The Invitation

“Okay Emma, do you feel up to talking about that night?”

Emma changed position in her chair and stared at the fidgeting fingers in her lap.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Go ahead.”

“That night…. Uh, my friend Carlos was in a film production class at the U, and he had to make a five-minute movie for an assignment. There’s a group of us who are friends, and he asked me, Jen and Toby if we would be in it. Of course, we were drinking and high and said, “Yeah, that would be cool,” but after that Carlos said we’d be shooting in this old house out in the country that some people said was haunted. I was kind of freaked by that, but didn’t want to look like a coward in front of the others, so I pretended it was fine. Carlos sent us a script he’d written called “The Invitation,” and we all met at the Sander’s House that night to start shooting. I got a creepy vibe the minute we stepped in the place, but no one else seemed bothered, so he set up lights and his camera and we began shooting.”

“What creeped you out?”

“I felt like someone was…hovering around me, like some freaky guy at a party stalking me. Everything was okay for about a half-hour and then weird shit started happening, like a piece of the ceiling fell down next us and we thought we heard a door open and close upstairs.”

“What was Carlos’s script about, Emma?”

“It was a horror movie, of course, about an insane woman who murdered guests she invited over. Kind of stupid, really.”

“Who played the insane woman?”

“Me.”

“What happened next?”

“We were shooting a scene where Toby is sitting in a chair and I sneak up behind him with an axe. I raise the axe like this and start swinging, only I stop right when I get to his neck. Carlos had this mannequin head with blood all over it and we would cut from me to the fake head falling to the floor.”

“But it didn’t happen that way.”

Emma looked out the barred window as if searching for something. “No, it didn’t. Something happened to me as I was swinging the axe. I can’t explain it, but I lost control.”

“And you decapitated Toby.” Emma looked down again. “That’s enough for today. We’re making progress.” The doctor stood, went to his office door and opened it. “Nurse, you can take Emma back to her room.”

A large, scowling woman entered and clasped Emma’s arm, leading her to the door.

“Doctor,” said Emma as she reached the threshold.

“Yes?”

“You should come down and visit me sometime.”

Essay: Why I like living in a small town

7B English

Mrs. Galligan

I love small town life. I know it’s not for everybody, but I think it’s the best thing ever and I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. Being only twelve, I haven’t traveled much, and the biggest city I’ve been to is Des Moines, which was plenty big for me, but everything I need and want is right here in my hometown.

I live in a nice house on Brigid Street with my parents and five-year old brother Sean. My father works at the Ace Hardware store and my mother teaches religion at the school. A lot of my friends live outside of town on farms. Their families work really hard every year to raise the crops and make sure everyone has enough food for the long winter. Of course we know that hard work alone isn’t enough to guarantee a bountiful harvest, but without farmers, all the food god grants us would just rot in the fields.

Every summer my two cousins from Chicago come to visit for a week. Jessica, the cousin close to my age, never leaves the house while she’s here. Every year I try to get her to go swimming or mess around downtown, but she thinks the people who live here are creepy. Our town is kind of “off the grid” as my dad would say, but that doesn’t automatically make us creepy.

My favorite thing about living in a small town is the holidays. There’s the Christmas concert at the school, the Easter parade down Main Street, fireworks on the fourth of July, and the Harvest Festival in October. It’s so cool to me that the whole town participates in all of these events, like one big family. That doesn’t happen in your big city!

The Harvest Festival is coming up in two weeks. I was very honored to be chosen this year’s queen of the festival and I’ll be attending events all week long, like the corn eating contest, barbeque and dance and the lamb draining. The final day of the festival is a big deal, of course, and as queen, I’ll be part of the evening’s program. I’m looking forward to it, although all of my friends will be there watching me so it will be kind of scary, too.

Some people, like my dumb Chicago cousins, don’t understand what it means to give to your community to help it prosper. They think our ways are old fashioned and strange, but I don’t care. When I stand on top of the pyre in three weeks chanting the sacred verse, the flames purifying my earthly flesh, I’ll know that I’ve given all I can to the people I love most in this world, and they will be grateful for my sacrifice.

Now I hope you understand why I love small town life.

Kelly O’Malley

The Love Interest

Landing a recurring role in the “Young and the Restless” was a dream come true for actress Tonya Curtz, as well as the beginning of a living nightmare. Only days after her initial appearance on the show, she began noticing a man at too many places during her day for it to be a coincidence, and was concerned she had a stalker.

The man looked to be in his mid-twenties, her age, with intense dark eyes that seemed too wide open to be a natural expression. It was almost as if the stare was intended to frighten her. Was he just a star-fixated fan with too much time on his hands or something else? People on the set were sympathetic, but couldn’t offer much useful advice.

That evening, as Tonya closed up her second floor apartment before bed, she glanced out a front window and was startled to see the man standing across the street in the shadows just beyond the glow of the street lamp, staring up at her. This is too much, she thought to herself, and called 911.

