Milk and Cookies

Ah, the innocence of youth.  I remember when I was just a carefree child.  I honestly can say I will never forget it.

I remember being around six years old and playing with my friend, Billy Marsh, who was eight—the coolest, oldest kid in our neighborhood.  It was December, and almost Christmas.  Billy was telling me about Santa Claus.

To put some context on this, there had been a rash of home invasions in the area, and my parents had been telling me to watch out for prowlers.

Billy, being the wiser of the kids around, knew how gullible we younger kids could be.  He told me that Santa was the ones breaking into houses and that he was trying to get take away kids to go be helpers at his workshop at the North Pole.

Now, that would have sounded like a pretty sweet gig to me, had it not been for the fact that Billy told me I would never get to see my mommy or daddy ever again.  All the toys in the world weren’t worth missing my mother’s kisses or the cool stuff my father would sometimes bring home from his late-night job as a worker at a chocolate factory.

It was the afternoon before Christmas when I thought of my plan to make sure Santa didn’t kidnap me.  Mom let me bake some cookies for Santa, and I added my own special ingredient.  Father set out these green pellets for the mice that came into our garage.  He told me the mice were being bad, and that the pellets would make them leave us alone.  My six year old brain took this notion and ran with it.

I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face when he found me crying about how I told mommy those cookies were for Santa, but she ate them anyway.

All About Allie

“But mom!” Sammie whined as her mother nudged her away from the bathroom door.  “She’s been in there for over an hour!  It’s always about Allie!  Her birthday parties, Christmas, even last month on vacation!  It’s never all about me!  Me!”

Sammie’s mother just shook her head, ignoring her youngest daughter’s overly selfish remarks.  “Honey, your sister has a big date tonight, so of course it’s all about her.  How about we have games night here, just you, me, and your dad?  You can even pick.”

Sammie pouted her way to her room and closed the door with a muffled thud.  She twisted the lock violently, for an audible metallic click in order to signify her indignation.  Sammie grinned once in solitude.  She had been waiting for her mother to confront her so she could storm off in atypical fashion.  Now, she knew, her mother would leave her alone for the night.  This, of course, was part of her moderately thought out plan.

Now alone, Sammie quickly changed into her nicest dress and casually slipped out the window.  The man Allie was meeting hadn’t met her in person—only online had they chatted—so she figured she could pass herself off as Allie, as she was only three years younger than her sister of 21.

Since her sister, being the blowhard Sammie mentally made her out to be, just could not get enough of telling her parents where she was going, and when, Sammie knew right were to go, and even managed to add something to Allie’s makeup to stall her: cocoa power.  Since Allie was mildly allergic to it, Sammie figured that the hives her sister was about to get would mimic acne enough that the self-centered freak-out would buy her the time needed to arrive at the date location.

Sammie’s plan, much to her delight, worked as far as she could tell.  She arrived at the parking lot of the local mall right at 9 PM.  She was confused, though, as the only car in the lot of the since-closed mall had a man leaning against it, one who was much older than Allie had claimed she was meeting.  The faint embers of his cigarette barely illuminated his tanned face.

She approached him, and called out, “Ex…excuse me, sir?  I’m looking for Michael and was wondering if you’ve seen someone who was waiting for a lady named Allie.”

“Then tonight’s my lucky night.  I’m Michael,” said the man.  He took a long drag and flicked the cigarette to the ground, its embers danced as if they were trying to escape their fate.

Just then, another man came from behind the car.  He snapped a length of rope taunt and grinned, his paler skin better visible in the night.

“Wait, I think I should tell you,” she whimpered, taking steps backward as the two men moved to overtake her.  “I’m not Allie.  My name is Sammie!  I’m just her sister!”

The tanned man grabbed her by the throat and quickly and firmly placed his large hands across her mouth.  They were scarred with what appeared to be dozens of bite marks.

 “Allie, Sammie, it don’t matter none.  All that matters is tonight, it’s gonna’ be all about you, sweetheart.”

Sweet Scent

The entire neighborhood loves my pear trees.  It’s almost winter, and the sickly sweet scent of decaying fruit fills the air.  At first, they told me I should be cleaning up the rotten fruit, but after I pointed out that all the local hornets were too busy feasting in my yard to be stinging their children, they quickly warmed up to the notion.

That, well, and the massive influx of all manner of butterflies that flocked to my yard to join the hornets in their smorgasbord.

It’s a shame that most of the fruit rots on the tree, but such is life.  I don’t much care for the fruit.  I give what I can away.  Each year I get at least one new tree.

It’s days like today that I can really sit outside and savor the—pardon my pun—fruits of my labor.  There’s a cool, autumn breeze blowing the fragrance all over.  I must say that the smell of rotting pears oh so very well masks the scent of other rotting.

Loneliness Comes First

“Where are you, demon?  Show yourself!  It’s midnight, or are you admitting I’m smarter?” shouted a man, standing at the crossroads on the outskirts of his town.

“That’s a whole lot of hollering you’re doing young man,” said a creature that stepped out from the lunar shadows cast by a nearby tree.  The man couldn’t make out much about it other than its piercing red eyes and two curved horns.  “It’s hard to believe anyone would count you as smart with as much of a fool as you’re making yourself out to be.”

“Don’t underestimate me demon.  I summoned you here because I want to prove I can outsmart the Devil himself,” said the man with a broad grin.

“Oh, He knows.  That’s why He sent me to deal with you.  He accepts your challenge.  I am here to grant you three wishes, mortal.”  The demon drew close enough to the man that he could see its face, which was a ruddy red in the moonlight.  It smiled in an odd, upside-down manner.  It looked almost as if it were frowning out of pleasure.

“When you wish for the third one, after one year I will kill you and take your soul back to hell where you will be tormented for all eternity,” spoke the demon, his voice like two warm chunks of coal smacking together.

“Well, that sounds fair.  I agree, and—being smarter than you—know what my first wish will be.”

“You sure you wouldn’t like some time?”

“No, and quit trying to weasel your way out, demon.  My first wish?  I want to be immortal.”  The demon’s expression abruptly changed to a scowl.  “Can’t be killed no matter what.”

“You are a clever one,” the demon said, snapping its fingers.  “You’ll live forever now, but I still will torment you for all eternity on your third wish.”

