SURVIVING THE GAME:

Spillwords.com presents: Tomorrow There Is A Snake, short story by S.C. Denton, who in addition to his fiction often writes articles …

Source: Tomorrow There Is A Snake, short story by S.C. Denton at Spillwords.com

This story wasn’t ever going to be traditionally publishable. Because it featured a couple of real people, one being Stephen King, and the other being the man who hit him with his Van. When I wrote this story I had read somewhere that the man later died from an overdose. I’m not really sure if that is in fact true. What I do know is this: I meant no disrespect to the man (nor his family) and if you read the ending I think that’s pretty clear. I liked it quite a bit, and had intended to rework it removing Brian from the story altogether. But it doesn’t look I’m going to get the chance to do that.

The Rebirth of the White

by S.C. Denton

It was that time of year again. Time for the locals and fans alike to give him hateful looks and for some it was an opportunity to be downright mean. Like every year since it happened he’d spend the day home, alone, fighting to stay sober but losing the battle to the likes of self-pity.

His sister would come over early in the morning ready to run any errands he might need done. But her real reason for being was so that she could kindly separate him from his keys. He’d hand them over gladly because he had no damned intentions of driving, especially not on this day. Every year he’d send her after a specific item that even men would have trouble finding, if they could at all. To her credit she never came back empty handed. Though this year was the wildest goose chase yet.

As darkness fell, Brian cracked open another beer, and popped three more pills for his aching back. Whispers in the dark place in his mind rationalized that he deserved more. Wasn’t this a special day? Why be in such pain when you don’t have to? His back wasn’t what pained him most today. It was the Deus Ex Machina, who dealt him this memory of what should have been the anniversary of his death, and she did not deal lightly.

Or rather he… but that isn’t always the case. Just occasionally it was the Vamp in the works that had thrown a wrench into things. But even he too was once something other than the self currently presented.

Teddy was once a good man, who got lost somewhere along the path. Lost to the ages. Possessed of the dark gift he was, but in the grand scheme of things he was still a child. In age, and in innocence of face, but the blackness of his soul knew nothing of antiquity.

For one so young, he’d become quite the patient hunter; heightening the moment and drawing out the anticipation on a razors edge. It was the game he loved, not the kill. The kill was what came last, merely a conclusion to all that went before. That’s how he considered it–that and nothing more.

Barlow’s blood son lurked in the pitch-black, listening with ears that detected beyond sub-sonic, whilst observing with keen vampyric eyes. Always he played his part in the tradition, flogging Brian with telepathic suggestions. This was one of the few days of the year he actually looked forward to living, or rather still being un_dead. He’d feed off Brian’s pain, and almost consider it as satisfying as the drink of life.

The odds seemed in his favor this year. Brian was closer to succumbing to the mental suggestions than he’d ever been.

Barlow’s successor, Theodore “Teddy” McConnell that was, could be found nowhere in evidence. For over twenty years now he was known only as Barlow, an homage to his maker. Barlow’s apprentice felt the end’s approach in his fortified bones. He’d finally talked Brian to the edge of the cliff. Now all that was needed was a gentle nudge and it’d be over with. Like a cat cornering a mouse, he intended to play with his victim.

He hadn’t counted on King’s awareness. The man was tapped in. He had a direct line on all things real, or UN, or in the state of becoming. Though it manifested an gloomy effect on his demeanor, he was usually okay. Tabby was there for him, as always. Normally that’d be enough, but today was different. Today was ominous: He felt the presence of Black 13.

He sought out the comfort of solitude and spent the day held up in his office. Try as he might to get some work done, nothing came easy and the words were few. Mostly he just stared at the page and thought about Brian.

For no reason in particular he hunted down his first typewriter. Other than being dust covered it was still pretty much in status GO condition. And when he lugged it comically up onto the desk from an Igorish-like position, Hamming it up for the obvious laugh even though no-one bore witness–if you looked into those pools of madness he calls eyes, you’d wonder how he could create such sickening fictional entities, yet you would still be in awe of the man.

He whisked the dust bunnies away with a hand broom from the kitchen; checked the ink ribbon; loaded some paper into his bruised and battered Underwood, and gave a wholehearted chuckle at the thought of the rather large bank roll he was sportin,’ and yet he was about to type on this old mangled contraption with the letters near obliterated from rapid tapping upon the keys.    

In truth, he’d have it no other way. Some things should be done to preserve your state of humble. He hadn’t any idea why he broke out the black beast, but when did he ever. There were times when it just seemed to call to him. When all the newfangled electronics just wouldn’t do. Certain stories demanded to be delivered archaically.

Unlike his computer screen the blank page before him didn’t stay that way for long. With the familiarity of that esteemed clickity-clack-clack-clack, it behooved him to fill his page, and quickly. Thirty seconds in and he was almost half through. Steadily he filled up with the sight and with each breath of the looking-glass his pupils darkened. He saw Barlow’s plotting with the help of black 13 and his mind’s eye.

Usually the Tower called to King to help keep the multiverse propped up and running right along, but now it was SK’s turn to call one in. And just as Roland never in any of his multitudinous lives ever failed them, they would never fail King. The elements of existence were at his beckoning call.

Tornadic looking clouds loomed over Brian’s trailer. The greenish hues swirled, and sisterly streaks of lightning cracked across the sky. The following thunderous boom shook the decorative dishes on the wall. ‘Oh great, and on top of everything, now it’s gotta fucking storm,’ Brian thought.

Salivating at his foreboding, Barlow compelled Brian to take a few more pills.

Barlow hadn’t given the storm a passing thought. He’d weathered too many of them, and nothing about this one seemed particularly unnatural. In fact, he was sort of hoping for a tornado, just to make things a little more interesting. He’d love to see Brian’s shitty little trailer sucked up like the house on the Wizard of Oz. If that happened he damn well intended to fly up and around, circling the mobile home as it spun in the vortex, screaming, ‘I’ll get you my purrtty!”

The witch on that movie had scared the hell out of him when he was a kid. Now it was time for him to give a little back.

Again he started with his sirenous song, singing Brian a macabre lullaby that could only spell death. So consumed by his perversion was he that he never even noticed the cyclonic formation just above, and behind him. A twister was uncoiling from the sky, feeding ever downward, backward traveling like an upside down cone. As if it were stuck on backbuild and was drawn to the ground by some unearthly force. Which had nothing to do with warm/cold fronts, or magnetic fields, although the pull itself was somewhat magnetic.

When this mini-twister touched ground it spun flecks of sandy field dust in every direction, scorching the earth as it burrowed down. A huddled mass of globular flesh was hurled down from the uppermost portion of the cone. It landed with a palpable thud, and was soon buried in a pile of dust.

Quicker than the phenomena had erupted from the sky, it did not slowly dissipate, but vanished into thin air.

Though Barlow’s back was well coated with dust, he was still too preoccupied to pay attention to the atmospheric conditions. Again and again came the booming roar of thunder, and the sister streaks of lightning stayed in the sky unusually overlong. Finally, the bottom fell out and the raindrops poured down like men from the Trojan horse.

But this was a localized storm, rather like something you’d seen in the movies. The rain sheeted down sopping only the one-mounded spot. A finger penetrated the round little hill, wriggling its way through the surface, making room for its brothers. The whole hand soon followed and then an arm emerged. As if from a birthing canal, the head squirmed out fishily, with the body soon following.

The naked man lay there gasping for breath and shaking violently. The rain-washing away the remaining gelatin, which had formed an outer cocooning layer on his skin. With one feral jerk he came up onto his haunches, dual lightning strikes silhouetting his lithe figure. A viscous mixture of rivulets ran down a face that was surely Stephen King’s, but this was the much younger, more muscular version.

                                                                       * * *

Never had the clacks rang out more furiously as King typed with his eyes rolled back in his head, pure obsidian encompassing his pupils, and he knew that if he didn’t finish soon they’d both be dead.

King the younger was compelled to stand. The pelting showers cleansed his skin, and he was just about to walk off to some unknown asunder, the one man storm ceased and the clouds parted like un-drawn curtains, clearing the way for the man in the moon.

A luminous window looked out from the moon’s surface. In it sat King the Elder and he was tapping the keys like mad. Within seconds, the younger was sent down back onto his haunches. Immediately thereafter, he went down on all fours. Then came the crackling sound of a thousand broken twigs, seemingly emanating from a hall of echoes. King the younger cried out, but his vocal chords were non-resounding, his voice box unformed.

King had no need in supplying the addition, and focused on speeding up the process. Tufts of hair sprung up all over the younger and his nails began to grow. His snout took the cue and elongated rather uncerimoniously. Razor sharp fangs grew to inhuman lengths, and his veinous muscles plumped to fullness. The last of the transformation complete, the wereKing stood fully erect.

                                                                         * * *

Brian was assaulted by a sea of a thousand voices, all of them instructing him to end it, to take his life and pay the penance owed. Standing before the mirrored door of his medicine cabinet, he looked at himself but did not know his own face. His eyes had the deranged look of the madman, but somewhere deep there was the sparkling tinge of an innocent child in there, begging to get off this lunatic ride. He wished, wished like hell he could be accommodating, but that time had passed. It would soon be all over, and he’d be free of all the guilt this living world so lovingly gifted him. He took his next months prescription of pills with him into the living room. The other bottle was near depleted and it didn’t seem likely to finish the job. He’d been off of them for a while. Saving them up for just this occasion. He’d made no plans, he was just intent upon spending the week or two approaching this day really tore up. 

Sitting there pondering at the blankness of a powerless T.V. he thought it the perfect metaphor for life. Sometimes you were turned on, sometimes you were turned off. This was definitely one of those off times. He was receiving no good signals. Darkness had fallen.

Barlow looked on, peering through the window, giving himself the occasional netherly massage, hoping the excitement might compel it to live again. No such luck there. As he was busy with his impotent fondling, he never noticed the near silent footfalls approaching.

Within striking distance the wereKing was finally granted his voice, and he howled ferociously, allowing Barlow just enough time to turn around and for recognition to set in. The wereKing lopped off Barlow’s head. The werewolf was fast approaching regression so he wasted no time and drug Barlow’s body to his den of birth, doggily digging it down deep before chunking the double-dead corpse into the hole. Just to be sure, the wereKing tore a plank of wooden fencing off a gated shed, and broke it over his knee. He hovered momentarily over Barlow’s body before diving feet long into the hole and thrusting the makeshift stake into the (now) thrice dead thing’s non-beating heart.

With his work done, he suddenly became disorientated, as if he had no direction. Standing at attention, as though awaiting orders. Lightning arced down from the sky, striking him squarely on the head, and sending sisterly arcs in all directions. Leaving nothing but ashes and cinder, where the wereKing had once stood. When the bolt retreated, the raindrops resumed, only this time propelled by an almost monsoon like force. Within minutes, the washout from the rain had back-filled the monsters grave.

The moon still held Elder King upon high, and he was still hard at work. He was either drenched from sweat or he had been shedding some major tears, because the whole front of his blue Chambray shirt was wet. He wasn’t mindful of it in the least and just kept right on typing.

                                                                           * * *

Brian looked down in puzzlement at the overflowing handful of pills that were just inches away from his mouth. Just then the television flickered on, and lit up the room. It was one of these evangelical shows that you sometimes catch in passing. He did not immediately change the channel. He didn’t even look for the remote, but just sat there listening to the preacher preach about life’s perils and triumphs, and how changes in one’s habits can be just the spur for happiness, and for the first time he really heard. He put the pills back in the bottle and wandered around his trailer dazedly. He couldn’t be sure what in the world he’d been doing, or planning to do, but he knew one thing for certain: He could no longer stay here.

When his sister arrived with the ease-out tool, he was happy to see her. Even if she hadn’t been able to find the multi-directional version that he swore to her existed. Before she got in the door good, he hugged her long and hard and told her of his plans to leave. He begged her to take him to a hotel over in Lewiston, in the morning. Which she happily agreed to. She stayed the night, and in the morning when they prepared to load the car, Brian opened the door and was greeted by the sun’s golden rays beaming upon his face. For the first time in years, he felt the future held happiness.  

I believe I have determined a cause of Schizophrenia while reading the Adrenochrome Hypothesis by Hoffer and Osmond. 

That Hoffer and Osmond were onto something with the oxidation of adrenalin to adrenochrome is of no doubt to me. It makes sense. But they failed to see what was right in front of them. In their very paper on the matter. The oxidation of adrenalin to adrenochrome in water (which they noted requires oxygen and is accelerated by traces of metal such as copper ions). There it is, right in front of them, and they missed it. Copper ions, traces of metal accelerating the oxidation of the adrenalin and creating higher levels of adrenochrome which are triggering the Schizophrenic state. It’s in the water. Our water is a major cause of schizophrenia. It’s the perfect delivery system for the copper ions and trace metals. Copper breaks down/oxidizes at a tremendous rate, and the water just sits in the pipes at our homes. And what kind of pipes are they? They’re copper. So, even if you’re doing a great job of filtering out impurities at Water Treatment facilities, it really doesn’t matter, because that’s before the delivery system. 

Now, the question then becomes, well, if that’s the case then why doesn’t everyone develop Schizophrenia (I still believe that there is an emotional/psychological/physical abuse tie in). It’s in part because their bodies/minds haven’t accumulated as much as the person who develops Schizophrenia has (think Mercury toxicity). There are environmental factors within the person’s life who develops Schizophrenia which make them more likely to develop it, such as: the level of corrosion of their household plumbing, their use of copper cookware/crockery (which would also be leaching into their foodstuffs), their dietary nutritional levels which would act as a counter-active agent to the oxidation of adrenaline to adrenochrome, ie their having the proper balance or an surplus of Vitamin C, Vitamin B3, Niacin, and so forth, which would aid in blocking the oxidation of adrenaline to adrenochrome. 

What of filtration? Don’t we filter out these things? Most people don’t have filters on their faucets. And if they do, they’re likely just the standard carbon filters which come with the faucet and are replaced periodically. But even so, even if you have the top of the line filter, I believe that’s not enough. The trace metals still get through (even with De-Ionizers). None of those filters works at a 100% filtration level. It’s impossible for them to do so the way they are designed. The copper ions/trace metals are still getting through, at high enough levels to cause a problem for those who have an imbalance/accumulation issue, due to their diet, bad/extensively corroded pipes, etc.

