Brrda, Savage Savior of the Secret Land

Deep in the frozen heart of Canada lies a small pocket of forest that looks as though it is a child of the great Amazon, separated from its mother by centuries of ice and civilization. Protected from satellites by forces that mankind will not soon grasp, this land has remained largely untouched by modern humans. To many it is just a myth, but to thousands of magnificent monsters and beasts it is home.

To others it is merely a place to rest and catch an exotic bite to eat. Every year, when Summer has taken the chill from the air, they make their journey North from the forests of Washington and Oregon. Neither man nor ape, but mistaken for both. Orange beasts with savage tempers, and a taste for brutalized meat.

Even the bears know better than to set foot on the paths cut by these beasts. Their numbers and versatility make them dangerous enough, but these are no small beasts. Their muscle is packed so densely that they are unable to swim, trapped in the river murk by their own elephantine strength.

A number of these monsters are gathered now in a rare clearing of the forests of the Secret Land. Despite their shaggy coats, the humidity does not bother them. The array of orange hues sewn into their fur helps to hide them from the eyes of their quarry. In this case a small monkey with bulbous eyes more accustomed to the winter's endless night than the blinding rays of summer.

Unfortunately for them, this monkey happens to be under the care of Brrda the Savage, the only man to set foot in the Secret Lands for forty years. He watches them from above, quickly climbing from branch to branch of the ancient trees. There are three beasts, all of them males. If even one notices Brrda before he strikes it will be over in a matter of seconds.

He is very cautious with the first, dangling from a low branch and strangling it with his legs. It tries to bite him, but its teeth merely slice the flesh. The struggle begins to take a turn for the worst as Brrda realizes that its neck is thick for him to choke or break. He releases the tree, using his powerful legs to sit himself atop its shoulders. It roars desperately. Not a threat. A call for help.

They arrive before the call is even complete. Brrda knows he must end this quickly, or they will eat him alive. He grabs the sabre tooth that dangles from a thin string around his neck and drives it into the eye of his perch. It hollers for a bit, with such terror that its fellows dive into the bushes. Then it collapses, silently heaving its few last breaths.

The others return from the brush as Brrda retrieves the tooth. They're on him before he can turn around. But it's a ruse! Brrda lashes out, shaving the flesh off the chest of one beast and rolling between its staggering legs.

The unharmed monster, too slow to change the course of its actions, crashes through its hunting-brother. Their attention turns, and Brrda knows to make for the trees. The two beasts toss one another through ferns and thickets, gouging eyes, ripping noses, and snapping away fingers like twigs. Their cries carry through the Secret Lands like thunder.

Brrda allows himself a moment of relaxation. They won't be back. The forest is safe. For the moment.

Rise of the Undead King

For more than a thousand years he'd slumbered in his tomb, undisturbed by human kind. Tucked deep within the steamy jungle of the Secret Lands, his temple stood as the final monument of an ancient time. A time when humans served The Great Ones and mortals dared not proclaim themselves kings. Mortals, that is, except for King Mrrda.

Lying in a sarcophogaus of gold, his skeletal remains slept peacefuly, dreaming of the great land they had carved when fleshed. Unable to ascend, but unbothered by this fact. Blanketed by worldly treasures and jewels, King Mrrda had all the eternal comforts a dead man could need. Then came the distant echoe of footsteps grinding in the pyramid's wet and gravelled halls.

It is at this point that man returned to this ancient place in the form of a portly grave robber named Dave Tycoon. More commonly known as "Turd," for his greed was only a shadow of the oder of his sweat, and his morals were well-known to smell no more pleasant.

Grinning with teeth yellow, but distinctly not gold, Tycoon scrambled into the King's private chambers. Sapphires and rubies, emeralds and pears, silver and quartz, and of course gold, gold, gold reflected off his eyes. Piles like none the man had ever seen, and neither had the scrawny young man that trotted up beside him, jaw slacked as the jewels lit upon his face.

"Teeheeheehee," giggled the grave thief, rubbing his meaty hands together. Thick drool dribbled into his beard.

"We shouldn't be here," the young man whispered, continuing to stare in awe.

"Of course I should," Tycoon grunted. "This was meant for me to find. Meant to be my legacy. But you're half right."

The stout man swung his jungle-knife. The young man crumpled. The gold floor became red. Tycoon sneered and spat his cigarette upon the corpse. "You shouldn't be here."

"It's mine!" He cheered, kneeling in a pile of coins. They all wore the face of King Mrrda, but of course Tycoon didn't know it. Nor did he particularly care. They disappeared into his travel bag, along with fistfuls of rubies, lazulis, and other rare stones. Not until the bag strap burned into his shoulder and gems toppled out the sides did he cease his harvest. He waddled off, giving the remaining treasures (of which there were many. Far more than he could carry in even a hundred trips.) a longing glance over his shoulder.

The sarcophagus shuttered. The coins upon which it rested avalanched down, spilling across the chamber floor. Then it spilled after them, the entire golden bed cascading down a mountain of gold. The stone slabs rushed up to meet it, and they came together with an unearthly crunch that rang through the temple, reaching the ears of the vacated Tycoon.

From the wreckage burst the undead king. No meat on his bones, nor clothes of any sort. It was he in his most stark, risen by the curse of his treasure and gold. Rage rocked around his offwhite skull, pointing the way to what was his. With a snarl he snatched a sword from the room (one he, for a moment, recalled fondly as the jeweld sabre with which he'd slain a rival king. He took a moment to admire the beautiful sapphire in its hilt.) and stomped into the jungle.

His rage lit the way as he crashed through the foliage and followed the obvious path left by the fat fiend. Lightfooted and undistracted, it took no time for he to find the now-terrified Tycoon. The man's fat feet fumble, felling him. Mud splattered up over his expensive gear and clothes. He scrambled on his back, pleading for his life. The undead king raised up his sword.

Tycoon threw the bag. Gold coins and shimmering jewels scattered at the king's feet. He lower his sword and shoved them into the bag, which he hoisted over his bony shoulder with ease. He shot a glare at Tycoon, grunted savagely.

Then he stopped.