The man patted himself down, as though he though that something had been added to his body in some way or another.  “Well, hellspawn, I am also smarter than that.  As long as I don’t make a third wish, you’re just out of luck.  It’s going to be no fun living forever with nothing to do.  I wish I was insanely rich and famous.  I’ve never gotten enough attention and it’s high time I got the attention I deserve!”

The demon snarled and snapped its fingers.  “Tomorrow, you will awake rich beyond your wildest dreams in a fabulous mansion.”

The man clapped in joy.  “Goodbye and good riddance,” said the man as he walked back toward town.

***

The next morning, true to the demon’s word, the man awoke to find himself in an exquisite mansion, filled with money and made out of gold.  Outside, he could hear a crowd of people chanting his name and begging him to come outside.  “Carl!  Carl!  Carl!” they chanted.

“I would hate to disappoint my adoring fans,” Carl said as he made a grand exit from his house and out onto his lawn.  There before him were thousands of people, all holding knives, guns, and other sorts of weaponry.

“What the hell is going on?” he shouted as the crowd rushed him and began to stab, shoot, and otherwise maim him.

“We want your money!” several shouted.  “You told us whoever kills you gets all your money!  We’re tired of waiting!”

“Stop!” choked Carl as his multiple wounds closed up and were promptly reopened anew.  “Stop I don’t remember saying that.”

“Money!  All of it!  Kill him!” the mob chanted as they continued to attack him.

“Stop!”

“MONEY!”

Carl managed to break away from the pack and barricaded himself inside his mansion.  The angry crowd pounded on his doors.  If the mansion had windows, they would have been the first to go.

“What the hell did I get myself into?” muttered Carl as he tried to hold his doors shut.  He was in intense pain.  “I wish everyone was just gone. I can’t handle these crazy people.”

Carl would have missed what he had just said had it not been for the sound of fingers snapping.  Everything was quiet.

“No!  I didn’t!  No!  This isn’t at the crossroads, it doesn’t count!” shouted Carl as he looked around, trying to find the demon.

“Now, now.  All’s fair in love, war, and deals with The Devil.  One year, human.”

“Show yourself!  How can you take me to hell?  I’m still immortal.  You can’t kill me or drag me there alive.  I still win you idiot!  I’m going to live forever.”

“Yes, and you just wished away the entire population of this planet..”

“So?” shouted Carl as loud as he could, hoping in some weird way that being louder would reveal the demon.  “I sill won’t die.  I win, you lost!”

“Apparently, Mr. Lingam, you don’t understand the concept.”

“What concept?”

“Hell on Earth.”

Seeing Red Lights

Simon was a man cursed with the most mundane of things, but it became the bane of his existence.  Every traffic light he encountered turned red.  It didn’t matter what color it was before, it would almost instantly turn yellow as soon as he approached.

Since getting his license at age 16, the red lights made him late for everything.  From dates to his grandmother’s funeral to being late for classes and jobs, he had been running late for most his life.  It wasn’t just when he drove either.  Anywhere he went, from walking to taking mass transit to being driven places, the red lights slowed him down constantly.

One day, his wife, fed up with his constant tardiness gave him an ultimatum.  He could either stop being lazy—as she saw it—and make it to his son’s game, or she would leave him.  He had been fired many times for being late, and had missed so many dates and so many of his son’s baseball games that she was fed up with him.

Simon sat impatiently at a red light, knowing the one a block away would be red as well.  He had left early, but the red lights always backed up traffic.  He gripped the steering wheel tightly.  He thought about doing something he never had before: running the light.

He knew the light took forever to change, and he didn’t see any police cars.  He loved his wife, and really didn’t want to lose her.  He looked around one last time to check for any police and boldly made his move.

He was promptly broadsided.

Identity

I grabbed my bat.  If it was my face they wanted, I was going to make them work for it.

I carefully rounded the corner and saw that one of those creatures had climbed onto the wall.  I wasn’t going to let them steal my face.

I shouted loudly as I jumped out, hoping to catch it by surprise.  I didn’t give it a chance to attack.  I just swung over and over, smashing it to bits.  I gloated for a moment over the corpse of my slain enemy, before remembering something.  I ground its body into the ground as it tried feebly to steal my face

I turned around, the bathroom door was open.  I could see its blank face staring at me above the sink.  It was trying to steal my face.

Noisy Island

I can't take the voices in my head.  I can hear all the campers, chattering away loudly in the mess hall.

This entire island echoes with the loud hum of activity.

I know they're all in my head.  This island is secluded and secret.  It was their treat to bring the summer camp to here.  So much noise.  I never knew kids would be so loud.

They can't be real voices.  Only I know where the island is, where I live.  If people knew where it was, I would have been found by now.

Why is this island still filled with their loud, screaming voices?  It's supposed to be filled with silence.

I thought I killed them all.

Reverend Chad

Reverend Chad jerked awake; the sound of his cell phone ringing had snapped him back to reality.

“Another soul needin’ to be saved,” he muttered as he checked the number in a vain attempt to see if it was another repeat caller.

“Unknown number, eh?” he said, rubbing his eyes and answering the call.  “Thank you for calling Reverend Chad’s Pra-.”

“Are you a Holy Man?” a man on the other end asked.  His tone was strict, with a slight hint of enjoyment.

“I beg your pardon?” Chad stammered, no longer sure he was awake.

“You heard me.  Are.  You.  A Holy Man?” the man stated in a demanding tone.

“Yessir, I am.  How may I help you this fine morning?”

“I want you to say a prayer.”

“A prayer?  What’s your name young man?  Who would you like for me to say this prayer for?  Your mother, your father?  I can see troubled times.”  The reverend reached for a pad of paper.

“Not for me.  For you.  Your family.  The whole world.”

“That’s very kind of you.  I will keep you and the whole world in my prayers today.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, sir.  What?”

“Not me.  Just, well, just the whole world.  They’re going to need it.  The apocalypse is coming, and you are the one, prophet—as you claim to be—to warn everyone.”

With that, the man hung up.  The reverend scratched his head in confusion.

“Who was it honey?” his wife asked, rolling over and placing her hand on his shoulder.

“A man, asking for me to pray,” he responded, flopping back onto his pillow.

“Isn’t that why you set up that prayer hotline?” she asked, rubbing his arm.

“Yeah, I guess I’m just tired.  It’s nothing.  Let’s get some rest.  We’ve got a big sermon tomorrow,” said Chad as he curled back up in bed.

