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THE NIGHT VISITORS:

 

The bedroom was dark when Annie sat up, sucking in a ragged breath. Her white walls were tinged a deep blue, indicating the time was somewhere between midnight and pre-dawn.

They were coming.

“Please, no” she whispered to herself, frantically reaching out in the darkness to pull her ancient sage green quilt up around her body as if the fabric could keep them at bay, as if it’s a collective mass of fibers could keep her safe.

Her heart began to pound out a warning against her ribcage, but Annie did not attempt to get out of bed. It didn’t matter where she was in the house, they would find her.

Shuffling against the mattress, Annie pushed herself up against her headboard, feeling the mahogany wood dig deep into her spine. She curled her knees up beneath her nightgown, clutching them to her body to make herself as small, as unnoticeable, as was possible.

She had inadvertently chosen to wear her favorite one to bed--an off-white cotton shift, with small red poppies stitched into it.

“Please, God, no” she whispered to herself again.

Her blue eyes shifted frantically from the large, rectangular window, to the bedroom door, both on the opposite wall of her bed.

When she was younger, she had believed that having her bed flat against one wall, rather than in the middle of the room, would make her feel safer. She could tuck herself up against the wall and watch all entry points to the room with ease.

But that was before the first time they carried her straight through the wall.

Annie was six the first time she was abducted.

It was late, and she had rearranged her limbs for what felt like the thousandth time that night. Her father had been relocated to the Air Force Base in Charleston, South Carolina, and it had been hard for her to adjust to the new house, to her new life. She was shifting her blankets around when she first began to feel it.

Frowning, she stopped and stared down at her stomach. There was a faint, almost ticklish sensation around her belly button, as if someone prodded their finger through her flesh, and tugged her forward. She only had to endure this for a few moments before they appeared.

One moment she was alone, the next there were two dark creatures standing at the foot of her bed, peering at her through the shadows. Their eyes were black, the same pitch black of the cow’s eyes she had seen on her uncle’s farm in Indiana.

But these creatures’ eyes were four times as big, and they felt completely void of all feeling. She saw nothing but the reflection of her own terrified face when she looked into them.

Annie opened her mouth to scream for her parents, but no sound came out.

Stay silent, a deep voice said, but she could only hear it in her mind.

The nearest creature slowly lifted a long, thin grey arm to point at her, and Annie could feel her body begin to rise from the bed of its own accord. Wide-eyed, and panting, she stared down as her blanket slipped off her body, as she hovered in the air. The six-year-old felt a brief wave of warmth spread down her legs as urine trickled past her knees, and dripped from the tips of her big toes, onto the mattress.

The tugging sensation in her stomach intensified, and she felt vaguely like a fish, being pulled up on a hook. Her arms trembled as the invisible force pulled her ever upward, through her ceiling, through the cramped, insulation-filled crevices of the attic, and out into the crisp, night air.

Annie watched in abject terror as her house began to grow smaller, and smaller beneath her until it looked like nothing more than a miniature dollhouse, set perfectly on a square patch of artificial grass.

She was theirs, now.

Her memories of that night grew fragmented, and cloudy, overtime. She could recall a labyrinth of hallways, the walls, floors, and ceilings all encased in a harsh, heavy metal. The lights along the tops of the walls were white, and harsh to her eyes.

Annie remembered being taken to a room, where two more of the creatures bent down low to examine her. Their heads were large, far larger than anyone she had seen in her life, and their skin looked waxy.

The subtle grey tones of their flesh reminded her of how her grandmother looked, lying in a casket, the year before.

“Ah” Annie tried to cry out, but something stopped the sound.

It felt like someone was pouring sand down her throat, and she couldn’t move her tongue around the grains to make any words come out. One of the creatures turned its body and produced a large black mask.

The last thing she remembered was staring up at those impossibly black eyes, watching tears fall down her reflected face, as they lowered the mask over her nose and throat.

The next thing she could recall was the sound of her mother screaming, and the feeling of gravel pressed into her cheek. It was dawn, and Annie was curled in a ball on their new driveway. She looked up to see her mother running toward her, arms outstretched, her face wrinkled up with fear.

 

That image of her mother always came back to her, every time that tug on her stomach began. But her mother could not protect her from that first encounter, nor any thereafter.

Once or twice a year, Annie would wake up the same way she had that first night. The air in her bedroom would turn heavy, and cold, and the invisible hook in her stomach would pull her upright, like a fish being pulled towards a boat anchored somewhere in the dark recesses of her bedroom.

The tug pulled more violently, and Annie shut her eyes, afraid she might be sick all over her quilt. She pressed her back, and head more squarely against the headboard, and for a brief moment, the shape of the wood felt like a hand, cradling the base of her skull.

Peter.

The name drifted into her mind of its own volition, unwelcome.

Her husband never woke up during one of her abductions, when they had been married. Annie was certain that the creatures did something to him to keep him unconscious through the ordeal. Still, it had been a small comfort, to have his body beside her while she waited to be taken.

Peter had never believed her, though. Peter had believed her experiences were merely the vivid dreams of a bored housewife. Even when he had been there, she was alone.

Her door and the large rectangular window remained shut, but the creatures appeared, this time on the right, beside her heavy, wooden nightstand. Annie stared at them, clenching internally to keep from wetting the bed. It didn’t matter how many times she saw those eerie, large faces, she could never remember quite how horrible they were until they reappeared. Softening their features in her memory was the only way she could stay sane.

Annie tasted blood as she cut through her bottom lip with her teeth. With one long arm, the nearest creature made a languid gesture, and Annie began to drift off the bed once more.

Her quilt slid off her knees as she was pulled sideways through the air, straight towards the window. Moonlight splashed against her face as she was pulled through the shut glass, a sensation much like being drenched from a bucket of cold water.

Shuddering, she glanced up at the large silver spacecraft, then down again towards the ground.

Her house, a ranch in robin’s egg blue, grew smaller, and smaller as she floated up through the night. Annie sucked in a deep breath as her body sifted through the base of the round, disc-like aircraft.

It felt like someone had briefly poked her with a thousand needles.

The unseen force had transported her into a long, narrow hallway. The lights were softer than before, but the walls and floors were the same dark metal of her memories. One of the creatures stood to one side of the hallway, its long, skinny fingers clasped together before its torso, waiting for her.

“Please, please just let me go” Annie begged the being, feeling her face grow moist with tears and snot.

The creature watched her without expression. No amount of tears, no amount of begging, had ever seemed to affect them.

Soon enough, human.

The words leaked into her mind, like a spilled pen. Annie shuddered, hating the way they could communicate with her only in her mind. It felt like they were in her body with her, enveloping her. There was no escape.

The creature pointed to the empty space in front of them, implying she was to follow him. Annie felt her legs, first the right, then the left, lift up and carry her forward. The metal felt like ice on her bare toes.

Every ship she had been on had been laid out in different passages, but she knew where they were going, she knew what was going to happen next.

Her body trembled, and Annie gagged as her stomach threatened to reject its contents. Swallowing hard, she focused all of her energy on her legs, willing every bone, muscle, and sinew to stop following the creature. Her pale forehead sheened with sweat as she forced her legs to stop moving.

I will not go, she thought to herself through gritted teeth.

I will not.

With a sharp sob, Annie watched and felt her body move forward regardless. Her legs were still, but that invisible force pushed her onward. Every once in a while, she could feel her toes scrape against the metal as she hovered in place.

She began to cry in earnest as, at last, they came upon the examination room. A long metal table sat squarely in the room, reminding Annie of the ones she would see in a coroner’s laboratory on television.

The only other pieces of furniture in the room were a large lamp that hung low from the ceiling, and a metal cabinet along one wall. The top of the cabinet was littered with various silver instruments that glinted in the intense light of the lamp. Annie could not bear to look at them too closely.

Every examination began much the same way. A group of the creatures would come into the room, one by one, and surround her as she lay on the metal sheet.

Without any visible clue that Annie could see, they would reach out to her with both hands, and begin to touch her skin. Their corrugated skin felt cool and leathery. They touched her thoroughly, but completely void of emotion, like how a doctor would examine a new patient.

Their unrelenting focus made her skin break out into goosebumps, and that only made them touch her more.

After what felt like an eternity, the hands went away. Annie hadn’t realized she had closed her eyes until they were open again, and she saw that all of the creatures except two had left the small room.

Sweat formed and dripped from her armpits as the nearest creature leaned in and used what looked like silver pliers to pinch the top of her eyelids, stretching them up and outward.

Annie tried to scream, but the imaginary sand was back, clogging up her esophagus.

The creature laid the pliers against her forehead, so her eyes remained wide open. The metal felt cool against the moisture on her skin. Annie shifted uncomfortably, waiting for the inevitable need to blink, but it never came.

Whatever they were doing, they wanted her to see it.

No, oh God, no, she screamed in her mind, as the creature on the other side of her pulled a long black tube from the cabinet. The tube was narrow, but long, reminding Annie of a handheld vacuum.

The moment she saw the machine, muddled memories flooded back to her. She had seen this machine twice before. What they did with it was so terrible, her mind had not been able to retain the experiences.

The only way she could sleep at night was to repress those memories, deep in her subconscious.

But she recalled now, with horrifying clarity. It didn’t matter if she choked to death, Annie opened her mouth, and tried to scream over and over again. The creature with the black tube stood still as its counterpart removed Annie’s underwear without ceremony.

Extract the egg, the creature with the underwear commanded.

The words, unspoken, flooded into Annie’s mind. They seemed to bounce, and echo off the walls, bombarding her.

Extract the egg.

Extract the egg.

Extract the egg.

Pain coursed up her body as they eased the tube down and between her legs. Annie jolted and writhed on the table, but she could not move her arms or legs enough to fight off the procedure.

She could feel the whirring suction of the machine inside of her. She could feel the machine’s small but powerful vibrations radiate up through her organs, along every vertebra of her spine, all the way up to the back of her head.

The tube made a wet, gurgling noise, and was carefully removed.

Annie gasped in air, unaware until that moment, that she had been holding her breath. She cried silently to herself as the creatures busied themselves with the device at the cabinet.

Peter, she thought.

His face, pale and lightly freckled, appeared in her mind. She could picture him sitting on the taupe colored couch in the living room they had once shared, his head bent low over his hands.

His expression grew hopeful when Annie had reappeared from the bathroom, small plastic stick in hand.

“Any luck?” he had asked her, his eyes alight.

But one look at her forlorn expression told him everything he had needed to know. No, she was not pregnant. No, he would not be a father.

Every time, it was the same.

He had been kind about it, at first. But as weeks turned into months, and months turned into years, he wouldn’t comfort her as long as he used to. He would no longer wipe the tears from her cheeks.

He stopped saying, “next time.”

Then, one day, he just wasn’t there at all. Not long after the divorce was finalized, Annie had heard from a mutual friend that Peter had been seeing a woman for a few months, and that they were going to have a baby.

He had found another woman to have the life they had planned together.

Annie vigorously shook her head, ignoring the way the pliers tugged and pulled at her eyelids. The physical pain was easier to endure than any of the emotional trauma she had been through.

Please, she begged the creatures in her mind.

Please don’t keep my egg. I want to be a mother. I need to be a mother.

One of the creatures turned its steady black gaze back to her.

Be silent, it told her.

You will understand soon.

After several more minutes, Annie felt the pulling sensation in her gut, and she was floating again, off the examination table, through the narrow metal doorway, and down yet another dark hall. Her toes continued to scrape against the flooring as she floated, but she could not bring herself to make her legs move.

Everything she looked at was through a veil of tears.

The room they led her to was even smaller than the previous one. Annie blinked and was relieved to see the space, no bigger than a walk-in closet, was void of a medical cabinet.

Instead, there was a strange device that hung from the ceiling. It was wide, and square, with a flat piece of metal at the bottom curving outward. It reminded Annie of the machine her optometrist would use, holding her head in place as he would examine the state of her eyes.

Sure enough, the invisible string pulled her to the device, and rested her chin upon the bottom, locking her head and face into place. One of the creatures stood back, stoically observing.

You are to watch the screen in front of you, it spoke in her mind.

We are recording your emotional responses. Pay attention.

The small wall in front of her flickered to life, and Annie realized the wall was actually a television. She blinked and found herself looking into the eyes of a little boy on the screen. The boy had dark, straight hair, and he was holding a single white daisy between his small, chubby hands. He met Annie’s eyes and smiled silently.

“What—" Annie began to say, but the screen flickered and changed again. The following image was of another child, a girl a few years older than the boy. Her eyes were dark and unwavering as she stared at Annie.

She had been smiling when she first appeared on the screen, but the longer Annie looked at her, the more visibly upset the girl became. Her white teeth disappeared behind her lips, and her lips began to tremble.

Gasping, Annie watched as the girl’s gaze flickered to something behind Annie, something Annie could not see.

The girl’s mouth grew long, and wide with screams as flames suddenly appeared, licking her skin. The girl was burning to death before her eyes. Sobbing silently, Annie tried to close her eyes, she tried to jerk her head away, but she couldn’t.

The invisible force, ever cruel, held her steadily in place.

The screen shifted, and a montage of images came and went with sickening frequency. All children, all in various states of death or dying. Annie cried for each of them, she cried for her own nonexistent child, she cried for herself.

“Stop this, please I beg you”, she sobbed and blubbered in her mind.

“I can’t do this anymore, just let me die. JUST LET ME DIE.”

She dry heaved as the thought left her mind because she knew she meant it.

With a soft click, the television shifted to one last image.

Annie recoiled. The creature on the screen was different than the creatures she had seen up to that point, but it was just as grotesque. Its skin was as pale as a human’s but weathered like her abductors. The creature’s eyes were wide and black, as impenetrable as the ocean is in the middle of the night.

But it had hair. 

Soft, slightly wavy brown hair, the color of milk chocolate. Just like Annie’s had been when she was a little girl.

The creature blinked and smiled at her.

Annie’s flesh broke out into goosebumps, and she dry-heaved again. Every fiber of her body, of her being, was telling her the same intuitive thing… the creature on the screen looked like her because it had been made from her.

DNA from Annie’s body, mixed with one of the grey beings that walked amongst her.

“Is this…?” she began to whisper.

She couldn’t get the words to come out, she couldn’t fully comprehend what she was seeing.

Yes, the creature said in her mind.

We have been experimenting with cross-breeding for two hundred years now. Genetically speaking, you were a viable candidate. Our efforts have proved worthwhile, with you.

Annie wept, absorbing the creature’s words inside her head.

It couldn’t be, and yet… and yet…

She knew the words to be true. She felt it in the deepest recesses of her gut, in the finest sinews of her heart.

She had a child.

Annie sat, strapped to the device, for what felt like an eternity. She opened her mouth, and closed it again, gasping uncomprehendingly, like a fish out of water. She stared at the screen, at her own child, taking in the shape of its eyes, the contours of its cheekbones.

She could not tell the gender of the child, but it did not matter to her. It had never mattered to her. Still, mixed within all her joy was a complete lack of understanding.

“Why?” she whispered out loud.

“Why me? Why...us?”

The creature beside her tilted his head to one side--a gesture so human-like, it made Annie shiver.

We have been studying your species for a long time, the creature said, its unearthly voice echoed all around in her head.

“Our planet is coming to the end of its natural lifecycle. We have been in search of a new home, and your planet--Earth, as we know you humans call it--has the right chemical compounds for our species to survive.

The words, so casually communicated to her, filled her with absolute dread.

“What… What are you saying?” she murmured, eyes wide. “You’re going to invade Earth? Take over?”

No, the creature said in her mind. The timbre of the inhuman voice was anything but soothing.

We have no intention of destroying the human race. We will breed with you and create a new species to inhabit your planet. It has already begun.

You are the first.

The creature pointed a long, gray finger at the screen.

Turning quickly in her seat, Annie bent her body in half and vomited on the cool, metal floor of the ship.

The sound of a lawnmower made Annie jolt awake.

She sat up, and blinked against the harshness of the sun, beaming down on her at a sharp angle from the east. Her poppy nightgown was damp from the dewy grass beneath her. Traces of puke clung to the light fabric.

Blinking, Annie realized she was in a large, open field.

All around her neighbors began their chores for the day, clambering into their cars to go to work, or tending to their lawns, and fields. She saw the robin’s egg blue of her house half a mile down the road.