A half-hour later, there was a knock at her door. Assuming it was the police, she rushed to answer it, but instinctively looked through the peephole. For an instant she stared into the bulbous black eyes of her stalker, then yelped and jumped back.

“Go away,” she screamed. “The police are on their way.”

Tonya barricaded herself in her bedroom and called the police again. Ten anxious minutes later there were more knocks on her front door, but she could hear the police announcing themselves and sighed with relief.  They hadn’t seen anyone, but would patrol the area more often than usual throughout the evening.

Tired and surly, Tonya walked through the backstage area of the set to make up the next morning. Candi had her sit in a chair and began transforming Tonya into her pampered rich girl character, Eve Corbett, while telling sleep-inducing stories of her love life. Candi was working on her closed eyes when Tonya heard the voice of one of the shows producers, Paul Conklin.

“Tonya, I’d like you to meet our newest cast member and your new love interest on the show, Thomas Volker.”

Tonya opened her eyes and found herself staring at the smiling face of her stalker.

“A pleasure to finally meet you,” he said.

The Neighbor

Explosive thunder like Thor’s hammer coming down on the roof shook the walls and Renee’s bones as she sat up in bed, holding her knees against her chest like she did when she was a child.  She had lived in small town Minnesota her entire life and should have been used to the violent storms that march across the Midwest every spring, but they always put her on edge and, of course, sleep was impossible.

The noise that made her jump this time was her phone. It was after midnight, but the number was local so she answered it.

“Hello?”

“Hi Renee, it’s Ken from next door.”

“Hey, Ken. So I’m not the only one who can’t sleep through all this racket.”

“Janet could sleep through a nuclear attack, but I jump up if a floorboard creaks. But say, I’m actually calling for a reason. I’m not the snoopy type, but I get up a couple of times a night for the usual reasons, and so I’m up tonight and I see that your basement light is on. It’s never on this late at night, so I thought I’d just double check with you about it.”

“Ah. Well that is a bit unusual, but I did do laundry today.  I probably flipped on the switch and forgot to turn off the lights.”

“I’m sure it’s something simple like that.”

“I’m going to go down and turn off the light.  I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but would you stay on the line until I do that?

“Of course. You go ahead.”

“Thanks. I’ll give you the all clear.”

Renee threw on her bathrobe and padded downstairs and through the kitchen with her phone in hand. There was a thin line of yellow light at the bottom of the basement door, and Renee opened it cautiously.  She crouched and looked around the room, but everything appeared in order. Wanting to be sure, she descended the stairs and took a quick scan of the large room, then put the phone to her ear.

“Ken? Yeah, everything is fine.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Ken, in her other ear.

The Changing Room

It was move-in day for the Patterson’s. Their new home was one of those turn-of-the-century Victorians with gingerbread trim and a large welcoming front porch. Even though it was a fixer-upper, Joseph had paid more than he wanted to and it was larger than they needed, but Kelly was in love with it and he was hoping it might help their marriage get through the current rough spot in the road.

Boxes went in and tired, sweaty Patterson’s came out. Joseph carried a box marked “basement” down the creaking stairs into the underbelly of the house. Like all basements in older homes, it smelled of mold and spider webs were draped in every corner. He set the box on the floor under a small window, and as he rose up, he noticed something through a crack between two boards on the wall. He squinted to see into the darkness, and he could swear he was looking into a small room.

After a few minutes of searching, he pulled on a board and to his amazement a door opened. His inner child’s heart was racing with excitement. A secret room! The dim basement light revealed a small, stark chamber decorated with only an old overstuffed chair and a small table with a framed photograph of a very grim looking man wearing a stained butcher’s apron. Joseph felt drawn into the strange little hideaway. The moment he lowered himself into the chair, however, the door slammed shut. He could see out into the basement through slits in the wood, but nobody could see him. The darkness in the room pressed down on his body and he couldn’t move or speak. Then the whispers began.

It was dusk but still humid and the two sheriff’s deputies were sweating despite standing in the shade of the porch. Kelly leaned against a wall, her face blotchy, her eyes red from crying.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Patterson. We searched the entire house and yard. Twice. He’s not here,” said the taller sheriff.

She was emphatic. “But where could he be? The car’s right there. His wallet is sitting on the kitchen table. This is insane.”

“I can understand you’re upset. We’ll continue looking for him tonight on our rounds. Try and get some rest. He may show up at any time.”

How could he just disappear she asked herself for the hundredth time as she brushed her hair before bed. He must be somewhere hurt, unable to get help or did the bastard just up and leave me? What would he—

Suddenly, in the mirror behind her stood Joseph. He was wearing the same clothes as this morning, but something about his expression was different, unsettling.

“Joseph? Baby, where have you been? What have you been doing?”

She caught the glint of a polished steel blade in his right hand at the same moment he spoke.

