Staring into the blackness of my cold room, letting the overwhelming smell of autumn blow into my room through the open window. Late November, seasons changing, I could've sworn my room was getting colder by the second. I couldn't sleep, I wouldn't sleep. Nightmares terrorize me on nights where I slowly drift off. I heard my door slowly creek open as a black shadow appeared in the doorway. I slowly pulled my head under the 5 blankets I put on my bed as a precaution to monsters getting to me. Just enough to where I could see. A flashlight clicked and I saw it was just my mother coming in. I sighed a very exasperated sigh. To my surprise my mother rushed over and put her hand over my mouth. She haded me a note that read "They are coming, get in your closet and make no noise." I nodded my head spinning with everything that could be wrong, I felt like I was going to throw up. My mother shut my window slowly and quietly, as I grabbed a blanket and hid in the closet. My mother came in and joined me. She handed me another note, "She's here, she looks like me, DON'T be fooled, she's here to kill us." I stared at the note in confusion and worry, who? What? Why?

"Who's afte-" I started before my mom slapped her hand over my mouth. Little did I know it was too late. In fact, we never were safe.

My door creaked again as silent tears started streaming down my face, I something something shine out of the corner of my eye as my mother clicked off the flashlight.

A voice that sounded like my mom said, "Honey! I think someone broke in, are you safe?!"

I heard my light switch as a small bit a light leaked into the closet. I saw my mom smiling as she slowly pulled out a knife. I had to bite my tongue to keep myself quiet.

"Sorry, your too late, oh by the way, I'M the imitator, she's your mom," Slowly she morphed back into a terrifying form of many people, like they had all been smashed into one, any person she could find. Blood at the seems of different skin colors, and a missing eye. "You have such pretty eyes y'know? I'll have to be careful while removing them, wouldn't want to ruin their color." With that she reached over as I tried to push open the doors and started carving out my eye. I screamed, over and over and slowing down from losing so much blood.

Searing pain all over my body even though only my head was being affected. She finally finished me off with a slit to the throat. So as my last thoughts I'm warning you.

1.Lock your door and shut your window.

2. Don't. Trust. Anyone.

3. Pray they don't come for you next.

“Let me out! Let me out!”

“You’re staying in your room until you calm down. Then I’ll feed you.”

That’s what I told her. I know I didn’t word it very well, and I wanted to apologize, but I was beginning to get upset.

My back hurt.

I walked away from April’s door, which I had locked because of her tantrum, and led my way over to the kitchen. I’m a poor man, it wasn’t a long walk. Just felt longer because of my back.

August was in the living room, waiting for her food. She was watching some old cartoon she watched all the time as a kid. I don’t remember what it’s called.

I got to the stove and turned it off. I had been fixing August (my wife, if that’s not noticeable) some eggs, and when I had returned to the kitchen I found them done.

Excellent.

I opened up the cupboard, reached in for a plate, got one down, picked up the spatula I had been using and flipped the eggs onto the plate. I got out a fork, turning off the stove in the process, and walked on over to August, who took the eggs with a slant smile.

I wish she had smiled more. That kind of thing got to me.

“You aren’t happy?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” August said.

“You don’t look fine.”

“It’s just been a hard, long day,” she told me.

“What’s all gone on?”

“Some stuff happened at work. And April..” Her voice trailed off a little. I knew how she felt.

“It’s going to be alright. Really. Some children take adoption better than others, but they all come around eventually. As long as we treat them the way they should be treated and raise them well, that is.”

“Adoption,” August remarked, and sighed just after. “Listen, Josh, what kind of life can this be?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not happy with this.” She wasn’t talking about the eggs I made her.

“Look, it’s going to be okay.”

“What part of this is okay?”

“There’s nothing wrong with keeping April,” I told her.

“Adoption..”

It was then that I noticed her face had turned red, and once I had studied her enough to notice, she had turned off the television and set her plate of eggs down on the coffee table in front of the couch.

She stood up.

“You’re not going to eat those?” I asked her.

“I’m suddenly not very hungry anymore.”

I went to say something, I think was going to try and sit her down and have her finish the food I made, but she walked off back into the bedroom we share, and I let her go.

I would’ve gotten mad had she said anything else. Anything complaining. But she didn’t and so after she left, I sighed and scratched my head, and then I picked up the fork and the plate of eggs and I walked over to April’s door.

—

I picked up April a few days ago. She’s new to the house and must come from a family with violent tendencies. If I had known that I wouldn’t have picked her up, but she’s living in the little guest bedroom that had stayed empty for quite some time now. August and I had a kid before, back when August was happy. Happy with me and our marriage.

Since we got kids, she’s acted like a completely different person. I don’t know what it is about it.

