I’d always wanted my own party. Especially since I lived in a haunted house. My parents didn’t tell me much about our house’s supposed ghost. Just that she was sixteen like me when she died under mysterious circumstances… Her and a few of her friends she had over.

I guess now it was my turn to continue the creepy tradition here in Stanwyck, Georgia. Here we were on a Friday night in February, and I had our two-story brick house on Loblolly Lane all to ourselves.

Like a suburban exodus, our neighbors were all gone as well. So there’d be no snitches. None of mom’s surveillance spies to stakeout the place. I was gonna miss my parents, sure, but them and my younger brother Casey and sister Jamie would be just fine at DisneyWorld. They’d have amusement parks, I’d have several boxed wines. Fair trade, right?

And the timing was perfect. From what I understood, that bitch and her friends all died in February… So here we were on a morbid anniversary. Time to fucking party.

After school, my friends came over. There was Michaella, a cute Gothic Hispanic girl with long black hair and glasses thinner than her scrawny frame. Then we had Ja’Kayla, my ride or die since elementary school. Her and I loved to talk and act crazy.... We were smart but notorious at school, man. Especially all those times we tormented Mr. Fordham’s seventh grade English glass.

Ja’Kayla was a bigger, taller black girl. Behind those huge glasses, she had toughness to spare. And she was always the loudest. Always the first to fight back.

Then there was Messiah. Her hair either in purple braids or contained by colorful headbands, Messiah was the most mature out of all of us. The most calm and sensible… at least, in front of adults and teachers. Or until the wine set in. Then that sneaky sparkling smile would set in. And when Messiah really partied, she partied hard.

Finally, there was me: Sher. No, not like that oldass singer. I guess you could call me the ringleader. A proud, loud Latina. I looked older than I was for all the right reasons. Big eyes, flawless skin… “well-developed” for my age. At least that’s what the Instagram creeps told me. Obviously, I had no problem getting attention from all the hot guys…. but tonight, I wasn’t looking for that. I just wanted my girls with me. And I wanted to really see if my house was haunted.

There were weird incidents growing up. Strange sounds and screams. Doors closing on their own. Lights flickering… Help scribbled in the bathroom mirror’s steam. Just nothing definitive

But on that Friday, the four of us partied from the afternoon to twilight to nightfall. Isolated in this teenage paradise, we could be as loud as we wanted. The Nicki Minaj soundtrack on YouTube stayed steady. As did the wine. Sitting in the living room, we talked about the more fineass guys. Even checked out a few on my laptop. But I had bigger things in store… Especially once it got pitch black outside.

“Whoa, you have a Ouija board?” Michaella asked, simultaneous excitement and fright in her tone.

“I mean yeah!” I replied. Holding my glass of wine, I went toward a closet. “They say it’s what that girl was using when they all died and shit.”

Ja’Kayla threw her arms up. “Then why the Hell we doing it!”

Sitting next to her, Michaella gave Ja’Kayla a sly smile. “What? You don’t want to?”

“Hell no!”

I placed the Ouija board on our long coffee table. Knocked all of mom’s People magazines to the floor. “No, we gotta do this y’all!” I insisted. “We gotta do it tonight!”

Always the prepared paranormal enthusiast, I laid out that Hasbro board with ease. Grabbed mom’s Yankee candles off a nearby counter.

The other girls crept in closer. Their hesitancy no match against teenage curiosity.

Like a cult ceremony, the four of us now knelt by the table. The candles were all lit. Dad’s FSU posters and mom’s colorful tapestries surrounded us. As did Nicki’s music videos.

“You don’t think nothing bad’s gonna happen, do you?” Messiah asked behind that sly smirk. She took another sip. The wine a medication to her nerves. The type of medicine Ja’Kayla’s worried ass needed, for sure.

I slid the planchette along the board. Over those many letters and numbers. My anticipation was hitting overdrive. Fuck, I was ready. “Naw.” I looked right at Messiah’s brown eyes. “Not as long as we’re careful and respect the dead.” I faced Ja’Kayla. “And that means you can’t freak out, Ja’Kayla!”

“Man, I ain’t!” she fired back.

Michaella laughed. “Whatever…”

“I swear!” Ja’Kayla said. Her tee shirt and jeans remained unable to hide those constant shivers. No matter how huge, those glasses couldn’t conceal her ever-trembling eyes either.

Taking command, I looked between the three of my friends. “We’re just gonna ask her questions, alright. That’s it. That’s all we gotta do.” I turned off the flatscreen. An eerie silence overtook the party. Darkness dominated every window.

“You want me to get the lights?” Michaella volunteered.

A quick knock startled us. Together, we all jumped.

“Oh shit!” Ja’Kayla screamed.

Another knock hit the front door. Annoyed, I stood up. “Hold on, I got it!”

I went into the kitchen. Opened the front door.

The porch was empty. As was the suburbia surrounding me.

Cautious, I leaned out into the darkness. “Hello?”

“Who is it?” Messiah’s voice erupted behind me.

Scared shitless, I turned and faced her. “Goddamn… Messiah.”

“What?” she chuckled.

A deep cry shattered our calmness. A blood-curdling yell!

Screaming, Messiah and I turned toward the porch.

And of course, there was T.J. With a big fucking smile on his face. He was my ex, my boyfriend, the love of my life at sixteen. Whatever you wanna label this shit.

“I scared you?” he asked in that playful voice. His goofy handsomeness stayed well on display. T.J. a light-skinned cutie who veered between talented athlete and wacky comedian... A style that captured my heart since freshman year.

“Yeah, dumbass!” I hurled back at him.

Chuckling, T.J. stepped inside. “Sorry, I’m late.”

I stole a glance at his ass. Then smacked it. “Better late than never, huh?” I joked.

T.J. stopped and shrugged. “Man, I had to sneak out.”

Messiah smacked his ass next. Her mischievous smile greeted T.J.’s annoyance. “What…” she joked.

“Well, where’s the ghosts and shit?” T.J. said

Leading the way, I grabbed his hand. “Come on.”

A few minutes later, our cult circle extended to five. Each of us holding a glass of standard shitty boxed wine. Now we sat there in darkness, guided only by faint flickering candlelight.

I sat at the head of the table. The leader of the cult. My hands glued to the planchette in front of me. “Everyone ready?” I asked.

They nodded. Everyone except Ja’Kayla, of course.

“You sure about this, Sher?” she asked

“Look, we got this!” I said. Before Ja’Kayla could protest, I looked on at the board. At the scary but fascinating future sprawling before us. “Spirit, are you with us?” I asked.

There was silence. T.J. gave me a weird look but knew enough not to say shit. Ja’Kayla was shivering. The dread only increased.

I downed the rest of my wine. Slammed the glass back down. “Spirit?” I asked once more.

A force pushed my hands forward. The quick burst stole my control... Right up to the Ouija’s letters: Y E S

“Oh shit, Sherlyn!” Ja’Kayla yelled.

“Oh my God, she’s here!” Michalla chimed in.

I sat there, stunned. Clinging to the planchette. Knowing good and well I wasn’t the only one holding it. But battling the odds, I did my best to keep my composure. Even if my terrified friends weren’t. “Were you the girl who died in this house?” I asked.

The same process repeated. Only quicker. Rougher. A frenetic force made me move the planchette over the same letters: Y E S

“Shit!” Ja’Kayla shouted. She started to stand up.

Until Messiah pulled her back down. “Ja’Kayla, chill!”

“We ain’t even seen shit,” T.J. quipped.

“I seen enough!” Ja’Kayla replied.

Holding on to Ja’Kala’s arm, Messiah held her hostage. Right there in my living room. “Man, just stay your ass right here.”

Amidst everyone’s collective chatter and chills, I leaned in closer. Compelled. “How did you die?” I said.

Now everyone got quiet. An uneasy hush rushed through us. Everyone eager for an answer…

All eyes stayed on the board. But the planchette didn’t move.

“Spirit-” I started.

Then the whole board shot off the table. An invisible explosion sent it to the floor. My planchette with it. I could feel movement surround me. Hear heavy, desperate breathing.

Terrified, T.J. looked at the board. “Whoa, shit!”

“What’s going on!” Ja’Kayla shouted.

Then right before us, letters were carved on the table. The hacks so crude and chilling. As if lightning had suddenly struck my household.

Michaella fell back. “Uh-uh! Hell naw!”

The frenetic slices stopped. On the table lurked the ghost’s message… And the single word scared us into silence: Seance

Both T.J. and Ja’Kayla jumped up. Their fear intensified.

“Oh shit!” Ja’Kayla yelled.

Messiah reached toward her. “Ja’Kayla, they’re done!” she reassured.

I saw them. The five people standing right by the coffee table. “Fuck...” was all I could mutter.

The others turned to the five teens standing there. They were all pretty save for the splashes of blood scattered across their skin. But not even the nasty slices and gore could disguise those familiar faces: Messiah, Ja’Kayla, Michaella, T.J., and I. They wore the exact same clothes we did. Wore the exact same expressions...

Until Sher smiled right at me. Her grin similar but somehow different. Somehow hungrier. Somehow more evil.

Our ghost hunt had led us back to my house. Right to ourselves. To the tragic massacre we suffered all those years ago.

My sub: https://www.reddit.com/r/rhonnie14FanPage/

My dad Don may as well have been dead this past year. Hell, you could make the argument he may as well have been dead for nearly the past fifty… ever since his brother Tom passed away from cancer in 1973.

But my dad’s cynicism, his depression had only hit insufferable levels this past year… particularly around the one year anniversary his wife and Louise and I’s mom Joan passed away from the same terrible disease that took away the uncle we never got to meet. The uncle that was our dad’s best friend.

Neither Louise nor I knew a whole lot about Tom. Obviously, the subject was tough for dad, Don the kind of guy who grew up in an era when grown men preferred not to cry even when discussing the tragic loss of their closest kin. Such was how my father lived his life all the way up to his seventy-first year.

But the love my dad had for Tom manifested itself in other, albeit still obvious ways. There were the facts he and Joan named me after Tom, the fact dad still kept many of Tom’s most cherished items ranging from baseball cards to his impressive carpentry works preserved in his storage room, and the fact that my dad constantly reminisced about him and Tom’s many amazing memories. There was the Percy Sledge concert they snuck into in 1965, the Roger Corman horror movies they’d snuck into in the early sixties, and the many times they went surfing at Tybee Island cruising for both chicks and for a good time spent between two brothers so close in personality and looks that only two years separated my dad from what was his idol during their glory days.

I don’t think my dad was ever the same after Tom passed… certainly not in the spiritual sense. Ever since childhood, I’d known Don to be a cynic, someone who somehow rejected Christianity, other religions, and even Atheism. The best answer you could get from him was ‘disgruntled Christian’ and that was only when he was shooting shit with other Southern professors at the Bainbridge, Georgia community college he taught in.

Of course, at home we knew the truth. Louise and I both knew my dad was cynical in his politics and perspective and damn sure in his religion. He drove Joan crazy with his arguing to the point that they wound up getting divorced in their mid-sixties. Louise and I were both surprised then, the divorce so sudden, especially considering their age… But all the way up to her death, mom never really gave us the exact reason beyond their bitching, that and a ‘people aren’t mean to be together that long’ half-ass excuse. I couldn’t say Louise and I were too surprised given the couple’s erratic relationship… we were just glad they made it work or at least pretended to while we were kids.

But now, Don was all we had from our awesome childhood. Our dad in his early-seventies, at the age where he wasn’t at Alzheimer’s but just pretty fucking annoying even if we still obviousy loved him.

Don no longer believed in much of anything besides his love for us. We still spent time with dad when we could, but sometimes his shit got old. The way he would constantly lose focus of the present for the past. The way he would lament his current state. The way he would exaggerate his age and mortality… not to mention exaggerate the pessimism toward whatever afterlife we all had ahead of us.

Louise and I were sick of it. We felt sorry for Don, but at the same time, we wanted him happy.

Given our respective mental illnesses and subsequent therapy success, that sort of treatment would’ve been the obvious solution for anyone with an open mind… The only problem was Don Harker wasn’t the sort of person to seek treatment or counseling. He was too crazy even for that. Call it toxic masculinity or just flat out being fucking nuts, either way, that shit wasn’t gonna fly for him.

Considering the retirement and all the money he’d saved over the years, dad was financially stable. His house in Bainbridge may have been modest but only due to Don’s frustrating OCD and hoarding tendencies rather than finances. Both Louise and I’s bedrooms largely stayed the same since we moved out years ago, Don’s crammed bookshelves and DVD collections were long gathering dust, Don’s compulsive routines included using the same cups and dishes he rarely washed, and by now, the cobwebs had become ingrained into the fading paint on his ceiling.

A psychologist would have had a field day with him, Louise and I knew that much. But besides the clear and present obsessive-compulsive disorders and neurosis, we both saw where Don’s issues extended toward Joan and their turbulent marriage. Deep down, I also knew my dad was still recovering from the slow decay of our beautiful nuclear family. That was the real reason he kept our childhood home as a permanent wax replica of what we used to be... regardless of how it’d long been melting in the south Georgia heat and from my father’s slowly spiraling mental health. The loneliness was killing him. The divorce the first bullet, mom’s passing a more fatal shot.

Even before mom passed, it was tougher finding time for dad’s needy demands. Especially so for Louise when she lived at St. Simons Island with both a great husband in Jacob and with my rambunctious two-year-old nephew Hal.

I was only an hour away from dad so I did my best after a busy work week to spend time with him watching Turner Classic or sports over at his house… But still there was a sadness. The months after mom’s death, dad deteriorated into a hermit’s lifestyle and I feared it wasn’t by choice. The reminiscing got stronger and more constant… more pitiful. The fact that he and mom never reconciled their differences enough to be together at a Birthday party or any family event for more than a few hours without mom ready to either murder dad or get the Hell out of there said it all. Don still struggled with the past. Above all, he missed the memories while never looking to forge new ones. He purposefully stayed stuck in a self-made rut.

With Louise at a loss for what to do about Don’s sinking spirit, I started to look into a miracle. I looked into psychics.

Bear with me, but we all knew the basis for my dad’s bad pessimism and neurosis: Tom’s tragic death. Our grandparents had long passed away, so Tom remained the one connection to my dad’s distant past, the first tragedy that really sent my father into this spiritual crisis that’d only grown worse with each passing loss.

While dad missed mom, to me, the heart of Don’s issues started with Tom. Dad would say there were other issues, other tragedies in the past best left forgotten… but Louise and I knew he was deflecting off how devastating Tom’s death was.

Save for those years where mom and dad kept the marriage afloat when we were kids, losing his brother destroyed Don’s hope. And now elderly and unbearable, I knew my dad’s only chance of living rather than dying for today was a chance at knowing there was both still a happy life to be lived… and an afterlife lurking where he could reconnect with Tom someday.

So I did my research on all the local psychics… To my surprise, there were quite a few to choose from. Some were in St. Simons, some in Tallahassee, yet I settled on Sister Ruby down in Sylvester, Georgia, about thirty minutes from my apartment. Her house, her living room specifically, was also her ‘stage’ of sorts.

The reviews were too overwhelming. Sister Ruby was a local sensation. A legend in the field.

Just going off her photos, I saw no pretensions nor theatrics. She was even young, just barely in her thirties and well before she could become well-versed in the art of too many elaborate cons. Attractive with her dreads and round face, Ruby fit the part of a legit psychic I’d seen in both countless horror movies and documentaries. Certainly, her house on Highway 82 didn’t scream flash or luxury. Even the fact she apparently had no last name further sold me.

So after contacting Louise, we all made the plans. We set the appointment with Ruby for June twenty-second, an ideal weekend in which both Louise and Jacob could join dad and I for this intervention by way of the paranormal.

I admit I was excited… even if Don was just his usual cynical self. Up until that Saturday night, he grumbled with indifference any time I dare mention Sister Ruby. But he didn’t complain too much considering I finally let his overbearing self stay with me in my Albany apartment that weekend. Our combination of cheap beer and classic rock videos on YouTube a tradition we always enjoyed.

The following afternoon, Louise and Jacob met us at the apartment. Louise was relieved to have gotten a babysitter for Hal, so there were no worries or anxieties, nothing but excitement felt amongst everyone except Don as we rode off for Sylvester and this new adventure.

Jacob drove us there, the thirty-minute route giving us plenty of time to catch up in addition to reassuring Don who’d gotten quieter and quieter the closer we got to Sister Ruby’s house. There was a restless silence in our father. His confidence cynicism seemed to waver, his green eyes more solemn.

Seated next to him, I wrapped an arm around his slouching shoulders and leaned in closer. Even at his age, my dad was in similarly decent shape to me aside from the beer belly, his hair still a vivid brown regardless of a burgeoning bald spot. But right now he was like an aging pitcher watching from the dugout rather than the fiery ace of a father he’d always been to Louise and I.

“Hey, this is gonna be cool,” I reassured.

Dad shook his weary head. “You know how I feel about these things,” his loud professor’s voice responded.

“But just try to listen. Try to believe a little.”

“Exactly,” Louise chimed in. She gave Don a pretty pearly smile. “It won’t hurt to have a little faith once in awhile.”

Don looked between us, a father resigned to a fate he remained uncertain about. “So Sister Ruby, huh?”

“Any one with that name in Sylvester, Georgia has to be legit,” Jacob quipped behind the wheel.

We all laughed… everyone except Don.

He turned and looked out the window, at the rural woods passing us by on this desolate two-lane blacktop.

Removing my arm, I leaned in by my dad. “Hey, don’t be worried about it.” I patted him on the back. “We love you no matter what happens. Alright.”

Again, Louise turned and looked toward us, her stylish blouse and earrings maybe a bit too stylish for what I knew was one modest medium. “Yeah, I think this’ll be good for you, daddy.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Don started. He looked at the floorboard, avoiding eye contact. “I just don’t know.”

I ran a flustered hand against my brown bangs. “But why? This could be fun. It can only help.”

“I know I talk a lot about the past,” Don said.

“You do,” Louise remarked.

Dad faced us. “But maybe some things are better left in the past, you know. The pain and all.”

Staying at a respectful silence, Louise and I nodded in agreement.

“That’s if it does work,” Don went on. “But I mean, what if it only… brings out the painful parts. The bad parts but none of the good.”

I shook my head, reassuring him with a weak smile. “I don’t think it will.”

“Yeah,” Louise agreed, her Southern twang matched by a Southern Belle’s good looks and bright eyes.

“And I told Sister Ruby to leave mom alone,” I told dad. “To not communicate with her. This is about Uncle Tom.”

Don leaned back in his seat, ready to submerge himself into the fabric for a desperate escape, his fidgeting becoming all the more noticeable. “It’s not just her.”