The humidity hugged his bones with tender warmth. Somewhere not terribly far off chattered birds and apes, sounds he did not recognize. The smell of a rare bloom, a type of pink and purple flower, rolled in his skull. There was something pleasant about the mud squashing between his toes. He took it all in, drinking up the sun's forest-shattered rays. With a deep breath he inhaled all he had forgotten about life.

Mrrda, the once mighty king, tossed the bag of gold back at the thief.

"Keep it," he snarled. Sheathing the sabre between his ribs, the king marched off. After millenia of endless slumber, he was finally awake.

Web of Bloom

There are many mysterious things lurking among the trees. A man could live his whole life in a jungle and never stumble upon half of what exists there. Usually this is not a bad thing. Those which you cannot find are those which cannot eat you. Unless, of course, they find you first.

A web spans the length of the jungle floor, waiting patiently to trap its prey. On most days it catches stupid and unfortunate animals. Squirrels, mice, the occasional dumbstruck deer. Very rarely does it catch anything of note. Not because it can't, but because it prefers not to be seen. It blends so perfectly with the foliage that no creature has ever witnessed it.

It is aware of all beings which exist in the jungle. There is no creature which does not tickle its strings. All-seeing, and yet blind.

There are days, however, where no simple beast will do. These days are few and far between, but every century or so they do come. And when they do they bring often extiction. In the wake of these days are the rumors, the stories. Stories which Brrda, Savage Savior of the Secret Land, did not heed.

Brrda, his faithful tigress Retsis at his side, had just put an end to the charge of a quite angry Armored Rhino. The rhino, lured into crashing through a bush of bizarre pale-orange bell flowers, inhaled a puff of glittering pollen and almost at once collapsed into a deep slumber.

Retsis' gaze became hungry. She rubbed a wet nose in Brrda's hand, but he shook his head. The rhino had not earned death. Disappointed, Retsis slumped away and dozed upon a high branch.

Her nap was interrupted as an elephant's alarm trumpeted through the trees. All around there was the snapping of branches and the rustling of leaves. The forest came alive with the panic and shouts of its denizens. Squawks, chitters, chirps, roars, barks, all echoed beneath the canopy.

Confusion was not long lived. The vines sprang to life, tossing like tendrils from the trees and from the floor. They ensnared the slumbering rhinoceros, wrapping around the beast quite thoroughly and dragging its snoring bulk into the bushes. Before Brrda could understand what had happened the vines were upon him as well, coiling tight around his angers.

They yanked him to the ground. His jaw hit hard on his shoulder, bruising both. More vines roped around his body, pinning his muscular arms to his side and squeezing hard on his aching ribs. A ferocious and terrified reowr echoed off the tree above, and Brrda turned in time to see Retsis yanked down by her tail and cocooned by the vines. Her claws tore and slashed, but were ultimately trapped by the camouflaged constricors.

Branches snapped around him as Brrda was dragged at dizzying speeds across the forest floor. Through rivers and streams he had never seen. Miles and miles slipped away beneath him, for hours upon hours. Day became night and then day again, and still Brrda was being spirited away. Bleeding, bruised, and breathing badly, Brrda began to give in to the exhaustion. Weakly he flexed, but the effort only made the vines lock tighter. Retsis whimpered softly nearby.

The jungle tapered away, the trees gradually growing thinner and smaller until at last they were nothing more than shrubs. There was no forest beyond that, and no grass or field. Only the vines. A circular clearing filled to the brim writhing, wiggling vines. They slipped beneath him, slid over him. Blocked his view of the sky. But not of their master.

At the center of it all was a kind of pod. It was large, bulbous. It displayed four lips of a sort, each tinged red. They split away, fanning into large leaves and revealing a chasm of mesmerizing, dazzling purple. Yellow-tipped whiskers stood out of this maw, tasting the air for a suitable meal.

The meal was found, from all corners of the great gaping greenery. The alarmed elephant was tossed on the left while a small herd of jungle buffalo piled up on the right. Frogs, bats, and other smaller creatures filled up the space between larger morsels. When it was full the plant snapped shut, letting loose only the sickening squeals of the beasts as they boiled away in digestive juices.

In minutes the mouth was open again, being stuffed full from all sides. The vine carrying Retsis lifted into the air, and soon behind it rose Brrda. The plant breathed hot acid on his cheek, burning redness into his skin. The Armored Rhino, now awakened and panicked, thrashed in its bindings, but was soon stuffed deep into the purple throat.

The pod snapped shut. The thick vines held Brrda high for twenty minutes as the squeals of the other beasts, and the roars of the Armored Rhino, carried on steam through the blood-red lips. But when it came time for the next helping, the pod remained shut. The vines fell suddenly, collapsing to the ground like great, dead pillars. Brrda broke free, as did Retsis, together landing on a soft pile of the now limp limbs.

They stared at the plant which had gorged itself on the forest's fauna. It rumbled a sound not unlike that of a hungry and persistent belly. The leaf-mouths danced and clenched, as though fighting to keep something in. Brrda tensed, Retsis drew her claws.

The lips puckered, making an "O". Billions of tiny balls, each covered in brilliant white fluff, blasted into the air. They caught the wind and flew over the forst, settling for miles across the Secret Lands.

A yellow-brown shade came over the bulb. It coughed a few puffs too low to catch the win. They fell upon it, spilling into the browning vines. Tired, all energy spent after spewing its seed, the plant collapsed heavily to one side, where it was resigned to whither.

Eyes in the Back of Your Head

The Principal calls you into his office and immediately accuses you of having written a wonderfully elegant poem utilizing no less than thirty-eight different definitions of the word "shit." All while keeping form, you prodigy you.

Unfortunately this is not an invitation to join the PSA. You have the smarts to deny such a ridiculous claim, but the Principal insists that it was you, and he knows for a fact.

"How do you know?" You demand, weary of the circular argument.

The Principal looks at you dead in the eyes and says: "Because I have eyes in the back of your head."

