill kept his word and brought her tea,
but she was sleeping soundly. He placed it on the nightstand and checked his watch. It was ten
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o'clock, so he returned downstairs and lifted the witch, laying it comfortably on the sofa. It was
the perfect place to awake in the morning, hopefully as Bonnie in the permanent vessel.
He glared down at the witch. The transformation had progressed to where its face began
to resemble Bernadette. Bill slid a blanket over its body and went to bed, lying next to someone
that looked more monster than female.
***
The early Halloween sun speared through the living room windows, casting a warm glow on the
face of a beautiful woman. She squinted at the light and sat up, admiring her delicate flesh-
colored arms and fiery red nail polish. She also noted the pointy hat which still rested on her
head and the witch costume she wore. Bonnie then caught her reflection in the window behind
the couch. She smiled.
The upstairs was quiet—not even the sound of breathing could be heard, and she took it
as a positive sign. Sunlight engulfed Bill and Bernadette’s bedroom. The curtains moved in the
cool breeze, the ceiling fan spun sluggishly, and the married couple rested on the bed silently.
Bonnie moved closer and stood over them, examining what used to be Bernadette, still in her old
clothing. Bill’s complexion had run blue, his lips purple and cloudy eyes staring back. Neither
one would ever awake, and Bonnie knew the house was once again hers.
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Thank you for reading my short story collection. I hope you enjoyed it. Do you feel any different?
Well, don't worry, it'll go away eventually. But don't leave just yet; I've included summaries and
some sample chapters of my upcoming novels, The Poe Predicament and Worst. Afterlife.
Ever.—just keep on reading. Cheers!
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THE POE PREDICAMENT
Brief Summary
Richard Langley, a former university professor, stumbles upon the find of a lifetime in a local
New York City bookstore: a signed copy of Tamerlane and other poems. He is soon swept to a
place in time where he is alone, confused, and his only mission is to get home. There is only one
problem: he didn't count on meeting the owner of that signature: Edgar Allan Poe.
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As he struggles to adapt to his nineteenth-century environment, he must help exonerate Edgar
from his false accusations, hoping to restore history's original timeline and ultimately find his
way home.
THE POE PREDICAMENT
A novel by Phil Thomas
ONE
Metallic red streamed down Richard’s face as he reached the front of his apartment complex. His
heart jumped under his oversized parka, his legs numb. He’d never stolen anything in his life. A
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perfect record now shattered at the age of thirty-five. He wasn’t sure what to make of the recent
events. It all happened so fast.
He made his way up the concrete stairs and into his apartment building, ignoring the
doorman’s concerns for his appearance. The front door key clicked the lock, and he felt a rush of
relief as he entered his one-bedroom apartment. Everything looked familiar, comfortable. Not
like outside.
He placed the book on his bedroom nightstand and fumbled the bathroom light on to
assess the damage done to his face. It was worse than he expected. His eyelid had sustained a
deep gash, and his eyeball had ruptured some blood vessels, prompting a fiery reflection.
His room was unexplainably frigid. He kept his coat on, flopping on the bed with a cold
compress to his face. He thought about Jenkins and Sarah and wondered if they were all right.
They were his friends, and he’d wronged them. Shit. It wasn’t like he’d meant to do it.
Something occurred while he was in that bookstore. Something he couldn’t rationally explain.
He had started his day like any other, completing his calculated daily routine of
showering, brushing, flossing, two bowls of corn flakes, one glass of orange juice, then brushing
and flossing again. After greeting the doorman, he appeared outside into the blustery New York
City winter and headed to the corner bookstore.
He stuck exactly twenty dollars into his pocket and left his credit cards on the night table.
Being an over-spender had forced him into this new budgeting method, and from what he could
tell, it was working so far. He’d given his car up years ago, preferring the public transportation
method. Today, he decided to skip the subway and walk the ten blocks.
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As he waited for the light to change, he zipped up his parka to the bottom of his chin and
examined his phone for any missed calls or text messages. There were none. The small golden
bell on top of the door announced his arrival as he entered the bookstore. A large sign hung
above his head that read: Bookworms. An appropriate name considering most of their dead-skin
binders housed them. It had only been one week since he’d been there, but the monotony of his
post-marriage life made it seem much longer. The store was empty except for a man crouched on
his knees, stacking books in the self-help section.
“Hello Jenkins,” Richard said. “Isn’t this your day off?”
Jenkins and his wife owned the bookstore for close to fifteen years. They were on the
wrong side of forty-five, but Jenkins had two things Richard wanted: companionship and
happiness. Their relationship reminded him of much better days with his wife.
Jenkins smiled and continued to restock the books next to him neatly.
“Have anything interesting there?” Richard asked.
“Most of this is crap, well, unless you want to unlock the secret to happiness or make a
million dollars in three weeks,” he sighed. “But, I do have some new arrivals if you want to look
through them.”
Richard nodded and spotted the stack on the counter. Not many books came into the store,
and when they did it was usually something he had little interest.
“Have you looked through any of these yet?” he asked.
“Nope,” Jenkins simply replied.
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Richard picked up the stack and began to search through. Nothing caught his eye at first.
In fact, he wasn’t familiar with anything he saw.
After scouring through two-dozen books, he was down to the last one. It looked old, in
fair condition with a bit of yellowing and a few tears, but acceptable. He opened the front cover
and read the inside description.
“Tamerlane and other poems, 1827. Copy two of fifty.”
Without noticing the signature, he looked up to ask Jenkins how much he wanted for it.
“Hey, Jenkins…”
Looking back down at the book, he continued reading.
“Do you have any information on this book here? It’s by some author named A
Bostonian.”
Jenkins might’ve answered, but Richard heard nothing. His breathing slowed, and his
head felt heavy. The sensation grew intense, and the room began to spin rapidly. He stumbled
sideways and braced the edge of the counter.
“Are you all right, Rich?” Jenkins asked.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”
“Do you need to sit down?”