How I realized this was because of my interest in Absinthe. And if you know the history of Absinthe and the reason it was outlawed it was because it was connected/associated with madness/death. There are those who have claimed that this was just myth/lore associated with the homebrewed high level thujone drink which they produced a bit like moonshine back in the day. The level of thujone was not regulated like what you can buy with today’s much milder/tamer version. Which was where the drink derived it’s mystique from. It was considered on par with say a Marijuana high. But it began to be associated as a madness causing drink. In modern times that madness has been attributed to those rampant imitators looking to cash in on selling the drink themselves who added copper sulfate to the recipe in order to obtain the cloudy green colour. But… I now realize, this wasn’t the only reason for the madness having happened. It was the old stills (rarely, if ever, replaced) which were leaching copper into the liquor. Those people who hadn’t been directly dosed by copper sulfate from the imitators who it affected, likely had poor diets, lacking in the nutrients necessary to block the oxidation of adrenaline to adrenochrome.

There is a Vitamin B 12 Deficiency as a causal factor of Mental Illness. 

I believe that the use of Chromium may aid in breaking down some of the oxidation associated with these metals.

I believe a major contributor to mental illness (neurochemical imbalance) is due to overactive Mast Cells releasing histamine/serotonin. If this holds true it’s likely possible to treat mental illness with Allergy Medications. And it seems as though it certain medicines like Zantac for example could be causing mental illness. 

It is my belief that a major root cause of Mental Illness is the Encephalitis form of Herpes. A ridiculous number of the population has Herpes. I believe it is something like 2/3rds. People show symptoms of mental illness when they get Encephalitis, when the blood barrier to the brain breaks down. An enormous amount of the population spends at least some time doing dope which breaks down the blood barrier leaving the person susceptible to Encephalitis. 

The doctors believe that it isn’t a major contributing factor to mental illness, but I do. They are aware that it can cause it. But I believe it is going undiagnosed do to inaccurate, or complicated testing methods. Also, due to assumptive misdiagnosis wherein the doctor isn’t delving deep enough and is making assumptions based on preconceived ideas, such as hypochondria. Often resulting in putting these people at long term risk simply because they felt they were just having stress related issues, panic attacks, GAD general associative disorder. But what’s really going on is that the Encephalitis doesn’t work exactly like they believe. It’s not lying as entirely dormant only presenting itself once the blood barrier is broken. It likely breaks the blood barrier early on and is affecting the neurological system all along the way. But symptomatically speaking it doesn’t seem to be having any effect. But it is having an affect on the brain when the person’s body/mind becomes stressed, the results are that it partially awakens from its dormancy possibly to feed upon the generated altered nueroelectrical chemical signals, or perhaps that it steals nuerons in order to aid it in its adaptation/evolution/awakening process. It may use something from the brain itself to change its very genetic structure to help it fully awaken  from being dormant. But all along the way we are losing seratonin/dopamine levels each time it does this. Which eventually leads to too low levels causing the mental illness, at which time it awakens from its dormant state to feed on the bioelectrical nuerochemical state. It has finally created the environment in which it can thrive to be passed on, etc.         

The key to testing this theory of mine is to periodicly test mentally ill patients to see if it might be possible to detect encephalitis after they have suffered a major stress in their life, or physical trauma to the head. A new testing method must be adapted so that we could catch it earlier in its stages of periodic dormancy/awakening. 

The Herpes is using the resultant nuerochemical imbalance and feeding off of the higher ratio’d seratonin or dopamine, or perhaps just the altered frequency of the nuerochemical electrical misfirings to change itself at a genetic level. It’s using this as a means to alter/advance its DNA structure. 

Potential Solutions for the Treatment of Mental Illness

I learned while in jail, that the overly stimulated mind actually performed better with mental illness. The constant stimulation of new and previously unidentified sounds lessened the mental illness thought process occurrences. During the day this dramatically decreased the unwanted thought processes. But during the night the continual sounds of course became detrimental as I needed the rest and for the stimulus to die down. Which is why I believe I spent so much time talking to myself during the hours of my beginning sleep (rarely reaching REM). 

I believe it may be possible to implement/implant a random auditory sensory generation device to create an adjustable level of stimulus to aid in decreasing the mentally ill thought processes. With the brain constantly attempting to identify what the sounds are it was evident that there were less occurrences of illness related thought processes. 

There may even be a possible external application using something like that device which allows you to talk without speaking/moving your mouth (jawbone colored). I don’t remember exactly what the device did, whether it connected to the internet and took dictation, allowed for searches, etc, but I do know that it may be possible to take this tech. and employ it in reverse, so that it feeds input (externally) for the wearer to be fed auditory sensory overstimulation.

The Ionic Ear featured on Shark Tank could potentially be adapted for the purpose of providing Over Stimulating Auditory Random Generated Stimuli.

There is a visual aspect to this effect. It wasn’t just the auditory external stimuli, but also the new visual stimuli. 

There may be those who would believe that virtual reality would be a good treatment tool to aid in this situation, but I don’t believe that to be true. It has to be REAL. This anchors the person in reality.     

119 Mulberry Ave. 

By S.C. Denton

119 Mulberry Ave. had been a thorn in Maxi Real’s side for six years running. Each year she’d received an award for being the top realtor at Nittle Realty. Yet in all that time she hadn’t been able to sell the Ranch style home on Mulberry Ave. And at the annual banquet (when she gave her acceptance speech) it was always the same, the only thing she could think of was her own personal hell; the one that never went away. She’d dressed that home six ways from Sunday, had tried every gimmick in the book. Only recently had she begun to truly get disheartened. Not one person had indicated more than a passing interest in the house, after she’d shown it to them. It didn’t make sense. It was well constructed, had a flawless foundation, a yard of the month landscape that unfortunately never won, or was even considered, was immaculate inside, and the color scheme had changed so often the neighbors called it the Rainbow Room.

Maxi was no fool, even she felt it. A dark-light that (no matter how bright and beautiful she made the home) was ever present. But this was no spooky antebellum encumbered by wispy willows. It had yet to age even a decade, much less centuries. She knew of no checkered past. No police records of any sort had ever been documented relating to the home, or disturbances, at or near the home. Three young couples had been brave enough to call the place their own, but not one of them dwelled there longer than three months. Out of its ten year existence 119 Mulberry had spent a measly nine months occupied. Nine months… a gestation period. But this home was no one’s  baby. The only thing it had borne into this world was the fast approaching death of one realtor’s career.

                                                                         * * *

Ted Nittle was in the quick turnaround business and strictly adhered to the code of conduct: ALWAYS BE SELLING. He considered himself amongst the gods of realty. Leastwise in his hometown. He attended all big boy functions, was a member of the Knotty Pines Country Club, and had won the Golden Home award for the last twelve years running. But none of that mattered as soon as one of the guys  mentioned the house on Mulberry Ave. Blacklist– as Ted liked to call it–had become a source of constant ribbing, and he felt the only way to remove the tarnish would be if he sold it for well above market value.

When Maxi walked through the office door she didn’t need to see the half empty bottle of JD sitting on Ted’s desk to know he was having a bad day. However, the shark-skin ice-bucket sitting next to it really drove the point home. Man who didn’t wanna get up to get ice outta the fridge was planning on tying one on for sure, and would do with none of that pesky downtime between drinks. She’d seen him like this only twice before, and knew well enough to keep her mouth shut.

“Maxi!…” her name rang in her ears as his voice trailed off.

He tried again, this time much softer in tone. “Max… We’ve got to sell that damn house. I’m aware of everything you’ve tried so there’s no point in parading the list. There are still things you haven’t tried.”

“Like what Ted?” She wasn’t certain that’d come out meek enough and her butt cheeks squished together, bracing for the ass chewing she supposed was coming.

“Like living there,” said Ted, “No, no, I don’t expect you to. I misspoke, what I should have said was staying there. A week perhaps two, just to see if you can figure it out. I thought maybe it’d provide some insight into why the place isn’t selling. An insider’s view so to speak. Whatta ya think?

“I think you musta drank the top half of that bottle too damn fast and the liquor’s sittin’ on your brain, fouling up the connections. I’m not staying in that place. Why don’t you stay there? You can even sell it yourself if you want. I’ll give you my part of the commission,” Maxi said.

“It’s your listing Max,” said Ted.

“I know, but that place gives me the creeps,” she said.

“Maybe the problem’s not the house, maybe it’s you. You could subconsciously be sending out some bad juju vibe to the interested parties, or something. Either way, I believe the only way we can rule that out is if you stay there. If that’s not the case then at least you’ll see what’s making people shy away from her. Surely a salesperson with as fine a record as yours wants to eliminate this blemish. Except for Blacklist there hasn’t even been a single house you couldn’t sell,” Ted said.

“Fine. But if something happens to me I expect you to do the right thing.”

“Which is?” he said.

“Go fuck yourself,” Maxi declared. For a slim moment tension built, but her smile cut that down, as it had ever done. She’d brightened every room she ever walked into, but 119 Mulberry was different. No amount of pearly flash was gonna warm that deathbox.

                                                                         * * *

The week had gone by without incident, but when Friday rolled around Maxi started experiencing weird sensations from the moment she walked through the doors. Cyclic bouts of hot and cold flashes, gooseflesh, and a stomach that churned as if she were sea sick. In addition to all that, nearing the end of her work day she’d momentarily lost her sight. After her second instance of what she could only term hysterical blindness, she realized she couldn’t possibly risk driving herself home. So she phoned Stephanie Vogel. Steph was a college chum who’d recently moved out to West Nyland, hoping to make a permanent connection with a man she’d known only through the internet. Stephanie owned a small internet based company that specializes in ad research/placement, and thus was afforded the luxury of living wherever she chose. Max and Steph had become fast friends just as they’d done at their alma mater so many years ago.

Stephanie gladly canceled her three o’clock video conference and rushed to aide her friend. In all honesty sometimes Steph’s personality was a bit overwhelming. She was always so cheery, and spoke ninety-to-nothing without ever missing a beat. You practically had to hold her nose just so you could get a word in edgewise. Even so, Maxi loved Steph, it was just a little much at times. However, this wasn’t one of those times. Maxi was actually looking forward to the fastest lips in the west–certainly in West Nyland.

The commute went about like she figured.. no gaps, or uncomfortable silences in the conversation, only the occasional pause so that Maxi could nod or say one yeah variation or another. The key was timing it properly so that the person would resume talking, allowing you to return to your thoughts, and reset the necessary response tracker to autopilot. Whatever the case, Steph’s long-winded stories seemed to be working. Slowly, the weighty dread dissipated and Max was able to consider staying in 119 Mulberry Ave. once again.

Maxi Real was not the kind of woman to fear a few creepy crawlies, or even things that went bump in the night, but whatever plagued this house couldn’t be so easily dismissed. It was neither urban legend, nor ancient tale, yet she sensed a penetrating wrong. But this was her job damn it. Her livelihood, not to mention the one crux in the craw of her career. When the big man opened that mammoth sign-in book in the sky, she intended on being able to point to all her glorious triumphs, and not have ‘im focus on the one thing that marred her record.

Arriving home safe and sound she bid Stephanie farewell, with many gracious thank yous, and repeated refusals of help. With Stephanie gone she decided to hit up her thinking spot. Just like her dearly departed husband she did her best thinking in the bathroom. She, however, conquered transient thought-waves in the tub. Wilhelm preferred the bowl. Though she still loved him with all her heart he’d been a bit of an odd bird. He’d sit in there for hours after having made. She’d always found it a bit bizarre that he’d move off the bidet and back onto the toilet to finish his cognitive sessions. He claimed it was because he feared an accidental burst of water pressure might leave him forever changed. But Maxi knew him better. He loved his throne… the one  place he felt he had complete dominion. He was King.

Maxi sighed as she slipped into the steaming water, missing him more than she could’ve conceived possible. While the hot water didn’t do much to alleviate her pain, it did relax her enough so that she could think sensibly about her problem. Lacking an answer she figured the best route might be to just stop acting like a kid and face her fears. Whatever made that house seem so desolate couldn’t harm her. After all it was just a house and from all the reports she’d read none of the couple’s had ever said anything about it being haunted. They’d just had a bad feeling about the place. Dreadful, was a word that popped out at her… their existences became dreadful. Their relationships more strained than ever, and arguments had gone to an all time high. Of course there’s a lot of stress involved in buying/maintaining a home, and Maxi had to work under the assumption that these couples just hadn’t known what they were getting themselves into.

Fiddling with her car radio she almost missed the exit. The radio personality announced that this was the Jive at Five, and that she’d been listening to Chuck Berry, when she suddenly remembered where she was supposed to be going, and jerked the steering wheel propelling her car across two lanes of traffic narrowly making the last exit for West Nyland. Had she missed her turn she might’ve chickened out and gone home for the night. It was one thing to enter a house you didn’t know in the daylight, but quite another to enter one at night, one you know in your bones something’s not right with it.

Though she only caught the last few notes of Berry’s Twist the song lodged in her brain like a stick in the mud. She’d never been fond of the era and did her best to vanquish the tune, but not even a strong ballad by her favorite metal band was able to wipe her brain slate clean. Secretly she wished to run out of gas, or to have a blow out. Any plausible excuse would do.

By the time she pulled into the driveway she would’ve happily greeted a mugger. At least that might keep her out of the house for a while. No such luck however. And now that she was here she forestalled the hesitation, jumped out of the car, and burst through the door. If she hadn’t crossed that threshold immediately her yellow would have gotten the best of her. The strange thing that happened when she entered the home (for probably the thousandth time) was that she felt nothing. No eeriness. And other than the rise in heart rate barreling indoors she was Hindu cow calm. It wasn’t the first time she felt an indescribable  presence here, but it was definitely the first time it brought peace. And she’d always thought her bath time had done meditative wonders. The truth was she’d never truly known peace since Wilhelm’s death. And finding it here was beyond bizarre. She put these thoughts aside, knowing there would be plenty of time to debate this recent development. Such as later during a likely sleepless night.

Once again she was proven wrong, and when her head hit the pillow she was out faster than a turkey stuffed man collapsed in the easy chair. There was no easing into REM state and when she closed her eyes it was immediately upon her. No sweet dreams these were, and she spent her night truly in terror. But there was something inherently alien about these nightmares, and not just in that normal surreal perspective sort of way. For one, she was never herself. Mostly she saw the world through other people’s eyes. Sometimes she would get an over the shoulder view of the transpiring events, as if she were an unwilling participant in some sick game. Yet, at no time did she ever have control over the main character. This was no FPS, or twisted RPG. She knew in her heart of hearts that this was real life. That she was experiencing real events. The uncertainty lie in whether they were past, future, or present happenings. Odder still, was the fact that she knew she was dreaming. She made the solemn promise that tomorrow night would be sleepless.

She’d long since given up experimental drug usage, but this week would get mighty long if all her nights were spent like last night. She was tempted to contact her old connects. She’d never known why she’d held onto the numbers, but she had. The chances were excellent that not a one of them was current, but desperate times….