Death Row

Slowly, quietly she creeps forward, eyes never moving from the row of headstones; from the row of death. The hairs on her neck stand rigid. Though it is sunny, there is a sinister chill in the air. Her shadow stalks behind her, lunging closer then falling back, as though sizing her up before making a final strike. Her shirt ruffles, pushed and pulled by unnatural forces. She can feel the hands slide over her body. They climb her legs, forcing clammy palms on the back of her knees, and up her tingling spine until they reach her neck. They tighten, so slowly at first that she hardly notices. Soon she is struggling for breath. Her blood runs cold as her vision turns to black. She tries to scream out; tries to call for help, but she has no voice. Soon she is with them sleeping beneath the dirt.

Death Row

Slowly, quietly, she creeps forward, eyes never moving from the row of headstones; from the row of death. The hairs on her neck stand rigid. Though it is sunny, there is a sinister chill in the air. Her shadow stalks behind her, lunging closer then falling back, as though sizing her up before making its final strike. Her shirt ruffles, pushed and pulled by unnatural forces. She can feel the hands slide over her body. They climb her legs, forcing clammy palms on the back of her knees, and up her tingling spine until they reach her neck. They tighten, so slowly at first that she hardly notices. Soon she is struggling for breath. Her blood runs cold as her vision turns to black. She tries to scream out; tries to call for help, but she has no voice. Soon she is with them sleeping beneath the dirt.

Fellatio

The teal carpet scraped against her slender knees, burning ever more intensely with each half-inch scuffle. She slowly dragged the zipper down its chain. With fasciantion and finesse she massaged the jittering hovel into a well-pitched tent. Her thighs shivered and dripped as the scent of packaged sweat wafted over her. She flashed him a smile and ran her tongue over her shining red lips. Then she saw it. Long, wet, and white. It quivered at the warm caress of her breath. With a yelp she reeled back, recognizing the horrors of the bot fly.

Fellatio

The teal carpet scraped against her slender knees, burning ever more intensely with each half-inch scuffle. She dragged the zipper slowly down its chain. With fasciantion and finesse she slid her hand over his pelvis, rotating clockwise as she slipped the button out of place and pulled apart the cotten curtains of his boxers. Her tongue slid over her shining, red lips as the pheremones elevated her senses. Then she saw it. Darting in and out of the flesh near his head. Sickly white and peppered with black spines. It writhed in an attempt to avoid sight. She reeled back in terror, recognizing the horrors of the bot fly.

Killer!!

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To the Postman

A postman in Dover, NH found this letter in an envelope stuffed in a mailbox. The enveloped has no stamp, no return address, and had been licked shut. The address line simply read: “TO THE POSTMAN”

Dear Mr. Postman,

I have tried to get your attention many times throughout the years, but I’ve never yelled quite loud enough. I used to watch you from the basement windows and cry and shout, but at best you might have given a confused glance to the side. I was beginning to lose hope when they messed up. They left blank paper out.

You’re my only hope, Mr. Postman. If you’re still reading this, you need to stop and go to the police. Go to them right away, PLEASE! I can’t contact them myself, but you can. You have to bring them here, bring them right away. We’re going to die here if you don’t.

They’ve kept me here for twelve years. For twelve years I grew up here, I learned here. I’m afraid to say “raised” but in a way I was. I gave birth here half a dozen times. This is the only world I know. This is the only world my daughters know. It’s not a world anybody should know.

We eat like pigs, being fed buckets of leftovers and scraps. More often than not, maggots and slugs have already found their way into our trough, but sometimes there’s an apple core or an orange peel. These make it almost bearable.

Mr. Postman, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know this must be getting hard to read. Between the poor writing and the tears and the weird grime that seems to cover everything.

There’s a good chance we won’t be alive by morning, so I have to tell you about myself now. This is all the police will have to go on, and this is the last bit the world will hear from me. My parents have probably forgotten about me, but I want to let them know that I love them.

When I was fourteen I had a friend named Gracie. She lived across town, so I was forbidden to see her on my own, but I often did anyways. My parents didn’t like her. She was a goth, and my father had always told me that if I ever got a piercing in my life, he’d rip it right out of me. That was part of why I liked Gracie. She was a big “fuck you” to my dad.

But Gracie was into some weird stuff. She thought her boyfriend was a vampire, and I soon learned that what I suspected were emo cuts were actually from “feeding” him. She told me she was a witch, and that she was going to help her boyfriend chase off a wolf pack. The crazy bitch ran with all the freaks, and I should have run the other way, but for some reason I was drawn to it.

That’s how they got me.

I was sleeping over Gracie’s house one night when her boyfriend tapped on the window. “They’re coming,” he said, and I’m ordered to leave. She said they didn’t want me getting hurt. I’m “just a human.” They didn’t give me a choice, and locked me out at three in the morning. As I slowly walked home, I noticed the street was eerily empty. It was totally silent, and the street lamps hadn’t turned on.

The next thing I knew there was a pain in the back of my skull, and the road rushing up at me. Then I was in a dark room that smelled like manure, and they’re all over me. I tried to fight them off, but my wrists were chained to the ceiling. They laughed at my attempts to fight them, and bite me. They bite me until I bleed. When they finally finish, I feel them release my shackles. I cry and try to rub the soreness out of my wrists. I thought it was over, but I was wrong, and before I could catch a breath more of them are on me, and I’m too overwhelmed to fight back.

I’ve been pregnant seven times since they brought me here. Two were stillborns, three were boys, and two were girls. Each delivery has been the same. No drugs, a cold table, and shackles. The girls were left with me, and I named them Carolina and Janet. I was born in Carolina. Janet is my mother.

The boys were taken from me and put in a basket they placed on a table across the room. They wouldn’t come back for three days, leaving me alone with the child. My shackles kept the table just out of reach, and I could do nothing but weep as my son’s crying became a weak, wheezing groan, and eventually, silence. Their names were Eric, Kevin, and Jeremiah.

They would come back after three days to bring me food, but leave the basket on the table, allowing the room to fill with the stink. In all twelve years, I have never seen them take it out.

My daughters are kept down here with me. Carolina is eleven now, and her hair is platinum blond like mine. Janet is chained to a wall at the other end of the basement, and the shadows are too thick to see her. I have no idea what she looks like.