Shaking, Annie slowly got to her feet and began to shuffle slowly home. Every part of her body ached, but she ignored it all.

Every time she had been abducted, she thought about the torture she went through the previous night, which triggered a strange mixture of emotions the following morning: fear, hope, and relief.

But this time was different. This time she didn’t remember anything. Why was she laying on the field and how did she get there?

Although she didn’t understand anything, she had weird flashbacks. A portrait of her child kept popping into in her head. But that must have been a flashback from her dream because the child didn’t look human.

 

 

(Inspired by stories from people who claim to have been abducted by extraterrestrial beings)

Agatha

 

I first met Agatha when we were in college. There was a minor subject that I needed to retake, so I was added to her class.

 

I really can’t explain what it was that drove my attention towards Agatha at first. I would frequently sit in the back row since I wasn’t a part of their usual block, and I would often find myself staring at her red hair. There were times when she would glance back at me, as if she knew I was looking at her, but I would always avert my eyes and pretend I was looking at something else.

 

I was never shy towards girls, or towards anybody for that matter, but there was something about her that was mysteriously intriguing.

 

She was not easy to approach. Despite the fact that she was remarkably attractive, I never saw any guy try to hook up with her. Although I never saw her hang out with anyone outside of class, she was nice to everyone. Agatha was a very reserved individual who was often alone, but her unusual personality was wrapped in a fairly pleasant demeanor. It was a perfect way to blend in while staying away from any unwanted attention. I saw right through her social mask, and I was captivated by her.

 

When the next semester came around, I had finished my subject and was back on the fixed schedule of my block. I couldn’t see her as often as I did before, and my attention was filled with other things as well. I didn’t really think about her much; not until something unfortunate happened.

 

A sudden explosion happened in a laboratory at our school – everyone in the building heard it. By the time I arrived, the building was already engulfed in fire. There were eight students still in the lab, and one of them was Agatha.

 

The door was jammed from the inside, and the students were trapped. The strongest and largest of the maintenance crew and faculty members tried to break the door open, but they failed. Every fire extinguisher in school was used in the attempt to put out the fire. They blasted them through the railed windows until the cans were emptied, but the fire just kept on going.

 

Despite the school’s order to immediately evacuate the area, a lot of students gathered around, including me. It was a horrific scene to witness. We could hear the students screaming in agony as they were being consumed by the fire. I saw how the flames burned through their clothes, their hair and their flesh. I saw how they slowly suffered, how their guttural, desperate screams took the very last of their breaths as their friends and teachers cried in vain.

 

The firefighters arrived, but it was too late. They brought heavy tools and forced their way through the door. The stench of burnt flesh brimmed through the air as the thick smoke covered our sight.

 

And there she was. Amongst the charred bodies of the other students, Agatha was lying unconscious on the floor. All the witnesses were baffled when we saw her. The burnt bodies were hardly recognizable, and the lab was destroyed, yet Agatha was completely unharmed.

 

She was immediately taken to the hospital, and the school temporarily closed down due to the accident. A couple of days later, I decided to pay her a visit. Agatha was a little surprised when I showed up. 

 

“Why did you come?” she said to me with a detached tone.

 

“I wasn’t expecting any students to visit me.”

 

“I just want to see how you are doing.” I said.

 

I started to think that it was a bad idea to come, until I noticed the gifts on the table. They were all from the faculty members; but there was not a single gift from her classmates. Apparently, some of the students were questioning how she survived. I couldn’t blame them; I was wondering about it as well. So, I bluntly asked,

 

“What exactly happened?”

 

She looked at me, and then looked out the window as she responded.

 

“I don’t know. I can’t remember what happened. I wasn’t even aware that there was a fire. We were doing an experiment in the lab because we failed the previous test. It was a make-up class. The next thing I knew, I was here.”

 

It seemed that Agatha blacked out before the fire even started. I wanted to ask her more questions about the matter, but it was pointless – she couldn’t recall any of it.

 

No other visitors came, so I decided to stay by her side the entire day. It was the very first time that we had spent some time together. I didn’t expect that this tragic accident would be the way for me to see her close once again, and it was so wrong to be thankful for this horrendous tragedy. But in some strange way, I was happy that I finally had this chance.

 

When the school resumed classes, Agatha and I started spending more time together. Through some of my friends, I heard how her miraculous survival had sparked unpleasant rumors.

 

“I heard the class was having an argument in the lab before it exploded,” one of my friends told me.

 

“They were failing the experiment, and Agatha was upset about it.”

 

“What does that have to do with anything?” I lashed out, “Everybody is pissed during chemistry class. You suck at it, so you should know.”

 

He backed away and told me to relax.

 

Some of Agatha’s classmates were blaming her for what happened, while the others went even further and said that she was unharmed because she was a child of the devil.

 

“So, are you dating the daughter of Satan?” another asshole of a friend asked me sarcastically.

 

“She should watch her back, bro. This is a Catholic school, and you know how these Jesus freaks are.”

 

My friend was actually right. The religious individuals bothered Agatha the most ever since she returned to school. They were assertive in their claims, and Agatha couldn’t do anything about it. She wanted to just leave them be, but I insisted on reporting the matter to the school authorities. Instead of doing something about the bullying, the authorities just asked the same question that was bothering everyone at this point.

 

How did Agatha survive?

 

I suggested Agatha transfer to another school with me. The harassment was getting out of hand, and it was too much for a person who had just been through a tragic accident. So, we did.

 

Once we had transferred to a different academy, things turned out well. Agatha seemed to have changed somehow. She had become friendlier and more open about her feelings towards me. We spent most of our time together. Needless to say, I had fallen in love with her, and she loved me back.

 

When we decided to go with our classmates to the beach, I discovered that Agatha didn’t know how to swim. Oddly enough, she had never been to the beach, or even swam in a pool. I felt guilty for laughing when she told me the reason why. She was deeply traumatized because her mother died by drowning in a lake. I thought that she should overcome her fear. I said that she would be fine as long as I was around, but then I let her down.

 

She went to the water with some friends while the rest of us were having a couple of beers on the shore. They said that they would teach her how to swim, and she was quite cheerful about it. Everything was fine until one of them suddenly called us for help. Apparently, Agatha had lost consciousness the moment she submerged. I immediately jumped into the water and pulled her out.

 

Her skin was pale, and her lips were turning purple as if she had just died right there and then. I was genuinely afraid. I was about to burst into tears when she regained consciousness and hugged me tightly. She tried to comfort me when she saw how devastated I was.

 

“I’m okay. Don’t cry. I’ll be alright.”

 

“What happened to you, Agatha?” one of our friends asked. “You had us extremely worried.”

 

“I don’t know. It’s like I was suffocating suddenly. I felt weak, and then I blacked out.” She replied.

 

I thought thoroughly about what happened, but I just couldn’t make any sense out of it. She survived, totally unscathed, the fire that killed seven people, yet she almost died within mere seconds of being in the water.

 

Just when we were finally moving past the mystery of her reserved personality, something even more peculiar about Agatha was beginning to bother me.

 

In order to forget what had happened at the beach, I decided to take her to the carnival nearby. Little did I know, something horrifying was about to happen again.

 

Aside from it being Agatha’s first time going to the beach, it was also her first time seeing a carnival. I was beginning to think that she had been kept in the shadows by her parents.

 

She was like a curious child; easily pleased by carnival games, trying every food she saw, riding any ride she liked. I was amused by her reactions, and I was glad that I had brought her there.

 

After wandering around and having fun for hours, we came across the booth of a self-proclaimed fortune teller. Just for laughs and giggles, we decided to go inside the small cubicle covered by thick, dark curtains printed with glittering occult symbols and stars.

 

“How can I help you?” said a voice coming from behind another curtain, as we sat in front of a table with a glass sphere placed at the center.

 

“We wish to know our future, O Great One,” I replied with humor as Agatha and I tried to hold in our laughter.

 

“Oh, I most certainly could help you.”

 

An old lady in a black dress and a violet shawl stepped out from behind the curtain.

 

For some reason, right at the very moment that she saw us there, she glared at Agatha in a very strange and unwelcoming manner.

 

However, she kept on moving along, and sat in front of her orb.

 

“I will start by reading your palms,” she said.

 

As Agatha held out her hand, the fortune teller avoided making eye contact. When she looked at her palm, I saw how her expression suddenly changed. It looked as if she had seen something quite unpleasant.

 

It was starting to get awkward, so I broke the silence and asked,

 

“So, what do you see in her future?”

 

Our cheerful vibe was smothered by the eerie tension that had enveloped this very small, enclosed space. It all became uncomfortably serious.

 

“Something is clouding my mind, I couldn’t see it clearly,” said the fortune teller with a shaky tone.

 

She was obviously bothered by something, and she was trying to hide it from us.

 

“I will call forth some spirits to guide me. I shall see what lies ahead of you through their wisdom.”

 

Apparently, she still decided to go on with the performance. She lit a candle and held up some kind of talisman against her forehead and, eyes closed, began to chant in a weird, ancient-sounding language.

 

As her voice intensified, the flame on the candle started to flicker rapidly. A few minutes later, she turned towards Agatha and slowly opened her eyes. As she stared at her, Agatha became profoundly terrified. Her eyes widened as the fortune teller kept on chanting. I turned my head to Agatha to see what was scaring her, but I saw nothing.

 

Within just a few seconds, things turned from weird to hellish. A small, insignificant flickering flame from the candle suddenly burst and caught the fortune teller’s shawl. I immediately grabbed it and tried to put it out, but the fire was already crawling up her dress. She stood up and screamed in pain as the flames reached her face, and then the fire caught the curtains.

 

Agatha tried to reach for her so she could help. But as she stretched her hands to her, the fortune teller recoiled even further and yelled,

 

“Get away from me!”

 

Agatha kept on reaching for her, but she kept stepping back until she was wrapped by the burning curtain behind her. I had no choice but to grab Agatha and drag her out. In seconds, the entire booth was burning, with the fortune teller inside it.

 

When it was finally extinguished by the carnival workers, it was too late. A person died in a fire, in the presence of Agatha, once again.

 

We were called by the local police officers to ask us what had happened. After hearing the story, they concluded that it had just been an accident. I wanted to believe what they said, but there were too many unanswered questions in my head. After the incident, Agatha didn’t utter a single word until we were back home.

 

What happened at the carnival deeply troubled both of us, especially Agatha. I could sense that she was blaming herself for what had happened, so I persistently tried to convince her that it was nobody’s fault.

 

She kept quiet for days, so I decided to do something. I finally confessed to her how I felt about her. Miraculously, it worked. Before the summer was over, I asked her to move in with me. She was living on her own anyway, and so was I, so I felt that it was the right thing to do.

 

Once we were living under one roof, I began to learn more things about her that I hadn’t known before. As we grew more romantically comfortable with each other, I started to notice something odd about the way she would occasionally behave.

 

Most of the time, she was timid and very reserved, just as how I had always known her. But there were moments when she would get feisty and belligerent for no reason. It was as if she would turn into a different person who was the total opposite of her innate character. As time passed, the sudden shifting of her behavior happened more often, and became more intense. Whenever she would behave this way, strange things would occur around us. For some reason, it always had something to do with fire.

 

Just like any other couple, we would sometimes have arguments. During one of our petty fights during a diner, fire suddenly burst from the stoves as Agatha raised her voice at me. It seemed as if the fire was reacting to her emotions. When I was finally able to ask her about the matter, she seemed clueless as to why those things were happening. She could have asked her parents about it, but they had both passed away. I asked her if she still had any relatives around, and she answered me with hesitation. Agatha still had one remaining relative, the only person that could possibly answer our questions – her grandmother.

 

Agatha had nothing but bad memories of her grandmother. She described her to me as a hostile and demented individual. She and her mother ran away from her grandmother when she was very young, and she had never seen her since. So we decided to pay her a visit.

 

The place where Agatha was born was incredibly remote and hard to reach. The nearest town to the house was almost an hour away, and we had to walk across a dense forest to get there.

 

It was literally in the middle of nowhere. Nobody would think that there was still someone living there.

 

The house was very old, and it was hardly taken care of. Some parts of it were burnt, and it was quite surprising that it was still standing. Agatha reluctantly knocked on the door.

 

“Come in, the door is open. It has always been” the raspy voice of an old woman was heard.

 

We slowly walked inside the house. Aside from the subtle squeaks of what sounded like a rocking chair, it was dead silent. The dust was so thick that the place looked abandoned. We were leaving shoe prints as we walked across a layer of ashes covering the creaky floor. The shelves were laced with spider webs, and the roof was slightly caved in. The house was barely illuminated by the light outside beaming through the holes of the burnt walls. It didn’t look like a person was living in there.

 

“I am here, Agatha. Come here. Bring your friend with you.” the old lady called to us from the living room.

 

She was able to tell that it was Agatha without even hearing her voice, and she knew that she was with someone.

 

As we walked further, the successive squeaks became louder. And there she was, Suzan, Agatha’s only remaining family. I didn’t want to be rude to the first relative of Agatha’s that I was meeting but seeing Suzan’s appearance made me take one step backward. I was caught by surprise. She was wearing layers of gray and faded blue tattered clothes and looked as if she was at least a hundred years old. She rose her head and smiled with her gritty, yellow teeth and spoke,

 

“Welcome home, my dear. Your mother took you away from this place, and yet here you are.”

 

“How are you doing, grandma?” said Agatha.

 

I could tell by her voice that she didn’t want to be here. She couldn’t even look straight at her, as if she was afraid of her own grandmother.

 

“It seems you are resisting your true nature, child. How are you with fire?” Suzan asked.

 

The question baffled Agatha, and she didn’t respond.

 

“Your mother wanted you to live a normal life. She and her foolish ideals have always been a problem for me. It seems she hasn’t told you anything, what with you coming here with that naive look on your face.”

 

“I…I don’t understand” Agatha mumbled as she struggled to reply.

 

She looked confused, totally clueless about what her grandmother had said. The answer that Suzan gave her next was hard to take in. It didn’t make any sense to me, yet it was still quite unsettling.

 

“Our family is unique, my grandchild. We are descendants of people who worshipped an omnipotent and ubiquitous force of the fire. We are mere shells of flesh for this being. Neglect it, and it will take over you. The written history of this modern civilization chose to forget about us, for they feared our kind. An ordinary person could not handle the presence of this force. With just a very brief glance at the true face of the being that lies within us, anyone who would cast their eyes upon it will burn.”

 

Suzan turned her head towards me and stared at me with disdain.

 

“The men of this world called us witches a long time ago, and feared that we could dominate the lands. For ages, there hasn’t been a single male that was born in our family, yet we could easily overpower the barbarism of these insolent creatures.”

 

“He’s my friend. I love him and he loves me.” Agatha defended me assertively.

 

Suzan simply smirked at her and replied,

 

“Do you not know what happened to your father? Your mother turned him into ashes when she deemed him useless.”

 

Everything that her grandmother said was too much for Agatha to take in, even though she must have realized these were the answers to questions that had bothered her for a long time.

 

“You have to accept your fate, my dear. We are living temples to the fire. It is the purpose of our existence. It was inconsiderate of your mother to throw her life away so selfishly. She knew that a fire would lose its light once thrown to the opposing element of this world. Unfortunately, we are the last remaining three.”

 

Suzan looked at me again and said,

 

For that, I should thank you.”

 

“I thought that we are the only two left in our family” said Agatha with a confused look on her face.

 

Her grandmother replied with an answer that surprised us even further. “Agatha, my dear, do you not know? You are bearing a child.”

 

Agatha and I headed back home with most of our questions finally answered, but with a heavyweight cast on our shoulders from the revelations we had just heard. However, there was one good thing that came out of this unpleasant trip. We were having our very first child. At that point, we were more happy than worried. Agatha and I were about to start our own family.

 

I told Agatha to stay in our apartment as long as she needed to, so she could rest for the sake of the baby. Now that I had an idea of why those weird things had been happening, it was best to avoid upsetting her, especially in her state, in which she was prone to mood swings.

 

Everything was turning out well despite the challenges I had to overcome during her pregnancy. I strictly avoided producing fire whenever I was around her, just to make sure that it wouldn’t suddenly burst out of control. We relied on an electric stove and a microwave to heat and cook our food. We avoided going to restaurants as much as we could.