Early the next morning she found herself perusing the aisles of a nearby convenience store. One glance at her dusty old blackbook confirmed that she could never go the illegal route again. She just wasn’t that person anymore. Even so , pushing around a cart slam full of energy drinks, and their kith and kin, made her feel the epitome of hypocrisy. She was a straight-and-narrow typa gal now, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t willing to flex within’ those confines. At the checkout counter she was even so bold as to purchase a bottle of mini-thins, despite the accusatory glance of the old geezer working the register. He lightened when she explained that she and a group of friends were hosting a 24hr dance-a-thon to raise money for local canine shelters. Ringing her up he got that wistful look in his eyes, as if he were lost in a treasured memory of youthful embrace.

Maxi popped her trunk and in short order washed three mini-thins down with a Red Bull. The jitter dance is begun.

As she pulled into the driveway, gliding out of her vehicle every bit as graceful as a two step Queen she reconsidered her options. Option A was easy: Load up and get the hell out of there. Option  B, while a bit more complicated, seemed more rational. After all these were just dreams, and insofar as she knew they had nothing to do with the house. She decided to go with Option B: Give it another night. However, she wasn’t foolhardy enough to believe herself capable of spending it alone. Stephanie would be the easy obvious choice, but she wasn’t sure a gab machine would suit for this sort of thing. There was another person she could call but that could become majorly complicated. While she’d loved Wilhelm with all her heart, there had been another. A widower named Reeve. They’d made a connection at a survivor’s support group. At that point it had been two years since Wilhelm’s passing and she’d longed for a good night’s sleep. When she was being honest with herself she admitted that she never slept that well without a man in her bed. It probably stemmed from the days when we all still lived in caves.

That first night she’d gone home with Reeve, he’d been so sweet. He cooked her dinner; they watched an old movie on Turner Classic; they’d made love and she’d slept the sleep of the chronologically challenged. And so they had spent every night thereafter repeating the process. Yet, no matter how right it felt being with Reeve, she just couldn’t bring herself to invite him to her place. Which seemed more Wilhelm’s place than her own. For this reason alone she ended the romance before it could truly gain a foothold. She just wasn’t ready.

Reeve’s wife had been gone six years, so they were just in different places. Fortunately, they still kept in touch. Reeve carried a torch for her, but she felt relatively sure time and her blatant dissuasion had caused it to grow dim. In the end she decided it’d be best to try and face one more night alone. Like the kids plagued by that charbroiled nightmare machine in the red and black sweater she swore to herself everything would be alright if she just didn’t fall asleep. Lord knew she had more than enough legal crack to stoke the wake engine. And stoke it she did. For hours she buzzed around the house cleaning every nook and cranny. Her heart raced, her pulse thumped, it felt as if the very blood that propelled her would burst from her body. Much of her cache of legal dope lay devoured when her eyelids turned traitor. She was lucky enough to have been walking by the couch when her legs gave out on her. She did her best to steer the fall, and managed to land on the sofa, her flitting lids barely registered the fog expelled from her own mouth.

Again the dreams surrounded her. The world she saw was like that. Dreams in every direction. Only these weren’t dreams at all, and she knew it. Like mirages, the harder she struggled to make them out the more quickly they dissipated. She couldn’t be certain how many separate events there were, but had already seen enough to know she’d witnessed some of them in last night’s go-’round. The same men. All men. All in terrible pain. All paralyzed with fear. In great agony, and grave danger. But what could she do? She was merely an observer, and not that knowledgeable a-one at that. Then it came to her, her reason for being. She was here to witness. A dark passenger of the tragic last rides.

It was evident that none of the events were taking place at the same time, or locale, so what did they all have in common? Why was she seeing them as if they were ethereally sewn together, like some bizarre artist’s collage? Perhaps a piece commissioned by the genius of insanities, Clive Barker. Her poppa had always told her, ‘In life you’re gonna make countless mistakes, but the worst of all failures are those who fail to act.’

She leapt out toward the man she’d seen first in her dreams, and for moments (that just as well could have been eternity) all she saw was darkness. Slowly, a single dot of light appeared on the horizon, then another equidistant from it. The two pinpricks enlarged but not in the manner of circularness she’d expected. One suddenly burst with a diffuse flare of light, while the other made a more gradual progression, the light seeming to bleed in from around the edges. The picture before her too blurry to be of any help. Bright colors appeared as if viewed through a wet veil. Simple geometric shapes sharpened her focus, harkening her back to her childhood. She was not quite three and sitting on the floor rattling something out of view. For the slightest moment she felt as if she held it in her hands once more, her fingertips tracing a plastic construct that she hadn’t held in over thirty-five years. One mantra bubbled up from her past… YOU CAN’T STICK A SQUARE PEG IN A ROUND HOLE YOU SILLY GOOSE.

The haze lifted, the image before becoming crystal clear, and she knew those shapes once more. The star, the square peg, the cylinder, the triangle, all her old friends were en tow. Only these were giant sized decorum, and there was little doubt of where she might be. She–scratch that–HE was in a daycare. He murmured muffled pleas of maddening proportion. No amount of begging could save him now. He’d found his way into the spider’s lair, and as it happened it was occupied by a Black Widow. Gary Johnson had made the same crucial mistake so many others had, he’d tried to pick up Virginia Tarpender. Mostly she liked for them to call her Virggie. She liked that it sounded like that chick from Black Eyed Peas. By all accounts that was one sexy bitch, and Virggie did her best to live up to her image. That bit of superficiality was as good a cover as the next thing. It led people to believe she was dumb, which was equally useful for a predator as sex appeal had ever been.

Virggie had been frequenting Gary’s nightspot for over a month. The odd thing about Gary was that he loved Latina women, and club music, but hated to dance. Women tended to put too much stock in that old adage that if a man could dance good, he could fuck well. There are many exceptions to that rule, and Gary just so happened to be one of ‘em. Dancing made him nervous. It was being out there in the open, where everyone had a front row view of your pass/failure status. The privacy of the bedroom instilled in him more confidence. “There” he was an old pro.

On the night Gary met Virggie neither dancing, nor shagging, was on his mind. He was feeling extra low and was calculating whether he could afford to purchase a fifth of Patron and get pissy ass drunk. Deep in contemplation he hadn’t noticed Virggie pull up the stool beside him. She waved the bartender over for two of whatever Gary was having. The shot set before him snagged Gary out of his revelry long enough to knock it back, and thank her without ever really setting eyes upon her. He was resuming his stupor when Virggie hit him with her man tested-shockandawe-approved-tactics. She bought the bottle of Patron and proceeded to pour them doubles. That perked Gary right up and when he regained his spine he smiled goofily, realizing how beautiful she actually was.

As he sat there tied to a rocking chair, in the daycare, he remembered how he’d thought he must be the luckiest guy in the world. And now the bubbly personality had evaporated, and all that was left was her cold dead eyes. Pupils which made a shark’s glare seem grandmotherly. Virggie sat opposite Gary playfully swiping her pink handled stiletto on a chef’s sharpening rod. She had the natural born killer bit down cold (as if readying her utensil for a Thanksgiving turkey). Like a blade tempered and forged, time and again her recovered memory hardened her soul. Eventually only one thing mattered: Vengeance.

Maxi screamed as the blade pierced Gary’s knee. The white hot pain of the plunge-and-twist was permanently seared into her brain. The ghost of her own legs throbbed sympathetically. And in this land of horrid dreams her emotive outburst was amplified rather than dissipated—an echo in reverse. She attempted to cover ears that weren’t even there. Here she had no physical body, per se, she existed merely in a spiritual sense, or a metaphysical one, if you prefer the term. Eventually the screech did die, not gradually out, but rather went immediately silent. Maxi had always heard the turn of phrase ‘well twist the knife why don’t you,’ but she’d never really understood the true meaning until now. She’d lost all her illusions about this place and was no longer capable of crying imaginary tears for Gary.

However, the sopping wet pillow proved she’d had no trouble shedding them in real life. Frustration set in as she’d expected much more time in dream, but she supposed that was her own damn fault. She recognized the pop eye syndrome,  (from her tweaker days) and knew there was no point in fighting it. The energy drinks must’ve kicked back in, only now she felt like shit. All the get up and go, had got up and went. Drinking more now would just intensify her problem. She opted to go the other route and made her way to the kitchen for a nice glass of warm milk. She soon realized she wasn’t even at home, that there really wasn’t a damned thing in the fridge. Desperate, she searched the cabinets. Amongst some years old pork and beans, spaghettios, and canned meat she came across a can of condensed milk. It had been so long since she’d seen these food stuffs she’d forgotten they were even here. She’d stowed them in a bottom cabinet far in the back well out of view of anyone looking at the house. She hadn’t been sure why she’d saved them at the time. Now she thought it might’ve been because she knew she was never going to be able to sell this house, and might likely be here in the event of the world’s end. They were well out of date but she had to try something. Gingerly she popped the top. It smelled fine. Not great but not ruined by any means. If she had to guess she’d estimate the stuff could have lasted at least another couple years.

She reminded herself to purchase some as soon as possible. One never knew when you’d have to go into crisis mode and be dependent upon a few canned goods. Having thought better of staying alone, Maxi sent Reeve a text message and sat down at the table with her warm glass of something resembling milk.  She sipped as she read an old newspaper. Almost eleven years old it lay nearly in tatters. She did her best to hold it together, without actually lifting it upright. The front page story was about a rash of arsons under investigation. Maxi vaguely recalled seeing something on the news. At the time her and Wilhelm  had been trying (rather unsuccessfully) to have a child of their own. The goings on of the world barely registered, much less local stories. Certainly not a story about abandoned homes being burned down. So long as no one was injured or killed she could have cared less. But just now she was intrigued by the story and felt compelled to read on. Reluctantly, she sought page A3 for the rest of the article. She skimmed it, glancing momentarily at the picture of the arson investigator before moving on. Still, she had that strange feeling she was missing something.

A bake sale shooting stole her onward and the ensuing scandal was enough to make her forget her little brain tickle. Though it was quite an interesting yarn about church lady jealousy–and the resultant vengeance–she barely managed to hold her head up long enough to finish it. The mock milk was doing its work, and she nearly toppled her cup as her head came to rest on the table.

Once more she was encumbered by fuzzy visions of men’s shared nightmarish ends. A single frame seemed to last forever. The image distorted by crossing the void of space/time, and was slightly out of proportion as if viewed through water. The effect was somewhat like a funhouse mirror, but not so drastic. She had a theory to test and leapt again to the first recognizable playback. It was as if she had been watching it all on an online video player and the whole sordid affair resumed right where Maxi had left off.

Virggie twisted all the fun out of one of Gary’s knees, and the blade plummeted as if she were going to pierce the other. Instead, she sunk the knife into Gary’s crotch. Seconds later a blood blossom flowered where his right nutt was stiletto-kabobbed. Before Gary could voice his outrage, recognition set upon her face and she knew a withdrawal was in order. She snatched the blade out at an angle severing Gary’s right testicle and slicing his sack fully open. His left nutt spilt out of the pouch and dangled there. An insistent surge of blood spouted out from the meaty flesh that had been hidden away for its entire existence up to this point.

Though Gary’s scream had been twice delayed it lost none of its urgency. Again he pleaded for his life. He begged for her to spare him. He and his wife were trying for a child, and maybe if she let him go now they might still repair the damage. He’d just have one nutt, but some men had still been capable. Course it was all bullshit. But he doubted she knew that. Though it might have been true that Gary didn’t have a wife he had always wanted children. And perhaps he should have just told her that instead. Because the obvious lie (she followed Gary for a month) seemed to incite a monstrous rage within Virggie.

She lunged to her feet, expelled a primal growl, and slashed his throat. She was woman. She did roar. Afterward she slid the blade across her tongue to clean it, savoring the coppery taste of Gary’s blood. The remainder she wiped on his shirt. Just as Virggie began removing Gary’s restraints something was happening to the world around her. It was collapsing in upon itself. Except it wasn’t Virggie’s world collapsing, it was Maxi’s. Her dream crumpled as if it were paper and moments later she was fully awake. She did her best to get her eyes in line with the real world, but the light was offensive no end. As it came into focus she realized she’d torn the old paper all to hell, and wondered why such a little thing would’ve woke her. But then she heard it, an insistent knock at the door. She almost squirted a little (not so mellow yellow) into her cotton panties. She recognized that knock. It took one or two beats of the heart for her to become a nervous schoolgirl. A gentleman was calling. A good man. A man who even after all this time had come running when he’d gotten the message declaring his assistance was needed. While Reeve was a good man he was damned impatient and his knocking began to rattle the door.

“Cripes woman would you let me in. The neighbors are gonna think I’m some kinda madman out here,” Reeve said.

Maxi opened the door. “Well they wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t insisted on beating the door off its frame.”

“Sorry, you know I hate bein’ on the outside looking in. Besides, you’re the one who texted me, so what’s the big emergency?” said Reeve.

“Well, I’m sorry, it’s not really an emergency per se. But I need you,” Maxi said.

“Why? You made it clear before that you didn’t want there to be an us,” Reeve said.

“Don’t take this the wrong way Reeve but our relationship, or lack thereof, really has nothing to do with why I want you to stay. Are we not still friends? Because I thought you told me that if I ever needed anything that you’d always be there,” Maxi said. 

“I did, but Jesus F’in’ Christ we haven’t spoke in six months an’ you text me outta the blue. I run over here you expect me to spend the night with you and you won’t tell me what’s going on,” Reeve said.

“Can’t you just have a bit of patience? I remember you being much more patient with me,” she said.

“You contact me at three o’clock in the morning and I rush over here and you want me to have patience.. screw you… If you don’t tell me why I’m here I’m leaving,” Reeve said.

“You’re here because I’m afraid. I’m scared for my life, okay?” Maxi said.

“Is someone threatening you? What’s going on Max?” he said.

“Look, that’s really all I can tell you. Right now it’d just be speculation. I always felt safe with you. Is it too much of a burden for you to stay here for a couple nights?” she said.

“No, I suppose not, but if I’m here to protect you, or make you feel secure, whatever, I’d like to know what the dangers are. It could help if you told me. Chance favors the prepared mind and all,” Reeve said.

“Just promise me you’ll stay,” Maxi said.

“Alright, alright, I’ll stay,” Reeve said.

She walked into the kitchen (judging from her determination) Reeve guessed he had no choice but to follow.

I can offer you something to drink, but I don’t have much, mainly just energy drinks. The water’s still on though,” she said.

“I could use a coffee but I reckon an energy drink will have to do,” he said.