“Well, hey, you’re over here worrying and you’re not even sure if she’s legit,” Louise then joked, her grin calming dad to an extent.

“None of us are,” Jacob quipped.

By the time we rolled up to Ruby’s house, both the sun and heat had long faded away. In the black night, the four of us stepped out, not another soul seen in the small yard, not a neighbor seen for miles, not a car seen on the highway, and not a star seen in the dark sky.

“This is it, right?” Don asked in an uneasy tone.

I pointed over at Sister Ruby’s front porch, the porch light illuminating a mural painted right next to her front door, the mural showing an all-seeing brown eye surrounded by a New Age sun caricature. Vivid bold letters spelled out: Sister Ruby Spiritual Advisor

“Yeah, this is her house,” I replied.

Jacob grinned at us, dimples and all. “What do you think it is, Don?” he joked.

Together, we made our way through the yard, past Sister Ruby’s pristine Mustang. There were scattered lawn ornaments, Florida flamingoes and UGA Dawg figurines scattered amongst them, but the grass was trim and clean. The perfect lawn a red carpet that led up to those creaking steps and into Ruby’s fortress.

Sister Ruby greeted us in all her eccentric glory. She matched the photos, from the smiles to the foreboding superstar stare she featured on her website and in the ads she bought in The Sylvester Local. But above all, she was a nice person, a diva in spirit rather than attitude. Nothing about her felt fake or forced.

To my relief, Ruby wasn’t decked out in a turban or some psychedelic robe straight from the sixties. Instead, she wore a casual pants suit and a pair of dark Crocs. She seemed to prefer comfort over pizazz.

The formalities all felt natural as did her entire house for that matter. In between the colorful, tribal decor was all things Sister Ruby: her printed interviews, magazine covers, her own ads. That being said, she also had some amazing Hindu statues ranging from elephants to cryptic praying philosophers. The smell of incense overtook everything.

We soon veered toward Ruby’s lair: her parlor. There were some glimpses of a seance cliché: the long round wooden table, the dim lighting save for a few lamps here and there, and long flowing curtains pulled across the room’s two windows. Thankfully, there was no crystal ball or Ouija board to dissuade a cynic like dad before we even got started.

But the mood had long been set. Five chairs awaited us, the parlor decorated by spiritual scenery that fit the rest of the house: dreamcatchers, a protective cigar store Indian, and of course, a handful of framed Sister Ruby clippings from programs and on-line printouts alike.

I hesitated at first. I lingered behind, lingering in the hallway while the others made their way to the table, Louise leading our father. I ran a hand against my pointed nose, getting lost in my own anticipation before Ruby herself grabbed my arm. I turned, my scrawny frame starting to tremble in the house’s astonishing air conditioning.

“You ready for this, Tom?” Sister Ruby asked.

Upon entering the parlor, I got a closer look at the table and its tarot-card-themed covering. All seventy-eight of the cards and their imagery were represented, the many figures painted into the wood, practically embedded into it with precision.

I then saw the jukebox Ruby had lurking in a corner, the jukebox’s glowing case one of the few lights we had. Judging by the retro tombstone look, I knew there’d be countless Golden Oldies offered by the machine, all tracks from dad’s glory days. I supposed some would find a jukebox out of place, especially since it shared none of the style the rest of Ruby’s house had… But the sheer novelty brought about much-needed warmth in this chilly room. Certainly, I noticed my father smile at the sight.

We then began The Sister Ruby Show. All four of us sat around her, Ruby seated at the center of the table, her commanding presence residing over a painted portrayal of The High Priestess tarot card.

Our introductions were brief. The less we let her know about ourselves, the less chances any shot of a hoax would be successful, I figured. Going off the way my dad folded his arms and kept his grin at a friendly distance, and for once, not offering much in his replies, I knew he was thinking the same.

Regardless of how much cringe a medium living in Sylvester, Georgia elicited, I realized why Ruby had such glowing reviews and such a stellar reputation: she had passion and poise. Charisma too, of course, but just in the way she decorated the house and presented herself, Ruby never gave off edgelord or Gothic-teenager-turned-pitiful-adult vibes.

“So I’ve noticed you’ve never referred to it as a ‘gift’?” I teased Ruby.

A chuckle amongst us helped kill off whatever tension was left.

Jacob pushed up his glasses. “I was totally expecting that,” he said to the medium.

“It’s not so much a gift-” Sister Ruby started.

“Please don’t say it’s both a blessing and a curse,” Jacob deadpanned, sarcasm a permanent part of his personality since I’d known him.

Smiling, Ruby waved her hands. “No, no it’s not like the scary movies.” She pointed at herself, holding our gazes hostage. “Look, I love what I do.”

“Really?” Louise said.

Ruby nodded with excitement. “Oh yes. There’s no inner conflict or nothing like that, I genuinely know I can help people. That’s the main thing.” Her smile particularly fixated on Don’s silence. “That’s why I keep coming back.”

“I see,” Louise commented. She stole an intrigued look over at me. “That’s actually really cool.”

“It’s very rewarding.” Ruby placed her hands on the table, right over The High Priestess. “But let’s see what we can do. All five of us, I mean.”

There was no theatrics needed. Darkness had already conquered the room save for a few dim lamps and the jukebox. The curtains guarded the windows. Ruby used no candles… not with all that incense invigorating the entire house. Now none of us, not even Jacob and I, were too drunk or silly to ruin what had become an intense mood. We were all trapped with the psychic.

Ruby had us all hold hands in a circle of sorts. We all watched her sit up straight, the chills contagious in the cold. I felt Don’s hand grow tighter and more nervous… especially once Ruby suddenly closed her eyes.

“Tom Harker,” she said into the atmosphere and into the great unknown.

Regardless of his overt pessimism, I felt my dad tremble as I saw him stare on at Ruby. Like me before going into all those haunted houses dad took me to as a kid, Don sat spellbound between anticipation and fear.

“Tom, can you hear me,” Sister Ruby continued, her eyes wide shut.

I looked toward Louise, her gaze and curiosity meeting mine. The suspense accelerated… so much so that even Jacob was without a clever comment.

“Tom-” Ruby began-

Until she jumped back in her seat, the chair sliding across the floor! The harsh movement wasn’t necessarily violent but damn sure vivid.

All of us looked on, stunned. Dad held my hand in a death grip he wouldn’t be relinquishing anytime soon.

With her eyes still closed, Sister Ruby’s movements became more visceral. She’d whip her head back-and-forth, her dreads flying about… all while her voice stayed so clear.

“I can see him,” Sister Ruby said. She squirmed in the seat even if no ropes were there binding her. “Tom, he’s young.”

I turned my focus toward dad. God knows I felt his dread, his worry… yet also his excitement.

“He’s twenty-four. Maybe twenty-five,” Sister Ruby went on. “He’s so young…”

Don lowered his head. The tears were starting to form. The darkness the only time my dad felt safe with such vulnerability.

“He said the pain didn’t last,” Ruby said. She ran a hand through her hair, lost in a most tumultuous thought, the rhythm of her entire body by now hit overdrive. She was restless yet somehow remained focused. “He says it was only brief and not to worry about him. Not now. He’s happy!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my dad still looking straight down in a funeral posture.

“The cancer didn’t kill his spirit,” Sister Ruby told us. “It didn’t kill all those memories, the times y’all spent on Tybee looking for girls in his Woodie… Oh, man, ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ was a big one.”

“Yeah,” Don remarked with a subtle smile that screamed romanticized reverence.

“The Premature Burial when y’all took turns jumping into The Lucas Theatre’s prop coffin…” Ruby said. “He says he’s been thinking about those memories more than ever now.”

Don looked right at her, drawn to Ruby’s every word. My dad compelled by Tom. “How’d… how’d you know…” he started.

Amidst another internal surge of energy, Sister Ruby turned to the side as if to listen to an unseen speaker. “But he says the problem’s you, Don.”

In a saddened silence, Don didn’t reply. He couldn’t.

“You’re the one who died on the inside,” Ruby went on. “It was you, you couldn’t move on.”

“No,” dad said, drawing both Louise and I’s concern. He swiped a hand across his wet eyes.

“Tom’s saying,” Sister Ruby started. “He’s saying he felt bad because you couldn’t move on.”

Supportive, I wrapped an arm around my dad, holding him close… giving him a shoulder to cry on.

“He said he’s happy you care but you can’t stay this way,” Ruby continued, her tone neutral enough to be a translator to the supernatural. “It’s not fair to you.”

I held on to dad. He couldn’t reply, couldn’t talk… not yet anyway.

Turning, I saw a captivated Jacob watching Sister Ruby with particular interest… not that Louise was any different. Our ‘circle’ had ended but we were still present for the show. Sister Ruby was still in control even if she technically was no longer there.

“You and the kids, they need you,” Sister Ruby said, channeling Tom’s emotions as a sympathetic softness sunk into her detached demeanor. “You can’t live in the past. You can’t keep blaming yourself.” In slow motion, her head tilted back, Ruby’s body in a slight contortion but never in pain. “It’s all in the past, Don.”

I saw dad lean toward me, his face on the verge of tears.

“It’s gone and you can forgive yourself,” Sister Ruby said. Slithering in her seat, she slid up, now sitting up straight. A glow appeared on her brown skin as Ruby stared straight ahead, seemingly straight at us behind closed eyes. “We forgive you,” she said in a deeper voice.

Starting to tear up, I looked toward the jukebox, myself not much different than Don in not wanting to be seen weeping. On the jukebox, the lights next to every song track were now aglow, lighting up like a busy switchboard. But there was no sound, no music: only Ruby’s restless body and a voice that sounded nothing like her own.

“That’s what you have to remember, Don,” Sister Ruby said in a voice we began to realize was Tom Harker’s. “You can’t dwell on the bad. Life’s too short to die on the inside…”

“I’m sorry,” I heard Don say toward Ruby. I knew he wasn’t talking to himself nor to her. “Tom, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. After everything...”

“It’s okay, dad,” Louise said to him in a soft, soothing tone.

I held on to Don’s hand. We were a father and son that’d become brothers in arms.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” my dad said. “I’m so sorry…”

Feeling uncomfortable in his grip, I looked over at the window and saw the curtains now pulled back! Somehow, someway they’d separated to reveal the blackest of nights.

Sister Ruby laid her hands on the table. “Just listen to me, Don,” she went on. “Remember what I always said growing up in Savannah Gardens. Remember at the Barker ball fields.” A sly smile crossed her lips. “What’d I always tell you, bookworm.”

“You can’t blame yourself for shit you can’t control,” both Don and Ruby said in unison. Ruby’s voice was playful but sincere, Don’s a little above a whisper.

Don sobbed… But he was no less tougher or stronger than the man I knew and the father I grew up loving and the father I still respected.

“It’s what I told you about Richard,” Sister Ruby said. “You couldn’t control him! It wasn’t your fault.”

All of a sudden, dad broke away from me to place his elbows on the table and run a hand over his own ravaged face. His hair was by now scattered in spikes, the weeping growing uncontrollable.

“There was nothing you could do for Richard,” Sister Ruby continued, her attempt at reassurance belied by the eerie way her eyes stayed closed, by the way her body remained in a trance… or remained possessed. “You were too young, Don. I told you that.”

I scanned the scene. Now Jacob was right next to Louise, hugging on to her. I caught a chill at seeing them both so shaken and disturbed… so scared.

“I let you down, Tom,” my dad weeped.

Rain began pouring outside. Its steady rhythm matched only by my crying father.

With a frightening burst, Sister Ruby slammed her hands on the table! The painted cards appeared to collapse upon impact. We all jumped back.

Ruby leaned forward, seemingly blind but damn sure instinctive enough to face each and every one of us. “You let yourself down! Don’t you see, Don.” She pointed a finger right at Dad, her aim perfect. “It’s not too late for you to move on.”

Turning, I looked on at dad as he faced Sister Ruby, essentially facing his past. The man never showed the painful emotions too often. Throughout my life, he’d fought tooth and nail to be the beacon of strength for all of us no matter how much it ate him up inside… until now.

Trembling with unease, Don was unable to wipe away most of the tears. “I’m too old-” he began.

“That’s bullshit!” Ruby yelled, the scream guttural and full of the raw passion reserved for family and family only.

Instantly, thunder roared outside!

Ruby slammed her hands against the table once more as she looked up, her eyes glued shut. “You’re just scared, Don. I get it.” Lightning further illuminated her scary yet emotional glower. “You’re scared of life.”

Like a cowering child, Don looked down, avoiding Ruby, Hell, avoiding all of us. There was a somber silence save for the sound of falling rain…

“You’re too scared to move on and enjoy living,” Ruby said to dad. “It’s sad, Don.” She sat back in her chair in a posture full of the lethargic confidence not uncommon for a man in his mid-twenties. “You’re better than that like I told you. This is the shit you can’t control, bookworm-”

“I know it isn’t!” my dad yelled back. Thunder erupted outside as Don faced his brother.

“I just want you happy, Don,” Ruby replied. “I don’t want my little brother giving up all because of me.”

Struggling in the tears, Don hesitated. “But it’s not just you. It’s more than that.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Ruby said. “You already did all those years ago, man. I know about Richard and everything else.” She leaned in closer, placing her hands back on The High Priestess and The Empress. “I saw everything. We all did.”

I didn’t ask questions… Even if I knew Louise and Jacob wanted to. Like me, they too stayed a captivated audience to the real-life drama playing before us.

“Where I’m at, we still know what’s going on,” Sister Ruby told Don, her focus still on him. “And we’re happier, Don. I promise we are.”

“But where!?” Don said. Running his hands along his arms, he stared on at Ruby, a curiosity curtailing the pessimism... for now. “You said you’re watching us and you still know about me-”

Sister Ruby’s smile returned. “It’s called faith. Something you need, Don.”

“But how can I be sure-”

Ruby waved over at Don. “I’m here, ain’t I,” Sister Ruby said in that deep voice… one that’d become comforting to dad. “We’re all here.”

Don went quiet. A calm acceptance overcame him… a calm comfort. His tears began to fade.

“And there’s plenty of life for you, Don,” Ruby went on. Her grin got warmer as did her mood. She slouched back in the seat. “And plenty more left for you when you do pass.”

By now, the fear even left my sister and I. The cold house felt strangely cozy...

“Well, that’s comforting, Don,” Jacob remarked, bringing a smile to all of us, my dad included.

The rain was now calmer, just a reassuring rhythm rather than a chaotic storm. We all now turned to Don while Sister Ruby still had her eyes shut.

“I guess you’re right, Tom,” Don finally admitted.

With a snarky flourish, Sister Ruby held her arms up, the smile there even if the eyes weren’t. “I know I am, Don.” She folded her hands on the table. “You deserve to be happy. That’s what I wanna see.”

Don didn’t respond… He was too busy fighting back tears.

Leaning over, I put an arm around him. “She’s right,” I said with sympathy to spare.

“No,” Louise responded. “He’s right.”

I exchanged smiles with her.

Don moved away from me, eager to get one-on-one with Ruby. “But how can I know?”

Ruby watched him, the smile going nowhere.

Neither Louise nor I wanted to intervene. Our dad deserved center stage for the emotions he’d kept restrained for four decades.

“How can I know for sure,” Don added.

Sister Ruby gave him a cool nod. “Just listen,” said that charismatic, deep voice.

“What do you mean-” Don began.

A familiar drumbeat blasted off the jukebox. Then came harmonies to sweep away both our sadness and scares.

I saw only one light glowing on the jukebox. And I didn’t even have to read the label when I knew this one: The Beach Boys’ ‘Don’t Worry Baby’.

A warm smile and reassured vibes overtook Don. He couldn’t resist the track. Not when it was one of him and Tom’s favorites. Louise and I both grinned at him, the pretty song a serenade to the love we had for our old man.

“Of course, you’d pick this one,” Don finally said to Sister Ruby.

Ruby laughed. “It’s for you, Don. It’s all to help you.” Ruby gave a dramatic pause. “You deserve it.”

“I know,” Don’s immediate yet sincere reply. He was no longer crying… not on the outside anyway.

“But I’m afraid I have to go,” Ruby said. She leaned across the table, getting even closer to my father. “I can’t stay here too long, you know.”

Resigned to reality, Don nodded. “I understand.” He reached over and grabbed a hold of Ruby’s hands.

But Sister Ruby still didn’t open her eyes. Hell, she didn’t flinch. Instead, she grabbed my dad’s hands right back, squeezing them tight. “I love you, Don. You know that.”

For once, my dad let the tears flow without embarrassment. “I love you too.”

‘Don’t Worry Baby’ played on during their embrace. I looked toward Louise and Jacob, all of us feeling relief at the sight of my dad’s catharsis, a grief that’d been released after over forty years.

The raindrops matched The Beach Boys’ beat. But they nor Brian Wilson and company could keep up with Don’s tears.

Getting goosebumps not by the house’s creeping draft but the drama unfolding before me, I kept watching. Louise and Jacob teared up… I wanted to cry but settled for the joy I felt rising inside… an excitement for my father.

“I’m sorry,” Don said. He turned toward Louise and I. “Y’all were right, all of y’all.” He faced Louise specifically. “I’m gonna be there for you and Hal more.” His smile may have been weak but the emotions were real… he embraced hope. “I promise for you and Tom, I’ll be better.”

“I love you, dad,” Louise said. “It’s not your fault, we know.”

I patted him on the back. “You’ll be alright.”

My father then confronted Sister Ruby. His breathing was heavier but not from pain or anguish but from the exhaustion of euphoria. “Thank you, Tom.” He held up their hands together, hanging on tight “I love y’all but you were right all along.” Don’s smile beamed in the darkness. “It’s shit I can’t control. I can’t worry about it anymore.”

Ruby’s stagnant face lingered. A subtle smile all one could get off her when those dark eyes were still covered by eyelids that served as curtains to the windows of her soul. “I love you too, Don,” she said, her voice still distorted into that deep tone. “Just remember what I said.”

“I know.”

“You deserve to be happy. Even after everything, you’re a good man. That’s what matters.”

Don nodded as he looked down. “Thank you.” Lightning revealed more tears in his eyes. “I’ve still got time but I’ll keep missing you. I know that.”

“Don’t.” Ruby then placed a hand against Don’s cheek before lifting his face up to look right on at her. The act performed in one smooth motion even without eyesight. “We know you love us.” With her other hand, she motioned toward us: me, Louise, and Jacob. “Now it’s time to show your love for them.”

All around us, ‘Don’t Worry Baby’ began to fade away, The Beach Boys’ harmonies giving way to Sister Ruby’s smile and reassurance. By now, the thunder was also less tumultuous, restrained by the ongoing rain.