Richard wiped his forehead, unable to process his onset condition. But when his ears
started to ring, that’s when it became real.
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“Do you hear me?” A silky woman’s voice seeped from the plaster walls. She continued,
this time speaking forcefully. “We don’t expect you to understand what’s happening, but I
already feel that you know what to do.” The voice had become so deafening that it rumbled the
already unstable structure. But Jenkins went on his way, oblivious to the phenomenon. As a
bright circular ring manifested around the book, Richard sensed several invisible hands
restraining his wrists when he tried to place it back on the pile. “This is bigger than you,” the
voice persisted. “Leave here, as quickly as you can.” Richard’s actions became mechanical, not
his own.
As he looked over at Jenkins, who was still intently stocking his books, he struggled
against the force that guided his hand, attempting to place the book inside his parka. He was
being controlled, much like a puppet on a string.
Sarah appeared from a side room and leaned on the front counter. “I think most of the
inventory is sorted. I don’t believe there’s anything else for today,” she said. Jenkins stared at the
pile of books that Richard had rummaged through.
“You can log that pile into the database and stock them if you want,” he replied.
“Oh, I already logged those yesterday when you weren’t here. Most of them are worthless,
except for one.”
“Leave now,” the voice continued. But Richard resisted the urge. He wasn’t about to steal
from his friends, no matter what some disembodied voice told him.
Richard didn’t initially hear Jenkins calling his name. But after snapping out of his daze,
he noticed Jenkins staring at him, eyebrows raised and squinting.
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“Rich, didn’t you hear me?” Sarah frantically searched through the book pile, her face
sunken. “Did you happen to see a book entitled Tamerlane or something like that?”
“Yes, I have your book,” was what he attempted to say. But what came out sounded more
like, “No, I don’t think so.”
“Weren’t you asking about a book by someone called A Bostonian?”
Sarah chimed in. “That’s it, A Bostonian. Did you see it?”
Richard swallowed and attempted to say, “Yes.” But again, that wasn’t what came out. “I
have to get my dry cleaning,” is what he said. “I’m sorry, but I need to leave.”
As he involuntarily stepped towards the exit, something dropped from under his coat. It
felt like an eternity for the object to hit the ground. But when it happened, the look of
astonishment on Jenkins' face could only be matched by Richard’s frustration. A warm rush of
unwarranted embarrassment and shame fell over him like a cold blanket. But for whatever reason,
he wanted the tome more than ever. And he didn’t know why.
He reached down and grabbed the book, pushing Jenkins out of the way, but not before
Jenkins grabbed his legs, causing him to lose balance and smash his face against the corner of the
bookcase. A painful rush surged from his eyelid, immediately blinding him with a thick reddish
obstruction.
Sarah yelped like a frightened puppy while Jenkins collapsed on the floor. Richard kicked
his leg away and ran out the front door as he heard them yell, “Thief!” in the distance.
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Richard’s faculties returned to normal by the time he flopped on his bed, but not the
unexplainable desire for the book. The room felt colder, so he pulled his coat tighter across his
chest, unable to explain the temperature change, even after noting the seventy-one degrees on his
bedroom thermostat.
He shook off the recent events and opened to the first page. And that’s when he noticed it:
something scribbled in light ink, just underneath the author’s name. It was slightly faded yet still
legible. But it couldn’t be correct. He looked closer, just to be sure, and immediately Googled the
signature to see if the pattern matched. It did. Edgar Allan Poe. He also noticed a message
written on the back page: To my Emerald Lady. I will never forget you. 1831. Richard wasn’t
sure if the words had any historical significance, but he suspected it could only add value to the
book.
Assuming this was a legitimate signature, Jenkins and Sarah had somehow acquired
something significant. He became drowsy after reading the eighth poem and only closed his eyes
for a moment, but it was enough to change his life forever.
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TWO
A horse galloped past the window, startling Richard awake. He frantically jumped to his feet,
expecting an intruder, or worse—the cops, here to give him more free time than he wanted.
When the gallop quieted in the distance, he sighed and sat quietly on the edge of the bed,
realizing night had fallen.
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As he stumbled to find the light switch, he wondered how long he’d been asleep. It was
still morning when he’d arrived back home. Had he slept all day? In the cloak of darkness, he
tripped over the nightstand, prompting an invisible object to tip-over and crash to the wooden
floor.
A moment later, a door opened down the hallway and echoed into his room. Footfalls
started towards him. He froze, wondering how someone gained access to his locked apartment.
The cops, they’ve found me.
He thought for a moment about telling them the truth, but quickly understood how insane
he’d sound. “Yes, officer, it wasn’t me. It was the voices in my head.”
Richard slowly raised his hands, awaiting the inevitable. His bedroom door slammed
open. A dark silhouette stood before him, holding a single candle that shadowed off the bedroom
walls.
WORST. AFTERLIFE. EVER.
Brief Summary
Drake Teller, a family man, ends up in Hell on a technicality after his car skids off an icy road on
an early February morning. Months later, he is offered a chance at redemption by entering the
Halo Run competition, a contest that pits thousands of contestants together on October 31st. The
winner is granted a do-over, another life.
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He returns to Earth in human form, attempting to locate his helpers: the three people that
hold a clue to each phase of the Halo Run and aid him in attaining the three Twisted Daggers.
But before the contest ends, and November 1st arrives, Drake will uncover something of more
significant importance. Was his death really an accident?
WORST. AFTERLIFE. EVER.
A novel by Phil Thomas
ONE
They say there are worse things than dying. Whoever said that apparently never died. My name
is Drake Teller, and I’m dead. Aside from a few misspent moments in my life, I really am a
decent guy. I’ll admit to having sometimes cut in line at the supermarket when in a hurry, or
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stolen a few handicapped spots when I was too lazy to walk. As a kid, I’d occasionally cheat at
freeze tag, or backpedal on my pinky swears when it felt warranted.
You might be thinking none of that stuff is all that bad and certainly not enough to land
someone in the infernal regions of the abyss with eternal fire and damnation and all that crap—