Reeve removed his coat and sat at the table. He noticed the shredded paper and was about to ask for an explanation, but before he could articulate it, his eyes darted to the floor. There, under the table, was a small clipping laying face down. The outer edge was too jagged to have been cut by scissors and in its current state resembled a stretched teardrop. Reeve grunted as he retrieved the stray piece from the floor. He read the detergent ad. touting miraculous whites, before flipping it over.

“Who’s this guy?” asked Reeve.

“What guy?” Maxi said.

“I don’t know you tell me? It’s on your floor,” he said.

“This isn’t my floor, I don’t live here,” she said.

“Tomato, tamato, surely this hasn’t been here long. I know you, you wouldn’t be able to stare at this torn-to-bits newspaper for very long,” Reeve said.

“Fine, let me see it,” said Maxi.

Maxi almost snatched the clipping out of his hand. One glance and the color evacuated her cheeks and her knees betrayed her feet. She would have hit the travertine tile face first if Reeve hadn’t caught her. He lay her down on the couch , listening as she mumbled incoherently. He had no way of knowing the dream sequence had begun anew. He checked her pulse, found it to be a bit racy, but thought it well within range for a person who had a fridge stocked to the gills with energy drinks. Even though he was a doctor and felt quite certain her life was in no real danger–that she’d just succumbed to exhaustion all at once–it still worried him.

Maxi wasn’t given a choice this time, and was plopped right down between Virggie and Gary. Virggie was readying her stiletto. Gary Johnson, Maxi realized was the reason why she was here. Why it had to be now. The man in the newspaper clipping was Gary Johnson. A much younger version of himself, but easily identifiable. He’d been a servant of the public once. And on occasion had served in a less than legal manner, by looking the other way when poor people, going through a rough patch got the bright idea to collect on their insurance by setting a fire. He had let them know that he knew what they’d done, and were they to ever do it again he’d report it. Desperate people did desperate things to make ends meet.

Gary was about to meet his end when Maxi focused all her will and did manage to walk out. She’d learned all she could from Gary Johnson, or so she thought. She dipped in and out of several of the other tales of horriDom. While the locales, the victims, and the implements of death invariably changed, everything else remained the same. Maxi scolded herself for thinking of Virggie as possibly the most boring serial killer to ever walk the face of the Earth. It was just that the shtick was exactly the same. She spouted the lines with such little variation that Maxi could read her lips without ever having to burst into the dream/reality bubbles. The one conclusion Maxi had drawn was that time was different from dream to dream. Thus far she’d never quite caught the beginning of one. Other than arson investigator Gary of course.

She’d been asleep for eight hours and Reeve was beyond worried. Her lips were incredibly chapped, and torn in places where she’d tried separating them. He gently pried her lips apart, dripping occasional droplets from a washcloth, applying a layer of organic chapstick between the little drinks. Himself, and his conscience were locked in battle. The opposing voice seemed so foreign, but was in his head, so he could only conclude it as his own. As soon as no objection came from the thought of using the smelling salts out in his car, he seized the opportunity.

Maxi’s waking look eviscerated Reeve’s confidence. She settled a bit when he told her how long she’d been out. She’d shuddered the night through and had greeted the sunlight beaming through the shades slats perplexedly.

“Geez, you must be dead tired,” Maxi said.

“Not as tired as you were, apparently,” his laughter genuine.

“Guess not. I really do appreciate you staying Reeve. Wish I had something to tell you, but at this point I doubt you’d believe me,” Maxi said.

“Try me,” he said.

“Maybe later. Right now, all I can think about is something to eat. Are you too tired to accompany me for a little–forget that–a big breakfast?” Maxi said.

“Nope, but I may conk as soon as we get back,” he said.

“That’s fine,” she said.

They were surprised to find Bernice’s Waffle Place relatively empty. Bernice’s was almost always sardine packed but Max and Reeve welcomed the peace and quiet. Bernice never failed to greet everyone herself, even if this sunshiny day’s lack of patronage had put her in a rainy day mood. She braved her game face for the customers and threw as much cheer at them as she could manage. It worried Bernice (no end) when folks stay in on a beautiful day such as this one. She started tooling around on that internet till she found the local topics and was only slightly relieved to discover that there weren’t any new restaurants stealing her biz. She closed out the browser and swore to herself she wouldn’t go down without a fight.

A gaze around her restaurant didn’t do her attitude much good, because even the folks who had gotten out seemed mighty downtrodden. Shoulda kept yourselves at home then, if you were just gonna be sourpusses. She scolded herself for the thought. Business was business, didn’t matter if they brought a dark cloud in with them so’long’s their money was green.

Maxi and Reeve finished up, tipped the waitress twice the going rate ( even though what she deserved was nothing) and sauntered out the door. The sun’s rays merely licked Reeve’s face and his eyelids were like lead. Maxi stared at him long and hard, unsure whether she was going to have to sweep him off his feet. He managed to actually make it to her car, fasten himself in, and listen to about three minutes worth of talk radio. There were many sideward glances on the return trip and more than a few times Maxi felt a pang of regret. He looked so damned peaceful when he slept. Not that Reeve ever quite looked like a hard man, but what little gruffness he had played well. She  stopped at a mom and pops grocery store ( an near extinct breed) and left the car running with the A/C blasting.

Exiting the store, she cursed herself for never having the patience to hunt for a better cart. Instead, she squeaked along and gave people dirty looks when they made it their business. She noticed the seat had been leaned back some time in the interim, and Reeve slept soundly. She tried to close the trunk but it did not latch. The latching mechanism had started sticking a few months ago and she knew the only way to get it to catch was to slam the trunk’s lid mightily hard. Wincing as if in pain, she slammed the lid. Her eyes darted to Reeve but he didn’t budge.

Yet the moment they pulled into 119s driveway he sprang to life. She’d seen this trick a time or twelve and was always amazed at his radar like sense. Of course she’d asked him often how he did it, and his standard response was that he was “just that good”. The truth was he was sort of a cheater. He’d often crack his eye lid open just enough to get a bearing before drifting back under.

Maxi considered an outdoor picnic, momentarily, but banished the thought when the outrush of cool air from the doorway soothed her face. Maxi found an old quilt in the linen closet and unfurled it upon the floor. With Reeve’s help she managed to set out a mighty enticing spread. Reeve was a bit saddened that he hadn’t actually been able to cart out his Yogi the Bear routine, but felt it lacked punch without an actual picnic basket. Having eaten and tidied up Reeve reached into his wallet and pulled out the newspaper clipping.

“Who is this man? And why did you faint when you saw him?” Just for a moment he thought she might topple over again. But the color merely drained away from her.

“That man is dead. His name is Gary Johnson. He was murdered,” Maxi said.

“Jesus. Did you know him?” Reeve said.

“Not really, no,” Maxi said.

“So, the article was about his murder? “ Reeve asked.

“ Nope. That picture’s old. The article was related to his investigating a series of arsons,” she said.

“So, do you have the article related to his murder then?” Reeve asked.

“No,” Maxi said.

“One of your friends knew him?” he said.

“No,” Maxi said.

“Then how do you know he was murdered?”

“Like I said before Reeve, it’s gonna sound too crazy. You’ll never believe me,” she said.

“Like I said, try me,” Reeve countered.

“Well, I’ve seen him murdered several times now,” Maxi said.

“What the hell? How’s that?” Reeve said.

“In my dreams. And he’s not the only one. There are at least a dozen others though I’ve never witnessed their deaths up close like Gary,” she said.

“Whaddaya sayin’ you’re some kind of psychic?” Reeve questioned.

“No, no, least I don’t think so. I think it has something to do with this house. That’s why I called you. You just don’t understand how real this was for me. It was almost as if I were the one being killed. I’ve never had dreams like this,” Maxi said.

“Max… maybe you should go see a–”

“A what? A fucking doctor? I’m looking at one right now. I told you you’d think I was crazy. Just try to be a little open minded Gary. Fuck me. I mean Reeve. I don’t know why I said that. I just can’t seem to get him out of my mind. I know it’s real goddam’ it. It really happened. Now, just start fucking believing me or take your ass home, “ she said.

“Okay, okay, Max, I accept that it could be real, but don’t you find it at least a bit odd that you’ve also seen so many other people murdered?”

“It’s the same person Reeve. They’re all the same, but they’re not. She’s–”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, she?” he doubted.

“Yes.. she. You can accept that I’m dreaming of a murderer, and their victims, but you don’t think a woman’s capable of being a serial killer?”

“Well, no, yes, hell I don’t know. Seems like she’d have to be fairly large to take on a man,” Reeve said.

“She’s not. Just an average sized woman. But she’s nuttier than a rat in a tin shithouse. But she’s not bad looking though. The truly odd thing is she always says the exact same thing to all her victims.”

“What’s she say?” Reeve asked.

“I’ll write it down for you verbatim next time. It’s as if she’s known them her whole life, and is looking for a little payback for some past wrong,” Maxi said.

“That may be. Are you sure it’s not just one person she’s talking to, but somehow in your lucid state you’re interjecting these other people into your dream? An effort to keep you interested perhaps. You said she always says the same thing,” Reeve said.

“I’m certain Reeve. I can feel these people as if they were sitting right there with me. If they were all exactly the same person I think I’d sense it, even through the illusory mask of different faces, “ Maxi said.

“So, if these people are already dead what good can you do?” Reeve asked.

“We don’t know that. Some of them could still be alive. Hell, all of them could still be alive. Who can say. We’re talking about premonitory dreams here, “ Maxi said.

“You’re right, you’re right. Well, what’s your plan then?” Reeve said.

“Sleep, sleep, and more sleep. Dreaming’s the only way I’m ever going to figure out what’s going on,” she said.

“Well, I can’t give you any sedatives then. Most likely they’d inhibit the dream state,”  Reeve said.

“That’s fine. I’m not gonna take it right now, but do they make anything that might help me dream?” she said.

“Probably, I could find you something herbal that might aid the REM cycle,” he said.

“Want to go rent us some movies to bide the time? Maxi said.

“Sure, want anything else?” Reeve said.

“Nah, I’m fine. On second thought, pick up some popcorn while you’re at it,” Maxi said.

“Sure babe,” Reeve said, leaned in, planning on kissing her on the cheek. But still she pulled away. He rolled his eyes, shook his head, but walked out the door without uttering a word. Before the car was out of the driveway Maxi’s head was on the pillow. Reeve was a good man. He’d understand. He was just turning onto the expressway when she started to snore. Maxi felt certain that this time there would be some mental block in place, a brick wall of the mind, so to speak. Perhaps they’d done too much talking about it. Again she was proven wrong, and instead of a gradual progression of the dream surroundings she was just instantly there. A genie couldn’t have blinked her there faster.

She walked down to the next to last dream doorway (which was more akin to a bubble stacked next to another bubble), and was shocked to find a black man. Every other victim had been white and this was the first time she’d noticed him. Be it a good sign, or ill omen, she penetrated the dream. Right away she detected something different. While the rooms and locations had always varied Virggie’s approximation to her victims was always the same. This time she sat on a desk well away from her victim. And while her clothes had often been radically different, the general theme was slutty, leather. For today’s festivities she seemed to be going for the school marm look. Though her hairstyle had a new age twist it was basically just a bun. She wore a skirt that might have been a little edgy back in its heyday but its length wouldn’t merit a batted eye today.

Virggie lorded over the dead amphibian, dissecting the toad in the foulest manner possible. Sending lacerated chunks flying toward the back of the man’s head. He squirmed incessantly but was unable to manage much more than uncentering the desk he was tied to. Each time he left the center Virggie came storming over and walloped him upside the head, righting the desk before returning to her stint as Biology Teacher. The empty desks surrounding him were in the shape of a U, as if the whole class anxiously anticipated his oration.

Vile Virggie pulled the frog’s guts out with her fingers and launched the entrails at his face. The black man sent his desk tipping over backward with one vehement jerk. In an instant she was upon him. Virggie pinched his left eyelids together and pierced them with one of the pins which held the frog in place. Then she bent the needle end-to-end and wound it like a bread tie. Only the slightest slit remained open. She returned to the dissection tray, removed another needle and started back toward the man. She was only a few steps away when she froze, glancing back over her shoulder. (For a cold moment Maxi believed she had been discovered). A smile unparalleled even by Manson in sickness lit upon Virggie’s face. She retrieved the jar of formaldehyde from the table.

The more Maxi delved into these past, future, or present tragedies the more she became a presence. She was now capable of moving about the room rather than just being an over the shoulder spy. She made a few rounds before she noticed the tag on his chest. Pinned there above the man’s left pocket was a name tag denoting that the man worked at Gill’s Hardware, but most importantly, that his name was Gary Johnson.

Before Maxi had time to process this little tidbit she was being hauled back from the dreamworld, back to reality. But when she woke up there was no one there. Reeve hadn’t made it back yet, and so far as she could tell nothing had disturbed her sleep. Mere minutes had passed and to say she was a bit loopy was an understatement. The undercurrent beneath every thought was ‘his name was Gary Johnson, his name was Gary Johnson, his name was Gary Johnson.’ It became a chant for her. Every bit reminiscent of Fight Club mantra.

What were the odds? Two of Virggie’s victims were named Gary Johnson. Could it just be coincidence? Or had she purposefully sought out another man named Gary Johnson? Was this her MO? Her serialistic ritual?

Right about now some coffee sounded great. She needed to mull this over. Though the pantry was all but barren she thought she remembered seeing a couple cans in the basement. Someone had stored a few dry goods for the apocalypse that never came. At the top of the stairs she fumble around, gliding her fingers upon the wall searching for the light switch. She flipped it on waiting for it to fully illuminate but a full minute had passed and still it was barely warm. Assuming the bulb was shot she made her way down the staircase, her gaze focused on the dim light. As if she could will it to brighten. Just as she was going to give it up as a lost cause the bulb flashed fully and burst, sending hot shards and dust into her hair; leaving an imprint of the filament seared onto her retinas.

She reopened her eyes and waited for the greenish yellow optical burn to pass. It did eventually mellow but left a much larger soft blue green image in its wake; and riding the coattails of that was the waft of an not unpleasant but definitely manly smell. The aromas of a freshly showered, shaved, and cologned man who didn’t spend frivolously. An spice man, but not necessarily Old Spice. Her first thought was that Reeve had come back from the store, and had purchased a few inexpensive travel items. Her second thought was, ‘jesus, how long have I been down here?’

“Reeve?” she said, “is that you?”

An abyss-like luminous apparition suddenly appeared just feet from her. It flickered in a non-threatening manner. The entity was formless, in constant flux, its outline ebbing and flowing as if the mere task of holding its shape taxed is energy stores. It didn’t take her long to venture a guess as to what it was, but surprisingly (even to herself) she was realizing how little she feared that conclusion.