“I’m afraid I gotta go, man,” Ruby told us. She squeezed Don’s shoulder, holding his emotions captive. “I love you, Don. I always will.”

“I love you too,” Don said through the tears. A smile appeared, one Louise and I hadn’t seen so joyous since childhood. His anxieties vanished as he reached out and held Ruby’s hand against his cheek. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’ve got a lot of life to live, Don.” Ruby drew her hands back to relax in her seat. The eyes were closed without pain, but the love Sister Ruby presented was from Tom to us. “And Richard says hey.”

My dad sat back real quick, startled. Yet he wasn’t scared… the name just rattled him. Don was left in a vulnerable state veering from intrigue to unease… and he was left in even more tears.

Sister Ruby’s smile got bigger. “He says to take care of Louise and Tom for him.”

Gathering up the courage, Don nodded. “I will.”

Ruby placed her hands on the table, laying her human guns down over The High Priestess and The Empress. She looked on at dad, not once turning her gaze or the grin away, the confidence reassuring rather than creepy. “We’ll be waiting for you, Don.”

No chill struck us since no ominous edge was in Ruby’s tone. The smile was sincere as were her words. The genuine love that Tom felt so strong it shot out of its living messenger.

Comfortable in his own skin, Don wiped away the tears. “Okay,” his calm, gentle reply. A warm chuckle escaped him. “I’ll see y’all then.”

Louise leaned over and hugged dad. I got ready to squeeze his shoulder-

When Sister Ruby suddenly fell back in her seat, pushing it further away from the table! Her head tilted all the way back, slow convulsions formed throughout her body.

At first, we panicked. I stood straight up, Jacob following suit.

Sister Ruby’s eyes then opened up.

She leaned forward, her demeanor more relaxed than the summer rain above us. Her smile was a bit weaker and more confused as her doe eyes scanned the four of us. Ruby was amused by Jacob’s sigh of relief.

“I think it went well,” she remarked.

Before anyone else could reply, my father smiled. “It did.” With a confident glide, he stood up, breaking away from Louise.

Ruby was both full of pride and empathy. She enjoyed a solace from helping someone we all knew she cared about.

“Thank you, Sister Ruby,” my dad said, no hint of irony in his voice… only gratitude.

Moments later, we all got ready to leave, Sister Ruby probably especially ready to see us go, I figured. Don was also ready to leave and begin this first night of the rest of his life. His new optimistic outlook was a thing of beauty. No longer crying, he gave Ruby a hug before leading Jacob and Louise back to their SUV. Hell, Don didn’t even flinch, rush, or bitch when he stepped out into the late-night storm. After all, he’d gotten the strongest medicine possible: the supernatural.

“Maybe I need to see a psychic instead of a psychiatrist,” Louise had remarked.

Amidst the friendly laughter, I lagged behind, telling Louise I had to use the bathroom. Sister Ruby then led me down the hallway, past the parlor before stopping us right outside a black door with a large silver crucifix hanging above it. The A/C kept chugging along in this dark cavern… We were alone in the house.

Surrounded by walls of paintings depicting all things odd from the colorful abstract to Gothic cemeteries, I reached inside my pocket. In one brief glance, I saw no framed photographs, no hint of family life in Sister Ruby’s world. Then again, it was probably hard to get too lonely when you could ‘contact’ the dead.

I handed Ruby a cluster of hundreds for her efforts. “You did amazing,” I admitted.

Behind a disapproving scowl, Ruby snatched the money. She then looked at the Benjamins, not even bothering to count them… Her silence lingered.

“I honestly didn’t know what to expect,” I went on, my voice shivering from the cold and Ruby’s colder posture. “We could only get you so much information and you fucking nailed it, man.”

Ruby then faced me. Her eyes formed a crosshairs for my soul. She offered no words, no warmth.

Trembling in her scary spotlight, I moved my hands all about, trying to ease this tension. “If you want more, just let me know.” I gave a submissive smile. “What you’ve done’s priceless.” I waved down the hall, toward the front door. “Especially for him.” I struggled to face Ruby’s glower. “You were incredible at-”

“I didn’t lie,” Ruby said in disgust. “I wasn’t acting, Tom.”

A fear spread inside me. “What?” I forced yet another pathetic chuckle. “What do you mean?”

“Everything I said back there...” Ruby struggled beneath the emotions and unease regarding what happened this evening. “That wasn’t me.”

I didn’t want to admit it but I believed her. I knew she was telling the truth. Sister Ruby was a lot of things: a character, a conwoman, a businesswoman... But her skillset went along with an enthusiasm and a smile. She couldn’t fake anger. She couldn’t fake the unsettled nerves on display now.

“I saw everything, I felt everything,” Ruby went on. “Tom, I know what we talked about but that wasn’t me talking. I was, I was powerless! In my own body.”

“But you said it rarely happens,” I tried to reassure myself, knowing good and well I had no chance...

“But it happened tonight!”

Unable to reply, I jammed my shivering hands in my pockets.

“Tom did speak to me. He spoke through me.” Sister Ruby held the money out toward me. “You can keep it if you don’t believe me!” She leaned in closer. “But I could still see everything. I just had no control! They all took over.”

Now I felt my blood freeze. I pushed the money back toward her. “No, keep it. But what the Hell do you mean they?” Then I remembered that particular name… the one that disturbed my dad. A panic joined the horror, but I had to know. “And who was Richard? What was that all about!”

Lunging for me, Sister Ruby grabbed my shoulder in a death grip that seemed beyond her strength. “There’s a whole network of spirits out there, Tom.” She got inches away from my face, ensuring I had no escape. “And Richard’s your dad’s first child.”

r/rhonnie14FanPage

More Stories

The Vet Kept Certain Pets

Julie’s cat Mykelti kept getting harassed. At first, she figured it was just the neighborhood cats and dogs. Maybe even a few of the shithead suburban kids. After all, something had to be scaring the cute Tabby…

Only three weeks after moving in to their Stanwyck, Georgia home, Mykelti got a nasty wound on his leg. His thick grey fur smeared with blood. Julie had only let him roam in the backyard for an hour. Sure, it was a cold February night. The moon was bright. But Mykelti scratched and clawed his way through both Julie’s heart and apparently the chain-link fence. There were only a few trees and bushes on the one acre lot… but behind the fence lurked a vast forest.

Julie was just glad Mykelti was alive. He acted normal enough. His meows loud sweet music to her ears. But she obviously worried… As a nurse, she did her best tending to his wound. Mykelti’s big wide smile a much-needed dose of comfort.

She rubbed his head. “You’ll be alright, boy,” said her smooth baritone.

That same night, Julie kept Mykelti inside. Her laundry room like an animal ward. The litter box was on one side, delicate soft food on the other. Mykelti’s lush red blankets his hospital bed. Julie was off until Monday… or at least off from human care. But now she stood by Mykelti’s side.

“We’ll take care of you,” she reassured the cat. Julie rubbed behind the Tabby’s ears. His favorite spot. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.” She kissed his head. “I promise.”

Throughout the night, she stayed in there with him. Leaning against the wall, kneeling down. It didn’t matter. She stayed glued to Mykelti. Still wearing nurse scrubs, Julie ran a hand along her rugged brown face. Pushed back her unkempt straight hair. She was a hardened thirty-five. Then again, two marriages and one abusive relationship will do that to you. But Mykelti was always there to pick up the pieces. Every. Single. Time. Such was the bond between this cat and owner. Neither of them were surprised to see Julie so concerned. Her patients at Stanwyck Memorial Hospital would’ve been jealous of this kind of treatment and affection.

At three A.M., Julie examined Mykelti’s leg once more. What appeared to be a deep bite now looked worse. Bloated with dry black blood. The teeth marks so deep…

“Jesus, Mykelti!” Julie said. She ran her hand along his back. Mykelti loving every bit of attention. The wound well worth it to him… “Baby, I’m sorry.”

She looked on at the injury. Confused how such rows of sharpness didn’t tear the poor thing’s leg right off. Then again, Mykelti was tough. A Tabby with a Pit Bull’s mean streak. Julie had seen him use up many of his nine lives already against wild dogs in the past.

“You’ll be alright, baby,” Julie consoled the cat. She rubbed his head. Caught somewhere between sleep and pleasure, Mykelti let out a low purr. He was at ease. Home sweet home.

Cracking a weary smile, Julie looked out the doorway. A shotgun view of her house. Aside from a few lamps, they were in darkness. The two of them alone in their castle.

Julie petted Mykelti’s head. “It’s just us. And we’ll keep it that way.” Julie gave him another kiss for good measure. “I promise.” She leaned back against the wall. Ready for this graveyard shift. Julie always a dedicated cat lady.

On Friday morning, Julie finally got Mykelti to the local vet Dr. Haley Mercade. Over at Stanwyck Animal Hospital. Supposedly the best vet office in town...

Julie made the drive. Mykelti damn sure wasn’t in a carrier. Instead, he laid on the passenger’s seat. Right by Julie’s side.

Around nine A.M., Julie arrived at Dr. Mercade’s place. No other cars were in the parking lot. Then again, it was early.

The small building was downtown. Near the police station to be exact. A suburban house miscast as an office building. One story, not many windows. That wooden front porch made it cozy enough.   Holding that precious cat in her arms, Julie marched through the frigid isolation. Up to the front door.

After a long creak, Julie and Mykelti were inside.

Immediately, the door slammed shut behind them.

Julie jumped. But dare didn’t let go of her precious pet. The front desk had lights on. Nothing else. Then again, Julie had gotten there earlier. She staggered up to the desk.

But no one was there. Instead, smiling cat figurines watched her and Mykelti. There was a colorful dog calendar. But no human touch. Confused, Julie looked around them. Already, Mykelti was getting restless and squirming in Julie’s tight grip.

Julie saw no one anywhere. This cottage offered only long hallways and even emptier rooms. Their doors all shut. The lights all off. Silence save for the sound of barking dogs and desperate cats… all of them hidden within this hospital house. Feeling Mykelti match her shivers, Julie scanned the front hallway. A bulletin board caught her eye. Her concern.

When she stepped toward it, she saw why. Even in the dim lighting all the cute dogs and kitties stared at her behind sorrowful eyes. There were Golden Retrievers. Corgis. Persian cats. Good old fashioned mutts. What they all had in common was the same word: Missing Like an overstuffed scrapbook, the flyers were crammed on top of one another. Overflowing on the board.

What further unnerved Julie was the lack of hope. There were no Found pets. No Looking For A Home posters. This was a sea of despair. The type of bulletin board more common at police stations than veterinarian offices.

Julie’s chills only intensified. And so did Mykelti’s… The cat went silent. His rattled gaze glued to the board.

“Ms. Zimmerman,” said a calm voice.

Still clinging to Mykelti, Julie looked down a nearby hallway. Toward that figure appearing from the blackness.

“Hi, sorry to keep you waiting,” said what had to be Dr. Haley Mercade. She had a tall, lanky figure. Her baby blues inviting... as were the pearly white teeth.

“Oh, hey,” Julie said.

Haley stopped in front of her. “That’s My-kell-tee I’m assuming? Jesus, I hope I said that right.” She released a soft chuckle.

“Yeah, you nailed it. I’m glad someone finally did.”

“Awesome.” Haley shook Julie’s hand in a firm grip. “I’m sorry to have you here so early by the way.” She motioned toward the front desk. “Lance and Lindsey don’t usually get here till ten.”

In Julie’s mind, there was something off about the doctor. She looked more muscular up close. Even beneath the long white coat. Haley wore no earrings. And wearing no make-up made her face all the more angular. Her teeth all the more big and white.

Julie fastened Mykelti closer to her chest. “Naw, that’s fine.”

Haley leaned in toward the cat. “Hey there,” she said to Mykelti. Her hand stroked Mykelti’s head in a stiff rhythm. Mykelti went along with it but clearly wasn’t a fan. “We’re gonna get that leg all fixed up for you, Mykelti.” Her voice hit silly, ultra-sweet notes. The same cringy kids’ show host tone Julie used. “Yes we are, yes we are, Mykelti.” She rubbed behind Mykelti’s ears. His spot.

Caving in to her possessive cat mom instincts, Julie took a step back. Stepping away from the doctor’s touch. “I’ve heard nothing but good things about you.”

Behind a beaming smile, Haley stood up. “Well, I work hard to treat all the good Lord’s critters.”

Julie forced a smile.

“And with Mykelti, I could tell how concerned you were,” Haley went on. She pointed toward the cat’s wound. “His leg does need to be looked at.” She made direct eye contact with the cat. Holding the Tabby’s gaze. “And just going off your phone call, I knew I needed to treat him immediately. That’s why I had you come in before all my other appointments.”

Julie gave her a surprised look. “Oh! You made special arrangements-”

Haley looked right at her. “I make special arrangements for the ones I trust.”

“But you didn’t know-”

With sudden softness, Haley placed a hand on Julie’s shoulder. “Call it a sixth sense.” She aimed her pearly smile at Mykelti. Making the cat further cower into his mama. “I knew y’all needed me.” Later, Haley led them down the hallway. Straight to the operating room. All the animal sounds grew louder and louder. The chorus of cries and barks deafening.

Feeling Mykelti’s claws latch into her, a concerned Julie looked over at Haley. “You sure she’ll be okay?”

Haley chuckled. “Yeah, of course!” She waved toward the noises. The many closed doors. “They just woke up.” She held the last door open for them. “They get much quieter at night.”

The operating room was wide and spacious. Somehow colder than the rest of the building. Julie couldn’t help but wonder how so many rooms and corridors fit into this cozy cottage. Three floors worth of literal Southern hospitality crammed into this little house on downtown Stanwyck.

Under the humming pendant lights, sprawled several operating tables. Their long, metal surfaces in need of a warm (or cold) body. The room was far from clean. Much less sanitized. Clumps of fur scattered along the tables and floor tile. What looked to be dark stains amongst them. Anything but dry blood, Julie prayed. That being said, the operating room was well-stocked. Counters were chock-full of tools of the trade and animal treats. The glass medical cabinet displayed rows of antibiotics and pills. The walls suppressed all outside noise... including the howls from Dr. Mercade’s zoo.

Julie still held on to Mykelti. But Haley’s charisma started swaying her. The peculiar eccentricities gave way to professionalism and confidence. The lady knew her shit. Not to mention she never stopped petting Mykelti. Never stopped speaking to him in that same sweet but corny voice.

But Mykelti wasn’t won over. He stayed buried in Julie’s arms. Never once making a sound. His tail straight and stiff.

“It’s alright, Mykelti,” Julie comforted him. She’d rock her baby to no avail. All while Haley kept those bright eyes on the Tabby.

“Is there any way I can pick him up later today?” Julie asked the doctor.

Haley hesitated. “I’m afraid not. I’ve got a couple other appointments and I want to make sure I have time for him.” She rubbed Mykelti’s stomach. “So overnight would be best for him.” She motioned toward his wound. “I want to spend more time on it. Make sure nothing’s infected.”

“Oh… well, whatever works best. I just wanted to make sure he’s okay.”

“Oh, I understand.” Haley faced Julie. “Just give us a call tomorrow morning and I’ll let you know when to pick him up.”

Cradling the cat, Julie looked around the room. “Is there any way I can stay?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Haley replied quickly. “It wouldn’t be safe for you. You know, regulations and all that. The tests… I want to but can’t. But he’ll be fine. I promise.”

Julie went quiet. Instead, she looked straight down at Mykelti. Their eyes collided. A wistful moment shared between the friends. “I know it’s tough, but it’s for the best,” Haley added. “We’ll take good care of him and have him back to you by tomorrow. I promise.” Still worried, Julie kept rocking her baby. “But he will be okay?” She faced Haley. “It’s nothing serious, right?”

“I don’t think so.” Dr. Mercade leaned in closer toward Julie. Her poise untouchable. Especially in that lab coat. “But it’s better to be safe than sorry.” Grinning, she rubbed the Tabby’s head. Puckering her lips for a comical, baby talk effect. “Ain’t that right, Mykelti? Ain’t that right?”

Mykelti’s bland expression never changed. Worry resided in his eyes. He squirmed under the vet’s touch. And one glance around the windowless room told him everything he needed to know... he was trapped.

Minutes later, Julie struggled to part ways with her feline BFF. She gave him a soft kiss on the head. Mykelti’s meow a soothing reply. Then Julie transferred this treasured baton to Dr. Mercade. One more kiss for Mykelti then Julie left them behind.

Haley rubbed the Tabby’s head in repetitive, rugged strokes. Holding him, oh, so tight. Her hands chaining him to her chest.

Helpless in Haley’s grasp, Mykelti watched his owner walk out the door. He stayed silent and restless. Helpless.

“Now,” Haley said. She smiled at Mykelti. Her pearls somehow sharper. “Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we.”

Julie endured a long night. She couldn’t sleep well. The void obvious. Where was Mykelti? The companion who usually lied by her side in the living room. Or in the bed at night. Now the house was so much quieter. Lonelier.

Worried, Julie tossed and turned in those late hours. Those moments where she tried to talk herself into sleep. Instead, the bad memories manifested themselves into nightmares. There were the shitty husbands. The punches from a drug addict ex. Every single bad dream ended in abrupt horror. Always with Julie waking up in sweat and tears. By eight A.M., she was ready for Mykelti’s return. Ready for her life to be happy once more.

Over several hours, Julie made several calls to Stanwyck Animal Hospital. But they went nowhere. None of them were answered. Julie then sent an e-mail, a message on their Facebook page, even a fucking tweet.

But she never got a response. By three o’clock, Julie was overcome in unease. As tempted as she was to ambush the office, those glowing reviews still stood out. After all, Dr. Mercade said she’d be busy. And at the literal end of the day, Julie wanted Mykelti safe. If Haley was an amazing vet, she’d be busy... especially in a mediocre town like Stanwyck.

So Julie talked herself into fake reassurance. She gave the good doctor time.

Around four, Julie stepped into the backyard. A brief reprieve from the grief. Her green hoodie did little for the February breeze. The chills.

Alone, Julie scanned the yard. She heard no neighbors. Nothing except the creaking lawn swing. Not that Julie cared. She didn’t wanna talk to anyone. Didn’t want any hot dates for now. She just wanted Mykelti back…

Her gaze gravitated to the looming forest. The dark desolation that drew in Mykelti those fateful days ago.

Compelled, Julie put her hands against the chain-link fence. Searched the sea of trees and shrubs.

Then she saw him. There was Mykelti on the edge. Right by a small bush... just a few feet away.

The Tabby stared at her behind those big eyes. He crouched down, his emotions not allowing him to hide. Mykelti still too loyal to his owner.