and you’d be right. But as it stands, I’m currently in Hell, and it sucks. It really sucks.
My ticket was punched precisely eight months ago on a cold February morning as I drove
to an emergency work meeting. I had planned to attend Sunday service with my wife and eight-
year-old daughter directly afterward. But I never made it to either.
I always paid my taxes on time. I never jaywalked. I rarely cursed. I nursed a baby bird
back to health for God’s sake, and yes, I even attended church every Sunday, but I’ve somehow
ended up here in shitsville. I say that in the literal sense because practically everything is covered
in shit. When I first arrived and was assigned to my one-room residence, I thought it was a mud
hut. Nope, shit hut. Just a word of advice, when you croak, make sure to…
“Satan will see you now.”
Oh, that’s the receptionist. I should’ve mentioned that I’m in Satan’s waiting room. It
slightly resembles a doctor’s office, but with a constant rotation of Madonna and Lady Gaga
from the overhead speakers and no reading material other than Devil’s Weekly, the dark lord’s
printed catalog of upcoming events and festivals in the underworld.
I’ve already been sitting in this shit-covered chair for two long days, and the only reason
I know this is because of my wrist-counter, an embedded device under my skin that reads the
number of days that have passed since arrival. Mine is currently at the two-hundred and forty-
three-day mark, which isn’t bad considering my neighbor’s is presently hovering at a little over
seven-hundred thousand. It isn’t pretty.
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Well, I’ve heard Satan hates to be kept waiting. I’ll let you know how our meeting went.
TWO
Close to a month has passed since I last wrote. Right now, I’m sitting here on the sofa of my shit
hut staring at an old photo of my family, trying to comprehend everything that happened. I
promise to get to all of that, but first, let me go back a bit to Satan’s waiting room where I left off.
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I certainly made an impression on him, that’s for sure. After the receptionist escorted me
down a winding hallway, we arrived at Satan’s office door. It was closed, and I heard muffled
gunfire and grenade blasts coming from the other side.
“Let’s wait a moment until he’s finished,” she said. I nodded and noticed the gold
lettering on the door that spelled out his name.
“Scott?” I asked. “Satan’s name is Scott?”
“Of course it is. I thought everyone in Hell knew that.”
I’ve read the Bible growing up, and I don’t remember it mentioning anything about a
Scott. And in case you’re ever wondering, God’s real name is Gary. It’s true. The scriptures got
it wrong. Just don’t correct your Bible study teacher in front of a room full of parishioners, you’ll
never live it down.
After a stretch of silence, I asked the receptionist, “How long have you been here?” She
might’ve frowned as she showed me the fifty-five thousand days on her wrist-counter, but I
wouldn’t have known. All residents have their identity taken upon arrival when their skin is
stripped from their face and skull. The only way to identify us is by our first and last names that
are engraved in bold lettering up the right side of the device, along with a barcode that allows us
to purchase merchandise and services in the underworld.
At least the rest of our bodies remain flesh and blood. Except no clothing is allowed
unless it’s a work uniform, so there’s a lot of nakedness. It’s everywhere.
After the gunfire and explosions ceased, the receptionist put the side of her skull to the
door for a listen. “I think we’re good,” she said. “Oh, one more thing; he likes to be called the
‘Squirrel Master.’” She opened the door, and I walked in.
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“Whoa,” slipped from my bony mouth. There he was, sitting in a large swivel throne,
with velvet red embroidering and gold plated squirrel heads plastered around the edges. On the
desk was his MacBook Pro, decorated with Disney and Japanimation inspired squirrel stickers
and acorns. His chair was turned slightly, so I only saw the left half of his body, but I noticed a
game controller clutched tightly in his alabaster claws and a large HD TV hanging on the wall.
The screen read: match begins in 3…2…1
“Seriously?” he said. “Ava! What did I tell you about letting people in here when I’m
playing?”
His voice was nothing like I expected. It was shrill and high pitched, like my eight-year-
old daughter’s. The door opened behind me, and the receptionist stepped inside. “I thought you
were done,” she said.
“Well, I’m not. I was only between matches. Are you trying to sabotage my ‘kill/death’
ratio?”
“No, I don’t even know what that is. Please, it won’t happen again.”
“Where have I heard that before?” he squeaked. “Have a seat, Don.” I took off my
backpack and sat on the other side of his desk, but he continued to play as if I wasn’t there. “And
Ava,” he added, “get out.” He was on a fifteen kill streak and hadn’t died yet, so I figured it
might be fine to talk.
“Mr. Satan,” I said. “I mean uh, Squirrel Master, my name isn’t Don.”
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Drake. You said, Don.” He didn’t respond. I still couldn’t see anything
other than his hands and wondered what the rest of him looked like. “What are you playing?”
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The timer counted down, and the match ended. His handle, “Squirrel Master,” placed first with
thirty kills and zero deaths.
“It’s Black Ops 11. It won’t be released for another decade on Earth, but I get to play it
early.” One thing I noticed while watching Satan play Call of Duty was that all of the other
players were just slowly walking around and not shooting back. He’d just rush up and knife them
or pull out his pistol for a carefully executed head-shot. I decided it was best not to point it out.
“So Don or Drake, whatever your name is, why are you here?”
I straightened up in my chair. “I’ve met the preliminary qualifications, sir.”
As Satan tossed his controller on the desk and swiveled his chair towards me, I glimpsed
upon what only a handful of creatures have witnessed throughout history. In terms of
immortality, he’s existed since the dawn of time, but in terms that I’m familiar with, he
resembled an old kindergarten classmate of mine named Mitchell.
“The pre what of the what?” he asked as he typed on his MacBook Pro. “Dumb it down
for me.”
“I’ve met the requirements for your upcoming competition, sir.” I had to hold my
laughter. He looked ridiculous in his black Converse All-Star Sneakers, his floral Jams shorts,
and his blue Lacoste collared shirt. His hair was red and shaggy, his eyes black, and he wore a
silver ruby encrusted crown on the top of his head. His legs were stubby, and his feet barely
reached the edge of the chair.
He looked up from his screen. “Drake Teller, is that correct?”
“That’s me.”
He smirked and eyed the monitor. “Oh yes, I think I’ve seen your profile before. You
were born on April 27th, 1983, in Philadelphia, Pa, to Mary and Timothy Teller. Graduated from