 

Agatha was very considerate about our situation. Despite the limits she had to bear with, she seemed quite happy and at peace. We even planned on getting married once things got less complicated.

 

Several months later, our child was finally ready to be born. Even though we were both excited about it, Agatha was in pain, and that wasn’t good. Bringing her to the hospital was a very difficult task, and I was terribly nervous the entire time. I tried to make her feel as relaxed as I possibly could, but there really wasn’t much that I could do aside from holding her hand.

 

When we finally arrived at the hospital, she was immediately taken to the labor room. I diligently kept on the lookout. I assertively asked the doctors if there was anything nearby in the hospital that was using fire. But even before anybody answered me, Agatha screamed in pain. We heard a sudden explosion inside the building. It was the gas stoves in the hospital’s kitchen. It had begun.

 

Most of the people inside were evacuated, while some of the staff remained to tend to the patients who needed immediate attention. Agatha screamed even louder. Our child was crowning. At that point, even the lights flickered and exploded. I had never seen her in so much pain before.

 

As she kept on screaming, all the equipment around her went haywire, and the glass windows shattered one by one. The doctors and nurses were frightened. Most of them ran away, forcibly dragging their patients out with them. Even the doctor who was tending to Agatha tried to bolt, but I grabbed his hand and begged him to help us.

 

As Agatha’s screams echoed inside the room, the things around us started to ignite. Even though there wasn’t any fire around, the sheets, chairs, even the walls began to catch flame one by one. I realized with horror that she could create the fire herself.

 

I tried to do what I could to put out the flames around us as the doctor helped Agatha deliver our child. We had no choice but to bear the wave of heat. I could hear the frantic noises from the other remaining people inside the hospital as they escaped. The fire had already spread throughout the entire building.

 

Agatha screamed and pushed as hard as she could. And as she did, the doctor and I were caught in an unexpected explosion that threw us out of the room. I was dazed and couldn’t get back on my feet.

 

The next thing I knew, Agatha’s room was engulfed in flames. Somebody dragged the doctor and me out of the building. I refused to leave, but I didn’t have the energy to pull myself away from whoever was saving my life.

 

The entire hospital was being swallowed by the fire within just a few minutes of it starting. I was lying on the ground in front of the building. There was nothing I could do. Thick smoke spread above us, dimming the light of the sunny sky.

 

This day, supposed to be about the welcoming of our first child, had become a nightmare in real life. I looked around at the number of people wounded and crying. Many of the survivors had severe burns, while others did not make it in time and were claimed by the merciless fire.

 

The firefighters and police finally came to aid us. As they approached the burning building, I saw ahead of them the silhouette of a person walking down the hallway, toward the burned-out front doors. It looked as if the fire was under some unseen command. The flames swelled from floor to ceiling, giving way to this person who was unaffected by it.

 

The silhouette drew closer, and I finally recognized who it was. It was Agatha, and she was carrying our child with her. I can’t explain how happy I was when I saw her. Unfortunately, people around me didn’t feel the same way.

 

“It was her! She caused this fire!” one of the wounded patients yelled.

 

“She did! She tried to burn us all!” a nurse seconded.

 

“Officers arrest her!” they kept on accusing her.

 

One of the officers replied,

 

“How can you be sure it was her? Why would she do something like this? How could she start a fire that ended up burning the entire building? This must have been done by more than one person. It didn’t take us five minutes to arrive here. It’s just impossible.”

 

The response of the officer should have suppressed the accusations, but the crowd simply became more aggressive.

 

“Why are you defending this heartless monster? We saw it with our own eyes. She started the fire!” said a lady with a burnt arm.

 

“She’s telling the truth! We were all witnesses to what happened. Isn’t that enough?” another supported the woman’s claim.

 

When Agatha finally arrived at the front door, the crowd yelled and pointed their fingers at her. They were getting out of control, and officers started to put their hands on their guns as if they were ready to pull them out.

 

“Look! Look at the fire!” someone yelled louder than the others.

 

And he was right. With every step that Agatha took, the fire was following her. The flames were surrounding her as embers spread through the air.  People moved back in fear as she approached with wild eyes. And then I heard the screaming. Shouts of indignation at Agatha were giving way to screams of horror and pain – people were catching fire.

 

One by one, from no visible source, the bystanders were bursting into flames. One minute they were people, the next, columns of flame. People fled in panic, and the firefighters attempted to help those who had suddenly ignited.

 

The officers didn’t know how to react to this bizarre situation. They pulled out their guns and pointed them at Agatha.

 

“Stay right there! Don’t come any closer or we will open fire!” one of the officers warned.

 

As soon as I heard what the officers were about to do, I ran towards Agatha, who seemed out of control. Despite the warning, the fire raged on.

 

“Stop this, right now!” an officer yelled.

 

As I desperately tried to get close to her, my clothes caught fire, burning through to my skin. I disregarded the pain and kept on going. Despite the chaos around her, Agatha’s face did not show any emotion. I was afraid that she had lost herself.

 

And I was right. Her other side was starting to take over, and she was losing her sanity. I hugged her tight as I screamed through the pain of the burns. As I looked at her, a teardrop suddenly fell down her cheek. In a fraction of a second, I could see her face changing. It didn’t look like the face of a human at all; it looked more like a grinning demon. She was trying to hold it in, but she couldn’t much longer.

 

“Take care of our child.” was the last thing she said.

 

She handed me the baby and shoved me out of the way. She was worried that I would burn to death if I were to see the other being hiding within her, as her grandmother had warned her.

 

As soon as I had the baby in my arms, the remaining officers opened fire right away. I bawled my eyes out as the flames started to diminish. I cried and cried before the bloody body of the person I loved, with our only child in my arms. The hellish nightmare was finally over, and Agatha’s life faded with the fire.

 

Nineteen people were burnt to death that day, including some of officers and firefighters. For a while, people spread hushed rumors of a girl who controlled the flames. But the truth was too mythic to last, and all that was remembered was the fire.

 

I named our daughter after her mother. Six years have gone by and people have forgotten about the incident. I have my burn scars to remind me of it, and the lovely child who was left behind.

 

 

My daughter, Agatha, is growing up just as beautiful as her mother. She’s got her stunning red hair and her innate shyness. Oddly enough, she is starting to show a curious fascination with fire.

THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR

 

 

Everyone in town has heard of Mr. Spaulding. People say his house is haunted, and that my family is crazy for living next door to him for the last ten years. It doesn’t bother me though—all I see is a lonely old widower with a penchant for growing roses.

 

Every day in the springtime, Mr. Spaulding leaves his house at 5:00 a.m. I know this because the exhaust of his rusty old pickup truck lets out a series of loud popping noises every time he backs it out of the driveway.

 

Although no one ever publicly complains, the annoyance of it is written on the faces who peek through curtains, scowling at the smoking clunker meandering down our suburban street.

 

Mr. Spaulding always returns home exactly thirty minutes later and does the same routine: He kills the truck’s engine, gets out, walks to the trunk, opens it, picks something up, puts it down, closes the trunk, picks up the unknown item again, then goes around back to his rose garden.

 

“It’s weird, Sarah. Don’t you ever wonder what the hell he’s doing up that early in the morning? I mean, it’s still dark at 5:30 for Pete’s sake.

 

How can he even see the roses?” my friend, Jessica, said earlier.

 

We were sitting in Math class, bored out of our brains while Miss Sinclair wrote a series of Algebra questions on the whiteboard.

 

“He probably has a flashlight,” I said with a shrug, despite never actually seeing Mr. Spaulding with one.

 

“Well, whatever his story is, the guy gives me the creeps. You’re too nice, you know that? It’ll be the death of you, Sarah!” Jessica grinned.

 

I rolled my eyes. She always had a flair for the dramatics.

 

“Whatever, Jess. But Mr. Spaulding is just a harmless old man. And I’ll prove it.”

 

“Oh yeah? How?”

 

“After school, I’m going to take him one of those delicious blueberry pies from ‘Pastry Brothers & Co.’ It’s the neighborly thing to do—after all, his wife did die a few months ago. Poor guy probably only lives on cans of beans and Spam.”

 

Jessica waved me off. “Good luck to you, girl, that’s all I’m saying.”

 

Five hours later, I’m standing on Mr. Spaulding’s porch and taking a deep breath.

 

Why am I so nervous? He’s just a lonely widower, remember?

 

Stealing back my resolve, I knock on the weathered green door that is in dire need of a repaint. The whole house needs renovating really—from its paint-peeling white weatherboard frame to its splintered windowsills, to this creaky, rickety wooden porch with the heads of nails sticking out at all angles.

 

A little while passes, and Mr. Spaulding hasn’t come to the door.

 

Maybe he’s asleep? Or in the rose garden?

 

I knock again, and this time, there’s the clear sound of footsteps coming down a hallway. When the doorknob turns, I put on a genuine smile, holding the pie tightly in my hands.

 

The door opens.

 

Mr. Spaulding looks down at me with a frown.

 

Oh boy, he is not happy to see me.

 

Nevertheless, I keep my smile on and hold out the pie.

 

“Hi, Mr. Spaulding. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Sarah, Brandon and Jenny Turner’s daughter from next door. I brought you a pie,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

 

But his face is deadpan.

 

Maybe he doesn’t have a sweet tooth?

 

Eventually, he huffs and gestures for me to follow him inside.

 

“I hope you like blueberries,” I add, a slight pitch in my voice.

 

“Blueberries, blackberries, strawberries—they’re all the same to me,” he mutters.

 

He’s still grieving over his wife, Sarah. Don’t take it personally. It’s only natural for him to be a little grumpy.

 

We move further into the house. It is almost a carbon copy of mine—other than the raised wallpaper, 1970s-era furniture, and dusty floorboards.

 

“You can put the pie on the counter in there,” he snaps, pointing to what must be the kitchen.

 

I do as he says, then take a look around. There are about twenty dishes piled up in the big farmhouse-style sink. Some plates even have scraps of food still on them.

 

This dude seriously needs a cleaner.

 

Not wanting him to think that I’m snooping, I leave the kitchen and make my way down the hall, assuming that is where he has gone. I note the rooms as I go, peering into each one to look for Mr. Spaulding. 

 

One: kitchen.

 

Two: living room.

 

Three: bathroom.

 

Four: main bedroom.

 

Five: second bedroom.

 

I stop at the sixth door, which is closed. On reflex, I hesitate because I know what is behind it. My house has one in the same place...

 

Beyond it are the stairs that lead down to the basement.

 

Surely, he hasn’t gone down there?

 

“Mr. Spaulding?” I call out.

 

No answer.

 

Just as I turn to head towards the back door, thinking he must be out in the rose garden, I hear it. A faint moaning sound.

 

I hold my breath and listen harder, hoping that my ears are just messing with me. But then the moaning sounds again, and what’s weirder… it’s coming from behind the basement door.

 

Don’t tell me he’s fallen down the stairs… I mean, what are the odds of that happening right when I come over? God, please, let him be okay.

 

After a twist of the door handle, the basement door opens easily with a longer-than-comfortable squeak. From the faint natural light that spills in from the hallway, I can just make out the stairs.

 

“Mr. Spaulding, sir, are you down there? Are you hurt?” I shout into the gloom.

 

“H-help m-me,” comes a reply.

 

Shit. He is hurt!

 

Without hesitating, I pull my phone out of my denim shorts pocket and activate the flashlight accessory. After what feels like too damn long rushing down the stairs, I finally step down onto solid flooring and wave my phone around. I expect to find the figure of Mr. Spaulding and prepare for what could be a nasty gash on his head or a broken leg, but I can’t see anyone in the basement. Just a workbench, a few cardboard boxes, and random piles of junk.

 

What the hell… Where is he?

 

Confused, I hunt around for a light switch—which should have been on the left since this basement’s layout is the same as mine—but there isn’t one.

 

Okay, Sarah, what are your options here?

 

I decide to call out to Mr. Spaulding one more time.

 

“Hello? Mr. Spaulding?”

 

Still nothing.

 

Just in case the old man has fallen over somewhere else down here, I start to wander aimlessly around the basement like a lost kitten searching for its mother. It turns out that this basement is much larger than my parents’ one, with these really big rocks spread out in a weird pattern.

 

I think it’s time to call it. He’s not down here. Clearly, you’re going crazy.

 

It’s only as I decide to head back upstairs when it hits me. A thick, musty, and very unpleasant smell. If I didn’t know any better, I would think a raccoon got in here and died. And with every inhale, it just seems to get stronger, almost to the point of me gagging. It’s followed by a whooshing sound, like air being let out of a tire, or expulsion of gas from a cylinder.

 

Within seconds, I start to feel lightheaded.

 

“Right, I’m outta here,” I tell myself and begin to retrace my route to the basement steps.

 

Only… I can’t find them. And the natural glow of light from the hallway is gone, too. My mind has gone all foggy, and my vision is blurred.

 

What the hell is happening to me?

 

“Hey!” I call out, hoping that Mr. Spaulding, wherever he is, will hear me.

 

But like when I knocked on the front door the first time, I get nothing back.

 

“Hey! Help! I’m lost down here!” I shout.

 

I wait again to hear a response, and I get one. But not the one I anticipated.

 

Rustle, rustle, rustle.

 

It sounds to the right of me, and immediately, I point my phone towards it. But all I see are blurred patches of gray.

 

“Hello? Is someone down here?” I ask, hating the tremble to my voice.

 

Keep it together, Sarah. You’re okay. It’s just dehydration or something…

 

I began to move again, praying that suddenly I’ll see the light from upstairs in the middle of the gloom.

 

Rustle, rustle, rustle.

 

The sound is right off to the left of me now, and so close. Again, I point my phone in the direction of it. But there’s nothing there.

 

My next steps are feeble, my breaths coming out in short and sharp gasps like I’m being forced to breathe through a funnel. Goosebumps break out on my skin.

 

Rustle, rustle, rustle.

 

Then nothing.

 

All I hear are my own heartbeats. All I feel is the dank cold air of this godforsaken basement.

 

I blink in confusion, then let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. For a moment, I feel utterly alone again, but the prickle on the back of my neck warns me otherwise.

 

You’re not alone, Sarah. Don’t kid yourself.

 

“Papa says no visitors,” a voice says behind me.

 

I jump and let out a scream.

 

“W-who said that?” I stammer.

 

“Papa says no visitors… You shouldn’t be down here.” The voice is small and calm like a child’s.

 

A child? Down here?

 

Suddenly, I hear Jessica’s words in my head.

 

“Don’t you ever wonder what the hell he’s doing up that early in the morning… The guy gives me the creeps. You’re too nice, you know that? It’ll be the death of you, Sarah!”

 

I swallow what feels like a lump in my throat and try to keep level headed. Rational. Because there has to be a logical explanation for all of this… right?

 

“What’s your name?” I ask.

 

Silence.

 

Then, a quiet chuckling. But it’s deep and throaty, not a high-pitched little girl laugh.

 

A deeper fear takes hold of me. Paralyzes me.

 

“Papa brought Henrietta a new toy!” the voice says, with a clap and another chuckle.

 

My heart feels as if it’s going to thump right out of my chest as I try to back away into a corner, any corner, but I don’t touch anything.

 

I feel like an open target, prey ripe for the picking, my white T-shirt drenched with sweat.

 

“A toy, a toy, a toy, a toy, oh what a joy!”

 

The chant continues, every word like a knife in my ears.

 

Too loud. It’s just TOO loud!

 

Suddenly, my forehead is burning up, and I’m choking, suffocating, my tongue taking up all the extra space in my mouth.

 

I start to run.

 

CRASH!

 

I yelp as I trip on one of the rocks, my phone flying out of my hand and smashing somewhere nearby. The flashlight goes off, plunging me into total darkness.

 

Shit, shit, shit!

 

“You’re hallucinating. Or dreaming. Yeah, that’s it—a dream. Time to wake up, Sarah,” I tell myself.

 

I have to keep my cool. I have to rationalize. Because if I don’t, I’ll go insane.

 

“This is just a dream. Just a dream,” I continue to reassure myself, squeezing my eyes shut.

 

But then it laughs again.

 

“Oh, silly, it’s not a dream,” the voice says.

 

I jump again, then my instincts kick in.

 

The stairs. You have to find them, Sarah!