Maxi drew closer fully expecting it to vanish, or evaporate, or whatever a being which seemed so aqua-like to disappear. Instead it became more clearly defined with every step she took forward. She couldn’t quite make it out, but she knew what it looked like. It looked like a person. Not that it had any distinctive features, it was just bodily outlined. Had it ever been human or was it just projecting humanity in order to lull her into a trap?

As a child she’d held a strong belief in such things because her mother had sensed them. Her mother wanted her daughter to go through life sans blinders. She’d wanted her open to the possibilities, to let this freedom to see things with eyes open guide her life.

Was it possible to feel a vibe from a bodiless entity? Maxi felt none of the menacing nature everyone had always claimed when they spoke of those so obviously from another realm. It was as if a child were standing before her. Innocence, and light, playful, inquisitive, but like all children carrying its own list of demands. But it had yet to make an attempt to communicate its wishes, least none that she could discern anyhow. When her belief that this truly was her reality concreted, the apparition came more sharply into focus. 

It was obviously trying to project a human form but the blur factor was still a bit too much for Maxi to make out more than the dullest outline. With a movement imperceptible to human eyes the (fluctuating state) being darted across the room. It hovered there, expecting her to follow. When she didn’t immediately understand how she was supposed to make it across pitch black room–she was after all corporeal and thus governed by the laws of physics–it eked out some of its essence to guide her. The substance mimicked a watery flow but was phosphorus in nature, and it slithered through the air in a non-threatening manner, all but curling an ethereal finger at her. Eventually, she grasped the beckoning and allowed herself to be led. Not a moment too soon apparently, because it was fading. Its outward extension reabsorbed the moment she stood in close proximity, and for a few seconds the entity shone brighter. Seconds later it began to fade rapidly. It did not strive for the infinitesimal, but rather winked out of existence all at once. Before she could voice the questions firing on all her neuroptic cylinders of her mind engine she went over woozy and collapsed on the spot.

‘One more spin round the Merry we go,’ was her last thought. But this time was different. There was no hall of murderous visions. Instead she awoke in the grassy prairie of a country-side. And when she stirred to some semblance of her locality she braved a peek above the row and saw a house. A ramshackle, two story home, with all the spooky trimmings. Approaching the mangled, heavily faded white picket fence, the shutters banged against the side of the house, catching the light breeze. Though the breeze was light the dust of the grassless yard kicked up and assaulted her lungs, setting her on a fit of coughing.

The whole atmosphere gave her the creeps. But it wasn’t the imagery which disturbed her the most, it was the fact that, despite it all she still felt compelled to go in. And almost worse still was the unerring feeling that she’d be perfectly fine. That she would remain unharmed. And she wondered what that said about her. It also highlighted the fact that she wasn’t alone. However real it all seemed she didn’t need a shiny red ball to pronounce her dream state. She promised herself that if she saw twin girls jumping rope and chanting that old nightmarish hymn (One.. two….) she’d do her best to vacate the premises.

Approaching the door her expectancy level far exceeded the half expectation so oft referred, and she just knew it would fly open. Though it did nothing of the kind. The screen door quelled her doubly, by refusing to twang. She took solace in the fact that the interior door squeaked when she opened it. A trifle predictable, yet somehow comforting. Too many expected tropes absent could be even more creepy than their presence; the devil you knew and all that.

The hardwood floors were rippled, their edges curling up from years of being water logged, yet the whole place seemed to be bone dry for ages. Nary a dust mote was in sight, but the air was laden with dusty particulate. A lone pre-civil war era cast iron cook stove was caddied in the corner; atop it bundles of kindling and a pile of newspapers. Oddly, the stove was not piped out, nor was there a wall vent of any kind, and yet not a trace of soot anywhere. Maxi fought the urge to open the stove door and see if it had ever been used.

She passed by the staircase and went through an arched doorway which led into the dining room. Another led to the kitchen. Finding nothing of real interest she turned back and made her way up the stairs. As expected the staircase was rickety and creaked in all the right places. She breathed a sigh of relief. Reaching the top of the stairs she was bombarded by dual faucets dripping, one after the other, the first drip resoundingly authoritative, the second, merely a fading echo.

Maxi inched her way along the second floor corridor momentarily pausing at the bathroom door. The drip-drops melodic. She focused particularly on the resultant cascade of rust tinged undulations, observing that if it weren’t for the stagnant water, it might be just the sort of thing you’d find on some artsy film capturing slow motion photography.

Her pace quickened as she passed the master bedroom. A few milk crates, empty liquor bottles, and a scattering of cards. None of it seemed important but perhaps worth remembering nonetheless. At the end of the hall were two children’s bedrooms directly across from one another. Their curled wallpaper practically screamed the gender of the former occupant. The boy’s decorum was planes, trains, and automobiles; the girl’s was one commanding image of a toddling lass blowing a bit of dandelion into her kittens’ face. The little girls room contained the only carpet in the whole of the home. It was strawberry shortcake pink with one major blemish: A dark burgundy stain dominated its center. Maxi spotted something lying in the plush. She bent to pick it up. Recognition set in as soon as she wrapped her fingertips around it. She dropped it immediately. Geese must be dancing on her grave with all the flesh it had raised. On further inspection she noticed that the fingernails underside was covered in blood. As much as it sickened her to do so she knelt and picked it up. She’d initially mistaken the blood for fingernail polish, but after having rotated it in her hand a few times she was certain it wasn’t. While faded, the polish could still be made out. It was an god awful lime green which typically only old ladies, little girls, and strippers were brave enough to wear. Maxi deposited the nail into her pocket and continued her search of the old homeplace.

This dream seemed to be a bust. So she’d found a stove (with no pipe) a couple leaky faucets, a rusty water filled tub, a dark stain on a carpet, and a little girl’s bloody fingernail. What did it all mean? Likely nothing at all. But yet….

She awoke in the basement of 119 Mulberry Ave.   As her senses returned to her she did the mental rundown of what she felt she knew, and realized she knew nothing. She peeled her face away from the cool concrete, licking at the corner of her mouth just long enough to detect the bit of dirt that had stuck to her cheek. Her body raged with aches and she thought it was damn lucky she hadn’t had an actual medical emergency or else she’d have been long dead before Reeve made it back. Where the hell was he? She supposed he could’ve gotten called in to the hospital for some damn thing or another, but why hadn’t he called. She patted herself down but came up sans cell phone. Back upstairs she checked and there were two missed calls and a voice message. She dialed the voice mailbox:

“Hey, I’m sorry I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it back there anytime soon. There’s been a terrible accident on the interstate.. a semi plowed into a church mini-van. Least that’s what they told me. I’m on scene with the paramedics now offering assistance. There’s been several pileups. They’re sorely undermanned. Anyhow, I’ll get there as soon as I can. Hope you’re not mad,” Reeve said.

She wasn’t. If you were going to have a doctor s a friend, lover, or husband the very first thing you must learn to accept is that in the case of their work you come second. But her stomach was gnashing at her backbone, and she had to get out and get some grub. There was a McKinney’s just down the street and they made a very fine pub burger. The fries weren’t so bad either. A little music, perhaps a lager, might be just the thing.

Every eye was upon Maxi as she walked through the door. She’d expected hard stares or glances but every face seemed welcoming. Soon enough they went back to minding their own business. Maxi was a looker but she wasn’t so much-a-one as to merit full droppage (record stoppage) of what one was doing. She took an empty barstool and waited for the bartender. Lawrence McKinney was the great-great grandson of Talmud McKinney. He was almost as proud of his handlebar mustache as he was of the behind the bar photos of he and his grandfather above the mirror. He loved nothing more than for a customer to tell him, ‘why, don’t you look just like your grandpa.’ A fact which Lawrence was certain to point out to anyone who hadn’t noticed, and this instance was no exception to the rule. When Maxi didn’t bite he harrumphed and walked back through the saloon style doors, barked an order to the cook manning the grill.

Maxi spun quickly around on her barstool, hoping to catch someone making with the hard eye, but was (as yet) unchallenged. Mostly everyone’s eyes were glued to the sexy young maneater dominating the pool tables. She wore heels, her body gave chills, and her shot placement incited thrills. What most folks didn’t know about Maxi Real was that she’d been on track to becoming a professional billiards player in college when she’d met Wilhelm and opted for a more stable life. He promised to support her in any pursuit she chose, but she just didn’t want to spend all that time away from him. Their love remained as fresh as the day they fell, and she suffered anxiety when she was away from him for too long.

Maxi decided to give the ol’ gal–though with a body as firm, and as tone as that one had, she could hardly be termed such–a run for her money. Money which seemed to be stacking up as she was so giddily liberating it from all male comers. The first few tables Maxi passed by were all slotted for quarters, and she opted to hop on one for practice. Besides, it would give her a bit of time to study her opponent. Ms. Curves-in-all-the-right-places rarely missed. She wasn’t perfect though. If a side pocket shot required her to slice thinly she missed. In fact, if the side shot wasn’t just about dead-on she maintained about a fifty-fifty chance of making it. She also struggle a bit on the long green, especially with bank shots. Maxi could beat this woman. And after running a few racks out Maxi decided to show her how it was done. As Maxi approached, the lights highlighted the lady’s features and Maxi got the sinking feeling she knew the–baby–pool shark. Perhaps from some old tournament play. Or from some other where, or when. But the woman never quite turned fully around. Maxi couldn’t get more than a profile view. The man she played watched her every move. One look at his face and it was obvious she could’ve been knocking the balls in by hand for all he cared. He was losing money, but felt it was a good future investment. Even though Ms. Fine Ass Pool Shark wasn’t anywhere near finishing her drink, he ordered them another round. Maxi walked right up to the man; noticing the clump of money piled up in the recess she said, “ How much are you playing for?”

“Twenty a game. Going double or nothing on this one though. You interested?” the man gave her the thorough once over. She wasn’t quite the stunner that was running table on him, but she definitely had it going on.

“I am,” Maxi said, “I’d like to be put in rotation if you don’t mind.”

“Nah, if I’ma get my shirt taken anyhow. Might as well get to look at two fine ladies ‘steada one,” his beer gut heaved as he lightly chuckled.

“Thanks. Real charmer, aren’t you.” Maxi lied

“I can be.”

“So what’s this woman’s name that’s running the table on you?” Maxi asked.

“To tell you the truth I’ve plumb forgotten. One too many scotch on the rocks I guess.”

“Tell ya what, why don’t you ask her. She ain’t shy. Save me a lil embarrassment by telling me. Please, I’ve been trying to think of a way to ask her for over an hour,” the player said.

“Right, well, we’ll see.  I’m not really into helping guys score with chicks,” Maxi said.

Maxi approached the woman, who was intensely focused on the eight ball. Not a foreigner to the game Max kept her lips zipped and waited till the shot was placed before she attempted an introduction. Maxi’s father had always adhered to the ‘think long, think wrong’ principle/motto, so she was a bit surprised when the woman’s shot was true after about twenty plus strokes of the pool cue. The lady shark turned to face her. All at once Maxi’s reasoning faculties abandoned her, and she could do nothing to stop the ensuing scream. Terror commanded her heart to cease beating, and the blood in her veins crystallized with icey particulate. Her skin went over so pale the cue ball looked Caribbean tanned by comparison. And for the second time in a twenty-four hour period she fainted.

Moments later she awoke to find herself the center of a gathering crowd. The very person who was the catalyst to her current state attempted to pass her a glass of water. Enraged, Maxi slapped the glass from the woman’s hand and it shattered upon the dividing wall, narrowly missing the horny man by inches. He couldn’t, however, escape the water which soaked the side of his pants leg.

“You don’t know this woman!” Maxi screamed, “Stay away from her; she’s crazy; she’s dangerous!!!”

“Lady, if you ask me you’re the one who could use a good therapist,” the amorous pool player said.

“Gary, come on. Can’t you see something’s troubling her. Let’s just go,” said the lady pool shark.

“Gary!? Oh my god!! Your name is Gary!!?” a tremor quaked from Maxi’s lips, its aftershocks wobbled her jowls.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out, “ Gary said.

“Gary Johnson?” Maxi asked.

“Yeah, so, do I know you?”

“It’s not important Gary. What is  important Gary, is that this woman plans to kill you. Leave her be Gary, please for God’s sake, leave her be. There’s plenty of skanks out there Gary. You’re not a bad looking guy.  A little overweight, but I’m sure there are quite a few women out there willing to sleep with you. Trust me Gary, you’re gonna want to leave this one alone,” Maxi said.

“Hey lady, kiss my ass a’ight. Come on babe, let’s get the fuck out of here,” Gary said.

Virggie seemed extremely puzzled, but not at all dissuaded from her task. Nor was she too shaken to give Maxi a toothy smile (on the turn back) as she walked away. The look, while nasty, was playful. It was the same look Jill McCarty had given her in the fifth grade when she walked off the stage after having beaten Maxi in the spelling bee. It proclaimed, ‘test me again and I’ll kill you bitch’.  

Maxi scrambled to her feet almost toppling an elderly gentleman who’d come over to see what all the fuss was about. Onlookers stared at her as if she were a witch, and she wished mightily for the wit to offend them, but was found lacking, and so kept her mouth shut. She hurried to the door just in time to catch a glimpse of a dark blue vehicle’s taillights rounding the corner. She thought she knew the make but these days who could tell. Automakers were all so gutless, that they rarely risked it and made any truly innovative designs.

She blazed a trail to her car, and lost a minute as she fumbled with her keys. She barked out in reverse and slammed the shifter into drive. The older model took off with a bit of a whimper rather than the rubbery squeal she’d hoped for. She managed to get the blue car back in her sightline but was still five car links away. The lanes were narrow and littered with parked cars so passing wasn’t an option. At every intersection she prayed for the car in front of her to turn. Three times her prayers were thwarted. But at the fourth stop two cars turned left and one right. Which left a car betwixt her and her target vehicle, and luckily he was riding their ass. Maxi couldn’t quite make out the couple in the car. The passenger was wearing a cap. Gary had had on a cap. Though try as she might she couldn’t remember what color it had been. This guy’s cap was green. She was almost certain Gary’s hat was green (maybe it had a bit of yellow on it as well, perhaps a John Deere cap?).

Maxi tracked the movement of the cars out in front of her but she was mostly focused on the gaps between the parked cars. She was no stunt driver but thought she could manage  if the space was big enough. She was about to go offroad, on sidewalk, look at pedestrians here she comes.