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Drexel University, worked as a business analyst and a—” Satan smiled. His two front teeth were
missing like most six-year-olds. “You were a deacon? Did I read that correctly?”
“Yes, at St. Rose of Lima’s and St. Joseph’s.”
“Well, you must’ve pulled a doozy to end up here. Where was I? Right, you died on
February 15th in Haven Falls, a cushy suburb of Philadelphia when you braked for Randy as he
crossed the road. Apparently, you hit a sheet of ice, cut the wheel left, and flipped your car,
crushing Randy not once, but twice, before careening into an adjacent playground and slamming
into the monkey bars. Excuse me.” Satan plucked two black tissues from a Kleenex box and
blew his nose. “Ava!” The door opened, and Ava rushed over to retrieve the snotty rags. She
repeatedly bowed as she backed into the hallway.
“Well, there’s your problem,” he continued. “You took out Randy with your Volvo XC60.
That’s why you’re here.”
“Excuse me, but who’s Randy?”
“Randy, the squirrel. He’s one of my prized pets. I guess I’m partially to blame for this
because if I hadn’t ordered him to run out in front of your car, both of you would still be alive.
That’s how it goes sometimes.” Satan glanced back at the screen and continued to type.
My jaw dropped as I leaned forward. “Wait, are you seriously telling me that I’m in Hell
because I accidentally killed a squirrel? The only reason I slid on that patch of ice was because I
jammed the brakes to avoid him.”
Satan squinted and wrinkled his pointed nose. “I saw that. It’s a tough canary to swallow.
But that’s the reason you’re sitting across from me right now. Per the rules that Gary and I
agreed upon billions of years ago, the only animal you will go to Hell for killing is my chosen
creature: the almighty squirrel. Luckily for you, there is also a loophole that Gary forced me to
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agree upon. Since he doesn’t see it as a completely viable reason to be in Hell, in exactly three
weeks from now, our five-hundred and thirty-fourth annual contest will commence, and you will
have the chance for a do-over.”
I nodded. “That’s a lot of annuals. So, I’m officially in?”
“I believe so,” he sighed. “Congratulations.”
“You have no idea how much this means to—”
“So if you don’t have any questions, I’d really like to get back to upping my “kill ratio” if
that’s all right with you.”
“I have just one. I’ve heard the contest was in a few months, but you said three weeks.”
“Well, you heard wrong. Everyone knows that Halloween is the only day that the spirits
of darkness can freely walk the Earth, blah, blah, blah, so that has always been the day of the
contest and always will be. My guards will be at your place of residence at 11 pm sharp on the
30th of October to escort you to the Crimson Coliseum. Make sure you’re there or you’ll miss
your chance, and there won’t be a second one.” He opened the top drawer of his desk and handed
me a white binder with embroidered letting on the cover:
Halo Run Competition
27th Division
“I almost forgot, this is the rulebook. It’ll explain everything you need to know." You’ll
also be expected to attend the contest’s Orientation two weeks prior. It’s all in there, just read it.”
I agreed and watched the adolescent pull a bubble gum cigarette from a bright red box.
After he tapped it a few times on his desk, he started to puff on the phony tobacco product.
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“I brought the two-hundred Psycho Slugs needed for the contest entry,” I said, unzipping
my backpack. “I understand its three-hundred for admission, but I promise to have the rest as
soon as possible.”
He frowned. “What do you expect me to with a bag full of those things? Just deposit and
wire them over via your Teletrom account when you get a chance,” he said, peeling off the
wrapped paper and throwing the gum into his mouth. “Well, I think we’re done here. The
Spammers will escort you out.”
My eye sockets widened. “What Spammers?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine what I’d done
to invoke those bottom feeders.
“One second,” he said and pressed a large blue button on his intercom. “Uh, Jim, could
you round up Bill and Ralph for a moment? I have someone that needs to be taken to Sanitation.”
Remember what I said about the impression I made on Satan? Well, he’s not a very
tolerant six-year-old. He released the button on the intercom, and within moments, the door
sprung open. I was then pulled from my chair by three of the lowest occupants of Hell. Everyone
detested them because many of us had fallen victim to their corruption in our mortal lifetimes.
It’s falsely acknowledged that the underbelly of Hell is made up of nine circles. There are
actually twenty-three, and on the very lowest level, the bottom feeders dwell. We call them
Spammers, and unlike the rest of us, they have a total of ten arms, five on each side of their body
for faster typing, and proactive use. In life, they were the miscreants that cluttered your inbox
with unwanted junk mail, and now they are forced to do it for eternity.
Each one is assigned to the Twenty-Third Circle and each given multiple laptops where
they endlessly pester mortals on the joys of Canadian pharmacies, weekend timeshares, and
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Publishers Clearinghouse. The next time you receive junk mail in your inbox, it more than likely
came from one of them and not a flesh and blood earth-walker.
Aside from what the Spammers do, Sanitation is probably the worst job in Hell and only
doled out to those placed on the naughty list by Mr. Cranky-pants. To add shit to the fire, it’s
located in the city. Just because we’re dead doesn’t mean that crime and theft are non-existent. In
some locations, it’s actually worse than any place on Earth. From what I’ve heard, it’s a bit of a
hike from the closest teleporter to the Sanitation area.
THREE
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The Spammers are a pushy bunch. They escorted me to the lobby and physically tossed me into
the Transposition Mechanism—a fancy word for teleporter— and slid the door shut. I still wasn’t
sure what I did to deserve this kind of treatment, but I didn’t dare ask.
The inside of the metallic capsule flashed blue while I watched my hands and arms
disintegrate like sand particles in the Sahara. I instantly materialized on the corner of Broad and
Spring Garden Street and stepped through the mechanism’s sliding glass doorway.
When I first arrived in Hell and learned that we could travel to almost any location
instantly, I nearly shit my pants if I’d been wearing any, but the novelty quickly wore off when I
discovered the high cost of travel. Even the after-life rips you off. Luckily this one was a freebie.
The Sanitation Department is located in an underground cavern along the Schuylkill
River, so I figured it to be at least a thirty-minute walk, possibly longer. I wouldn’t typically
mind, but I had a backpack full of Psycho Slugs, and that was just asking to get robbed. They are
the main currency in Hell, and a single slug is equivalent to around fifty-dollars on Earth. And I