 

Taking deep breaths as I go, I reach out my hands as I blindly navigate the darkness, taking care to lift my feet higher than usual, so I’m less likely to trip on the rocks.

 

And bingo! I hit something solid. A wall of some kind. I follow the contours of it, and eventually, it makes a perfect square.

 

But that’s not possible… Where are the stairs?

 

“Aww, isn’t toy having fun?” the voice asks, this time, from not far behind me. “Henrietta wants to make this fun. Henrietta wants to play hide and seek… Wanna play?”

 

It sounds amused. Too amused.

 

“N-not really,” I reply as tears burn the backs of my eyes. “I just want to go home… Please show me the way out.”

 

Silence descends… before I’m blinded by the brightest light that I’ve ever seen. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust, and when I do, I see that I’m standing in the middle of a large room made up of four concrete walls, a ceiling, and not a rock, stair, or door insight.

 

Where the hell am I? How did I get in here? How is it possible?!

 

It’s then I notice something sitting in the middle of the floor. With extreme hesitation, I edge forward to see two items…

 

A flashlight and a pocketknife?

 

For a moment, I don’t react, unsure of what to make of them. Like I’m on autopilot, I pick up the knife. It looks old and rusty and has an engraving:

 

I SEE YOU.

 

The flashlight, on the other hand, appears to be new, and when I turn it on, I’m relieved that it works.

 

“Okay, let’s play… I’m it!” the voice says, startling me again.

 

The room goes black. Like somebody has deliberately turned off the lights.

 

That’s when it truly hits me:

 

This is no dream, Sarah; it’s a nightmare. A real-life one.

 

Down here, wherever in God’s name this place is, no one can hear me. No one can save me. I’m caught in a cruel, sick game, orchestrated by who could only be Mr. Spaulding.

 

“Three… Two… One! Ready or not, here I come!”

 

The voice sounds far away, but if I’m still in the square room, I know she’s close.

 

I began to cautiously move around, holding the pocketknife out in front of me in the pitch-black space, waiting for an attack. I don’t want to use the flashlight because the odds are not in my favor. I can’t risk her seeing me that clearly.

 

One step, two steps, three steps, then I pause, listening out for her.

 

One step, two steps, three steps, pause. Listen.

 

One step, two steps, three steps, and then:

 

The voice giggles. “This toy is smart, Papa. I like it, Papa. Can we keep it, Papa?”

 

I stay silent, moving in the opposite direction of it.

 

“Why don’t you turn on your flashlight, Sarah? It’s part of the game. If you do, you’ll see the stairs. Pinky swear...”

 

The offer is tempting, thrilling even, as my fingers fumble with the flashlight. I know I have a choice here: keep playing this game of wandering around in the dark, or risk seeing if the little girl is telling the truth.

 

Throwing all caution to the wind, I choose the latter and brace myself.

 

When the beam of light hits the basement stairs, I actually laugh. They are only a few strides away. I can reach them so easily. I will be home free…

 

“There you are, toy. Now Papa will be pleased!”

 

A figure steps in front of the stairs, and I gasp. It’s a little girl in a white dress, with pale skin, glowing orange eyes, and long black hair that’s matted with knots. She’s smiling at me, and I watch as the corners of her mouth curved upwards into an inhuman length, reaching past her ears to the edges of her eyes.

 

She seems pleased, and like an animal, she inches forward, using her hands as guides, crawling towards me.

 

“Papa will be pleased. Papa will be glad. Papa hates snoops.”

 

She inches closer and closer.

 

Move, Sarah. Get out of here!

 

But I can’t move. It’s like I’m frozen in place.

 

“Soon, you’ll be nothing. Just bones. Papa will bury you in the garden like all the others…”

 

She stops right in front of me and pushes herself up, meeting me halfway. A warm trickle runs down my leg, and I know it’s urine. I just want my parents.

 

“That’s why his roses are so red. Papa says they thrive on the blood!”

 

Even when she lunges at me, those orange-fire eyes right in front of mine, I don’t move.

 

And then—

 

“It’s been six weeks since the disappearance of Sarah Turner, and three months since Bailey Adelson, who lived on Fortune Avenue, also went missing. This is the thirteenth case opened by state police, spanning over a decade, that relates to teenage girl abduction. Even in collaboration with the F.B.I., detectives continually exhaust leads and fall short on evidence. Of course, law enforcement says that they are doing everything they can to find Sarah and Bailey, but they admit that, due to the eleven other kidnapping cases, it’s clear that a serial killer is at work here. More on that later…”

 

I sigh when the news clip finishes and toss my phone on the pillow. I don’t know how many times I have stayed up late and scoured the Internet for stories like this one. They’re all the same though. No new leads. No strong evidence. Zilch.

 

Well, enough is enough.

 

As I lay in bed, moonlight spilling through the gap in the curtains over the window, finally, I hear it. The all too familiar sound that makes my heartbeats quicken in my chest.

 

Pop, pop, pop.

 

It’s the exhaust of Mr. Spaulding’s rusty old pickup truck coming back down the street. I look at the alarm clock on my bedside table.

 

5:30 am. Right on schedule.

 

I don’t know how many times I have told my story now. My parents honestly think that the detectives are doing the best they can to find Sarah. But they aren’t.

 

After I told them about her taking the blueberry pie to Mr. Spaulding’s house after school, on the day she disappeared, the police took the old man down to the station for questioning. He claimed that she did drop by and that the pie was delicious. However, she left his house only a few minutes after arriving, telling Mr. Spaulding that she was going to meet her boyfriend at the mall. They searched his house as a precaution but found nothing. Heard nothing.

 

I don’t know what sick game the widower’s playing, but Sarah doesn’t have a boyfriend

 

She doesn’t even have a crush—I’m her BFF; she would’ve told me.

 

I know Sarah’s in that house.

 

I feel it.

 

One way or another, I will find out what happened to my friend.

 

To be continued…

 

THE GIRL I MARRIED

 

 

Jonathan Espinoza flipped the keys in his hand with the ring secured on one finger so they would make a full circle around. He automatically caught the one he wanted and smiled with satisfaction. He’d been practicing that move like an actor practices twirling a gun for a big movie scene.

 

He was whistling as he went up to the front door of his two-story house, ready to relax for the evening. His wife, Jeanette, would probably have dinner on the table with his robe and slippers ready.

 

He snorted.

 

His wife of eight months was anything but a domesticated, likable and loving woman, and she had never had dinner, robe and slippers ready when he got home from work. That was a bit too much pampering in his mind, so he never brought up how much he’d like it. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He doubted Jeanette would pamper him like she had when they were dating.

 

He pushed the key in the knob and was surprised to feel that it wasn’t locked, to begin with. He pushed open the door and called out,

 

“Jeanette? You here?”

 

Jonathan was used to her not responding to him. Since the day they got married, he’d noticed changes in her but wasn’t sure what happened to cause them. It was as though the first week of marriage was enough for her and after that, she was just going through the motions.

 

Her odd behavior set off alarms in his head. He was at a loss what to do about it though. He’d fallen in love with her the first time he met her in the bar in Calhoon. When he saw her dancing in the midst of all those other people, it was like she was a diamond shining among coal. The circling lights above them moved all around the floor and when they lit up her beautiful face, he felt a sharp tingle slide through him. He knew he had to have her.

 

But he didn’t just want her body, he wanted to know all about her. He felt the urge to sweep her off her feet and treat her like a princess. She had no family, she said, so she was walked down the aisle by his own father, who also admired Jeanette. Jonathan’s whole family was happy with his choice.

 

A few days after they married, Jeanette began her odd behavior. She continued to cook and clean, but it was as if she was no longer interested in being with Jonathan. In any sense. She spoke to him briefly throughout the evening after he got home from work and made plans for her weekends that didn’t involve him, like taking a dancing class or going to yoga.

 

When they were dating, she went to church with him every Sunday. Now she had no interest in going to church and their friends started asking about her.

 

Jonathan could recall several arguments they’d had because she didn’t see the hurtful way she was treating him and other people.

 

He remembered their very first argument ever. It happened exactly one week after they married. They’d argued every week since then, perhaps twice a week, about something petty and small. He couldn’t seem to reason with her.

 

He was fairly certain it had started with him asking her if she wanted to go to dinner to celebrate their first week together as a married couple.

 

She’d practically had a meltdown, saying he was too needy and clingy.

 

It left him confused. He’d always thought getting married meant you would have that one person to hold and love for the rest of your life. The piece of paper and the ceremony made Jeanette’s attitude change completely. He’d had his loving wife for about a week. After the argument, she never treated him the same.

 

But he knew he wasn’t asking for too much. They’d barely made it through the wedding night, she was so nervous to share her body with him. Since then, in the last eight months, he could count how many times she’d allowed him to be intimate with her.

 

It frustrated him when he thought about it. He’d expected so much more from the way she’d treated him during their dating. She’d shared her body with him then willingly and freely. Why had she been so nervous that first night of their marriage? As if it would be any different.

 

It was as though she had switched to a different personality.

 

Jonathan sighed, standing in the foyer, looking around the house. He got no response from Jeanette when he called out to her. He walked to the garage door and opened it to see if her car was in there. It wasn’t. She wasn’t home.

 

Reluctantly feeling a heavy sense of relief, Jonathan closed the garage door and went straight to the kitchen. He opened the small cabinet above the refrigerator and reached to the back of the compartment hidden behind it.

 

He felt around with his hand a few times before hitting the glass bottle with his fingertips. Satisfied, he rolled the bottle with his fingers until it was flush with his palm so he could pick it up. He brought the bottle of whiskey down and set it on the counter.

 

He hadn’t dared let Jeanette know he had liquor in the house. It wouldn’t be there if she knew about it. In other words, she would drink it. She would devour it like it was water and she’d just walked through a desert.

 

That was another thing he didn’t know about Jeanette when he married her. She was an avid drinker. He couldn’t remember for the life of him when she’d had more than a glass of wine or a mixed drink with dinner. But after they married, he found she was very fond of drinking to the point of passing out on the bed.

 

She’d hidden her true self well.

 

Her behavior had an effect on Jonathan. He lived his life walking on eggshells, worried about when she would be angry next and what complaint she would have. She wasn’t necessarily complaining about him. She was just complaining for the sake of it. Sometimes it was about him, sometimes it wasn’t. The negativity that flowed from her mouth was astounding.

 

He sighed, taking the bottle in hand, grabbing a 20-ounce Coke from the fridge and heading into the basement. He’d taken to hiding out there. Something about it made him feel safe and comfortable. Why it was that way was a mystery. What could possibly make him think the basement was safe from Jeanette?

 

The basement was nothing special. He’d managed to grab an old couch from a friend and placed it against one of the walls, setting a 46-inch tv on the other side so he could sit back and watch tv whenever he wanted. In peace.

 

Other than those two items of luxury, Jonathan was surrounded by cardboard boxes, three large freezers that had come with the place and only one worked that also had boxes and totes piled on them, various tools and lawn equipment, and other things people kept in their basements because they weren’t really needed but were wanted.

 

He didn’t hide the liquor down there because Jeanette’s prying little fingers would probably find it. He had no doubt she went through his stuff when he wasn’t home. He wouldn’t be surprised if she put hidden cameras in his office.

 

Jonathan dropped himself on the couch and stretched his legs out over the two cushions beside him. He grabbed the remote from the tote in front of him and clicked on the tv. He’d set three totes side by side in front of the couch to form a coffee table and covered them with a heavy blanket. He wasn’t completely without class, after all.

 

He swung his legs back down, opened the bottles and set them on the tote, noticing that his feeling of depression had lifted somewhat. He hadn’t even taken a drink. It was something about the basement that did that to him every time.

 

Flipping through the channels and drinking whiskey and Coke, Jonathan slowly felt his brain lifting as the alcohol took effect. Where was Jeanette? He hadn’t heard footsteps upstairs at all since he got home. It was nearly an hour before he started wondering.

 

His head was beginning to spin. Pushing himself to his feet, he crossed to the wooden stairs and stared up at the basement door, which stood open.

 

Irritated, he forced himself to go up and look through the house to see if she’d snuck in. Maybe she was sleeping upstairs. The first thing he did, though, was look in the garage for her car. Even in his drunken state, he knew he wouldn’t find her in the house if her car wasn’t there. She was wherever the car was at.

 

He pulled open the door to the garage. It was empty. Slamming it, he began to feel angry.

 

Eight months. Eight months and his only solace in this marriage was to go to the basement and pretty much hide out from his new wife.

 

Anger coursed through him as he retreated to his basement.

 

“I shouldn’t have to live like this.” He stomped down the stairs, grumbling to himself. “I feel like a child being forced into timeout every day when I get home from work. And I’m working all day! This is such a bunch of crap.”

 

Jonathan dropped himself on the couch like he had the last time. Once again, as soon as he sat on the couch, he began to feel better. He laid his head back and stared at the ceiling. What was he going to do? This was no life. It wasn’t the life he wanted, that was for sure. He’d pictured things so differently with Jeanette. They’d made so many plans.

 

Every single one of them disappeared when they got married. She didn’t want children now. She wanted to get a job modeling for a local retail store. She’d never mentioned anything like that when they were dating. She didn’t want to go camping, hiking or do any of the outdoor activities they’d planned for. Their honeymoon was a bust when she suddenly said she didn’t want to go on a cruise. A cruise that had been paid for by his parents.

 

Eight months. How long would he have to suffer? Giving her attention now only seemed to irritate her. Trying to talk to her about the tension in their marriage didn’t work, either. She denied that she’d changed.

 

What did she want from him? Why couldn’t she just be the Jeanette she was before they got married?

 

He closed his eyes, a soft tear sliding from each of his eyes, sliding down to his ears, getting his hair wet on its way.

 

What had he done wrong to make her fall out of love with him? What made him suddenly not good enough for her?

 

A warm feeling slid through him, a peaceful feeling, as if he’d been touched by someone who loved him. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, so strange was the feeling.

 

He lifted his head and looked around the room as if someone might have come in. As if Jeanette had come in. The Jeanette he loved and wanted.

 

He was alone in the room. He sat forward, scanning as much of the room as he could see. The light from the television made some places bright at one point while other areas were left in the dark. That shifted as the scene changed.

 

He narrowed his eyes, looking at the three large rectangular freezers lined up along the wall. It was as if he was taken by the hand and guided to the one on the far left. He couldn’t help himself when he got up and walked to it.

 

His heart was pounding but his head was confused. Why was he feeling anxious? Suddenly the freezer was important to him? It was broken. It had month’s worth of junk piled up on top of it and he and Jeanette made a life together and gathered things.

 

It felt like his arms were being lifted by someone else, as if he was a puppet in the hands of a puppeteer. He began to take the boxes down. He set them on the ground behind him as he cleared the lid of the freezer.

 

Once all the boxes were off, he found himself on the edge of his nerves. His hand was shaking when he put it on the handle of the freezer.

 

A second warm feeling passed through him, once again as if he had been touched by the hand of a loved one. Was a spirit guiding him?

 

Thinking that a friendly spirit might be trying to tell him something made Jonathan feel better. For some, it may have been a scary thought. But Jonathan had many conversations with Jeanette about his belief in the spirit world and that there was something to the “life after death” theory.

 

Someone wanted him to look in the freezer. It was very important.

 

He wondered what he would find when he lifted the lid. Trying to stay as calm as he could, he gripped the handle and pulled up.

 

Jonathan stumbled back from the freezer when he saw what was inside. Tripping over his feet, he landed hard on his behind, catching himself with the palms of his hands before he could slam his tailbone into the hard basement floor.

 

There was no way. It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t possibly be happening.

 

With his heart slamming in his chest, Jonathan scrambled back to his feet and looked in the freezer once again, gripping the cold sides of the box, every muscle tense.

 

He was looking into the face of his wife.

 

“Oh my God,” he said, his voice trembling.

 

He reached in and grabbed Jeanette, lifting her up to him. A rotten stench rose from her body and he dropped her back down again. Looking closer, he could see she wasn’t recently dead. She was beginning to decompose.

 

He frowned, confusion sliding through him. His wife… she was lying dead in a basement freezer, but he’d only seen her that morning as he left for work.

 

Her car wasn’t in the driveway.

 

Scanning the body of his dead wife, logic started to put possible pieces together in his mind.

 

This wasn’t Jeanette. That is, it wasn’t the woman he’d married.