“Changing.”

The Upgrade

“Weirdest thing,” said Al Donner as he handed his wife a coffee cup.

“What’s that?”

He sat across from Janine at the dining room table. “I was looking out the kitchen window just now and saw a car drive by that was exactly the same make, model and color as mine. And the guy driving…looked like me.”

“Oh lord, please don’t let there be another Al Donner in the world,” she said with a smile. “Just kidding.”

“Ha. Strange, that’s all.” He got up and kissed Janine on her forehead. “Late for work.”

At a stoplight on his way to the office, Al wondered if he had time to grab a latte at the coffee shop just across the street. His gaze came to a rest on the front door of Peet’s, and a man who looked alarmingly like him came walking out of the shop holding a to-go coffee cup. He was even wearing the same color shirt. Car horns from behind broke his trance and he shook his head in disbelief at the strange events of the morning. Did he actually have a doppelganger?

The oddities continued as he sat at his computer in his cube trying to log in. His password wasn’t working. Frustrated, he looked up and saw his boss Tom Rhodes walking toward him with an uncharacteristically serious expression. The man leaned over the cube wall and spoke quietly.

“Al, can I see you in my office?”

As Al took a chair, Tom sat on the edge of his desk.

“It’s time,” said Don, with an apologetic tone.

“Time?”

“Yeah.”

“Time for what?”

“Let’s not make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

“Don, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. Are you firing me?”

“No….”

Al reacted as if he was hearing a foreign language. “Then what the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ve heard of this happening, but never…. Look, Al, just report to IT. Okay? They’ll explain everything.”

“IT? I don’t—“

“Al, please.”

“Fine,” said Al, standing. “Maybe someone there will tell me what the hell is going on.”

Confused and red-faced, Al l walked out of the office and headed in the direction of IT. A few moments later, he seemed to reappear in the doorway of the office.

“Mr. Rhodes? I’m Al Donner.”

Tom got up and extended his hand. “Call me Tom. Glad to have you on board, Al.”

Ping

Ping.

The soft chime was just loud enough to raise Sheri Collins from the depths of sleep toward consciousness. She pushed herself up on her elbows and squinted, trying to pierce through the early morning darkness of the bedroom. The only light was a dull white glow from her phone on the bedside table. Propping herself up with pillows, she focused on the message she’d just received. It was from her fourteen-year old daughter Kate.

“Mom  My ride bailed on me. Can you come pick me up?”

Sheri frowned and began typing.

“Why are you out so late?”

Ping.

“Please just come pick me up. I’ll explain. Corner of Woodland and 9^th.”

What choice was there?

“I’ll be there in 15. Look for me.”

Ping.

“K”

GPS was taking Sheri downtown into a dark, unfamiliar part of the city, and it wasn’t helping her mood at all. Bright window displays gave way to warehouses and fenced lots topped with razor wire.  Sheri jumped when the GPS lady announced that her destination was 100 feet ahead. She slowly pulled up to the intersection of Woodland and 9^th and scanned the area, but saw no signs of life. I’m going to kill her, thought Sheri, who then pushed on the horn twice. The industrial wasteland around her was unnervingly silent, but she thought she caught something moving to her right.

Ping.

She locked the doors and turned back to her phone. It was a text from Kate.

“Mom where are you?”

“I’m here. Where are you?”

Ping

“In my bedroom. I’ve been calling out for you.”

“That can’t be. What’s wrong?”

Ping.

“Noises in hallway.  God, please let that be you coming into my”

“Kate? KATE?”

The Baker Family Reunion

The paring knife slipped off the tomato skin and cut a half-inch slice into Meg Baker’s thumb.

“Shit,” she hissed, sticking her thumb in her mouth.

Her boyfriend Sean called from the living room. "You okay?"

“No,” she mumbled, walking to the bathroom like an oversized toddler.

Sean stood in the doorway as she tried to bandage herself.  “This family reunion is driving you nuts. You haven’t gone to one in five years. You hate your family.  Why is this one any different?”

“My father is sick. We don’t know how long he has, but he was the only one who ever showed me a bit of love and kindness. I just want to see him before he…”

Sean watched Meg fumble with the bandage. “Here, let me help.”

Two weeks later, Meg found herself in the backseat of a cab heading toward her childhood home, the home where she spent the worst years of her life fighting with her parents, friends who tried to help, teachers and just about everyone else in her life.  She was going back to face the alcoholic mother who tried to have her committed when she was fifteen, the relatives who clucked and rolled their eyes at the mere mention of her name, and her dying father, not perfect, but the best of the lot.

Meg pushed the doorbell and within a few seconds she was facing her mother, Janet, who stood in the threshold scowling, eyes red and face flush from alcohol. “What are you doing here?” she asked. The air between them filled with wine fumes.

“I invited her,” called out Robert, Meg’s father, from the top of the stairs.