A few blocks down she spotted a gap large enough for her to pass through. She wailed incessantly on her horn and barreled on through. She had the good fortune of the sidewalk being nearly empty. Just one vendor still hocked his trade. She thought she could see his eyes literally get as big as half dollars before he dived out of the way. He sprang up like a range target in her rearview mirror, cursing at her and throwing his shattered pilferings. As they transitioned toward a phased out portion of the town the gaps were much more frequent. She dropped the hammer and pulled up alongside the blue car. The man in the passenger seat shook his head, faced her, and stuck his out his tongue. Then he turned to his elderly wife, said something, and turned back. He stuck up and incredibly long middle finger covered in liver spots, and they shot out like a bolt. Maxi slammed on her brakes, her car slid side to side, but she controlled it well, and it came to a near immediate stop. She’d followed the wrong damn car. Gary was as good as dead. 

With traffic clear she whipped back out onto the street; the zeal all but vanished, she crept along at a snail’s pace. Maxi approached the vendor (who was still raving mad) and parked in front of the messy space his wares used to occupy. The Indian street hustler just kept repeating, ‘You crazy lady! American policy, you break you buy!’ After haggling with him a bit, she handed him her last three-hundred dollars and he seemed content. Back in her car she considered the options. Option A: she could return to the bar, and set out again rambling aimlessly attempting to find a car long since gone. Option B: involved the police who’d likely laugh her out of the station. Since, as yet, no crime had been committed–by anyone other than her–there was little they could do anyhow. Option C: (the one that took her home) seemed most reasonable. Perhaps Reeve would be there and might be able to come up with something.  Lord knows she couldn’t think her way out of a closed cardboard box right now. She just felt too defeated to try. Reeve always managed to lift her spirits. It was one of the reasons she loved him. But that love had yet to resurface. It was still hiding in the dark place where we bury all our secrets we don’t want to see the light of day.

Maxi had barely a foot on the porch of 119 when the savory aroma wafting out from beneath the door brought on hunger pangs. Most would have to take a couple guesses to know what it was, but she didn’t need to guess. She shut the door behind her, tongue salivating as she walked into the kitchen. In all the serial killer car chase commotion she’d forgotten she was starving. She bet it steamed that Irishman something awful that she’d left without paying for her food. But she did, after all, not get to eat it. She watched as Reeve skated around the kitchen singing an old tune.

“Just a small town girl…………” But the music lived only in his head. He always sang when he cooked. Sometimes along with a radio, sometimes not. Normally a person who realized they were no longer alone would usually get a bit flush, but not Reeve. He truly did love Maxi and if she didn’t see all of him, what was the point?

“Smells great. Lemme guess, your famous Cornish Hens,” Maxi asserted.

“You got it lady. You hungry?” Reeve asked.

“I’m starving. You know that’s the first dinner you ever cooked for me,” Maxi said.

“I know. Thought you deserved a little pick me up,” Reeve said.

“I do. Thank you Reeve.. you’re a sweetie,” she said.

“I know,” he laughed heartily. “Now sit down. Tell me about your day. I’ll tell you about mine but it’s probably best if we wait till well after we’ve had dinner,” Reeve said.

She spun the last few hours out as if the occurrences had happened in the course of a week. Not that she was boring him, that’s just how they seemed to her, so that’s how she told them. She had enough fire and ice in her blood to make it all too real for Reeve. And by the time she was done he was completely engrossed. He begged of her a couple minutes to gather his thoughts. He hit upon a simple truth immediately. That hardly any area of this town was void of cameras any more and that they could probably finagle the footage from the pub owner for the right price. But he put it on the back burner for later. It required little contemplation and would just get in the way if it kept popping up. Wanting some time to think it all over he decided to go ahead and tell her the story of his day, promptly after they ate. One of the things he loved about her was that she didn’t bombard him with questions, but rather waited till after he was finished to voice any queries. Which meant he could probably run the tale on autopilot and cognitively toss around the relative tidbits of her day, seeing where they landed.

The most tragic aspect of Reeve’s story was the death of the women who’d been driving the church van. She’d spent her last ten minutes in this world waiting for her husband to arrive so she could talk to him. But he’d gotten stuck in traffic and hadn’t been able to make it there on time. Just three short minutes separated him from the last conversation he would’ve ever had with his wife.  In all fairness everything that could’ve been done, was done. He’d been given a police escort but even so they’d just failed to get there in time. This wasn’t the movies. This wasn’t television. Life robbed chances from you not gifted them. You have to fight tooth and nail for what you want, and even then good luck hanging on to it.

She’d went critical while they were waiting and the EMT’s had feared moving her till her husband got there as she was impaled but with her torso hanging on by a small string of connective tissue. With her last breath  of lucidity she gave her confession to the paramedic to pass on to her husband. Tell Tim that I’m sorry about George. That he isn’t the good friend he claims to be. Tell him I loved him and the kids more than anything.  Her last wishes were delivered just as promised and the paramedic wasn’t quite sure what had wounded Tim more. The fact that his wife was dead, or that she’d had an affair with his best friend. Stuff like this was all too common. When people know they’re gonna die they go of their demons. With death at your door, you have little to fear. Sometimes he just wished they had the good sense to keep it to themselves. He couldn’t not keep his obligation. The last wishes of the dying were sacred.

Reeve could only stand by. He couldn’t have helped the paramedics in those few critical moments, so it was best to just not get in their way. Maxi had forgotten how much stuff like that could weigh on a soul, and envied Reeve his courage in dealing with it so well. You see enough death and carnage and eventually you’re numb. But Reeve felt it all, and laid it just beneath the surface. He believed those who tried to bury their feelings ended up crashing and burning long before the natural course of their careers would have benched them. While he’d been telling the story he hadn’t been able to put the thought of the cameras on the back burner like he’d planned. Now it seemed to him that that was the logical first step, and that contemplation of any step thereafter was pointless. If the cameras hadn’t caught anything then they’d have to canvas the bar and that might take a while.

“Let’s go on over to McKinney’s and see if he’s got any security footage. Maybe we can identify the car. Hopefully get the license plate number,” Reeve said, taking a big gulp and finishing his drink.

Slowly, Maxi’s head rose from the table, a smile planing across her face.

“Reeve you’re a genius.”

“Not quite, but I suppose I’ll have to do. I’m all you’ve got.”

Reeve made a pit-stop by the bathroom and when he came out he found Maxi walking through the kitchen. He called out to her. No response. Again and again he called but she didn’t turn around. He caught up to her and since her eyes were closed he assumed she was sleep walking. She was heading toward the basement door, and taking into consideration the dreams she’d had, and what she had seen, he felt it best to just leave her be. He followed closely behind, ready to catch her if she took one false step and found herself in peril. His doctor hairs were up and he found this all too fascinating. Perhaps he’d write a paper. Leaving out the ghoulish goblin of course. Focusing on how dreams can manipulate reality.

Even still, he loved her, he stayed right there with her, making sure she didn’t hurt herself. Maxi negotiated the door knob with such ease that Reeve wondered had she caught a momentary glimpse of the door through her lids. While she hadn’t exactly done a cartwheel down the flight of stairs which followed, there was never a hesitant step. When she was back on stable ground–in the basement–Reeve directed his attention to the shelves, searching for a beam to light his path. While she’d been granted the gift of sight through the darkness he still had to negotiate like always. Frankly, he couldn’t see a damn thing. He’d lost sight of her and was getting worried. He felt along on the shelf, moving his hands quickly beyond a stack of mason jars of varying sizes. Next his fingers lit upon the dusty lids of some canned goods. He rushed passed the next items so quickly that his mind only just recognized what most of them were. The flight of his digits were rudely interrupted by something nearly as tall as the shelf gap itself. It belted out an angry tune–as glass scraped metal–and its top tilted over, toppled to the floor, shattering irreparably. Though he knew the breaking sound was surely to follow it had still scared the wits out of him. Lightning quick, he reasserted his calm and traced the curves of the topless object. It wasn’t until he found the wick that he realized what it was. He felt stupid for not knowing immediately, but in his own defense he hadn’t seen one since he was a kid. He didn’t pick the lamp up immediately but rather scoured along the surface next to it. Finally managing to waltz his fingers over to and then shook a box that had just the right rattle. His first thought, maybe it’s just toothpicks.  But then he felt the slightly coarse rectangle which ran along the side. Quickly he slid the drawer out, retrieved a match and struck it. It lit immediately but gave only a momentary flash of brilliance before expiring. Even through the momentary blindness Reeve glimpsed the old kerosene lamp and its unfortunate state of emptiness. He struck match two and it burned longer, allowing him to see that there were no bottles of kerosene anywhere nearby. Matches three and four led him out into the aisle, beyond the shelves. Five, and six were complete duds. He broke match seven, and erupted in an uncharacteristic string of expletives as the match head fell to the floor. He struck match eight, and it lit his path as faithfully as any pitch soaked torch in a movie. It lasted so long that as it flamed out of existence he performed a superficial last rites ceremony, thanking whatever unknown fire gods were out there waiting to light the darkness. With matches nine through sixteen (though some were duds) he plodded steadily forward. Seventeen struck true and he thanked the Lord above. Up ahead in the distance, he caught a glimmer of white: Maxi.

Match eighteen broke on the side and he cursed the good end to the floor. The match box nearing empty, he struck nineteen, and it flared seemingly as bright as the sun. Its short but intense rays let him make out a distinctly human form, Maxi. Just then light seemed to erupt from her very core. It poured right through her and she became completely transparent. He hadn’t noticed the fire singing his thumb skin ‘till the smell of sulfur and burning flesh drifted up to his nostrils, sending momentary flashes of hellish brimstone images that might well have been plucked right from Dante’s Inferno. By the time his delayed reaction was due to kick in the flame burned itself out. But it didn’t matter now. Now he had no need for matches, but he stowed the remainder in his pocket just in case.

The light had enveloped Maxi, and only the most deeply tucked crevasses in the basement remained hidden in darkness, shrouded in shadow. Reeve dared an approach. He shielded his eyes. The aural like luminosity so bright he couldn’t look at it directly. But as his pain grew from trying so hard to view the proceedings, to determine what in fact was going on, it began to dim. With each new step forward the emergent aural-like light dimmed. Finally able to fully open his eyes, Reeve’s heart skipped not one, but three beats; three. Maxi hovered there, in the air as if by some magician’s trick, only he estimated that she was six to eight feet off the ground; her arms flailed out behind her, occasionally spasm-ing, breaking the monotony of their solemn dangle. The aural like light surrounding, yet seeming to come from within her. Its encompassing flow circulating, and yet if it wasn’t so fluid-like it could’ve been mistaken for magnetic lines of flux, electromotively surrounding a pole. As Reeve stepped closer she began to descend. The aural like light began to take on a more definitive form. A human shaped form. But only the upper body (for lack of a better word) held this shape solid enough for the eye to define. Nearing the ground, her toes nearly touching, it grew even more solid, and Reeve could see the aural like arm held around her back, and the hand held firmly upon her side. The being’s other hand was placed upon her chest. But this wasn’t some ghastly attempt to copp a feel.

Reeve was so stunned he was fraught by indecision. There were so many what ifs. He was a doctor. He was no paranormal expert. He’d never lent credence to any of it. It was all just wild superstition, and mumbo-jumbo to him. Until now, that is. What if something went horribly awry if he broke the coupling of this being from Maxi? Max’ could end up as dead cold as the basement floor upon which her toes now gently swung back and forth gingerly. If he interfered he could leave part, or all of her, stranded on some ethereal plane, never to return. The truth was he just didn’t have any way of knowing what might happen. And for now, at least, she didn’t seem to be physically harmed, the being didn’t seem malign, and he felt the best course of action was: to take no action; to just observe, and let things run their course.

Though he hadn’t noticed it (until now) his heart had been beating in periodic spurts of irregularity. But suddenly it resumed its normal timing. And a blanket of calming warmth enveloped him–as if he were back in the womb. He supposed that it’s what heaven must feel like. In the womb of God, happiness and hope do spring eternal. If this was what it was like. If this was how it felt, if heaven was even half this good, then sign him up. He’d pray. He’d take daily to his knee. He’d get down in his closet. He’d attend church regularly. Whatever he needed to do. This was a fix that’d make any clean person an addict.

The entity moved its protrusion that wanted, that desired with its every movement, to actually be,   a hand upon the surface of Maxi’s chest. With each flourish Maxi’s back transparent and Reeve witness her beating heart firsthand. There within her valves, arteries, and veins were traces of some phosphorescent golden substance, riddled throughout like veins in the ore of a boulder. After a few passes over her chest (with much focus on seemingly drawing something away from her heart) the being pushed its wanna be hand deep inside Maxi’s chest. Reeve shuddered. He stepped back. He stepped forward. He was a two headed snake of indecision. The entities billowy digits softly caressed, melded into, and then attached themselves to each valve. And in that moment her heart shone true. Its surface seemed to be made of solid gold. Its heavenly glow was only slightly marred by the flecks of turquoise at its center. Reeve’s thoughts were suddenly invaded:

Her heart is nearly pure. Within their is great love for you Reeve. What you two shared happened far too soon for her. But it’s her greatest hope that you’ll be patient and stick around long enough to eventually give it another try. That you may one day have a life together.

“Who are you? How do you know all this?”

“I AM GARY,” the voice reverberated, was the slightest bit garbled and sounded as though it was spoken through a water soaked washcloth.

“Gary… but…”

Not that Gary. A different Gary. She’ll be able to explain it to you soon. Just be careful pressuring her. She may lose what grasp she has on things. These are delicate matters. I am not certain whether I have overstepped in telling you how she felt about you. But of one thing I am certain. Life is far too short to carry around unspoken feelings for someone. Things happen. Accidents happen. People die. It’s all gone within the blink of an eye. And you two love each other very much.  This is a dangerous business you’re about. Either of you could die at any time. I just wanted you to know how she felt. That she felt as you do.  (The voice grew more normal now.) Reeve I am not long for this Earth. Rather this plane. So let me come to my point. She’ll sleep for a long time after this. It’s important that you do not disturb her. She’s in no danger. Monitor her vitals. You’ll see that to be true. I have to go now. If I can I will return.   

The entity withdrew its billowy wanna be hand and slowly but surely pulled it back into itself. It was losing its shape now. But pulling itself backward. Back toward the back wall. And to the left. It passed into the wall, and through the cinder block.  And then there was a small flash of light which beamed momentarily out through the cinder block, making it become transparent. And then it was over. Though Reeve had missed it happening. Though he hadn’t noticed it. Maxi had been safely delivered to the ground. And was resting there, peacefully. And snoring softly. She seemed most serene, calm.

Reeve hoisted her up, his adrenaline spiking so much that in that moment he held the posture of a Viking lifting his lover felled in battle. He bounded up the stairs quickly before his renewed vigor evaporated, and he returned to the trending stoop of a man flirting with middle age.