 

Was it the woman he’d dated? He ran his eyes down over her body, recognizing the outfit she was wearing. The jeans had a small rip in the knee. He remembered when she’d gotten that rip. She was with him when it happened, snagging it on a piece of fence that was sticking out in the community garden behind his apartment.

 

They’d moved into the house at the same time as getting married. They’d planned it that way and, as far as Jonathan thought, it had come off perfectly.

 

But here she was, in the clothes she’d worn that day in the garden. They’d been picking pea pods and green beans to take home and make with a stew.

 

Chills covered him from head to toe.

 

After they’d eaten, she’d gone back to her apartment. The two friends she had helping her get ready were waiting there to “get her through her last night as a free woman”.

 

A smile came to his face remembering that.

 

He gazed at the corpse in the freezer, his mind webbing together the clues from the last eight months that he wasn’t with the same woman at all.

 

This was Jeanette. But then, who was this woman he had been living with for the past eight months? She was the exact mirror image of the woman he’d dated and fallen in love with.

 

“This can’t be happening,” he thought. “If that woman killed Jeanette, why would she put her in here? Why doesn’t it smell worse than it does?”

 

He closed the lid, his mind in a fog. It was difficult to think straight. Perhaps she covered the body with Lyme. Would that have any other effect? The woman looked well-preserved to him. It could have just been the freezer.

 

With a sudden jolt of memory, Jonathan thought about how all three freezers were working when he and Jeanette moved into the house.

 

While he was thinking, Jeanette came storming towards him with a knife in her hand. He saw her in the last second before it would have been too late. Jonathan firmly grabbed her wrist and moved it around until the knife fell far away. They fought on the floor until he grabbed an empty bottle of wine next to him and hit her hard on the head.

 

She laid unconscious while blood was dripping from her head. His heart slammed in his chest as he thought about how he ended up in this situation.

 

He called the police and sat next to the body and started to cry. Looking at the face of the woman he lived with, he thought about the eight months of torture he’d just gone through, the life that had been taken from him and replaced by this shrew, the life of happiness he would never have with the woman he loved.

 

The police came sooner than he expected. They took Jonathan to the police station for questioning. Officer Brown put him in a small room and started with questions. It was a standard room for the examination like the ones you see in the movies. A big mirror on one wall, a table in the center, and two chairs on the opposite sides of the table. One for the suspect and one for the interrogating officer.

 

After hours of sitting in the small room, waiting for someone to explain what is going to happen with him, Officer Brown entered the room. With a serious look on his face, he spoke without hesitation.

 

“The woman whom you lived with is called Rachel Burns. She has multiple records on drug dealing, violence, and disruption of law and order. She is your wife’s twin sister.”

 

Officer’s words blew Jonathan`s mind. He couldn’t believe what he just heard. Jeanette never mentioned having a sister or any family at all.

 

The officer continued, “Doctors separated the sisters and put them in different orphanages. A strange thing to do to twins but there were extenuating circumstances, I guess. Neither of the sisters knew about the other. Rachel grew up angry and turned to a life of crime early. She has an extensive juvenile record, theft and other petty crimes. Always looking for ways to pull a ruse to get some money.”

 

Jonathan twisted in the seat, uncomfortably.  How could he never have known?

 

“She must have seen your wife one day and discovered that she had a twin sister. The fact that she had a successful twin sister seemed like a perfect opportunity to pull her last and best stunt. It appears she may have come to your house while you weren’t there. Your wife let her in. I’m sure she was shocked to learn she had a twin. I’m willing to bet she just wanted to get to know her sister and bond with her.”

 

The officer’s voice was sympathetic. Jonathan picked at his fingernails, not wanting to hear any of it but knowing he had to listen.

 

“At some point, while Jeanette turned her back from Rachel, it appears from initial findings Jeanette was hit with something blunt, very forcefully. Rachel seems to have grabbed a knife and stabbed Jeanette several times in the back. When she was done, she put her sister in the freezer and started playing the role of your wife. It was a long jump from her petty crimes. But it was her biggest performance, I’m quite sure.”

 

Jonathan left the station in disbelief, heartbroken, trying to forget what had happened. He just wanted to move on. But there would never be a day he would not think of the tragedy that occurred in his life, and to his beautiful wife, knowing he would never see her again.

 

(Inspired by a true event. A woman killed her sister and kept her in a freezer for 19 years until a family member found her.)

 

 

Ricky’s Toys

 

Donald Heinz stood in his small antique shop and stared out at the warm sun shining down on the town of Ellingsworth. The winter snows were finally gone, and the trees were green with fresh leaves and the promise of a warm summer.

A smile crossed Donald’s face, and he basked in the beauty and peace of the town.

Different from Maryland, he thought, rubbing at the stubble on his chin.

Definitely worth it, though. No doubt about it.

Donald walked to the front door, flipped the ‘closed’ sign over to read ‘open,’ and then propped the door open. A pleasant breeze carrying the scent of bagels from the coffee shop next door swept into the store, and Donald chuckled as his stomach rumbled. Need to get some food soon, he thought.

He made no attempt to walk out of his shop, though. Instead, he continued enjoying the fine weather and the bright sunlight. As he did so, he saw a large black SUV turn onto Main Street and swing around to back into one of the slanted parking spots in front of the coffee shop. Donald recognized the vehicle immediately. The owner of it, a young woman, had already purchased several items from his shop, and he felt certain she would buy more.

While he stood, watching and hopeful, he saw both the driver’s side door and the passenger side door open. The woman stepped out of the vehicle carefully, limping toward the front of the SUV. From the passenger side came a small boy, perhaps no more than ten. He was thin and pale, his white hair bright in the sunlight.

Is he an albino? Donald thought.

The boy turned to the shop, and Donald saw the child’s eyes. They were a deep blue, instantly ruling out the albino theory. The woman spoke, and the boy nodded, turning away from his store. Donald watched them both walk into the coffee shop.

She’ll be here shortly, he told himself. Donald whistled and walked back to his desk, trying to remember what it was the woman had purchased from him. Books. Definitely some books. Hebrew. Arabic. Gaelic. Really, all over the place with the languages.

Then Donald straightened up. Toys. She bought some of Ricky’s toys.

His heart quickened for a moment at the memory of his brother, but Ricky was decades in the past. No need to get sentimental, he thought. I’ve never been before when it came to him.

Still, Donald’s mind walked back through the toys. Several Lego Minifigures, the old spacemen with their faded moon symbols and their broken helmets. She hadn’t balked at Donald’s price, a sure sign she was a collector.

Well, I was certainly mistaken there, he chuckled. Evidently, she was buying for the boy. Solid money says she will again, too.

Donald went to the shelf where the Lego pieces were stored, selected several prepacked bags and put them on the desk where they’d be easily seen. Then, whistling louder, he strolled over to the bookcases and peered at the various books in foreign languages. He found several in Dutch, one in Sanskrit, and a third in what he assumed was either Greek or Russian.

Where did I even get these? He asked, chuckling and shaking his head. I really don’t know how I’ve come to own half this stuff.

Donald carried the books to the desk, placed them beside the toys, and nodded happily. Now, I relax, wait for them to come in, and then make my sale. No pressure, though. Nothing over the top. Smooth and easy. She’ll probably buy them all.

A single good sale meant he didn’t have to worry about covering the bills for the day. Donald had everything worked out perfectly. A hundred dollars for the week and Donald was in great shape.

“Good morning,” a voice said.

Donald looked up and was surprised to see the boy standing there.

“Good morning to you,” Donald replied pleasantly. “Is your mom coming in as well?”

“My mom?” the boy asked, confused. Then he smiled. “Oh, you mean Joyce. No. She’s getting some food, then she’ll meet me in the car.”

Donald felt his hope for a good sale sinking, but he kept the smile on his face. “Very nice.”

“Oh, hey,” the boy said, stepping further into the shop. “Are those more Lego bricks?”

“They are,” Donald confirmed.

“And books, too!” The excitement in the boy’s voice was unmistakable.

Here’s hoping Joyce sent him in with some money, Donald thought, or that he can at least go out and get some.

The boy fairly trotted down the center aisle to the desk, and Donald stepped back in order to allow him an unhindered view of the items. Donald watched as the boy picked up the first book, his eyes darting back and forth over the letters. Then, the child flipped page after page, his blue eyes wide and moving impossibly fast. In a moment, the boy put the book down and picked up the second, repeating the process. Finally, he did the same with the third. When he finished, he grinned at Donald.

“How much for these three books?” the child asked. “Thirty dollars,” Donald answered easily.

“Cool.” The boy took a roll of money out of his front pocket and counted out three tens, laying them on the counter where they curled up slightly. Then, the boy turned his attention to the toys. Carefully, as if he was handling breakable china, the boy turned them over in his hands, peering intently at the various pieces. Looking up at Donald, he asked, “Are these all the Lego bricks you have?”

Donald thought about it, then he shook his head.

“No,” Donald admitted. “I think I have another box under a table in the back. Do you want to look at them, too?”

“Yes, please,” the boy said, smiling. “I want to buy these here, and if I have enough money left over, I want to buy some more.”

I saw your money roll, son, Donald thought with a grin. You have plenty of money.

“I think it’s an excellent idea.” Donald smiled. “Now, if you would like to wait, I’ll just duck in the back and return in a minute.”

“Cool,” the boy said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and smiling broadly.

Donald chuckled and left the desk. He went into his small backroom and dug around, looking for the ancient, battered suitcase Ricky had always carried his Legos in.

Why didn’t he ever call them ‘Legos’ like everyone else? Donald thought, his smile fading. He was always so annoying. Especially when it came to his Lego bricks. Well, no need to think about him. Maybe this boy will buy the rest of Ricky’s toys, and I won’t have to think about him anymore.

Donald sighed, located the suitcase, and pulled it out. He struggled with the brass catches for a moment, then they popped open loudly. Lifting the top, Donald smiled down at the scattered bricks and pieces. I could easily get this boy to pay another fifty for this. Maybe I will, too.

Donald took a deep breath and cleared his mind. He needed to be able to see the subtle body language of a customer. Satisfied with his state of mind, Donald closed the suitcase, locked it, and carried it out to the desk.

The boy smiled at him, and Donald grinned.

Did it get darker out? Donald wondered, turning on the desk lamp as he put the suitcase up. He kept his attention focused on the boy, not wanting to look out of the windows to check the status of the weather.

“I’ve had these around for a while,” Donald declared confidentially. He opened the suitcase and added, “I haven’t quite found the right person to sell them to. The Lego bricks, well, they’re special.”

“I know,” the boy said, nodding solemnly.

He even has the same expression Ricky would get when playing with his toys or explaining what he had built and why, Donald thought with disgust. But he continued smiling. He stood by silently while the boy reached in and picked up individual pieces. The child would nod to himself, seem to whisper as he turned the brick around in his hand and then pick up another.

The Lego whisperer, Donald thought and had to fake a sneeze to prevent himself from laughing.

The boy didn’t seem to notice.

Several minutes passed by, and if Donald hadn’t been certain the boy was going to buy more than the books, he would have removed the suitcase. As it was, nothing about the boy’s actions indicated he was trying to play with the pieces. It was as though he was legitimately seeking out the history of each Lego by touching it.

Finally, the boy nodded and said, “I’ll take them all, Donald.”

“Fantastic,” Donald started. Then he stopped and looked at the boy. “Did Joyce tell you my name?”

The boy shook his head, a grim expression on his features. It was then that Donald saw the scars on the boy’s forehead, the crooked bend of his nose and the chips in his teeth. There was nothing childlike about the child. He was physically young, but there was an age to his blue eyes, and a darkness lurking about the corners of his mouth.

“How do you know my name, then?” Donald asked. He felt uncomfortable as the boy stared at him.

The child loaded the bags of Lego pieces into the suitcase, then he did the same with the books. Silently, he closed and locked the suitcase, setting it down on the floor. Then, from his pocket, the boy extracted another seventy dollars, counting the money out for Donald’s benefit.

“How do you know my name!” Donald snapped. Fear and anger spiked within him. The boy was disturbing.

“You want to know how I know your name, Donald?” the boy whispered. Before Donald could respond, the child reached into a pocket and pulled out one of the Lego spacemen Donald had sold to Joyce. One of Ricky’s spacemen.

“What?” Donald demanded. “Did the spaceman tell you my name?” The boy shook his head. “Ricky did.”

Donald’s breath caught in his throat, and he trembled. He dry-swallowed several times before he managed to croak out, “What did you just say?”

“Your brother Ricky,” the boy continued. “He told me your name.”

“Get out,” Donald hissed. “I don’t know where you got your information from, but I don’t have a brother named Ricky. Take your stuff and go.”

“You had a brother named Ricky.” The child glared at Donald. “He loved his Lego spacemen. He loved his toys. But Ricky, Ricky didn’t love you. He didn’t even like you. Ricky didn’t like your Dad, and he didn’t like your Mom. Didn’t like your sisters or your other brother, Martin. Ricky did like his Lego spacemen. And your grandfather, he loved to buy all of you presents, and he loved the way Ricky built. All the time, your grandfather told Ricky he would be a great engineer. You didn’t like that, Donald.”

Donald trembled where he stood. Goosebumps stood out all over his body, and there was a dry, unpleasant sensation in the back of his throat. His head throbbed with a headache that worsened by the second.

“Get out,” Donald whispered. “Leave me alone.”

“Ricky doesn’t want me to leave you alone,” the boy said. “Who are you!” Donald yelled.

The child grinned. “My name is Alex. I’m here to punish you.”

Donald reached for his cordless phone, picked it up, and stopped. The battery was torn out of it. Furious, he snatched his cellphone from the desk only to find the battery was dead. When he angrily looked up at Alex, Donald saw the blinds were drawn on the windows, and the front door was closed. The open sign had been flipped around.

Donald was separated from the rest of the town. He shook his head and looked at the boy. “Listen to me.” Donald’s voice quivered as he spoke. “I am going to physically pick you up and throw you out of my store.”

Alex tilted his head to the left, nodded, then grinned. “Ricky said that sounds like you. Picking on little kids. You used to pick on him all the time.

Constantly. Your dad would tell him to grow a pair and punch you back. Your mom, she said he needed to stop being a little baby. Even when you broke his arm.”

Donald stepped back, his throat closing while shudders tore through him. Gathering his courage and self-respect, Donald stalked around the desk and reached for the boy.

“No,” Alex spat, and Donald was thrown backward.

Donald struck the empty, black walnut case of a grandfather clock. While the piece shook on its base, Donald fell to the floor, catching himself with his hands and knees, crying out as sharp pains exploded in his knees and the heels of his hands.

“You can’t do anything to me,” Alex said. He sat down on the floor, cross- legged. The blood rushed in Donald’s ears, and he was afraid to look at the boy but drawn to stare at him.

“Do you remember?” Alex asked. “Remember what?” Donald demanded.

“What Ricky looked like?” Alex waited for an answer, and when Donald didn’t give one, the boy barked, “Speak!”

Donald cringed and whispered, “No.”

“No.” Alex chuckled. Then, as if to someone else, Alex added, “I know you told me he would say that. Of course, he’s your brother.”

Donald looked up, eyes darting around. “You’re not telling me my brother’s here?”

“He is.” Alex eyed Donald with disgust. “Lies,” Donald whispered. “Nothing but lies.”

“Sure.” Alex smiled at Donald, and there was a bitter brutality to it that sank claws of fear deep into Donald’s stomach. The boy glanced over to the left and nodded. “Yeah. I think I can do it. I mean, I haven’t tried before, but it should be easy enough.”

“What?” Donald asked.

Alex ignored him. Instead, the strange, malignant child focused on the wall beyond Donald, and a moment later, the room became almost unbearably frigid. A shape took form beside Alex, and Donald saw it was another child. As the form became defined, Donald shrieked.

Ricky stood to the left of Alex. Donald’s brother wore a white t-shirt and jeans, tennis shoes, and his old Army watch. On Ricky’s right temple was a small red lump, the only mark the Louisville Slugger wooden baseball bat had left on his brother’s head.

The sight of his brother and the incriminating mark dragged Donald screaming into memories. Ricky on the baseline at the ballfield near the stadium. Donald heard Ricky complaining, saying he didn’t want to play baseball. He didn’t like it. All he wanted to do was go home and play with his Lego bricks. Maybe read a book.

