Coming Out of the Closet

Lying beside Jimmy in bed, Betty couldn’t help but feel there was still something amiss in the small house where they resided. She had checked the locks twice on the doors, made sure the stove was off, and that the small space heaters they used were away from anything that might catch fire. Glancing up she could see the gentle line of light the soft muted bathroom bulbs cast out into the room, even though Jimmy told her she was silly and wasteful for leaving them on.

He always said things like that to her, that she was being silly, or wasting power, or that she was just being irrational. Jimmy always callously scolded her, telling her that there was nothing to be afraid of in the dark, no boogey man was going to jump out and get her. The truth is he just did not understand her fear, that was what it really boiled down to.

Then something caught her attention, a small part of a jacket cuff stuck out from the closet’s double doors. Black and curved slightly, it looked too much like the silhouette of sinister gloved fingers to Betty. With a slight shiver of fear, Betty lifted to her knees on the bed, stretched across the dark gap between her and the jacket, opened the closet doors slightly and shoved the coat’s cuff back into the darkness. As she shut the closet doors securely, and settled down again, Betty realized that Jimmy had been watching her with interest the entire time, building a feeling of dread that sank with lead like weight in the pit of her stomach.

“What was that all about Betty? Afraid the boogey man was trying to slip out with the lights on now?” Jimmy asked, in the ever mocking tone he always used when getting ready to let loose a string of insults at Betty. His brow lifted slightly in sick curiosity.

“No Jimmy, don’t be so mean about it. It’s just that…” Betty hesitated for a moment, her cheeks flushed with color, feeling the heat rise sharply in her face,” It’s just that I was worried about seeing that in the middle of the night, if I wake up from one of my nightmares, and mistake it for a gloved hand because of my narcolepsy…” Pausing a moment, Betty chewed her lip, thinking desperately of something to say that might cut him off right there so that they wouldn’t end up in a debate about her condition as well as her fears. Finally she whispered softly,” I’m not being irrational Jimmy. I think I was using very lucid prudence on my part because of my...”

“Whatever baby, why don’t you just admit you were afraid it was the boogey man, hmm?” Jimmy stated more than asked this as he leaned over to plant a kiss on her cheek, but not giving her the time to make a rebuttal, “You need to chill girl. Anyways, are you ready for me to turn the light off yet?” All of this was said with a cruel kind of amusement hanging in his voice, bringing the familiar sting of tears to Betty’s eyes, but somehow she kept them from falling.

“Yeah, good night Jimmy, see you in the morning.” She murmured lightly, turning to her side to face away from him, while he clicked off the light filling the room with deep shadows of darkness, the only light left within the small house approached from the bathroom, with it’s door mostly closed like a calm beacon of sanity in the otherwise chilling insane asylum of fear that plagued the uncomfortable nighttime for Betty.

“Good night babe, sweet dreams, and don’t let the boogey man get you.” Jimmy said against Betty’s shoulder as he rolled to his side, her back to him, knowing good and well that she was mad, but that didn’t stop him from throwing his arm over her and squeezing for a moment before he simply let it rest there. It wasn’t long before Jimmy was harshly snoring disagreeably against the back curve of Betty’s ear.

With the sound of Jimmy’s snoring, and the unease Betty felt being in the dark, even if she did have a bit of light, it was still unnerving to her none-the-less. She couldn’t really explain her fears to anyone, even though she had tried numerous times, but it always ended the same with people telling her she was being silly or irrational and that there was nothing to be afraid of.After a while though, despite fears pungent charge of adrenaline, Betty drifted off into a deep sleep, which came upon her suddenly just as it did most nights. This was simply the way things were for her since the narcolepsy that haunted her had become considerably worse. Of course the medicine helped keep her alert throughout the daylight hours, but the doctors felt she needed no medicine at night because that would make her unable to sleep at all.

Some time later, well into that dark hour that is legally set aside for driving broomsticks across the portentous sky and for experiencing frightfully realistic nightmares, Betty awoke from her comatose sleep with a scream caught in her throat. The dreams always seemed so real, and they were never good, ever. Looking around the darkened room wildly, Betty’s feral gaze darted towards the barely visible set of folding closet doors. That was when she saw the shadowy hand coming out trying to pry the doors open from the inside. The awful sight Betty beheld forcefully dislodged the scream in her throat and expelled it up to her lips and beyond in a high blood curdling pitch.

Even as Jimmy woke with a start, wondering what in hell was happening, Betty was scrambling over him, still screaming wildly, before she flopped to the floor on his side of the bed, trembling and pointing at the closet with one frantically swaying hand. It was in that moment that Jimmy’s sleep hazed mind registered what was going on, and he couldn’t repress the sardonic smile that crossed his lips as his gaze landed upon the small bit of winter coat sticking out between the double-doors of the closet. Jimmy saw his chance right then and there to teach Betty a lesson about being afraid of anything and everything.

Throwing back the covers, Jimmy climbed out of bed, gripping Betty’s shoulders firmly, then giving her a good shake as he said, “Be quiet now, Betty. It’s just that damn coat you were talking about earlier, and I am going to prove it to you.” Shoving her lightly back against the wall, Jimmy made his way over to the baleful cause of all that creepy chaos even as she protested through hysterical tears against him moving towards the closet doors.

Jimmy looked at the coat’s cuff for a moment, thinking over how he was going to teach her a lesson, before he glanced back at Betty and spoke. “Look, it’s just one of our winter coats like I said. Looks like one of mine as a matter of fact. Quit being so silly, you just had a bad dream and thought you saw something that you didn’t see at all.” Just for good measure, Jimmy gave a sharp tug at the cuff making the doors rattle slightly on their tracks.

Betty watched him horror-struck and with a kind of shame at the same time that she had thought there was more to the cuff of that coat than there was, considering she was the one that brought it to Jimmy’s attention earlier that night. Standing to her feet, with tears slipping down over her cheeks, Betty said, “Fine, just fix it so we can go back to bed. I’m not being silly, I know what I saw, but there is no use in arguing that point with you.” She folded her arms against her chest, her heart still hammering hard, her body still trembling from adrenaline, but feeling a kind of hot indignation that the man she loved did not believe her, or even respect her enough not to make fun of her.

Jimmy rolled his eyes, and opened one of the folding doors that led into the closet making as if to push the coat back into the darkness there. But instead of just doing that, he pretended to be pulled inside, making his body lurch halfway into the closet as he began to scream, “Oh, my God! It’s got me Betty! Help me, please help me!” He would have made a pretty good actor, he thought to himself as he continued to pretend to struggle against the mischievously imagined boogey man.

Betty shrieked in the same moment that Jimmy lurched forward, paralyzed by her fear, and then there was nothing for her but deep blackness. It took a moment for Betty to fall, but when she did, there was a resounding thump against the hard oak panel that ran along the side of the old antique bed, that thump held within it an almost inaudible cracking sound, a sickening sound if one were paying close attention. Caught by such a high emotion of fear, Betty was pulled into a narcoleptic episode of cataplexy, and in doing so she missed most of Jimmy’s little act by sliding limp fully onto the floor.Jimmy heard the thump, and just missed the whisper of something mildly approximating the sound of bone cracking, an so thought to himself Betty was just backing into the wall in her own ersonal terror. But when he looked around for her, ending his charade in a spew of guttural laughter, Jimmy knew that the lesson he had been trying to teach her, had went unlearned. He could just barely see her prone figure down on the floor, and from the twisted sprawl she seemed to be in, he didn’t figure she was simply hiding from the boogeyman.

For some reason unknown to him, the sight of her lying there, missing his self proclaimed clever lesson, was infuriating to Jimmy. He stormed around the bed, and yanked Betty’s limp form up off the floor, shaking her lightly, “What the hell is wrong with you woman? There aint nothing to be afraid of.” But even as Jimmy said this, and Betty started to slowly come around, he noticed the small trickle of blood near her hairline. For a moment it seemed his temper might mellow, but the sight of the tiny crimson rivulet trailing down over her eyebrow only made his rage turn into a sharper anger, his voice become deep and dangerous, “You stupid girl, you are such a baby. I was playing with you, teaching you a lesson and you decided to go to sleep on me. What kind of respect is that?” Jimmy said, glaring at Betty.

Betty had not only suffered a terrible fright, but also the torments of her cataplexy left her spent and trembling, fat tears welled up in her now blood shot eyes. Her voice was soft, quivering with the taste of panicked tears, but she spoke nonetheless, “Jimmy, let me go, you’re hurting me, what you did was just cruel and mean spirited, you don’t deserve no respect for that.” She could see the muscles working in Jimmy’s jaw, and with fore knowledge of what was coming; she grimaced, pinched her eyes shut and flinched.

About the time she flinched, the impact of Jimmy’s fist caught the left side of her jaw, causing her to bite her tongue causing it to bleed. Betty felt her lip split wide as her teeth dug in deep from the second blow that fell just under her chin. Her face was already swelling. She could feel it, growing larger and malformed by the tick of every new second, and then he shoved her backward onto the bed. Jimmy stormed off toward the living room then, just as he always did when he lost his temper. Betty knew the morning would bring apologies and showers of affection she didn’t want. But that didn’t matter now, because silence had blanketed the room once more, and she was so tired, so very tired of everything. Betty meekly pulled the covers up over her small frame, curled herself into a fetal position and after a while, she fell back into a dreamless sleep.

As always the next morning brought exactly what she knew it would. Jimmy served her burnt toast and instant coffee in bed, along with a blood red rose blackend with decomposing wilt around the edges meant to be an apology, he also brought coffee and the local paper for himself. She did love the man, but she was getting terribly tired of all the crap he dished out to her. Saying nothing to him, barely offering up a false smile, Betty ate her breakfast, and then went about the day trying futiley to hide herself and hide her cuts and bruises while Jimmy pretended with practiced ignorance that nothing had happened the night before.

And so this went on as it had in the past, nearly every night for another two weeks though he only hit her on one other occasion. Betty thought he was afraid of striker her now, because she had never really accepted his apologies the first day after he had begun to torment her with the closet, but she couldn’t be sure. It didn’t change his sick sense of humor though, for nearly every night when she woke up distressed by the gloved hand coming out of the closet, Jimmy would in turn terrify her beyond all reason with his wicked humorless antics.

She still suffered from dour fits of narcolepsy setoff every time Jimmy played his vicious tricks on her emotionally stressed mind. Although in truth, Betty was actually growing accustomed to this nightly ritual as if maybe, just maybe Jimmy’s cruel intentions were not as malicious as she first thought. She noticed that she was able to stay conscious and in control of her body longer each time he pretended to be grabbed by the gloved hand, and she would simply back up against the wall for support as she watched her husband be grotesque. There were even nights when she wished the hand within the glove were real, that it would cease Jimmy’s constant laughter and mocking. It was a terrible thing to wish upon the man she loved, but then again, she couldn’t actually remember why she loved him anymore.

After enduring over two weeks of his sickly torment, Betty settled down into bed glad that it was once more Sunday night and she would have the house to herself the following day while Jimmy went to work. The weekend had been long and hard, she had been forced to dwell within the house with his sour scent and ambivolent attitude each day after another night of his disgusting little tricks, and she was sick to death of even looking at him.

