In the empty apartment stood Henry leaning his head against the window, like a fallen branch, solemn eyes watching the world go by.

He looked out as one hand dangled unceremoniously to the side letting the other hand steal all the glory by bringing the glass of rum to his lips.

It was Friday, five minutes before midnight, half the bottle of rum was gone already. His apartment, once a comfort, had now become his prison. The self-made cell was the glaring white walls and the stained window.

When he decided he was sufficiently drunk and full of melancholic longing, he watched the busy intersection three floors below him. He listened to the dull hum of the engines and the men going about their serious business wondering where they were all going. He saw the silver cars shimmer under the pale moonlight, night dwellers roaming the cement roads in search of something. The object of the search was never the important thing. The important thing was to be searching, always searching. Henry felt at home with those seekers but conceded he’d never be like them. Fears of grandiose ambition lead to the easier path of apathy. He found the rum to be an adequate companion for his only undertaking of window watching, letting the time tick by, lounging around, decomposing, dying a little every day.

He looked across from him at the parking lot and the restaurant with the patio. He envied the jubilant attitude of the patrons, drinking their beer and whiskey, smoking their cigarettes. He looked down and saw a party of people clinking their glasses, celebrating, placing their sincere heavy hands on welcoming shoulders. Henry caught up in the excitement, lifted his glass of rum and clinked it with his stained window, envisioning himself with the crowd, and his hopeful eyes turned into a grimace. His room was empty, he wished even to be among strangers, to be amongst some rowdy laughter, or even to smile at clueless lovers locking hands under the yellow patterned lights. He relented his silly dream, pursed open his lips and let the honeyed rum wash down his bitter throat.

At the striking of midnight came the mysterious message. Deciding to go back to his desk to pour another glass of rum he saw the conspicuous piece of paper laying on top of the wood. He closed one eye, thereby enlarging the other, squeezing his chin into his neck like a turtle, or an old man trying to read without his glasses, getting the blurred letters to become clear:

“Twenty-four-hour time limit.

Flight.

Instructions: Concentrate and levitate”

Henry thought long and hard about the meaning of the message. After thirty seconds of strenuous concentration he decided to go back to his window and draw up the mysterious paper to some previous drunken stupor.

He dragged his sorry legs back to his favorite spot, and let the sweet honey colored rum pour down his throat, and stared longingly once again through the muddied glass.

He imagined what it would be like if he could truly fly. Oh, all the places he would go, all the things he would see and do. It was a momentarily cheerful thought. He closed his eyes evoking that soaring flight, dreaming of being far away from here and then he felt weightless. He opened his eyes and saw that he truly was flying! He levitated only a few inches off the ground, but it had surely been done.

He tried it again and he flew even higher and it was easier to control his movement and direction. He floated down to the ground and his heart was pumping, his mind racing. He had to go somewhere. He couldn’t waste this gift just flying around in his room if the twenty-four-hour time was to be believed.

He went to the window, stains be damned, and pulled it open. He put one leg out getting ready to go out into the world feeling a blast of cold air which made him stop. He wasn’t sure where he was going to go. He put his leg back in and slumped back on his bed.

Henry thought first of that strong river in the valley where he went fly fishing all those years ago with his father. He hadn’t been back since, but it was the first place he thought of. He remembered that long drive at dawn, father and son exchanging yawns and anticipation at the catching of fish – a friendly competition. They stopped at the riverbank and hauled the boat into the stream right as the sun was rising, giving an unprecedented glow to the silver water, now turned gold. They never spoke all that much during the procession but relished in each other victories and laughed at the inevitable failures. He didn’t miss the fish all that much, or the wintry river, but it was the remembrance of the face his father made that burned a hole in his chest. He never saw that look anywhere else but there on that river. It was a serenity, a shining sternness and acceptance of the river, basking in that glorious valley amongst nature, amongst kin. It was the flowing of the rapids making them pure again. He wanted to go back to the place and remember that face from so long ago.

It would be dark now, he thought. It was hundreds of miles away, he thought again. And the father he longed to see was dead and buried far away from the river.

Henry decided to go for more rum. This time drinking straight from the bottle.

Another place to go then, he decided.

He thought then of those docks, walking side by side with her. She was young admittedly but there was something about her that made Henry full of life once again and hopeful.

They walked from one end of the docks knowing it would be the last time and so he cherished every smile, every flowing strand of hair, he admired. They laughed, distracting each other from what they both knew was coming, that fateful goodbye.

“We should steal a boat and sail the seas”, she said.

“I don’t know how to drive a boat. Do you?”

“No but we’ll become pirates and make enough money to hire a captain. Then we can lounge on the deck and be fed. We’ll make a trip of it”

“What’s the plan then?”, he said

“We’ll go where the wind takes us, taking all the gold we can. During the day we’ll catch fish and at night we’ll make love. If we can’t sleep I’ll curl up in your arms and we can count the stars, and we’ll go home as soon as we’ve counted them all.

And they made their imaginary plans, laying fictional paths where they could pretend they had more time. That’s how they spent their last moments, wishing they had more time. Then the bright orange light of their short-lived love started to turn gray until it was completely black. Her face melted into the crowd and he never saw her again.

He thought maybe he could go back there, to the dock, and smile at the pretty lights of the city, and the quiet reflections on the water.

Henry found out she got married recently and was expecting a baby.

He didn’t see the point in going back to the dock anymore.

And that was how the next hours went by for Henry. The whole time holding a spectacular power that came only once in a lifetime, the power to roam freely, unencumbered, and follow his heart’s desires but it had changed nothing. He found a place to go, a magical moment that he held dear in his heart, a sacred moment, a sacred face, and decided against it because the memory was too pure.

And that was how the night went for Henry until the dark became alight with the rising sun and the rosy petal dawn.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw the sunrise sober”, said Henry aloud

He promised himself the next sunrise would be without his faithful friend, the rum, but that day would never come. At the sun’s rising midway through the morning Henry fell into a deep and restless sleep lasting over twelve hours going in and out, drinking more rum and smoking a cigarette before he fell asleep.

He finally decided to get out of bed when it was close to midnight again with his pounding headache and wishing he wasn’t alive. He went to his desk to smoke another cigarette when he saw the note once again, granting him the power to fly.

Leaping from his chair, desperate to do something with his flight he leapt from the window, remembering the time limit, and flew into the night. He finally flew through gentle skies and when his time was up, he closed his eyes and thought of that strong river and the shimmering dock ready for the end.

Jeff looked almost bored on the call with his legal team. Despite having just been told that he was one media cycle away from being the most high profile criminal in the world, he remained collected and just as calm as when we boarded the jet an hour ago. As I typed on my laptop, Epstein looked over to me, put a finger gun to his head, and pulled the fake trigger. He threw his head back, rolled his eyes, and slumped in his seat, all while his lawyers spoke on the other end.

"Ok, Alan," said Epstein. "I'll see you at the arraignment. Give Carolyn my love." He hung up the phone, let out a long sigh and looked to me. "This might be worse than the Miami charges," he said, nodding towards the 1926 Macallan scotch on the top shelf of the planes bar. Called it, I thought as I stood to retrieve the bottle.

I had been Jeffrey Epstein's 'assistant' for six months, but it took me half that time to learn his response to all things, whether slight inconvenience or a significant setback. Have a glass of scotch.

"Henry," he said, as I grabbed the whiskey.

I paused with the bottle in hand. "Yes, sir?"

"Grab two glasses."

Nodding, I grabbed two whiskey tumblers, placed them on the bar, and poured the world's most expensive booze into each glass evenly. The irony of it was not lost on me as I dabbed a single drop of clear liquid into his drink while he looked out the plane's window.

A half-million-dollar bottle of whiskey and he was sharing it with the person that was seconds away from signing his death warrant.

Having spent half a year on this assignment, I grew to know Epstein better than myself. His friendships, business associates, relationships, and of course, his leisurely activities. See, it wasn't the friends or associates that were disenfranchising. I either worked for or had dealings with many of the people in Epstein's social circle. The extracurricular activities are also something you come to expect when you serve in the militant branch of a worldwide cabal of evildoers.

I knew from the time I joined the organization that I'd be involved with the worst kind of people to maintain the order of things, but Epstein took it to another level altogether. Not just how young the girls he chose were, but how often he abused them. Epstein was insatiable. Night after night, a different girl with the same timid and terrified look on her face. The only solace I pulled from the entire six months with him was the fact that I was going to kill him at the end of the operation.

"Here's to real friends," he said, holding up his glass. I obliged and clinked my tumbler to his.

"To real friends, sir," I responded, taking a small sip as I watched him do the same. The scotch had an almost indescribable warmth and after finish. It was amazing. Not something to slam down for a quick buzz, but something to be tasted, to be savored. I was counting on that.

Good, I thought, as I watched him swill the liquid around in his mouth. I needed the compound to enter his system sublingually as opposed to through his stomach. The blood vessels under the tongue made for a much faster distribution route of a toxic agent. I set a timer on my watch for 5 minutes, removed my jacket, loosened my tie, and rolled up my sleeves.

"I might be going to jail for a few months," said Epstein. "But if you want your job when I'm out, then you shouldn't get too comfortable." He dismissively waved his hand at my appearance. "Please don't lose your professionalism just because I shared a glass of high-end scotch with you." He said, taking another sip.

I ignored his suggestion and walked back over to where I had been sitting. I closed my laptop, pulled out my field case, and set it on the table in front of my seat. I took one last gulp of whiskey and then entered the numeric code for the briefcase.

"It's not Jim Beam for fucks sake!" he yelled upon seeing me down my drink. "You're the best assistant I've ever had, but you're showing a real lack of judgment at the moment." Epstein straightened up in his chair and gave me a stern look. "I'm sorry, but are you ignor-"

I held a finger up to my mouth for him to stop talking while I focused on entering the last digit on the metal lock. The latches popped open.

"There," I said. "This combination has always been the same, but I can never remember the damn thing." I shook my head at my own forgetfulness as Epstein continued to give me a bewildered look. I opened the briefcase and began evaluating my inventory as I continued speaking. "Have you ever heard of MKULTRA, Jeff?" Epstein looked even more lost. Opening and closing his mouth to respond, but the words just wouldn't come. I answered for him.