***

Weeks passed, and the odd phone call was wearing on his mind.  He kept thinking that he had to tell someone, so he finally told his wife.

She laughed at him.

“I don’t know what kind of cuckoos you have on your line, but we both agreed when we started this thing that you wouldn’t let anything anyone said get to you,” she said, shaking her head.  “Now get ready, the storm’s headed this way.”

For the past week, bad weather had been ravaging the northern hemisphere.  Hurricanes, tornados, droughts, and floods.

Chad stepped outside, to check on his chickens.  As soon as he left his door, the tornado sirens went off.  Through the chaos of flapping chickens and thunderclaps, he was able to make out a huge tornado churning off in the distance, and headed his way.

His wife came out, screaming at him to get to the tornado shelter.

But he couldn’t hear here.

All the noise that was around him consumed her voice, and spat it out as nothing toward him.  The only sounds left were the swirling winds, slapping rain, loud sirens and houses being destroyed.

Chad could hear less than that, even.

He, a man who felt he had been disobedient to what the messenger had wanted him to do, could only hear the sounds of the tornado sirens.

To him, they sounded a lot like trumpets.

Muse Abuse

John turns away from his computer.  The characters in the story he is writing desperately want to be saved from the incoming meteor, but John doesn't like neat, happy endings.  When he comes back from the bathroom, he fully intends to finish wiping out the planet, which had been pock-marked by several smaller meteorites, the harbingers of this new, massive chunk of incoming rock.

Unbeknownst to him, the citizens of his fantasy world had a better idea.  John was writing about an advanced race, light-years from Earth.  He didn't know it, but the idea for his story was coming to him from them via their technology.  Whatever he wrote happened to them.

Dismayed that the one person from Earth they tried to get to help them let their planet become scarred and left in ruin, and was about to let their planet be destroyed, the moved to their "Plan B," which was to build a machine to teleport the meteor to a different location in space.  Before, they had no location in mind that would not possibly result in the loss of a valuable society.

As John returned to his computer to finish writing the story of how a planet he dreamed up one day was destroyed by a meteor, the citizens prepared their device.

They could still see what he was writing, and in all the gory details in which he described their people dying.

Fed up, they took over this process.  John gleefully typed on, by then blissfully unaware of what he was writing.

In his mind, he was writing about some far away planet, about to be totally annihilated by a massive meteor.

To the people of the advanced planet, what he was writing couldn't be any more true.

That's Final

You’re moving out and that’s final!

I couldn’t believe that, just like that, our marriage was over.  I mean, we didn’t get along anymore, but I didn’t know she had the papers drafted in advance.

I did love her, at first.  She just had a superiority complex that manifested after a year.

All things considered, though, I counted my blessings a few weeks after I got the boot.  Her house caught on fire, burned everything inside it.  My poor ex-wife included.

“I’m sorry,” I told her mother at the funeral.  She told me not to feel bad.  I don’t apologize unless I mean it, though.

Best Served Warm

My father wanted to force me into being a chef, like his father, his father’s father, and so on.  He thought I couldn’t cook, and was constantly berating me for not wanting to follow in the “proud” family tradition.

He would scream at me for wanting to do something, anything else with my life, and forced me to learn to cook.  I wanted to be a pilot.

One day, he scoffed at my cooking abilities, telling me that since I didn’t want to learn, I would never make anything taste above dog-food level.

I challenged that notion by baking him one of the tastiest apple pies he had ever eaten.  Best of his life.  Well, okay.  It wasn’t really that good.  After the first slice, he just couldn’t keep eating.

He didn’t think I was a good chef, but I think it takes a pretty good chef to hide such bitter poison in a pie.

With the Punches

I still don’t know what happened today to make me wind up where I am, but I’m pretty sure it had something to do with kicking my brother this morning.

It’s not my fault, I mean, well, I did kick him.  Pretty hard, in fact.  To be fair, though, he did flush the toilet while I was in the shower.  He’s a huge jerk like that.

Anyway, that’s not the worst thing that happened to me.  Today at school, my friend Steve invited me to join a group of people who were going to go to an old graveyard.  Something about fighting back the hordes of the undead.  My brother, naturally, was going to be the leader of this expedition.  He had a history of leading us to victory against school policies and bullies, so he was a shoe in for the position.

Well, I only remember heading to our house and then my brother pulling out this old book.  He started reading to us, and the next thing I knew was I was staring down a horde of skeletons.  There had to be at least ten of them, and their bones rattled through the air.

I was alone.  Somehow, my brother had managed to separate me from the rest of my part.  I looked at the old club in my hands, and then back to the shambling bones in front of me.  I then heard my brother’s voice from somewhere, almost laughing at me.  He was so cruel.  I think he’s trying to kill me.

His voice echoed in the wooded area surrounding the graveyard.  He said the worst words possible.

ROLL FOR INITIATIVE.

Boil the Water

Stupid hurricane.

I’ve been stuck in this stupid house ever since this stupid storm decided to blow inland.  No, I didn’t leave.  I’m not a wuss.

Power’s been out for days.

No food.  Hungry.

No water, other than what’s flooded in.  Supposed to boil it.  Parasites or something.  Not worth the time, since there’s no power.  Just drank it raw.

There’s a lot of people out in this stupid storm, just wandering around.

I haven’t felt good since I drank all this water.  My eyes burn.  My skin is peeling, but that’s because my stupid house is practically underwater.  I just think of it as an all-day pool.

I am tired of this house.  I’m hungry.  I wonder what those people out there are doing.  Maybe they know where to get food.

I’m really hungry.  I think I want to see what they found.

It’s weird, being outside in a storm.  The sky goes boom.  The people here look worse than I do.  Some are missing parts.  What an awful storm.  They don’t look so good.

The people in that house do.

I think I found dinner.

One Question

David was perched on the edge of his bed, his bloodshot eyes darting around the room like a hummingbird.  He mindlessly picked at the myriad of scabs that dotted his arms and legs.  Behind him, there were books scattered about.  Some looked old, others new, and a few were his school notebooks.  At first, it looked like he had been doing research all night, but the candles and incense burning about the room told me different.

He had been acting weird these past few weeks, and tonight I came up to his room with several questions in mind.  Now, I had only one.

Where is my son?

Infested With Evil

My house is infested with demons and evil creatures.  It all started when a portal straight into the pestilent fields of hell was opened one summer.