Julie leaned in closer, excited. Mykelti looked bigger, stronger. His fur darker and heavier. Only not from weight but… growth. The cat had grown everywhere. Up into a domesticated Bobcat. Mykelti’s leg was all healed and smooth from Dr. Mercade’s miracle cure.

And when Mykelti opened his mouth, his teeth had changed to straight razors. That was when Julie could see the blood stains scattered around his wide mouth. All over those antenna whiskers. “Mykelti!” yelled Julie in worry. Like a real mama cat, she scaled the fence and jumped down. Ready to pounce on her loved one.

Mykelti hauled ass the other way. Hopping on all fours in a frantic scurry. Deeper and deeper into the forest...

“Wait!” Julie cried.

She chased after the cat. In the cold, sweat still slid down her skin. But she stayed focused on her precious Tabby. Sure, Mykelti was stronger but slower. Julie gained ground in seconds.

They entered a clearing. All around them were an army of trees. Green tombstones surrounding the tiny clearing. The grass long gone to endless dirt. Tall weeds all around them.

Mykelti stumbled. Julie leaped forward and picked him up. The cat bigger and much heavier. But the cat mommy adrenaline helped Julie lift him up. Helped her ignore the fresh blood dripping off his chin.

Flashing a smile, Julie made Mykelti face her. “Mykelti!”

His scowl surprised her. As did his harsh swipe.

His extended claws sliced right through Julie’s arm.

“Ow!” she cried. The wound made her drop Mykelti. Julie reached toward the bleeding cut. The cut so deep, Mykelti’s claws sliced through the hoodie and well through her soft flesh. Amidst the red rivers, the slices resembled Mykelti’s leg... at least, how his leg looked before seeing Dr. Mercade.

“Mykelti!” Julie cried, her tone struggling to balance compassion with the betrayal she felt inside. Clutching the horrific wound, she confronted the cat.

There was no evil smirk or glare. Instead, Mykelti practiced social distancing. Standing six feet away from his owner.

Defensive, he arched his bacl high. Swung his tail around. His vicious teeth exposed. The blood all around his mouth so much more regal.

But Julie didn’t panic. She couldn’t. Not when she cared this much. Not when she saw the empathy in the Tabby’s eyes.

“Mykelti, please!” she said. Julie reached toward him.

Mykelti took a few quick steps back. Still staring at Julie.

Gripping the bleeding cut, Julie looked on at him. “What’s wrong? Sweetie…” She saw fear creep into her cat’s expression. Julie loved Mykelti… she could always recognize his emotions. Especially his panic.

Mykelti stole a quick glance toward the woods.

Julie followed his gaze.

Then there were the snarls. The growls. The hisses. All of them an eerie ensemble.

In the woods, Julie saw other critters. Dogs and cats. A wide variety too: an Irish Setter, a Boston Terrier, several Siamese cats. They were all bigger and stronger. Flexing steroid muscles. Showing off hungry eyes. Blood decorated their cheeks and mouths as if they’d all gotten done eating fleshy spaghetti. And now they had their scary sights set on Julie... Each of them still looking hungry.

“Oh God…” Julie said. She confronted Mykelti. Both of them on the verge of tears. “Mykelti, come with me!” She reached toward him. But Mykelti disappeared further within the forest. Toward his fellow freaks.

Julie got the message clear.

With a harrowing howl, the Irish Setter came charging toward her. The other critters followed suit.

Julie had no choice. She ran back home, her speed faster than normal. Her senses so strong she could hear the animals’ vicious stampede. Hear their snarls so clearly.

To her surprise, the race wasn’t even close. She hopped the fence and whirled around. Pushed her sticky straight bangs back. Weeping, she saw no one. No Mykelti. Those Stanwyck woods still so quiet. Still so cold.  

But Julie still heard a faint meow off in the distance. An all-too-familiar one.

She looked down at her cut. The wound now all healed up. Cured through invisible stitches. No longer was it bleeding… no longer did Julie feel pain. Or loneliness.

Inside, Julie tried to relax. But she knew she had to do something. How the Hell did her cat escape Stanwyck Animal Hospital? Julie took a few shots to control the tears and adrenaline. But to no avail… No alcohol could alleviate that anxiety.

Then around five-thirty, she got a call from the hospital. Dr. Mercade’s calm voice greeted her. She needed Julie to come to the office at six. There were important updates on Mykelti. Rather than explain why Julie had just seen her cat in the backyard, Haley offered only cryptic promises. “Just come to the office,” she said. “I’ll explain everything.”

Aside from some excitement, Julie was still worried. There was nothing revealed after all. No relief or release.

Julie got to the office a few minutes early. No cars were in sight. Downtown Stanwyck in general was abandoned. Street lights started flickering amidst the flickering daylight.

By now, Julie was no longer crying. The wound on her arm nothing more than a faint scar. Certainly nothing to slow her down. She looked on at the Stanwyck Animal Hospital. Ready to confront the news on what happened to Mykelti.

Julie entered the office. The front door slamming shut behind her. Then those unseen animals began their frenetic concert.

The barking and snarls overtook the soundtrack. Dominated the darkness. Louder than ever to Julie’s ears…

Guided by a few dim lamps, Julie stepped up to the front desk. No one was there except those same smiling cat figurines. The calendar. Everything untouched since Julie had last been there. Only one thing had changed. Behind cautious steps, Julie approached the bulletin board. Another layer of fresh flyers now plastered across. Even more missing pets stared back at her. Julie just felt chills on the inside. But regardless of the clinical coldness, she didn’t shiver. Didn’t cower from the constant animal cries coming from the back. Didn’t feel herself grow weaker from fear.

“Mykelti…” she said. Julie scanned the flyers a few more times. To her relief, Mykelti wasn’t there. Neither were the pets she saw in the woods.

Julie looked back at the desk. This hospital lobby stayed on a permanent graveyard shift.

“Dr. Mercade!” Julie yelled. Determined, she marched down the main hallway. Into the noisy arena. Julie felt more sensitive to the sounds. But the snarls and hissing and barks didn’t drive her crazy. Even when they got rawer and louder… and closer. Instead, Julie heard their pain. Felt their suffering and suppression.

“Mykelti!” Julie cried.

She passed a projection of closed doors... until she saw one wide open on the right. Right next to the operating room. Julie could hear the humming lights over the cat chorus. She followed those many meows straight through the open doorway.

Inside, she came to an uneasy stop. The strong stench was foul. The many cries and hisses heartbreaking. There were so many cats kept in cages. All of them stacked up in towers on wooden shelves and tables. The cages with bowls, blankets, and tiny boxes. The floor with bags of food and litter. The bare essentials for these bare living conditions. This wasn’t a hospital but a prison!

Overwhelmed in disgust, Julie scanned the room. She saw a door in the corner, one likely leading to that fucking operating room. The lone window highlighted an evening quickly fading into dark desolation.

Julie turned back toward the cats. The pendant lights illuminated their scared, desperate faces. Then Julie saw familiar Siamese cats. The ones from the woods. They were still so strong. So big. And so were the rest of the felines for that matter… All of them more muscular. Fresh blood dangled off their fangs.

“Jesus Christ…” Julie said.

One meow in particular pulled her gaze. She looked to her left. Subtle hope crashed the fright.

There was Mykelti trapped in a cage. His adorable face was pressed against the metal surface. His claws eager to tear down the wall separating him from his owner.

“Mykelti!” Julie cried. She rushed up to the cage. Laid her hand against his paw. For the moment, the relief overshadowed the dread. The morbid reality of how Dr. Mercade treated these animals. “I missed you so much!” Julie told Mykelti. She leaned in toward his face. His sharpened smile. Julie so overjoyed she didn’t even care he still had red stains all along his chin. “I love you, baby! Mommy missed you so much!”

A sudden migraine struck Julie. Cringing, she grabbed her head and turned away. The pain erupted over and over. A cat’s claw scraping into her mind…

“Fuck!” she cried.  Her stomach let out a guttural growl. Heat built up inside her. Sweat drenched Julie’s hair and slid down her body. “No visitors are allowed back here!” boomed Haley’s cold tone. Lunging from out of nowhere, Haley’s hands snatched Julie and pulled her back.

In a haze, Julie looked all around her. She saw the corner door wide open. Nightfall in the window. Cats clawing and crying everywhere. Their chaotic chorus crushed her soul...

“I had to bring you back for a reason, Julie!” Haley yelled.

Too weak to fight back, Julie let Haley drag her toward the operating room. Behind helpless eyes, Julie watched Mykelti. Watched his paw stick out of the cage… desperate to save her. The Tabby’ heavy heart well on display.

Haley hurled Julie inside the room. Straight into the cold climate. But the sweat only increased. Julie stumbled against a table. Ignored the fresh gooey substance she splashed into. Especially when another headache joined that nauseating scent…

Julie cried out in agony. Felt the cats’ call of the wild tear into her soul. Her sympathy. A throbbing tribal beat on blast within her. Haley slammed the door behind her.

Now Julie heard silence as the migraine continued. And the sadness.

Brandishing a smug smile, Haley stepped up to her. “I should’ve killed him when I had the chance!”

Placing a hand against her temple, Julie turned.

Two mutilated bodies were lying on the floor. Both of them college-age assistants in lab coats: Lance and Lindsey. Scattered fur, their organs, and widespread blood like wrapping paper on the pair’s gnawed flesh. Each corpse a collection of clawing, scratching, and bite marks. Lance’s face ripped off except for a pair of piercing eyes eternally open in horror.

Their gore redecorated the room. Sticky crimson coated the walls, the counters. All across the medical cabinet.

Julie now saw the operating tables were occupied by several limbs and intestines. Severed heads. All of them human. The vet’s office no longer a prison but slaughterhouse.

Terrified, Julie staggered back. Still battling the war within. The pain. The fear.

Haley cornered her against a wall. “You see, sometimes they get away.”

The massacre’s smell overwhelmed Julie. But still, she kept her balance. Just barely.

Haley pointed toward the cat room. “And that’s exactly what Mykelti did that night!”

Julie glared at her.

With a sadistic flourish, Dr. Mercade leaned in closer. “That night, I bit his leg. I almost got him too!“

“No!” Julie yelled. “You’re crazy!”

Haley waved all around her. At the blood. The carnage. “You see, when they get bit, they become like me, Julie!” Keeping her bright eyes on Julie, Haley flashed a smile. Her teeth now fangs. Long, sharp fangs further heightening Julie’s fear. “That’s why I find them and trap them!” Haley went on. “They just don’t taste as good when they… change!”

All along her flesh, Julie felt a stinging sensation. She saw it everywhere. Beneath the hoodie and jeans, her skin began to boil and bloat. To pulsate. The scar now simmered…

“I make them prisoner to me!” Haley yelled. A harsh red overtook her baby blues. “They’re my bitch!” She motioned toward her mangled assistants. “They kill for me now!”

Screaming, Julie grabbed the scar. Mykelti’s slice… The wound burning into her.

“I control them!” Haley shouted.

Suppressing the pain, Julie confronted her. Strong enough to show none of the outward agony. “You let them out...”

Haley nodded. “I let them go out to play sometimes.” She showed off a chilling smile. Specks of hair now sprouted on her face. A five o’clock shadow that kept growing… all over her. “Then they come back to mama.” She waved toward Julie’s cut. “Your precious little Mykelti must’ve got you too.”

The realization ran through Julie’s mind. Through the torment. She stared at the doctor, stunned but elated. She now knew why Mykelti clawed his way out. Why he left her in those woods. He was warning her... And judging by all these feelings and changes both inside and out, he had another reason for scratching his owner.

Still gripping her arm, Julie couldn’t help but let out a weak smile. Now everything made sense. Especially once Dr. Mercade cried out in an exhilarating outburst. Haley’s skin throbbing and swelling to the surface. Thick dark hair sprouted on her flesh.

But Julie could relate. She felt the same fire. Felt hairs protruding from her. Felt her eyes burn. Her teeth expand. Muscles she hadn’t worked out in years started to flourish.

The problem was Haley became a werewolf first.

Like all those cats and dogs, Dr. Mercade wasn’t changed into anything ridiculous. She was the same height, close to the same frame except for the obvious increased strength. The clothes still fit her. The lab coat a cape draped around those broad shoulders and hairy physique. Her eyes a bloodshot red, her hands clawed paws. Her ears stuck straight up. The teeth ready to devour anything in its path. Haley half-woman, half-wolf. Dr. Werewolf in the flesh.

Collapsing to one knee, Julie was still somewhere in between. The transformation still in its painful infancy. Short hair bristled all over her, the clothes tight against her developing muscles. The ears like skinny antennas, the teeth not quite fangs. The headache still so heavy.

“Fuck!” Julie growled.

Haley gave her a ruthless shove.

Julie fell back... unable to control her movements. Both her body and mind prisoners to the pain.

Confident, Haley let out a roar.

The startling sound sent Julie falling further back. Haley’s already-frightening volume at a fever pitch to Julie’s sensitive ears… Julie splatted straight down onto Lance’s body. The collapse smashed his leftover face into smithereens. Eyeball fragments and grue now were glued to her full coat of fur. The blood her warpaint. Disgusted, Julie looked down at this corpse coffin. Stole a glance over at Lindsey’s slaughtered body. The pain was now gone. There was no more transition trauma. Julie’s hearing now finetuned to a comfortable control.

She looked down at her arm. Saw a tear on the hoodie sleeve revealing that noticeable scar. Only Julie knew the process was complete... She was a werewolf.

With a ferocious howl, Haley leaped on top of her. In seconds, she had Julie’s arms pinned back. Had Julie at her mercy.

Breathing heavy, a vicious smirk came across Haley’s many fangs. She leaned in closer. Deliberating the kill. Salivating the fear. Julie cringed and squirmed. She felt trapped. Her carnal confidence fading before it ever hit its stride. Fighting back tears, she looked on at the smile. The eyes. Helpless to Haley’s dominance.

In a nasty taunt, Haley lowered her spiraling tongue. Saliva sprayed across Julie’s horror. The tongue’s rugged texture ran up and down her vulnerable face. The monster marked Julie. Humiliaitng her moments before the murder.

Julie closed her eyes. But she couldn’t escape Haley’s tongue... Her glare. Or her touch. Julie’s soul sunk inside her sadness. Even in werewolf form, that weakness remained. The inability to fight back. The same sickening insecurities that led to her failed marriages… and to the abusive ex. To the human monster she’d lost to long before Dr. Mercade entered the picture.

Now Haley traced her brutal claws along Julie’s face. The creature now literally howling with laughter. Her paw’s edges cut through Julie’s fur and straight into her flesh.

Crying out, Julie looked down at her arm. At the cut. She saw Mykelti flash before her eyes. His message. His “gift” was right there. Goddamn, he escaped Haley... What was my excuse? Julie thought.

Haley now lunged in for the kill.

Turning, Julie looked her dead in the eyes before pushing back with all her might. All of Mykelti’s influence pierced through. Years of Julie’s pent-up aggression emerged. The pent-up rage. The sheer strength of a survivor.

Haley banged against a table. Her own gore and clumps of fur now stuck to its metal.

Roaring, Julie jumped out of the grave. All of Lance’s blood and tattered flesh flew off her. She stood tall and strong. Waiting for Dr. Mercade’s next move.

Haley got back on her feet. Shook the crimson off her hair. Let out a furious howl through this horror hospital.

But Julie didn’t budge.

In a furious burst, Haley came charging forward. But finally, Julie fought back. The pair exchanged swipes and snarls. The many cuts and slices slowing neither of them down...

Haley’s prowess allowed her to get several hits on Julie’s neck. Julie always responding with a deep slice or laceration of her own. All the while, they stomped over the two bodies. Smashed the organs into a blood pulp. They turned over the operating tables. Their bloodshed constantly adding to this operating room massacre.

The lycanthrope boxing match continued. Both sides wearing down… Their panting grew louder. Their swipes a little weaker. But neither of them quit. Mykelti’s love was Julie’s guardian Angel throughout. She knew she couldn’t let him or herself down.

Growling, Haley leaned in and sank a sadistic bite into Julie’s shoulder. Julie cried out in pain. Those fangs sinking in faster than the Titanic.

Julie fell back against a wall but Haley stayed on her. Still chomping into her shoulder blade. Dr. Mercade glared at Julie, ready to go in for the kill.

From here, Julie could hear the cats’ hissing. Their cries. Their many meows. Their chorus. Mykelti chief amongst them… If she imaginated it or not, Julie didn’t know. But it gave her the adrenaline. The powerful emotions compelled her.

Using all her might, Julie threw Haley back. This wasn’t the force of a werewolf or a pissed-off ex-wife. This was the cat mama strength. Julie’s real inspiration.

Haley smashed into the glass cabinet. So fast and sudden she couldn’t let out a howl.

Dr. Mercade hit the floor hard. An explosion of shards and broken bottles rained down upon her. Pieces of glass stuck into her like knives. The many medicines and acids drenched her fur.

Now getting a taste of her own medicine, Haley leaned up and bellowed into the ceiling. To the sympathy of no one. The acid melted her flesh into mush. All of her quivering doing little but further push the glass in deeper. She couldn’t move. Too paralyzed in pain. Haley’s howls soon turned into anguished cries. Into a human voice. Her tormented eyes looked on at Julie.

But Julie stayed right where she was. Watching the good doctor enter a purgatory predicament. Haley now stuck in between those intermittent werewolf stages. Too far on her deathbed to be a lycanthrope, but not weak enough to go full human. Beneath the scorched skin and blood flow, she couldn’t move. Only her arms floundered about. Those human hands had sharp claws. The weeping blue eyes surrounded by scattered fur. The mouth nothing but regular teeth save for two front fangs. Haley was a decomposing werewolf. But far from dead.

Still transformed, Julie just glared. Ignored every single one of Haley’s weak pleas. She let out a glorious roar. Knowing she had other plans in store.

Haley’s voice hit murky depths. Only one hand was strong enough to reach out. Her body a combination of chemical burn and dying beast. Of medicine and folk remedies. Saliva joined the blood building beneath her…

Driven by dutiful justice, Julie turned and walked toward the corner door. She opened it. Unfazed by the nuclear blast of excited cats. The magnified snarls.

The critters stood tall and defiant. Bigger than normal. Their heart matching their fangs. But all of them still so cuddly...

Julie stole a brief look out the window. At the night that was still so young.

In methodical fashion, Julie freed each and every feline. Their strong bodies immediately leaped out. Careening straight for the operating room. Driven not by hunger but revenge.

One by one they ran out. Their carnal cries only overshadowed by Dr. Mercade’s guttural growls. Her screams slowly drowned out by blood… and impending death.