had two hundred of the little bastards squirming around.
But I had no choice and started my way towards the Art Museum. You know, the one that
Rocky ran up in the first film…and the second…and the sixth…and the…well, you get the point.
I should mention that this particular circle of Hell is an exact replica of Earth, and every place
that exists on Earth at any particular time also exists here. There was once a duplicate of the
Twin Towers in our version of New York City, but they’re no longer here in this landscape for
unfortunate reasons.
Speaking of which, Osama bin Laden is here in a place called Madman’s Arena.
Apparently, someone lied to him about his seventy-two virgins, and he’s now forced to watch
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Phil Thomas
Gigli on repeat eternally, a fate handed only to the worst kind of people in history. I hear he’s
currently on his twenty-thousandth view.
So because I lived in the suburbs of Philadelphia, it’s where my shit hut is currently
located. Hopefully, you live in a half-decent place because if you end up in Hell, that’s where
you’ll be stuck for eternity unless you buy yourself out, but good luck with that. Keep it in mind.
I didn’t remember Spring Garden Street being as long as it was. After walking a couple of blocks,
the Art Museum eventually appeared in the distance, along with a nasty Scavenger. Just think of
them as the equivalent of the homeless. None of them have jobs, and since everyone in Hell is
required to have one, they spend their time running from The Roundups, our own version of a
dogcatcher.
None of them loiter in one place very long, and they rob us of our currency in order to
teleport to other areas and stay on the run. They are relentless and will take extreme measures to
avoid banishment to The Border.
This particular one seemed to be preoccupied with another wanderer, so I ducked behind
where the cathedral would ordinarily be. We don’t have churches here. They are replaced with
generic empty buildings and are the only structures of Hell that don’t mirror Earth.
I hoped the Scavenger didn’t see me because, with the size of my backpack, I was
confident it would dismiss the other wanderer and focus on me. I popped my skull around the
right edge of the wall in an attempt to catch a glimpse of their shenanigans and noticed a chase
had occurred. The wanderer ducked down a side alley while the Scavenger pursued, flailing its
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Phil Thomas
arms and carrying a gigantic machete in its right hand. A slew of multi-colored belly-crawlers
followed behind them into the alleyway, hissing and biting at their heels.
I absolutely hate snakes. I suffered from severe Ophidiophobia my whole life and could
barely stand the sight of them. Now, they’re everywhere, slithering their way down the city
streets, wrapping themselves around shit-covered structures, and invading the privacy of our
homes. It’s bullshit. Why did it have to be snakes?
As I watched the last snake disappear from sight, I tried to smile, and then remembered I
couldn’t. But at least the coast was clear. I hoped that I might just make it to Sanitation with my
Psycho Slugs intact when I sensed a biting pain on the top of my skull, followed by an up-close
view of the gravel pavement as my face collided.
My backpack was then ripped away a moment before turning on my side. My vision was
blurry, but I managed to glimpse a morbidly obese Scavenger on his knees, hunched over my bag,
rummaging through.
He let out a squeaky war cry after discovering the mother lode of slugs and flung his
chubby arms to the sky, then turned his attention back to me.
I mustered my strength. “Come on,” I said in a disgusted tone. The Scavenger slung my
backpack over his shoulder and walked over to where I sat.
“Here’s a few for your trouble,” he said in a raspy two-pack-a-day voice while dropping
four of them at my feet. He looked around for a moment before waddling back in the other
direction, disappearing around the side of the generic cathedral. I got to my feet and tried to run
after him, but my skull ached, and I saw double. Even if I’d caught up, I couldn’t have done
much. He outweighed me by around two-hundred pounds.
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Phil Thomas
That was it. I was completely screwed. I didn’t have enough as it was to enter the contest,
but after that piece of shit stole all of the currency I’d saved up for the last six months, it was
now absolutely impossible.
I was hurt but able to walk, so I started back down Spring Garden Street towards Kelly
Drive. Luckily the snakes were nowhere to be found. Since their only diet is the flesh of the
deceased, a vast horde of them can easily consume a victim in seconds and leave them looking
like a day-after-Thanksgiving turkey.
As I approached the Art Museum, I noticed a few Scavengers lingering around the Rocky
steps, awaiting an unsuspecting victim. Luckily I wasn’t going in that direction and made a quick
right onto Kelly Drive.
The Schuylkill River was a refreshing sight. Instead of the usual murky scenery, it
gleamed crystal blue, uncontaminated, pure, much more so than its Earthly counterpart—which I
wouldn’t recommend even dipping a toenail.
We require water, much like the living, so the rivers are surprisingly uncontaminated.
They are carefully processed, purified, and need to remain that way lest we shrivel like an old
grape. It’s one of the only things in Hell that is untainted.
That’s where Sanitation comes in. It might sound like a simple job: flip a few switches
and let the large purifying machines do all the work. Not quite. To keep the water clean, it’s our
job to drive the Minion Squirrels out of the rivers. The machines do a great job at purifying
foreign excrements, but the Minions’ feces consist of such a rare substance that no one in Hell—
including Satan—is exactly sure what it is, so the machines are unable to purify it. It’s a massive
pain in the ass and a mystery the hades government has been trying to unravel for centuries.
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Phil Thomas
I was now on Minion Squirrel detail, and that hard fact became more apparent as I
approached the lion springs. The large sign next to it read:
Helladelphia Sanitation Department. Protective gear required at all times.
I pressed down on the lion’s stone tongue, and a steel trapdoor lifted into the air,
revealing a ladder that descended underground. A waft of stale air billowed from the deep cavern
and blasted my eye sockets. And then the screams began. It was a man’s voice, loud, sharp, and
piercing. I then grasped the rails to begin my descent.
The light above me extinguished at the mid-way point as the motorized steel doorway
closed over, leaving me alone in the darkness. The shattering howls intensified with each
downward step.
When I reached the bottom rung, the entire underground system opened up before my
eyes, and I noticed the source of the anguish. Two workers passed by, carrying a mutilated
victim on a stretcher. The man continued to scream and sit up and swing his amputated stumps in
all directions. It looked as if the Minion Squirrels had gotten to every limb except for one.