It started slowly.  One or two little imps crawled through and made a mess of things.  Slowly, more and more started pouring in.  Soldiers, guards, and warriors started to mark in with all the perfection of evil.

We tried to get a priest to exorcise the demons, but he was horribly overwhelmed.  He called a friend, though.

That man worked miracles.  He told us my house was the most demon infested he had ever seen.  He had to use holy bombs and a special demon hunting suit.

After he was finished, he told me a sealing ritual, and the materials I would need in order to close the portal.

It was working well for a while, but the forces of evil are not so easily stopped.

Eventually, the barriers I had put up according to the man's guidelines fell apart and were breeched.

Now this house is once again infested with these demons.  I can’t sleep at night.  The crawl and dance on me in my sleep.  They eat my meals and taint my food.

I need to find the number of that exterminator.

Always Knowing

I never asked to know about things before they were going to happen.  I didn't want to know when people were going to die.

Death, though, has its own way of doing things.

It all started when I was browsing a part of the internet I shouldn't have been, and stumbled upon a ritual.  All it needed was a couple of candles, a knife, and some of my blood and I would be able to predict the future.  It warned that the future couldn't be changed, but what the hell did I care, really.  I was going to make a fortune.

The ritual went perfectly.  Well, almost.  I was never good with pain, nor the sight of blood.  That being said, I wanted to get it over with quickly.  Too quickly.

I cut fast and deep into my wrist.  As I lay bleeding out, a hooded figure appeared before me.  Death.

He told me that in exchange for a few years of torture, I could continue living.  My torture would be knowing when people I come into contact with in any way are going to die.  I won't, however, be able to stop it.  If I try to, I will die.

I watched helplessly as my mother, brother, and wife died and there wasn't a thing I could do about it.

I can’t take it.  The torture of knowing is just too much.

I'm hiding this message here.  Hopefully he won't notice until it's too late...for him.

Dear reader, oh wonderful person.  How cruel fate is, leading you to this.  I’m sorry.

You're next.

Rewound Tape

Ever gotten a sense of déjà vu?  Ever seemed to know what was going to happen before it did?  You’re not alone.

Your life is like a movie, well, not exactly.  You see, this entire existence has happened before, and will happen again.  You’ll die and when that happens, your ‘tape’ rewinds to when you were born.  You will go back to infancy and relive this life over and over forever.  There’s no Heaven or Hell, just a reliving of the entire human experience.

It’s not a perfect method, though.  Sometimes, memories of things that will happen bleed through to people before they happen.  That’s what clairvoyance is: people remember what happens next.  Ultimately, though, like any movie, the outcome is certain.  You can scream at the characters, but it won’t change anything.

Relife

Hello, deceased customer! I’m putting this where I know you will find it. This is a simple set of instructions to guide you in case you forget how things work here in Heaven.

If you can read this, you are dead, and currently trying out our Relife program. Forgotten what that is? It’s okay. Reliving the past can make you forget while you are immersed in it.

Relife is a gift from the Lord to you. Each year, on the anniversary of your death, you may choose a single day from your life to relive. Some relive the same day, others choose theirs in a set, but whatever you choose or have chosen will end when you fall asleep. Yes, that means any all-nighters and such will count as a single day. As soon as you fall asleep, you will be back in Heaven, and able to start planning your next day to relive. (Some crafty people relive their entire lives, a day at a time over hundreds of years. But hey, when you’ve got all of eternity…)

While Relife is an amazing gift, please remember that all you are capable of doing is observing. This note will be readable in many places—books, televisions, etc.—as a reminder to you so that you do not become too immersed in the past.

Happy living, and be blessed always.

My Grandmother Lived In A Closet

My grandmother lived in a closet. She came over one Mother’s Day and just never left. I told my mother this would happen, even though I was just joking.

We’re not really sure why she chose the closet. She doesn’t talk much, just a few gasps of surprise and an echoing “hellooooooo” whenever someone calls her name.

She chose my brother’s old room, which mom had redecorated into a storage space for all her many, many clothes. My grandmother just waltzed in there, walked into the closet, shut the door, and that was that.

It’s wasn’t that bad, really. When mother went to get dressed in the morning, all she had to do was knock a few times. Then, with a great stirring from within, my grandmother would hand her an outfit before going back inside.

She did pretty well, what with being a grandmother living inside of a closet. She lived off moth balls and whatever bugs she could catch. Some days, we would even leave her scraps.

I tell this story to my children now, and they will tell it to theirs as well. Even if it isn’t true.

Join Us

Hello, friend. I’m a zombie.

Yeah, yeah. I know what you’re thinking. I should be all “BRAAAIIINS!”

Not all of us are that uncivilized. As a matter of fact, you know I’m right. You’ve been listening for days and haven’t heard any groans or shouts of bloodlust, have you?

No, you haven’t. We’ve missed you. I remember seeing you during the first few days of the infection. You would dart in and out of your kitchen, gathering cans and whatnot. I saw you and was sad you didn’t want to come join us.

Sure, we were a rowdy bunch back then. We went around yelling and hollering for blood. We were a near-mindless horde, hell-bent on eating anyone or anything that got in our path.

But now, it’s been weeks and we have changed. We’re smarter, faster, and stronger than we ever were alive. We are the next evolution of humanity. I want to share this new life with you.

I saw you again today, sitting at your computer, looking at your email. You’re hoping for good news aren’t you? Well, this is the best news you’ll get.

It’s been over a month. Surely you’re tired of being cooped up in your room. Don’t you want to come outside? Don’t you want to be a new man? Don’t you want to join us? Be one of us? Go outside?

Come on. You have to be out of food. I know you have to be almost out of fuel for the generator I always hear chugging away out back. Surely it’s going to get to you. You’ll realize I’m the sane one here. You’re going to lose you mind anyway.

Why not come out with us?

I will be watching you read this, maybe from inside your house again. It’s only a matter of time. Join us.

Hear that? It might be me. Join us.

You’re losing your mind anyway. Why not go outside. Yeah, it’s safe to go outside.

You’re just rationalizing now. Don’t even bother hitting send. You can hear us out there. Join them. What other choice do you have? Do I have? You shouldn’t have locked yourself in here for so long. You should have been taking the medication. But enough of that. Time to go outside.

Join them.

Mary's Myth

Bloody Mary!

Bloody Mary!