"Everyone has," I said. "Hell, most of the stuff you use on your underaged companions are chemicals that the CIA used in their experiments." I began removing the necessary equipment from my briefcase and carefully set each selected tool on the table. Epstein pressed the call button for the flight attendant when he saw me place a syringe and small vial on the table.

"Your flight attendant hasn't been on this plane since we left the ground, Jeff," I said. He frantically looked towards the cockpit. I held out my hand to signal 'by all means' as his eyes darted from me to the cockpit door and back to me. He didn't waste a second balking at the invitation and immediately attempted to get up. Just as he moved to take his seat belt off, my watch began to beep.

The compound I put in his scotch had spread through his entire system and was evident from his inability to remove his seatbelt. His fingers stupidly fumbled over the metal clasp as he dramatically blinked his eyes, attempting to focus on the menial task at hand.

"Here," I told him. I stood up, reached over, and unlatched his restraint buckle. The moment I sat back down, he shot up from his chair towards the cockpit door, took one step, and collapsed face-first on the carpet. He began to maniacally giggle as he tried lifting his head from the floor. Paralyzed from the neck down, he was only able to raise his head just enough to look my way and rest his face back on the carpet.

"You think a little LS-... LSD isss gonna make me spill my-... spill my-..."

"Guts?" I finished. "No, I don't." I picked up the needle, plunged it into the vial's rubber top, turned the container upside down, and withdrew its contents into the syringe. "Now, assuming you're about to lose all of your speech function, I'll finish what I was saying." I held out my open palm as an invite for him to keep speaking, but Epstein remained like a corpse. His mouth agape, saliva flowing freely from his bottom lip, forming a puddle on the ground. "I thought as much,"

Epstein's body remained motionless, but his eyes never stopped following my movements. I pulled a knife from my briefcase and knelt next to him. Upon seeing the blade in my hand, he began to protest with guttural grunts.

I grabbed his jacket sleeve at the wrist and ran the blade across it vertically, stopping at his shoulder. I tore the jacket and shirt under it open, exposing the bare skin on his arm. I sat the knife back on the table, grabbed the syringe, flicked it to expel any bubbles, and buried it into his upper arm's muscle. The liquid gradually disappeared as I slowly pressed down on the plunger with my thumb. I capped the needle, placed it back into my case, and carefully pulled out an old leather book with runes etched into the book's front.

"As I was attempting to state earlier, you seem familiar with MKULTRA. I'm sure LSD and a handful of psychotropic drugs make for amiable victims and fuzzy witnesses in the courtroom." I opened the leather book and began searching for the appropriate page. "What you probably aren't overly familiar with is project MKOFTEN." I looked over the top of the book to see Epstein still conscious but paralyzed.

"MKOFTEN was on track to be the CIA's most significant discovery, but they shut it all down. Christians in the government weren't big fans of Uncle Sam using the powers of darkness as a weapon, nor were they thrilled about the government's entanglement with the occult in any way."

I came to the chapter I had been searching for and carefully scanned the dead language on the pages.

"If you shut something down because it's doomed to fail, then that's one thing, but shutting it down because it's doomed to succeed? That's myopic cowardice." I looked down to Epstein to see his eyes rolling into the back of his head. I reached my leg towards his head and tapped his face with the sole of my shoe. "No, no," I said. "You have to be somewhat conscious for this part."

Epstein groaned as his eyes came back into focus. I continued silently mouthing the incantations to practice before reading the spell aloud. Over and over, I silently mouthed the writing to myself. Latin was already a challenging language for me, and I had seen what happens when a word was misread during a summoning spell. Add that to the fact we were flying in a pressurized metal tube at thirty-eight thousand feet, and I was taking zero chances. Despite Epstein's many sins, I still pitied him for what he was about to endure. The home office referred to them as Interdimensional beings, or IDB's, but I just called them what they were. Demons.

See, I've never personally bought into the "interdimensional beings" rhetoric, and that's what makes me so proficient at my work. I don't treat these practices, spells, or things like some science experiment. I treat all of it with reverence, and I never take pleasure in doing it. Demon possession is not only physically painful but the absolute peak of mental torture. The entity that takes over your body can see every aspect of your mind, and you can see every aspect of theirs. That's where the whole 'mind meld' term starts getting tossed around, but in reality, it's not some mutual partnership between the possessor and the possessed.

The IDB enters the subject's mind, takes the proverbial wheel, and calls the shots until it's task is complete. Let's say someone has a dozen caches of incriminating information on high powered individuals. If we can isolate that individual and incapacitate them without physical harm, they then become prime hosts for an IDB.

Again, I state. It's a demon I'm referring to, not a trained soldier. They only follow orders because they're bound to do so, and if those bindings are even a little loose, it's bad news for everyone involved. So as I read, I did so loudly and slowly, enunciating each syllable, carefully finishing each sentence. The lights in the cabin began to flicker, the bottles and glasses behind the bar started to rattle, and the entire plane began to shudder.

I read the last line of Latin on the page, and the lights went out altogether. The engines briefly sputtered, and the plane began to dip. Just as I started to think I had messed up the spell, the engines powered back up, and the lights came back on to reveal an empty spot on the floor where Epstein had been laying. I turned to see him standing behind the bar, mixing himself a drink. He looked up with a deadpan expression and met my gaze.

"Everything you need is on three separate thumb drives," he said in a monotone voice. "One is on his yacht, one is at the house in New Jersey, and the last is on his private island."

"Perfect," I said. "As always I thank you for your time, I know it's valuable."

"Will there be anything else?" It asked.

"A month from now, Mr. Epstein will give into despair from the weight of the charges against him and hang himself."

It nodded and walked back over to where Epstein had been sitting. It calmly swirled the liquid around in its glass and looked out the window at the lights below. I had spent six months as Jeffrey Epstein's assistant, and I can honestly say I preferred the company of an actual demon.

(The first chapter)

____The Voices____

Fact 1: I Am Dead

Summer 2019

I felt a sudden, strange desire to look into the pale yellow cereal box.

Crazy, right?

No, I’m not crazy. At this point, however, I’m not exactly sure who I was trying to convince. My mom? Maybe.

My dad? Hell no.

Myself? Absolutely.

So there I was, 8:00 in the morning, looking at the box of cereal as though I had plunged 1,000 miles under the sea to locate this lost box of treasure. Finally, after all these years, here it sat in front of me. On the breakfast table--on a dull gray Tuesday.

“Danny?” I startled at the sound of my name. “What are you doing up so early?” I turned to see my mom in her pink bathrobe, a deep yawn escaping as she stared down at me from the doorway. Her eyes darted from me, back to the ominous yellow cereal box, and back to me again.

“Oh, you know,” I said dismissively and tossed my hair up into a loose ponytail and rose from the table, “early bird.” I let my voice trail off, hoping to end the conversation at that.

Her brow furrowed and I saw the skepticism in her eyes. “What’s the worm?” She asked, ignoring my attempt to escape. She dragged herself into the kitchen and began punching buttons on the coffee maker.

“Cross country.” I handed her a mug. World’s Greatest Dad. I liked that irony, and if she noticed she didn’t say anything.

“It’s July. The season hasn’t started, has it?”

“Never too early.” I winked, threw on my pair of muddy trainers, and darted out of the house for a jog. I heard her mutter something behind me, and we both knew I was lying. As I looked over my shoulder, I saw her grab my empty cereal bowl and toss it into the sink. I wondered what she was thinking . . .

***

“Dr Sheppard.” A smooth, relaxed voice swam through the speakers of my earbuds and pooled straight into my ears, a private conversation.

“They’re back,” I announced breathlessly, pacing at a light jog out of our driveway and onto Swifthill Street. The perfectly manicured lawns and block houses of Little Anchor bobbed by in my peripheral.

“Ah, good morning Danika.” I liked that my therapist still called me by my full name. It wasn’t that he didn’t know me well enough to call me Danny like the rest of the world or that he felt like we didn’t have that kind of simple dynamic, which we did, but it sent a message. It said that he took me seriously--that I wasn’t Danny, a crazy kid with a warped imagination.

I panted into the phone. “And good morning back to you. Did you know the average tusk of an elephant is about 2 meters long and weighs about 50 pounds--”

“Let’s not do these phone games today, k?”

I slowed my jog to halt, pulled air into my lungs, and wiped the sweat from my forehead. That is one thing I didn’t like. I liked my facts. I liked talking about things that were true when things that weren’t so true began clawing into the shadows of my mind--like voices from a cereal box. At least when I could state true facts there was some weight, some density or truth, to my own existence. My reality has some truth when there were things that I could promise were true. I wasn’t exactly sure why Dr. Sheppard didn’t like that method.

“I’m glad you called me,” he said slowly, patiently. “And I know when you start telling me these fun facts that something not so fun happened today.”

“You gave me your cell for a reason,” I retort defensively.

“I did.”

“To call you when things get . . .” I searched for the right word, “fuzzy.”

“That’s correct.”

“Okay, well, good. Now that we’re on the same page . . .” I kicked small pebbles into a sewage drain nearby. A slow, rattling breath escaped the street’s lungs from its thin and open mouth. I turned rigidly back to my walk, pretending I didn’t hear it. “Yeah, so, anyway . . . I wanted a bowl of Cheerios this morning.”

“I’m not a grocery delivery service, Danika.”

“How do you still have a license?” I laughed. I felt a bit more relaxed. I sat on the grassy curb and took a deep breath. “I heard voices. From inside the box.”

“And what were they saying?”

I could hear his pen scrawl across a notepad on the other end. I didn’t like that either. I knew he was a therapist, but I really just wanted a friend who I could tell my “crazy” stories to. Who I could confide in without them putting it online or announcing it to the whole school. I needed someone who wasn’t my mom or dad who would get nervous when I tell them my situation and report me to the police or some institution in the city. I just needed someone who knew that I was just a normal 16 year old girl with a few quirks that needed to be worked out day to day. I was also desperately hoping for some advice.

At my pause, I heard him put down his pen. A soft tut echoed into the phone. “We have to talk about these auditory hallucinations.”

“We are,” I forced through gritted teeth. “We are right now.”

“You have to tell me what they’re saying. If you don’t start telling me, they’ll make you start calling Dr. Zachary. These talks are supposed to help you.”