Both of my daughters suffer the same torture I have endured for most of my life. Often I am forced to watch, listening to the screams as they bite them. Sometimes they will torture Carolina and I together. They make us look into each other’s eyes as we’re bitten and whipped for hours.

Carolina is now pregnant. She is coming close to term, and I know she isn’t going to survive the labor. You have to get the police. You have to help us. I managed to get out, but I can’t leave my daughters. Please, help us. Please. You are our only hope.

~ Ellen Duvole

The postman rushed the letter to the police immediately after reading it, but by the time they arrived at the house it had caught fire. The fire department managed to put it out, but everything had been drenched with gasoline. All that remained was a fine ash

The Price of Rage

Kristine tied her mousy brown hair into a long ponytail. She allowed her bangs to remain free of the ponytail, they bordered her face in curved strands. A stray strand fell before her hazel eyes and she brushed it away with thin fingers. The hair fell before her eyes once more. This time she reached for the blue comb on her desk, but as she did her eyes fell upon the framed photo that was propped against the mirror.


Tears came to the girls eyes as she stared at the picture of her mother. The photograph showed the black and white cat sleeping, it’s tiny body draped over one of Kristine’s legs. Her eyes stared at the photo for a few moments longer before she noticed the sun’s light reflecting off the mirror.

“I’m late now,” Kristine muttered to herself as she turned away from the photo.

She grabbed her backpack from the floor and slung it over her shoulder before leaving her room and locking it’s door behind her.

Mark Myers muttered groggily to himself as he munched on a piece of toast and swirled his fork around a plate of scrambled eggs. With one of his large hands the man brushed his mess of uncombed hair back in hopes that none would fall into his breakfast. He shoved a large forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth, allowing some to fall away. They clung to his unshaven beard like flies in a web.

He heard the soft footsteps of his daughter Kristine walking down the stairs. A moment later the girl entered the kitchen from the door to the left. Mark looked up towards her with bloodshot eyes. Sadness filled his heart as memories of the girls mother entered his mind. He ignored these thoughts, they were in the past.

“Why do you dress like that all the time?” Mark asked after swallowing his mouthful of eggs, “Always the same hooded sweatshirt and blue jeans. Why aren’t you wearing skirts and sleeveless shirts like most girls these days?”

“Most fathers tell their daughters not to dress like that,” Kristine replied coldly.

“Don’t you sass me,” Mark responded and placed his fork onto an empty plate.

Kristine said nothing. She began to pack her lunch, acting as if she hadn’t heard what her father had said. Mark felt his face begin to flush as his temper rose. He pushed away from the table and stood from his chair.

“Don’t you ignore me neither.”

“Dad, I’ll be let if I don’t hurry up.”

“I told you not to sass me!” Mark roared furiously.

The man’s right hand balled into a fist. He could feel it seeping into his muscles, running through his veins. Eating away at his soul. It was a feeling he was terribly familiar with. It was his rage.

He grabbed Kristine by the shoulder with his left hand and spun her around. Before the girl could react he had swung his right fist through the air and punched her in the face. She toppled to the tiled kitchen floor. She curled into a ball and began to cry, grabbing at the side of her face where Mark had punched her. The man stood over her for a moment before he turned away.

“Get to school, you’ll be late if you don’t leave now,” Mark stated.

Kristine had missed her bus because of her father. She now walked along the empty streets with the cool autumn breeze caressing her bruised face. The paths of dried tears were stained into her face and fresh tears had begun to form in her eyes. Her lips quivered as she resisted the desire to breakdown and cry herself to sleep right there in the street.

A trio of orange leaves danced towards her, carried by the breeze. Just as they reached her feet the wind shifted direction and the leaves danced to Kristine’s left. Almost instinctively she followed the leaves and watched as they slipped between the bars of a black fence and into a cemetery where they stopped to rest before a peculiar gravestone. A line of peeling red paint was slashed across the front of the grave.

Kristine also noticed that the grave lacked a proper name or date of death. She could see that several lines of prose were carved into the stone but from where she stood she could not makeout what they said. The girl stepped toward the black fence and pressed her face against it. She squinted her eyes and read the words that were carved into the stone.

Leave a photograph of your enemy before my grave, and I shall eliminate them for you. However, in exchange-

Mark sat on the couch sadly staring at a blank television screen. He had not bothered to turn on the television as he had only sat to prevent himself from falling. He looked down at his hands which both shook violently. Tears dripped from his wide eyes and splashed to the blue carpet floor.

“Why did I do that?” he asked himself, “Why did I punch my daughter?”

You know damn well why, you madman! a voice spoke within Mark’s head.

“A madman? Me?”

Do you remember your wife?

“My wife? Alyssa?”

Yeah, that’s the one! Do you remember what happened to her? Do you remember how she died?

“She fell down the stairs. She fell and her head split on the floor.”

That’s not what happened and you know it! Here, let me remind you!

“No… No don’t! DONT!” Mark screamed at himself and clutched his head with his hands but it was too late, the memories had already begun to play themselves in his mind.

Mark had stumbled home drunk that night. Drunk and angry. He had gotten into a scuffle with another man at the bar and lost. He was lucky to have walked away with little more then his shiner, but his pride had suffered terribly. He barely even bothered to turn the doorknob as he thrust himself through the front door and into the kitchen.

His eyes fell upon the thin woman standing at the sink. She was doing the dishes and whistling to herself. Hate and rage pumped through Mark’s veins. It was all her fault! He had never drunken so heavily before he married her! It was this thin woman with mousy brown hair so long it reached beyond her waist. All hers!

“STOP!” Mark shrieked to nobody once more, but the memories persisted.

In his mind, in his memories, Mark had grabbed the woman by the back of her neck. He screamed at her and slammed her into the counter. The woman had begun to cry and this seemed to enrage Mark even more. He whipped her across the room and into a wall. The woman slumped to the floor in a shaking heep.

Mark growled bestially. He could taste the beer on his own breath. He glared at the woman who had slowly begun to climb to her wobbling feet. She pleaded him to stop. She begged for him to go to bed, to wake up sober.