Bloody Mary!

Everyone, I am sure, know the story about how if you say her name three times into a dark mirror at night, the infamous Bloody Mary will emerge from the mirror and slash your throat.

What few people know is that it is a myth. Well, the part about saying her name three times. Not every invocation attempt works. Mary appears in mirrors as she sees fit.

Just keep that in mind next time you go to the bathroom at night.

Turn on a light will you? Mary’s watching.

That Feeds You

I woke up to the sound of padded feet and click-clacking nails on the hardwood stairs leading up to my bedroom. I let out a weak ‘oof’ as the dog jumped onto my chest and began to sniff me. He then licked my hand until he had coated it with a thick layer of drool.

“My,” I whispered, trying not to wake my wife, despite the fact that she’s a moderately heavy sleeper. “You’re a heavy boy, aren’t you?”

The dog growled at me an unceremoniously leapt off the bed.

“I figure you want a walk,” I said, getting out of bed and slipping into my fuzzy bunny slippers. As much as they were tacky, they were the same amount comfortable.

I groped around the dark hallway downstairs, trying to find the leash, but wound up deciding he was big enough to fend for himself. “Sorry,” I told him with a shrug. “No leash tonight.”

The dog—as big as it was—then tried to squeeze through the cat door. “Excited, aren’t we? Now, now. You’ll have to use the door like the rest of the big people.”

After extracting the dog from the poor cat’s door, I ushered him outside, whereupon he promptly—much to my dismay, moreover since the outcome should have been obvious—ran off, barking madly and running in a staggering, zigzag pattern. It was something like what a drunken person would do walking.

Cursing, I turned to go back inside but was shocked to see my wife coming down the stairs. “What’s going on in here? What’s with the smell and all the barking?”

“Oh, the usual,” I told her, still barely half awake and drying my hand off. I stupidly used hot water instead of warm, which only aggravated the gash on my hand I got that morning repairing a barbwire fence.

“I just took the dog outside for a walk, and he ran away. He should be careful, there’s a rabid dog out there. I was just about to go get the flashlight and find him.”

I looked up from my hands and the towel to see my wife dialing a number on the phone. She stared at me with an odd look.

“What? What’s wrong? I’m sure he’ll come back. I was jus—.” She cut me off.

“It’s not that,” she said, the phone in her hand shaking as it rang slowly. “We don’t have a dog.”

Dog Found

“Damn it, Spanks,” I cursed as I made my tenth lap around my neighborhood. My girlfriend wasn’t far behind, trying her best to call the stupid animal in her cutest, sing-songiest voice, with a few cluck of her tongue for good measure.

“I think he’s staying gone this time,” I called back to her, though I don’t know if she was choosing to ignore me or was just busy shaking a nearby bush. Yeah. Like the dog was napping in a damn shrub.

It was a Christmas present to her from her folks, who didn’t like me and knew I didn’t like dogs. I think they figured it would drive us apart, but I have managed to tolerate the smelly, drooly animal just to spite them.

As I passed each telephone pole, I thumped each of our “Lost Dog” posters. I wanted to take them down, and stop all this frantic “worrying” about the animal’s wellbeing.

“Hey, babe,” my girlfriend called to me. “Can you go a street over to the café and get me a hot chocolate. It’s so cold, and I don’t want to freeze out here. Thanks!”

Oh, well, then maybe you should go back in, dearest, I thought. So you’re worried about freezing in sixty degree weather, but not the dog first? Jeeze.

“Sure thing,” I replied in a half-sarcastic voice, looking over my shoulder to see her peeking behind a fire hydrant. I love that woman, but hell. She can be pretty damn stupid sometimes.

As I rounded the corner on the next street over, about half a block from the coffee shop, a flyer caught my eye.

“DOG FOUND,” was what caught my eye first, and then the picture of a lab that looked just like ours. I drew myself closer to read it, and made a mental note to see an eye doctor for new glasses.

“Female lab found at 5:20 pm on Thursday, May 14th on the corner of Liberty and Franklin. The dog is about a year old. Black lab with a white, heart-shaped patch of fur under its chin. Slightly crooked tail, and a limp on the left hind leg. Brown collar, but no tags. Very friendly.”

Amazing! I thought. Someone found this damn mutt. There was something in smaller print below all the text, but I figured it was the contact info of the person. Filled with relief—not for the dog being found, but rather for the searching to be over—I called my lady over.

“What is it?” she asked, placing her head on my shoulder. “Oh!” she said, excitedly, finally noticing the poster in front of her. “Look! It’s Spanks!” she said, reading the poster out loud, for confirmation that the dog pictured was indeed ours.

“Oh my god!” she screamed and stumbled backwards, and began to cry very suddenly.

“The hell is wrong with you?” I asked. “Someone found the dog.”

She didn’t say anything, only pointed weakly at the poster.

“I don’t get it,” I said, turning back to the poster, and reading it out loud, thinking I missed something.

Nothing struck me as odd until I looked closer at the smaller text.

It read, “Tasted like chicken.”

My Favorite Part

Dave opened the door to his apartment with a slight stagger. He was just coming home from a late-night party. All he wanted to do now was relax and fall asleep. Not feeling the energy to head upstairs to bed, he decided to crash on his couch for the night. He turned his television to MTV, and managed to drift off to sleep quickly.

After what seemed like only a few seconds of restful sleep, Dave bolted upright when the music on his television was suddenly louder than normal. He grabbed the remote and went to investigate.

Before he could solve that mystery, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye: something in his sliding-glass door to the back yard.

Not sure if it was his mind playing trick on him, he decided to investigate further.

“Damn,” he said, forced to press his face against the glass as he pocketed his remote. “I can’t see anything out there.”

He cupped his hands around his eyes as a last-ditch effort to try to peer into the darkness when suddenly a bearded man appeared in front of the window. The man smacked the glass with bloody hands. Dave shrieked and fell backwards, scrambling on all fours to hide behind his sofa.

The man outside wailed in terror and then was silent. After a few minutes, Dave got the courage to grab his baseball bat and investigate what was going on outside.

The man’s bloody handprints were smeared on the glass of the door, and when he went out, the light from his living room illuminated the grass. There before him was a bloody mess, one that looked like someone had been ripped apart.

Dave stepped out further when he found himself unable to move. “Greetings,” a voice spoke to him, one that seemed to echo from all sides.