Okay, Dr. Zachary was a low blow. He knew I didn’t like my psychiatrist. We had never really hit it off, but I had to hand it to him--the man’s a genius. He was a Swiss man whose brain I imagined full of gears and mechanisms that worked solely to provide solutions. I could almost see them moving when he spoke to me. And to be honest, he had made a lot of progress with me, but God did I hate talking to him. He was dull and monotonous and took my jokes seriously. I had to kind of change who I was to talk to him. It helped clinically, I guess. I was a robot who delivered my problem, and he climbed in with his tools and fixed me. But Dr. Sheppard gave me the chance to talk as me. Sarcasm, inconvenience, raw. He was an okay dude--you know, for someone who could talk to teenagers all day.

But there were still some things I didn’t like telling him. Like what the voices said to me. Even though he knew I had some issues, he thought I was an alright 17 year old who needed a few tweeks. What he didn’t know, however, was what the voices used to tell me to do. That would change our dynamic and how I was able to confide in him. How I could call him up at 8 AM on a random July Tuesday and complain about my breakfast talking to me. Or how I could bitch about my dad or his new girlfriend, or how I was forced to go to a baby shower for a baby that my mom desperately wanted, but wasn’t hers. How Elaina got the perfect chubby prince that my mom once begged for. Dad absolutely beamed at his newer, younger woman holding their son in the hospital as though she was able to produce something for him my mom never could.

I felt my throat getting tight. “They just started telling me the weather,” I lied.

“Like Google?” I could hear his skepticism miles away.

I let out a deep, rattled sigh. “Like Google.”

“Ah.” I heard him scribble a few more notes. “How is everything else?” I could sense something else was bothering him.

I pulled a blade of grass from the earth next to me and thread it back and forth through my fingers. This I could talk about. This was my chance to let it out, all of it. Everything I had been feeling that I couldn’t talk about with anyone else--certainly not the kids at Williams. Those judgmental shits knew everything about my life--my dad, Elaina, Triston . . . “Crappy,” I finally said as an image of his perfectly tanned face ran through my mind. “Really crappy.” My chest tightened once again, and a heavy feeling of ice dropped into the pit of my stomach. It made it hard to breathe thinking about the two of them. Still, months later, I couldn’t quite process everything.

“Multiple choice?”

“You got it.” I leaned back on my elbows and thought for a minute. I cleared my throat and spoke in my best academic voice. “These series of events are troubling a maladjusted teen. Select the letter that coordinates with the most relevant: Is it A, Dad requests teen at bridal shower; B, Mom insists that said teen go to inappropriate bridal shower; C,Triston is now dating Ashley who lives literally 3 blocks from me; or D, Teen’s cereal told her it would be a perfectly warm, dry Tuesday?”

I lied about the last part.

“Is there an E?”

I nod even though he couldn’t see me and gave an mhmm through the phone.

“Okay E.”

“Yeah . . . all of the above.”

I heard a woman’s voice from the other end. “Your client is ready.”

“I have to go, Danika. Listen to you cereal--it’s the first dry day since Saturday. Enjoy it. Get some sun. It’ll be good for you.”

We hung up, and I slid my phone into my back pocket. Other than talking to Dr. Sheppard, I hated my phone. It brought all of the bad news--my social media was flooded with pictures of Triston and Ashley; my dad and soon to be step mom texted me annoying little good morning’s and can’t wait to see you’s!. Like I actually wanted to be forced to go there every other weekend.

Then there was all of the messages from my “friends” at Williams who wanted to know all of the juicy details about the break up, and then those who absolutely loved Ms. Lawrence AKA Elaina, and wanted to know all those juicy details. I hated it. Somehow my dad could date my French teacher, then have a baby with her, and then expect us to be friends. C’est la vie and here we come Dr. Phil.

I stopped suddenly in my train of thought as a glimmer of white and silver flashed in front of me. No, it couldn’t be . . . My heart dropped and I quickly threw my head to the side, shielding my face from view from the house across the street. Triston had just pulled into the driveway of the house across the street from me in his white Jeep Wrangler with silver accents. Until now, I hadn’t realized exactly where I had stopped. The beautiful white brick ranch home in front of me was Ashley’s. And I, looking even crazier than I felt, was sitting outside facing it with no particular purpose.

What had I been thinking? How could I have possibly stopped here, of all places, in front of Ashley Benton’s home? And what the hell was Triston doing here? Okay, I accept it, they’re dating now and I get that. But at 8:00 on a Tuesday? I couldn’t get that boy to text me back before noon as he got ready for his shift at the beach. Triston was a lifeguard, how typical. Long, lean, tan, wavy brown hair kissed with highlights from the sun, perfectly weird birthmark above his right shoulder. . .of course he was a lifeguard. Come on now, be original. At least shake it up and date the girl with the therapist.

Now my hand was covering the part of my face that he would have been able to see, but I couldn’t help but peek. I spread my fingers just enough to get a glimpse of him as he crawled out of his jeep, biceps tightening as he lifted himself out. He was wearing his usual (when he wasn’t in academy attire)--a tank and board shorts, and as the door opened from the Benton house, I saw a wide smile break across his face. He beamed across the walkway at Ashley as she pulled open the large oak door, and he actually glowed. Vomit.

Ashley wore a sundress with a smile already painted on her perfectly made up face. Her skin looked like a fresh new copper penny, smooth and shining in the early summer sun. She had sleek, dark hair and cinnamon eyes. That’s weird, I know, but the tiny specks of brown that decorated her irises always reminded me of warm cinnamon. They were welcoming and gorgeous.

She beamed up at him as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in for a hug. All of this seemed to happen in slow motion, although my hallucinations don’t work that way, so I knew this was real and that was just my jealousy playing with time. Sometimes I really wish I could pick and choose my hallucinations.

Mrs. Benton came out of the house and handed her daughter a white envelope. They began to talk, and curiosity gripped me. I strained to listen but couldn’t make out what they were saying, just mumbles of speech making made its way across the street. Ashley had a cream soda in her hand, brightly manicured fingernails wrapped around the pale glass, and the three of them stood in the driveway like they had known each other their whole lives. It looked so natural, and yet to me it this picture was all wrong.

They talked for a moment before Triston and Ashley turned to leave. And that’s when they saw me.

I wouldn’t have been hard to miss--it’s hard to overlook someone sitting right across the street from your house, let alone your ex and longtime best friend. It felt like ice had dropped into the pit of my stomach and I immediately felt my face grow burning hot. Why hadn’t I escaped while I had the chance? I couldn’t answer that . . . I guess I was just too mesmerized by the site of them--my best friend and who I thought was the love of my life . . .

I stood up slowly, my jelly legs glued to the ground. While my body was still, a thousand scenarios raced through my mind on how to get out of there, out of this situation and far away, but I couldn’t encourage my body to act on any of them. Sweat pooled at my upper lip.

Several scenarios flashed through my mind in a millisecond, and I had only a second to choose one of them to help me in this situation where I was standing outside my ex’s girlfriend’s house--I really hated the way that sounded.

I thought about running away, awkward and conspicuous but safely away from this mortifying situation; I thought about waving cheerily and making small talk, bringing up some clever fact and entertaining them with my witty humor; I thought about pulling my phone to my ear in a fake conversation, throwing a casual wave in their direction, perhaps fooling them but probably not, sort of settling between my first two options of bumbling stalker and chipper talk show host. But what came to fruition was just me standing there, pale and stiff, like a statue while staring blankly ahead.

“Danny?” Triston squinted against the morning sun trying to make out if it was really me. He put his hand up to his forehead like a visor. “Is that you?”

I started to speak, but my lips were numb. Instead of a coherent thought, a garble of half speech escaped my lips. Ashley offered an unsure smile, and it made my stomach churn.

“Danny, hi!” Mrs. Benton called. A warm smile spread across her face, and she waved enthusiastically. Mrs.Benton had always been one of my biggest fans, a second mom to me growing up, and she acted as if nothing about this situation was weird or awkward. I always think it’s funny how adults are completely oblivious to teenage drama--friends fighting, boyfriends cheating, they act like it’s “kid stuff.” But when they go through it . . . watch out. Still, I was grateful for her warmth and normalcy. It sort of took all of the attention off of me looking like a creepy stalker.

I returned her greeting and allowed myself a smile. I had no problem with Mrs.Benton, and I still missed being perched on a barstool, leaned across the island in her kitchen at 4 AM poring over the details of my parents’ failed marriage while she baked snickerdoodles. Even when Ashley was asleep, Mrs.Benton was there to listen. She gave some advice, but mostly she cooked pasta or baked cookies or put on a recorded Christmas Hallmark movie and offered my hot chocolate while I put it all out on the table.

An awkward silence followed, and I fumbled for words to explain the situation. “I was just tying my shoes,” I stutter awkwardly, but continue with more confidence. “Out for a run . . . got to keep in shape for cross country. Coach has us doing morning miles to track progress.” The lie spilled right out of me and to be honest, I was a little impressed. I knew they didn’t buy it, they knew I wasn’t on the team anymore, but I was on the verge of thinking their truth was probably better than mine: they thought I was stalking them while in reality I was having a mental breakdown.

I noticed I was still waving and slowly put my hand down.

“Tell you mom I say hi,” Mrs. Benton concluded, still smiling. I know she still saw me as the 6 year old little girl who used to ring her doorbell to play with her daughter--the same girl who would escape her to her tree house when things got tough. I liked how Mrs.Benton saw me. In a way, it kept that part of me alive. Young and innocent.

“I will.” With the image of Mrs. Benton smiling and Ashley and Triston staring dumbstruck, I took off down the street at a light jog, appearing as normal as I could, glancing down at my smart watch as if tracking my time. It wasn’t until 4 blocks later that I realized I was still wearing my pajamas.

The Voices

Young Adult Suspense/Mystery/Thriller

Ages 14+

79,000 words

Katherine Harner

This story weaves an engaging tale using unique text structure, an unreliable narrator that you can't help but root for, and a mystery that invites the reader to help solve. This story is told posthumously from the point of view of Danny Foster, a high school senior who suffers from auditory hallucinations.