After they both put their books down for the night, and Jimmy switched off the lamp on his dresser, they lay there in the silentdarkness for a few moments. But of course Jimmy wouldn’t let the peace last, and he curled up behind her, throwing his arm over an unwelcoming shoulder and whispered softly against the shell of her ear, “Night Baby, don’t let the boogey man get you.”

Betty shoved Jimmy’s arm off of her, and with venom in her voice that had never been there before, she turned on him and said, “You sick bastard, just shut up for once.” Then she simply rolled over and waited for the blows to begin. And waited. But they never came; Jimmy was far too shocked by Betty’s outburst to do anything about it, which suited her just fine.

In the stillness Betty watched the tranquil light filter from the bathroom into the bedroom to mingle among the shadows as she wished for someone elses life, and in exchange for the absense of granted wishes she eventually drifted off into sleep. Before she had lost all conscious thought, Betty heard a small voice, her own voice in the back of her mind whisper, “Things are going to be good tonight. I think I’ll actually get a good night’s rest.” It was a novel thought, but it of course didn’t happen.

Not long after midnight, that darkest moment found in virtualy every sinister tale, Betty woke once more from a fit of nightmarish images, her gasping lungs pushing out the screams that fell from her lips. She tried not to panic when she looked up at the closet doors, with its gloved hand creeping out, but she lost the battle, and clamored over Jimmy once more, falling into the floor on his side of the bed.

If Betty’s screams did not wake Jimmy, then her bouncing over him most certainly did as she slammed onto the floor like a terrified child when she lost her fight for balance at the edge of the bed. Her actions only pissed him off and throwing the covers back, Jimmy climbed out of bed with small jerky movements and stormed over to the closet. With his hand on one of the closet doorknobs, he turned, glowering at Betty and said, “There is nothing in here you big baby, and this time I am going to show you once and for all. Even if it takes all night to convince you there’s nothing there, and that you are crazy as hell.”

All Betty could do was shake her head back and forth, as she scooted on her bottom in reverse to press her backside hard against the bedroom wall. There was something in there, and no amount of useless attempts to convince her otherwise was going to change her mind. No matter how hard Jimmy tried, or how hard he beat her, she just knew there was something waiting in the closet, lurking in the dark, and hungry. She could sense it, even though it was apparent that Jimmy could not. Betty wasn’t quite sure why the thing in the closet hadn’t made a midnight snack out of her husband in all these days, but she knew Jimmy couldn’t cry wolf forever. One day he would see it, but then it would be too late, wouldn’t it?

Jimmy turned from her then, and yanking the closet doors open, he stepped inside. “See there is nothing in here.” He said as he turned around in the gloom of the closet with the clothes straining away from him on either side trying to avoid him as he glared out at Betty across the room. “It was just a stupid coat sleeve again, like it has been every….” Jimmy didn’t finish his sentence, and at first Betty wasn’t sure exactly why. But then she heard a strange unfamiliar strangling sound, and squinting her eyes to penetrate the deep blackness of the closet she suddenly understood. Her wish had actually become reality as horrifying as any curse come true, and as disgusting as it was for her to even think those kinds of things happening to another soul, even one that was as mean as the man’s that she loved. All she could do was sit as she trembled and gasped for breath, struggling to keep herself conscious while trying to melt into the wall behind her and watch.

Betty watched the black-gloved hand as it wound its way further around Jimmy’s neck. It seemed to be trying to pop his head off like a unwelcome pimple while her man struggled and kicked trying to free himself. But all of the thrashing and kicking in the world wasn’t going to save him now, and Betty felt this deep within her bones even if she didn’t want to know it. Plumes of cold breath and fetid low gasps caressed Jimmy’s cheek, the stench making his stomach roil and protest, threatening to give up all that he had eaten for his gluttonous last supper. There was a rasping sound in those breaths, and Jimmy wasn’t sure he wanted to know exactly what they came from, but he struggled all the same trying to free himself, and escape his ethereal opponent.

But once his gaze landed upon the thing that was succeeding at making each breath a challenge, Jimmy wished he would never have known what actually held him. Jimmy tried to form a scream equal to his terror, but only a pitiful choking whimper crossed his lips, as he was unable to look away from the appalling sight before him. Dead yellow eyes stared back at him, rolling and undulating in their deep sockets. He was afraid they might fall out at any moment, fall out into his gaping mouth. Those eyes were terrible enough, but what housed them was by far much worse. What should have been the skin of a homicidal maniac or psychopath serial killer looked unbelievably like scaly, wrinkled elephant’s hide to the horrified Jimmy. Adding to that the things face seemed to be melting without falling away. It would melt down, sickening strings of waxy-leathered scales stretching and dangling precariously before making an upward trek back towards its origin, still seeming to be melting only in an upward motion this time. Again and again the face did this while those yellow eyes rolled on. And then the thing opened its maw, making the scene all the more terrible for it. Razor sharp teeth, more fangs than teeth really, glittered in the dim, futile light the bathroom provided reflecting tight spiky rows of glossy white enamaled bone. Jimmy tried to scream but was ineffectual in his effort. Betty’s voice, on the other hand, high pitched in the throws of her own terror succeeded where his failed. He could hear her screaming something incoherent for a moment, and then there was only blackness as the thing holding him captive in the closet lowered its horrible, stinking mouth over his face, making Jimmy a midnight snack with inhuman finality.

Betty continued to scream, but even over her own voice she could hear the sounds of dinner for one being served in her closet among her dresses, skirts, capris , Goucho pants and practical shoes. A sickening resonance of popping wet and grinding noises accented the putrid smell of graveyard breath and death’s release, or more correctly Jimmy’s release to death that filled the gloom saturated room. It was over within minutes or maybe moments but it felt like hours to the woman cowering against the wall, looking on at the horrors she had vainly attempted to warn her lover about.

When the creature in the closet was finished eating it stepped out into the dim light spreading from the bathroom. It stood on her side of the bed and watched Betty closely with those rolling yellow eyes. Betty’s breath caught, and she found she could no longer scream even if she wanted to. The creature or apparition stood unnaturally on two hind legs with backward jointed knee sockets and straggly tufts of hair growth scattered sparsely about the lower half of the ophidian body. It seemed to say something, but all that came out was a rasping belch of sounds and then it hobbled casually down the hallway as if it had always lived there with them, and easily knew the way to the front door.

Betty sat there listening to the drag, scrape, thump of the things departure, the sound of locks being thrown back, and a door opening. Holding her breath, she waited for the thing to come back for her, but it did not. The boogey man even closed the door behind itself as if to say, “I do have manners ma’am, and I know how to use them. Thank you most kindly for the snack.” And then there was nothing. Just a complete and heavy silence that filled up the entire house, filled up Betty’s heart.

After a long while, Betty worked up the nerve to stand and peek over the side of the bed into the closet, but there was nothing left to see. Betty was sure that she had heard the squelching sounds of blood gushing from Jimmy earlier, but there was no evidence to be found. She even turned on the light to make sure, but the closet was just as it had been that morning when she had retrieved her dress for church.Looking down into the monster-free, currently undisturbed closet, Betty said to herself, “Serves you right Jimmy, and you thought I was crazy. Goes to show what you know don’t it?” The smile that had been playing at the corner of Betty’s lips was full now, her eyes dancing with the jubilant autonomy that freedoms new realization always brings with it and she flicked off the light. Going to the back door, Betty bolted it once more without even looking out into the night to see if the boogey man was there, lurking in the darkness, waiting for her. She was pretty sure it had gotten what it wanted, and would leave her to peace now.

Going back to the bedroom, Betty slowly looked around one more time, with that crazy sweet smile on her face, before she climbed into bed, pulling the covers up around her neck, murmuring softly at nothing, and no one anymore, “Good night Jimmy, where ever you are.” It was no time at all before Betty drifted off into sleep. A peaceful, calm sleep of innocence, somehow knowing never more would dark nightmares torment her.

A Letter To A Friend

O.M.G. What is the penalty for hit and run? You can imagine how I felt after this dream I had about Harry Dresden racing down an old dusty dirt road, which for some reason seemed to be in Iowa. Harry was being chased by the Lord of Thorns, an enormous centaur like creature from a Simon R. Green book that seemed to be something like Cenarius of WoW druid lore. Well in the book Hex and the City, the Lord of Thorns lived in a box and looked like an angst ridden teenage Bromley Contingent from south London with a full rack of antlers sprouting from his head, but in my dream is it any surprise that it would take on a WoW hue and flavor?. A massive Cerynian Hind was charging and bashing his little V.W. relentlessly when I woke in a cold sweat. Unsettled, I grabbed my keys and drove down to the local Slurpy-mart for a fountain soda pop and a (shh…) discretionary Klondike bar.

As I drove back home looking at the tunnel of black that ate away at my night vision, I thought of you driving alone when a deer leaped out at your car, when a deer leaped out and struck the hindquarter of my truck. You know the drill, my heart leapt to my throat closing off any breath, and panic filled my mind as guilt flooded my conscience and I slowly turned my vehicle around in the street to go back to the scene. There lay a hapless little doe and I felt like crying for the poor critter, but against my instinct to rush out to see if it was ok, I stayed in my truck and drove home. Call me a coward, call me cautious, but I’ve seen the “When Deer Attack” video commercials, so I remained inside my truck until I got home. I ran my hand over the slight indentation that marked yet another scar of experience on my GMC, and pulled the little tufts of hair from the back wheel well where they clung to the rim like a cutaway from a CSI trailer and I wondered if I shouldn’t be wearing plastic gloves and using evidence bags.

I came into the house and went directly to the phone book to look up animal control. At three A.M. I didn’t really want to misdial some poor hard working slob trying to sleep who may just remember *69 in the light of day and turn all Stephen King on my butt by, I don’t know, passing on a family curse or psychically stalking me in my nightmares or something really bad. So I looked up the number and dialed it. Big surprise the office was closed and a pleasant recording gave me another number to call. Now as I was going through this diligent process I became aware that my two kitties had joined forces to circle me slowly in a stalking formation and I really wished I hadn’t brought Stephen King to mind at this wee hour of the morning when everything is so eerily quiet and nasty things seem to happen in his books. But I realized that I had inadvertently marked my self with the scent of an injured animal (I guess I really should have considered plastic gloves) and my cats were reverting to their base natures, Chaos always hungry and Nutmeg half wild as she is, seemed to like me now but maybe not in such a kind way. I dialed rapidly hoping to complete my task at hand and reach the showers before something distasteful occurred within the confines of my house. The new number was the local police department and after wading thru a series of recordings that kept insisting I call 911, but only if I have an emergency, I was connected to dispatch. I confessed my tragic tale and prayed I didn’t violate any public ordinances only to realize from the direction the interrogation was taking it was becoming more and more unlikely. She asked me if I was certain it was a deer and not a large dog, and I explained that although old and addled, I still could delineate between Fido and Bambi and that yea, although it was small, a doe a deer a female deer, it was in the middle of the road and very much a hazard.