Without saying a word, Janet turned and walked back toward the kitchen. Don motioned for Meg to join him upstairs. He sat on the edge of the bed as Meg plopped into a chair in the corner.

“I’m really glad you made it, honey,” said Don, smiling.

“Yeah, so is Mom. She’s brimming with joy that I’m here.”

“Don’t let her get to you. She’s always cranky these days. You must be thirsty.” Don opened the door in his bedside table and pulled out a bottled water, holding it out to Meg. “Need to keep hydrated.”

“Thanks, but—“

“It’ll help with the jet lag.”

Meg took the water from her father and drank. “Okay. So how are you feeling?”

“Oh, I have good days and bad days. Today’s one of the better ones, mostly because you’re here.”

“Thanks.” Meg tugged at her collar. “Do you have the heat cranked up? Warm in here.”

“No. Are you okay?”

“Dizzy all of a sudden.  Can’t keep my eyes open…”

In what seemed like only a moment later, Meg was straining to bring the room into focus. Her head throbbed and her clothes felt strange, sticky. There was something in her right hand. With effort she raised her arm and saw her fingers clasped around a large butcher knife covered in blood. Her clothes were also covered in a sticky red goo. Heart thumping in her chest as lines started to converge, Meg forced herself up and out into the hallway.  She stopped at the top of the stairs. Lying motionless and face down in the entryway below her as if floating in a pool of blood was her mother. Meg sank to her knees and moaned.

“Ah, you’re up,” said Don, entering from the living room. The shock rendered Meg speechless. She opened her mouth but only emitted another groan. “You killed them all. Well, that’s what the police will believe. Mentally disturbed young woman comes home to a family reunion, there are arguments and…she snaps, murdering everyone except her father, who barely survived.” He held up an arm with bloodstains on his shirt. “I’ve been planning this since the day you left home. You’re wondering why. Why did he do this to me? Fact is, I hated everyone here as much, if not more, than you. A bunch of drunk, backstabbing hypocrites. Now they’re all out of my life and I can start fresh.”

“I thought you were the one who loved me,” whispered Meg.

“I do, baby, but real love is above all about honesty. I know this is hard to hear, but you’re damaged goods, Meg. It’s clear your life isn’t going anywhere and nothing constructive will come of it. On the other hand, I still have a lot to offer the world and a lot to accomplish. Thanks to you, my new life starts today. I know that at some point you’ll understand all of this and be happy for me.”

“You’re not dying?”

Police sirens grew louder. Don peeked out a small window in the door. “No, honey, I’m not dying. This is my rebirth. So, they’re here.” As he opened the front door, a heavy weight suddenly landed on Don’s back. The cops walking up the steps watched in horror as Meg’s knife cut a thin dark slit across her father’s neck, and the Baker family reunion officially came to an end.

Unforgivable

Low black clouds reflected Don Martelli’s mood as he drove down rain washed city streets toward University Hospital and Clinics. His older brother Les was dying, given only a few days by the doctors, and he’d flown in that morning to stand vigil during his brother’s final hours. The two siblings had not been close for many years, but blood is blood and he wanted to say goodbye to the man who had mentored him into adulthood.

His first view of his brother as he entered the hospital room was a shock. The robust, ruddy-faced man he’d last seen three years ago was now barely more than skin wrapped around bone, red eyes shut, his mouth agape to capture as much oxygen as possible. Don went directly to Angie, his brother’s wife, and pulled her to him for an extended hug.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, reluctantly letting her go.

“Thanks Don. I’m so glad you’re here. I know Les would be, too.” She daubed her dark eyes with a tissue. As he greeted other family members, Les began moving, as if irritated, and suddenly opened his eyes. Seeing that he was straining to speak, Angie put an ear close to his mouth.

“Don, he wants to tell you something.”

Excusing himself, Don went to the bedside and leaned down. Les struggled to form the words.

“I know about you and Angie,” he whispered. “I’ll never forgive. I’ll never forget.”

Nurses came in and out of the room, doctors and visitors strode the hallway, but Don was solely consumed by his brother’s words as he stood up.

“What did he say?” asked Angie.

The blood rushed from Don’s face. “Uh, he…just wanted to tell me goodbye. That’s all.”

As soon as he thought it was acceptable, Don excused himself and drove toward the hotel where he was staying, picking up a bottle of vodka along the way. The memory of the affair with Angie blew through him, the lies, the deceit, but it was twelve years ago, and Les had never said a thing to either of them about it.

A half-empty bottle on the nightstand, a cop show on TV, Don’s plan to drown his brother’s words in alcohol and soporific television was a dismal failure. There was something beyond the words themselves that kept rising to the surface despite his efforts, a sense of mission that no man a few breaths away from death’s embrace should have.

The call came two hours later. Les had passed away quietly and was on his way down to the morgue.