“What’s going on?” he said through gritted teeth.

A man appeared from the darkness before him. He was well-dressed in a top hat and suit. A golden pocket watch was in his hand, attached to a chain. The man regarded it fondly before looking at Dave and smiling.

“You’ve met with an unfortunate fate,” the man said, grinning more and more as he spoke. “I am a demon and am going to kill and eat you as I have this other man. However, we demons like games, and I hear humans like a challenge. If I can torture you for, say, 84 years, I will send you back to a few minutes ago and you can try to stop yourself from leaving the house to investigate. If you can save yourself, none of this will have happened. If you fail, however, I get to devour you. How does that sound?”

Dave agreed to the man’s terms fearfully. He didn’t want to die and—seeing as how he was unable to move—he was inclined to believe he was a demon.

The demon laughed and clapped his hands. For the next 84 years, Dave was tortured in hell, growing old and weary. Finally, when his torture had ended, the demon came to him. “Time to go back, Dave,” he said as he snapped his fingers.

Dave tried to protest, but he was too weary from the torture to speak. By now, Dave was old, bedraggled, and bloody, and his memory was shot from the years of constant abuse. The demon was true to his word, though. Dave had been transported to right before he had gone outside.

He peered into his house and saw himself sleeping on the couch. He reached into his old jeans and pulled out the remote to the television he had pocketed all those years ago. He raised the volume, thinking that would get past-him to wake up.

As soon as the volume shot up, so did past Dave. As his past self went to investigate, Dave tried to shout to him to not go outside. However, after all those years in Hell, his vocal cords were fried from the heat. Panicking as his past self went to look outside, he ran up to the glass door and frantically beat on it, trying to signify to his past self not to come outside.

His past self ran away and Dave sighed, thinking he had scared him off. He turned to walk away when the man appeared in front of him. “You have failed,” he said with a broad grin.

It was then that Dave remembered what happened those many years ago.

“Ah, now you’ve got it,” the demon said as he opened wide his mouth and attacked Dave. Dave wailed, crying out in a mixture of fear and sorrow.

Leaving a bloody mess, the man cleaned himself off and chuckled. “Now comes my favorite part.”

IDE-O-MATIC

To whoever finds this, I am sorry. I don’t know who you are, and I doubt you will know who I am. Let me say this first, if nothing else. The rest of this is an explanation. I hope you find comfort in my sincere apologies for what I have done.

I am a writer, but not a very good one. You see, reader, I have never been one for writing fiction, but I have milked all my life experiences for all their worth.

I got this crazy idea in my head that I could write fiction, but without anything to go on mindwise, I was at a loss. I just stared at my pad of paper and I watched the ink leak from my pen.

It wasn’t until a few months ago that I went to a mall that all my troubles were both solved then started over with fresh ones. You see, my poor reader, I found a discarded newspaper on a bench in front of the taco stand where I had placed my order. I love tacos, but probably a bit much.

But let me try not to digress too much. As I waited for my order to be up, I grew bored. The newspaper looked filthy, and the idea of touching it repulsed me. Though that soon changed; the longer I sat there and looked at it, the more my curiosity urged me to read it.

I wish I hadn’t, because what I did with the information it had to offer changed the whole world. Yes, the world.

The paper was open to the Classifieds, and I quickly spotted an ad that I knew to be too good to be true. However, I was desperate and willing to try anything.

IDE-O-MATIC! PROBLEMS COMING UP WHAT THAT NEW PRESENTATION? WANT TO WRITE THE PERFECT PAPER, BUT DON’T HAVE THE RIGHT IDEA? TRY IDE-O-MATIC TODAY!

The picture made me think of some ‘60s science fiction devices. It was a hideous device with an array of buttons and a mess of antennae. Again, I was desperate, and had the fifty dollars to spare to try this device.

When I arrived back at my house, I sent off for this device. Much to my delight, it arrived not but a week later. It was just as scary as the picture portrayed it to be. The instructions were short and simple: Turn on, Relax, Sleep, Dream, and Write.

I followed these stupidly simple instructions, and the next morning woke up with an idea in my mind. I wrote a story about a great technological nation that was nearly destroyed when a great flood wiped out most of their population and electronics. It then got worse when their power plants—all nuclear reactors—started leaking radiation.

I’m sure that by now you realize this is all about Japan and the tsunami, but when I wrote this, it simply hadn’t happened yet.

It wasn’t long before I wanted to write again, so I used the device, and came up with another great idea. This time, it was the story of how a massive tornado outbreak tore apart the lives of a good many cities. It was a touching story, but ultimately tragic.

This, as I hope you are aware, was the April tornado outbreak. Again, when I wrote this none of it had happened yet. I wrote about children dying! How could I?

So, as I said in the beginning of this letter, I am sorry. I am not just sorry because I wrote about these horrible tragedies. My main lament is that once I used the device, the ideas tore at me—mind and body—until I finished writing them.

I wish I could have stopped myself, but all I could think about after using the device was writing the story. It was as if that was all that mattered to my body. I couldn’t eat or sleep. Eventually I broke down and wrote them, graphic details and all.

Now, I am sure you noticed I called these ideas ‘great’ before. Maybe that was a bit unexplained on my part. You see, when I started with these, the ideas seemed wonderful. As I began to write, though, I began to visualize gory images and graphically explicit scenes. That was when I discovered what not writing would do to me.

That is not the other reason that I am sorry. I have only recently put what I have written and what has happened in reality together. I also believe it is a bit late for that.

I am sorry, dear reader. I used the device one last time, and I can’t hold off writing any longer. I just cannot get this image of a large meteor out of my mind.

Busses Suck

Hello, my name is Randy. I am a survivor of a demon attack.

Yes, you read correctly. A demon attack. Let me explain:

It all started when she got on board my Greyhound bus. She was tall, blonde, busty, and wearing all leather, right down to her knee-high pumps. The studs on her eyes said trouble and the one on her tongue—something she casually flashed my direction—told me she was dangerous.

She took the pair of empty seats next to mine and I could feel her looking over toward me periodically. I didn’t dare look her way. She smelled of roses and incense, the telltale scent of a succubus.

Although I tried my best, I could not stave off sleep forever. This connection was just another part in what had already been twenty sleepless—and otherwise uneventful—hours of busing.

I awoke to find her undressing me, bending forward, to try and, well, all I will say is “suck” the life from me in a manner most fitting of a demoness that preys on sexual energy.