Following a series of deaths in her small New England town, Danny Foster is becoming a prime suspect due to questionable alibis and her connection to each of the victims. Now she must manage the voices in her head in order to solve the mystery before she is indicted on murder charges--or worse, ends up dead herself. While seeing a world-renowned Swiss psychiatrist who explains that her symptoms are intensified by stress, her parents' divorce, her dad’s inappropriate affair, and her break up with her long-term boyfriend prove to make Danny's hallucinations exceptionally worse. Despite beginning a medication that appeared to help, , the discovery of her childhood friend’s body on the jagged rocks of Point Beach change everything. Soon enough, all eyes are on Danny due to their recent fight. Danny tries desperately to hide the voices but this proves hard when her alibis start to have holes in them and is made much worse when another student is found dead in the same location just weeks later. This questionably unreliable narrator has you guessing who the killer could be, and if it could be her.

This colorful cast of characters will have you falling in love with their quirks, laughing at inappropriate moments, and also feeling the ultimate tragedy the ending has to offer.

I am very excited to invite you to read this novel! I have had a passion for creativity and writing my whole life, I have taught Creative Writing over the course of the last 6 years and after years of coaching writers, I am thrilled to put my own work out there.

The anticipated audience would be teens and yound adults.

June 1918

The Belleau Woods was the last battle of the Great War. American and Allied forces pushed against the German might as the allies advance towards Berlin. Both sides were locked in a stalemate, and either side knew that taking the woods would be a game-changer. History says the Marines defeated the Germans in what was called one of the bloodiest and most ferocious battles U.S. forces would fight in the war. What they don’t tell you is how.

Deep in the woods, the German soldiers dug in a defensive line between them and the Americans. For the next several hours, the men waited for their enemy to strike. For the past several days, they and the Americans had engaged in brutal close-quarter fighting. Both sides suffered heavy casualties. Something needed to happen to end the stalemate. The German command decided to set up machine-gun posts and artillery to defend against the Americans. As the Germans prepared, many men felt something watching them. Not by the Americans, but something else. As night approached, everyone got settled in the trenches and hunkered down for the night. The date was June 7th.

Not wanting to take any chances, the commander placed sentries along with the machine gun nest. At one post, brothers Peter and Randolf took turns operating the machine gun. Peter was the older brother and had enlisted as soon as Germany declared war. Randolf had recently finished his basic training and requested to join his brother’s unit. As they monitored their position, Peter decided to take a smoke break and leave his younger brother in charge.

“How can you smoke at a time like this?” Randolf rested his head against the butt of the gun. “It helps calm my nerves. Everyone is on edge. We haven’t seen the Americans for some time now. It’s unsettling.” Peter lit a cigarette.

“I agree, we’ve only heard those verdammt (damn) howls these past few nights. I thought there weren’t any wolves in these woods.” Peter takes another puff of the cigarette before tossing it on the ground.

“Looks like the Americans weren’t the only ones with bad intelligence.” As they talked amongst themselves, the brothers were unaware. Something was stalking the Germans. Something hungry for blood.

Suddenly, Peter heard rustling coming from the bushes. He grabbed his rifle and positioned himself next to his brother. “Did you hear that,” said Randolf. His finger was already on the trigger of the machine gun. Peter slowed his breathing and waited again to hear the noise. After a minute goes by, nothing. He couldn’t see anything in front of them because it was so dark. He then began to think that it’s his imagination. Then he heard that sound again, this time stronger and louder. Aiming, Peter was about to fire until he listened to the eerie sound of a loud howl. This deep howling caught them off guard, and from the darkness, two glowing eyes emerge.

“Peter, what the hell is that?” whispered Randolf. Fear was beginning to take hold of him. Placing a hand on his shoulder, Peter tried to calm his brother.

“I don’t know, but we’re safe. Whatever that thing is, it has to go through a hail of bullets before it gets to us. Besides, Mom would kill me if something happened to you.” Randolf chuckled a bit, still uneasy about the eyes in front of them.

They weren’t the only ones who saw red in the night. All along the German line, men began shouting. Some said the eyes were to the east; others claimed they were coming from the west. This constant state of fear began to take hold of them. The night was long, and the torment was just beginning.

One soldier climbed up over the trenches to investigate. His friends handed him a dimly lit lantern to see. Walking a few steps forward, his hands began to tremble. His breath becomes erratic. Questions of doubt fill his mind. As he descended further into the darkness, he shined the light into the woods. Seeing nothing, he turned around and began to walk away. Suddenly he smelled a foul order from behind. He turned his head slightly over his right shoulder and felt something breathing down his neck. Petrified, his limbs go numb, and in an instant, he is violently pulled into the darkness, dropping the lantern. From the trenches, the others heard the piercing sounds of a struggle. Just then, a cry of despair filled the night. The sound of tearing flesh, bones breaking, and the wailing of their young comrade echoed through the night. The lingering and nauseating sounds were too much to bear. They all felt helpless. Whatever strength they had, it was taken over by absolute fear. As the cries ceased, an unsettling silence took over the trenches. Everyone held their breath.

“What’s that coming from the trees?” Everyone looked ahead and saw a large shadow approaching them. Suddenly, the dark figure emerged. It was taller than a man, covered in matted fur, walked upright, mouth full of fangs, small pointed ears, massive forearms, and bear-like hands and feet with excessively, curved claws. The beast’s fur was covered in blood and clutched in its right paw was the soldier’s half-eaten head. The creature tosses it back to the German soldiers before giving an evil chuckle as it melts away into the night.

No one wanted to go over and get the head as fear took hold of them. So the head just lay there, looking at them with its glossy eyes. Eyes full of immense anxiety.

Randolf was beyond scared; he was mortified. Nothing in his basic training had prepared them for this. Peter was also terrified. He had already seen many horrors during his time in the unit. What had just transpired was something else altogether, something unnatural.

“No one goes to sleep,” someone shouted in the trenches. “We need to remain vigilant at all times. Check your ammo and fix bayonets. We’re in for a fight now, boys.” Peter, Randolf, and others fixed bayonets and gathered all the ammo they had left. With every man waiting for the command to attack, Peter knew that this battle would not only decide the fate of the war but theirs as well.

“Any sign of them?” said Randolf sheepishly. Peter shakes his head. Since the recent sighting, it has been almost five hours of torment for the men. No one got any sleep for fear of being dragged away in the middle of the night. Peter had gone through all his cigarettes and has resorted to chewing on pieces of cigarette cartons to calm him. It was now early morning, June 8th, and dawn was fast approaching. Peter knew something had to happen. Whatever they saw and heard last night, those creatures would attack soon. However, after getting no sleep, he feels his eyes slowly drooping. Before he drifts off, he hears the snap of a fallen branch a hundred yards away from them. He jerks his head up and looks in the direction of the sound.

It is at this moment that he sees what has been tormenting him and his men. Across the German line, past a few trees was the outline of dark wolf-like creature slowly approaching them. Grabbing his rifle, he nudges his brother.

“Randolf, I see one. Behind the trees, a couple of yards away. Pass the word along.” Randolf quietly leaves his machine gun and spreads the word all along with their position. Slowly placing a round in the chamber, Peter sets his sights on his target. Looking down the rifle sight, he rests his finger on the trigger, waiting for the right moment. Randolf rushes back to his brother and stations himself on the machine gun.

“Everyone’s ready. On your command.”

“Good, because as soon as I fire, they are coming at us head-on. Once that happens, all the wrath of hell will be upon us.”

“Do you have a plan, then?”

“If we get overrun, get out of the trenches and make for the forest’s edge behind us.”

“Alright then,” said Randolf calmly. “On your mark.” As the creature moves into Peter’s line of sight, he pulls the trigger and fires off a round from his rifle. “Ich habe dich Jetzt Dämon” (I have you now, demon). The bullet zips through the morning air and hits it target dead square in the head. It did nothing but cause the beast to YELP and jerk backward a bit. Quickly reloading another round in, Peter and others hear a blood-curdling roar echo throughout the forest. Before any have a chance to react, ten black figures come bursting through the trees and charge them. Blood and fury were in the air.

Without hesitation, Peter and Randolf begin firing their weapons.

“Offenes Feuer!” yelled Peter. Soon everyone was firing off rifles and machine guns, creating a hail of bullets in front of them. Some soldiers even managed to throw a couple of grenades, adding more destruction. As the fury of bullets and grenades barrage the attackers, Randolf notices that some of the beasts start dying. The young brother believes that they are winning. The other soldiers begin to see this, too, and stop firing. With smoke emanating from their guns and the beasts all lying dead, the young soldiers all begin to cheer. They had defeated their enemies. Randolf joins in the celebration.

However, Peter was not celebrating. Something was not sitting right with the older brother. This victory felt too easy. While everyone was cheering, Peter takes his rifle and goes to inspect the area where these creatures are. Kneeling beside the few dead and bullet-riddled carcasses, he notices in the soft soil, paw tracks of many many more going in different directions. “Where are the others?” He follows the roads in the path leading away from their position. The tracks are big. Very big like a bear would be but not as deep in the dirt. These creatures are fast and smart. It’s here that Peter begins to put it all together. They only sent a few to bait them. That means there’s still more out there—more watching them.

Suddenly, Peter hears a faint howling in the distance. Eyes widen with shock as the realization dawns on him. “Sie stehen hinter uns!” (They’re behind us). Running back to his men as fast as he can, he prays they are still alive. As he makes it back to their defensive line, he sees everyone was still celebrating. Firing his rifle in the air, he shouts at the others, trying to get their attention.

Sadly it was too late. Emerging from the trees behind them were the remaining beasts. Before they knew it, the monsters were among them. Chaos and destruction envelop them. Fearing for his brother, Peter runs over to their foxhole but does not find him. Terror was taking over him as he desperately searches for his brother. From behind, he hears the screams of men being torn to pieces. Making his way to the far end of the trenches, he finds two traumatized, and numb souls huddled together between a smoking machine gun and ammo crates. Their faces, pale as bed sheets, gave empty blanket stares.

“Has anyone seen Randolf?” said Peter, trying to catch his breath. One soldier, trying to gather his words, said he saw one of the creatures drag him away, still putting up a fight. Peter’s heart sank. He had failed to keep his brother safe.

“What do we do?” whimpered one soldier. Turning his head back around, Peter knew the beasts would return, hungry for survivors. They needed a plan, an escape plan. One of the men stuttered out, “The trucks, they’re back at the camp. If we can reach them, we can escape.”

“How!? We won’t make it in time,” said the other. Opening a box of Stein Grenades, he clips as many has he could around his belt. As the two look in confusion, Peter explains his plan to them. “I’ll cause a distraction and lead them away from the trenches. Once I’m gone, go and get to the trucks as fast as you can and get out of here.”