Gusts of cold wind blew through the cemetery, and mourners pulled their coats tighter around them as the pastor finished the eulogy. “Amen” everyone repeated, and friends and family of Les Martelli filled past the coffin before it was lowered into the ground. Don stopped the weary looking Angie as she headed toward her car.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

She raised her red, glistening eyes to his. “I don’t know. As good as I can, I suppose.”

“I’m staying in town until Friday, so if you need anything…”

Angie tried to smile, but could not manage it. She lightly touched Don’s arm and turned away.

A call lit up Don’s phone at 3:30 a.m. It was from a very distraught Denise, Angie’s sister.

“Denise? What is it? What’s wrong?” asked Don, trying to blink himself awake.

“It’s Angie. I can’t believe I’m saying this. Don, she’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“She committed suicide. Oh god. The police said she jumped from the Tenth floor of the Hilton downtown. Why would she do that? Why?”

Room 1066. It was the room where Don and Angie used to meet. The air in the bedroom suddenly chilled.

“Don? Don, are you there?”

The phone fell from his trembling hand and the only response Denise received was a scream for help.

The Imaginary Friend

Lugging a full laundry basket. Jessica Marks stopped in the open doorway of her daughter’s room. Five-year old Tess was engrossed in a familiar family dispute with her imaginary friend Kristal.

“You didn’t pick up your room like I asked. There won’t be any dessert tonight if you don’t mind me.”

Jessica smiled. She’d done her research and felt assured that Tess’s imaginary friend was nothing to be concerned about and could even be helping in her daughter’s language development.

“You’ll make a good mommy someday,” said Jessica.

Tess rolled her eyes. “She never listens to me.”

“Believe me, I know that feeling,” replied Jessica, heading off to her destination in the laundry room.

That evening as she and her husband Will sat in bed reading, Jessica put down her Kindle.

“Did you have an imaginary friend when you were Tess’s age?”

Will took off his glasses. “As a matter of fact, I did. His name was Stevie.”

“Stevie,” repeated Jessica with a broad grin. “Interesting. I didn’t, at least that I can remember. It’s just kind of funny and a little weird to see Tess interacting so intensely with someone who isn’t there.”

“She’ll get through it. We all do.”

The next afternoon, Jessica was making the bed when she thought she heard sobbing down the hall. It was coming from Tess’s room, and she found the girl sitting on her bed, red-faced, tears dropping from her chin.

“What’s wrong, baby?” asked Jessica.

“Kristal said that her mommy and daddy don’t want her to have an invisible friend, so she can’t play anymore.”

“Oh honey, I’m so sorry.  It’ll be all right.”

“No it won’t.”

Jessica’s phone rang. It was Will so she stepped out into the hallway. “Well, we’re having a bit of a melt down over Kristal. Yeah…. Can I call you back later?”

Tapping her phone, Jessica was suddenly struck by the dead silence in the house. Something didn’t feel right. She turned and walked back into Tess’s room, only to find it empty. Then panic clutched her heart. Lying in a pile on the floor next to the bed were the clothes her daughter had been wearing only seconds ago.

Getting Away With Murder

Friends are overrated, Thomas Grayson would often think to himself, using it as an excuse to spend yet another night lost in his laptop monitor instead of going out and engaging other human beings. Bored with Facebook, Thomas jumped to YouTube and began scanning video descriptions. Something in the “Recommend” category stopped him cold, a video with his name under it, Thomas Grayson #4. It had been posted three days earlier and already had over a thousand views. The name of the poster was “GAWM.”

Curious, he clicked on the video and was suddenly looking down on a city street at night. The camera was following a woman walking down a sidewalk, then cut to a daylight segment of a woman walking to her car. They looked to be the same person, but Thomas couldn’t be sure until a third segment appeared. It was night again and the camera operator was filming through a window looking into a house. The same young woman was sitting on a couch watching TV. Her bare feet were propped up against the coffee table and she appeared to be eating popcorn. The video ended abruptly and Thomas felt both confused and frightened.

He watched the three other videos and found the pattern to be the same, with each one following a different woman as if someone was stalking them. Why was his name on these videos, he wondered? News articles he’d seen of a suspected serial killer in the city rose to the surface in his mind and his palms grew damp. Here were videos of someone following various women. Could they be victims? Prospective targets?

His mind started racing. Maybe somebody was trying to frame him. But who and why? He didn’t know enough people to have enemies. Should he call the cops?

After a fitful night, Thomas slogged through his morning routine. He tapped away at the laptop on the kitchen table in between sips of coffee and found that a new video had been posted during the night, Thomas Grayson #5.  Afraid to watch it and afraid not to, he finally clicked on the title. The camera followed a young woman through the aisles of a grocery store as she shopped. It then cut to the same woman carrying bags into her small house.

Three solid knocks on the front door sent a surge of adrenalin through his veins, and a second one hit when he opened the door to a man in a suit and two uniformed police officers.