She acknowledged and accepted my expertise and informed me that if that was the case I had the wrong number, she only had the capacity to take reports on domestic animals and serious crimes like burglary or rape, and that I would need to contact the Sheriff’s Department. I considered asking her what if the deer raped me and stole a hubcap, but quietly and submissively thanked the kind lady for her time and left her to her crossword puzzles.

The Sheriff’s office was not the right people to contact either, but more helpful when the late night dispatcher began a thoughtful and thorough investigation into the proper channels for such a report and promised she would take care of the details for me and that I could rest assured that the county was in good hands and that I could relax with her on the job. I felt surrounded by a sense of security as I fended off my kitties with my cane and I heard the dispatcher shout into the background, “Hey Hank, what’s the number to animal control?” as I hung up the phone.

The weird thing was the impending sense of the incident I had starting the moment I woke from my dream about deer people attacking a Volkswagon, which brought to mind your several encounters with stray deer just as a deer leaped out at me. The fact that the deer struck me didn’t strike me with shock, I almost expected it, the fright came from my anticipation. I always get the willies when I know what is going to happen before it does. I feel bad for the deer, but I feel worse in that I wonder could I have saved the deer’s life if I only could give credence to prescience? For all that I love to read about it I guess when it comes right down to it I really don’t believe in signs or portents. Someone once told me denial isn’t just a river of regret any more... Don't ask, it's 4 A.M. I didn't understand when I heard it before, and I'm not sure what I mean by it now.

Simple Recipe

“It’s a simple recipe my sweet dear,” she smiled as she said it. “You only need two lambs' hearts; they’re the easiest to work with, and then something to stuff them with.” A naughty gleam cast across her eyes.
I sat at the end of the kitchen’s island counter watching as her deft fingers opened up the largest aperture of one small heart and began stuffing it with chopped andouille sausage, portofino mushrooms, shallots and peppers, and her own special mix of sour dough bread crumbs with seasoned herbs from the garden. She pushed the stuffing mix well down into the heart, filling it to the brim. Once done, she turned her attention to the other one.
“Here, you have a try.” She pushed the other lamb’s heart towards me.
I looked at the organ with hesitation and a little distaste then said. “I’ve never stuffed hearts before, perhaps you better do it.”
“You’ll never learn if you don’t practice,” she said gently, “hands on experience is always better than merely watching, as you well know.” there was that naughty smile again.
We met some time ago at a prestigious culinary training academy. Me a struggling freshman and her at the very top of the school’s graduating class. She since moved on to greater things; the Executive Chef for an international pharmaceutical firm so vast it sported it’s own gourmet kitchen, catering vast epicurean banquets and supplying it’s modest fleet of first class business jets that provide corporate dignitaries as well as privileged customers with quality meal service. I continued my education as a novice chef’s apprentice in a popular Hotel in Orange County. It has been a struggle; my superiors have informed me on more than one occasion that I have not displayed the proper fervent temperament for controlling a busy five star kitchen, judging my actions to be less than dynamic in the heat of rush hour business. I prefer to present myself cool and calm rather than loud and aggressive under those conditions. Apparently they feel there is yet time for me to learn to adapt my behavioral presence in the workplace, as my tutelage continues.
She came back very suddenly into my life just last week as a consultant on a large collective function at our Hotel for the International Gastronomic Society. I don’t know why I accepted her advances once again, she was a passionate woman but far too self-absorbed to be bothered with a real relationship. Nonetheless she was attractive, knowledgeable and I fell once more for the “Come up to my place and I’ll show you thing or two about cooking…” line. Again. Sigh.
I slid off the wooden four-legged counter stool and walked around to where the heart lay on the reddish brown and blond checkered pattern of a hard maple end-grain cutting board, like some miniature upside-down mountain. Tentatively I took hold of it, the smoothness intrigued me. I’d never reached out and touched a heart before; don’t read too much into that. It felt firm to the touch and for an instant I had a vision of a living muscle pumping essential lifeblood within the small creature it came from. No more will this little lamb skip and cavort in the field with others of its kind. Grasping the widest part I began shoving the stuffing mix into the organ, remembering how she’d pushed it right down into the inner depths.
She smiled that slow smile of hers and spoke “That’s right, pack it in, deeper.” And again innuendo flew across the room as she approached from behind to wrap her arms around me and guide my hands.
Once we were finished and our hearts lay naked on the table as it were, stuffed and ready to be placed in the oven, she suggested we share a bottle of wine. “Great idea,” I thought, “she knows cooking always makes me want to whet my palate with a drop of wine.” She also knows from experience that wine loosens my inhibitions as well I reflected.
She had her back angled toward me at the kitchen sink scrubbing the blood from the cutting board. “Zip down to the cellar and fetch us a bottle of that Cabernet Sauvignon, it goes so well with red meats.” She directed.
I did her bidding and opened the creaking door to the cellar. Switching the light on at the top of the narrow staircase, I made my way down into the cool, damp interior. The light barely touched the austere room below and gave the faintest hint of illumination, just enough to see the array of bottles stacked neatly on their sides in the large wine rack located in the furthest corner of the room. I made my way over and began searching for the Cabernet.
Just then I noticed the tarpaulin in the opposite corner. The dismal glow of light shadowed its true color and from where I stood it merely looked to be a dark lumpish mound. “Strange, that seems kind of out of place even for a basement.” I thought. There was something odd about the shrouded mound, something compelling and I just had to take a peek. I reached over to lift the heavy sailcloth tarp.
Her soft voice sounded from the kitchen “Told you lambs’ hearts are easiest. Of course you can use mature hearts but they’re far tougher.” I jumped as if something had run across my soul. I don’t know if it was something in her voice or the thought of being caught snooping around that startled me so, but I turned and grabbed the nearest bottle and ran up the stairs like a guilty kid almost caught sneaking a peek at Dads secret magazine collection in the basement.
She was placing the hearts in the oven as I came back into the kitchen. My face was flush and my blood was racing. Either I was out of shape, or the fright I took in that cellar was far more serious than I realized. How silly of me to jump at voices merely because I was deeper below the earth’s surface than most buried bodies, I have always had a fear of confined spaces and being below ground in a small cellar was not very comfortable for me at all.
“That isn’t the red Cabernet, I think Merlot is a bit too sweet for this dish, be a dear and run back down and get the right wine will you?” she chided me.
I obediently turned and dragged my feet back down the stairs step by step into that tight cubicle that was the cellar. Not even a window near the ceiling offered any break to the contour of concrete surrounding the cement bunker. As I studied the bottles earnestly seeking the elusive Cabernet, my eyes kept wandering over to the tarp-covered mass in the corner. I stopped and turned to the protuberance and stepped closer to it, the details still blurred by the dim lighting of a single dingy bulb suspended from the crypt ceiling above the stairs. The dark pile still had an awful familiarity to the vague shapes and shadows that just didn’t quite register. It was an idea on the tip of my tongue but stuck there refusing to go any further like a bad taste. I stood perfectly silent for god knows how long unmoving, unformed questions lurking in my sluggish mind. Just as I regained my composure and once again moved towards the covered mass, a hand from behind descended onto my shoulder.
“Did you decide to camp down here or what?” she whispered. “Oh there’s the Cabernet. Come on up silly, dinner is ready.”
I tucked my body back into my skin, fell in line and marched up the begrudging stairs as quickly as my trembling feet would take me. She showed me to my seat at the dining room table set elegantly to perfection, and opened the bottle of Cabernet.
“It’s a shame this bottle won’t have time to breathe, but it is important to eat this dish while hot. You know very well that enjoying a fine meal is just as important as preparing the dish itself. Creating a meal is just the foreplay.” Again with the gleaming eyes that made me wonder if I was part of the menu.
I looked down at my plate, and there was our gourmet repast, roasted stuffed heart snuggled in a deathbed of wild rice, garnished with a braised blood tomato-crown topped with seared Red Leicester and Parmesan cheese and accompanied by fresh asparagus spears prepared amid sliced water chestnuts and strips of sweet red onion and tortured with fresh squeezed lemon juice.
I smiled my approval and took a sip of the freshly poured glass of wine then sputtered and choked at the foul vinegary musk offered by the soured wine. She raised her glass and lightly sniffed at the wines imperfect bouquet.
“Oh my,” she spoke sadly “and it was such a good year…please be a dear and fetch us another bottle, but make haste my sweet lest you lose the subtle reward of this meal.”
I excused myself and ran back to the basement, down the dim lit stairs and straight to the wine rack, remembering where she located the last Cabernet. I snatched up another bottle and quickly made my way to the stairs, then stopped. Was something leaking from under the worn tarp? Did something break? Was it my fault? I was certain I never got close enough to the lump on the floor to do any damage, but to be sure, I walked over and lifted the corner of the canvas.
I never heard the bottle of wine fall crashing to the cement floor. Underneath the stained tarp were two small children with gaping holes in their chests where their hearts had once been pumping essential lifeblood within their small bodies. No more will they play and cavort in fields with others of their kind….
“Ah, the dear lambs. Tomorrow night I’ll teach you how to make Simmered Kid with almonds and saffron…” came the dark sultry voice from behind me.