My neighbor once told me that the last person he saw working Sanitation came back with
both legs shredded from the knee down, and it took three months to grow back. It was only a
story, but now I saw it firsthand. I couldn’t believe my shitty luck. Within two hours, I managed
to lose my entire entry fee for the Halo Run, and now I was about to be ripped apart.
I reluctantly walked into the round concrete room and approached a receptionist's desk.
Accident-free for 0 days, the above sign read.
“You must be our new arrival,” the squid-headed receptionist said as she leafed through a
thick ledger. She wore white-framed glasses and squinted to see each page. “The dark lord just
informed me. Drake, is it?”
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Phil Thomas
“That’s right,” I said. “Is there any way you could tell me how long I have to be here?”
“Oh, you’re only here for six hours. You look like you can handle it.” An old paint-
chipped speaker erupted on her desk. Is he there yet? Scott sounded. She cleared her throat and
pressed the blue intercom button.
“Yes, your lordship, he just arrived.”
Well, tell him to get down to Sector 2119. Randy found his way in, and he’s
contaminating everything. They should get along fine; they’re death buddies.
Randy? It seemed too ironic, and I wondered if Scott had done this on purpose.
Some crackling followed, and Satan’s voice became muffled. “Excuse me,” the
receptionist said. “I didn’t get that.”
I said just pair him up with Ava! She’ll tell him what to do.
The receptionist released the button and looked at me. “You heard him.” She pointed to
the entryway of a long corridor. “Go see Ava in the Preparation Room, right through there. Make
the first right, then take the third left, then the seventh right, and then the fourth right after that.”
What the hell. I’d be bullshitting if I said I didn’t get lost for around twenty-minutes and
ended up in a few places I’d care not to repeat. When I finally arrived at the Prep Room and
pulled back the cellblock door, Ava sat alone on a locker room bench. Her skull hung low as she
stared at the red-tiled floor. She didn’t even look up when I walked in.
“Ava?” I said.
She continued to stare at the ground. “He rejected me again.”
“Excuse me?”
“Scott, he rejected my application for the competition,” she said. “I honestly thought I
had a chance this year.” She sighed and glanced at the counter on her wrist. “I guess this thing
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Phil Thomas
will keep ticking forever. I’ve been his lackey for over one-hundred years, and I believe I’ve
earned the chance. I’ll just go work for Atrius. That’ll show him.”
Atrius? I honestly didn’t know what she was talking about. “I’m not sure I’m following
what you’re—”
“And to top it off, he sticks me down here for the next six hours, oh just because I
brought you into his office while he was playing his stupid game.”
“Well, I guess that answers why I’m here.”
She looked at me and laughed. “Oh no, you’re here because you corrected him. Just a
word of advice; he hates to be corrected.”
I thought for a second. “I don’t remember doing anything like that.”
“No, you did. When he called you Don, you told him it was Drake. Your correction was
justified, but it doesn’t matter, he gets furious at that sort of thing. He is a six-year-old after all.”
“So, I’m going to get eaten down here because I pissed off a temperamental kid?”
Ava stood and stretched her back. “Probably, well, we should get going. This place is a
maze, and our six-hours won’t begin until we’ve reached 2119’s machine room.”
“What about our protective gear?” I asked.
“No protective gear for us. The supply ran dry a long time ago and has never been
replaced. You’ll need one of these, though,” she said, pulling a pink pastel colored pump-action
water gun from an open locker.
“Are you serious? A Super Soaker?”
“You know your toys,” she said, tossing me the gun.
“I grew up in the nineties.”
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Phil Thomas
“Well, this thing is filled with Blueberry Kool-Aid, the Minion Squirrels favorite
beverage. We use it to lure them out of the freshwater preserve, just remember not to inflict any
damage on them. As you may already know, they’re Scott’s prized pets, and if you so much as
harm one hair on their body, it’s off to The Border with you for no less than a year, and you can
forget about that contest. So be careful.”
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Phil Thomas
FOUR
I don’t remember most of my time in Sanitation. My six hours were cut short almost
immediately upon entering Sector 2119’s machine room. The only upside to being mutilated, is
you get to leave early with all remaining time erased if your duty is for twelve hours or less.
Luckily I fell into that category.
Ava and I talked the entire time as we made our way through the underground maze
towards our destination.
As a history buff, I was intrigued when she explained that she worked as a nurse in
Philadelphia and traveled during the Civil War, caring for the wounded at the battle of
Gettysburg and was in attendance when Lincoln presented the Gettysburg Address. I’ve always
wished I could’ve talked to someone who, in fact, experienced that time period. I guess I had to
die to do it.
“I’ll prove it to you sometime,” she said. “I have photos.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me what happened.”
“It’s a long story, and we’re approaching Sector 2117, only two more sectors to go. Not
to mention the fact that I’ve been telling the damned story for over one-hundred-and-fifty years.”
I didn’t blame her for not wanting to repeat it for the quintillionth time, but I couldn’t
help but imagine how many people might’ve been there during his speech. I wondered if it was
sunny or overcast. Most importantly, I wondered what she might have looked like on that day,
and what she might have worn.
When someone ends up in Hell, it’s a very personal thing, and many residents don’t offer
the information as to why they've been condemned. There’s also an unwritten rule that you
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Phil Thomas
should never ask a fellow resident “what they’re in for.” That’s why I was surprised when Ava
volunteered the information.
She didn’t tell me about Lincoln’s speech. But she did explain that after returning home
to Philadelphia from Gettysburg, she unexpectedly found her husband playing horizontal acrobat
with another woman in their bed. After which, she promptly retrieved the shotgun from her
travel bag that she carried for safety, and fired one shot into her husband’s chest and the second
into his mistress’s back as she tried to escape down the staircase.
“A century and a half has passed,” she said, “and I can still see her body catapult down
the staircase and land next to Tiberius, my Persian kitty. The woman’s face was stone, her torso
shredded apart. I wasn’t sorry for what I’d done, but I felt I needed to do the right thing, so I
turned myself in and admitted my guilt. I was hung by the neck shortly afterward.”
Most mortals would recoil at such a story, but this is Hell after all. “Double murder?” I