“What about you?” Peter chambers another round into his rifle. “I’ll be fine, just wait for my signal.” Taking a deep breath, he hurls himself over trenches and into the open field. Grabbing two from his waist, he removes the safety pin and throws them in different directions. The explosions grab the beasts’ attention. Grinning like a madman, he shouts at them.

“Hier drüben seid ihr bastarde!” (Over here you bastards!). Peter fires off a round into the air. And just as quickly, the beasts all begin to charge towards him. Seeing this as the signal, the remaining soldiers immediately leave the trenches to run back to camp. With the others gone, Peter runs deep into the dense forest. Ducking over branches and jumping over fallen trees, he yells at the top of his lungs, still keeping the beasts’ attention. Throwing the last of his grenades, Peter stumbles over rock and tumbles down a slight hill. Landing hard on his back, he lifts his head and sees a jeep with a white star on the door. Scrambling to his feet, he discovers that he is in the American encampment. However, something about the camp was bizarre. All the equipment was still here. Guns, tents, medical supplies, everything was still here, except for soldiers. Where were the Americans? As he searches the area, he enters the officer’s tent and finds a classified document titled: OPERATION LYCAN. Opening the tan file, he began to read and discovered the horrifying truth. Finding himself invested in the information, he failed to pick up a familiar foul odor.

“Aren’t we nosey,” said a deep voice. Peter quickly turns around and sees the leader of the beasts with his men behind him. Here, Peter was able to get a full view of what had been attacking his fellow men. It had a sizeable wolf-like head with small straight ears, a broad chest, massive paws, and a large mouth that exposed huge teeth. Its fur was red and had a white streak down the back. He quickly recognized who it was, the familiar red stained fur. Peter glares at the monster as it calmly picks bits of flesh from his teeth.

“What the hell are you?” shouts Peter. The beast looks at him, smiles wickedly, and shows a pair of dog tags around his neck. He rips them off and tosses them at the German. Catching them, it read:

ROBERT H. HOMES

AKA “BIG BAD WOLF”

USMC

“That’s impossible,” said Peter. He told himself this couldn’t be true. But it was. Throwing the tags aside, he looks at the wolf directly in the eyes. “So, what happens now?”

“My men have already seen to your friends’ demise, you’ve lost, German.” The wolf laughs evilly.

“So this is how it ends?” says Peter.

“For you, that is. We won.” Peter shakes his head to the wolf.

“Not yet you haven’t, I’m still alive. And from what I gather, you seem to be the alpha. I kill you, and your wolves will be leaderless.” The mighty wolf chuckled at Peter’s threat. As he sets himself on all fours, he gives one last remark to the young soldier.

“Tell me, German, do you even know how to kill us?”

Peter clutches his rifle tightly in his hands, eyes full of rage. Before he charges, he answered the beast’s question.

“I’m gonna cut your damn head off, see if that works.”

Hours after the battle of Belleau Woods, the two survivors escaped the forest and made their way back to German command. When asked what happened, the young soldiers stuttered out a single phrase.

“Höllenhundes.”

HellHounds.

TITLE: Hell Hounds

GENRE: Historical Fiction, Horror

Age Range: 18+

Word Count: 2644

Author Name: Gabriel Garcia

Reason: It is something unique that will grab readers of the horror genre and those who enjoy history.

Hook/Synopsis: In the finals months of the Great War, a band of German soldiers must fight on the defensive as they are besieged by creatures long thought to be myths.

Target Audience: Young adults

Bio: I am a college graduate. I have studied abroad in China during my undergrad. I have a passion for writing. While I am a novice writer, I consider myself to be a storyteller.

Platform: Instagram-Arbiter283, Inkitt-Gabriel14

Education: College degree BA, in the process of earning masters in History

Experience: Amateur/novice writer

Personality/writing style: My writing style is a mix of descriptive and narrative. I enjoy reading historical fiction and listening to music. I would describe myself as a person who is easy going and fun to be around.

Hobbies: I am a fan of DC, Assassins Creed, and Star Wars, and much more. I like to write historical fiction, sci-fi, thriller, adventure, etc.

Hometown: San Jacinto, CA

Age: 24

Driving home for Christmas takes an unexpected turn.

Figured the drive from Key West to Shepherdsville, Kentucky, would be about 1,200 miles (plus or minus) and take about four days—with stops in Miami, Tampa, Gainesville, Atlanta, and Nashville. Then I’d head home to St. Louis and spend Christmas with mom.

Subsidized the trip by sharing my dirt-brown Dodge work-van with a hodge-podge of fellow travelers. Each had a bit o’ money but—for one reason or another—didn’t want to take public transportation. Why? Maybe they weren’t people-persons. Maybe, just plain cheap. Or on-the-run. Didn’t know. Didn’t care. They had cash; I didn’t.

Spent the last of my personal fortune preparing for the trip: gassing up the van, cleaning it inside-out, changing oil, replacing two tires, and the driver’s-side windshield-wiper. Then installed brand new tail-lights to prevent over-eager cops from pulling me over with the old “tail-light’s out” trick—thinking I was a doper cause o’ my long hair. Nope. No way. I’m a beer guy—like any good drywall-hanger would be. (Dopers may be cool, but they ain’t worth crap on a construction site.)

First pick-up was Michelle, a waitress at Sloppy Joe’s Bar, famous for its Ernest Hemingway Look-Alike contest. (Entered once; didn’t win.)

Michelle’s a little-bitty thing. Looks like she’s 12; she’s actually 23. Cusses like a sailor. Tattoos up and down both arms. And she’s handy with a knife in more ways than one: from whittlin’ to throwin’ and everthin’ in-between. (Admired that.) We dated a couple of times. Stopped. No spark. But we both liked heavy metal, so we had that goin’ for us.

Michelle, who everybody called Mickey cause of her squeaky voice, would ride with me the longest: She was goin’ to see family in Tennessee. She brought along a grocery bag filled with her favorite 8-tracks: Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, Kiss. Stuff like that. But no Alice Cooper.

“Guy’s a joke,” I told her. “He plays golf!”

Bobby Johnson was the second pick-up but the shortest ride. Bob free-lanced as a professional courier. Great job, driving cars from one city to another. Got started with his dad who had GM dealerships in Miami, Jacksonville, and Tampa. Pappy let him deliver vehicles to earn a few bucks. Worked out well for Bob. Still working out. Arrogant son-of-a-bitch, but fun as a puppy.

“I’ll settle down someday,” he’d say. “But not anytime soon.”

Why? Girl-in-every-port. That sort of thing. Always had money. Sometimes a bunch of money. Too much money? Come on. Can you ever really have too much? Did he get it all from Pappy. I doubt it. But, then, that wasn’t any of my business, was it?

Bobby was hoppin’ out in Miami, where he had a driving gig lined up. I’d replace Bobby with a friend of his heading for Gainesville, but on the way had to pick up a lady in Tampa goin’ to Atlanta. Then there was some college kid name Ted in Gainesville who’d jump ship in Atlanta and hitch-hike to Alabama. Don’t remember where. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t going there. He was.

When I pulled into Sloppy Joe’s parking lot, Mickey was standing beside a beat-up suitcase and holding her grocery bag of music. Beside her was some wiry-lookin’ dude draggin’ a duffle bag. From his buzz-cut and boots, figured he was a veteran. Jarhead, probably.

“What’s goin’ on Mickey?” I asked.

“Fella here needs a ride,” she squeaked. “Name’s Doyle.”

“Cash ’n’ carry,” I said.

“Can pay ya when we get to Tampa, sir,” said Doyle.

“No can do, stud,” I said. “Cash ’n’ carry, like everybody else. Them’s the rules.”

“You got somethin’ against vets,” he said.

“Nope,” I said. “Served in the Navy.”

“You got something against blacks?”

“Nope,” I said. “Got something against anything that’s not green—as in money. Besides, lady I’m pickin’ up in Tampa is black—but she pre-paid.”

Doyle’s jaw tightened. Didn’t know if he was gonna cuss or cry. Turned out he was gonna cry.

Crap.

“Listen. I’m not tryin’ to be a hard-ass. Tell ya what let’s do: I’ll take you to a truck-stop near Homestead. You catch a ride from there to anywhere you wanna go. Fair enough?”

Doyle stared at me. His jaw slackened.

“Fair enough,” he said, real quiet-like.

Reminded me of that lion and mouse story—you know the one: Lion gets a thorn stuck in his paw. Mouse pulls it out. They become best buddies. Everybody lives happy ever after.

Doyle hopped in the van. Mickey was already in dream-land. (That gal falls asleep lickety-split.) Bobby was the next pick-up. Pulled into his hotel’s parking lot. He got in. Nothin’ real unusual (no hangers-on, like with Doyle) though ol’ Bob had more baggage than expected—three, and one of them was extra-large.

Next stop: Homestead.

* * *

Starkey’s wasn’t the biggest truck-stop in South Florida, but it was clean, served up great coffee, and cheap food. Plus, it had free showers. Gave Doyle a fiver in case he got stuck there a day or two. Was ready to pull out when Bobby yells from the back.

“I gotta use the payphone!”

Crap!

“OK, but make it fast,” I said, upset this trip already had a couple of hiccups—an uninvited passenger and an unscheduled stop.

Minutes later, Bobby returned, but without the little bag he’d taken with him.

“Change of plans,” he says, leaning halfway into the van. “Pappy’s sendin’ a car for me.”

“Well, ain’t givin’ you no refund.”

Bobby laughed, pulled a wad of cash from his jacket, and handed me a couple o’ Jacksons.

“My favorite president,“ I said, smilin’.

Bobby laughed, gave me a thumbs-up, and strolled back to the truck-stop. Didn’t know that would be the last time I’d see him alive. Didn’t know one of the bags he left in the back of the van would put a target on my back. Didn’t know a bunch of stuff at that point, except I had an extra 40 bucks in my wallet, and life looked pretty good. But Bobby’s decision haunted me for a long time. Why the hell did he do what he did? Was he settin’ me up? Did he see someone—or somethin’—in that parking lot that spooked him? Never did find out.

* * *

Pappy’s Chevrolet dealership in Miami was up next. Didn’t see Pappy working the car lot, but (based on the description Bobby gave me) did see my next rider: Patrick Morgan. (Everybody called him Rick.)