But Mark liked that. Her pleading, it filled his heart with glee. He smiled maniacally as he took a step toward her. She tried to back away but her legs were too weak and she fell to the floor once more. Mark took another step toward his wife, he was mere feet away now. That was when he spotted it on the counter. The mallet they used to press hamburger meat into patties. He snatched the mallet off the counter and turned back to his cowering wife, his eyes sparkling with joy.

“GO AWAY!” Mark shouted.

This time they did. The memories stopped. The images faded. The voice vanished. All that remained was Mark Myers, sobbing on the living room floor.

Their gossip was loud. It was irritating. And worst of all it was accusing. Kristine could hear every word of it. They were all talking about her black-and-blue cheek and her black eye. Some called it an abusive relationship, others said she was in a car accident. She never heard the phrase “parental abuse” in any of the rumors.

Ever since she had seen that grave with the red stripe on it she had been thinking about the words inscribed on it;

Leave a photograph of your enemy before my grave, and I shall eliminate them for you. However, in exchange-

She turned the phrase around and around in her head trying to figure it out. She was sure it meant that whomevers photo appeared at the base of the headstone would die, but what was it that the stone wanted in exchange? That part of the inscription had been too weathered and worn to be read.

“Hoods off in class, Miss Myers,” the voice of Kristene’s teacher brought the girl back down to Earth.

“Sorry Mrs. Bixley,” Kristene replied as she pulled her black hood off her head.

Mark drank heavily from the bottle in his hand. He had opened it only moments ago, and now the bottle was already empty. He placed it on the table with a thunk and grabbed another bottle from the six-pack that sat on the floor beside him.

His head lulled to one side and he fought the desire to sleep. The voice had stopped speaking long ago and Mark had sat at the kitchen table in silence for several minutes. He couldn’t think of what to do, and he hated himself for what he had done.

“I need to,” he thought for a moment, “To apologize.”

Her hair flailed in the wind like streamers on a kite. In her left hand she tightly clutched her pink cell phone. A lump had formed in Kristine’s throat and she swallowed. A trio of orange leaves ran in circles around her ankles.

Without saying a word she placed her cellphone at the bottom of the headstone with the red line. An image was displayed on the cellphone, but Kristine didn’t look at it. She didn’t have to, she already knew what it was. It wasn’t a photographed, but Kristine hoped it would be good enough. Silently she turned around and began to walk towards the gate. She took no more then three steps before she fell to her knees and began to cry.

Mama

The waves of wind broke against the panels on the outside of the house. Window shutters smashed together like wicked hands clapping excitedly. Beads of frozen rain bombarded the windows, creating a chilling rhythm to accompany the beat of the clapping shutters. Then the thunder began to sing in its deep voice. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, and the shadows cast onto the wall seemed to be dancing with the song of the storm.

Spindly fingers climbed the walls and dark blobs like spilled ink slipped over the white paint. The silhouette of a person with crazy hair danced from one corner of the room to another, occasionally locking arms with another silhouetted figure. The shadows of the rain slid to the floor and vanished into the darkness cast over the rug. Something that resembled the thin leg of an enormous spider swept across the ceiling, and over the plastic face of a doll. The doll’s eyes seemed to sparkle as the shadow swept over them.

Sarah’s wide eyes shimmered with fear as they watched the dancing shadows and the doll’s briefly sparkling eyes. She felt a shiver crawl up her spine and a lump of unscreamed terror gather in her throat. The song of the storms filled her ears and deafened her to any noise that wasn’t the drumming beat of her own heart. The small breaths she dared to take lifted away from her lips in small puffs of vapor.

Then the doll’s plastic lips slid apart and a voice slithered out. “Mama!”

Sarah ducked beneath her covers and pulled her stuffed polar bear close to her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to sleep, but the doll continued to call for it’s mama and the storm continued it’s raging symphony. Her breathing became irregular and coldness like the Winter air began to sink into her skin. She pulled the bear closer and the blankets tighter, but her flesh would not warm and the noise would not stop.

“Mama,” the doll wailed as the world began to spin and shake out of control. A numbness began to climb Sarah’s legs and the fingers of fear pulled at the hair on the back of her neck. She pinned the bear tighter against her body and crunched her knees against her chest. She wrapped her arms around her legs and tried to warm them, but the numbness only seeped into her fingertips.

Another burst of lightning illuminated the room and made Sarah’s thin blanket, for a moment, almost translucent. She saw the shadows that should have been on the walls, they stood over her, or so it seemed. She tried to force out the screams caught in her throat, to call for her mother or her father. But the screams would not come, and her breathing began to slow. The numbness had crawled over her body now, and her shoulders. It was finding its way up her neck and she felt cold fingers caress the underside of her chin. Her lids slowly slid over her eyes and there was darkness. Then the cold fingers reached past her neck, and grasped her face with their freezing touch.

“Mama.”

……

“Finish your cereal before you get dressed,” her mother said from behind an unfolded newspaper. Cassie had never understood how her mother knew what she was doing without having to look at her, but she did. Mumbling quiet complaints, Cassie slid back into her seat and swirled the milk with her spoon.

She shoved a spoonful of fruit shaped cereal pieces into her mouth and slowly chewed them until they were little more than mush. Her father paced back and forth from the table to the kitchen counter and back again, a slim cell phone pressed to his ear. Every couple of seconds he would nod and say something to show that he was listening, but his voice wavered when he spoke. His face had been drained of all color as though a clean sheet of paper had been glued to his flesh. After a few moments he snapped the phone shut and slowly slid it into his pocket.

“What’s up?” Cassie’s mother asked, looking up from the newspaper.

“Harvey’s daughter,” he spoke slowly then glanced over at Cassie. He wiped his brow with his palm then leaned over to his wife and whispered in her ear. Cassie tried to hear what they were saying, but their voices were too soft for her to distinguish the words. An expression of shock came over her mother’s face and Cassie tilted her head in confusion.

“That can’t be true!” her mother exclaimed.

“Harv told me himself,” her father replied.

“Told you what?” Cassie asked her head still tilted to one side.