Donald remembered making fun of him, their brother Martin doing the same.

What did he do then, when we were picking on him? Donald asked himself. Don’t lie to yourself. You remember. We started to push him. Back and forth. Back and forth until he finally decided to run. Like he always did. He was going to go home and hide with his toys.

We didn’t want him to.

I didn’t want him to, Donald thought. He remembered the feel of the bat in his hands, the way the smooth wood touched his palms, the sensation of twisting the handle. Ricky turning his head to yell at Martin, and the swing.

The bat always sounded beautiful when it cut through the air, especially when Donald had a good swing. There was a crack as the tip of the bat connected with Ricky’s temple. It wasn’t the same sound of leather and wood colliding for a solid base hit.

Instead, it sounded exactly like a piece of wood smashing into a watermelon. The crack was disturbing, dragging both Donald and Martin fully into the moment. Together, they watched Ricky collapse to the ground, as if someone had turned the switch off on a child’s toy.

“Donnie,” Ricky whispered, and the sound of his childhood nickname shook Donald more than anything else about the situation.

“Go away, you’re dead,” Donald moaned.

“Yeah,” Ricky said, nodding. “I know. I don’t like it. You know, Mom locked all my toys away. She didn’t want to sell them. Kind of felt bad afterward. Did you know that?”

Donald shook his head.

“Huh, funny,” Ricky grinned. “Thought you would have figured it out. Dad decided you and Martin killed me by accident. Didn’t say anything about it to you, though. Wish he had.”

Donald shuddered at the thought. Their father’s hands had been large, and punishment received from them was always painful.

“You      and        Martin, you        were     always  his          favorites,            though,” Ricky continued. His grin faded, leaving a scowl behind. “Now, when I’ve been dead for so long, you decide you want to sell my toys. My toys, Donnie. Why not your own?”

Donald cleared his throat. “I’m saving them. They’re worth quite a bit. I want to, well, make sure I have them for a rainy day.”

“Huh,” Ricky muttered. He glanced at Alex. “Can I?”

“Sure,” Alex nodded. “I’m okay with it. I can do it for you, too, if you change your mind.”

Ricky gave Alex a thankful smile.

“Do what?” Donald asked, glancing from the living boy to the dead one. “Do what!”

“Kill you,” Alex said.

Ricky glanced around, frowned, and asked, “Do you have a bat in here?” “What!” Donald shrieked. “Why?”

“You killed me when you hit my head,” Ricky said over his shoulder as he vanished amongst the shelves. “I want to kill you the same way. Fair is fair, right?”

Donald got shakily to his feet. “No.” “Sit down,” Alex said.

“No,” Donald stated emphatically. “I will not! You can’t make me stay here.”

“I can!” Alex snarled, and Donald flew back again as a rush of power erupted from the boy. “I can do whatever I want, and what I want right now is for you to get what you deserve.”

“Hey, Alex!” Ricky called from the back. “I found something!”

Donald’s head thumped loudly, his vision blurred, and pain blossomed in his back.

I need to leave, he thought, his mind hazy. He leaned against the wall and used it for support as he struggled to walk. Behind him, Donald heard his dead brother talking to Alex, but Donald couldn’t understand what was being said. His brain wouldn’t comprehend the words. I think I’m really hurt.

He paused as a wave of darkness swept over his eyes. When it passed, he walked drunkenly toward the back door. Outside. Get outside. Get help.

His thoughts were disjointed, and, again, blackness smothered him. Donald’s vision cleared, and he realized, a split second too late, that he was falling. He barely had time to throw his hands up to help cushion his collapse. For an indeterminate amount of time, Donald lay on the floor, staring off to the right.

“Hey,” Ricky said, crouching down. “How you doin’?” “You’re dead,” Donald replied, his words slurred.

Ricky grinned. “Yup. You killed me.”

“Accident.” Donald licked his lips, tried to say more but failed.

“Maybe,” Ricky agreed. “Doesn’t matter. You still need to be punished.

Eye for an eye. All that stuff. It’s only fair.”

“No,” Donald muttered. “No. Not fair. You deserved it.”

Alex’s voice came from behind him, but Donald didn’t know what was said. His dead brother nodded at whatever it was.

“Alex is right,” Ricky stated, his voice cold. “I didn’t deserve anything.

Never did.”

The dead boy’s hands moved, and Donald saw Ricky held something vaguely familiar. It took his brain a moment to recognize it and come up with a name.

“Bowling pin,” Donald murmured.

“Yeah,” Ricky nodded. He held it up for Donald to see. It was a long, thin- necked pin made of dark wood. Most of the white paint was gone from it, leaving only streaks behind. “It’s hard to hold this, just so you know. I have to concentrate. Did you know Alex taught me how?”

Donald tried to shake his head, but it hurt too much. He settled for a whispered, “No.”

“Yeah,” Ricky smiled. “He told me to use his anger. His friend Timmy taught him that. You wouldn’t like Timmy. He’s a bad man. A bad man who likes being bad. I guess that’s the worst, huh?”

“Sure,” Donald whispered. “I need to go home. I don’t feel good.”

A second pair of shoes appeared, and then the boy Alex squatted beside Ricky. Alex squinted, nodded, and then grinned. “You look bad,” Alex stated. “Really bad. I think you broke something in your back when you hit the wall the second time. You might have a concussion, too.”

“It’s time for me to go,” Donald sighed, closing his eyes.

He screamed a second later as something pinched his eyelid and pulled it back. The pain was intense, driving some of the haze from his thoughts. The skin stretched a little further before it snapped into place. He covered the injured eye with his hand and opened his other eye, horrified, trying to see who had hurt him.

Alex glared at him. “You don’t get to sleep. Not yet. Not until it’s forever.”

Donald’s eye darted from Alex to Ricky. Their expressions were nearly identical in their disgust and hatred. With a tremendous amount of effort, Donald looked away from them and focused on the door to the back room, where there was a smaller exit. He reached out with both hands and pulled himself a few inches toward the room.

Both boys stood up, and the living one stepped off to one side. Alex’s voice was clear and proud when he spoke.

“Do you remember everywhere he ever hit you?” Alex asked. “Yes,” Ricky answered, his voice seething with rage.

Hands grasped Donald’s arm, and he yelled as he was flipped onto his back. Alex stood on one side and Ricky on the other. It was then that Donald focused fully upon the antique bowling pin. His dead brother gripped it tightly, and Donald knew what was going to happen.

“Don’t,” Donald begged, hating the high-pitched fear infecting the word. “Leave me alone!”

There was no smile on Ricky’s face. No grim grin of satisfaction. Instead, the dead boy wore a serious expression, one of intense focus.

“Do you remember,” Ricky whispered, “how much you liked to give me a Charley horse, Donnie?”

“That was Martin,” Donald denied. “Not me.”

“No.” Ricky shook his head. “Martin liked to give me Indian-burns on my wrists. You, you loved Charley horses. You’d walk up and yell, ‘Who won the race? Charley’s Horse!’”

“Not me,” Donald repeated.

Ricky slammed the bowling pin into Donald’s right thigh with terrible force. Donald screamed as he felt the femur break. He clutched at his leg as Ricky asked, “And do you remember that time I was on my bike? You know, the one that used to be yours? Even though you had a new one, you were angry I got your old one? So, I rode by, and you hit my knee with the handle of the rake? Do you remember that?”

Donald did. He remembered it clearly, but he shook his head violently from side to side.

“Liar,” Ricky whispered, and he smashed the bowling pin into Donald’s left knee. Like the femur on the right, the knee broke, collapsing beneath the force of the blow. Donald’s voice became raw from the screaming. He writhed and rolled across the floor, pain blinding him, his agony deafening him. Donald didn’t know how long he was ignorant of the world, but when he could think clearly again, his brother was still there.

“Alex went to get something to eat,” Ricky confided. “But he’ll be back soon. When he does, it’ll be time for me to go, Donnie. Does that make you sad?”

“No,” Donnie hissed through clenched teeth. “I hate you.”

“There’s my big brother,” Ricky nodded. “I remember that Donnie. He’s the one who made my life hell. That Donnie is the one who killed me. Killed me on purpose.”

“Where are you going to go now?” Donnie growled through clenched teeth. “Huh? You going to hang out with that boy, a dead boy stuck playing with his toys forever?”

“Yeah,” Ricky said, chuckling. “I guess so. It’s good, though. There are lots of other ghosts where Alex lives. He’s the king of them all. He goes out and looks for ghosts. Brings them home. If something bad happens, he makes sure the bad people get punished. Or, if he can, he lets the ghosts hurt the bad people.”

Ricky leaned forward, hatred dancing in his eyes. “Do you remember what you gave me for my sixth birthday, Donnie?”

“I didn’t give you anything,” Donald snarled.

“Sure, you did,” Ricky disagreed. “You broke my nose and gave me two black eyes.”

Before Donald could argue, the bowling pin crashed into his nose, flattening it across his face. He felt both orbital sockets break as well.

“You knocked out two teeth on my seventh birthday.” Ricky’s voice was barely audible above Donald’s pain. A second later the pin shattered Donald’s front teeth, driving shards of enamel into his tongue and gums.

The bell on the front door rang, and for a split second, hope blossomed in Donald’s mind. Hope that crashed and burned as he heard Alex say, “It’s time, Ricky.”

“Well,” Ricky sighed, “I’m happy I got to see you. Now, I’m happy to say goodbye.”

Ricky lifted the bowling pin over his head with both hands. The dead boy’s smile was one of pure malignancy. Terror raced through Donald as he tried to lift his hands to block the killing blow, but he was too slow.

 

The bowling pin, it seemed, was just as effective as a Louisville Slugger.

The Bassinette

 

“Do you think she’ll like it?”

Samuel looked up to Meredith and nodded. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

A relieved smile flickered across his girlfriend’s face as she sat down. “I wasn’t sure. You know, if she would even want anything from me.”

“She’s five, Meredith.” He stood up and sat beside her on the couch, taking her small hand into his. “She’s not a teen. I doubt she’s going to take sides, or that it will even be an issue. Emily knows that her mom and I don’t love each other anymore and that the divorce was the best thing for everyone. We only live a few streets away from each other.”

“Your ex, she’s not worried that I’m going to try and get Emily to call me mom, right?”

“No, she’s not. It’s a conversation we had when we were finalizing the divorce.” He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed the back of it. “Relax, sweetheart. Try to relax.”

Meredith nodded and rested her head against his shoulder as he settled back into the comfort of the couch. He let his eyes wander back to the bassinette and smiled.

“Where did you find it?”

Meredith laughed shyly. “Well, I was coming up Route 101A through Amherst where all the antique stores are and stuff. I saw this out in front of one of the newer places. I remembered you saying how much Emily loved her American Girl dolls, so I thought a bassinette would be perfect.”

“It really is fantastic.”

Her Apple Watch beeped, and she glanced at it. She groaned in dismay and straightened up. “That’s work. They need me now.”

“Now?” Samuel was unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

She smiled and gave him a quick kiss.

“Now. It’s a problem with being the only one who can troubleshoot the system. Listen, if I get done before midnight, do you want me to swing back?”

“Of course.” He grinned, getting to his feet and helping her up. “I want you to stop by even if you get out after.”

She stood up on her tiptoes, and he bent down slightly to receive her kiss. “That might not work out well for me. I still have to go back to work in the morning.” She glanced at the bassinette. “Do you think you could finish cleaning it for me?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” She kissed him again, and he walked with her to the front door. He helped her get her coat on and gave her one last, long kiss before releasing her. “See you soon. I’ll let you know when I get there.”

“Sounds good to me.”

He stood in the doorway as she walked to her car and climbed into it. The bright red Tesla started up silently, and in a moment, she was backing out of the driveway onto Merrill Street. She waved, and he did the same, watching her as she drove off into the night.

When her taillights finally turned onto Broad Street, Samuel stepped back and closed and locked the door. He went into his kitchen, set the kettle to boil, and then took down a bag of chocolate and mint cookies. Samuel ate three of them in the short space of time it took for the kettle to whistle, and then another two more while his tea steeped.

After adding a splash of cream and spoonful of honey, Samuel carried his ‘weak tea’, as his mother called it, back into his television room. He sat down in his easy chair, the one piece of furniture his ex-wife had deigned to allow him to take with him, and sipped his tea as he eyed the bassinette Meredith had purchased.

The item stood on an old towel by the fireplace, where the wood in the hearth burned slow and lazy, the embers glowing. There was a gray basin half-filled with soapy water, and several small rags beside it.

The bassinette was a curious-looking piece of furniture, and he wasn’t certain if it had originally been crafted for a doll or a baby. The wood was painted a soft blue, with a significant amount of wear on the edges. Most of the paint had worn off the rockers, and beneath a thin layer of dust and yellow stains, he could glimpse some curious motif that worked its way around all four sides of the bassinette.

The wood was thin, Samuel saw, and he found it strange that there was a wooden hood over the head of the bassinette as well. He recalled how some similar pieces had wicker hoods, and sometimes canvas or cloth pieces stretched over a thin framework of wood or wire, but he couldn’t remember seeing one made entirely of wood.

How did they shape it? he wondered, admiring the gentle curve of the arch. He smiled at the item and shook his head. Whoever had built the piece, whether for a child or a doll, they had done it well and with care. Samuel found himself wanting to clean the piece if only to see what motif was hidden beneath the dirt and staining.

He finished his tea, stood up, and asked Alexa to put on Mozart. As the strains of one of the musician’s waltzes filled the room, Samuel went and sat down beside the bassinette and picked up a cloth and dipped it into the basin of cool water. Humming along with the music, Samuel pulled the bassinette closer and started with the hood. He cleaned in slow, small circles, the water running down and cutting paths through the stains.

By the time the first waltz ended, Samuel had cleaned the entire hood, and he paused to enjoy the brightness of the blue. It glowed in the fading light of the fire, and he felt the urge to clean the rest of it. He switched out the dirty rag for a clean one and worked on the right side. Soon, he reached the first part of the motif, and he was pleased to see what looked like a face break free of the grime.

What he was able to see of the motif reminded him of the work of illustrator Arthur Rackham. There was a sense of beauty, with a hint of malice to the features. Curiosity rose within Samuel, and he worked harder at cleaning the bassinette.

He lost track of time as he cleaned, and several times he had to get fresh water for the basin. It wasn’t until the clock on the mantel struck eleven that he realized how long he had been working.

But it was done.

The bassinette stood clean and bright in the lamplight and the faint glow of the fireplace. As he sat back and examined it, Samuel saw the motif in full detail.

Goblins cavorted around the side of the bassinette.

They were not cute illustrations but rather harsh and violent. There was far more than a hint of malice in their drawn features and their small eyes. These creatures were the stuff of nightmares. They peered out between the branches of rosebushes and Hawthorn trees. They seemed to slide from one shadow to the next, and the way their eyes were drawn made Samuel feel as though they were watching him, waiting for him to acknowledge their presence.

Samuel turned the bassinette around and saw the motif was carried across all four sides, and there was not a single identical face among the goblins. They were all terrifyingly individual. He felt a chill as he touched the wood, and he retracted his hand. Samuel peered into the bassinette’s interior. Against the headrest, he saw a dark stain. It was small, perhaps no larger than a dollar bill in length and width, but it was there, and it disturbed him. As he stared at it, the stain throbbed.

He blinked and shook his head, his pulse quickening as he focused on the stain again.

Nothing happened.

He swallowed dryly, then reached into the bassinette and touched the dark mark. It was cold to the touch, but then again, all the wood was cold. The heating system hadn’t kicked in, and the embers weren’t doing much more than glow prettily in the hearth. He drew his hand back and rubbed his fingers against his leg, trying to warm them again.

Who would give this to a child? He wondered as he stood up and went to the couch. Samuel felt better putting distance between himself and the bassinette. I mean, come on, this thing is terrifying to look at.

I’m going to have to tell Meredith we need to paint it before we give it to Emily. Poor kid will have nightmares if she looks at that. I don’t think she’d put her dolls in it either.

He shook his head and sat down, picking up his cellphone and glancing at it. There were two messages from Meredith. The first told him she was safe at work, and that had been an hour and a half earlier. The second text had come only half an hour after that, and she had asked him, with a smiley face emoticon, whether he had fallen asleep on her or not.