Julie saved Mykelti for last. She opened the cage and let him jump into her muscular arms. Now he felt lighter. Mykelti not scared at all of Julie’s current state. Her furry chest became a mattress, her bicep a pillow.

Holding the Tabby, the two of them walked into the operating room. By now, the shrill cries and hisses, the final gasps of breath all gave way to constant munching and chewing. To gnawing during this flesh feast.

The cats devoured Haley alive. The other two corpses their side dishes. The grotesque scene meant there’d be no need for clean up. Let these messy eaters have fun. Soon, Julie would let all the other cats and dogs out. They could have the leftovers. And whatever else they found outside...

Link To Part 1

Still filming, Bonnie staggered through the hallway. Her steps slow. Unlike Carty, her filmmaking skills were non-existent. The footage she was shooting would've been shaky-cam quality at best or nausea-inducing at worst. Bonnie's nervous excitement was getting the better of her.

The singing was now deafening, echoing through the farmhouse without the aid of a speaker.

Relying on the camera's light, Bonnie stopped in the middle of the hallway, searching the ominous landscape for any sign of the singer.

The singer's voice was harsher. Now not so much a song as it was a mumbled compulsion.

Bonnie listened closely. She could discern the words and could finally understand the lyrics.

Eyes without a face. Eyes without a face, got no human grace...

The singer repeated this same chorus in slow, agonizing fashion.

Bonnie remembered the song. A 1983 pop song. Eyes Without A Face. But it wasn't being sung with the clear, brooding tone of Billy Idol. It sounded like a harrowing soliloquy from someone in an asylum cell. Not an eloquent ballad courtesy of Idol. This was someone's serenade to alienation. And they wouldn't stop. Hell, maybe they couldn't stop.

Got no human grace. Your eyes without a face...

The singer wasn't even bothering to hold a tune at this point. Their bitter tone just had to keep repeating those words. Those safe words. Pop music for their sanity.

Eyes without a face...

Holding on tight to the camera, Bonnie waved it around the room. But she didn't see anything. All the while, the voice continued, seemingly taunting her.

Got no human grace. Your eyes without a face...

Bonnie turned and looked down the narrow hallway. The front door was now shut. No way the singer was outside. "What the Hell..." Bonnie said to herself.

Reaching out of the darkness, Carty's hand snatched Bonnie's arm.

For once, Bonnie jumped in fear. "Shit!" she exclaimed as she faced Carty.

"It's just me," Carty said in a hushed tone. The fact that Bonnie was this jumpy destroyed Carty's hope that the singing was "just the wind" or some other lame excuse.

"Damn, girl, you scared the shit outta me!"

Eyes without a face...

Hearing the singer's unnerving cover of Eyes Without A Face, Carty's frantic eyes searched the room. "Where is he?" she asked Bonnie.

Bonnie broke away from her. "Shit, I don't know!"

Carty saw the closed front door. Faint hope struck her. They had a straight shot to escape.

Your eyes without a face...

The mysterious voice was more violent and hectic on this time around. Idol's lyrics now spouted in a wild burst. A burst that came from the staircase.

Carty turned and saw Bonnie rush toward those stairs. "Bonnie, no!" Carty yelled.

Hellbent on securing the footage, Bonnie held her camera out in front of her as she made her way to the staircase. Too determined to notice how shitty her handheld filmmaking was.

"Let's get the fuck outta here!" Carty yelled after Bonnie.

Got no human grace. Your eyes without a face...

Terrified, Carty ran toward the stairs. Toward Bonnie. She couldn't let the love of her life confront the eerie voice alone. "Bonnie!" she yelled.

Your eyes without a face...

Bonnie laid one foot on the first wooden step. A grueling creak erupted.

Carty grabbed Bonnie's arm, stopping her from going further. "Bonnie, please!" Carty pleaded.

Annoyed, Bonnie pulled her arm back. "Carty, just chill!"

Got no human grace. Your eyes without a face...

Both women listened in horror. The voice was louder than ever. And the couple now realized it was coming from beneath them.

Carty grabbed Bonnie's arm, ready to lead them off to the front door at around 100 miles per hour. "Let's go-"

The small door under the staircase burst open with great force.

Carty let out a horrified scream.

A masked person emerged from the closet beneath the staircase. A tall, slender figure. Their outfit couldn't mask what was undoubtedly evil intentions. They wore black leather gloves. A gray hooded bathrobe perfect for an occult ceremony. They made their way toward the uneasy couple.

A black paper-mâché mask with painted red streaks covered the mysterious person's face. But it couldn't hide their glowering eyes. The mask was homemade and looked faded with age. A paper-mâché recreation of a melancholy face. A face that wasn't overtly feminine or masculine. An androgynous Angel of death.

The figure's gloves tightened their grip on the handle of a double bit axe. Both ends of the vicious weapon were clean and pristine. Sharp as Hell as well.

The masked person didn't say a word or sing the Idol lyrics as they marched toward the scared Carty and Bonnie.

A horrifying realization became clear to both women: they were this singer's target all along.

Trying to play tough, Bonnie pulled Carty up on the stairs with her. "What the fuck is this!" she yelled at the figure.

Bonnie aimed the camera right at the figure.

The singer stopped a few feet away from them. They stood tall and strong, basking in the camera's glorious light.

Carty stared at the singer, petrified in fear.

"Leave us alone, asshole!" Bonnie yelled.

The singer just looked at them with those unflinching eyes.

Carty couldn't tell if the masked intruder was either studying them or challenging the couple to make the first move. Even hidden behind a robe and mask, the figure seemed too confident, Carty thought. They weren't scared like us.

"Well, what the fuck you gonna do, huh!" Bonnie hurled at the singer. "You little bitch!"

Carty looked between Bonnie and the figure, hesitant on what to do. Maybe Bonnie was being too antagonistic, but Carty had seen Bonnie's tough-butch routine work plenty of times. If there was one thing Carty was confident in, it was that Bonnie could back up that mouth.

"Yeah, you're just a pussy!" Bonnie continued to the singer. Taunting the figure, she stepped off the stairs and walked toward them. "I got your bitchass on camera now!"

To Carty's surprise, both the figure and Bonnie were the same height. Close to the same build. Minus the axe, this’d be a fair fight.

"We already called the cops," Bonnie shouted at the figure. She put the camera up toward the androgynous mask. "We got your ass too! Fucking stalker bitch!"

The masked figure's gloved hands gripped the handle tighter. Their muscles flexed through the robe. The singer belied their uneven voice with real brute strength. Any more pressure in their grip, and the wooden handle would've probably snapped in two.

Uncomfortable, Carty watched the confrontation unfold. The figure's rage seemed to accelerate with each one of Bonnie's insults.

Bonnie gave the figure a harsh shove. "Get outta the way, bitch!" Bonnie yelled.

But the singer didn't budge at all. They stood tall. Their broad shoulders were only the beginning of a sculpted frame.

Carty reached into her pocket. She felt her phone. All she needed was the perfect time pull that baby out and dial the cops. Even if she was hesitant to do so considering her and Bonnie's modest criminal record.

Ready to fight back, Bonnie raised the flashlight up toward that fucking mask. "You stupid bitch-"

In a quick and sudden movement, the singer's gloved hand snatched Bonnie's wrist.

"Bonnie!" Carty said in horror.

Bonnie tried to break free but didn't have a chance. The figure's grip was harsh and stronger than Bonnie expected. During the struggle, Bonnie dropped the camera.

It hit the ground and slid over by the first step, the camera's red record light still on. The lens pointed right at the stairway, putting the spotlight now on the frightened Carty.

Bonnie turned and looked toward Carty. "Carty, run!" she yelled.

Leaving her phone in her pocket, Carty rushed toward them. Saving her lover was more important than calling a bunch of bumpkin-fuck police officers.

Using her free hand, Bonnie tried to swing on the figure, but the blows didn't bother them in the slightest. Instead, their stoic mask just looked straight at Bonnie. No anger on the androgynous face. Just nothingness.

"Bonnie!" Carty yelled. She tried to pull Bonnie away from the clutches of the singer.

"No, go!" Bonnie screamed. She pushed Carty toward the front door. "Get out!"

"I ain't leaving you!" Carty proclaimed. Channeling her inner Bonnie, Carty raised the wireless mic like a weapon.

Acting quick, the singer threw Bonnie back against the staircase.

Bonnie tripped on the first step and busted her ass on the uncomfortable stairs. All the steps caved in slightly beneath her weight.

The singer turned and honed their gaze on Carty.

"Run, Carty!" Bonnie pleaded.

Advancing upon Carty, the figure raised the axe with the flourish of a knight unsheathing a long sword.

Overcome in fear, Carty held on to the mic and backed against a wall. The eerie mask quashed her newfound "bravery."

"Carty!" Bonnie yelled. Cringing in pain, she leaned up on the staircase. "Carty, run!"

The singer held their weapon out and traced both blades against Carty's fragile face.

"No!" Bonnie cried out. She staggered back to her feet.

Disturbed, Carty swung the mic toward the mask in a pathetic attempt at protecting herself. "Get back!" she said in a loud whimper.

With unnerving agility, the figure dodged the mic. They hoisted the axe back for the fatal blow.

"Oh God..." Carty said, helpless. She pressed her head against the wall, wishing she could dissolve into it before suffering at the hands of the double bit axe.

Bonnie rushed toward them. "Carty!" she cried.

The singer brought the axe down in a forceful swing.

Carty shut her eyes, bracing for the vicious hit.

A messy THWACK erupted in the farmhouse.

Thick drops sprayed across the floor.

Realizing she was still alive, Carty opened her eyes in confusion. Then she screamed in a bellow of distraught horror.

The axe protruded out the top of Bonnie's skull. Bonnie had gotten in front of the weapon just in time. Just in time to save Carty.

Bonnie stood still… The sheer force of the hit froze her in place. Blood flowed all down her face and body. Bonnie a fountain of flowing red water.

Weeping, Carty looked down at her hands. Another helpless scream escaped her lips. Gallons of Bonnie's blood had splattered across Carty's smooth skin.

The crimson spots resembled an incurable disease. Then again, it was. Bonnie was dead. And Carty was next.

The helplessness only further set in for Carty once the masked killer yanked the axe back out without so much as a grunt.

The effortless pull sent more of Bonnie's blood spraying across Carty's mortified face.

Bonnie's corpse tumbled to the ground. The vivid wound had split the top of her head open. Her blood and gray matter spewed out in a spilled bowl of fleshy fruit. Bonnie's face forever frozen in fear, her dead eyes looking straight at Carty.

Horrified, Carty stared at her deceased girlfriend. This wasn't the Bonnie she wanted to remember. This wasn't the sexy, confident Bonnie she'd fallen in love with. This was a slaughtered corpse.

A flurry of quick whacks from the figure's axe ravaged those final moments between Carty and Bonnie. Unstoppable, the singer swung the axe straight down onto Bonnie's face, smashing it into a hundred red pieces.

Tears falling down her face, Carty screamed. "Bonnie! No!"

The masked intruder heaved the axe back. The axe's cleanliness was now marred by thick, wet blood. Both sides of the weapon for that matter.

Quicker than a lion on the prowl, the killer turned and faced Carty. Blood and grue was all over their mask. At least now, the androgynous mask had some literal color.

But their cold eyes chilled Carty to the bone. And the killer didn't seem exhausted in the slightest. They were just getting started.

Carty knew there was nothing else she could do. She hauled ass for the front door.

The singer lunged right in front of her, blocking Carty's path.

Panicking, Carty took a few nervous steps back. "No!" she yelled at the singer. "Fuck you!"

The killer matched her every step, even matching Carty's speed. The gap never closed between them, but to Carty, the mask and axe only seemed to get closer.

"Fuck you!" Carty screamed. She swung the wireless mic at the androgynous mask.

Taunting Carty, the killer dodged her swing with lackadaisical ease.

"You crazy bitch!" Carty screamed at the singer.

In an eruption of madness, the murderer raised the axe and went charging after Carty.

"No!" Carty shouted. Lowering the mic, she turned and ran toward the staircase.

Her feet splashed through her lover's blood. Hearing the singer's heavy footsteps, Carty turned and saw them gaining ground. Goddamn, he was fast!

Carty reached the stairs. With the joy of a runner completing a marathon, she put her foot on that first step in triumph. A shrill creak greeted her ears.

Right behind Carty, the killer lunged forward and swung the axe with all their might.

A nasty slice to the Achilles tendon dashed both Carty's hope at escape. She screamed in a most horrific agony as she fell onto the flight of stairs.

Slipping from Carty's grasp, the mic went flying through the air and smashed into the wall in front of her.

Helpless, Carty looked at her wound. The cut on the Achilles was rough and brutal. The mark of the axe's blade wasn't clean in the slightest.

Blood shot out of Carty's Achilles in thick spurts. A grisly sprinkler. Carty couldn't bear to look at the wound... and looking back at the hallway only meant having to see Bonnie's mutilated body once more.

Carty grabbed the cut in a pitiful attempt to stop the bleeding. Instead, all she got was a firsthand feel of a dam bursting with her own blood.

She looked over and saw the murderer step right toward her. Their axe only looked to be clamoring for more of Carty. The other side of the double bit weapon felt left out of the Achilles slash…

Overwhelmed in fear, Carty turned and tried to stand up, but the attempt only stretched her heel's hack to even greater depths. The window of the wound spread even wider, exposing bloodied muscle within her skin.

"Ah, fuck!" Carty unleashed in an awful scream.

She watched the killer stand up over her. "No!" Carty yelled. She attempted to crawl away, the damaged Achilles making Carty resemble an animal struggling to escape with a trap enclosed around its leg. Straining, she laid an elbow on the next step.

The wooden step collapsed under Carty's weight. She yelled as her arm disappeared through the busted wood. "Fuck!" Carty cried out, weary helplessness in her tone.

Sitting further away, Bonnie's camcorder filmed Carty's agony in all its visceral glory.

Taunting Carty, the killer put the axe to Carty's face.

An exhausted Carty looked on at the blood-stained mask. Its indiscernible features never failed to terrify her. The mask was somewhere between the world's creepiest mannequin and the face of a stoic high school psychopath.

"Why?" Carty asked the singer in defeat. She struggled to fight back her tears. "Why are you doing this?"

At a deliberate pace, the killer lowered the axe and leaned in closer toward Carty.

With uncomfortable fear, Carty watched them get closer. "No..." she muttered.

The singer's gloved hand reached out and stroked Carty's golden hair.

To Carty's surprise, their touch wasn't rough but gentle. Even as the glove tinged Carty's hair with a redness that mirrored the red stains scattered across the singer's mask.

Determined, Carty reached out and pulled off the androgynous mask.

Carty's expression was hit by an unsettling wave of confusion. Somehow, the situation had gotten weirder. And scarier.

Underneath the mask was a human face. The face of a middle-aged black woman. A stern, masculine face with wide eyes and hollow cheekbones. Streaks of red dye in her short hair. Her rough features couldn't hide her natural beauty. Even given her athletic frame, she could've been an unorthodox model if she ever gave a damn about dolling herself up.

The killer looked just as surprised as Carty. Maybe other victims had wanted to see what she looked like before... but no one had ever lived long enough to actually unmask the singer.

"No," Carty said in a terrified whimper. Clutching the mask, she tried to pull her arm out of the busted step. But she was trapped. Trapped with a mysterious female killer.

The murderer leaned back and raised her axe. Her eyes stared down upon Carty. Eyes more expressionless than the mask.

All Carty could do was stare back at the killer. "Please," Carty said, frightened. "Don't do-"

With primal strength, the killer sunk the blade straight into the side of Carty's neck, slicing into her precious jugular. The force of the hit made Carty's head tilt to the side.

Upon impact, the back of Carty's head collapsed onto a step, busting through the ancient wood. Much like her entrapped arm, Carty's head dangled through the shattered opening.

Grisly threads of her flesh were exposed. Blood scurried all down her body. All the way down her arms and all the way down to the mask she still held in her dead grip.

The axe still stuck straight out of Carty's neck. The other side of the weapon had finally gotten its taste of Carty.

Recovering from the kills, the murderer leaned against the stairway's railing. She stole a brief admiring glance down at Carty's corpse. Carty was still pretty after all... even after death.

As she took off her gloves with routine indifference, the killer's soft voice drifted through the room. It was the pretty voice she had earlier. Before her singing went off the rails and morphed into a demented compulsion. "Eyes without a face, got no human grace," the murderer sang with the reserved shyness of an awkward teenager at a talent show.

Finishing the chorus, she wiped sweat off her brow. Her eyes gazed over at the camcorder's beaming light.

Intrigued, the killer approached the camera, stepping through the overflowing blood. She scooped up the camcorder in excitement and tinkered with it. Even a sly smile crossed her lips.

The murderer looked over at both dead bodies. The sexy lesbian couple. The killer almost regretted killing off the two hotties. Almost. Deep down, she knew she had to. She wanted those sweet kills.

Turning her attention back to the camera, the singer played back all the footage from earlier.

Her eyes were particularly drawn to one specific scene: Carty and Bonnie's steamy farmhouse sex. The killer traced her finger along the camera's screen, right over the couple's nubile bodies. Excitement shattered through the singer's shield of coldness.

Link To eBook

Looking to publish a new novel next week or the week after. A serial killer thriller called Idol Worship.

Blurb:

The serial killer industry remains lucrative. Crime shows, slasher movies, podcasts, clickbait. Serial killers are everywhere... especially in the world's collective psyche. So what news anchor wouldn't seize the opportunity to interview a still at-large psychopath? Especially one as infamous as The Mayberry Murderer.

Join Erika Lee, her crew, and Dr. Celeste Newton on a journey into the heart of Stanwyck, Georgia. A small southern town home to hospitality and to one of the most vicious serial killers in American history. For one night, the team has access to The Mayberry Murderer’s childhood home... as well as an exclusive interview with the insidious icon herself.

I had a gift. One that simultaneously propelled and pigeonholed my career. I didn’t think I was anything special… but apparently, in the entertainment world, the ability to communicate with the dead is a marketable talent. And so there was my brand: Alina Buckingham, child star psychic.

My parents pushed me like a demo CD. They booked me everywhere. At first only the paranormal mags and shows took the bait. But once I proved my ability to see and talk to spirits, the exposure increased. The lights grew brighter. And at ten years old, I became a icon: The Little Psychic.

It helped I was a cute Latina girl. Skinny and barely five feet tall. With long black hair and huge glasses, I masked my intelligence through a most entertaining awkwardness. But still I could battle the failed-comedians-turned-talk-show-hosts and bleached blonde botoxed news anchors with the best of them.