For many hours Reeve kept vigil by Maxi’s side. All her vitals seemed fine. But still he was torn. Should he take her to the hospital? What would they be able to discover? What would he say her problems/symptoms were? More importantly, what if they discovered that golden flakey ore-like substance which lined her circulatory system? How could he explain that? No science or medicine could. Waiting a while yet still seemed the best option. He fought the urge to lay down. His head lilted forward. His eyelids had lead weights attached. He succumbed. As soon as his chin rested upon his chest, his snores soon followed.

Maxi awoke. For a moment she envisioned herself back on her Grandfather’s farm. She was about to tell that hog to quit rooting around at her ankles. She thought she might need to pick up the pace so that she didn’t have to hear its constant snorting. But within a few blinks, and some assaulting light, she suddenly realized that she wasn’t on ol’ Grampy Real’s farm. When her eyes fully opened she saw that it was Reeve. And that he snored not quite so peacefully sitting in the chair next to her. Her first instinct was to hit him upon the leg, to wake him up, to tell him to go to bed. That his snoring was grating on her nerves. But then she realized why he was sitting in that chair, sawing logs louder’n’y lumber mill. And her heartbeat quickened and she felt her love for Reeve trying to resurface. She stuffed it quickly back down in the valley where she had sent it to live, free from any sunshine, where only moonlit plants may grow.

Maxi closed her eyes, attempting to distance herself from her thoughts of Reeve and their willfully abandoned love. She tried to think what it was she’d been dreaming before waking up to Reeve’s saw-milling snore. Yet, nothing was coming to mind, other than the ol’ farm. And it’s rebel rousing livestock. Mean ass chickens that’d try to peck your goddamn eyes out if you laid a finger upon one of their eggs. A rooster that had his cockle-doodle-doo all fucked up and started sometime around midnight (or whenever the moon was fullest). Having taken up this stance in life they called him Lunatic after the moon. An old mangy mutt named Flicker that would on occasion, for no particular reason, just take off backward like a bat out of hell. Grampy Real claimed that Flicker had gotten so scared once that he’d been shittin’ an’ a getting (backward-high leggin’ it), and that on occasion his PTSD would act up and he’d relive that moment. She missed that crazy ass dog. He was a nut, but he loved his humans very much. On one foggy afternoon Grampy Real had been retrieving the mail and Flicker–as always–had followed him down to the end of the long gravel driveway. A car was passing by and it backfired and Flicker howled as if in the most terrible agony, and as if he had no clue where the sound had come from, Flicker directly got to backward high leggin’ it right out into oncoming traffic. Unfortunately because of the low lying foggy mist the car couldn’t see Flicker in time to stop.

A solitary tear streaked down Maxi’s face, and she rolled over seeking the comfort of the couch crevasse. (If you dig yourself down in there, really bury yourself in–like a tick–it almost feels like someone is holding you close to them.) Within minutes Maxi was sawing some logs of her own. Though her snore factor was somewhere in the neighborhood of a hand saw, compared to Reeve’s big ol’ damn industrial sized circular saw blade which chewed through wood at an astonishing rate expelling sawdust by the ton.

It took several blinks for Maxi to realize where she was. There was no great hall of tragedies, but the smell was familiar, in a kind of nostalgic sort of way. The dreaded kind of reliving only the abused can know. A single ray of sunshine lit the darkness of her cubicle like surroundings. Her every movement sent whole villages of dust motes scrambling up into the air. She watched as some caught the light breeze, and flitted away, while others merely mosied on back down. The hay (underbody) wasn’t quite so ancient, as to be scentless, but it had been sun baked for a long time. Carefully, she rose to her feet. The rakes and hoes stored along the edges of the stall demanded caution. The ramshackle gate squeaked in protest as she made her way into the open. The stable walls were lined by four stalls on each side, and by small, what seemed to be, storage closets at each end. The place didn’t quite seem big enough to be called a barn, but she wasn’t sure how else you’d categorize it. Maxi took one last glance around before making her way out of the barn. {Further inspection might’ve informed her greatly. At the barn’s center there were two support posts with long leather straps attached, which flapped when the wind sent a high gust channeling through. Unfortunately, as if sensing her arrival, it had nearly taken a vow of silence.}

The old two story home stood pretty much as she remembered it. A color which had been a pastel yellow in its heyday, now ancient and faded to near no pigment. White trim and shutters which had taken on a caked sand dune-ish color from flapping in the dusty wind. Approaching the front door she noticed that it stood part-way open, as if she were an expected guest.  Inside, she found the old cast iron stove still stood fast holding its place. But something was different. Something had been changed. There was less kindling than before. And rather quite a lot of the newspapers were gone from the pile. She was shocked to find that the cast iron stove now had a stove pipe and was venting somewhere up into the ceiling. And she supposed it must’ve gone out the wall somewhere, or through the ceiling. Strange, she thought, who would need to start a fire in a dream world? I didn’t start the fire, and if not me, then who?  But, for the moment, this was only of passing interest and she felt compelled to leave it for later reflection. She looked up toward the top of the stairs. A cooish giggle erupted, sending a wave of goosebumps rippling down her back. Taylor sang out from the depths of her brain: SHAKE IT OFF! SHAKE IT OFF! She mounted some courage and slowly ascended the stairs. 

 “NOoooo!” a bone chilling (feminine) outburst cut through the silence like a blade. Though this was her only word Maxi could hear the girl’s wheezy sob clearly enough as it echoed down to her, even at only half up the stairs. Maxi wasn’t afraid anymore. She bounded up the rest of the steps with a newfound determination. Though she knew the cries came from a much older girl, they were so childlike. If a child in danger didn’t squeeze the chickenshit outta ya, then nothing would.

As she placed her foot upon the top stair step another–more panic stricken–cry reverberated throughout. Maxi stood, statue still. Seconds passed, again the cry came. Again and again it burst forth. Always with a soundless pause in between. This was truly a child crying. A baby. It cried so hard.. it couldn’t catch its breath. Maxi honed in on the location. The crying came from the bathroom. Without having noticed it she’d been inching along down the hallway, never moving too far, too fast, just taking small little strides forward, toward the sound whilst being supremely focused on what she heard. Cautiously, she approached the bathroom door.

Maxi stood stunned, her perplexity knew no end. The bathroom was empty. Devoid of life save the fetid water in the tub; a mess of flies lit upon the surface in some unknown little hive mind like sequence which made them look as though they were performing some sort of sick ballet. The sink faucet, it seemed, hadn’t dripped in quite some time, the water was the color and consistency of an pureed algae soup.

She stepped over the threshold. There came a brilliant flash, as if she were some twenties starlit and an overeager Jimmy Olson type had snapped a picture of her with one of those giant flash bulbs exposing all her flaws just inches away from her face. She closed her eyes but little good it did, the image of the room was seared into her mind’s eye, or upon the back of her eyelids if you will. But somehow the image she saw was different. Cleaner. Almost new. As if unravaged by nature and time. The tub was gleaming white, and empty, rather than a dingy rust stained behemoth filled near to the brim with an algae like soup.

With the pain of the light exposure fading she took a step forward and suddenly the image was gone. Not from her mind (there it seemed it might be seared permanently) but from before her. Her eyes no longer saw the shiny bright new bathroom but had rather reverted back to the image of filth and disgust which was its true nature. She took a couple steps forward. The tub’s contents came fully into view. Something was sloshing. Sloshing within. The gelatinous green water swirled as if a fish stirred beneath. Maxi leapt backward. One of the flies showed an immense sense of bravery, or perhaps stupidity, and lit upon the surface. A tooth studded tongue chameleoned out and snatched the fly. Dual bioluminescent onyx eyes peered up from the depths. Maxi winced in disgustion. The eyes blinked and shining golden rings closed in around the pupils in the fashion of an camera iris. The emerging tub-lagoon-creature swam toward the edge. Maxi readied her legs for flight. A chubby little hand gripped the side of the tub, its nails slinkied up and down (accordion style) in long tarnished coils. The other hand emerged, gripped the tub, but it was near wholly devoid of flesh–tiny bones held together by threads of long degenerating ligament and cartilage. Here and there were patches of flesh, populated by multitudes of sucker fish sized leeches leisurely devouring with razor sharp teeth.  Maxi sensed that what was coming would be horrid to behold, but like any grotesque trainwreck, there would be no turning away from it. And yet some of her fear melted away, and she inched closer to the tub. Instinct drove her forward. She knew that she and whatever burst forth from that acrid smelling algaic soup were gonna palaver, and she didn’t want to miss something vital. 

She stared mindlessly at the slimy surface, as one after another, scraggly strands of what might’ve once been blonde hair floated up to the surface–their clumped together state resembling tentacles from the depths of the murky water. These tentacular strands buoyed up and down, held aloft by some grimy chunky particulate seemingly woven into the fabric of the matted hair tentacles. More tentacle shaped hair popped to the surface. Maxi expected the unsightly head to punch through the gelatinous goo at any moment. Suddenly a fishy tail came a-flopping out, slapping the putrid water, violently fighting for purchase, pushing with all its might to re submerge. Just then the top of the head breached the surface, and Maxi held back the Mt. Saint Helens of chunk blows, which fought to erupt from her esophagus. The head was small, childlike, not much bigger than a baby’s, and the fish tail wriggled freely within the hollow of the soft spot. If this was once a child, it seemed its skull never quite grew completely together. Just when she thought this birthing process could get no worse, the head burst fully through, exposing a fleshy patchwork of a face. Large chunks of flesh were hollowed clear to the bone, the craters bombarded by toothy marks, almost as if the poor thing had survived an ferocious piranha attack and yet somehow lived, almost giving the appearance of a golf ball like texture. Half gnawed upon gangrenous flaps hung all about. A myriad of tiny leeches with razor sharp teeth which clacked together like little clickers as they bit the air poured out of the crater like wounds. 

      The outer rim of the abysmal things pupils began to flicker on-an’-off emitting a light so golden as to be heavenly. It only took one flash for her to realize the pupils were ringed with twin maggots. The flashing made them uneasy, and they chased and nipped at their own tails. While most of the thing before her looked childlike, it did have certain manly features, including what looked to be a mustache of nearly Fu Man Chu proportion. The eyes held the duality of unfulfilled promise, anger over a life unlived, deprived. Suddenly there was an intense grinding sound, which bore into her brain as if the Tunneler himself had decided on a little therapeutic trepanning, ending in a snap which unhinged the man child’s jaw sending it jutting out at an most awkward angle. A low rumble erupted from within, elevating to an awful buzzing which bounded vehemently in her mind as though a high-voltage transformer we’re playing hopscotch in there. The noisy creatures trickled out at first, one by one, but soon exited the man-child’s mouth as if they were millions of bats emerging from a cave all flying in unison aware of their proximity to their neighbor. Rather than disperse they kept a stream like pattern as thousands poured out of the man-child and made a beeline straight for Maxi. She darted to the side, but immediately realized they weren’t after her, she’d just been in their path and they would not deviate. The last of the flies buzzed out of the mouth canal and Maxi was just about to speak to the thing when a heap of unborn maggot eggs, and dead larvae poured out of its mouth like a fount. The urge to hurl her guts upon the floor was irresistible. She heaved dryly, again and again, till ab and rib muscles which weren’t really there ached and burned. The powers-that-be would allow her that much. She did not thank them for the blessing. Just when she was about to opt for an early check out the man-child finally spoke.

“You…” its voice would have sounded just like a deaf person’s if he were chewing on gravely rocks clicking and clanking through a mouthful of gelatin. ” you haff to stop her.”
” Who ?” Maxi replied.
“Doooon’t toy wit’ me! I see much. She’s hurting so much. Grant her release from her imprisonment,” the man-child said. 

“Stop who?” Maxi said.

“Free Virginia,” it said.

“She’s the woman who’s killed all these men? Why should I do anything for her?” Maxi said.

“You do it for them,” the man child coughed hoarsely, the fish tail sticking out of his head flopped violently slapping his temples, an enormous baby faced maggot peeked out of his nose, sniffed at the air, and retreated up and into the man-child’s other nostril, its mermaid like tail made up of tiny infant legs webbed together. “She’ll never stop. Something broken inside.”

“Why me? Why do I have to do anything?” Maxi questioned 

“You don’t,” the gargled rocks seemed to shift, “but you have a bond with one of the victims, and he has asked for your help. I’m asking for your help.”  

“What’s it to you anyhow? Whaddaya care if she goes around killing all the Gary Johnson’s in the world?” Maxi said. 

“She’s my… she’s..” Suddenly the room flashed back, back to its brilliant state. Virginia sat in the tub. A version of her teenaged self, but the resemblance was obvious. Between her legs sat a fat little baby, happily splashing the water while Virginia sang an old Patsy Cline song to him, lovingly, sweet, her singing voice was well tuned, and pleasant to all who heard it. The light dimmed and flickered and the image of Viginia and the baby in the tub flickered by Maxi’s face again and again, like frames upon a movie projector. Maxi witnessed the events transpiring in slow motion though the projected frame-reels seemed to blaze on by. A man came into the room, his sillouhette passed right through Maxi as though he were an apparition–though it was truly she who was the ghost in the machine. The light flickered uncontrollably, the quickly moving frames depicting the room in its former glory speeded along hyperly, but the events unfolded slower than before, as though the mere act of her observance had brought time itself to a slow-crawl. 

The silhouette man approached the tub, a bloodied claw hammer in his hands, freshly sprayed crimson upon his coveralls. 

“Look out!” Maxi screamed, the words erupted from her like a starburst, came richocheting back, and pierced her psyche, as though someone had unleashed an omnidirectional (levitating) howitzer in a bulletproof room. And with one wet thump, as though someone had Gallaghered a vodka filled watermelon, the man had smashed in the baby’s skull. 

Virginia screamed, and screamed, and fought, and clawed at the man’s arm. She exhausted herself attempting to dislodge the hammer from his hand. Not to save herself, but to keep him from hitting her little brother again. In her mind’s eye, he had never stopped. He was still hitting him, repeatedly beating her baby brother’s head in, rather than having killed the poor little soul with one fell swoop. A second man entered the frame. 

“Get the bitch out of the tub,” the second man said. 

“What do you want to do about the kid?”

“Leave ‘im. What the fuck do you care? He’s dead anyhow,” Gary said. 

The first man drug Virginia from the tub by the hair of her head. She struggled to grasp her baby brother. Refusing to leave him.  “He’ll drown,” she said, “he’ll drown,” she yelled. 

“I’m afraid he’s dead already girlie. You on the other hand are still lively, and fresh. And what a fine specimen of woman you are. Look at those titties Gary. This girl here’s a true-to-life knockout.”

“Get her out of there before the baby’s blood gets all over her. Let’s take her on over to one of the bedrooms,” Gary said.      