said. “Well, that would do it.”
“I still recall that noose lowering over my head as I stared out into the sea of sick bastards
that came to get their jollies by watching a public hanging at City Hall.”
“Jesus,” I said. Ava stopped and grabbed my arm, after which my wrist-counter flashed
red, followed by an irritating beep.
“What are you doing?” she said. “Did you completely skip the ‘So you’re in Hell’
orientation?”
I looked down at the counter and noticed a message scrolling across the screen,
accompanied by a robotic voice sounding from the tiny speaker: Warning! You’ve accumulated
one strike.
“Shit, I completely forgot about the J word.”
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Phil Thomas
“Well, don’t forget again, or you know where you’ll end up.”
The counter continued to beep obnoxiously. “Will this thing ever shut up?” I asked. “By
the way, you don’t have to remind me about where I’ll end up. My neighbor has been there for
the last three months. I miss having him around.”
“Well, two more strikes, and you’ll be joining him. Come on, 2119 is right around the
corner, and you might want to pump your Super Soaker and give it a quick test run just to make
sure it works. The last thing you need is to get in there only to discover it’s having prostate
issues.”
As we approached the door, I pumped the Soaker, squeezed the trigger, and at the last
second, I quickly pointed the gun at Ava. A long steady stream of blueberry Kool-Aid erupted
from the nozzle, hitting her entire backside. I wanted to test her sense of humor, and I figured
what better way than to cover her in blue sticky liquid.
Luckily she passed. At first, she turned and looked at me with that blank expression we
all have, but then she began to laugh and retaliated. We took turns squirting each other and
having such a blast that we both neglected to notice that our ammo was running low, which
didn’t sink in until after we entered Sector 2119.
It was worse than I expected in there. As soon as we cracked that steel door open, the wails of
the freshly eaten rung out, along with “Reign in Blood” by Slayer from the overhead sound
system. Fleshy bits of tissue lay strewn across the cement floor, along with severed arms and legs
and toes and fingers and…shit! What the hell did I get myself into?
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Phil Thomas
The second thing I noticed was the oversized machines that cranked Hell’s Erodiant
Chemical into a circular tube, which ran to opposite sides of the room where it submerged into
the outflow of water, leading directly to the Schuylkill River. I hoped maybe we’d gotten lucky,
and Randy decided to take off with the rest of his cohorts. But I still wasn’t in the clear. If one of
the little bastards had so much as taken a popcorn turd into the outflow unit, it could mean hours
on our hands and knees, draining and scrubbing, rinse and repeat.
“Did our six hours start yet?” I asked.
“About thirty-seconds ago. Just follow me.” More screams erupted from the back corner
of the room and sirens blared, indicating contamination. “Great,” Ava said. “It looks like we’ve
got a long six hours ahead of us.”
The sirens were a warning that the Minions had taken a dump in the freshwater supply, so
we quickly moved towards the back of the room. The only thing that kept me going was hoping
that Randy wouldn’t recognize me, considering I now lacked any discernible features. As soon as
we approached, I identified him by the large gold chain that hung around his neck that said
“Randy” in bold diamond encrusted lettering. It instantly reminded me of something an eighties
rapper would’ve worn. Only this time, he was huge! He must’ve been eight-feet tall. His serrated
eyes stared me down, and his once protruding buck teeth now sickled fangs.
Ava pumped her soaker. “Stay behind me,” she said, triumphantly aiming towards Randy
and pulling the trigger. What followed was the emotional equivalent of a balloon deflating, as a
one-inch trickle of Kool-Aid drizzled out the nozzle and dripped onto the floor. “Uh, Drake,” she
said while examining the worthless piece of plastic.
It might’ve been the only chance I had to impress her, considering I hadn’t been out with
a member of the female species since I’d arrived. Hey, even though we’re dead, we still need to
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Phil Thomas
experience excitement somehow. We go out on dates, live together, get married, and all of that
fun stuff. Minus the screaming kids, we leave that wonderful pleasantry to the people of Earth.
So I figured if I could drive Randy away and keep him and his buddies from further
shitting into the clean water system, Ava just might agree to go out with me sometime.
“I still have some juice left,” I said while pumping my soaker and taking aim. “Stand
back.” I felt confident. I felt brave. I was instantly fueled as I listened to Tom Araya’s brutal
lyrics slice down from overhead: “Raining blood! From a lacerated sky! Something, something,
something, now I shall reign in blood!” Hell yeah! No way was Randy going to get the best of
me. After all, this little shit—correction, big shit, is the reason I’m in Hell to begin with.
I’m not sure if he recognized me or not, but when he heard me pump my Soaker, he
turned and roared in my direction, practically knocking me backward from the blast of humid
squirrel stench. And then he charged me, growling and drooling from his gaping mouth. Yup, he
recognized me all right, and I froze up like a virgin Amish girl on prom night.
I wanted to pull the trigger with every ounce of my being, but all I did was stand there like an
asshole, trembling, before dropping the Soaker to the ground. The last two things I remember
were Ava screaming, and Randy hurling through the air towards me in an Olympic style swan-
dive.
And then everything was dark.
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Phil Thomas
Closing thoughts
It looks like we've reached the finish line. If you made it this far, then (hopefully) you enjoyed
your time with me. Again, I love feedback so drop me a line at www.philthomas.net and email
me at extraordinary117@gmail.com
Hope to hear from you all soon, and as Ferris Bueller once said, "You're still here? It’s
over. Go home."
143
Phil Thomas
Phil Thomas is an author and screenwriter from the suburbs of Philadelphia. He is a member of the
“International Association of Professional Writers & Editors,” and he has written for Cultured
Vultures, Game Skinny, Hardcore Droid, and Bloodydisgusting.com. He is also the co-host of
“What Are You Afraid Of?” a weekly horror and paranormal show, available on iTunes, iHeart
Radio, Stitcher, and airs on Para-X radio on Friday evenings at 9:00pm. He is featured in
Monsterthology 2 collection, released in October 2019 by Zombie Works Publications with his story,
Tinfoil Bullet. His short story, Teddy Bear Kill! Kill! will be featured in the upcoming anthology,
Nightside: Tales of Outré Noir, released by Close to the Bone Publishing on October 30, 2020. The
Poe Predicament will be released by Foundations Publishing in 2021.
144
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3 AUDIOBOOK COLLECTIONS
6 BOOK COLLECTIONS