From The Journal Of

On some nights I dream about the War. The men who died under my command come one by one to accuse me then, as I lay huddled alone in the dark. They remind me of the terrible debt I owe them. Afterwards I wake in tears, the four windowless walls of my sleeping room cruelly reminding me how misspent their empty sacrifice has been. These dreams are terrible, but they are not what I fear most about the night. There is another dream that visits me from time to time, a memory from childhood. In the dream I can see my brother, lost and alone in the deep shadows of the pine forest that stands at the edge of the town of Wellsboro. He calls out my name, but I am paralyzed. I cannot help him...October 28th 1929I woke with the same feeling that day. My left hand was still numb, but my left foot was useful again. Though it still caused me a great deal of pain if I stood on it for more than a half hour or so. In spite of the doctor's advice, I had done away with my cane two weeks before. After all, the surgeons had also told me that my hand should have healed by now.Nine o'clock in the AM: I entered Wall Drug to receive my weekly allotment of laudanum. If I had not taken the scrip from my pocket to give to the pharmacist I might have forgotten. As I felt with the fingers and thumb of my right hand in the pocket of my coat, I produced not only the scrip, but also a letter from Theodore Worthington. Yes, the Theodore Worthington: industrialist, humanitarian, patron of the arts, Manhattan millionaire. I found myself wondering why such a man would send me a letter. What interest could such a man have in me?"That will be one dollar and seventeen cents, Mr. Peters."It was the young Chinaman under the employ of the elderly Irish owner who spoke to me. I admit to some embarrassment when I threw the letter on the counter while simultaneously taking a long drink from the bottle. He looked at me with a measure of uncertainty; sweat beading on his light brown forehead. It was the eye that did it, I knew. I had left home without covering the eye. I had forgotten myself. "Apologies, my boy," I said.I fumbled two paper dollars onto the counter then scooped up the letter. I examined it as the young man made change. There was to be a meeting today between Worthington and myself. I made a point of keeping my eyes on the letter as the boy counted back my change nervously. I felt an obligation to speak again as I scooped the money up and slid it into my pocket, but no words came to mind. There was something I should have said then, something that people say to one another. I looked up at the boy, my eyes searching his face for the expected phrase to find only his pale cheeks and trembling lower lip. I left the pharmacy in silence.Nine thirty in the AM: Before I sat out for the Piet Mondrian Building and my meeting with Mr. Worthington, I stopped at the small flat my military pension had grudgingly provided. I retrieved my rose tinted spectacles from their place on the wardrobe and slid them onto my face. I checked my appearance in the mirror. My hair was long and unkempt, and its familiar deep russet had recently become streaked with white. I smoothed it back against my scalp, and realized that it was thinning. That's when I took a longer look. My face seemed hollow; my eyes sunken beneath the dark lenses that covered them. I don't remember ever looking so thin, almost skeletal, or so pale... this was no way to look at such an important meeting. I reached into my small wardrobe and pulled out my service jacket to wear beneath my long coat, which had the desired effect of making me appear somewhat stout. My medals followed, and I drew blood from my index finger more than once as I pinned them on my jacket. I examined myself in the mirror again and felt a touch more satisfied. My meeting with Worthington was not until two in the afternoon. I sat down on my bed to wait and took another long drink from the bottle. I replaced the cap and slid it into my inner pocket.Two o'clock in the PM: My visit to Worthington's office was not quite what I imagined it would be. The twenty-first floor of the Piet Mondrian Building was a busy place, I learned. There was a receptionist behind a large oak desk to whom I spoke. The wall behind her was affixed with mirrors at two-foot intervals that ran from the floor to the ceiling. I watched my own reflection as I spoke with her. Rude, I know, but my tinted spectacles covered this impropriety. I gave her my name, then handed her the letter I had received. I felt nervous, out of place, there in that cold sterile light. Ozone filled the room, crammed into my nostrils and reeked, as there was so much electricity here. The girl checked her ledger, and then things began to move more quickly. I was ushered into a small cluttered office. There was a desk in the center of the room piled high with documents. Behind it sat a sweaty, rat-faced little man. This was not Worthington. Perhaps he was too important to meet with someone like myself. That would be perfectly understandable, if it were indeed the case. I nodded to the man behind the desk, who held up his index finger in response as he wrote quickly in a small business ledger. After a moment he seemed to finish, closing the book and setting it on top of the pile of documents where it teetered precariously. Then the rat-faced man spoke."Hello sir, you must be Captain Peters," he said."I am. You are?""Wellford Cummings, I'm one of Robert Blakely's assistants. I'm sorry sir, but Mr. Worthington and most of our executives are in a meeting right now. There've been some major swings in the market today, I'm sure you've heard.""Robert Blakely? Lt. Robert Blakely, from Virginia?" I hadn't heard that name in over three years. My interest was piqued. "Yes sir. He's the one who recommended you. He said he had served under you in the war.""That is correct. I, look, recommended... what is this about? Why have I been asked to come here?""Well sir, as you may or may not know, Mr. Worthington's nephew Vincent was the senior investigator for the Knights of Labor Trade Assembly based here in New York. They represent many of the union miners throughout the southeast.""I've heard of them," I lied."I'm not sure if you're aware of this, Captain, but there have been quite a few union strikes in the state of West Virginia recently. The wires are down all throughout the southern border. Last week, Mr. Worthington received this."The little man handed me a letter. My head still swam from the opium I had taken earlier, and the words came together slowly. After a moment, I realized that the letter was a correspondence from a Margaret Worthington. Her husband Vincent had been killed, the letter said. The pieces began to find order in my fuzzy mind. This woman was apparently the widow of Theodore Worthington's nephew. The murderer was named in the letter as a Mr. Jackson Poole, an agent of the Denton-Paisley detective agency. I looked up from the letter to the small man who sat behind the desk. "What does this have to do with me?" I asked."Well, sir, Mr. Blakely has spoken very highly of you, and he has informed Mr. Worthington that you once worked in the Pennsylvania coalfields. You know these kinds of men. Mr. Worthington thought you might sort this matter out for him: make sure that justice is seen to and that no harm should come to his poor niece." I had only one question: "What does it pay?"Five o'clock in the PM:After making a few hasty preparations, I left my home to catch the train for Blair, West Virginia. I wondered briefly as I stepped out into the street if the city had gone mad. As I made my way across Times Square several of the buildings around me opened their windows and cast their tenants out to the hard gray concrete below. Bodies littered the sidewalks and passersby panicked, throngs of idiots in suits rushing to and fro. I was glad that I carried my service revolver. I kept my hands in my pockets, the one that worked on my service pistol, the dead one on the bottle. I didn't stop to speak to anyone. I remember thinking that the whole scene may have been induced by the medicine. Whatever the case, I had little time to waste, and so I hurried through the crowds to catch my train.October 29th, 1929Four o'clock in the AM:I had apparently fallen asleep on the train before it left the Eastern Seaboard. I awoke to find myself sharing the small passenger compartment I traveled in with a thin, professional looking young man. I was still for a time, watching him as he stared out into the racing dark with his forehead resting against the glass pane. Perhaps there was some actual visible clue, or perhaps it was simply my time in the war that made something about the image of him strike me. He was afraid. I could feel it, actually smell it on him. After a moment, I leaned forward and straightened the spectacles that had slid down to the bridge of my nose. This startled him from his reverie and he nodded to me. "I must have fallen asleep," I said, extending my hand, "Jason Peters.""George Macey," he replied, grasping my hand firmly. "Military man?"As we shook hands he had noticed the cufflink the army had given me on my shirtsleeve. "Good eye, there. Are you a policeman, then, George?""Not a bit of it, sir. A reporter. I work for the Arkham Star." "Arkham? Are we already... what time is it? Where are we now?""Four in the morning, I'd reckon we're in southern Ohio by now. You've been out since I boarded."It was the medicine that made me sleep so long. That was one of its side affects. Still, eleven hours at least, and on a moving train. I sat upright and gave a stretch and a yawn. It wouldn't do to be so lazy. Soon I was going to be working. I checked my pocket watch, which showed half past two. I began to wind it as I spoke again. "So, where are you coming from?" He asked."New York. Manhattan, to be precise."His face seemed to register that this was significant, and his tone changed immediately from one guarded by the inherent apprehension of polite conversation to one of intense interest."Really? I heard some crazy things over the wire just before I left the office.""Such as?" I asked."Well, you know that the market crashed. They're saying it's the worst one ever. Reports were coming in that investment bankers and stockbrokers were tossing themselves out of building windows. Over a billion dollars lost in a day. Crazy, man, crazy.""Oh, I... I didn't know.""Yeah, it's bad, they say. I mean, when the swells start doing themselves in, well, you know us little people are in for a rough time of it."I tried to let this sink in. The stock market had crashed while I slept. No, it must have happened before I left. That's why people had been panicking when I was on my way to the station. I thought about Theodore Worthington. Would he still be in such a lucrative position when I returned to New York? Had he, too, thrown himself from the window of his twenty first floor office; was he now lying dead on the cold pavement of Ann Street's broad sidewalk?"So, you were in the war?""Yes," I answered absently, "I was a captain in the army.""So, what's your business in West Virginia?""I was hired to… investigate a crime in the town of Weston. Striking coal miners, company thugs, I'm sure you've read about it.""Weston?" He asked, surprised. "I'm heading to Lewis County, myself. Not Weston, exactly, but nearby.""Really? On what sort of business?""Well... something similar, I suppose."It was plain that neither of us wished to speak further on our motives for going to Weston; and so, aside from civil pleasantries, we sat in silence for the rest of the trip. With occasional glances each of us took the measure of the other. He looked like an educated man: slick hair, fine suit. He was accustomed to city life. You could see it in his posture and hear it in his voice. But there was something else about him that gave me a wholly different impression. There were dark circles under his eyes. He obviously hadn't slept for some time, but there was more too. To put a word to it, he looked... haunted. I found myself wondering what shadow followed this young man, driving him from the bustling city of Arkham to the dreary backwoods of the West Virginia coalfields. Apparently, I would never know. When the whistle blew and the train arrived in the Lewis County station I offered him a word in way of parting. "I certainly hope you find what you’re looking for, George." "You as well, Captain. You as well."October 29th, 1929Evening:I arrived by coach to the town of Weston late in the evening. My pocket watch seemed to have busted a spring at some point during the journey, and I had no proper way of telling the time. The coach dropped me in front of Ole’s hardware just as the sun was sinking over the mountains, and the entire town seemed suspended in that dim orange mist that comes just before twilight in the hilly lands of the mid-east. It was so much like the small Pennsylvania town I grew up in that I felt for a moment as if I had journeyed back to my father's home in Wellsboro. I fished the bottle of laudanum from my pocket and took a long drink. Calming warmth washed over me as I walked down the town's main street. Light spilled from the open doorway of a nearby eatery onto a large whitewashed front porch. Men gathered there, mostly miners from the look of them. Next door was a small pharmacy, in front of which sat a plain looking fellow in a wicker chair while an older man trimmed his hair neatly. I felt the stir of ritual in me as I stopped to watch the old man's bony fingers work. On the third Sunday evening of each month my mother would take each of us children to just such a pharmacy where we would be rewarded with our choice of one piece of candy. Out front the old town doctor would pass the time talking current events with the town's sheriff while giving him a trim. As I grew older and my mother passed on I would come to sit on the old doctor's porch and have my own hair cut while talking about the town. It was in just such a place that I first heard of the Army, the Kaiser, and the War. It was so much like home. Then I felt the other memories begin to stir in me, the memories of a small boy running through a dark wood. I swept them away. I was here to end someone else's nightmare, not to relive my own.I wasted little time booking a room at the town's only hotel. It was a simple affair: a squat two-story building made up mostly of colored brick with a dozen or so rooms for rent. There was a young black porter who offered to carry my bags to my room. I declined, as I had only one small leather satchel containing a change of clothes. I spoke to the young man about the town and the mining operation, though. His name was Samuel. He knew the Worthington's, "good folks" he called them. I gave him a dollar to wake me in the morning and to take me to where the widow was staying.October 30th, 1929Morning:Miners live on company land. They shop at company stores, eat at company cafeterias, and work in company mines. Each and everyone of them knows that at any moment the company could come and take it all away. The miner's cabins sat a few hundred yards above the mining camp. The camp was constructed poorly, and quickly by the look of it; but then, most of the homes located on the hillside above town were. They were meant to be temporary.
Samuel pointed out the widow's cabin from the foot of the hill as we walked, but the young man left me to my own devices at the entrance of the camp. He said things had "gone bad" around the area. Denton-Paisley detectives had been removing families from their homes, by force if necessary. It is important to note that calling such men detectives is preposterous. The Denton-Paisley Detective Agency operates out of Virginia. For the right price they offer the services of men who act as strike busters. They were hired muscle for the company, and for what they did they were the best. As I climbed the hillside I saw the evidence of their work on every third home. Those cabins were now piles of charred wood and ash, serving as a reminder to others what would happen to them if they were to continue the strike. I reached the Widow Worthington's home after some bit of climbing up the hillside. I was beginning to feel an intense pain in my left leg. The doctors had said that exertion was not good for me in my condition. I rested my back against the dry timber wall of the cabin. I needed a moment before entering, a respite... a drink. I pulled the laudanum from my coat pocket and took a tiny sip. Best to conserve, I was unsure as to what the town doctor might be carrying in stock. I felt a little better by and by, the pain receding to the usual feeling of pins and needles. I repositioned my tinted spectacles, which had slid down the bridge of my nose as it became slick with sweat. I didn't wish to frighten her. The poor woman had been through enough already. Then I slid the bottle back into my pocket and knocked softly on the door."Who is it?" Called a small voice from behind the door."Captain Jason Peters," I answered. "I was sent by your husband's uncle after he received your letter, Mrs. Worthington."The door opened slowly then, but just a hair's breadth. A single blue eye peered out at me, red-rimmed and bloodshot. I stood at attention for several long moments, allowing her time to weigh me as she would. Then I produced Theodore Worthington's return correspondence from the interior pocket of my vest. "This is for you, Mrs. Worthington."She took the letter from me with a small trembling hand, fumbling with it for a moment before tearing it open. The widow began to read the letter, stepping back away from the door, which gave a long, low creak, as it slowly swung open behind her. I watched her from behind red lenses as she studied the letter, her back to me. She was a wisp of a girl, young and thin with disheveled blond hair. She would have been considered an attractive woman a mere week ago, but I could see it had been a long week for Margaret Worthington. As her sunken eyes roamed over the letter held in her trembling fingers, I couldn't help but think to myself that it would not be long before she followed her husband to the grave. I had seen the symptoms before, in the war. She had already begun to waste away. "Come in, sir," she said to me.I nodded in reply. At first, I couldn't find the words to express my sympathy for her state. I entered the cabin, closing the door softly behind me. The front room of the cabin was a bit of a surprise to me. It was small, but well furnished, with a large throw rug covering much of the floor. There was a sturdy oak table, where the widow and her late husband must have taken their meals, a sofa sat against the wall beside the door, and across from it was an antique hand crafted rocking chair. Between the sofa and the chair was a large coal-burning furnace. Its stovepipe ran up and through the roof of the wooden cabin next to a small curtained window. In the back of the room was a doorway, most likely leading to the bedroom. A thin blue sheet hung over the opening, serving as best it could to divide the two rooms. After a moment, the widow slowly took a seat in the rocking chair. "I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Worthington," I finally managed. "I have heard that your husband was a good man.""He... he was," she replied. "He spent his whole life helping others. But in the end, how did they repay him? They killed him in cold blood. They did it right in front of me. They wanted him to know... they wanted him to know that I was watching."The poor girl began to weep. The sound was unnerving to me, though it is hard to explain why. I had heard many men cry, even wail, during the war. But there was something far worse in this, to see this woman, to hear her sorrow. "Who was it that shot your husband, Mrs. Worthington? Tell me their names, and I promise each man will pay in kind." "He wasn't shot," she replied shakily, "he was stabbed, a-again and again. It happened in front of the Number Thirteen. They were all Denton-Paisley men. Their leader was a man named Jackson Poole.""Do you know where these men are now, Mrs. Worthington?""They have a lodge that the company built for them on the eastern side of the mining camp, past where they make the colored miners live."I nodded, and placed my hand on the widow's