Like I said, I am a survivor of a demon attack. I won’t go into detail as to how I managed to escape that encounter with my life, but I will say this: never before have I been so glad to have had to pee.

Posted No Trespassing

Everyone has a few skeletons in their closet, they say. I just assumed from hearing that phrase that it’s not uncommon. Though, the more I think about it, I don’t think everyone has as many as I do. Well, to be fair, that’s what they got for trespassing. There’s a sign, after all.

Sheep's Clothing

“Ah! Welcome! I haven’t had a visitor in quite some time. Please, come in. I am so glad you have found my humble tailor shop. Not many people know how to find it.

“Oh, I see. One of my associates referred you to me. Excellent. I am the finest tailor in the town, if I do say so myself. What is it you are looking for?

“Why, yes! You need a nice suit. Why don’t you come into the back, here, and I’ll get you all measured up.”

And that’s the last time I saw that poor gent. I even believe that was the last anyone would see him. That is alive, anyway.

I’m quite excitable when it comes to getting new customers. I don’t often get to make new suits. I find it sad that I don’t get repeat customers here, but it comes with my level of artistry.

You see, when I make a piece of clothing, it’s one-of-a-kind. I don’t do repeat performances. I used to work in a clothing shop. There, I made generic and bland clothing. I tired of that, and quit my old job to move out here to start my own business.

It’s quiet and remote here, so I can safely be as eccentric with my trade as I wish. I believe you may have seen some of my works at the museum. They are the most unique and unsolved garments and I am proud to see people admire them, even if they don’t know it’s my genius.

But I digress in telling you that. Now hold still while I measure you.

Tinted View

William McDaniel was known around town from the mysterious bruises that would show up on his wife, night after night. She would always credit them to her being a klutz, but the townspeople knew better. She, too, knew better.

She knew to keep her mouth shut. William was a rich and influential businessman in the town, so no one was really looking for trouble with him. The police were among the few people willing to risk their jobs and even their lives to tryto put away William.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it were just him. The grim truth was that he had a penchant for extending his arm towards his two children and their housekeeper.

Having long sense been fed up with the abuse and eager to do something about it, the sheriff hatched a plan. He contacted Miss McDaniel and the town’s reining fabric queen, Miss Sweeny. Together, they made the most beautiful curtains anyone in town had seen.

The next day, Miss McDaniel went about hanging the curtains around the house, replacing the older, less fantastic ones. That evening, when William came home, he was angered by the sight of such colorful drapes, but was on the other hand pleased that they still obscured the view of the inside of the house.

A few nights passed, and eventually he grew tired of seeing the fabric. It wasn’t long before his dislike turned to rage and he pulled his wife into the living room. Flipping the lights one, he started to beat her, yelling at her about how she had ruined the house with her terrible curtains.

It didn’t take long for the police, who had been keeping close watch on the house at night, to storm in and arrest a stunned William.

“How,” he asked, fighting the two officers that were dragging him outside. “How did yo-.”

And then he saw it.

The curtains, by day, obscured the view from the outside looking in. But, at night, when the light was behind them, they offered up a perfect view of the living room.

Always live life as you are being watched. That veil you cast upon yourself isn’t always as opaque as you might like it to be.

Easier Than It Looks

“Are we theeeere yet?” Jackie whined as she pummeled the adjacent seatback with her little legs.

“No, sweetie,” Sarah said as she reached into the back seat to stop the girl from tormenting her husband’s seat.

“Don’t make me turn this car around!” Dave said as his fingernails dug deeply into the leather steering wheel cover.

“Aw.” Jackie pouted. “I’ll be good, I promise. You two are much nicer than my parents are. Where are you going?” she asked, singing loudly.

Dave started to answer her, but didn’t get far. “McDonalds, at this ra-.”

“Yay!” squealed Jackie, who rocked the car with the force of her swaying and bouncing.

“You know, I’m just going to leave her there,” Dave whispered to Sarah. He was sure that Jackie would not be able to hear them speak. The glass was practically buckling from her shrieking about milkshakes and nuggets. “We’ve been driving for three hours and you know what? I just can’t take this any longer.”

“I told you,” Sarah replied, shaking her head and wagging a finger at Dave. “Kidnapping isn’t easy.”

Unwilling Donation

Sam liked to spend the majority of his time drunk off his rocker. He also, unfortunately, thought he could handle his booze better than he actually could. This was the reason that Sam’s license was facing revocation on his next DUI charge.

At a party to celebrate getting his license back, thrown by his enabling friends, he decided that everyone needed more alcohol and snuck out to go get some.

While on the way back from the liquor store, the cover of night hid any swerving he might be doing. The drive was going well until he decided he could beat a red light and hit someone who was crossing. Knowing that if he were to stick around, he’d lose his license permanently.

Figuring that the best course of action would be to burn rubber and flee, he did so. In his haste to get home, he took a corner too wide and smashed into a light post, totaling the car and fatally injured himself.

Luckily, for several people, Sam was an organ donor. When the paramedics arrived, they found him dead on the scene. Soon thereafter, they would remove his organs to be taken to their awaiting organ recipients. The unfortunate reality was that Sam was still alive, but his brain was too badly damaged for him to show any signs of life.

Millions of people worldwide are organ donors. Sadly, not all of them are dead when people come to claim the organs.

Thug Aim

“Trolls,” I said to myself as I closed my browser. “Skeletons? Just appearing?” It was not likely. I knew it wasn’t a good idea to be reading horror stories this late on Halloween, but I was alone and bored. For the thin and slender man I was, it was a wonder that I was still single. It felt like I would be alone forever.

“Zal!” I yelled to my cat as she ran across the hall outside my room. “Go away!” I was still mad at that ball of fuzz for breaking my wax Jack statue from the movie “Nightmare Before Christmas.” It was my favorite creation. It was also hard to make. Candles were my source of wax for Jack. She ran back and looked at me, meowing.

“Go away! You broke my candle Jack and I—.”

I stopped mid-sentence when I heard a horrible, grating sound on my window. The next thing I knew, I heard my front door thrown open, followed by what could only be described as the sound of bones rattling.

I peered around the corner and I saw it. Its bones glistened in the soft light of the hallway lamp as it popped out and into view. There was a skeleton in my house, and it had just seen me. If only I had a gun and hadn’t had that accident. My hand was damaged last year in a wreck, and I lost thug aim, which was my favorite way to hold a pistol.