I thought she was supposed to agree with what I say. I thought she was supposed to want kids.

Oh well, she still loves me.

April’s got dark hair and nice green eyes. She’s a pre-teen, I think around 12 years old.

She was nice originally, since I’ve brought her home it seems her personality has changed quite a bit. I don’t know what to make of it, in the sense of not knowing exactly how to handle that sort of thing.

Martha (our kid a few years ago) didn’t act out half as much as April does. I guess some girls are different than others.

I miss Martha.

I wish April could come around and make up to me, I’ve always wanted a kid. August has never wanted a child.

I’ve always wanted a kid.

—

I knocked on April’s door. No response.

I knocked again.

“Hello, anyone home?” Just some playful fun on my part.

“I’m here,” April responded coldly.

I don’t like when people speak to me as if I’m a bother, especially when I’m trying to do something for them. I sighed and opened her door.

April looked disheveled, her hair a mess. You could tell she had had a large tantrum just from the look of her. She had this crazed look in her eyes that could turn so swiftly into tire.

I didn’t want to disturb her, and I didn’t want her mad at me. I just wanted to give her some food.

My back hurt still.

I walked over to her, she sitting up in bed as if in a bit of alert, and set down the plates of eggs next to her.

“Would you like some salt and pepper?”

“No,” she said. And that was all.

“Anything else I can get you?”

“No.”

I wanted her to actually talk to me, or at least act like she liked me. Those one-word answers of hers were bothering me.

“Don’t you say anything else?”

“I hate you,” she responded.

That’s when I got mad.

I had contained myself for so long. It’s easy to understate how long my patience lasts. But I can’t be told that I’m hated.

Not when my body hurts.

“You know what,” I told her, “you’re lucky I’m feeding you at all.”

And then all the dirty things I could ever think to say came through.

“You should be nicer to me. I don’t have to feed you. I do so much for you and for my wife and both of you seem to not care for me. You know what? You’re lucky you’re alive. Yeah, I said it. And if it bothers you so much being here you should put up a fight or something. I’ve wanted a kid for so long, you better start acting right.”

I paused for a moment.

“My wife and I had a kid once. She’s dead because she didn’t listen. Don’t let you be next. You understand that?”

“I just want to go home,” April said, and then she began to cry. “Why me?”

“I’ve always wanted a kid,” I told her. “I wouldn’t go out of my way to kidnap one if I didn’t!”

I had had enough. I knew I shouldn’t have said half the things I did, but in that moment, that had no chance of processing through me. How could it? I was upset.

August must’ve heard me because she started playing music so she could drown out the noise from me yelling.

I turned, left April’s room, shut the door and locked it. I didn’t want to say anything else.

I went into the living room, walked past it, and started into my bedroom. August turned off the music when I came in. She’s an okay wife, at least she knows when to turn the music down.

I hopped in next to her, gave her a kiss, and went to sleep. I needed to, I had such a long day.

I woke up a few times throughout the night due to the pain in my back, but most of the night ran smooth.

When I got up in the morning, I went to kiss August awake.

She wasn’t there.

-1-

"And what of us curmudgeons?" Asked the older of the two artists. They had been sitting two booths away from where I had been sitting with a colleague. We had been discussing the upcoming exhibition when we overheard the angry remark.

The boisterous of the two wore all black; a turtleneck sweater, slacks, shinny shoes and a beret that was tilted to the side. His all white beard stood out though his face was red with anger. He had slammed his fish on the table which made all others around him stop their conversations to notice him. This brought over a server that had been chased away with a thunderous look. His companion had looked down and straightened his napkin.

I looked at my colleague and smiled. "What are you getting ready to do?. You have a mischievous look on your face. Where are you going?"

At this last question, I rose from the booth and walked over to the elderly gentlemen. "Forgive me for interrupting, gentlemen."

I gave all of my strength not to sound sarcastic. "My name is Lou. I am a recent transplant from New York. I don't know if you are aware, but I will be hosting an exhibition that will take place at The Art Factory. I'm sure you are aware of the organization being homegrown yourselves. I wanted to extend my personal invitation for either or both of you to participate. Your reputations precede you. I was looking for an opportunity to approach and I thought, 'no time like the present.' The exhibition will encompass sketching, painting, sculpture and photography. The theme-Pride."

"Pride!" The curmudgeon looked alarmed. As I handed both the flyer and one of my business cards to each of them, I tried to read their faces. The companion expressed surprise and delight. While the one in black pointed his nose to the air and made a face akin to disgust at being interrupted.

"Thank you. You are so kind," said the companion.

"I'll expect your decisions for participation by Friday. Hope to hear from you soon. I've invited some of my friends from New York to participate as well as to view the works. Oh, and there may be a critic or two as well. Well, my friend and I have to go. Enjoy the rest of your evening, gentlemen."