shoulder in an attempt to comfort her, though I was not hired to bring comfort. He was stabbed, then? Why would they not simply shoot him? I pondered this for a moment, and then spoke the only words I knew that might offer that poor woman some measure of peace."You will have your revenge. I swear it."Nightfall:I picked my way through the thick tree line that bordered the black miners' camp. Fat pines and the autumn twilight served to provide me the cover I needed. I spotted the lodge after a few moments. It was a large two-story timber building. I circled it quietly, keeping out of sight. There were three doors, only one of which was under guard, and four small windows. There was another building as well, a large cabin that stood behind the lodge. It was smaller, but more sturdily constructed. As a soldier, I had learned to recognize an officer's barrack when I saw one, and that was what the building was. I was sure of it. At the single door to that cabin was a Denton-Paisley thug. He was a tall, thick man, and he had a mean look to him: flat nose, rough face. But he didn't seem to be armed. I watched him for a time as he paced back and forth in front of the building. After a moment he lit a cigarette. Then something happened that gave me pause. At first, I didn't understand what I was hearing. The sound was eerie, creeping through the trees toward me. Then I placed it, it was the sound of a dobro, followed shortly by the thrum of a banjo. The music rose up softly from the mining camp below to fill the forest around me. I looked up to see that the guard at the door had noticed it as well. He slowly walked to the edge of the small clearing around the lodge, trying to see where the music originated. A single haunting voice sang out above the music:The man who stole the waterMay swim forevermore,But he’ll never reach the landOn that golden shore.A faint, white lightWill haunt his heart,‘Til he’s only a memoryLost in the darkThen a chorus of voices joined the first, adding weight to the words:Dig a hole in the groundStraight down to Hell‘Til there ain’t no more waterIn the well, well, well.I shut the music out. It was time to go to work. I crept slowly from the woods behind the large man, nearly reaching the door of the cabin before he turned to face me. I could see the surprise on his face, his eyes widening as they fell on me. The thug quickly covered the distance from the edge of the clearing to me, drawing himself up to his full height, which put him at eye level with me."Hello," I said. "You wouldn’t happen to have a spare cigarette?""Nuh uh," he replied. "Look, you need to be on your way old timer. This here is private property."I drew my service pistol fast from my coat pocket, whipping it upward hard to strike the butt flat against his temple. A gash appeared in the side of his head, blood streaming down his face as his eyes lost focus. I lowered the pistol and watched him stumble drunkenly, first backward a few steps, then forward, before falling to a heap in the dirt."I'm not that old, boy."I grabbed the collar of the big man's jacket and drug him into the woods. Briefly, I entertained the notion of killing him, as I didn't want him waking and raising an alarm. But there were rules of conduct here. This wasn't the war. So I stowed him beneath a pine, hoping that he would be out long enough for me to take care of my business. Before making my way back toward the cabin, I briefly searched through the man's pockets. I took his cigarettes and matches, lit one, and then crept back through the woods. The window of the cabin was shielded from the inside by a heavy set of red drapes. I could see shadows against them, moving about, and from inside the small building came voices. I slowed my breathing and closed my good eye, trying to concentrate, to make out what it was they were saying. What I heard raised the hair on the back of my neck. The men inside were all speaking in unison, their voices rising and falling together... almost as if they were chanting. I could not place the language. It was low, guttural, sounding almost like German. But I learned a fair bit of German in the war against the Kaiser, and the language they spoke... it was not German.I crept to the door, exposing myself somewhat as I knelt to risk a brief look through the keyhole. I was disoriented for a moment as I scanned the room. A haze of smoke filled the air inside, reflecting a red light in its thick clouds. Past the smoke was a group of men. There was no opportunity to count their number with my limited field of vision, but there were no more than five, I was sure. The men I could see were well dressed in dark gray suits and black bowler hats. They held hands in a circle as they chanted. What had I stumbled onto? Was this some sort of black mass? Was that why they stabbed rather than shot poor Vincent Worthington, as some sort of ritualistic slaying? I stood from the door and pulled the tinted spectacles from my face. I slipped them into my pocket then drew my service pistol, pulling back the hammer slowly. Then I took two long strides back away from the door and, with a lunge, kicked it hard enough to splinter the wood, firing the bolt across the room.The chanting stopped. The men were paralyzed, staring at me in shock. They sat in a circle about a lit brazier covered with red glass. It cast its wicked crimson light across the room, almost tangible as it hung in the thick patches of smoke that filled the air. "You!" I shouted, pointing my pistol at one of the men. "Which one of you is Jackson Poole?""Your... your eye...""Answer me!""Mr. Poole isn't here. He- he went down to the mine! The... the Number Thirteen!"The other men stared with wide eyes, standing slowly from their chairs and raising their hands. Good, I thought, allowing myself a grin. They were terrified. That would make this much easier. Then I saw something that made the blood freeze in my veins and it was my turn to be shocked into silence. The brazier around which they sat stood upright on a coiled metal frame. My eyes followed those slender brass lines through loops and half-moons to its base, already aware of what they would find there, but unable to comprehend it initially. The frame ended in sharpened metal prongs that had been driven into the eyes and mouth of a human head that lay face up on the table. Time seemed to stop, and for an instant I could hear only the rush of blood in my ears, my eyes locked on that horrific artifact.It is to his credit that one of the men noticed my distraction. He stood on my left hand side, and was easily the largest of them, but his speed belied his bulk. He drew an oddly curved dagger from the folds of his coat. I was lucky to catch the reflected flash of candlelight on the metal blade, throwing up my left hand just in time. The point struck hard, its wavy length piercing skin. The force of the villain's overhand lunge buried the dagger to its hilt but my arm held steady, preventing the blade from sinking into my chest, his intended target. Pain shot up my arm and through my shoulder as I felt the bones of my forearm crack beneath the impact. The other suits tensed to act, but I was faster, the thunderous report of my revolver sounding as my assailant was blasted across the room.Then the others rushed me.Perhaps they thought their superior number would win the day, but these men were unfamiliar with the art of murder, an art that I had practiced for nearly a decade. It was as simple as pointing a finger. Quickly but calmly, I leveled the barrel of the pistol at one man, then another, squeezing off round after round. Their charge broke almost instantly, the men turning to scramble for cover, too slowly though as I dropped each in turn. Each shot I fired in that nightmarish place was lethal. The men fell as quickly as the hammer. Then there was only one left, huddled in a corner, his hands over his ears. I stood over him, placing the smoking end of the barrel against the side of his skull. He let out a terrible moan then began to weep as I pulled back the hammer. I had never killed men so defenseless. But then, I had never seen men so deserving of death. I pulled the trigger, painting the walls around the man as well as myself a deep shade of red.I winced as I tore the dagger from my dead forearm. The argument could be made that I should have thought things through, not acted so rashly. It was the opium, I think; it clouded my judgment. The thing was done, though, and I knew that I would have to hurry if I were to make my escape. I kicked over the table on which the brazier sat then smashed one of the hanging oil lamps onto the floor. The room erupted into a blazing pyre by the time I swung the door open again and stepped out of the cabin. The men in the lodge across the way were finally rousing. A rifle fired from one of the building's open windows. Bullets splintered the wood of the open doorframe behind me, ricocheting into the cabin to shatter the window. I turned and dashed away from the cabin toward the trees, fanning the hammer of my pistol and sending a return volley at the lodge. They were pinned for a moment by the barrage and I reached the trees, tearing through the dark toward the mining camp. Above all the rest, one thought stood out in my mind: I had to get the widow to safety, and soon, before word of my deeds reached the ears of those who might do her harm.All Hallows Eve, 1929Past Midnight:I lost my pursuers in the woods, though it took some time, doubling about to make my way back to the hotel. Slipping into my room through the window, I changed clothes and bandaged my arm as best I could. The wound was deep, but the lack of feeling in my left arm kept the pain at bay. Then I sent for Samuel and gave him enough money to hire a coach to take Mrs. Worthington from the town that very night. The young black man left me with his assurance that a coach would be waiting at the far edge of the northern forest. I left to retrieve the widow then. My charge had been not only to slay Jackson Poole but to protect Margaret Worthington as well, and I felt that she would be safer out of Weston until matters were properly sorted.Staying close to the trees, I made my way up the steep hill to the widow's tiny cabin. From a distance, I noticed light spilling from the small wooden structure's single window. All of the other cabins on the hillside were dark and silent. The single beacon of light seemed ominous. I crept to the door quietly and listened. I could hear the widow's voice inside. She was speaking to someone, but her voice had no edge of fear or anger. I knocked softly on the door. The widow fell silent inside. Then, after a moment, I heard the sound of the deadbolt, and the door slowly creaked open.Margaret stood in the open doorway, her face drawn tight and her eyes wide and staring. I scanned the main room of the cabin behind her. It was empty. Whomever she was speaking to had been ushered into the back room, perhaps for protection. Undoubtedly, the Denton-Paisley thugs had already paid a visit to many of the miners in this valley. The widow could not be sure who would come knocking on her door at such a late hour. "Captain Peters, why, hello," there was something in her voice that seemed odd to me as she invited me into her home. "Do come in, please.""I'm afraid we have little time for pleasantries, Mrs. Worthington. I have become aware of some strange goings on in Weston. I've been hired to protect you, and I think it would be best if you went to stay with your late husband's uncle until I've sorted matters..."She turned her back to me as I spoke, walking away from the open door to take a teapot from the furnace. She moved stiffly, in a way that seemed somehow unnatural. I stepped into the cabin behind her, placing a hand on the service pistol in my pocket. I made another quick scan of the cabin as I entered, spotting the brief movement of shadow on the thin blue sheet that separated the front room from the back."Mrs. Worthington, I've hired a coach," I began again. "It will be waiting for you in front of Ole’s hardware. From there you'll travel to Charleston, where a train can take you-""Don't be silly," she interrupted, her voice high but emotionless, "why would I wish to leave?""The men who killed your husband, ma'am. I don't think they're done with their business yet. It isn't safe for you to be here.""Oh!" She said, a wide smile appearing suddenly on her face. "That's right. You don't know yet. Something wonderful has happened. My Vincent, he's come back to me."As she spoke her smile broadened so as to show her teeth. I stared into her eyes in silence for a long moment. They seemed cold and distant, almost... lifeless. Then I heard a shuffling sound that came from behind the thin sheet that hung over the open doorway to the bedroom. A silhouette appeared against its surface, a dark shadow of a sickeningly thin man. I pulled the pistol from my pocket and aimed it at the figure behind the sheet. "Margaret, go outside," I said sternly, "that is not your husband.""Oh, but it is," she countered, giggling in near hysteria.I couldn't have her injured, but she seemed too far-gone at the moment to listen to reason. So, I slipped the pistol back into my coat pocket and grabbed her slender arm, dragging her across the room to the door. She began to protest as I pushed her outside, but her words were lost to me as I slammed the door shut and threw the bolt. Then I turned to face the shadow behind the thin sheet. "Who are you? Poole?" I asked. "Whatever you're planning ends now-""No," a voice answered, nearly paralyzing me. The only way I can describe it is to say that it was not a single voice. It sounded more as if it were dozens of voices, some so high as to cause searing pain in my ears and some so low they sounded like a wire recording played very slowly. I pulled my pistol with a trembling hand. "Not Poole.""Who are you?" I sputtered, raising my useless left hand to cover an ear as the alternating pitches of the voice left behind a painful whining noise that sliced through my skull like a knife. "Wh-what is it you want with the widow?" "She is ours now, Jason Peters. We have shown her things that she will carry with her always, even after we call her to come to us, deep beneath the black earth. You know us as well, Jason.""What... what are you talking about?" I wondered at the shadow's words, as the whine grew more intense. It rose to a singular, deafening pitch, buckling my knees. The pistol fell from my fingers and I slipped my hand into my pocket, pulling out the bottle of opium. My best hope was that it might dull the pain. But my fingers were going numb, and the bottle slipped through them as I tried to grasp it. Then, the noise suddenly stopped, and I raised my head to see the shadow against the curtain bend and shift until its shape became wholly different. It looked like the silhouette of a soldier now, in full combat dress. I could make out the pack on its back, the rifle in its hands, and the helmet atop its head. Then it spoke again."We're lost, sir. We could be miles from Passchendaele Ridge by now," the voice was different now, a man's voice. I knew the words it spoke. I could remember them."James? Is that you? What kind of trick is this?" "I'm going to check inside. Maybe they have an address book or something. I could see where we're at-”The memory enveloped me, clawing up from the depths of my mind and rendering the details of that day behind my clenched eyelids. I watched again as Sergeant James crossed the threshold of a ruined British hovel. I reached out to grab his arm. "James, wait!" I screamed. But it was too late. His foot kicked the tripwire and the mine exploded directly beneath him. I could feel the searing pain that erupted along my left side, leaving my eye and my hand useless. I cried out in agony then opened my eye, finding myself huddled on the floor of the small wood cabin in Weston again. The shape of the shadow swirled behind the sheet and the voice returned, bringing back the slicing pain in my head. "We took your hand then and your eye as well. You remember, don't you Jason. We gave you a new eye, one of ours, to call you back to us again. We were so upset the first time we lost you. Do you remember the first time Jason? It was so long ago, and you were so young."The whine fell again, and I quickly grabbed the bottle of laudanum, taking several long drinks. As I pulled the bottle from my lips I saw the shadow shift again, taking the shape of a small child."I found a cave, back behind Grandpa's house," my brother spoke excitedly. "Come on, don't be scared.""No." The word escaped my lips as a prayer, and I found myself a young boy again, stumbling through the dark woods around Wellsboro. I collapsed against a tall oak, hiding from the thing that followed me. Weeping, I pulled my hand away from my forehead and looked at the blood on my fingertips. My younger brother called out, somewhere in the dark wood. He screamed again and again. I wanted to go to him, but I was terrified of what was out there... out there in the dark. He was seven years old. I never saw him again."Why didn't you help me Jason?" The child behind the curtain sobbed in horror. "Now they have me and they won't let me go.""You are not my brother," I said, my voice trembling. I picked up the pistol again and the pain returned."This place is ours now, Jason Peters. We have shown things to the people here, and they have given this place to us. Some have come to us willingly, opening the black earth to allow us to roam free again. This land is ours and now you have come back to us. Soon we will have you as well. Oh yes, we have your brother," the voice whined higher, forcing me to clutch my ears. "We have your mother too, and your first love as well, let us show them to you Jason. You will see them as they truly are, beneath their useless skin."I grimaced with pain as the thing continued to speak, watching the form of my brother as it stepped toward the curtain. The silhouette of its arm reached out and tiny fingers closed on the outside edge of the sheet. The skin of the fingers had been stripped away, leaving only the glistening tissue beneath. The sheet turned dark where the fingers touched it, deep red blood staining its edge and dripping down to the floorboards below it. I aimed the pistol, fighting back the intense pain in my skull. I knew, for the sake of my sanity, that I could not allow myself to see the thing. I fired, five shots straight into the shadow behind the curtain. It screeched as the bullets found their mark. I screamed as well, the pitch of its shriek causing blood to stream from my ears and down the sides of my face. My heart seized suddenly, leaving me unable to breath.I could feel something inside my mind being strained to its limit, and if the cry had not stopped, I know it would have killed me. But finally the thing fell silent as it clutched at the curtain, stumbling backwards and ripping it from the open doorway. Thankfully, the sheet fell on top of its body, becoming soaked in crimson after a brief moment. I had no wish to see it. I left the widow's home, finding her lying against the outside wall of the cabin. She still breathed, but her pupils had grown strange, nearly eclipsing the whites of her eyes. I picked her up and managed to carry her to the far edge of the forest behind the cabin. In the dead of night, no soul saw me place her on the waiting carriage. I gave the driver instructions to place the widow on a train at Charleston bound for New York. Then I made my way back into the forest, intent on killing Poole. But that was not to be. I sit, now, my back to a large maple. My bandages must have come undone some time ago. I am losing blood quickly, replacing it with opium. My chest contracts when I breathe too deeply. I only wanted to be useful again. At least I got Margaret safe and away. I have to rest now.It is still night when I wake again. They are coming for me. Dogs bay somewhere deep in the woods. I try to rise, but my legs are too weak now. It’s so cold.The sky is beginning to lighten and I hear voices in the distance filtering through the pines. My brother Jason, James, and others fallen under my command. They’ll have me soon. If you find this journal, make sure it gets to Theodore Worthington. I want him to know that I tried.I will use my final bullet now.