“Detective Vince Anselmo. You Thomas Grayson?”

Thomas wanted to slam the door shut and run. “Yes. What’s this all about?”

“We have a warrant to search the premises. Would you mind stepping back, Sir?”

Detective Anselmo and the two cops brushed past Thomas. “Wait. What’s this all about? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

The Detective stood in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen. “So what are you doing on your laptop? Posting another video? How fucking stupid can you get?”

“No, no. You don’t understand. I didn’t post those videos. Someone else put them there.” Something was horribly wrong.

“Hey Vince,” called a cop coming down the stairs holding a GoPro camera in an evidence bag. “Found it sitting on top of his dresser, and there’s a coil of rope.”

Detective Anselmo shook his head as he pulled out his cuffs. “Jesus, Grayson. You have to be the world’s dumbest serial killer. You’re under arrest for murder.”

“No,” shouted the now panicking Thomas. “I didn’t kill anybody. I…I’m being set up.”

The cuffs clicked shut around Thomas’s wrists as he continued to protest, and a police officer guided him outside to a waiting squad car.  As the house grew quiet again, the YouTube page on Thomas’s laptop refreshed. A new video had just been uploaded by GAWM…Chad McNair #1.

Retribution

His back killing him, Joe Garner looked over at the small redbud tree in its plastic pot with contempt as it waited for him to finish the hole he was digging in the backyard. He could feel the blisters forming as the shovel pierced another inch into the dense soil, but then something in the hole caught his eye. He’d encountered roots and small pebbles, but this looked different. Bending down for a closer examination, Joe squinted, trying to make sense of something completely out of context. He was looking at a woman’s finger.

Two hours later, there was a backhoe in the yard, several uniformed officers and a young detective named Conrad, who was overseeing the excavation. Joe and Ellen watched from the back porch as the machine spewed black smoke and groaned while clawing slowly into the Garner’s lawn.  Soon, the cops waived off the bucket and entered the large gash in the yard to examine the body. Detective Conrad climbed out of the hole and approached Joe and Ellen holding out his phone. He showed them a photo of the victim’s face.

“Either of you recognize her?” he asked.

“No,” responded Ellen quickly. “I’ve never seen her before.”

“Mr. Garner?”

“I don’t know who that is,” he said, his neck now crimson red.

An ambulance took the body away and the uniformed cops left a short time later. A grim Detective Conrad sat at the kitchen table with Joe and Ellen sipping a Sprite.

“How long did you say you’ve lived here?” he asked.

“Twelve years,” replied Joe.

“I’m not an expert, but the body doesn’t look like it’s been in the ground anywhere near that amount of time.”

Joe scowled. “Are you implying something, Detective?”

“No Sir,” he responded, looking down at his hands. “I just have to go where the evidence leads me. We won’t know anything until the coroner examines the body.  Are you okay, Mr. Garner? You look pale.”

Joe tried to turn his fear into anger. “The dead body of a woman was taken out of the ground in my backyard. No, I’m not okay.”

After a few more questions, Detective Conrad left and the mood in the house was murky and uncertain.  

Deep into the night, Ellen bolted upright in bed. Joe was yelling from downstairs. She entered the dark living room and found her husband standing in the shadows.

“What’s wrong?” asked Ellen, putting her hands on his shoulders.

“There was a woman…just outside the window…looking in at me.”

Ellen hurried out the front door and returned after a beat.

“There’s no one out there now.”

“It was the woman from our yard,” said Joe.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Come back to bed.”

On two more occasions, Joe claimed to see the phantom woman standing outside looking in. After the latest incident, his body trembled in Ellen’s arms as he tried to keep himself from totally falling apart. He let out a sigh and then confessed that he knew the woman dug up in their yard, and that they had an affair, but he swore he didn’t kill and bury her.

“I know you didn’t,” whispered Ellen, letting go of Joe and giving him an icy glare. “But I can’t speak for the police….”

The Boy in the Mirror

The clinic waiting room was bright, sterile and solemn. Parents sat with their troubled children, eyes glazed, wondering why fate had dealt them such a lousy hand and how they were going to pay the deductible for all of these visits. Trent and Lisa Sterling were dwelling on the same issues as their seven-year old son Paul played a game on Lisa’s iPhone. One of the doors to the waiting room opened and Dr. Sarah Hatch smiled at the Sterlings and beckoned them in.

The smile disappeared as Dr. Hatch scanned Paul’s case on the computer monitor on her desk.

“Well,” she said, clasping her hands together. “Paul is consistent. He’s sticking to the story that it’s the boy in mirror who tells him what to do, and that if he doesn’t do as he’s told, the boy will come out of the mirror and hurt him…and you. It’s a classic case of transference, where a person shifts blame for something away from themselves and onto another person or even an object. Paul doesn’t want to be blamed for doing hurtful things, so he blames the boy in the mirror to escape responsibility.”