Her parents exchanged awkward glances. It seemed as though something had been said that Cassie could not hear, then her mother leaned over the table and placed her large hands over Cassie’s tiny ones.

“Cassie,” her mother began but her words became a sobbing whisper.

“Mommy?”

“Cassie,” her father said as he walked around to her side of the table, “Your friend Sarah, her heart stopped working.”

“Her heart stopped working?” Cassie spoke the words as if she didn’t understand what they meant, but she felt the warmth drain from her body. She began to feel empty, as though her skin concealed nothing but cold air. She knew what the words meant, but she wished she hadn’t.

“She’s,” he took a breath, “Sarah’s dead.”

Cassie didn’t want to believe it. Sarah, her best friend, was dead. Just yesterday they had been playing tea party with their dolls and their teddy bears with the matching blue ribbons. The smile Cassie remembered on Sarah’s face had been so alive and happy. How could she just suddenly die? Cassie couldn’t choke back her sobs, and the salty warmth of tears stung her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Cass,” her father told her kneeling to match the level of his daughter’s eyes, “Bad things like this happen sometimes. They shouldn’t, but they do. Do you want to stay home today?”

Cassie shook her head and sniffled.

“Are you sure?”

She swallowed her sobs and fought away the tears. Slowly she nodded.

“Alright then, we’ll bring you to school. But if you feel like you need to come home, we’ll come get you.” He patted her on the shoulder and smiled, then he turned to her mother, “Is Chelsea up yet?”

“No. I’ll go get her ready,” her mother replied before she turned and left.

Cassie’s father turned back to her and smiled. “Let’s get you cleaned up then.”

The gray clouds from the night before had not yet passed, and the weatherman had predicted another series of showers but nothing severe. A black minivan pulled up in front of the red bricked Elementary School. Cassie and her sister climbed out and slung matching backpacks over their shoulders before Cassie slid the car door shut.

“Take care of your sister,” her father called from the window of the black car, “And remember, we’ll pick you up if you need to come home.”

Cassie nodded and waved as her father drove off. She suddenly felt sick and wished that she had taken her parents’ offer to stay home. She sighed quietly and stared at the car until it vanished around a corner.

The wind tossed Cassie’s blond waves around wildly and her bangs danced before her eyes. The faint roar of distant thunder echoed across the sky and tiny droplets of water began to splash on the sidewalk. Several drops splattered against Cassie’s forehead, but she could hardly feel them. The thunder boomed again, more loudly this time, and Cassie felt warmth close around her hand.

“Let’s go Cass!” Chelsea tugged on one of her sister’s hands.

Cassie nodded and turned away from the storm and the road and her sad thoughts. She clamped her own fingers around her sister’s tiny hands and soaked its warmth into her own palm. Together they walked into the building but once they had reached Chelsea’s kindergarten classroom, their hands released and the two went their separate ways. Cassie could feel her sister’s warmth leave her fingertips as she made her way to the fourth grade classrooms. A sudden feeling of cold loneliness replaced the familiar warmth.

She walked to her classroom in silence. She slipped behind her desk without greeting anybody and tried to bring the warmth back into her fingers. A girl with a pair of pigtails sat in the seat beside her and smiled. Cassie wondered if the girl knew about Sarah’s death. She wondered if anybody else in the room knew. Her teacher, Ms. Teal, stood before the window.

“So much for no severe storms,” Ms. Teal muttered as rain pummeled the glass and thunder crashed overhead. “Let’s see who’s here today!”

The students announced their presence as Ms. Teal called their names. One by one in alphabetical order she called them until she reached Sarah’s name. “Sarah Trout? Sarah Trout?” Ms. Teal lowered the attendance list from her eyes and looked around the room. “Has anybody seen Sarah today?”

Cassie didn’t speak. She could feel the tears return to her eyes at the mention of Sarah’s name. She squeezed her lids shut and battled against the tears. She would not cry here, not in school. Not where the other students would point and laugh if they saw tears slide from her eyes. She turned to the wall and squeezed her lids shut until the sadness had passed.

But the feeling of loneliness would not go away. Just as it would begin to fade Cassie’s eyes would fall upon the desk where Sarah had sat and the loneliness would return. And the loneliness brought sadness. This cycle continued throughout the day, until Cassie could take it no more and surrendered to the overwhelming desire to go home.

“Harvey, I’m sorry. I-” he stopped for a moment and tried to think of something nice to say, but nothing came to him, “I don’t even know what to say.”

“It’s fine, Dave. You don’t have to say anything,” Harvey told him.

The men grew silent as their wives walked into the room, each of them holding a cardboard box. Dave finished taping off the box that was on the floor before him and he added it to a pile of similar boxes. Harvey had told Dave the plan was to move right after Sarah’s funeral and they had spent the day preparing. The wives dropped their boxes onto a pile of boxes that had not been taped shut and left the room. A stuffed polar bear teetered on the edge of one box for a moment before it toppled backwards.

“It’s not fine. Your daughter just died and I don’t have anyway to help.”

“You are helping. You and your wife both, helping me and Sal get through this.”

Dave was about to say something but the beeps and boops of his ring tone melody drifted into the air before his words could be said. He apologized to Harvey and checked the caller ID. “Brook Bridge Elementary School” scrolled across the screen in tiny, blocky letters. Dave apologized again and told Harvey he had to take the call. Harvey nodded and Dave pressed the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” he asked, but he was already expecting the voice that replied.

“Daddy?”

“Yep, it’s me. Are you okay?”

“Daddy, can you take me home now?” Dave thought she sounded like she was holding back tears.

“Of course Sweetie. I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay.” She hung up before he could say good-bye.

“Cass?” Harvey asked as Dave shoved the phone back in his pocket.

“Yeah, she wants me to take her home. Sorry Harv.”

“It’s alright. Could I ask you to do me a favor though?”

“Sure! Anything! What is it?”

Harvey dug through a couple of the boxes that had not been taped. After a few moments he pulled a doll out of the box the polar bear had fallen into. The doll was plastic and wore a flowery dress. Silver hair fell from its head in waves and its lids flipped open or shut depending on the angle it was held at. Harvey handed the doll to Dave.