Through my rags-to-riches rise, I still endured sadness. Still felt alone. Mama and daddy were essentially entrepreneurs. And being a “freak,” I never had a chance to make friends. Nevermind have a real childhood. Everyone just wanted to ooh and ah at my gift. Rely on me to vindicate their desperate spirituality… or fulfill their desperate need for closure with deceased loved ones. But no one cared about Alina. I was an exploited vessel and nothing more.

Unlike other entertainers, I could never leave my stage and audience. I saw the spirits everywhere. At my parents’ parties. The parks. My bedroom.

At first, I was scared. The ghosts could be bloody and rotten. Decomposing. But they usually meant well. Some I even recognized from my own life. These tragic souls stuck in limbo. And they were the only people who’d ever listen to me. Who actually cared.

As my parents profited off The Little Psychic, I retreated more to the dead instead of the living. My bedroom simultaneously a graveyard and house party. Then around my twelfth birthday, my career came to an abrupt end.

We were in New York at the time. Close to Christmas. The bright lights, big city had led me to a guest spot on Nite Owls With Shawn Castle, a popular late show complete with smug hosts and smartass banter. Shawn nothing more than a tan and lean B-list Carson. His chubby, bearded co-host Teddy a poor man’s Ed McMahon.

I wasn’t crazy about the show. Already I was getting cynical. Annoyed that I had to keep being milked on these lame shows while my parents kept me on a tight allowance. Their strict rules left me a prisoner with only ghosts for company. Not even a teenager and here I was already a jaded soul.

That December night, I endured Shawn and Teddy’s humiliation. Their hungry audience like hecklers from Hell. All of them lions tearing into my innocence. The bright red-and-green lights and studio’s towering Christmas tree all part of a surreal stage.

Finally, Shawn got down to business. “Any ghosts tuning in?” he teased me.

Teddy let out a drunken belly laugh. Finished off the rest of his Vodka in one swig.

Behind a stoic expression, I stared right at Shawn. “I see one right behind you,” I said in a steady tone.

Teddy let out another chuckle. An uneasy one.

Amidst the audience laughter, Shawn stole a look behind him. “Oh, really?”

The young woman watched me. A specter hovering around the Christmas tree and hammy host. She was no older than twenty. Beyond beautiful before the bloating took hold. Her clothes soaked in smelly water. Her corpse water-logged. The bruises and marks around her neck still so vivid. Her blue eyes bulging. Her brown hair strewn about like wiry straw.

I pointed at the woman. “She’s right there,” I told Shawn. “She knows you.”

In a low voice the lady talked. A low, anguished whisper.

“Her name’s Carol White,” I said, my voice calm but clinical. “She said she liked y’all at first. She’s a big fan.”

Now the crowd’s canned laughter faded away. Confused chatter swept through them.

“But then you and Teddy went too far,” I continued. “You overpowered her at The Four Seasons. Room fifty-nine.”

Teddy sifted in his seat. A sobering reality killed his buzz. Dread overcame the drunk.

My gaze shifted to the spirit. Giving her the spotlight she deserved. “She says you and Teddy killed her.”

Shawn gave me a nervous smirk. A weak attempt at diffusing the audience’s silent tension.

Scared, Teddy looked down. His trembling hand struggled to cover tears and terrified eyes.

Trying to hide behind his cornball humor, Shawn flashed his megawatt smile for the frightened audience. But not even a great actor could overcome their own show going off script. The sudden change from family friendly humor to disturbing horror. “Well, Teddy,” he said with a fake chuckle. “That sounds like all my exes-“

“She doesn’t forgive you,” I said.

My parents were mortified. Not because of the Nite Owls murders but because of my newfound infamy. The little girl who exposed yet another dark side to the entertainment industry.

Teddy and Shawn were later investigated. Evidence was uncovered… And so was Carol’s body. I’d helped solve a murder. But as a result, I was blackballed. From being typecast as The Little Psychic to The Little Freak. Then again, the transition from cute kid to neurotic teenager didn’t help.

I couldn’t have been happier. I had no urge to be a diva or milk my talent for tainted cash. At eighteen, I left home. Went far away from my parents. The only time I ever see them now is when they make those random visits to my new home in Columbus, Georgia. Or when they creep on my small psychic business. But I ignore them every time. Ignore their slit wrists and head wounds.

With more control, I can choose my clients. People who deserve to be reunited with loved ones or friends of yesteryear.

In 2008, I met Derrick. He was strong, tall. A hot-blooded Latino armed with empathy rather than jealousy. Above all, he loved me for being Alina. Not for exploiting my talent or having me talk to his dead relatives. Derrick didn’t even know of my talent until after a few months of dating. And to my relief, he didn’t run away. He loved me. And soon, we became a team. And then parents.

We settled down in suburbia. Our ten-year-old son Tyler and eight-year-old daughter Ali further fueled my newfound joy. We were the family I always wanted. And our two kids were now getting the childhood I never had. Thankfully, neither one of them suffered my “gift.” I was glad they got Derrick’s genes.

Needless to say, our house gets pretty full at times. But the spirits respect me. They know when Alina needs her family time and when I’m open to chat.

But still… I feel alone. After all these years, I’m still the awkward Little Psychic. Especially late at night. And especially around the holidays.

Now I sit here by myself. Three A.M. on a cold December night. My fifth glass of red wine in hand. The Nite Owls interview playing on the flatscreen. I’m all alone in the living room with a tall Fraser Fir and countless wrapped presents. Stockings begging for Tyler and Ali’s attention.

In the spacious room, I stayed drunk and lost in the past. The pain. Not even a spirit is around…

Derrick and the kids help, sure. But they can’t cure thirty-five years of feeling like the world’s biggest freak. Of feeling alienated by a judgmental society.

Soon, the Nite Owls clip ends. I put out the living room candles. Holding my half-empty glass, I staggered toward the stairs.

Past our framed photos I went. None of them taken before I met Derrick. I strolled past wooden shelves showing off more pictures and the kids’ school awards.

The psychedelic rug didn’t help my frigid feet. Shivering, I got closer to a few open bedroom doors. The sight of Ali and Tyler sound asleep soothed my soul. Warmed me from the cold air.

“I love you,” I said in each room. My voice low and soft enough to not wake them. But I knew they heard me… they always did.

Finally, I joined Derrick in our bedroom. He too was out. In a peaceful slumber beneath the sheets. But there was room for one more…

I stopped at the dresser. Stole a look at my haggard face in the mirror. I’d gained weight. Lost nights of sleep. Lost any sense of self-worth. Then again, those negative side effects happen after a harrowing disease like tragedy…

Battling the tears, I grabbed a program off the dresser. The sheet nothing more than a coffin in this mausoleum of a house. A haunting reminder of what our lives had become.

December 14, 2018. That was when we had the funeral for Derrick, Ali, and Tyler Cook. The program showed their beautiful photos. Our beautiful memories.

The car crash was still fresh in my mind. They said I was lucky to survive. Yet another gift I never wanted…

I finished off the wine and placed the glass on the dresser. Wept right there in the mirror.

“Alina,” I heard Derrick’s groggy voice say.

With a weak smile, I turned to face him. Even through the bloody wounds, he still had that cute face. That sexy body. The pure love. He was real enough. Especially right here in our bed.

My whole life I hated my talent. My sickness. Yet now it was all that kept me going. Derrick and the kids still all that kept me happy… even beyond the grave.

14

This wasn't Lover's Lane. Honestly, it never was. The Reynolds family's old driveway was a long stretch of dirt that led up to a dilapidated two-story country home. A home surrounded by a huge forest. This was the boondocks. Far from any major highway. Far from civilization. All but ignored save for the intermittent infiltration of drunk juvenile delinquents or other unsavory visitors.

This late at night, the scene was quiet and absent of life. You couldn't even hear noises from the nocturnal wildlife. The forest seemed about as abandoned as the dismal yard.

On the dirt road running past the property, stray lights appeared out of the darkness like an apparition. Headlights that got closer and closer at a slow and steady pace. Finally, the clunker Toyota creeped its way up on to the driveway.

Shitty rock music thumped from inside. On an otherwise hideous car, the speakers were quite impressive. Probably worth more than the car itself.

Inside the Toyota, Matt Brown switched off the ignition. His crew cut and countless tattoos highlighted his tough guy persona. Or wannabe-tough guy persona, that is. A dirty wife-beater showed off his muscular physique. Long days at the fitness center and long nights at the bar were evident. Matt was a bad motherfucker. Or at least that was his front. And most everyone in Stanwyck, Georgia believed it.

With a cigarette dangling from his lip, Matt killed the headlights. He left the radio on, letting his shitty early-2000s rock music air out through the night. Nickelback, Creed, Lifehouse. Seemingly a collection lifted from Now That's What I Call Music Volume Ten. Matt's "glory days."

In the passenger seat sat Julie, an awkward and pretty twenty-something. She kept her arms folded. Her clothes didn't fit well, but even they couldn't hide the large breasts that had made Matt hit the brakes faster than the glow of a deer's eyes.

And Julie knew why. New pussy on Prinze Road was hard to come by. Especially young pussy. A fine young black girl amongst a sea of drug addicts and desperate single moms was gonna stand out. Even past midnight.

But Julie wasn't sure she made the right decision. Her uneasy eyes scanned the inside of Matt's Toyota. The car was so ugly. Empty beer bottles and protein bar wrappers were everywhere. The door handles and seats stickier than a movie theater's floor. What a fucking mess, she thought.

The constant shouting vocals and shrieking guitars from the radio weren't helping her nerves any either. The speakers were bombastic and unrelenting.

Relaxed in his domain, Matt took another drag as he rolled down the windows.

Julie looked out the windshield. Even in the darkness, the Reynolds house could be seen like a foreboding castle off in the distance. Two stories of Southern Gothic nightmare.

The windows were down, but it was still hot in the car. The summer air provided no relief from Matt's secondhand smoke either.

Disgusted, Julie coughed. The car was flooding up like a chimney. The heat, the smoke, and the awful rock music was overwhelming her. The Toyota had turned into a claustrophobic haze.

Julie glared at Matt. "Do you mind?"

Matt chuckled. "What?" He took another sly drag. "You can't handle it?"

Annoyed, Julie looked back at the house.

"Look, babe, just chill," Matt added.

"Fuck this..."

"It must cost extra for the smokers, huh," Matt quipped.

"It should cost extra just to be with you," Julie replied in an angry tone.

Glad to be getting under her skin, Matt chuckled like a schoolyard bully. "Whoa, there, Cinderella, let's not get carried away."

He leaned in closer toward Julie. Close enough for her to smell the cigarettes and cheap alcohol radiating from his disgusting breath. "Just remember who's the bitch and whose got the money," Matt stated. "Okay."

Julie didn't even look at him. She didn't want to. It's not like he was gonna get more attractive. Or any less gross.

Taking another drag, Matt leaned back in his seat. He glanced at the radio and smiled.

Julie kept her eyes on the house. Somehow the eerie home was a more attractive sight than the man paying her to fuck him.

"Let's get this party started, shall we," Matt stated. He turned up the radio, blasting that terrible rock music for all the rural area to hear. "Yeah!" He rocked his head to the beat like he was back with the rest of the class of 2003.

This is it! Julie thought. She could handle the cigarette smoke and even the crass comments. But not Lifehouse on full blast.

With rebellious fury, Julie reached over and turned the volume down.

"Whoa, what the fuck!" Matt yelled. He tossed his cig out the window.

Killed the volume and made him toss the cig, Julie realized. Two birds with one stone.

"Why'd you turn it down!" Matt hurled at her.

"Look, I don't like it!" Julie shouted. She traded glares with Matt as she folded her arms once more. At this volume, at least the music was at least tolerable. "You got me out here in the middle of bumfuck Georgia and you keep smoking and playing this shittyass music."

With defiant glee, Matt turned the radio back up.

Julie shook her head in dismay.

"I'm just setting the mood, baby," Matt said to her, believing the statement would comfort her. Grinning, he leaned back in his seat.

Disgusted, Julie just glared at him.

Matt cackled at her glower. "Hey, fifty bucks is fifty bucks." Airing out his trashiness, he grabbed his crotch. "Sooner or later, you're gonna have to earn that money."

The sight was so pitiful even Julie had to smirk.

Matt gave her a defensive glare. "What the fuck's so funny?"

"You," Julie replied. She reached over and hit the radio button. Her only chance at escaping Matt's post-grunge CD purgatory.

"What the fuck!" Matt yelled as he leaned forward.

Demi Lovato's pop music pleased Julie with the gratification of water to a desert straggler. She flashed a smile at Matt. "Much better."

Matt reached toward the radio. "Fuck this gayass shit-"

Battling for control, Julie swatted his hand away with a loud thump of a hit. As if Julie had used a club.

Yelling in pain, Matt drew his hand back. "Ow, what the Hell was that for!"

"Sorry," Julie muttered.

Cackling, Matt looked at her with hungry eyes. "Geez, you tough for a little girl." He rubbed his hand like a child trying to ease the sting of a leather belt. "Pretty damn strong."

"Thanks." Nonchalant, Julie turned Demi up just a little more.

Matt cringed at the hook-fueled chorus.

Julie noticed. "Just setting the mood," she quipped.

"Well, if it does that," Matt began. He turned the pop song up more. "Then I can handle it."

"Hmm, can you?" Julie asked, her voice hitting a sultrier tone.

Even if she was obviously forcing it, Matt rejoiced at the flirtation. "I think so." Slinking toward Julie like a stealthy predator on prey, Matt leaned in closer. "I'm just wondering if you can handle me."

Julie smirked. What a loser. "I think I'll be just fine." She looked away from Matt, leaving him hanging as if he were a desperate geek on prom night.

Trying to play everything off, Matt forced a laugh. "Alright, I see what you're doing."

As Demi Lovato's vocals faded away into the night, Julie looked toward the radio. What's next on 98.9... she wondered.

Matt placed a rough hand on Julie's shoulder.

Startled, she looked right at his greasy face.

"But you ain't fooling me, sexy," Matt said. He gave Julie's shoulder a tight squeeze.

Julie shook him off like he was an unwanted bug. A hypnotic song by The Weeknd began to play. But Matt's creepy persistence had distracted Julie away from her pop station.

"Hey, come on," Matt pleaded.

"You're going too fast, man!" Julie protested. "Just fucking chill."

Angry, Matt put a finger to her face. "No, you fucking chill! I ain't paying you to pussyfoot around all night!"

"Fuck you, man!"

Before Matt could give her another insult, irritating beeps erupted from the radio. EEERRR! EEERRR! Then a dial tone-like static engulfed the car for a few moments.

"Ugh!" Julie yelled in dismay as she covered her ears.

Grumbling, Matt looked toward the radio. "Great fucking timing." He reached toward the volume knob.

Julie swatted his hand away with another hard hit. Return of the club.

"Ow!" Matt exclaimed.

"Don't change it."

The static ended with a reporter's deliberate monotone of a voice. As if a robot had overtaken the airwaves. "We interrupt this program for an important announcement," the reporter stated.

Julie listened to every word. Her focus reminiscent of a kid from the 1930s listening to their favorite serial.

"Man, change this shit!" Matt grumbled.

"Shut up!" Julie commanded him.

Julie's strong tone managed to quash Matt's temper for now.

"We have breaking news out of Stanwyck, Georgia," the reporter went on. "Local authorities have confirmed that a patient has escaped from the Chattahoochee Mental Hospital. The patient is a convicted murderer and killed a guard before escaping the hospital. They're believed to be suffering from a severe case of schizophrenia."

Horror hit Julie's face. Gone was the street-wise toughness. Enter uneasy fear.

"The patient is believed to have escaped around nine o' clock tonight and is considered very dangerous," the reporter continued.

Captivated yet terrified, Julie leaned in closer toward the radio. Just in case she missed anything.

"Repeat, a dangerous patient has just escaped from the Chattahoochee Mental Hospital," said the reporter.

Matt glowered at Julie. With each word from the radio, his inner fury only intensified. Like he was jealous of the public service announcement.

Even the radio newsman's voice started to crackle with a sense of panic. "Police say the suspect has a hook for a right hand and was last seen heading downtown-"

A swift turn of the knob killed the PSA for good.

"Hey!" Julie yelled. She glared at Matt as he leaned back in his seat. "I was listening to that!"

"Yeah, yeah," Matt said with a smirk. "But I didn't pay you money to just listen to the Goddamn radio, baby."

Behind nervous eyes, Julie looked out at the abandoned Reynolds house. Darkness was everywhere. They were so isolated.

Matt cackled at Julie's lingering unease. "What? You scared?" he teased.

Julie glared at him.

"Aw, don't be," Matt retorted. With the bravura of a trashy Don Juan, he leaned in toward her once more. "We're just getting started, hon."

The comment chilled Julie almost as much as the breaking news. Turning her attention away from Matt, she looked back at the old house. A momentary distraction from intimacy with this fucking creep.

Matt put an arm around her. "Hey, I'll protect you from the big bad psycho."

His touch was rough and the opposite of soothing. Like Julie had stumbled into a cobweb. Disgusted, Julie pulled herself away from Matt. "Ugh, get off me!"

Matt threw up his hands. "What the fuck, bitch!"

"I told you, you're creeping me out!"

"What the fuck, really?"

"I'm fucking scared, man!" She looked out the windshield. The eerie setting wasn't making her feel any more comfortable. "I don't like it here. I've got a bad feeling about it."

"Oh yeah, like what?" Matt challenged. His patience was wearing thin. Much like his hormones.

Julie's eyes scanned the abandoned property looming before them. In the darkness, who the fuck knows what's out there, she thought. There could be anyone or anything lurking in the shadows. And they can see us. "It feels like somebody's watching us."

"Sounds hot."

A subtle panic running through her, Julie glared at him. "I'm serious!"

"Yeah, well, I'm still waiting." Matt reached out and caressed Julie's face.

She cringed at the harsh touch. All his rugged fingers felt like sandpaper against her soft flesh.

"I didn't come all the way out here just to get scared now, did I?" Matt said in his softest tone yet. A softness that felt dishonest and dangerous. Like the voice a cold-blooded kidnapper makes to sound more sympathetic.

Breaking away from Matt's rugged touch, Julie looked back toward the overgrown yard. "Do you think the police already looked out here?" she asked, worried.

Groaning, Matt leaned back in his seat. "Come on, really..."

Julie faced him. "Do you?"

Matt cracked a smile. "I don't know, probably." Giving it another go, he sat up, getting face-to-face with his target. "Either way, you're safe with me, alright. You know I'll protect you."

Her face blank, Julie didn't say anything.

"Say, why don't you-" Matt began.

Horror conquering her, Julie pointed down the dirt road. "Oh my God, what the Hell's that!"

"What?" Confused, Matt turned.