I waved at him. He walked up to the van.

“Why you drivin’ this piece-o’-crap Dodge?” Rick asked. “You should be drivin’ a Chevy.”

Then he asked a question that made no sense at the time.

“Where’s Bobby?”

“What?” I replied.

“You know, Bobby—Pappy’s son.”

Third hic-cup of the trip, and we weren’t even out of Florida.

Cleared my throat. Tried not to sound stupid.

“Bobby’s back at Starkey’s Truck-stop. Said he called Pappy who told him he was sendin’ a car to pick him up.”

Rick scowled.

“First I’ve heard that,” he said.

Didn’t know what to say, so I shrugged my shoulders.

“Did he have a satchel with him?”

“Satchel?” I asked.

“Yeah, dumb-ass, satchel. Like a little suitcase: Brown, leather, shoulder-strap. A satchel.”

My face turned red. Blood-pressure spiked. Jaw clenched. I was ready to bop the guy—and he knew it.

“He had a little bag,” I said. “Might-a been leather. Definitely brown.”

Under my breath, I started counting: One-Mississippi. Two-Mississippi. Three-Mississippi…

“OK,” Rick said. “Thanks. See ya later”

“You ain’t goin’ with me?”

“Nope,” he said, as he stomped away.

“No refunds,” I yelped.

He gave me a raised-hand one-finger salute.

Never thought to tell him about Bobby’s other two bags. That turned out to be a mistake.

* * *

Some people hate Alligator Alley. They say it’s boring and dangerous. They prefer the more-scenic Tamiami Trail. Not me. I like the Alley. For one thing, it’s faster. Newer, too. Plus, there’s always a chance you’ll see a gator, and though I’d lived half my life in Florida (moved here with dad when he left mom) I’ve always found alligators fascinating. Even wrestled one once—small one. Maybe six feet long. Maybe seven.

Generally, it’s best to stay away from gators—’bout 30 feet away. Those buggers are fast. Faster than you’d think. And don’t go near their nests. No way. That’s crazy. You’re askin’ for trouble. Next thing ya know, it’s got its jaws wrapped around your arm, draggin’ you under the water. Blood flyin’ all over the place. Ain’t pretty. Ain’t pretty at all.

So there I am. Puffin’ a Marlboro. Enjoyin’ the drive. Sippin’ on a Diet Coke. Listenin’ to “Stairway to Heaven.” Thinkin’ the crazy stuff is all behind me.

Then I look in the rearview mirror.

Comin’ at me like a bat-outta-hell is an 18-wheeler blowin’ out a trail of coal-black smoke into the evening sky. No way my little slant-six is gonna stay ahead of this monster, so I ease back on the gas.

Truck pulls beside me, slows down to my speed and just as I’m ready to cuss a blue streak, I see ol’ Doyle, wavin’ at me like a maniac, signalin’ me to pull over.

”You crazy,” I yelled when he jumped out of the truck.

”You crazy!” I repeated.

Doyle was gasping for air.

“Your buddy,” he said. “Your buddy’s dead.”

“You mean Bobby?” I asked.

“Yeah. Bobby.”

Didn’t know whether to cuss or puke.

“How the hell did that happen?” I asked

”Some guy shot him. They wuz arguing about somethin’—not sure what. Shooter got away. Figured you should know.”

This weren’t no hic-cup. This was a helluva mess. That’s when I remembered Bobby’s baggage in the van.

We finagled the first bag open pretty easy. Fulla clothes. Second bag—the big one—had a stout lock.

“Got your knife, Mickey?”

“Yup,” she says.

“Let me see it.”

As the semi pulled away, I sliced the big bag open.

“Crap,” I said.

“What?” asked Doyle.

“Crap-load of drugs,” I said. “Couple o’ guns, too.”

Crap!

Last thing I wanted in the whole wide world was some state trooper findin’ drugs in my van. Bad mojo. Real bad.

“Gotta think,” I said, slapping the sides of my head. “Gotta think!”

Had to ditch the drugs, but where? Should I ditch the guns, too—but what if the guy who killed Bobby shows up?

Crap. Crap. Crap!

“Gotta hide this stuff,” I said.

“Where ya gonna hide anything out here?” Mickey asked. “How would you find it again?”

Under my breath, I started counting: One-Mississippi. Two-Mississippi. Three-Mississippi…

My brain works like a Rolodex. Bunch of unrelated information typed on a whole bunch of little, odd-shaped cards, spinning round in a loop-de-loop, goin’ from A to B to Z.

Somethin’ bad was gonna happen. No doubt. Guessin’ the satchel Bobby took had money in it. Had to. Why’d he leave the drugs behind? Safe-keeping? That made sense. Else he was playin’ some sort of deadly hide-and-seek shell game. Put me right in the middle of it. Only way to get outta the game was to dump the drugs. But where? Mickey was right: “Where ya gonna hide anything out here? How would you find it again?”

Think. Think. Think!

Suddenly, the right card popped up …

“Got what?” asks Doyle.

“Jump in the van guys … Doyle, you grab the duct tape from my tool-box. Put one gun where the duct tape was; put the other gun under the driver’s seat. with my flashlight.

“Mickey, you find the mosquito repellent in my suitcase.”

“You worried about mosquitos?”

“No. I’m worried about somethin’ big and green. Hopefully, real big.”

As the plan materialized in my mind, I barked out instructions:

“Doyle, tape the split where I sliced up Bobby’s bag. Then tape the bag up-and-down, round-and-round. Like a Christmas present.”

“Got it — up-and-down, round-and-round.”

“Mickey.”

“Yup.”

When Doyle’s done, spray that bag all over—soak it down real good—but first open the windows so ya don’t kill us.”

Mickey nodded.

“Spray,” she said. “Don’t kill us.”

With my dynamic duo in high-gear, I started scannin’ left and right as we blasted down the highway. It didn’t take long to find what I was lookin’ for.

* * *

Female alligators are dedicated moms. They lurk around their nests, protectin’ eggs from raccoons, skunks, and people stupid enough to get too close.

Gator nests are easy to identify if you know what you’re lookin’ for. They’re basically big ol’ mounds of mud, plants, twigs, and grass, standin’ ’bout 3-feet high and 6-feet across. Might find 30-40 eggs in the nest, covered with leaves and stuff.

“There’s one,” I yelled as I slammed on the brakes, pullin’ off the road, movin’ as close to the swamp as I could get.

“Doyle, get out of the van; Mickey, keep an eye out for traffic.”

We opened up the backdoor, each grabbed a side of Bobby’s big bag, and carried it to the edge of swamp.

“At the count of three, we give it the ol’ heave-ho. Try to get it as close to the mound as possible, but without landin’ on top of it.”

Doyle nodded.

“One! Two! Three!”

It landed near-perfect.

Before I got back in the van, I unscrewed the cover of the driver’s side tail-light, took it off, loosened the bulb, then screwed the tail-light assembly back together.

Then I jumped in the driver’s seat, fired up the engine, and eased back onto the highway, headin’ toward Tampa.

Mickey pushed Mastodon into the 8-track. “Blood & Thunder” came on:

“Split your lungs with blood and thunder

When you see the white whale

Break your backs and crack your oars

If you wish to prevail.”

Kind-a calmed me down a little.

* * *

Lit up a cigarette.

Took a deep breath.

Exhaled real slow.

Started drivin’ about five miles under the speed limit.

Felt better about life, the universe, and everything.

Didn’t take long for a trooper to notice my tail-light was out. Pulled me over. We went through the formalities, doin’ our little dance.

“Sir, do you know why I stopped you?”

“No officer. Don’t know. Wasn’t speeding, wuz I?

He smiled.

“May I see your driver’s license and insurance card?”

I nodded, grabbed my wallet from the console, removed both cards, and gave them to the trooper. He checked them out.

Neither of us noticed a car pullin’ behind his vehicle. What happened next was sickening and unexpected. Somebody stepped out of the car, carrying a gun. By the time the trooper turned, it was too late.

“BAM!”

Kill-shot. Blood splatters. Man down.

“BAM! BAM!”

Up walked Patrick Morgan. Gun in hand. Frown on his face.

“You got somethin’ that belongs to me?”

Wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Bad tail-light was to get the attention of a law enforcement officer—not get him killed. I could only hope “Plan B” might work.

“It’s in the back.”

Rick wasn’t happy when he opened it up.

“Nothin’ but clothes in here,” he yelled. “What are you tryin’ ta pull.”

Crap.

“Oh, you mean that big package.”

“You think you’re funny?”

Think. Think. Think.

“Look … we opened the package, saw it was drugs, and figured we better dump it.”

“Where?” he yelled.

“Along the road somewhere. I don’t know.”

“You sure as hell better remember.”

“Look I think I can find it, but it’s getting dark.”

“Son,” he said. “If you don’t find it, you’re dead and so are your friends.”

Under my breath, I started counting: One-Mississippi. Two-Mississippi. Three-Mississippi…

“What about your car?” I asked.

“Stolen. Leave it here”

“What about your fingerprints?

“Gloves,” he said.

“You gonna leave the cop and his car?”

“You and your buddies are gonna put the body in the cop car. Then you’re gonna push the car into the swamp.”

“OK,” I said.

Doyle and Mickey nodded.

I’d checked my mileage after we tossed out the bag and was pretty sure I could find the spot. Everything after that would be luck.

“You gotta flashlight, kid?”

“Yeah. Under my seat.”

“Get it.”

Had to make a quick decision: The gun or the flashlight. The lady or the tiger. Decided to go with the flashlight.

“Hand it to me,” Rick yelled.

I did.

* * *

When we got near the spot where we tossed the bag, I started slowin’ down.

“Should be around here somewhere,” I told Rick.

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Right around here … See that? Those are my tire tracks.”

Pulled in near my tracks—careful that my headlights didn’t spook Gator Mom, wherever she was

Things were about to get dicey. He’d killed a cop. For sure he was gonna kill us—but not before he found his stash.

“Line up behind the van, lie face-down, then put your hands behind your backs.”

We did.

Thing is, he had to keep the hand holding the flashlight pointin’ at the bag and the hand with the gun aimed at us. After that, I could only hope nature took its course.

Rick reached the bag about the same time Momma Gator reached him. She was big. Probably over 10 feet. Ripped into him like a hunka-hunka meat.