Dinner Drinks and Ectoplasm

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Phil Thomas

Dinner, Drinks, and Ectoplasm

and monstrous tales from a bevy of ingredients too horrifying to comprehend.

written over the last few years.

Be on the lookout for my upcoming novel, The Poe Predicament, released by

extraordinary117@gmail.com. Follow me on Twitter at philthomas@filmauthor1 and Facebook

love to have you—because the basement isn't full yet.

I hope you enjoy the collection.

Cover design and artwork by Dawne Dominique

Copyright 2020 by Phil Thomas

The Darker Season……………………Page 6

That Time of Year…………………….Page 13

The Clown Code……………………...Page 25

Dinner, Drinks, and Ectoplasm……….Page 29

The Pumpkin Carvers…………………Page 48

The Floating Guillotine………….........Page 54

The Elf on the Fireplace Mantle……...Page 57

The Static Age………………………..Page 60

The Poe Predicament (Sample)….........Page 111

Worst. Afterlife. Ever. (Sample)……...Page 120

Closing Thoughts……………………..Page 143

The Darker Season

(Based on real events)

Ferris Wheel on Morey’s pier and marveled at its stature.

reminding them of its enormous presence.

The Musik Express—with a k—approaching the main boardwalk.

and the distant sounds of organ music crept through.

stretched out, turning and pointing in Luke’s direction.

knew that this was not only strange—but also impossible.

What did it want?

to the drawbridge, just as a nebulous figure in a black-hooded-robe and skeletal face-makeup

apparition seemingly glided on air, carrying a realistic-looking scythe.

deep breath and whispered, “This building shouldn’t be here.”

supposed to mean, but here it is.”

“Gentleman,” the grim reaper interrupted, “the time is now.”

toward the apparition.

secret that he’d kept hidden for almost twenty years.

come alive, reverting to the way it had been.

walking towards them. He decided not to check.

possibly know a thing about him.

beyond the tunnel,” the reaper added.

We’ve already gone this far.”

enough of your time. We should get going.”

“Why are you telling me this right now?” Jonathan asked.

“Because I’ve never told anyone before. I have a feeling that—”

ready to make their departure. “Now enter the vessel.”

Luke, extending a bony finger. “Only Luke.”

“But,” Jonathan protested.

“I said, only Luke.”

wait by the entrance.

to his cousin before the tunnel’s darkness consumed them.

for so long before they eventually catch up.

That Time of Year

"youngsters," as he called them.

secured in padlocked stocks.

walkway, arms outstretched, seemingly searching for more brains.

and clouded sapphire eyes sliced back at him.

recognize here; their sacrifice hasn't been for nothing."

he wanted to kill this fuckin' prick.

head against the tree—over and over.

Journal Entry One:

filled the final vacancy.

everything I have to her.