Samuel grinned, thumbed the text and started to write back when the phone died.

He paused and blinked, confused. His phone had never died before. It had been over eighty percent charged, too.

This is a new phone; it can’t be dying. He tried powering it back up, but the phone remained dark. Frowning, he took the charger off the coffee table, and he plugged the cable into its port.

Nothing happened.

Samuel scratched the back of his head, confused, and set the phone down on the coffee table. Maybe it’ll kick in after a few minutes.

He stood up and walked to the kitchen, where the landline was. Samuel plucked the yellow handset out of the cradle, held it up to his ear, and was about to dial when he realized there wasn’t a dial tone on the other end. He jiggled the receiver, and when nothing happened, he hung up the phone.

Confused, Samuel turned around and sat at the kitchen table.

Something was off about the room.

He looked around and realized the lights were dimmer than they should have been. It was as though someone had come along and replaced his bulbs with weaker counterparts.

When was the last time there was a gray-out in Anger, New Hampshire?

Has there ever been one?

For a few years after college, Samuel had lived in San Diego, and he had experienced gray-outs and rolling blackouts during that time. While he had suffered through power outages in Anger before, he had never known the place to gradually lose power.

There was something strange and disconcerting about the lack of phone service and the slowly weakening lights.

Suddenly, Samuel found he didn’t want to be in his kitchen. He didn’t want to go back into his television room either, but he had to put out the embers. Frustrated with his own unease, Samuel walked back to the fireplace, picked up the basin of dirty water, and emptied it a little at a time over the embers. They hissed and sputtered, but they went out, the gray smoke curling up into the chimney and vanishing.

Samuel waited several minutes, just to be certain the embers were out. When he was satisfied that they were, he put the basin down and gave the bassinette a wide berth.

The eyes of the goblins were following him.

Samuel went up to his room and prepared for bed. When he finished and eased himself between the covers, pulling the heavy blanket up around his neck, he shivered. The shivering worsened as he lay there, and then, as he tried to control his body, he realized he could see his own breath, and that he couldn’t hear the heating system.

Did it die?

He groaned and got out of bed, angrily pulling on socks and tugging on his slippers. Samuel hesitated, then put on his bathrobe for good measure. When he stepped into the hallway, he felt as though something was off about it. With an unsettled sensation burrowing into his stomach, he walked to the wall plate and flipped the light switch up.

Nothing happened.

He tried it several more times until he came to the unfortunate conclusion that all his lights were out on the second floor.

Did I lose power? He glanced out the window at the end of the hallway and saw the Kodiaks, who lived in the house next door, had their power. He knew they had a generator, so he listened for it.

The telltale rumble of the gasoline-powered generator was absent.

This is ridiculous. What the hell happened to my place? Everything’s paid. The cable bill, phone bill, power. I know there’s oil in the tank, I had it filled last week.

Growing angrier, Samuel hurried down the steps, reached the first floor, and went directly to the basement. He snatched up his flashlight from its hook just inside the doorway and turned it on. The light illuminated the stairs for a moment and then died.

Samuel stared at the flashlight in disbelief for a moment before he swore at it in disgust. Hanging it back up, he turned around and went to the stove. Ambient light from the Kodiaks’ exterior light filtered in through the windows over the sink, and he was able to take down one of his emergency candles and the box of matches he kept with them. Within a minute, Samuel had the candle lit, and he carried it, and the matches, with him into the basement.

The flickering light of the candle added a surreal visual tone to his trip through the darkness of the basement. He went directly to the furnace and tried to see what was wrong, if it was the pilot light or something else.

Bending down, Samuel saw the pilot light was still lit, but the electric switch wasn’t engaging. His thermostat, which was one of the newer, app- controlled devices, was evidently failing to tell its counterpart that he was freezing.

I can’t even call anyone because my damned phones aren’t working, he thought, getting to his feet. He stomped his way up the stairs and back into his kitchen, slamming the basement door behind him. Samuel glanced out his window at the Kodiaks’ house. Nearly all the windows on the first floor of their house were lit. He knew that Bob and Marie Kodiak were night owls, and they would invariably be up, more than likely drinking coffee despite the lateness of the hour. An urge to go outside and ask to use their phone welled up within him, but shame and embarrassment swept it aside. He had known them for less than two months, and he didn’t want to make his first social call because he was having issues with his home.

No, it’s not that cold in here. Not at all. I’ll start a fire in the hearth, bring my blankets down, and close the door. It’ll keep it warm enough in there until daylight, then I can ask to use someone’s phone.

He shivered and considered, briefly, about getting in his car and driving to his ex’s house, although he felt some doubt as to whether she might be awake, and if she would even let him in.

Like the visit to the Kodiaks’, this idea, too, was shoved aside.

Samuel didn’t need his ex thinking he wasn’t capable of providing the basic necessities living on his own. The divorce had been less than amicable, and he knew she was seeking a way to limit his time with his daughter.

Blankets and fireplace it is, he thought.

Carrying the candle, Samuel went into the television room and built a fire, waiting until it was burning well before he left to gather his bedding.

He returned a few minutes later and made up a bed on the couch. Feeling somewhat better about the situation, Samuel closed the door to the television room to keep the heat in, then paused by the fireplace.

The goblins on the bassinette were watching him.

No, that’s not going to work, he thought, and he picked up the bassinette. The wood was painfully cold in his hands, and he hastened it to a darkened corner, placing it as far as he could. When he sat down on the couch, he peered at it and was pleased that while the bassinette’s hood was still visible, the goblins were not.

He felt an odd sense of relief over that and laid down. Pulling the blankets up over him, he watched the logs burn, and he listened to them as they popped and cracked. The faint scent of burning wood was both pleasant and soothing, easing his mind about the situation he found himself in. Warmth returned to him as he lay there, and he closed his eyes, finally relaxing. The situation wasn’t as bad as he had feared.

If it does get worse, I’ll bite the bullet and find a place to stay for the rest of the night, he thought, yawning. But really, it shouldn’t come to that. Not at all.

Exhaustion pulled at his mind, dragging him down towards slumber. Faintly, Samuel heard a scratching sound. The damned tree limbs, he thought. I need to trim the branches back on the old elm tree by Emily’s window.

His eyes snapped open as he came fully awake.

There aren’t trees around this house. Not close enough to hear.

The fire was smaller, the number of embers far larger than the amount of wood left in the hearth. Samuel could still hear the creaking, and he wondered what was happening.

It almost sounds like it’s coming from inside the room, he thought, and then he stiffened as he saw the bassinette.

The hood, barely visible in the darkness, moved back and forth as though the entire piece was rocking.

Goblins.

The word shook him, and he sat up violently, throwing the covers off himself and snatching up the candle and matches. His hands trembled as he lit the candle and held it aloft. He half expected to see the goblins gathered around the bassinette, frozen and caught in the act of climbing out of the furniture’s side.

There were no goblins, and Samuel let out a tremulous sigh of relief. But the bassinette was still rocking to either side.

That needs to be out of here, he thought, getting to his feet. In fact, I’m going to put it in the garage until morning.

Samuel took a step toward it and froze.

There was something dark in the bassinette. A shape that shouldn’t have been there, not even with the shadows created by the flames of the fireplace.

Is that an animal? Did something get into the house and then into the damned bassinette? Are you kidding me! How much worse can this night get! “Hey!” He clapped his hands and walked to the door, throwing it open.

“Get out of here!”

The door slammed shut, and he jumped back, his heart racing madly and thundering against his breastbone.

He reached out for the doorknob, grasped it, then jerked his hand back, swearing. The metal had been cold enough to cause him to tear off some of the skin from his fingers and palm. Samuel glanced at the bassinette and saw it was no longer moving, although the shape was still in it.

He took a cautious step toward it and thought, I can open a window and chase it out that way. I’ll worry about the door in a minute or two. One thing at a time, and whatever’s in the bassinette is priority here.

Samuel glanced at the fireplace and the brass poker there. He took several small steps toward it, his eyes never leaving the bassinette. When he reached the poker, he picked it up awkwardly with his uninjured hand. Gripping it firmly, he stepped toward the bassinette again.

“Get out!”

He swung at the bassinette and slammed the end of the poker against the foot of it. There was a dull clank of metal against wood, and the creature sat up. It crawled toward the end of the bassinette, and the firelight illuminated its face.

Samuel found himself looking at the gaunt face of a child, perhaps no more than two. He couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. Its hair was light blonde, and it wore a gray shift. It gripped the end of the bassinette. As Samuel watched, the child pulled itself through the wooden foot and tumbled out onto the floor.

It squinted at him and hissed, revealing yellow and stained jagged teeth. The child’s tongue was a bluish color, and its entire body quivered as it rose unsteadily to its feet.

Before he could stop himself, Samuel screamed and brought the poker smashing down onto the head of the child.

But the brass passed through it and bounced off the floor, the impact sending reverberations up through Samuel’s arms. The child shrieked at him and lurched forward on unsteady legs.

Confused and desperate, he kicked out at the child, but as his foot passed through it, pain shot through his leg and sent him tumbling to the floor. Samuel’s chin slammed into the wood and drove his teeth into one another. He shrieked as a tooth snapped, bits of enamel flying onto his tongue. Gasping for breath with his heart fluttering, he rolled away from the child and tried to stand.

The child was upon him in an instant.

Small hands tore at his face. Icy fingers gripped his nostrils and pulled viciously at them. Samuel tried to smack the child to drive it off him, but nothing worked. His hands only encountered the bone-chilling cold that his foot had.

Samuel managed to get to his feet, and the child fell away. With his face numb and pain flaring up from his broken tooth, he twisted around and snatched up an antique clothes iron from the mantle. The heavy piece of metal was comforting in his hand, and as the child launched itself at him, Samuel threw the iron.

It passed through the child, causing it to vanish even as the iron crashed onto the floor.

Panting, Samuel looked around, desperately trying to see where the child was.

But he couldn’t see it.

The only movement came from the flames as they devoured the logs. The only sound was coming from the fire.

Samuel turned toward the closed door and walked stiffly to it. He reached out for the doorknob and, glancing to the side, saw that the bassinette was rocking.

I don’t know what’s going on, but I need to leave here. My tooth. I have to go to the hospital or someplace. My tooth.

Samuel reached out, tried again to take hold of the doorknob, and howled with agony as the cold metal bit into his flesh again. Ripping his hand back, he cradled it to his chest and stumbled back. He went to the fireplace and sank down to his knees, extending his injured hand toward the warmth of the fire.

As he did so, he caught movement in the corner of his eye.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he turned toward the bassinette. It was no longer rocking.

As he stared at it, the child sat up, eyes fixed upon him. The small hands grasped the edge of the bassinette, and the child slowly pulled itself through the wooden furniture until it once more stood on the floor. Its feet were hidden by the ragged hem of its shift, and it tilted its head to look at him, as though the child wasn’t quite sure that Samuel was there.

It took a step toward him, and Samuel whimpered, shrinking back. “Please,” he whispered, wincing as his tongue brushed against the broken

tooth. “I just want to leave. That’s it.”

The child looked at the door, and Samuel nodded vigorously. “Yes. That’s all I want!”

The child stepped toward him again, and Samuel forced himself to remain still. A teasing, playful smile spread across the child’s face, revealing once more the vile teeth hidden behind its lips.

Samuel smiled back and nodded. “Yeah. I just want to go away, okay?” The child laughed, an oddly pleasant sound that reminded him of Emily.

Samuel’s shoulders relaxed, and, despite his broken tooth, his smile widened. He got to his feet, still holding his hand to his chest. Cautiously, he stepped toward the child, who continued smiling.

With his head pounding, Samuel took another step closer to the door, passing the child. When nothing happened, he reached for the door and screamed as pain exploded in the back of his knee, knocking him to the floor.

The child, laughing, scrambled up Samuel’s side, grabbed hold of his eyelid, and peeled it up, smiling down at him. “No,” Samuel whimpered.

The child cooed and thrust its hand deep into Samuel’s eye.

 

Pain and the sound of his own shrieks ushered him into darkness.

The Girl in the Window

 

Jimmy Hsu knew haunted houses existed. Jimmy had high functioning autism, and his rationale was simple, if there was one haunted house, then there had to be other haunted houses. And he knew where one was.

The Tinker House, off Elm Street, was haunted. Everyone in school said it was. A few people bragged that they had gone up onto the porch. Michelle Sneed told everyone she had opened the door.

Jimmy didn’t believe them. They never produced evidence. Jimmy didn’t have a cellphone anymore, not after his parents discovered he had used it to call himself in sick. He hadn’t been able to inform them that he had skipped school to kill a vampire. They wouldn’t have believed him. And while he no longer had a phone to use, almost everyone else at Anger Middle School did. Michelle had the new iPhone 11 with its cameras that looked like spider eyes.

No one took pictures. Not even their friends, who could stand at the street and do it without ever having to go onto the property.

No. Jimmy Hsu didn’t believe his classmates when they said it was haunted. He knew they said it because the house was empty. There were no curtains on the windows, and several of them were broken. The dull red front door hung crookedly in its frame, and the roof of the long porch sagged in the middle. Long strips of gray paint had peeled from walls and hung like dead vines to the sun-burnt grass around the house’s cracked foundation.

The Tinker House was surrounded by an open swath of yard, and despite the lack of shade, it was always cold when he stood on the sidewalk and looked at the building. And Jimmy could see someone in the house each time he stood and examined it from the safety of the sidewalk.

It was a girl. He thought she was his age, and she never appeared happy. Whenever he saw her, she was in the window to the left of the door, peering at him through a cracked pane of glass. Occasionally she would fade away. She didn’t back into the shadows or sink down below the windowsill. The girl simply faded, as though someone shook an Etch A Sketch and erased her image from the world.

For two years, ever since he had started at Anger Middle School, he had seen her.

But as he stood and looked across the yard of dead grass to the house, he couldn’t see her. There was no sign of the girl, and the house appeared darker.

Jimmy didn’t like it.

For several more minutes, Jimmy stood on the sidewalk with the August sun beating down on him. Sweat gathered on the nape of his neck and slipped down to the collar of his plain gray T-shirt. A warm wind picked up, ruffled his hair, and the shirt. He could smell lilacs and the heavy scent of roses.

From the Tinker House, a chill seeped out, crawled over the ground, and nipped at his toes through his old, dirty white sneakers and climbed up the jeans he wore.

Jimmy ignored it as he worked out the problem in front of him.

The girl is gone.

She never looked happy. This place is bad.

Jimmy put his hands behind his back and clasped them loosely together. He closed his eyes and thought. I need to help the girl come back. I need to help the girl be happy. I need to know why the house is bad.

Jimmy opened his eyes and turned to his left. He walked as fast as he could to the library, knowing that if any of his classmates saw him running, they might give chase. For some reason he couldn’t understand, they found it fun to run after him.

So, Jimmy made a point of not running.

In a few minutes, he entered the Anger Library and walked to the man who stood behind the desk.

The man smiled at Jimmy. “Good morning, what can I help you with?”

Jimmy returned the smile. “My name is Jimmy Hsu, and I would like to find out about the Tinker House.”

“Well, Jimmy Hsu, my name is Dan Tate, and let's see what we can find out. Follow me.”

Dan walked from around the desk, limping slightly as he went. He moved at a slow pace, which Jimmy found irritating until he saw the grimace of pain on the man’s face.

This hurts him. With that realization, Jimmy was no longer irritated. Instead, he adjusted his steps accordingly, and soon they stood before a small room with a locked door. Dan produced a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and then propped it open before he turned on the lights. The smell of old books and even older paper wafted out of the room and Jimmy smiled.

Knowledge and information clung to the odor, and Jimmy loved them both.

“This is part of Anger’s history. There are stories and journals, letters, and ledgers. Everything you could want. I am certain we’ll find something about the Tinker House in here.” Dan smiled broadly and Jimmy saw some of his teeth were missing.

I wonder if he was in an accident. It is interesting to notice the injuries he sustained. It would be better to be able to attribute those to a  specific incident.

Jimmy smiled and focused his attention on the gathered books and papers. “Where should we start?”

“Over on the left wall is everything that has to do with the town from after the eighteen-hundreds. I’m going to search on the right. There are some street plans as well as some family histories.” Dan smiled at him. “Does that sound like a plan?”

Jimmy nodded. “Yes.”