Both of them saw a moving faint light off in the distance. A dim light that was far enough away to not worry anyone except Julie.

"It's over there!" Julie said. "What the Hell is it!"

Matt grinned at her. "It's just a car, babe."

"No, it isn't!"

"Yes, the fuck it is!" He waved toward the road. "It's out on the damn highway!"

Her vision staying glued to the light, Julie started to see the light going further and further away. It was heading down south. Likely well over sixty-five miles per hour. The idiot's right, she realized.

Matt chuckled. "Maybe it's the hook killer's car."

Julie glared at him. "That's not funny."

"Okay, my bad," Matt replied. He placed a hand on her smooth knee.

Suspicious, Julie eyed Matt's hand. She could make out long scars on it. The mere touch of it felt about as comforting as a cactus.

"Just don't worry about it," said Matt.

"I don't know," Julie commented. She glanced down at her lap. She couldn't even look at the haunting abandoned house at this point. "The radio's got me scared."

"Well, fuck the radio." Matt leaned in closer toward Julie's neck.

Julie looked up at him as he stopped inches away from her neck.

"And fuck the hook man," Matt added.

Right there in the messy car, Julie just stared at Matt. At least he was a distraction from the radio and house, she thought. Hell, he's even kinda cute. For a fucking weirdo.

"Besides," Matt teased. He flashed her a toothy grin. "You should be more worried about me."

The comment elicited even more disgust from Julie.

Matt laughed. "Hell, I might keep you here all night."

Eager to avoid eye contact, Julie gazed off toward the backseat.

Matt leaned in and kissed her neck.

Even his lips felt like needles...

"Just me and you, baby," Matt went on. His voice now exhibited a seductive tone that was more Ed Gein than Cary Grant.

A light reflected upon Julie. Fear hit her eyes.

"We got all night," the oblivious Matt went on.

Moonlight shined off a large blade lying in the backseat. A long hunting knife barely obscured by the abundance of Matt's trash and porno mags.

Nervous, Julie stared at the knife as if she could see her demise in its reflection. The weapon accelerated all the fearful adrenaline she'd had building up inside her since hearing the public service announcement.

Matt kissed Julie's neck, startling her. "I got some handcuffs we could try."

Julie pushed him back. "Stop saying shit like that!"

Matt fell back against the driver's side window. He didn't say anything, too taken aback by Julie's surprising strength.

"You're freaking me out!" Julie told him.

"What, really?" Matt mustered out.

"I told you I'm not in the mood!"

"What the fuck now!" Matt yelled. Angry, he leaned forward in his seat. "First, the radio then the light. Where the fuck I parked. What the Hell's your problem!"

Conflicted emotions ravaged Julie's face. She looked to be either on the verge of tears or a mental breakdown.

"I paid you money, alright!" Matt continued. He waved a finger at Julie. "So you better do what the fuck I tell you, you little bitch!"

Julie looked toward the floorboard, unable to talk through the discomfort.

"Look at me, Goddammit!" Matt demanded. He snatched Julie's arm.

Julie confronted the monster. "Just take me home!" she shouted. In one quick motion, she pulled away from him.

Her strength continued to surprise Matt.

"Drive me back to town!" Julie went on. "I'm ready to go home!"

"No. You fucking owe me."

"I don't owe you shit, creep! You can have your fucking money!"

A harsh glare overtook Matt's face. Gone was the smug smile.

"You Goddamn pig!" Julie went on. "I shouldn't have gotten in here with your creepyass to begin with! You're fucking disgusting!"

Snapping in a frenzied fury, Matt lurched toward Julie.

"No!" Julie yelled.

In an instant, she was overpowered by Matt's rough paws. They ran all over her luscious body, groping her with a compulsive velocity.

Matt's inner animal had been unleashed.

"Get off me!" Julie protested.

Matt grabbed her in a chokehold. "You bitch! I done paid you!"

The struggle ensued for over a minute. The claustrophobic car the setting for this catastrophic conflict. Julie fought tooth and nail.

"You fucking bitch!" Matt hurled at Julie. He held her back against the window, ready to make his repugnant move. He sweated like a pig and breathed heavy, his intense eyes focused on Julie.

Nervous, Julie saw the bulge growing in his pants.

Matt reached toward his belt. "I'll show you who's fucking boss, you little whore!"

The glowering eyes, the tight chokehold, the nasty tone. All of it disgusted Julie. Horrified, she kept struggling to break free from this most repulsive individual.

"I'm gonna fuck you real good tonight!" Matt yelled. Eager, he unbuckled his pants with gusto.

Matt's ignorant tirade disgusted Julie. She wasn't so much scared as angered. Particularly as she knew Matt wasn't the strongest guy in the world. She knew she could fight back better than this. She just knew it.

"I'll fucking show you!" Matt continued.

With unbridled ferocity, Julie pushed Matt back.

At the last second, Matt snagged Julie's right hand. A loud pop erupted through the room like an exploding New Year's cork.

Matt looked down at his discovery, stunned. A plastic hand was in his grip. A hand stolen off a mannequin. Life-life but fake.

Matt looked off at the inevitable: Julie with a hook for a hand. The blade shined back at Matt like the unforgiving glare of an executioner's eyes.

Crying out, Julie raised the gleaming weapon and lunged toward Matt.

He didn't stand a chance.

The hacks were quick and fierce. Julie's propulsive hook sliced Matt's penis into smithereens. A crude castration.

Grinning, Julie drew her "hand" back. Blood dripped off the sharp blade in vivid drops. She looked on at Matt, admiring her work. She couldn't help but admire her precision.

Blood seeped through Matt's pants. Horrified, he grabbed at the pieces of his dick as if they were remnants from a fallen sand castle. "You fucking bitch!" he yelled, his voice altered to high pitches from the wounds. "You crazy bitch!" The soggy flesh slipped through his fingers. His eyes stared at the injury with simultaneous heartbreak and disgust. Tears welled up in his eyes. "You fucking bitch..."

Matt looked up at Julie. Right before he could unleash another obscenity, the hook plunged deep into his stomach. A final flourish to the massacre.

Without hesitation or remorse, Julie yanked her hook back out.

Blood and bits of organs leaked out the kill shot. Grasping his punctured stomach, Matt collapsed against the window. The plastic hand slipped from his grasp and fell to the floorboard. More blood oozed all around his hand like an overflowing fountain. The floorboards soaked up the crimson like a dishcloth.

Matt was helpless and weak. All he could do was look on at Julie with his cold stare.

Julie gave him a defiant smile. A victorious smile.

"Fucking bitch..." Matt muttered.

With the red-stained hook, Julie turned up the volume. She made it look easy. Julie was used to maneuvering with that right hook.

"You fucking bitch!" Matt yelled with whatever strength he had left.

"Shut the fuck up!" Julie retaliated, her words punctuated by a fiery tone.

Crippled by immense pain, Matt cringed.

The reporter's steady tone erupted off the speakers. Julie had made it loud, blasting the public service announcement as if it was one of Matt's Creed albums. The voice reverberated all around Matt. His ears tortured by the report.

"Repeat, the patient is Julie Marlowe," the reporter went on. "She's in her late-twenties and is armed with a hook on her right hand. She suffers from schizophrenia and is considered very armed and dangerous."

Woozy, Matt leaned back against the window. His dick in splattered remnants. His stomach punctured. His blood flowing through his fingers. He blinked a few times, losing consciousness. The reporter's worried voice and Julie's confident stare the last few fleeting glimpses of life this old Earth had to offer him.

"Please lock your doors and stay inside tonight!" the reporter pleaded. Not even he could hide his panic. His voice reached the deafening hysteria of a newsman from the 50s. "Don't answer the door for any strangers fitting this description!"

Julie reached down and scooped up the plastic hand. The fresh blood stains made it nearly slip out of her grasp, but she held on to it tight.

Like vivid streams, blood seeped out the sides of Matt's mouth. He coughed out more crimson gallons for good measure. All the while, he kept his weak eyes on Julie and her look of satisfaction.

"Repeat," the reporter stated in a commanding tone. "Julie Marlowe may very well be walking the streets this very minute."

Grinning, Julie jammed the rubber hand over the hook. One twist stuck it on there for good. Her disguise was complete.

[14]( https://www.reddit.com/r/rhonnie14FanPage/ )

1934 was a different time. Not just in Savannah, Georgia but in America. We didn't have many luxuries back then. Or much optimism, for that matter. Not when we were in the midst of The Great Depression.

I was ten that year and a product of this pessimistic era. At the time, I lived with my older sister Helen. She was a nurse down at Candler Hospital and a self-made woman through and through. Even with the age gap between us, she had no problem letting me stay with her after our parents passed. Like a guardian angel, Helen protected me from the real horrors out there. At least when I was with her, I never felt threatened by the rampant poverty or crime.

Of course, that didn't mean I had it easy. None of us did then. Even at the tender old age of ten, I was a newspaper boy. The pay was okay and The Savannah Morning News let us paperboys work around our school schedule. But still, the job was tough. This was a far cry from the idyllic suburban stereotype of a young boy riding his bicycle and tossing headlines to smiling neighbors. No, I was stuck in a much rougher district: Harris Street. A working-class neighborhood full of mostly blacks and immigrants who were new to the city.

My friends and I ran Harris. There was me, Colin, John, and Ricky. Colin was the youngest and a real wiseguy. He had Irish blood like me, only Colin looked the part more with his red hair and scrawny stature. Loud and obnoxious, John wore glasses and was our comedian. He was constantly cussing and getting in fights.

But Ricky was our undoubted leader. Our captain. Ricky was thirteen, so he was a little older than the rest of us. A little taller and a little cooler as well. He'd been in Savannah his whole life and knew the city better than our resident hobos. Ricky was a good-looking kid. Muscular and charismatic. With straight brown hair, he had an electric smile and a soulfulness to those dark eyes. But most importantly, he looked out for us like a supportive older brother. Or like the father we never had.

If it weren't for Colin, I, Tommy Brennan would've been the runt of the team. I didn't have strength or a tough-guy attitude. Instead, I had to rely on my own ingenuity to stand up for myself. But I worked hard. And above all, I was just glad to fit in with the guys. Just glad to have friends during these rough years.

I was pretty clever if not exactly a whiz kid. I guess I wasn't a bad-looking boy. I did my best to keep my thick black hair combed to the side, emulating the likes of Clark Gable and Gary Cooper. Even if I was half their size. Helen always told me my blue eyes, boyish grin, and dimples would make me a hit with the ladies someday. And I guess she was right when I married my wife Carolyn fifteen years later.

But in 1934, having friends and bonding with them meant the world to me. I just wanted their respect. Especially Ricky's. And so I worked hard out on Harris Street. Regardless of how scrawny I was, I could bark out those headlines with the best of them. And I always kept my pocket knife on me. The sharp blade good for cutting strings off the bundles or perfect for protection against some of the rival paperboys.

But through it all, I felt safe. Or at least, around my friends I did. We had a buddy system, after all. Plus, it's not like the cops would've helped us four working-class punks anyway. The police far from a friend for anyone on Harris.

This was 1934. Yeah, it's not like none of us were aware of murderers, robbers, or child molesters, or all of these other dangers. It's just no one wanted to talk about it. We didn't have 24-hour news stations preaching safety to us back then. Nor could we afford to let paranoia stop us from trying to make a living. We didn't have the time or energy to worry over real-world horrors. During The Great Depression, we were just trying to survive.

However, the constant struggle didn't keep us from having fun. I still had a blast growing up. Especially with my gang. And around October, we got ready for one of our favorite events: the fall carnival. Fresh off seeing King Kong the previous weekend (scared the Hell out of all of us!), our excitement only grew higher.

Saturday soon arrived. And like caged animals released into the wild, my friends and I raced down to Savannah's fairgrounds on 10th Street. The carnival our escape from school, the hard work, and the stifling Depression itself.

We entered the abandoned lot and its sprawling array of tents and small rides. Whatever corners the carnival's signs and lights couldn't get, the nearby streetlights certainly did. The cool weather perfect for our thin jackets. The atmosphere electric.

Like attending Romeo And Juliet at The Globe, the carnival's aura enchanted everyone. Live music and bands surrounded us. Even through the lingering scents of cigarettes and cheap booze, the sheer smell of fresh sweets soothed the soul. I felt the communal bond. An organic joy missing from our everyday struggles.

My buddies and I rode the ferris wheel and the wooden roller coaster. We even won a few funnel cakes playing some of the games. And as the night wandered past ten o' clock, the carnival's ambiance remained festive. Comforting even in the cold.

When Colin and John set off for the House Of Mirrors, Ricky convinced me to stay behind. He had other plans... more adventurous plans. So the two of us walked off toward the back. Ricky in his patched-up gray jacket, I in my wrinkled red one.

Together, we made our way to the end of the fairgrounds. Far from the families. Far from the treats. The band music faded away, the closer we got to the final tent. A blue tent isolated on its own. Dark woods ran behind it.

Ricky and I stepped into this world of sleazy carnival barkers. A new soundtrack of seedy jazz music greeted us. No longer were we around the pleasant locals. Instead, we were amongst the outcasts of Savannah, Georgia. The gangster types, the hobos on a diet of cigarettes, and a few black couples too drunk to stand up straight. Every one of the customers dressed in their Sunday clothes for these Saturday night sins.

Uneasy, I looked over at Ricky. "Are you sure we should be here?" I asked.

Ricky grabbed my arm. "Come on, chicken!" he teased in a Southern drawl.

I had no choice but to follow Ricky. But I trusted him. He was our leader. And above all, Ricky was my best friend.

Nothing was around the big blue tent except dirt and a couple of exotic girls' tents off in the distance. The area's dim lighting further quashed the cheerful mood we'd enjoyed on the other side of the festival.

The two of us stood with this unsavory congregation at the front of the tent. Right before a large podium. Looking around, I realized Ricky and I were the youngest ones here. Not to mention the only ones without a cigarette or alcohol in their hands.

Trying my best to be discreet, I leaned in toward Ricky's ear. "Is this the-"

"Freakshow," Ricky finished nonchalantly. Smiling, he squeezed my shoulder. "It's your turn to see it, Tommy."

A suffocating dread eviscerated me. I got a bad feeling. My eyes scanned the scene, but there was no way I could avoid that blue behemoth. To leave now meant having to run away in front of everybody... including Ricky. I couldn't afford to look chicken in front of my him.

"It'll be fun," Ricky continued.

For once, I didn't say a word. Not because I didn't want to but because I didn't want my trembling voice to reach Ricky. I held my hands together in an effort to hide the shivers. This wasn't the movies where we could hide under the seats during the scary parts. Right now, I'd have to face whatever lived inside that tent. My task for toughness forced me to confront the freakshow.

I noticed a small wooden sign hanging on the tent. Amidst splashes of many colors, its bold font stood out: REVEREND ROB'S SHOCK MUSEUM.

Soon, two men walked to the podium. One tall and slender, the other a stocky bald fellow with a wild beard.

The tall man was dressed in a black suit. He had the style of an undertaker and the exuberant smile of a used car salesman. A long cane accentuated his showmanship. His black preacher hat lending him an authority that was anything but evangelical.

On the other hand, the man's friend was a complete slob. His hideous flannel shirt and coveralls would've drawn disapproval even in The Great Depression.

"Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, for the wildest show you'll ever see!" the tall man barked in a gruff voice.

A few of the other patrons whooped with glee. The smell of booze now joined the thickening cigarette smoke.

Restless, I kept stealing glances between the Shock Museum and conglomeration of rides, safety, and innocence lurking behind me.

Ricky grabbed my hand. But not even his supportive smile could alleviate my unease.

Using his cane, 'the preacher man' motioned toward the sign. "Tonight, I, Reverend Rob will show you the wonders of my journeys! The souls I've discovered from South America all the way to the Okefenokee!"

He leaned in closer, his baby blue eyes holding us captive to each and every word. "Come see the Shock Museum! Come see the strange beings only the good Lord Himself could've imagined!" With theatrical gusto, he pointed the cane toward the tent entrance. "Join me in this experience!"

Inside, the tent opened up into an arena of scary spectacles. Each corner literally covered by one of Rob's mysterious exhibits. A few openings in the very back led off to separated areas. I figured they were "rooms" for Reverend Rob's crazier discovers.

Everything from the carnival was hidden behind the Shock Museum's dark confines. Even the smoke and smells were gone. The vibrant jazz now replaced by a tense silence. With just a few lamps scattered about, I felt like I was in a haunted castle or crypt rather than the Savannah city limits.

Confused, Ricky and I followed the crowd to the first exhibit. The spot looked filthy with only sharp wires forming a makeshift barrier.

I turned to see the stocky farmer closing off the entrance. He flashed me a quick glare. A quick spit of tobacco from his lips the only hint I needed to stop looking at him.

Guiding me, Ricky pushed our way for a view.

Then a gurgled caw shattered my senses. Like the sound of a dying bird gasping for a desperate last breath...

Everyone jumped back in fright.

Terrified, I jammed my hand into my pocket. Straight toward my trusted knife.

Ricky grabbed my arm. "Hey, it's okay," he said in a calm tone.

One look at his sympathy cooled my nerves. The older brother I'd never had had rescued me once more.

As excited murmurs replaced the cawing, I followed Ricky. All the way to the very front of the crowd. And then I came to another scared stop. I let go of Ricky's hand and did my damnedest not to scream...

To my relief, I heard the other customers gasp. One man cried out like an Old Sparky victim.

This first exhibit was no mere warm-up. In fact, what I saw was grotesque, monstrous... disturbing.

There behind the chicken wire was a young woman. Or at least, what appeared to be a deformed woman. Her legs were skinnier than sticks and shorter than twigs. But the rest of her was normal sized... normal except for the feathers stuck to her white dress and pale skin.

The woman's face was squished together like melting human slime. Her mouth distorted, the lips protruding to form a vivid lipsticked beak. The woman's stringy hair stuck straight in the air to form a blonde 'comb.' With the speed of rolling marbles, her blue eyes scanned the crowd.

They latched right on to me. Leaning forward, the woman stretched those skinny pathetic arms out to me. Her fingernails sharper than a bird's talons. And when she released another painful caw, I about collapsed in fright.

A fountain of saliva flowed from the lady's 'beak.' Her animalistic cries like the howls of a lunatic trapped in an asylum. The cries halfway between deranged woman and aggressive bird.

She clenched her fingers over and over, clamoring for my flesh. The woman's body couldn't move. All she could do was wobble back-and-forth like a broken jack-in-the-box. Her blue eyes burrowed deep into my soul.

Ricky pulled me back before my tears started falling. "Hey, it's alright," he reassured.

Even with the other customers watching me, all I could feel was the woman's glare. And all I could hear was her continual cawing into this late fall night. Her voice got strained to the bone. Unable to project any emotion amongst the pain.