Canned Meat

When I was still a young man I inherited a meat-canning factory resultant from an unfortunate personal tragedy at our annual family reunion involving an unfavorable reaction by most of my relatives to aunt Sarah’s infamous botulism pie. Nearly everyone ate some out of courtesy and nearly everyone, including poor senile aunt Sarah died as a result. I left college early to take reigns of our ‘family’ business, Little Vienna, and never looked back.
You know the stuff, Vienna style sausages, spicy potted meats made from byproducts, a small prideful company that was regrettably so far gone it wasn’t even threatened by a hostile take-over from some greedy conglomerate corporation. Fresh from college and full of new ideas, I watched the dying company fall deeper and deeper in spiraling debt. Idealistically I refused layoffs and took the loss from my own shares of stock to continue to meet payroll only to be rewarded in turn by my faithful employees fleeing the company of their own accord. Production began dropping faster than sales were plummeting. Raw meat storage was becoming a real issue, I was under contract to purchase so much meat from slaughterhouses, you may know the process; you bid once a year for bulk price lines and you guarantee to purchase a minimum amount of product at that low-end agreed upon price. If sales are good and you exceed your quota, you are rewarded with a considerable markup on bulk meat prices for excess purchases above the minimum guaranteed order size, there are also certain minute agreements included in the contract such as who I may buy from and what cap prices the slaughterhouse must set, but in my case it was hardly an issue since I could not process the meats I was obligated to purchase. Storage was a problem, maxing out local freezer storage facilities and now being overwhelmed with additional Meat Locker rental rates, I was forced to renegotiate my contract with the company I purchased my bulk meats from.
The offices located at the stock pens where the company I dealt with worked out of was run down and a veritable slum by slaughterhouse standards. The owner was not pleased with my offer to increase my per pound price and reduce the minimum amount of my order agreement, and it looked as if I was going to lose everything as I walked away from my meeting with the owner. The conference had been short, but had gone long into the evening as I had been kept waiting to learn my fate for hours in a dingy green reception room. On my way out, lost in my own train of thought, or more likely deep in self-pity, a thin pale man approached me. Tall and gaunt, his face made him appear to be middle aged except for the tired ancient look in his eyes; he spoke to me of a business proposal; bold, daring and absolutely financial suicide. But he intrigued me with his confidence and we talked well into the night about his idea. You see I was not the only business in danger of dying in the community. The man I spoke with represented a group of workers, not a union as such, but a colony of individuals’ mostly comprised of a migrant Slavic family that worked at the slaughterhouse and feared the loss of their jobs should it belly up. He invited me to his village just outside of town, a self sufficient community of sickly anemia ridden people that to me most closely resembled a leper colony, with the exception that the employees of the slaughterhouse were a certified and competent team that depended and relied on each other in a far more intimate way than merely a professional capacity. As we discussed options and opportunity into the night, a pact was formed. A unified coalition was created wherein I purchased the slaughterhouse with the financial backing of the little village, they took control of operations of the plant and provided me with much needed labor for my own operation, and hopefully we would pull one another out of the mutual rising well of corporate drowning.
The arrangement proved to be a good one in that it was profitable, sales took an unexpected leap for the stars and rocketed off the charts almost overnight. My product became the number one household treat in America and overseas, demands were escalating. We tore down the old plant years ago and built a new mega facility in its place. The slaughterhouse now only provided meat for me and worked diligently to meet our demand. This had proved to be a perfect union of two struggling companies. With just a couple minor glitches;

· The nightshift provided by the slaughterhouse colony proved to be so efficient that the day shift and swing shift were made obsolete. Efforts were implemented to improve the production on other shifts but the graveyard shift was where production was most efficient so graveyard is when the work was performed.