“BANG!”

He shot wild.

“BANG! BANG!”

He shot again.

By that time, Mickey was standin’ up, wrist-flickin’ her knife into Rick’s back; Dolye was headin’ to the tool-box to get a gun. I stayed back, lightin’ up a cigarette and wishin’ I had a beer. My hands were shakin’ real bad. There was a lotta groanin’ and gruntin’ comin’ from the gator nest. Lotsa splashin’ as well.

* * *

Cops and medics showed up about the same time; animal control showed up a little later. Lights and sirens rippled the evening air. We told the cops what happened as best we could. They recovered Patrick’s body and Bobby’s bag. Said they’d have to capture and kill Gator Mom.

“She was just protecting her babies,” I protested.

They were not sympathetic.

Mickey, Doyle, and I got back in the van, but before we could pull out, one of the troopers yelled:

“Ya better get that tail-light fixed.”

“Yes, officer. Thank you.”

Didn’t have the heart to tell him that the broken tail-light was a ruse. Hell, for all I knew, it was a felony.

Dead-tired but not dead, I aimed my van toward Tampa, thinking about how I would explain to Harriet Tulley why I was so late. Could tell her the truth, but figured she wouldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t. Would you?

Title: “Alligator Alley” — one in a collection of Florida-based stories.

Genre: Suspense.

Age Range: 25-50

Word Count: 3,109

Author Name: Jim Lamb

Why your project is a good fit: Lively. Engaging. Off-beat.

The Hook: Driving home for Christmas takes an unexpected turn.

Synopsis: A rag-tag group of travelers heads home for the holidays not knowing death has made other plans — and nobody’s going to be happy with the results.

Target Audience: Male. Blue-collar. Beer-drinkers. Sports fans.

Your Bio: Graduated from college. Hired as a reporter. Promoted to copy desk editor.

Platform: News releases distributed by PR Web and published on radio, TV, and newspaper websites. Articles in national magazines, most recently “The Official NASCAR 2020 Preview & Press Guide” as well as the 2019 edition of “Rodeo Life.” Author of “Orange Socks & Other Colorful Tales,” available on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Orange-Socks-other-Colorful-Tales-ebook/dp/B00VH6XR38

Education: University of South Florida. Double-Major. Mass-Comm & Poly-Sci.

Experience: 16 years as a journalist; 11 as a freelance writer.

Personality/Writing Style: Thoughtful. Intricate. Detailed. Solid.

Likes/Hobbies: Politics. Reading. Writing. Drawing.

Hometown: New Port Richey, Florida.

The moon ran silently along the calm ocean, tracing a path through the pitch black abyss towards a lone ship, gently bobbing. Upon the ship stood a sailor, a tall man with auburn hair and a hooked scar tracing a path from his right eye to the corner of his mouth. A gentle breeze blew upon him, a few strands of his weathered hair danced across his face, tickling him gently with their touch. He breathed deeply, taking in the salty musk that he knew all too well. A life spent on the sea, yet each day seemed the same. As he stared transfixed upon the moon, the peaceful water beneath him broke silently, revealing a young woman's head, her hair fell in rivers of messy black waves; the black sea connected with the girl's hair, seemingly blending together as if the ocean and her were one. Gently she drifted toward the ship, her cold green eyes fixed upon the man, who was still oblivious to the sudden movement beneath him.

Lifting herself from the depths of the sea, the mysterious woman grabbed hold of the boat above her, digging her sharp nails into the side of the ship, black tendrils of hair covering grey scales, that moved from speckled coverage at her chest to form an opaque deep green tail at the bottom.

The man remained standing still under the gentle glow of the moon, his daze only being broken by the quiet yet persistent scratching sound that had emerged beneath him. Looking down he saw two glowing eyes from the darkness, mere slits of emerald in the centre of the dark abyss, and a scaly hand swiping swiftly across his feet, sending him crashing to the floor with a loud and painful thud. Before he could process the fear, she sunk her claws into his leg and dragged him into the black ocean after her. Twirling and tumbling down, they sank with considerable speed, the man grasping and thrashing against the immense strength of the woman; grabbing helplessly at the water above him, each soundless scream erupting a stream of bubbles that leisurely floated above him, taking their time to break to the silent surface of the sea. His lungs burnt from the salt water that was now flooding into them, and eventually he lost the energy to fight back. He looked back one last time at the distorted image of the moon from the floor of the ocean where he was trapped, his vision clouding till finally there was nothing but darkness.

The ocean above lay still and empty. Waves slowly sloshed against the side of the ship. An eerie quiet held within the air.

It’s not blood she’s looking for. It’s the sweet smell of fear. She knows what it looks like on the man. She’s tasted it from other people, but she knows what it looks like.

The bar is full. She sits at the corner and looks down it, waiting for the man, for his pressed collar shirt and handsome stubble that she knows the feel of. There have been too many who looked like him walking into the bar, laughing with their friends, flirting with a woman who is far out of their league, if not for looks, then for attitude. She sips a martini, her nails curling around the stem of the glass, eyes darting from this man to that.

She doesn’t see when he walks in, only when he leans against the bar, pushing between two other men. He’s already drunk, she knows by the wrinkle on his shirt sleeve and the nearly imperceptible lack of focus. She can smell it, too, bile and sweat, all the things to come when he’s too deep in. She leaves her unfinished martini on the stained counter, and follows behind him, watching his shirt tail shift with every clumsy step.

When he sits down with a woman young enough to be his daughter, she holds back, stopping next to a table and waiting, her hand on the top, nails tapping. The sounds of the bar float away. His mouth is moving but she hears nothing. She wants him to see her, to see her blood red nails, her mad eyes, her hair that falls just below the shoulder and caresses the nape of her neck. He needs to see her before she does anything.

His eyes run over her once, then flick back, stopping, widening. It takes him a moment longer than usual to relax, to pretend nothing is strange. The woman with him doesn’t notice, clutches his bicep playfully. He gets up, swats her away, and makes a break for the bathroom.

She smells it now. Thick. Sea-water, moldy thickness. Her perfume stuck to his neck. She smells it all. She follows him down the dimly-lit corridor to the men’s bathroom. He’s standing over the sink, clutching it knuckle-white. His fear smells like propane and rust. Or maybe that’s her fear. Whatever. She pretends it’s his.

He says something to her that she doesn’t hear. She stands in the doorway. He squares his shoulders and walks towards her. She pretends to grab for something in her pocket. He flinches backward, back, back to the sinks, where he’s stopped, but leans away, until he’s practically on top of them.

His fear smells like her blood on his hands. Deeply she breathes. And Feasts.

The chair I sit on is cold, hard metal. One leg is slightly shorter than the rest. I rock back and forth. Clink. Clink. Clink. It’s comforting. A pattern to hold onto.

“Where were you last night between 11pm and 1am?”

The federal agent sits across from me, a long table between us. He is wearing a black suit and tie, and his hair is cropped short. Brown eyes stare into mine filled with suspicion. He thinks I did it. He’s not wrong.

“At home. Preparing for bed.” The room is too cold, yet I’m sweating. I continue to rock back and forth in this imperfect chair.

“Can anyone confirm this?”

Clink. Clink. Clink.

“No.”

“What was your relationship with the victim?”

Mmmmmm. The hum of the fluorescent lights above me is deafening.

“He was my counselor at Saint Andrews.” The fluorescent lights flicker. I need to get out of this room. Need to get out.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

“Your counselor. Ok.” He glances down at the file in his hands. “And you were released from Saint Andrews two months ago after three years seeking treatment for your OCD and depression. Is that correct?” The agent looks back up at me. His scrutinizing gaze cuts me in half, but I’m used to it. It’s no worse than the looks I’ve received everyday of my life.

The memories of Saint Andrews are still fresh in my mind. I wish they would go away. Three years in that torture chamber. Released only because the hospital’s patient capacity was reduced due to financial issues.

“Yes, that is correct.”

Clink. Clink. Clink.

I can’t be in this room any longer. Need to get out. Need to get out.

“Is it true that you were set to return to Saint Andrews soon due to recent reports of aggressive and threatening behavior towards the victim?”

Need to get out. Need to get out.

Mmmmmm.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

I can’t take it anymore.

“I need to use the restroom.”

The agent sighs and shakes his head slowly. “Fine. You have 3 minutes. An officer will escort you.”

I get up with one final Clink of the chair and walk out of the room accompanied by a uniformed officer. I enter the ladies room and go straight for the sink.

Ok. Ok. Calm down.

I turn on the faucet and splash water on my face and neck.

This room has fluorescent lights, too.

Can’t escape.

Can’t escape what I did.

I turn off the water and begin to dry my face with paper towels. I imagine that with each dab of the towel, the pain and the fear are wiped away. It doesn’t work, and I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Suddenly, I’m not in the police station’s bathroom anymore.

The dread of that night returns to my chest.

I’m standing in a red Victorian living room. The fireplace is lit, crackling at random intervals. I try to find a pattern in the sound to calm me but there is no order. No precision. No control.

“You understand why we need to bring you back to the hospital. Don’t you?”

Dr. Simmons sits in a large, cushioned chair in front of me. His legs are crossed, and he is wearing his standard uniform of a threaded sweater, tan slacks, and brown loafers.

I don’t respond to his question. I know the reasons for this sudden re-evaluation of my mental state. His attempt at a reassuring smile disgusts me.

“We can’t have you roaming the streets without help,” he says. His smile never leaves his face.

The fire continues with its unrelenting rejection of pattern. I grow increasingly uncomfortable. I can’t go back. I can’t let him take me back.

Dr. Simmons stands and crosses the room towards me. I flinch as he grabs my arms. He puts his mouth next to my ear. His hands holding me by a vice-like grip.

“Don’t you miss our private sessions?” He whispers.

I recoil. His breath smells like brandy and cigarette smoke. I keep my eyes lowered and fixed on a piece of thread coming undone from his sweater.

I struggle against his grip.

I won’t let him take me back there.

Dr. Simmons chuckles and releases me. He turns and walks towards a bar across the room.

Pouring himself a drink and keeping his back to me he says, “You know, it wasn’t very difficult to convince the court and the other doctors that your release was a mistake. I just had to tell them that you had been threatening and stalking me since you were released. They were all too happy to make an exception for you.”