 The men dragged Virginia from the tub by the hair of her head, she struggled to maintain her grasp upon her brother. But his dead weight fell limply into the water, his little egg of a head dying the water red upon submersion rather than the other way round. So strong was Virginia’s belief that her brother still lived that she heard him gurgling as water filled his lungs and stole his last breaths. Each gurgle resounded deeply, was vibratory, so penetrative that Maxi felt her lungs quiver as if she were being assaulted by the boom of bass. Though impossible in this place, it was as if Maxi were adrenalized, she leapt forward to the tub, grasping again and again. But she was able to retrieve nothing. Each failed attempt confirmed the nightmarish dream state, but still she rationalized. It was here before her. It was happening now. It was real. By the end she could even feel a bit of the water sloshing upon her hands. Alternating between nice, warm (free of obstruction) bath water, to nasty-slimy-concentrated-filth which instantly coated her hands so thoroughly that she felt as though she was tugging wax dipped paws up to the surface. He was gone, and there was nothing she could do about it. This had happened, but so long ago. One half of her brain knew this. But the other hemisphere swore this was her reality, and that it was happening now. She must find Virginia. 

Maxi fled the bathroom, and ran into the hall. And though  merely feet to the bedroom, it seemed she was on an escalator to nowhere, each stride forward increasing the distance. 

“Mamma, Daddy, Help!” Virginnia screamed, the ever elongating hall walls shook with each syllable. “Help me Daddy! Help Me!”

Maxi cried out, “Fight Virggie! Fight ‘em Virggie! Don’t let up! I’m coming!”

But try as she might, she never reached her. Tears flowed freely as Maxi ran down the hallway at full stride. Her tearducts were never ending founts, and she’d become a human wick. Her feet were lead, her boots concrete, still she ran. She ran, and ran, hardly making any forward progression. Her tears splashed underfoot. Her foot slipped a bit. Her tearducts were dual firehoses spraying the infinity hall with tremendous force. She was ankle deep in this teary creek, and only mildly aware of it happening. The sorrowful body of water began to flow past her. This river of tears. Its current gaining strength every second, pushing her backward with every step she took. A fleshy colored thing bobbed to the surface. And then another. And then another. Each dotted by a half dollar sized red spot. The first one came bobbing on by her, a little head swirling around and around as if it came from the factory with its own whirling  pool. The appendages were being tugged as the whirlpool increased in ferocity. Like most of these little guys and gals, it would spend its eternity missing its original clothes. Just a body anatomically void of feature. Another baby doll floated by. And another. Then suddenly her biblical flow of teardrops ceased. And the mourn river birthed a tidal wave which crashed violently into her chest, knocking her down, and enveloping her in her own pain evidenced real. She was drowning, yet alive, and breathing.  And with a whoosh the wave washed her down the hallway and flushed her right over the stairs, and out the front door of the old dilapidated two story. She was planted face first into the dusty sandy grassless front yard. The tear river gushed on past her leaving baby doll bodies strolled randomly around her. Instantly the frothy hemoriver  was absorbed by the parched earth. 

Maxi got quickly to her feet, spit sand out her mouth, over and over, but the grit still clung to her teeth. She surveyed the damage. Is everybody okay, she thought. It seemed she was the lone survivor. A titanic proportion cataclysm had left the plastic children thoroughly devastated. Tiny green shoots emerged all around her. They grew rapidly, before her eyes as if she were witnessing a living reel of sequential stop motion photography. Here and there, several penetrated the sopped baby doll cloth shooting up and out through their bodies as if they were the victims of bamboo torture. The shoots split. Grew. Spread out. Became multi forked entities. Grew thicker. Meat eviscerating thorny protrusions burst from their botanical flesh. Buds formed at their nodal ends, soon flowering into the most gorgeous pink roses any eyes had ever set upon. Every rose bush which had impaled a baby doll began to turn brown. Light, then darker, and finally black. The rose blooms blackened, their petals falling liked ashen snowflakes down toward the ground. Maxi was transfixed, glued to the first petal’s descent, and as it touched down, emitting a plume of blackened dust, there came an auditory assault, as if a thousand mirrors shattered all at once. This startled her from her trance-like state, and she jerked violently awake. Instantaneously rose as if she had been the logging chained kinfolk in sittin’ with the dead. The darkness was overwhelming. Disorientating. She needed light. She couldn’t see. What if she wasn’t alone? She felt around, found the back cushions of the couch, only just realizing where she was. Suddenly, a loud crash from down the hallway. Was she certain? Was she certain where she was? Was this still a dream? Or perhaps a dream within the dream? What god awful thing might be waiting for her at the end of that hallway? 

Thank God she was home. Her stomach rumbled, she was starving, but the house reeked, and she felt the bile building toward a geyser. A thousand demony gnomes had jumped up and done bicycle kicks upon her tummy simultaneously. Her pulse quickened, her heart–beat-the-rabbit ‘round the dog track, her face was on fire, but her body was morgue drawer cold. Had she forgotten to take her pill? Oh god, she’d made a serious mistake. She was too young to be a mother. She was dedicated to her career. She might die for meddling in the business of a serial killer. She didn’t want her baby to die. She had to leave this alone. She needed to leave town. She’d have to change her name. Reeve wasn’t ready for a baby. He wouldn’t be able to leave. He was committed to his patients. He had a life here. It was a good one. He was a good doctor. What if he didn’t really want kids? What if he wasn’t there for them? Reeve was a good man. He’d be there for them, just as long as she didn’t push him away. She won’t be like those women. They place obstacles to their children’s relationship with their father and then put all the blame on the man. She promised she’d never be one of those evil bitches. Maxi approached the kitchen, the urge to spew the bile forth grew stronger. It was in here. She had to fight the desire to flee the kitchen, her unborn child kicked at her esophagus. That smell. That godawful fucking smell. That was the source. It had done this to her. Gave her this false positive. This hysterical fear factor fubar 19 moment. It was the Chinese. She blamed the Chinese. Especially since there was practically a whole table full of take-out boxes stinking to high heavenly assaultive proportion. What the fuck was she thinking? It’d been quite literally a gestation period since she’d even had sex with anyone. She couldn’t be pregnant. She and Reeve had barely touched each other, much less made love or had a rousing fuck session. There was a note from Reeve: ‘All your favorite Well- Drop In dishes. Had to go to work. You’re fine now. Be back as soon as I can.’

TAKE OUT & A MOVIE (Backdraft?) w/GARY’S GHOST 

       END OF DOCUMENT

System of SURVIVAL PODS (LIFEPODS) which are to be launched via a MAGNETIC COIL CANNON during a CATACLYSMIC EVENT, such as Tsunami devastation/land enveloping FLOOD, major VOLCANIC eruption, or other event up to Extinction Level proportion. Flaps built into the Spherical Pods are to be used to decrease acceleration, operated by actuators, recessed/contoured within the spherical surface to prevent drag. Flaps are to be deployed for course correction, as well as to prevent depletion of thruster fuel supply. Recessed THRUSTERS are to be used to slow the pods for targeted descent, or obstacle avoidance. Once the PODS have touched down safely upon the ocean surface, and the ocean waters have calmed (considerably) the POD occupants may deploy the FARADAY/KINETIC WAVE ENERGY harnessing CONICAL BUOYS connected to the sphere via umbilicus to convert wave undulation into ELECTRICITY for the Life Support Systems, which can be winched back up resealing within the POD’s surface as necessary.

Pre-launch: Each POD will be loaded into a TUBE encased by a non-Magnetic Cylinder, resembling the nature of the design of the Gatling Gun, or a Revolver Wheel. Each tube will have a vertical slot allowing for easier loading of the PODS onto machine removable CRADLING PINS which are extracted after the firing/removal of a pod, allowing for an ElectroMagnetic Field Loader to attract the next POD up–out of the tube–and into firing position within the Magnetic Coil Cannon.

The Cylindrical POD Cartridges will be staged in an area, much like a Terminal, only in the MEGA SCALE, with TIERED PLATFORMS allowing for embarkation of the pod occupants. The Cylindrical POD Cartridges are then to be HOISTED via OVERHEAD CRANE, moved into position in front of a ROTATIONAL PLATFORM situated just beneath the MAGNETIC COIL CANNON, and are then to be loaded/set upon the rotational platform by a FORKED PISTONING ARM, as the Overhead Crane moves to retrieve the next POD filled Cylindrical Cartridge. The Danger of transporting the LIFEPODS filled with live occupants will be much negated by ensuring the layout/process allows the crane operator to move the Cylindrical POD Cartridges into place hovering the Cylinder just inches to feet off the ground.       

My Merkins Inspired Alabama Song (Parodying: I’m in a Hurry and Don’t Know Why)

 by S.C. Denton

I’m in a hurry to split your bun

oh I

slash and thrust ‘till your gut’s unspun

all you really gotta do is: f-N die

cause I’m in a hurry to make some LYE

Don’t know why 

you have to die so fast

Durden’s recipe 

pays lights and gas;

my Machete’s long since proved

it eviscerates bowels in 5.2

I’m in a hurry to skim some LYE

Oh I—

Catch! Sir Freddy..

Fry up this bitches eye

I’m really ready to get this done

Oh why

did you gush and gush

now life’s no fun

you’re unfurled intest-INES

 look really mighty fine, 

soon I’ll be fillin’ ‘em with this swine

Daddy whatchu think about dis sausage?

I’m in a hurry to trim those buns

Oh I 

think thick gluteal slices’ll make life more fun

and now your booty truly has become my groCeries 

Isla de La Jol Saint

by S.C. Denton 

“Come on Rudolfo. Hurry up. He’s coming.”

“Just leave me here. I’m one of them. I’m a freak forever.”

“Maybe the doctors can help.”

“This is ancient genetic manipulation secrets man. You really think some doctor’s gonna be able to help? Santa’s been at this for eons. It’s not all bad. I can fly now. Vixen’s pretty hot.”

“She’s a Reindeer man. That’s.. that’s sick brother. That’s bestial.”

“Check the hooves bro. See these fucking knobs growing outta my head. I am a beast now! The sick fuck.”

Santa appeared. “Well now Rudolph. I’ve got the Lidar implant ready.” 

Save the Neck for me Clark

by S.C. Denton

He banged the flashlight on his palm, twisting the top back and forth. Nothing. Dead. Sightless save for pale moonlight. Eyes unadjusted, he reached down, grabbed the sewer hose. Horrified, he recoiled. It felt slick, slimy. Maybe busted. A shivering disgust surged through his body, head to toe. He haunched down and ran his hands along the hose, met an impossible bulge, gave it an instinctive squeeze. Tactilely bizarre. Was the pulpy mass clogged paper and shit, or a head? He ran his fingers along the hose. Traced a body. It moved. Liquidy splat, regurgitated rabbit, the boa constrictor attacked.

Mess with The Bull…

by S.C. Denton

The Bovinians seeded the atmosphere with sodium chloride, the larger particles raining down on the Greys not fortunate enough to make it inside. The abysmal pools which were their eyes ran down their faces in streaking gelatinous strands. Their bulbous heads caved in forming waxy mercurial cenotes. Millions of their once frail bodies dotted the landscape, reduced to pallid steaming biothermal vents. Like needle popped pustules they erupted silvery geysers. Where their experiments had failed, the Bovinians had succeeded in discovering the greatest of their weaknesses. This ancient battle was finally over. A victory for the great expatriates of Mu. 

Nightmare Awakening

by S.C. Denton

He opened his eyes, scanned the subdued audience behind the glass. There was no cold glare, nor hatred in his eyes. Just confusion. He tried to raise his hands, rub his eyes, to wake up, but his wrists were as surely bound as though an octopus, boa constrictor, and a cow had a baby and it held him firmly within its grasp. He jerked, he tugged, but there wasn’t an inch of give from the leather straps. “Help me,” he muttered as the guard placed the strap beneath his chin. “It wasn’t me. You have the wrong man! I love–” 

“What the fuck is going on here?! Who are you?”

“Nobody particularly special. Just a guy doing a job.”

“A job? You’re strapping me in a chair. You’re.. you’re psycho!”

“No sir. Like I said, I’m just doing my job. Just a spoke on the ol’ justice wheel.”

“Justice? This isn’t justice. This is murder.”

“‘Fraid not. Not according to the state, it’s not. It’s justice for society. Namely for those grieving people right over yonder, behind that glass.”

“But I didn’t do anything. I’m innocent.”

“Yup, that’s what they all say. Usually they admit the truth by now though.  

The Creep (111wds 1st Draft)

by S.C. Denton

Slowly he crept; rice paper steps. Inch by inch he ninja’d closer. She was sprawled out across the bed, her arm jutted up at an awkward angle that looked painful. A bit of her panties peeked out from the poorly draped coverlet. He’d been here before. She was his to do as he pleased. He pulled back the cover, revealing the perfect mounds. He slid her panties to the side. Tried to move her arm from its odd vertical position (since it was ruining the effect) but it would not budge. The other arm shot up, and with an unnatural squeaky creak, her head rotated around, her hands clasped his throat.  

The Creep (100wds)

by S.C. Denton

Slowly he crept, rice paper steps, inch by inch he ninja’d closer. She was sprawled out across the bed, her arm jutted up at an awkward angle. Her panties peeked out from the coverlet. He’d been here before. She was his to do as he pleased. He removed the cover, revealing perfect mounds. He slid her panties to the side. Tried to move her arm from its odd vertical position (since it was ruining the effect) but it wouldn’t budge. Her other arm shot up, and with an unnatural squeaky creak, her head rotated around, her hands clasped his throat.  

Impossible Find (107wds)

by S.C. Denton

The miner chiseled a deep rectangular groove around the fossilized wheel. One tap of the hammer upon the chisel head, and the rock cleaved away from the wall. A hissing erupted from behind the rock wheel’s face. The miner leaned closer, a noxious greenish-yellow fume outgassed, acidicly melting the miner’s face down to the skull. Three tiny pods jettisoned away from the wheel, a trio of lasers simultaneously sliced through the miner’s skull. The rock melted away from the exterior of the Space Station as the lasers focused upon it. The pods docked, and the wheel spun out of the mine, and darted up toward outer space. 

Impossible Find (DRAFT 2 96wds)

by S.C. Denton

The miner chiseled a deep rectangular groove around the fossilized wheel. One tap of the hammer upon the chisel, and the rock cleaved away from the wall. A hissing erupted from behind the rock wheel’s face. The miner leaned closer, a noxious greenish-yellow fume outgassed, acidicly melting the miner’s face down to the skull. Three tiny pods jettisoned away from the wheel; a trio of lasers focused their beams beheading their rescuer. Refocused, the lasers superheated the rockface freeing their compatriots. The pods docked, and the Ship flew out of the mine, ascending to the Stars.