“Shouldn’t the meds be helping?” asked Trent.

“Let’s give him another week. If you don’t see signs of improvement, call and set up another appointment.”

Under the weight of their emotional burden, the Sterlings rose grudgingly to their feet, their faces reflecting the worry, anxiety and sleepless nights of caring for a child diagnosed with psychopathic tendencies.

That night, Lisa stood next to Paul, who was wearing his pajamas, in front of his bedroom mirror.

“It’s just your reflection. See?” she said.

“He’s in there and he wants to get out,” Paul responded.

Lisa knelt down. “Your Mommy and Daddy love you, Paul and we won’t let anyone hurt you. I think tomorrow we’ll get you a brand new mirror. Okay?”

“He won’t like that.”

The grandfather clock in the upstairs hallway chimed three times and the house was still again, but shadows moved and small feet could be heard padding on the hardwood floor.  Lisa adjusted her position in bed and felt something odd, a damp stickiness under her. She rose up on her elbows and looked over at Trent. Even with only the aid of moonlight, she could see Trent lying on his back, eyes wide open, a black oozing gash across his neck. Trying to process this nightmare image, she heard a noise and turned to see the dark silhouette of Paul standing next to the bed.

“You were right, Mommy,” said Paul, the raised knife blade glinting in his hand. “I am the boy in the mirror.”

I'll Never Die

The large banner headline read: “The Search Continues for Wade Carson.” With the local paper spread out on his kitchen table, thirty-year old Justin Vicks sipped coffee as he read about the search for the missing boy in the fields and woods around the small town of Clayville. The sheriff believed foul play was involved, but wouldn’t go into details, and there was a photo of Wade’s parents, dark, sad eyes and drawn  faces, thanking the community for helping look for their son.

Justin folded up the paper and lit a cigarette. Bumbling yahoos couldn’t find shit in an outhouse, he thought, shaking his head as he considered the level of their ineptitude. After crushing out his smoke in the remains of his lunch, he unlocked the basement door and descended the stairs. In a corner of the dingy, musty room was six-year old Wade, curled up in a tight ball, sitting on a stained mattress. Justin smiled as he took in the scene, and then walked toward the terrified boy.

Around five that evening there was a knock on the front door, and Justin found himself facing two sheriff’s deputies, men he had known all his life.

“Justin,” said one of the officers. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Bill. Art. What can I do for you?”

“Sorry, but do you still drive that blue F100?” asked Art.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Well, Edith Laskos was looking out her kitchen window last Friday about the time Wade went missing, and thought she saw a young boy get into the passenger side of a blue pickup.”

“Oh no, that wasn’t…I can’t believe this. I was at work all day Friday. You can ask Marv.”

Bill was now looking over Justin’s shoulder. “I didn’t know you had kids, Justin.”

Feeling as if he’d just been punched in the stomach, Justin tried to remain steady. “Kids? No, I don’t have any kids.”

“Well I just saw a boy run from one room to the other.”

Stay focused, cool. “That’s impossible, Bill.”

“I know what I…there he goes again. He just ran into the kitchen.”

Art shook his head. “I saw him too.”

Justin turned, but there was nothing there. “That’s not possible,” he said, his voice cracking and rising in pitch. “There’s no kid here. I’m telling you, there’s no one else in this house.”

“Calm down, Justin. I think we’d better take a look around.”

The two officers brushed past the shaken man, who now turned in a panic.

“Stop,” Justin shouted. Wearing grim expressions, the two officers turned toward the now wide-eyed, frantic man. “There is no boy,” he yelled, flecks of spit flying, “because he’s dead. I killed him hours ago.” Justin sank to his knees sobbing. “I killed him.” After a few moments, he felt a warm breath on one ear and heard a boy’s voice.

“You killed me,” Wade whispered, “but I’ll never die.”

The Cellmate

The young man sitting in the jail cell awoke with a start. He’d fallen asleep sitting up, and while he was out the guards had brought a new man to the cell. Tray McNair sized up the guy sitting perfectly still on the bench directly across from him. He was wearing a black hoodie drooped over his head, but Tray could make out the gaunt, pale face of a man in his fifties, a glint of light reflecting off of shadow-hidden eyes that seemed locked on him in an unsettling way.

“S’up?” asked Tray in as casual and confident a voice as he could muster. The man didn’t respond, and continued staring. After numerous arrests for petty crimes, Tray understood the unwritten jailhouse rules, and he also knew that sometimes the quietest guys were the most volatile. “Yo, you don’t want to talk that’s fine, but stop staring at me, man.”

The man continued to stare, and Tray felt a physical chill run up and down his spine. Trying not to show how nervous he really was, he got up and went to the cell door, calling out to no one in particular.

“Yo, this dude here is crazy. Put this crackhead in another cell. You hearing me?”

“Shut up, Tray,” came a disembodied voice from down the hallway. “No one wants to hear your bullshit.”