As I walked back to the booth, I indicated that it was time to go. My friend lead the way out of the restaurant, the bill having already been paid. "What did you do?"

I smiled.

-2-

"Pride! Just what am I supposed to do with that?"

"He left it open to interpretation. Pretty much anything you want, I suppose. Will you be calling to enter?"

"Who is he that he can come to our town and take over the way he did?"

"Clearly he's an artist. Look." The mobile phone is slid over. A web page displays a menu:

- sketches

- acrylics

- ceramics

- metalworks

- jewelry

"Your phone won't allow for viewing."

"To view, you have to pay a small fee. Shall we use your credit card?" The companion knew better not to ask, but he wants to annoy his friend."

"No. His business card suggests that he is stationed downtown. Let's visit the gallery, instead. Did you see the address? Right in the heart of town. He must be paying a pretty penny."

"He may have had success in the world of art."

"I've never heard of him."

"It's a great big beautiful world. Room for everyone."

The photographer gets up in a huff. His companion hurries along after him while stifling a laugh. The gallery is only a few blocks south of where they were dinning. Once there, all that can be seen is the white paper that covered the display windows. The lights are on. Shadows movie about, but when they approach as if to knock at the door, an overwhelming feeling of nausea overtakes the two. They rush to the curb and regurgitate their dinner. Flagging down separate taxis, they hurry home for more vomiting.

-3-

"Pride. What does pride look like. The best, but I'm no Ansel Adams. Take pride, no, I don't want to do anything LGBTQ plus related. Proud papa, nope. Don't have any children. That's all I need is to be accused of pedophilia. Proud Mary, prostitutes? Hmm!"

The photographer spends the better part of the morning trying to figure out how to depict pride in photography. As frustration sets in, the church chimes announce the afternoon. His face is buried in his hands as he leand on his desk in the firehouse that he reconverted into both his home and his studio. He kept the red theme outside. Everyone remembered the firehouse as it was, but few actually ever entered.

Inside bright white walls have dimmed, dust covers everything everywhere except in the small section of the kitchen where he eats and reads. It has been years since he has been involved in the art world. He sits on his laurels.

Two decades ago, he had won an honorable mention in a local magazine. A thirteen year old had beaten him out of a five thousand dollar prize for local artists. He had told himself that he was happy for the boy. Funding for scheduling and such, but it had stung.

"I am better than that," he often tells himself each time that the memory rises to the surface. It doesn't ever help him to feel any better. If anything, it makes him bitter, not that he will ever admit it.

The afternoon comes and goes without any answer.

Had the doorbell rung?

He was revived him from his reverie. The town knew that anymore visiting would be by invitation only. It's been years since he felt the need to invite anyone to his home. Initially, he would with the expectation of impressing all with his artwork. Soon, however, he realized that no one invited was interested in buying his work. Their interest lied in gossip and hearsay.

"Lou!"

-4-

"Please pardon the intrusion. May I come in? I'll only be a moment."

The foyer is immaculate. He keeps it that way for the arrival of packages and so that when passersby look in there would be nothing to reproach. He takes two steps backwards. Lou's smile always looks like there is always something else going on other than the moment at hand. He sighs as he steps into the firehouse.

"I absolutely had to come in person and extend again my invitation for you to participate in the exhibit. Especially when I saw this-" In Lou's left hand is a yellowed newspaper. It had been turned to the arts section. The photographer is looking at his own face. Below was the article written about him twenty years ago. The Local Celebrity and His promising Career, reads the headline. Nothing else had been written about him since.

Seeing this brings to the surface embarrassment and rage. He wonders if Lou is humiliating him. "Where did you find that?"

The question sounds more brusque than intended. He hates that Lou has the upper hand. Control is a must for the old one in any situation. He feels off-balanced.

"I love antiquing." The comment feels like a slap in the face.

"While looking for furniture with which to fill my apartment, I came across old photographs and newspapers. I was looking for something to hang on my walls and saw you! Would you do me the honor of joining the exhibition? It would add the credibility that I need for a successful event. Please say that you'll join. At the very least, may I have your autograph?" A smile spreads across Lou's face against his better judgement.

Lou pushes the paper and a pen into the photographer's hand. Through compulsion, without barely a thought of resistance, the newspaper is signed. "Of course. Of course, I will lend a hand towards the success of your project. It would be a great pleasure."

With the most authentic sincerity Lou responds with, "I can assure you, the pleasure is all mine."

Lou's smile and his stare hold the photographer in place. The old man could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. His breath catches.

"I'll leave you to your creativity. Thank you so much for your kindness. See you soon."