“It was one of Sarah’s favorites. We want Cassie to have it. I’m sure she’ll take better care of it than we would.”

“Of course. I’ll give it to her,” Dave said.

When their wives returned with another pair of boxes, Dave explained that Cassie had called. Harvey thanked them and walked them to their car. As they began to pull out of the driveway the doll, now cradled in the arms of Dave’s wife, called out for its mama.

Cassie stood behind the glass doors of her school building. She squinted to see through the falling rain, but her father’s car could not be seen. Chelsea stood at her side with her face pressed against the glass. Cassie took her sister’s hand and the warmth filled her own fingers. The loneliness she had felt began to fade and a restful ease slipped into her being.

“You two wouldn’t happen to be sisters, would ya?”

Cassie spun around to see who was talking to her. Her eyes found an older gentleman dressed in a blue uniform. The man held the handle of a mop that he sloshed around the inside of a white bucket. She nodded a response, but did not speak.

“You wouldn’t know it just by looking,” said the man, “Her hair is much darker and straighter than yours.”

Cassie nodded again then glanced at Chelsea. It was true; her hair was dark and almost straight. A near perfect contrast to Cassie’s light blond waves.

The man smacked the wet mop against the floor tiles. “But that’s not what I came to tell you,” he said, “I came to warn you, little girl. Not everybody you trust is your friend.”

Cassie stood puzzled trying to figure out what the man meant. She asked him, but he simply smiled and offered her a tootsie roll. He began to whistle and without mopping up the water he had splattered on the floor the man picked up the bucket and walked away.

“Who was he?” Chelsea asked. She didn’t take her bored gaze away from the storm outside.

“Just the janitor. Here.” Cassie handed her tootsie roll to Chelsea as she turned back to the door. “Are they here yet?”

“No,” Chelsea said before she popped the tootsie roll into her mouth.

Cassie thought more about what the man had told her and she wondered if he had meant it literally. Her eyes flickered to Chelsea. Suddenly the girl beside her seemed more distant than she had before, and the warmth their hands shared seemed to freeze despite the fact that their fingers were still tightly wrapped around each other. Had the man meant Chelsea? Was she not her friend?

Cassie had little time to ponder the trust of her sister; a black minivan had pulled up outside the school. Her parents climbed out of the car and ran toward them with their arms covering their heads from the rain. Chelsea pushed open the glass door and stepped outside, tugging Cassie with her. The rain had begun to freeze and it stung as droplets crashed down upon her face.

“Come on let’s hurry back to the car,” her father said and scooped her into his arms.

They ran to the minivan, Cassie cradled in her fathers arms. He tossed her into the backseat and buckled her in tight; Chelsea was soon beside her. Cassie shivered and her teeth chattered as the cold water ran down her flesh and dripped from her bangs. She held her small hand over the heater, but it did little to warm her.

Her parents climbed into the front seats, equally soaked. A bubble of water slipped beside her mother’s eye, like a cold tear. Her father turned the heater up and waited for his shivering to cease before he began to drive. Her mother turned around in her seat to face her daughters.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Cold,” Cassie muttered.

“Sarah’s dad wanted you to have this,” her mother said, and handed Cassie a doll that wore a pink and white dress, “He said it was her favorite.”

“Banshee,” Cassie said as she took the doll from her mother.

“What?” asked her father; his eyes flickered to Cassie’s reflection in the rearview mirror.

“That’s her name,” Cassie said as she stroked the doll’s silver hair, “Sarah said so.”

Her parents exchanged concerned expressions, but nothing more was said about the doll or her name.

They arrived home shortly before dark. A vanilla ice cream cone sat uneasily in Dave’s stomach, and its remains coated his lips. He rubbed the wet drizzle on the back of his neck, but the water only smeared. Sighing heavily, he pulled off his coat and hung it beside his daughter’s.

Cassie sat quietly on the sofa. She cradled Banshee as though the doll was alive. She swooned over it like it was a baby. Dave shuddered as his eyes fell upon the doll. Something about it didn’t sit right with him. The way the lamp reflected off its silver hair. The way its eyes flicked open and shut at the slightest movement. The way it seemed to absorb the warmth right out of his very soul. No, he did not like this doll.

And yet he was compelled to watch it. No matter how much he wanted to he could not turn his gaze away from the doll. A nagging fear in the back of his mind, an irrational fear, told him that if he turned away for even a second his daughter would no longer be there holding the plastic doll in her arms. And as he stared unwillingly at the doll he became aware of the dimming of the lamp. His ears picked up on the rising volume of the thunder, and the rapidly increasing pitter-patter of rain against the windows. He began to feel himself growing cold and his breath rose away from his lips in frosty clouds. And then the world seemed to shake and vibrate as it was filled with unbearably loud noise, like a hammer pounding against wood. The noise came again and again, and his world quaked each time.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” his wife asked him. Her voice knifed through the trance and the world stopped shaking. The coldness he had felt vanished into the air and his fingers began to thaw. The sound of hammers beating wood became a quiet knock on his front door.

He nodded but didn’t say anything as he tried to put his mind straight. With a step unbalanced by confusion and fear he crossed the room and pulled open the front door. Two officers stood in the doorway; the icy rain ricocheted off their blue caps.

“Are you David Richards?” asked one of the officers. Small whiskers on his chin tossed bubbles of frozen water as he spoke.

“Yes.”

“May we come in for a moment?”

“Of course,” Dave answered and took a couple steps backwards.

The officers followed him into the home. The one that had not spoken, a young-looking man, shut the door behind them. Dave heard his wife whisper for their children to go dry off, and in the corner of his eye he saw Cassie and Chelsea rush out of the room.

“I’d like to speak to you alone, Mr. Richards. If you don’t mind that is,” the officer with the whiskers said.

“About what?”

“We’ll see if you know the answer to that.”

Dave didn’t know how to answer what the officer had said. Before he could reply the young officer had brushed by him and followed his wife out of the room. The officer still in the room told Dave to take a seat as he paced slowly around the room.

“You were at the Trout residence earlier today, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Want to tell me what happened while you were there?”

“What do you mean?”