Without another word, he walked to his assigned side of the collection, took down the first book, and flipped through it. When he didn’t see anything regarding the Tinker House, he replaced the book and moved on to the next. He kept up the process steadily, and he was nearly through the second shelf when Dan cleared his throat.

Jimmy understood it was a polite way to get someone’s attention, so he turned and looked at Dan. The man held a slim journal in his hand and smiled. “I think this may have something.”

Jimmy stepped forward and accepted the book from him. “May I check this book out, please?”

“No, I’m sorry. Books in this room have to be read in here. I could set this aside if you need to come back later.”

“I have the time now,” Jimmy replied, sitting down at a small desk. Dan chuckled. “Alright. Well, you come on up and find me if you need something, okay, Jimmy?”

“Yes, I will.”

Jimmy turned his attention to the book as Dan left. On the cover, stamped with gold lettering, was the title, Bernard Tinker, Truth Seeker.

Jimmy opened the book and turned to the first printed page.

This journal is a small collection of information regarding the mysteries I have sought to uncover and examine throughout my life. I have sought to pierce the veil, to move beyond this reality and these physical sensibilities. I have found a door to another place, and I will show you how I have used my daughter to move into this separate world.

Jimmy read the last line several times. Used my daughter. His daughter must be the girl I see.

He turned the pages and sought more information, but there was little that made sense. Most of the writing revolved around the proper chemicals used to open a door into another world, and what type of wood should be used when building a special door. Jimmy’s head ached as he read it, not quite certain Bernard Tinker had been sane when he had written his book.

Near the end of the book, Jimmy found several photographs were pasted in. The old photos were yellowed with age, and the first few were images of the exterior of the house, which was in far better shape. A tall man with stooped shoulders and with light-colored hair that hung to his collar dominated the photographs. In the last image, there was a woman and a girl beside the man. The woman’s eyes were unnaturally bright, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, making it seem that her hair had been soaked and pressed against her head. She wore a long black dress with a white apron, and her hands were held behind her back.

To the woman’s left stood a small girl, the same one he saw in the window. The legend beneath the photograph read, Myself, My Wife, Elizabeth, Our

Daughter, Rachel.

Jimmy closed the book and looked at it.

Her name is Rachel.

Standing up, Jimmy left the book on the table and exited the room. He walked to the front desk and waited patiently for several minutes before Dan appeared from a set of shelves.

“Is everything alright?” Dan asked.

Jimmy nodded. “Yes. How can I find out when someone died? The few places on the internet charge for such a service.”

Dan smiled. “I have something better. Anger, for some reason, keeps a list of the death of every Anger resident, whether the death took place in town as well as those which occurred out of town. Follow me.”

Jimmy did so, and instead of walking to the small room, they went to a low series of shelves, on the top of which was a large book opened to the center. It was tabulated, and when Jimmy stepped up, Dan asked, “Do you know who you want to look up?”

Jimmy nodded. “Rachel Tinker.”

He watched as Dan flipped to the proper tab, opened it, and searched the pages until he came to the name.

Dan cleared his throat. “Tinker, Rachel J. Born August 1st, 1900. Missing, August 1st, 1912. Never found, presumed dead.”

Dan shook his head. “That’s absolutely terrible.”

“Yes.” Jimmy looked up at the man. “Thank you very much for your help. I appreciate it.”

Dan offered a small smile and nodded. “You’re quite welcome, Jimmy. Come back anytime. Good luck with whatever you’re doing.”

Jimmy nodded and left the library. He walked home and let himself in the back door. Both his parents were at work, and they considered twelve old enough to remain home without a babysitter.

Jimmy appreciated that, and he did nothing to jeopardize the trust. He enjoyed being alone. He preferred it. School was always difficult. Some of the teachers treated him differently because of his autism. He knew some of the other students did as well.

At home, no one bothered him. At home, Jimmy could think.

He went to the refrigerator and took out a jar of pickles. Jimmy put three on a plate, then he added a handful of barbecue potato chips. As he toasted two slices of bread, he ate one of the pickles. When he spread peanut butter over the toast, he ate the second pickle. Then, as he cut the sandwich in half, he ate the final pickle.

Jimmy poured a glass of milk and carried his drink and food to the table.

He ate in silence, enjoying the flavor of the barbecue chips and the texture of the toast against his tongue as he alternated a bite of sandwich for a potato chip. After three of each, he sipped at his milk. By the time he finished his food, his mind was clear.

I have read about ghosts.

It was a true statement, one he was satisfied with. He knew he had not read all there was to read about ghosts, but he knew that he had read a significant amount the summer before last. There had been a different librarian at the time. She had been a nice woman. Her name had been Diane.

What do I know about ghosts?

He reviewed the information quickly. There were various theories as to why ghosts stayed back. People who died badly. Others who didn’t realize they were dead. Some who thought they needed to finish something. Jimmy remembered reading about some ghosts who weren’t anything more than an echo of the past.

He believed it was a mixture of everything. No one was right, no one was wrong.

Why is Rachel a ghost?

Jimmy contemplated the question for a few minutes, and then he decided he didn’t need to know the answer to that. He wasn’t sure it had anything to do with the greater mystery, which was what had happened to her ghost.

Something bad happened to her. Someone didn’t like her looking out the window. Who would that someone be?

Jimmy suspected it would be either her mother or her father.

Father. His thoughts weren’t normal. Jimmy stared down at his empty plate, frowning as he concentrated. If he wasn’t normal, and he did something bad to his daughter again, he will do something bad to me if I go in the house.

How do I stop him?

Jimmy closed his eyes and reviewed everything he read about ghosts. Soon he had a series of items in mind that might, if the writings had been true, help him protect himself from the ghost of Rachel’s father.

Salt will stop a ghost. Lead will stop one, too. I think iron will hurt them. Or at least make them go away for a little bit. I do not know for how long. Jimmy opened his eyes and stood up. He brushed the crumbs off the plate and into the trash before putting all the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. Then, he went down into the basement and rummaged through the odds and ends his father kept in a small room off to the left of the furnace. His father kept almost every bit of metal he had ever come across. Once, when Jimmy was younger, he had asked his father why.

Metal, his father had informed him, can always be turned into money. I bought our car with copper and brass scraps I had been gathering since before you were born. People will always buy metal.

Jimmy ignored the bins with copper and those with brass. He passed by the aluminum container and the steel. Instead, he went to a large Rubbermaid barrel half-filled with an assortment of metal that was either too dirty to be cleaned, or some other metal his father hadn’t gotten around to examining.

Adjusting the overhead light, Jimmy peered into the barrel, eyeing the contents for a piece of readily visible iron. At first, the only item he saw was an old tire iron. Then, he spotted a half-buried railroad spike. Both were too large to carry in the open. Bringing them in a bag might be dangerous. Ghosts could, he recalled, range up to a mile away from where they haunted.

The stronger ones go even farther. What if her father is strong? Or, if it is her mother, it could still be dangerous to be unprepared.

Jimmy disliked being unprepared.

He leaned over the barrel and removed some of the larger items, careful not to scratch himself on any sharp and rusted edges. Jimmy had heard of children and adults getting sick from rusted metal, and he had no desire to be sick. He hated throwing up.

Removing an aluminum baseball bat with tape around the handle, Jimmy heard a rattle. He peered in and saw several nails on an old Vermont license plate. The nails were strange, square cut, and short. He tilted his head as he sought the name for them.

Coffin nails. Used for floors. Iron. Driven in and then cleated.

Jimmy smiled. Iron.

He reached in and withdrew three nails. They were cold and heavy in his palm, and his smile broadened. He put one in each front pocket, and then the last in the back pocket of his pants.

Jimmy returned everything he had removed to the barrel before he went back upstairs. He poured a glass of water, drank it, and then searched the cabinets for salt. In the cabinet beside the refrigerator, Jimmy found an unopened box of iodized salt. He took a Ziploc sandwich bag from a box of the same, filled the bag a quarter of the way, and then sealed it. This he added to his other back pocket, and then he put the salt away. He felt sufficiently prepared.

A glance at the clock showed it was one past one. His parents wouldn’t be home until four.

I have plenty of time to go to the Tinker House and find out what happened to Rachel.

Jimmy left his home and walked back toward town. He focused on Rachel, but he did not let his concern for the dead girl consume him. Jimmy understood that fear and worry would cause him to make poor decisions, and so he didn’t allow them any access to his thought process.

When he was a short distance from the Tinker House, he came to a stop.

Several of his classmates, their eyes wild with fear and their tanned faces pale, were racing towards him.

“Run, Jimmy!” Eddie Brewer yelled as he passed by. “Michelle went into the house, and she didn’t come out.”

Jimmy did run, but it wasn’t away from Rachel’s house. It was towards it.

His feet slapped the sidewalk noisily, his body awkward as he raced along the concrete. Jimmy wasn’t athletic, and each step sent twinges of pain into his calves and thighs. His chest tightened, and a cramp formed beneath his right ribcage. In a matter of seconds, he was out of breath, but he didn’t slow down. He could see the Tinker House and the path of crushed grass leading from the sidewalk to the front of the house.

The door was open, and the darkness beyond it looked unnatural, as though someone had taken a can of paint and sprayed it on a piece of wood.

Jimmy didn’t slow down as he veered off the sidewalk and onto the property. Fear was growing in him, and he knew that if he stopped before he was in the house, he wouldn’t be able to go in.

There are two people who need me. One living. One dead.

As the thought finished, he was through the doorway and in the bitterly cold interior of the Tinker House. He skidded to a stop and waited, counting his heartbeats as his eyes adjusted to the almost impenetrable darkness. As shapes and items came into focus, he moved his head from side to side, his nostrils flaring as he took in the plethora of scents.

There was the subtle odor of wood rot and the sharp tang of decomposing leaves. But there was no animal matter in the air.

Animals don’t like ghosts.

He registered the thought and peered at the odds and ends of furniture littering the room, each tucked up against a wall. Some of the items were cast-offs. Broken chairs and a mattress. Only a pair of tables and a lamp appeared as though they might have been there when the Tinkers had occupied the home.

With his vision sharpening, Jimmy tried to see where Michelle might be. He caught a glimpse of a white Nike sneaker, and when he stepped closer,

he was pleased to see the rest of Michelle was there as well. Hurrying to her, Jimmy slipped a hand into his back pocket and extracted the iron nail. He held it tightly as he knelt down beside her.

Michelle’s face was pale, her eyelids fluttering. When Jimmy touched her cheek, her eyes snapped open and she screamed.

He flinched but remained by her side.

Her eyes fixed on him, focused, and only then did she stop screaming.

When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. “Jimmy Hsu?”

He nodded, took her hand, and pressed the iron nail into her palm. “Hold this. You have to leave the house. If a ghost tries to stop you, push your hand with this nail against it. Yes?”

She looked at him, confused.

“Do you understand?” He raised his voice, hating the sound of it, but knowing it was a necessity.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He helped her to her feet. “Go outside and get warm. Don’t let anyone stop you.”

“What about you?”

“I have to find Rachel.” He shooed Michelle toward the door and watched her leave. Once she was out safely, Jimmy turned his attention back to the house. His eyes were better. He could see details on the walls. A few photographs and a painting hung here and there. His eyes were drawn toward the only door in the room.

The door was closed over, but not shut.

The basement. He took her down there. It is where he would have done his experiments.

Jimmy patted the pocket with the salt, reassuring himself that it was there, and then he took out one of the remaining nails. Holding the iron in his hand, he was surprised to find his palm was clammy.

I am more afraid than I thought I would be. He registered the information, then set it aside to be examined later when the work in the basement was done.

I will focus on Rachel and only Rachel.

Jimmy  walked  to  the  basement  door,  opened  it,  and  stepped  back, surprised  at  the  cold  air  that  seeped  out  of  the  doorway.  When  he  had adjusted himself to the cold, he peered down into the darkness and realized he should have brought a candle. As he stood at the top of the steps, debating on the best way to approach the situation, he was pleased to see a bit of light. It wasn’t much, and he suspected it came from one of the basement windows.

If there are clouds, or if the sun shifts too much while I am down there, it will be dark. I won’t be able to see.

The thought of being trapped in the blackness bit at his stomach and clawed its way up his spine. It took Jimmy almost a minute to regain control over himself, and when he did, his heart was beating hard and fast against his chest.

He reached out, took hold of a rough wooden banister, and descended into the basement. He could smell dust and mildew, but on the first floor, there was no hint of animal life. Jimmy examined the room around him, carefully registering where everything was in relation to his position. He saw a furnace and across the room from it was a coal bin. The door to the coal chute was broken, and it was from there that the light source emanated.

Along the entirety of the right wall was a table. Strange pieces of radios and vacuum tubes were attached to it, and there was a layer of dust over every item.

That was his work area, Jimmy concluded, and then he turned away.

Where did he do the experiment, though? Where did he send her away?

At the far edge of the basement, only hinted at by the light from the coal chute, there stood a long closet. Three doors were awkwardly hung, but evenly spaced, and as Jimmy neared them, he could make out words carved upon each.

In, read the first.

Out was on the second.

Nowhere, read the third.

Jimmy scratched his head and tried to understand the rationale. Which door did he send her through?

He yelped as the Nowhere door rattled in its frame, and a man’s furious voice punched through the wood.

“Let me out, damn you! This isn’t right!” The rage in the man was impossible to miss, and Jimmy took a cautious step back.

“Woman!” the unseen man screamed. “Let me out!”

Jimmy reached into his pocket and took out his other nail. Clutching one in each hand, he straightened and opened his mouth to speak.

“Step back, child.”

The voice came from behind Jimmy and caused him to whirl around.

He saw the ghost of Rachel, and, if the photograph in the book had been correct, he was also looking at her mother.

The dead woman smiled tightly and motioned Jimmy to step away from the doors.

Jimmy did so, his eyes darting from Rachel to the dead woman.

Rachel smiled at him, and Jimmy, still tense, forced a smile in return. “What is your name?” Rachel asked, and Jimmy told her. She looked at her mother. “He would always wave to me.”

The dead woman’s smile was bright and pleased.

“It has taken me decades to find my way back to my daughter,” she explained. Her expression became dour and angry. “My husband refused to send me in after her, and so I went without his knowledge. Yesterday, I returned, only to discover he had managed to remain behind after death. Not to comfort our child, but to send her through the doors time and time again.”

Rachel’s smile faltered, and she pressed closer to her mother, who wrapped a protective arm around her.

“This morning, as he prepared to send her into the other door again,” the dead woman continued, “I pushed him in.”

The dead man screamed and pounded on the door.

Rachel winced and then frowned. Looking up to her mother, she said, “He shouldn’t be so loud. There are creatures between the walls, and they don’t like noise.”

Her mother smiled bitterly. “He is an inquisitive man, Rachel. Let him learn this lesson on his own.”

Rachel nodded, and both ghosts returned their attention to Jimmy. “Why are you here, Jimmy?” her mother asked.

“I was concerned for Rachel when she was no longer in the window.”

The dead woman tilted her head slightly, a small smile playing on her face. “Did I hear you correctly, young man?”

Jimmy nodded.

Rachel beamed at him.

“I thought you had entered the house on a dare,” the dead woman continued. “If Anger is the same as it was when I was alive, children often went into houses where spirits were said to linger. I suspect that was the reason for the other child’s entry into our home.”

Jimmy frowned, slightly confused, then he nodded. “Michelle. Yes, probably. Your home is known to be haunted.”

“I’m sure it is.” The dead woman chuckled. “I am impressed and thankful that you cared enough for a stranger, and a dead one at that, to come and investigate her veering from the norm.”

Jimmy put his hands into his pockets and released the iron nails. “I am glad she is safe.”

“More than safe, Jimmy,” the mother replied, putting her hand on Rachel’s head.

As his adrenaline emptied into the pit of his stomach, causing nausea, Jimmy smiled awkwardly at the two ghosts. “Will I see you in the window?”

The girl nodded and glanced at her mother, who smiled. To Jimmy, Rachel asked, “Will you come and visit again?”

The question surprised him. No one ever wanted him around. “Yes. I would like to.” He scratched his head. “When?” “Whenever you want,” her mother replied.

 

A proud, happy feeling swept over Jimmy, and smiling, he waved goodbye before ascending the stairs and leaving the cool comfort of Tinker House.