I’m not surprised by this revelation. It is well within the abilities and willingness of this selfish and sadistic man.

The fire continues its sound.

Laughing at me.

It’s laughing at my pain.

My ‘private sessions’ with Dr. Simmons began a year into my treatment at St. Andrews. My original doctor had left the hospital on another job offer, and I was transferred to Dr. Simmons’ care. My treatment was going well with the previous doctor, and I was set to be released in just a few more months, but unfortunately, Simmons took a particular liking to me. I was too afraid to report it. I still am. I felt out of control and helpless in the affair, and these feelings have seeped into every aspect of my life. His assault worsened my disorders, leaving me to remain in the hospital for two years longer than was expected.

I was just released and now he wants to take me back there? He wants to use me. Imprison me. No, I can’t let that happen. I can’t. I won’t.

Simmons’ back is turned away from me as he sips his drink. He’s talking to me about something, but I don’t hear anything except for the infuriating cackle of the fire and the blood rushing in my ears.

I see a small bronze head statue sitting on the side table to my right.

“Don’t you miss our private sessions?”

The fire snaps.

Can’t let that happen. I won’t let him take me back there.

I blink and the bronze statue is in my hand.

I blink again, and I’m just a few feet from Simmons.

Suddenly, something warm is dripping down from the statue. I feel it on my hand.

It’s red.

It’s...blood.

I look down at the crime scene.

Dr. Simmons is laying there. Blood oozing onto the expensive red carpet.

What have I done?

I drop the statue, my hands shaking violently.

I killed him.

I…

Then it hits me.

I’m free.

I'm finally free.

“Time’s up! Let’s go!” The uniformed officer bangs on the bathroom door.

I shake my head as I return to the present.

That immediate feeling of freedom has long vanished.

I am no longer free.

I am chained to the past.

Just as I was before.

Just as I will always be.

I walk slowly out of the bathroom, counting the steps back to the cold room, the humming fluorescent lights, the metal chair.

I take my seat again in front of the agent, and I brace myself for what is to come.

Mmmmmm.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

There is an elephant inside of me.

Graydon Carter, the journalist, said that elephants bear the finest human traits: empathy, self-awareness and social intelligence. But the way they are treated is reprehensible.

There must be an elephant inside of me.

Memory like an elephant, they say. Mine is abysmally accurate. Unconsciously, I remember all the slights. I've catalogued them while wanting to let them go. Do you remember when you excluded me? You moved me away, put me where I'd have the least contact, hoping that I'd wither. Do you remember when you sabotaged my opportunity? You persuaded me to do the wrong thing. For three years that followed, I suffered silently, until the toll began to manifest physically in my body. I developed an ulcer. I grew thin. I berated myself for my own stupidity in listening to you. I don't want to remember it that way. But that's the way it happened. No whitewashing this memory, try as I might. Do you remember when you blamed me for something you did in front of the group? You held the position of power. You knew I couldn't respond. And I didn't. And like the elephant, I knew that there was something in you some feeling, some weak trait of human behavior that you couldn't shed that was making you do it. And I felt sorry for you. A little.

A waste of my time to try to figure out why, I'm smart enough to know that, at least. The elephant inside me lumbered along, because that's what I've done/what I do/push on/mind my business/act like it never happened/try to erase it.

Revenge fantasy?

I'm living it.

Do you think that the others don't see you for what you are? Do you think that because you close your eyes to it, all are blind? Do you think that your shallow slights aren't seen by the group? I'll let you in on a secret. When you pulled that trick of trying to fault me, blame me, humiliate me, they knew. His eyes met mine as I opened my mouth and closed it again. You didn't see that part, did you? And you didn't count on me, but that sabotage act that caused my ulcer backfired, didn't it? It makes me chuckle now. People said to me, "you look like that cat that ate the canary."

I wanted to tell them that I was. That's right, I executed an Axel Paulsen edge jump with no training whatsoever. It must have been those words you asked me to say to the others. They saw with unclouded eyes. Mmmm, that canary was delicious, though!

I try to keep it low key.

I like to think I have enough social intelligence and awareness to know that being smug is not becoming.

I'm not afraid of you.

Do you want to know what I see inside of you? It's an earthworm.

No spine.

No brain.

Clings to the earth. Eats dirt, shits dirt, becomes dirt.

I see you, worm.

Meggie finally decided she had to act. She couldn’t think of anything else to make the dreams stop. She knew she wasn’t the only victim. It wasn’t wrong because girls like them didn’t get justice. She packed the revolver in her bag and caught the bus to the village one afternoon. An elderly lady sat down next to her. Meggie shifted over without looking at her and jumped when she heard her name.

“Meggie?”

The fearsome housekeeper was now a stooped little lady with grey hair.

“Miss McCrimmon! How are you?”

“Och, I’m as well as can be expected at my age. I retired a while ago. No need for me after what happened at the castle.”

“What happened?” said Meggie.

“I suppose you didn’t get much news. Young Alexander was killed over there in France. Her ladyship never got over it.” Miss McCrimmon looked around and whispered with relish. “She took to the drink. They’d closed most of the house by then; I wasn’t there. They say she knocked over an oil lamp when she was in her bed. The place went up like dry straw. No chance to save her, poor thing.”

Meggie noticed that Miss McCrimmon didn’t seem particularly upset by the story.

“Are you here to visit someone?”

“I am,” said Meggie. “Someone I needed to see for old times’ sake.”

They got off the bus together in the village. Meggie waited till Miss McCrimmon was out of sight before heading down the road to the estate gates. Even if she could not confront him, she would face the memory of him. The once immaculate driveway was full of potholes and the shrubbery was untrimmed. It was dark by the time she reached the castle, though the moonlight was almost as bright as day. The pale gray walls loomed up, punctuated by dark, empty window sockets. Ignoring the sign which forbade entrance, Meggie marched defiantly up to the front door, something she was never allowed to do when she worked there. The door was boarded shut but she easily clambered through one of the windows into the once magnificent front hall. The night sky was visible through the tangle of charred beams which had fallen from the upper floors. Her attic room had been somewhere up there. The black and white tile floor glittered with fragments of broken glass which crunched under her feet. Shining a little pocket torch, she carefully picked her way through to the morning room where it had all begun.

The cold, pale moonlight shone in through the skeletal stone arches of the window. She could see her crazed and cracked reflection in the remains of the mirror above the elaborately carved marble fireplace, as if it were reflecting her mind and not her face. She had been a skinny fourteen-year-old in a too-big uniform dress, groggy from rising before dawn. On her knees sweeping the ashes from that very fireplace into a pan, someone had suddenly grabbed her from behind. She had yelped and struggled upright to find herself clutched nose to chest with a young, fair-haired man in rumpled evening clothes. Stale alcohol fumes wafted into her face as he nuzzled her neck. She dropped the dustpan and a cloud of ash billowed up between them. He pushed her away, coughing and cursing, and marched out. She had been told in no uncertain terms to turn her face to the wall and never speak if she encountered any of the family, but no one had prepared her for this. Miss McCrimmon, the housekeeper was not impressed.

“Oh aye, that’s Alexander for you. He’s the oldest son. Bit of a rascal. Were you flirting instead of doing your work? Stay out of his way. You don’t want to lose your position. Now hurry up and finish that room before the rest of them get up.”

Meggie had held her tongue and blinked back her tears. The injustice of it stung, but she did indeed need her position. Competition was fierce amongst the local girls to get a place at the big house. There weren’t many other options.

She returned abruptly to the present, startled by an owl hooting nearby. She cautiously ventured out of the morning room to the great hall. The moonlight pooled on the floor through the cavity of the empty bay window. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall, conjuring up the memories of that grand ball one summer evening in 1914. She and the other servants had scrubbed, polished and dusted for days beforehand. The housekeeper allowed them to briefly peek at the guests from the upstairs landing after the festivities started. They had gasped at the kaleidoscope of elegant dresses, sparkling jewels, hothouse flowers, and music swirling below, momentarily distracted from their aching feet and chapped hands. Sent to gather up plates and glasses after the last guests had gone, she realized she was alone in the huge hall. Setting down her tray, she whirled around the room with an imaginary partner, humming to herself. Suddenly she collided with someone, stammering an apology as she recognized Alexander.

“Well, well, what have we here?” he said, grabbing her arm and clamping a hand over her mouth. “Let’s have a little fun.” His words were slurred. He dragged her into the alcove of the bay window behind the thick, velvet curtains. Meggie shuddered at the memory. To this day, she could not stand the feel of velvet. The weight of his body, the buttons of his dress uniform digging into her, his arm across her neck so she could hardly breathe, the pain, came back to her now as vividly as the moment it happened. It took minutes, but lasted forever. Afterwards, he pushed himself up off her, arranged his clothes, smoothed down his hair, and pulled her upright.

“There’s a good girl. Don’t want any scenes, now, do we?” He tossed a couple of coins at her and left. Meggie lay stunned for a few moments, then scrambled to pick herself up and straighten her dress as she heard voices. She headed unsteadily for the kitchen, the glasses rattling on the tray. The kitchen staff were still in such a frenzy of activity that no one paid attention to her. In her attic room, she wrestled with the first of many long nights of grotesque dreams where she killed him as he loomed over her, stabbing him, poisoning his drinks, shooting him, waking in a cold sweat as he collapsed dead on top of her. Creeping down to breakfast next morning, she braced herself for questions. But the staff were absorbed in newspaper headlines blaring the outbreak of war. Her distraction was considered reasonable amidst the fears of the wicked Kaiser and his army overrunning the country.

The world changed in the next few months. Alexander left to join his regiment at the front. The staff dwindled as most of the men joined up and the women went for war work. Meggie signed up for nursing as soon as she could. During the war, she thrived, but with peace the dreams returned as if they had been waiting for the opportunity to haunt her, till she found herself here in the moonlight thinking of doing the unspeakable.

She slowly made her way back outside. She had survived this ordeal and the war. A few dreams could be handled. Unspeakably weary, she sank down on the front steps. Her shoulder ached from the weight of her handbag. The revolver. The one she was going to use to kill him. She looked at the dark ugly shape of it. No need for it now. For once, fate had administered justice. She headed for the disused well at the back of the house and dropped the revolver into its dark, moss-walled depths with a sigh of relief. The faint splash below seemed to release her from the spell. Without a backward glance, she set off down the driveway for the last time.