Brown-hazel eyes hold the curmudgeon in place. His heartbeat speeds, slamming into his chest. His breath bursts out of him. This is when he realizes that he is standing alone in his foyer.

When had Lou left? The door had been closed. Through the window he could see that the sun is setting. He wonders how long he has been standing there. A sense of foreboding clings to him from head to toe. He berates himself. "Oh, what in hell is wrong with me?"

-5-

"What am I going to do? I've committed myself to join as an artist. I cannot back down now. I've been all over town trying to capture just the right imagine, but nothing seems right. Not even the work that I have in my collection fits the brief. What am I going to do?"

He is speaking to his friend, back at the restaurant where all of this began. His friend leans forward and with a low voice says, "You're drawing attention to yourself. Lower your voice. Unless you want to give the gossips and the busy-bodies fodder for their stories."

"Calm down. Look, for the weekend, I'm going to my country home. Join me. It may help to clear your mind, give you perspective. At the very least, you will be rested when you return. Besides, who knows if the image that you're looking for is out there, instead of here in town. What do you say? Will you join me this weekend?"

It did not take much convincing for the old man to agree. He had been highly stressed trying to save face. Not only his peers would be at the event, but it had been open to the entire town. That first night would be free admission for all. Later during the week would be interviews of the artists and smaller private affairs for those interested in conversations and auctions. These smaller get togethers would be the paid events for art afficionados and the like.

The old man thought about the interview and other conversations that he would have. A perfect time to talk about the firehouse and perhaps future events of his own. Before he had time to notice, they had arrived at the country home. It was midnight. He went directly to bed.

The very next morning he is excited to begin his day. He loves the fact that the rooster outside the window woke him. He dresses and goes for a walk with his camera before even checking to see if his friend was up.

The rooster prances about like the king of his realm. How nonchalantly he parades without a single care of who or what is near. The photographer follows him around, amazed at the audacity being displayed. He takes photo after photo of this prideful creature. Neither the rooster, nor the old man takes the time to notice the black New Foundland with her puppies. The rooster walks too closely to one of the pups and begins to peck at it. The photographer is in his element documenting this fowl's effrontery. In a blink of an eye, the rooster is decapitated by the mother protecting her young. The cadaver walks for a few more steps before falling to the side. The photographer never misses a moment.

Fortunately for him, he had used a zoom lens. He was safe from becoming a victim himself. He walks back to the house like a man walking in his sleep.

"You're up early! Did you enjoy your walk?"

"I made a mistake. I can't do the exhibit."

"What? What's happened? What's wrong."

"If I get involved, I will die!"

"What are you saying? Get a hold of yourself. Where is this all coming from?"

The old man relates everything that he had witnessed while on his walk. He is so agitated that the trip is cut short. Before the evening fell, they were back in town.

At the firehouse, the old man sits in the dark living room. He had walked away from the car without looking back. His luggage lay in the foyer, forgotten. He still wears his coat, beret and gloves. His thoughts are preoccupied with how to back out of the exhibit. The doorbell rings.

-6-

Who is that? I didn't make any plans with anyone. There should be no one there. Probably someone needing directions. I'm ignoring you. Find someone else to bother.

He gets up, determined to go upstairs to bed. The doorbell rings again. His heart begins to pound against chest.

What is this? Can't the cretin take a hint? I will not open.

Through the door, the old man yells, "Find someone else to bother!"

He begins to climb the stairs that lead to the next level. He is determined to get to bed. At the top of the stairs, just before putting his foot on the runner in the hallway, a rooster calls out. The shock of the noise hits him as if he has been struck by lightning. Loosing his balance, he falls backwards. There is no pain. Only the sound of his body as it tumbles down the stairs, then, simultaneously, the sound of the loud thud and the crack of bone as it break.

After orienting himself, he stands up. The bell rings. His anger gets the better of him and he stomps to the door. He is so infuriated that he doesn't notice that his stomping was only in his mind. After a couple of tries at the doorknob, he realizes that his hand goes through it. Stepping back, he stares incredulously at the door.

Lou steps through.

"You! You have not my permission to come into my house. Get out!"

"You gave me permission when you gave me your autograph."

"What? What are you saying? I'm not in the mood for your jokes."

"None was intended. I've been waiting for you these past six decades. It's time. Come."

"I'm going nowhere with you!"

"Ah, I see. You have yet to assess your reality. Your pride has been the cause of your fall from grace. Each time that you belittled someone to make yourself look better, it has been counted against you. Now, look over your shoulder to the base of the staircase. Go on."

The old man half turns. He notices his body crumpled on the floor. His blank face looking at the ceiling while his body is turned to the floor. He had snapped his neck.

"Come with me..."