The officer scowled at Dave, his eyes ignited with anger. “Don’t screw with me, just tell me what you were doing there!”

“I was helping them pack their thing! They’re moving soon and I wanted to help.”

“Why would it matter to you if they’re moving? What’s your relation to them?”

“I’ve been friends with Harv since we were children! Please, what’s this all about?”

“Sally Trout’s brother went to visit them around three o’clock. I’m sure you know what he saw at their house.”

“I honestly don’t.”

“He found their dead bodies on their living room floor!” the officer barked at him, “He found his sister and his brother-in-law dead! Their faces twisted in agony and fear! But you know what was more peculiar?”

Dave shook his head. He tried to say something but a sick feeling had begun to rise in his throat. How could Harvey have died? They’d been gone for only a few short hours! And what if Dave had been there when they were dying? Could he have stopped their demise? He felt even more sick at the thought that he could have prevented his friend’s ill fate.

“Nobody else had visited them that day. Nobody else except for Mr. And Mrs. Richards. Now explain that to me, Dave.”

“I didn’t kill them!” Dave said choking down the sickness.

The officer watched him with disbelieving eyes until the younger man returned from the kitchen. The young officer shook his head at his partner’s questioning glance then made his way to the door.

“We’ll be back later, when there’s enough evidence to haul your sorry ass in.”

The officer stalked across the room and joined his partner before the door. He flung the door open and the two of them stepped out into the freezing rain and booming thunder. Dave watched them leave though his eyes barely saw the officers. He was submerged too deeply in his own thoughts to notice them. He barely noticed his wife walk back into the room. She sat beside him on the sofa, and frowned when he gloomily turned to face her.

“Are you okay, Dave?” she asked him.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know. If we had stayed there for a few more minutes, maybe we could have saved them. Harvey might not be dead right now if we had been less hasty to protect our daughter from her own depression.”

“Yes. Or we might also be dead. The officer told me he didn’t know how the Trout family died, but whatever killed them scared them into death. That means they saw it right? If we were still there, don’t you think we would have seen it to?”

“What’s it?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” she wrapped her arms around him, “It didn’t get us.”

Cassie sat Banshee on her dresser and brushed a strand of silver hair away from the doll’s eyes. She smiled, the doll felt like Sarah. It was as though her friend had never left, and the loneliness that had filled Cassie most of that day was gone when the doll was in sight. And when she held its plastic hands she could almost feel warmth sink into her fingers. She wished the doll good night before she climbed into bed herself.

She pulled her teddy bear close to herself and snuggled into her pillow. The blue ribbon, tied in a bow around the bear’s neck, reflected her bedroom light as she tucked the bear in beside her. She twirled the bear’s ribbon around her finger as her mind eased itself away from awareness. Her lids began to sink over her eyes, but just as sleep had begun to grasp her, the bedroom door creaked open and her lids lifted apart. Her eyes flicked in the direction of the door, and found her father standing there.

“You left the light on,” he told her as he crossed her room.

“I didn’t mean to,” Cassie replied tiredly.

“I’ll get it on my way out,” he told her. He sat on the edge of her bed and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Good night, Sweetie. Take good care of my daughter, Teddy.”

He stood away from her bed and walked to the door, pausing briefly to glance at the doll that sat on Cassie’s dresser. She saw him shake his head before he flicked the light switch down and left the room.

Cassie snuggled the teddy bear in her arms and listened to the sound of the rain as it pelted her bedroom window. She found the steady song of the rain soothing, and she was soon slipping into sleep. Then the rain became louder and less harmonious and the booming voice of the thunder cried out as lightning flashed into the room.

Cassie’s eyes snapped open as her room illuminated. She took a wary glance around, frightened suddenly, and cold. She shrugged as the room faded back into darkness and she pulled the blankets tighter to her body. Then she heard the faint sound of footsteps and whispered conversation. Her eyes slid open again and she had a second glance around the room. Still she saw nothing, but the noise she heard steadily grew louder.

And the rain grew louder as well. And the thunder’s voice seemed to make the entire world spin and shake. And when the lightning flashed again, she saw them on the walls. Shadows of things that didn’t exist. Long fingers and spindly spider legs and strange blobs that had no form. They slid over her walls and floors. She gasped and blinked, hoping the shadows would vanish like a nightmare.

But they remained, and they danced, without harmony, from wall to ceiling and back again. The sounds of footsteps and conversation deafened Cassie to all other noise except for the beating of her heart. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to pretend it wasn’t there, nothing was there.

And then the voice called out from across the room, “Mama.” Cassie’s eyes flew open at the sound of the doll’s voice. “Mama,” it called again. This time she screamed. She screamed for her father, or her mother. Her screams were muffled by the noise of the dancing shadows and the song of the storm. So she screamed again, louder, but still she could not hear her own voice.

The doll’s eyes glimmered as a shadow passed over her face. Silver and blue sparkles, as though glitter had been spilled into its eyes. The door flew open and her dad rushed in and he opened his mouth, to speak or to scream Cassie could not tell, but no sound climbed out. His eyes rolled back in his head as the dancing shadows ripped themselves from the walls and cut through her father like paper-thin blades. But there was no blood, no cuts, her father did not bleed. He simply dropped to the floor and did not stir.

The doll called out louder, it’s voice carried over the sound of the dancing and the storm. Cassie’s eyes narrowed on the doll on her dresser and she pulled the teddy bear closer to her chest. “It was you!” she pointed an accusing finger at the doll. “You killed Sarah, and now you killed Daddy! It was you!”

The doll’s eyes glimmered again as another shadow passed over its plastic face. The shadows tore themselves from the walls and swarmed around Cassie like a great black tempest. Then they dove at her, swimming in and out of her flesh. She felt herself growing cold, and then numb. She wondered to herself if she would see Sarah again. Then the cold consumed her, and she slipped into darkness.

“Mama,” the doll said quietly.

The rain stopped and the thunder faded. The lightning flashed once more, and as it fell away the dancing shadows sunk into the brown fabric of the teddy bear. The red glow of its button eyes faded to black once more and it lay beneath the covers as though it were sleeping.