· As it turns out, the colony was indeed similar to a leper-like community of its own right, not inflicted with something so obvious as leprosy, but something far worse, more diabolic and frightening at the same time. A village whose members suffered from a rare disease called porphyria or more specifically porphyric hemophilia, a disease that ravaged the body, causing severe pain and discomfort to the chest and extremities, sensitivity to sunlight, serious anemia, and an insatiable craving for the heme found in human and animal blood. A secret so far successfully kept from the public in general for were it known by anyone, suspicion and prejudice would cripple our perspective businesses.

· And now for the ironic kicker. Yes, the above diagnosis could be remotely perceived as vampirism, and while technically true, the “vampires” of the village do not feed off of humans, living or dead, but find their sustenance from the animals they butcher at the slaughterhouse. Thus proving for generations that porphyria victims and society as a whole can coexist side by side without TV movie theatrics and wholesale panic.

· Finally, my confession; I only recently discovered a link with the recent outbreak of Renfields disease and clinical vampirism that has plagued our nation. It appears that while the slaughterhouse community has been feeding off the blood of animals in a sanitary and organized fashion, a subculture of vampiric followers formed within the colony has been feeding directly from the animal carcasses. These carcasses are then broken down and rendered into canned meat products. Apparently the vampire saliva has an addictive component that acts as a contagion and has been slowly infecting the consumer of these canned meats I provide to the marketplace. Did I mention our plans to go global later this year?

EYES

I wasn't always
afraid.
I thought I
could be happy.
I had a cat
namED Chaos
and aNother cat.
CaT's name was...
I don't
remember.
Chaos was a boy,
I think.
my CaT was named
Chaos.
we were a
HaPpy FamILy.

not NoW.

One day,
I woke up.
I saw people staring
at me.
everybody TalKed
about me.
everywhere I went,
they whispered.
tHat waSN't as bad
as tHe EYES.
their EYES are
in the dark.
their EYES are
in my soul.
I STILL SEE
EYES.
I See your
EYES.
you just pretend
I'm crazy.
BUT I know the
TruTH.that day,
I wore a tie.
I wore a
tIE 2 work.
that's what I diD
NorMally.
this time,
it was choking me.
an ICy grip
on my neck!!
ReD!
rEd
fabric
deSigNEd to
kill me.
bUT I thought
it was my
imagiNation.
I felt
the ChoKE of it
aLL day.
My boSs said I
was silly.
hE was hoping
I'D DIE!
but i'm tougher
tHan thaT.

Michael,
I know you've been
stressed.
stop all this
nonsense!
tHAT is what
hE TOld me.
but he LIED.
hE watched me.

HIM!!!!
EYES!!!!!
HiS
EYES!!!

They had no
loVe
for mE.
they neVer did.
I shouLd have
knoWn.
I looked out
mY office.
my enemies wERE
many.
I just realized
that...

BefOre,
they seemed
frIENDLY ENough.
No!
I see theIR EYES
now.
cold and evil.
everyone's EyeS
are on
me.
are you alright,
MichAeL?

your job
must be
stressful
Michael.

maybe you nEed
a breAk
MiChaEl.

iF yOu arE
siCk,
yoU caN
go
MicHAel.
I thought I WaS
SiCK.
thEn I kneW I
wAsn't.
I SaW thEir
EYES.

I drOVe

home.
they wOUld Not
kiLL me.
I KNew Their
Plan.
I wOULD not
let them.

Chaos was
"sleepiNg".
I knew hE was
fAking.
I ReaLIZED
he wAs
FAking.

The other caT
waTCheD
the stRAnge Man
From the
Window.
he Jogged
past
my hoUse.
I HATE hiM and
I remEMbEr
Her namE...
NutmEg

dIE nUtmEg DIE!

that wasn't my
cAt.
I know.because
nUtmEg had
EYES.
EYES stared
at me.
ChaOS came to
me.
hE stared at
me.
and StarEd even
mOre. WiTH hiS
EyEs
NOW I knOW!
you cAN't hide
from ME!
I SEE YOUR
EyEs!

I see
EyEs!
that is why I'm
here.
this is a nice
room.
the walls are
white.
tHe walls are
fLufFy
bUT peOPLe still
cOme.
TheIR eyEs...

EveN tHe plAnt
hAs
EYES.

aT least I
know the truth.
AT least I
sEe thE eyes...
Your
Eyes!!!