Panicking, I ran to my room and slammed the door shut. Unfortunately, I forgot that tomorrow was laundry day and there were clothes on the ground under the door, so it failed to shut.

I saw it. I saw the skeleton slide his hand inside the crack of my door. The skeleton slowly opened the door. Acting out of fear, and not knowing what else to do, I got on the floor, shaking as I tried to climb under my bed.

The next thing I knew was that the skeleton was in my room, and everybody walked the dinosaur.

Rocking Motion

My wife must hate me. She gave birth two weeks ago and I keep refusing her requests for me to hold the child.

I’m not a bad person. Really, I’m not. Ever since we got home from the hospital, she keeps herself cooped up in the baby’s room, rocking her tightly wrapped bundle to sleep. I avoid walking by, or she’ll ask me to hold it. I can’t stand to look at it. I never wanted this to happen, not to her, not to us.

But, I am not mad at her. How could I be? I mean, it breaks my heart to see her rock it back and forth until she falls asleep.

I knew coming back from the hospital empty-handed would be hard, but I never thought it would be this bad.

Quiltmakers

If an old lady asks you to help her make a quilt, it’s best to politely decline.

In the area surrounding the town of Pearl, Mississippi, people began to go missing. Eyewitness reports told of a set of three elderly ladies. The word as that at least one of the three would talk to the victims before they would mysteriously vanish in the following days.

One lady, possibly the last intended victim, was approached by one of the women about helping her and her two other friends make a quilt. She mentioned that they would pay well. Before the old lady left, she handed the woman a business card.

Luckily, for the woman, sketches of the three old ladies had been on television recently, and she recognized the person to whom she had just spoke as one of those three.

When the police raided the address listed on the business card, they only found an unfinished quilt—made from patches of human skin. Other than that, they never found any trace of the women.

So, if an old lady is paying well for help with a quilt, you might want to decline.

Practically Deserved It

I hate practical jokes. Well, I hate being the receiver of them. I guess I just don’t take it well. Let me just say this now. All my life I have been the butt of one big joke. For instance, this year for my birthday, my mother “baked” me a cake. It was made of concrete. She thought she was pretty clever.

I thought I was pretty clever when I baked her in the oven.

Last week, I went camping with a friend. He thought it would be funny to leave a used condom in my tent at night and thank me the next morning.

I thought it would be funny to castrate him and make him choke on it.

My old boss got a big laugh out of pretending to fire me yesterday.

I’m going to get a big laugh when they fire the cannon on the square and chunks of him will come flying out.

Next week is the first day of April. It’s going to be a fun day.

Pound of Gold

A man stands on the corner of a busy street, holding a sign that declares the end of the world is near. It also, curiously, says that God has forsaken him and the rest of humanity.

The man is Abe Samuels, a former CEO and father of two. However, this week has opened Abe to a new version of the hell in which he was living. A car wreck killed his children, his wife left him because she couldn’t handle the stress, his company went bankrupt, and the bank froze his assets pending a lengthy investigation of the company.

So, here stands Abe Samuels, a man who sees the God in which he used to believe as having turned his almighty back to him.

As he holds the sign, taking his anger out on the cars and passers-by, a man approaches him. He wears a white suit and black pants, and he sported spiky blond hair.

“I think you’re wrong,” the spiky-haired man told Abe.

“I think you’re stupid. What’s it to you what I believe?” Abe shot back, angrily.

“It matters a lot. God hasn’t forgotten you. What has happened was all part of his plan. He is only testing you, like how your refrigerator broke this morning. This is all a test to reaffirm your faith in the Lord.” The man smiled broadly.

“Whatever,” spat Abe. “Why don’t you get out of here before I reaffirm my faith in these boots as having a steel toe? I have given up on God, just as he has given up on me. Nothing is going to change that. Now go on. Beat it!”

The man sighed and walked off, turning into a dark alleyway.

Something struck Abe as odd suddenly. He started to think about what the man had said, and how he mentioned his refrigerator breaking that morning. He hadn’t told anyone, and not just for the fact that he had no one to tell.

“Hey!” he yelled toward where the man had gone. He tossed his sign to the ground and gave chase. He knew the man couldn’t have gotten far.

However, the alley ended in a brick wall. The only thing he found in the alley was a pile of feathers. He took one look, went home, and began to pray for forgiveness.

Old News

“It’s the apocalypse, Pete!” yelled Jacob as an explosion lit the skies. Downtown, which was close to Jacob, was suddenly and violently filled with screams and bright explosions. Already having flashbacks to World War II, Jacob began to panic even more when he saw people shambling about, going to and from the location of the explosions.

Pete, his loyal old dog, growled feebly at the people passing by. They appeared to be walking corpses, and this became clear to Jacob after another bright explosion lit the area enough for his old eyes to see clear enough.

Jacob turned for his door and yanked Pete’s collar. The old hound went tumbling in with Jacob as he slammed the door shut and went about setting the various locks in his house.

After securely locking down his house and setting in place his window bars, he got up the nerve to take a peek outside. Out there, the sky flashed with explosions that rocked his house. Suddenly, a face popped up right in front of him. Startled, he fell backwards and onto his coffee table.

“I know you’re in there old man,” the person outside groaned. From the lighting inside his house, he could see the burn marks and missing flesh on the person’s face.

Shouting wildly he hit the lights and ran to his bedroom, which was upstairs. Pete was right behind him.

The man outside banged on his door. “Come out and join the party!” he groaned in a dead voice. After a few breathless minutes, the banging stopped and Jacob figured the man would bring a whole horde of his undead friends back to get him.

He reached into his dresser drawer and moved away his socks, retrieving a pistol. “They’ve been saying the zombie apocalypse was coming, ol’ Pete. I read it on them sites. Now it’s true. I’m sorry old boy,” he said, aiming the gun at his lifelong companion, curled up on a pile of that week’s newspapers.

The dog died with only a quiet whimper. Next, Jacob turned the gun on himself.

“I planned for this day so carefully, but now they know I’m in here. Damn it, Sally, I’m coming to see you,” he said as he pulled the trigger.

That was not his last though, however. The very last thing that went through his mind in the last few moments while he was still alive was a headline on one of the newspapers under Pete.

“Zombie Costume Party Downtown Halloween Night.”