Shaking his head, Tray sat back down and tried to ignore his cellmate, but the stare was too threatening, too much of a challenge to let go. Tray stood back up.

“Listen, man. Either you stop staring at me…”

Voices came out of the darkness. “Are you hurt?” “Can’t see no blood or bruising.” “Tray, can you hear me?”

As he regained his vision, Tray saw three guards with concerned expressions hovering over him. “What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know. I came down here for the hourly check and you were lying passed out on the floor.”

“Where’s the freak?” asked Tray as he got up to a sitting position.

“Who?”

“The old white dude with the hoodie.”

“We haven’t put anyone else in your cell since you got here.”

It was then that Tray’s fingers touched the two clumps of dried blood on his neck, right over his jugular vein.

It Runs in the Family

The cacophony of boozy conversation filled the well-appointed house of attorney Douglas Hattering. Friends from his law firm and the neighborhood and a hand full of faces he didn’t recognized formed small clusters of people talking, drinking and flirting with each other in the spacious living room. One of the guests he didn’t know was a beautiful pale woman with long black hair and a form-fitting black dress cornered by three wide-eyed young bucks.

Moving with a slow, cool determination, he smiled and nodded his way through the partygoers to finally enter the knot of drunk, clumsy men trying unsuccessfully to seduce the mysterious woman. Because Douglas was a partner in the firm, the younger lawyers quickly accepted that their hunt was over and disappointedly drifted off to look for other prey.

The woman’s dark red lips parted in a smile. “Wow. That was impressive, in a primitive, tribal kind of way. You must be the chief.”

“Law firm partner and party giver. Welcome to my home.” They touched glasses.

“Thank you. It’s beautiful. Gina Bholes.”

“Douglas Hatterling. And how do you pass your days, Gina?

“I’m an arachnologist at the university.”

“Spiders? You study spiders for a living? I try and keep as far away from them as possible. It’s really a phobia of mine.”

“You’re not alone, but they are fascinating to me and their webs can be so intricate and beautiful.”

“Not if you’re a fly. Can I get you another drink?”

“Thank you. I’d love one.”

“And when I get back I have to know what got such a beautiful woman interested in such horrid creatures,” Douglas said as he walked toward the kitchen.

Two hours later, the house now empty, Douglas and Gina lay naked on his bed, breathing heavily after physical, satisfying sex. Gina got up on one elbow.

“I never answered your question,” she said.

“My question?”

“How I became interested in spiders.” Douglas turned toward her, his blissful expression instantly turned to one of terror as he watched her eyes transform into large red embers and fangs begin protruding from her mouth. “It runs in the family.”

The Girl Next Door

“I know a game, but you gotta come over here to play.”

“I can’t without my mom.”

“Sure you can. Just walk around the fence. It’s a secret game just for kids.”

The Chase family had been in their new home for a week, but Christie was still unpacking boxes and setting up the kitchen. She glanced up from the sink and saw her six-year old son Dillon standing next to the weathered privacy fence that cordoned off the backyard, appearing to be talking to himself. Wiping her hands on her pants, Christie walked outside.

“Hey, kiddo, whatchya doing?”

“Talking to Ally, the girl next door.”

“Cool. I didn’t know our neighbors had kids. Hi Ally.” There was no reply.

“I think she went inside,” said Dillon.

“Yeah, probably. Come on, I’ll fix you some lunch.”

Over bowls of mac and cheese, Christie and Dillon sat in unusual silence.

“You’re quiet today. Everything okay?” asked Christie.

“I guess. Ally’s kind of creepy.”

“What makes you say that? I thought maybe I could invite her over here to play.”

Dillon’s eyes widened. “No. I don’t want her to come over here.”

“But why?”

“I just don’t. That’s all.”

The afternoon passed quietly. Dillon played in his room while Christie rearranged the cupboards, giving up on trying to get anything more from him about the girl next door.  Nagged by Dillon’s odd reaction to Ally, Christie decided to introduce herself to the neighbors as a pretext to see for herself what they were like.

She called up the stairs that she’d be outside for a few minutes, and then walked quickly down the sidewalk to the door of Ally’s house. Repeated knocks brought no response and when she peeked in the window, she saw the home was empty.

“There’s no one living there,” a voice called out. Christie turned toward an elderly woman in the next yard wearing gardening gloves. “Something happened to the youngest daughter in the family. Had to institutionalize her. Nasty little thing. The family moved out a few months ago and I won’t say I was sorry to see them go.”

“Thank you,” replied a confused Christie as she walked slowly back and turned down her driveway.

“Mom.” Christie stopped and looked up. Framed by the second story window of his bedroom, Dillon whispered loudly through the screen. “I told you not to ask the neighbor girl over.”

Christie opened her mouth to speak, but instead a terrified shriek escaped when she saw a pair of eyes just over Dillon’s shoulder.