The Crypt Rose

The Crypt Rose

Stephen stood at the entrance of the great mansion. His parents had lived here their entire married lives, his father since his birth. The hall situated before him was decorated with photographs and paintings from various stages of time within the mansion. Stephen moved slowly along the corridor looking at the images he had seen a million times as he grew up. He paused before one in particular. This one had always held a certain fascination for him. The image was that of a young child, approximately seven years old. The boy bore an impish smile and seemed to watch you as you watched him. A small gold plaque beneath the photograph bore the inscription Stephen Harold. Stephen smiled. He had always felt a secret pleasure knowing he shared a name with one who came before him. He had asked his mother about this photo before, she had replied she was uncertain of its origin. His father had told him it was a cousin who had died very young. Stephen touched the image. The face was to an uncanny extent akin to his own. Anyone from outside the family would have sworn they were one in the same. He pulled himself harshly from his thoughts and moved to the dining room. His mother and father would be waiting. They were expecting him and both were firm believers in punctuality. He stood at the doorway, leaning on the frame momentarily before continuing into the room. His mother graced him with a cold stare; he felt his very breath sucked away in that moment. He composed himself for a short few seconds compelling his lungs to draw a breath of air once more, and then he moved toward the center of the table. Mother was seated at one end and father sat opposite her at the far distant other side of the extensive table. "Stephen, so nice of you to join us." his mother said. Her words were pleasant enough but her tone was mocking and sarcastic. She glanced away and impatiently nodded to the general direction of the kitchen. As if on cue a servant began to bring plates of steaming food to the table. Stephen felt an intense sense of pride; his mother had always been able to get exactly what she wanted with just a look. "You were late, Stephen. I heard you arrive. You got caught up in that old photograph again. Did you not?" Stephen nodded but did not speak. The one thing he hated about his mother was her ability to berate him. Only she could reduce him to the child he had been. He was now 25 and yet in her presence he was that six year old once again. "I do not want you looking at that thing. Do you hear me? If I must I will take it down and burn it." Stephen opened his mouth to defend himself but shut it again as his father emitted a distressed groan. Stephen looked at him, a question on his lips. His father shook his head slightly and waved his hand dismissively. Stephen picked up his fork and began to prod his food. "When is the funeral?" he asked suddenly, hoping to change the subject. "Tomorrow at noon." his mother said, her voice even more harsh. "Are you in some hurry to be rid of your grandfather?" "No mother, but having a corpse in the house isn't exactly my idea of fun either." he shot back, his defenses high once again. He had only come for the funeral. Grandfather had always been kind to him. Though he did not have material goods like his paternal grandfather he had something else: unconditional love for his grandson. Still the thought of his cooling corpse in the house gave Stephen the creeps. Stephen shivered involuntarily. He ate slowly, not daring to make another comment on any subject. Obviously his mother was going to be testy at every turn. While he did not expect her to be jovial in light of her father's death: he did expect at least an attempt at graciousness. He laid the fork beside the plate and drained his wine. "I am going to bed,” he announced as he stood. "Have the servant wake me in time to get dressed." His mother snarled but said nothing. His father shook his head dismissively. Stephen climbed the stairs, despite the miserable dinner and his mother’s stern warning his thoughts again wandered to the photograph. His father had explained that this cousin had been born and died in the early forties, yet...there was something there. A thought not quite formed in Stephen's mind plagued him through a long and ultimately restless night. Stephen lay in bed watching the shadows move across the room as dawn filtered a pale light through the window. He rose, walked up to the glass and stared out. The family cemetery stood in back of the house. He had been there many times but could not recall ever seeing the grave of this other Stephen Harold. He made a mental note to check it out again after the funeral. He would have every right to be there this time and mother could not refuse him. As he moved to return to the bed he noticed something behind the cemetery. What he observed was a newly bloomed wall of roses. "Oh! Intrigue." he said sarcastically. Funny he had never noticed the roses there before. Perhaps because as a child every time he would get into the graveyard his mother would order him out. And it wasn't as if he had spent so much time at home. From the moment he had been of adequate age he had been sent to some school or another, only spending brief periods at Harold Manor. He returned to the four-post bed, his mind still on the wall of roses. White roses, but in the back of his mind something spoke to him of red roses. Stephen awoke with a jolt and sat up quickly surveying the room. Everything seemed in place and daylight streamed through the window. "Damned dream." he spat as he glanced at the clock. "11:30!" He hurried to take a shower and get dressed. As he stood brushing his teeth he heard a servant enter the room. He shoved the door open violently, still dressed in only a towel. "Were you not given instructions to awaken me early?" he seethed. The servant shook her head. Stephen forced himself to calm down, berating the servants, as mother did would not help the situation. "You are dismissed. Obviously I can handle dressing myself." The young woman nodded and almost fled the room. He dressed quickly then moved to the window. The house was strangely silent and now he knew why. People stood about in the small cemetery as the priest...it looked like he was conducting the funeral. "Ah Mother, you will pay for this." He whispered as he started downstairs wondering exactly why she would lie to him about the service time. He stood off from the rest, scarcely able to hear the ceremony. He did not wish to interrupt the ceremony though he was becoming more curious as to why his mother would so openly try to mislead him. After the service he approached his mother, not oblivious to the stares given him by those attending the funeral. "Mother." he said, as he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to the side. "Why did you lie to me?" She pulled her arm away roughly. "I did not lie to you. I have no idea what you are going on about. It is most certainly not my fault you decided to stay in bed rather than attend your grandfather's funeral." "Excuse me? I was given a choice? I specifically asked you to have someone come up this morning and awaken me. You could not even do that." Stephen said, his anger threatening to overspill. "I sent Celeste up this morning. The funeral began at noon. I waited until 10 then sent her up. You father said he knew you had a rough night last night. He heard you moving around in there at dawn. It was his idea to let you sleep through breakfast. Celeste had to leave for a bit this morning but she said you refused to attend." "How convenient, she is gone. Either you are lying or she is. No one came into my bedroom this morning. Mother, I came home specifically for the funeral. Why would I miss it?" "I'm sure I don't know, Stephen. If you will excuse me, I have a houseful of guests to attend to." Stephen stepped aside and watched as his mother walked quickly back toward the house. She stopped several times to chat with people milling about. Though she put on the facade of grieving for her father the night before, today she seemed rather cold and uncaring. Stephen's family left him in the cemetery as the casket was lowered into the ground. "Goodbye, grandfather, you were the only one who mattered to me in this godless family." he muttered, then turned to walk back towards the house. That was when the wall of roses at the back of the cemetery caught his attention. They were all fully bloomed dark and crimson red like oxygen rich blood. They were red! He was certain at dawn this morning they had been white. He touched one of the delicate petals. It was smooth and silken, still there was something...repulsive about them. He stepped away from them and almost tripped over a grave marker. "Damn you..." he looked at the marker so he could name the one he was now cursing. He drew closer as the name captivated him. It was the elusive Stephen Harold. “So there you are. About time we met, don't you think?” Stephen's ecstasy at finding the elusive grave was short lived. "The date." he said softly as the icy finger of dread ran along his spine. He ran his fingers over the dates as if to reassure himself it was true. The marker read 'Stephen Harold January 24, 1975 to July 3, 1981 Beloved son of Samuel and Julia Harold.' Stephen's breath came in short hitches. Samuel and Julia were his parents; July 3rd was exactly ten months to the day before he was born. Something was wickedly amiss. His parents had lied to him. This Stephen Harold was also their child, his deceased brother. Why would they give both their sons the same name? He walked slowly in the general direction of the house trying to give some reason to his quandary. His mother was downstairs. She had surrounded herself with family members and acquaintances, keeping a continuous distance from Stephen. While Stephen's father remained by himself upstairs clear of any contact with family. Julia's entire family was just the same as her, snobbish and domineering. Samuel was the extreme opposite. Stephen mounted the stairs, sick of the uncomfortable glares from Julia's family. He heard parts of whispered conversations that only increased his curiosity about the other Stephen Harold. He found his father in his bedroom reading a novel. "Father, I think it is time we had a talk. It is time you give me a few truths about that photograph in the foyer." His father laid his novel aside. "What exactly would you like to know? The truth. I suppose? I know you went to the grave after everyone left. Finally found it, did you?" His father asked. ''How do you know I found it? Why is their so much secrecy around it? He is actually my brother instead of my cousin. So why would you name us the same? I would think it in honor of him. Yet, you lied to me. This makes me very suspicious of you both." "I knew because you were left alone in the cemetery. Naturally you would be curious. You have been looking at that photograph since you first noticed the resemblance. I knew this day would come. I am not entirely sure I can explain though." "Try, I do not like the idea of knowing you have been lying to me all these years." Stephen sneered. His father looked at the novel he had laid aside; as if hoping for some easy answers. "Stephen, your namesake was born in January of 1975. Julia and I were so proud of our boy. He was bright and precocious with a flare for art and an affinity with nature. In June of 1981 he became gravely ill. In July he died late one evening as your mother and I begged and prayed for his life. The day of his funeral a man came to us and said he could help. He worked for the coroner's office and had done an autopsy on your brother. He said he could give him back to us. He had kept a drought of your brother's blood and from it..." Stephen backed away in horror. His intestines twisted in a knot as realization sank in. "How could you? He is not my brother? We are one and the same?" "No, his body still lies out there." Samuel said as he moved toward the window and pointed at the graveyard. "You are..." Samuel paused searching carefully for the right words. "You are his, clone, I suppose you would say. The man from the coroner's office had some very strange ideas and I will readily admit I did not understand all he said. Your mother seemed to grasp only the important part that she could have her son back and agreed readily. Within a month she had planted that wall of white crypt roses provided by the man from the morgue and days later she was pregnant with you. I can only speculate that the two things were related. You were born nine months later. Without any consultation with me she named you Stephen and swore you were not a second child: but our Stephen restored to us. I found this incredulous but nevertheless allow her to wallow in her madness." Samuel turned away. "Later I had to admit she was right. As you grew you became the child you once were." he said softly. Stephen fled the room. His father was lying. He had to be. The roses were red. He had looked upon their crimson petals just minutes before entering the house. He stood in the foyer looking at the photograph. "Give up your secret to me. If we are one in the same I should remember." The voice came to him. It was soft and vague, yet the tone sounded very much the same as his very own voice. "For every indiscretion there is a price. For your mother the price may have been too steep this time." Stephen stepped away from the photo and looked wildly about the foyer. There was no one. Imagination, he thought to himself. He heard his mother laugh in the next room. Entering the room cautiously he saw her with his Uncle Randall. Randall was an incredibly fat balding man. Stephen thought he always smelled of alcohol and cheap cigars. His mother stopped laughing when she caught sight of him. Stephen was relieved; her laughter was not as he remembered it. Her laugh had always been jovial and cheerful, despite her sullen demeanor. When she found something genuinely humorous she really let loose. Now though, her laughter sounded strange, haunted. Mad. The words he had heard in the foyer drifted back to him. He had to see the grave and the roses again. He hurried from the house. He ran until he reached the small grave marker. The horrid words burned in his mind. He knelt beside it and noticed at the very bottom was an engraved rose. Crudely done, it had not been part of the original marker. Stephen looked at the roses and they were a gentle pink. They were no longer the deep red, as they had manifested earlier nor the soft white he thought he saw in the early hours of this very morning. He stood studying them carefully. "Stephen, stay away!" he turned as he heard his mother call his name. She sounded afraid, desperate. "Stephen, please, come here!" she cried. Stephen hesitated then slowly began to walk toward her. She smiled and held her arms out to him. Without warning she sprinted toward him and almost tackled him as she embraced him. "You must stay away from the roses. They were planted to restore you to me. Ever so often they must be fed." "Fed? What are you implying? Be straight with me, just this once please tell me the truth Mother." Stephen begged. His mother looked over to the wall of roses, then at the grave. She allowed a despairing sigh to escape her darkly rouged lips. "Alright, I will tell you." She paused, searching for a place to begin. "When Stephen died I thought I would die too. My baby died of pneumonia and that was my fault. His room was always so dreary and damp. He caught a cold, a cold that turned lethal. Everyone tried to convince me it was not my fault but I knew differently. I knew I killed him. The day of the funeral the coroner came to me. He knew arcane secrets of life and death. He had retained blood so that he could restore this child. My child! A child lost to the world far too soon. He had kept the blood and knew how to use it to restore my son. I cannot say for certain what this process was, I do not know. I know he brought to me an elixir and bade me drink. I did so gladly. Then...I would rather not say...I was impregnated in a way not natural. You were born healthy and strong nine months later. You looked exactly as you had the first time. You behaved exactly in the same manner. This time though you developed much more quickly: before I knew it you were again the Stephen I remembered and loved so well." She paused and took a few steps toward the wall of roses. "You know there was a price? For everything has a price, even the most trivial of things. The price I had to give was blood. Blood for blood the coroner said. Your blood for the blood of all others I hold dear. Only days ago it was my father. He came to our home to visit while I was out and got to close to those vile roses. When I came home I found his belongings and knew he was on the grounds. I searched for him half an hour before I thought to come out here. He was there." She pointed to the wall. "His warm body was still wedged amongst them. The accursed thorns held him upright as they drank away his blood, and his life." She turned to Stephen; her eyes filled with unshed tears. "You were ill recently weren't you?" Stephen nodded. Only a few days before he had been taken to the infirmary at the college, he lingered there gravely ill for hours. A doctor, concerned for his life, had called an ambulance. Before it arrived Stephen had, his doctor deemed it a miracle, recovered completely. There was no trace of illness within the body that had just moments before been wracked with a grievous illness. He had been released and sent back to his dorm room. The only side effect of his illness had been a relentless exhaustion. The next morning the college dean and several other men had burst into his room fearing the worst. His mother had called them, unable to reach him, concerned that he did not answer his phone. They had been informed of his illness and naturally thought he had a relapse. They told Stephen of his grandfather's death and helped him pack a few belongings. The dean had personally driven him to the airport and put him on a plane. He had not mentioned his illness to his mother. He thought it unnecessary to worry her in light of her father's death. "That was the roses of the crypt Stephen. When their hunger becomes too great they will start to take the life from you unless someone I care for dies. Your Uncle Randall will be next, then your father and myself. That is all the family left I still care for." "No!" Stephen shouted. A new mixture of madness compelled him, one formed from disbelief, fear, and outrage. "We will destroy the wall. If we destroy them they have no control over you." "No, Stephen, please don't." his mother begged. "If you destroy them, you will die with them. Your very soul is intertwined with them. There is no escape for you. I believe once your father and I have gone you will have to sacrifice all whom you love. This I pray is not true. I pray you do not have to live with the guilt I live with." "Then why do you mother?" Stephen asked abruptly. His patience was growing very thin. "Why would you make such a bargain? Did you not think of the consequences? You loved grandfather dearly, any fool could see that, yet you placed him in such a perilous position without his knowledge! Grandmother? Was she a victim of the roses as well? Did they drain her blood and savor her horror. The terror she must have felt being consumed by a seemingly innocent, yet deadly, beautiful plant." Julia shook her head, as if denying Stephen accusations. "Yes, she succumbed to them as well. As did my sister Claire, and cousins Marjory and Tina. Everyone I cared for. All of them, but I did it for you...for my son. I could not bear to think of you lying in the cold ground forever." "Mother listen to yourself! That child is still within the ground is he not? You changed nothing. It has to be a coincidence I look and act as him. We are brothers, it is natural we could look and act very much the same." "No, Stephen, you are him." she disagreed. She looked longingly at the roses. "Vile, hateful things!" she spat. She turned back to the house and hurried to meet Randall, who was lumbering toward them. Stephen stared at the roses. "So you hold the secrets of life and death? We shall see how deep your secrets really are." Stephen removed his shirt and took a lighter from his pants pocket. He picked up a dead branch and wound the shirt around it. He retrieved a can of gasoline from his father's work shed and soaked his shirt in it. He returned to the wall and doused the roses with the remaining gas. Immediately they turned a bleached white. His vision faltered as an incredible weakness swept through him. He lit his shirt and held his makeshift torch to the wall. The roses caught immediately. Stephen laughed insanely he heard the screams coming from them. His own world slipped as pain enveloped his body. Stephen collapsed to his knees. This was not so funny anymore. He began to shriek in fierce agony. Julia ran toward the cemetery alarmed by Stephen's screams. She arrived just in time to see him, submerged in flames, collapse to the ground and fall silent. Frightened, she forced herself to look at the roses. The entire wall was engorged in flames. A scream of soul wrenching pain ripped from her throat, echoing throughout Harold Manor. Samuel, still upstairs, looked out the window. He saw his wife collapse beside the burnt body of their only son and knew she would become the last victim of the crypt roses. A faint smile crossed his lips. He picked up the phone. "Yes I require an ambulance at Harold Manor. My wife just killed our son then collapsed. Hurry please." he tried to sound upset but it was hard. He had gotten rid of that brat once and she brought it back. It was high damned time he got what he wanted. A little peace and quiet!