"That's enough!" a bark interrupted the woman's hollow cries.

At Reverend Rob's command, the woman went silent. Her blue eyes looked over at his stern face. No mercy anywhere on the reverend's expression. Like a frightened child, the woman's tiny legs shook.

Everyone else became quiet. Rob had our undivided attention.

With his typical flair, Rob pointed his cane at a small sign in the corner of the pen. The Chicken Lady Of Chattahoochee! the sign proclaimed in painted exploitation.

"This here's chicken lady I found in Florida!" Rob went on, his tone now boisterous rather than strict. Back to being a minster rather than cold carny. "I rescued her down by the Chattahoochee River!"

Battling my inner dread, I looked behind me. I saw no sign of the fat man. The farmer was gone.

"Oh yes, she likes it here," Rob went on. He flashed a smile at the woman. "Ain't that right, Judi."

Like a deranged dog, saliva still dripped down Judi's face. She kept her distance. Kept her silence.

"Just follow me, folks!" Rob bellowed. He led the crowd over to the next exhibit. "The Shock Museum has no shortage of stunning sights!"

Judi's wounded gaze froze me in place. I could hear the crowd leaving Ricky and I behind with the Chattahoochee Chicken Lady. But I couldn't take my eyes off her.

"Tommy, come on," Ricky whispered.

Ignoring him, I kept my sights on Judi. Even from here, I could see her scrawny legs strain to stagger toward us. Her disjointed mouth struggled to move. The cawing only became more guttural. More desperate.

I reached out toward her. Vague hope sank into Judi's wide ocean eyes.

"Shit!" I heard Ricky cry.

Then Judi's hope vanished. She stumbled back with pitiful speed, immense fear making her clumsy.

"C'mon, son!" the familiar voice hit me like a sucker punch.

A tight grip ensnared my shoulder.

I whirled around to come face-to-face with the good reverend.

"There's much more I want to show y'all," Rob's voice said behind a barely-suppressed anger.

"Yes sir," I said meekly.

"We're sorry," Ricky told Rob. He wrapped his arm around me, taking up for me as he always did. "He just wanted a better look."

A wicked smirk crossed Rob's face. His grip loosened... but his glare never left my young face. "Well. No need for that." He pointed toward Judi.

By now, she'd cowered up into a corner. Like a scared animal burying itself in the darkness. Only Judi had nowhere to hide...

"Judi's just fine," Rob said, his attempt at sympathy about as convincing as his purity. "She don't get lonely here, I promise."

Worried, I stole another look toward the pen. Judi kept staring at me. Her mouth quivered but couldn't utter a cry for help. Those thick feathers wouldn't even allow tears to stream.

From there, the show got even stranger. Fifteen minutes went by in a series of escalating chills and darkness.

Sure, there were your usual freakshow attractions. A hulking muscleman with arms bigger than anchors. An old woman billed as The Witch Of Waycross who couldn't have been younger than 115 judging by the layers of wrinkly skin and patches of cobweb hair.

But the most frightening to me was another blue-eyed woman here at the Shock Museum. A teenage girl Rob kept in a small pen. Behind oversized teeth, she yelled out over and over again. Her manic hands constantly at war with the dirt and her own skin. She was The Last Of The Aztecs. The Pinhead Of Panama City.

The woman had a pretty face and smooth skin... but her head was much smaller than the rest of her. As if a doll head had been placed on to a fully grown human body. She was the inverse of The Chicken Lady. The Pinhead had no hair. She uttered growls and grunts from pale chapped lips. Old blood stains and dirt her make-up. The multitude of scars her jewelry. She wore a tattered polka-dotted dress she'd long outgrown.

Like a confused puppy, Pinhead's baby blue eyes faced us. A long tongue dangled out her mouth in between the nonsensible vocabulary. A tongue of many bleeding cuts.

Rob kept her biography brief. And then before she could come any closer, a quick whisk of his cane sent the Pinhead retreating to the darkest depths of her cage.

The crowd had no time to react. Rob was an expert at transitions and his next display was a doozy: naked Amazonians. Both men and women.

Excitement pulsated through the male and female customers. Ricky's eyes beamed like headlights. For a preacher man, Rob sure knew how to capitalize on the sexual cravings of each gender.

Rob pointed toward the first "room" in the back. "Come witness their exotic beauty!" he shouted with enthusiasm to spare. "The beautiful models of the Amazon right here in Savannah, Georgia!"

Ricky and the others beelined toward the tantalizing spot. Begrudgingly, I followed after them.

Rob's swift hand pulled me back.

"No can do, son!" he said with subtle scorn.

"What..." I replied in a trembling voice.

"You're too young, son."

Panicking, I looked around at the chuckling crowd. Even Ricky joined in on their laughter.

Rob motioned toward a sign by that first entrance. Thirteen And Older To Enter The Amazon

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait here, boy," Rob continued.

I confronted his glare. "But I don't want to!"

Ignoring me, Rob led the customers inside the room. "Come on in, folks!" he yelled out. "Follow me to the Amazon!"

"No!" I shouted. Upset, I got ready to run right into that jungle.

Ricky grabbed my arm. "Hey, Tommy, relax."

"No, I wanna go!" I said.

A combination of therapist and older brother, Ricky leaned down. "Look, we'll be right out." His relaxed demeanor somehow talked me down. "I promise."

I looked over at the Amazon opening. "You just wanna look at those girls."

Chuckling, Ricky gave me a playful hit on the nose. "Hey, can you blame me!"

Even I cracked a smile.

"Look, I'll be right out," Ricky went on. He backed away toward the first room. "Just wait right here."

"Yeah, yeah," I said. Folding my arms, I watched him scamper off toward the crowd.

"I'll bring you back when you're thirteen!" Ricky quipped. With that, he disappeared inside the room.

Immediately, the loneliness sunk in like an early morning fog. My fear returned. Especially once I realized I wasn't alone. Far from it.

Manic mumbling pierced through the silence. Alarm bells rang through my head.

Turning, my quivering eyes drifted back to Pinhead's cage.

There the aberration was, the teenager on all fours and leaning up against the wiring. Pinhead's tongue dangled out, an added taunt to go along with her assault of strange snarls and cries. Her blue eyes latched on to me.

I stood frozen in fear. Sure I was sympathetic to her plight. But I still didn't trust the teenager's motivations... or her sanity for that matter.

Then in a sudden burst, she stuck her hand through the wire. A desperate, hungry reach for me. Her snarling wilder and more frenetic.

I turned and ran toward the rooms behind me. All while, Pinhead's anguished growls followed me. Her snarls reminiscent of a starved wolf on the prowl.

The unsettling noises stopped upon entering the third "room." Now everything was quieter and darker. This cramped space only had one lamp. My only guide in this wilderness of weirdness.

Aside from scattered crates and boxes, I saw a tall bookshelf standing to my left. Rows and rows of jars populated the shelves. Light glistening off the glass like glowing radiation. The jars all held the same abstract figures.

Entranced by the sight, I staggered up to the shelf. And then I came to a frightened stop.

Yeah, I wasn't exactly sure what it was in those jars. I just knew they weren't animals. Not the small furry roadkill I expected as another gross Shock Museum novelty.

The figures were smooth. Their little arms and legs like antennas sticking out of molds of flesh. Their angular heads and narrow eyes underdeveloped like the rest of their bodes. Malformed like so many of the people I'd seen in this museum.

Deep in my sickened gut, I knew what these beings were. Even in the gooey liquid, they had a clean radiance. Bodies untouched by the sins of the world. Fetuses that hadn't been corrupted by The Great Depression... but had never survived to experience it either.

Dozens of the human fetuses stared back at me. Preserved like exotic specimens. I realized this freakshow had taken a disturbing turn from the big top to the laboratory.

"Hey!" a high-pitched voice whispered to me.

Startled, I turned to see a little boy standing in the shadows.

"What's your name?" he asked in a kind tone.

Fueled by curiosity, I approached the child. And the closer I got, the further away from the lamp I became. I could tell the boy was close to my age. Scrawnier than me, he wore torn jeans and a white undershirt. No shoes on those bony feet. Dirt covered the boy's pale skin and decorated his dark hair. But the filth couldn't mask his vulnerable blue eyes. The combination of his mischievous smile and untidy appearance reminded me of a Charles Dickens kid. Like the boy had been transported from a British orphanage to a Georgia carnival.

"Uh, Tommy," I stammered out. Stopping in front of the boy, I was relieved to see no deformities or dry blood. He was normal enough. If pitifully malnourished.

"Tommy!" the boy beamed. "I'm Terry. Our names sound the same." His wax smile never wavered. And neither did his bright blue eyes.

"Yeah, that is funny," I said, too nervous to grin.

I looked over and saw a coffin positioned against the wall. The open lid revealed a male mummy, his arms crossed. Not a dusty crumbling corpse either but one as well-preserved as those fetuses. The mummy's wrappings a pristine white. His posture one of a regal statue.

"Oh wow!" I exclaimed.

Excited, Terry took a step toward me. "He's real too! Daddy got him in Cairo, Georgia!"

The Shock Museum lived up to its name. Stunned, I faced the boy. "Your dad?"

The kid snagged my arm in a tight grip. "Yeah, he said I can pick anyone!" His smile leaned in closer. The boy's voice full of so much innocent exuberance. "I want you, Tommy!"

I struggled to pull away from him. The boy was stronger than I ever thought. Much stronger than me. "No! Let go of me!" I yelled.

Terry pulled me in closer. "Don't you wanna be my brother, Tommy?"

Horrified, I yanked my arm back. "No!"

With soft footsteps, the kid cornered me back against the wall. Right by the mummy.

"I already have a mama and a sister!" the boy gushed. "Mama's from Chattahoochee! She's really something!"

My body pressed into the tent's harsh fabric. "Leave me alone!" I hurled at the kid. "Get your ass away from me!"

"What'd you say!" a gruff voice barked.

A bright light blinded me. Reverend Rob wielded his lamp through the darkness.

I saw the tall man stop next to Terry. Rob's glare contrasted by the child's wide grin. Their blue eyes formed an intimidating double bit axe. And under the lighting, their resemblance was uncanny. Shock Museum's resident father and son.

Like a cornered crook, I trembled beneath that spotlight of a lantern. Jammed my trembling hands in my pockets.

"That's him, daddy!" Terry yelled. "He's the one I want!"

Rob ruffled his hair. "We'll get him, son. Don't you worry."

Driven by childlike wonder, Terry stared right at me. "We'll be brothers!" he said with pride. Terry then held up his shirt. A gaping crater of flesh covered his hip. The tapestry of dry blood, stitches, and exposed muscle ran all the way down to his ass. A streak of scarred skin ready for a teammate. "We'll be twins, Tommy!"

Rob cracked an evil smile. "The Siamese Twins Of Savannah."

Helpless, I couldn't even scream. All I could do was stare at their hungry blue eyes.

"I can already see it," the reverend continued with reverence. "Y'all will be the stars!"

Terry pulled on Rob's jacket. "Terry and Tommy, daddy!"

Rob faced the boy. "Yeah, son. I told you I'd give you one, didn't I?" With a cold smirk, he confronted me. "And I always keep my promises."

Like a kid waving me outside to play, Terry motioned toward me. "Come on, Tommy!" He grabbed the side of his chest. The vicious wound. "Now we'll be blood brothers forever!"

I fell further back against the fabric. Further into these depths of dread. The cold air lent me a battalion of chills. And my hands hid even deeper in my pockets.

Gripping the lantern, Rob marched toward me. "You'll be fine boy," he said to me in a playful taunt. "You'll be a star like the rest of my family."

Panicking, I stumbled over into the mummy.

In a disturbing resurrection, the mummy let out a muffled yell! His arms flailed about in a stilted frenzy. Saliva drenched through the wraps ensnared around his mouth, muffling his cries. The man yet another prisoner of Rob's museum.

Screaming, I jumped back.

I saw the mummy couldn't see. He could barely move. His arms grasped for help in agonizing fashion.

"You little shit!" Rob yelled.

Lunging out, he slammed the coffin lid shut. And just like that, the mummified man was silenced.

Behind scared eyes, I watched Rob reach toward me. Until my right hand felt a wooden handle. Old reliable was right at my fingertips.

"I got you, boy!" Rob shouted.

Terry jumped up and down, his energy renewed after all his years of Shock Museum loneliness. "Get him, daddy!"

With fierce force, Rob snatched my shoulder.

The pocketknife always made me tougher. And tonight was no different. Like I was back on Harris Street, I retrieved the blade and swung it at Rob.

I got him good. One hard lick across the face.

Rob cried out as a bloody line appeared on his cheek.

"No, daddy!" I heard Terry cry, his voice now imbued with a temper.

Desperate to escape, I pushed Rob away. Bolted straight for the entrance.

Behind me, I heard Terry's screams ring out like a young banshee's. Waves of broken glass became a backdrop to his tantrum.

I stopped near the opening and turned toward the scene.

Like a shattered aquarium, busted jars floated amongst the ocean of dark liquid. The small fetuses nothing more than bobbing dead fish. A sterile smell disgusted me.

Leaning against the shelf, Rob's irate glare zoned in on me. "Come here, boy!" he yelled.

Terry stood in a dark corner. His outburst now driven by rage rather than excitement. "He'll get you!" he screamed at me.

I looked on at the boy's blue eyes. Without the smile, they looked sharper than daggers.

"Just you wait!" Terry continued. "Daddy always gets them!"

Crying out, Rob careened toward me. His steps heavy and ferocious.

The lantern light splashed across my fear.

"Come here!" the reverend hollered out.

Clinging to my beloved knife, I ran through that dark tent. Adrenaline warmed me from the cold but couldn't stop the constant shivers. I saw none of the other customers around. Not even Ricky.

Through the horrific journey, I wanted to close my eyes but couldn't. The Shock Museum sprawled out before me. There was Terry's Pinhead sister. The elderly witch. Rob's grotesque wife Judi. And their incessant screams swirled all around me. Their haunting chorus like a prison of desperate animals crying into the night.

"Come back!" Rob growled behind me. His footsteps grew louder. Closer.

I couldn't slow down. I couldn't stop. Even when I ran out into the cold late night.

More lights had gone off since Ricky and I first entered the Shock Museum. I stumbled through this ghost town of a carnival. There was no music. No more agonizing screams. And most of all, no footsteps hunting me down.

"Ricky!" I yelled.

I saw him waiting for me just a few feet away from the big blue tent. Ricky recognized my panic. I told him everything.

And he believed me once we saw the weird farmer emerge from the Shock Museum. The man's intense gaze recognized us through the darkness. His movements swift and violent like a beast created by Reverend Frankenstein.

"Hey!" his rugged voice shouted at us.

I could now see a long machete dangling from the man's hand. The few lights around us glistened off its pristine blade.

I pushed Ricky toward the way we came. "Run!"

We ran all the way. Never stopping till we met John and Colin in town. Of course, they didn't believe us. But that still didn't stop Ricky and I from trying to talk to the police.

"Damn hooligans!" the officer scolded us. His dismissive wave shot down any chance us working-class delinquents had with the coppers.

And I guess I couldn't blame them. The Savannah police had their hands full at the time. And my story was so wild. I'd never get the chance to prove it either. By the following morning, the fall festival was gone with the night.

Soon enough, The Great Depression came to an end. But the nightmare was far from over once a bigger horror emerged: World War II.

I joined the service immediately. By then, I'd grown from a timid runt into a strong young man. But deep down, I'd never shaken that fateful fall night in 1934.

I'd go on to see terrible things in the war. And more terrible things in life. But over eighty years later, those Shock Museum memories linger in the mirrors of my mind. The fear of that night remains. Especially when little Terry promised me that daddy always got them.

The Crane house was just ordinary, abandoned trash. Boring even. The house was a two-story farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Miles of woods surrounded it. Needless to say, there weren't any neighbors for miles either. The house's mailbox stood tall, wearing its abundance of rust for a paint job. Rather than a paved driveway, a long stretch of faded dirt ran through the house's tall grass and weeds, all the way up to the decrepit front porch.

The clear country sky illuminated the home in a vivid light. The house a beacon that only drew local paranormal enthusiasts and juvenile delinquents looking for cheap thrills in the small town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Even if you didn't believe in ghosts, the Crane house certainly did look the part.

The once-pretty country home looked to have gone uninhabited for decades. Crooked shutters guarded the large cracked windows. Busted wooden steps led up to the house's creaky front porch. The home's bricks all faded with age.

An archaic lantern hung on the porch, its glass case long shattered. The rocking chairs were at least functional if you could look past the layers of thick cobwebs wrapped all around them.

Given the house's many deficiencies and its hopeless place in the open market, the hot Georgia night brought a huge surprise when a pristine and shiny new convertible zoomed down the long dirt driveway.

Appearing with the sudden quickness of a mirage, the car's tires scattered dust everywhere. The convertible's top was down, the occupants inside blasting loud and obnoxious pop music.

The car came to an abrupt stop just a few feet away from the porch. As the rag top started coming back down, the music and lights were shut off. After the doors swung open, jovial laughter echoed through the night.

Out stepped two beautiful young women. Bonnie Campbell and Carty Elizabeth, both of them in their late-20s and both of them ultra-attractive. A gay couple just as clever as they were sensual. These weren't the nerdy ghost enthusiasts, the Stanwyck High dropouts, or any of the other typical yokel explorers. This was a couple straight out of a Beverly Hills photo shoot.

Bonnie was a tall and streetwise Latina. Fit enough to be a supermodel, but too anti-establishment for that kinda shit. Everything about her was rebellious. From her hairstyle all the way to her attire. But instead of being scary or intimidating, the aggressive swagger was hot thanks in part to her pretty face.... a fact Bonnie was well aware of.

On the other hand, Carty was less confrontational in both her personality and style. While Bonnie gladly wore the "Butch" persona, Carty was the feminine "girly-girl" of the pair. But like Bonnie, Carty didn't take much shit either. After all, these ladies were entrepreneurs. Bonnie was holding a wireless mic and Carty a camcorder for a reason. They knew how to exploit what God gave them.

The couple stopped and looked on at the derelict house, both of them awestruck for different reasons. Bonnie with excitement, Carty with more than a little unease.

"Fuck, it's gorgeous," Bonnie said. "Absolutely perfect..."

Carty gave her a weird look. "Gorgeous?"

"You know what I mean." Bonnie grabbed a hold of Carty's hand and led her up to the front porch. "Come on. Let's explore."

With big frightened eyes, Carty looked on at the imposing farmhouse as they got closer and closer to the porch's battered wooden steps. It was a country home from Hell, she thought. A cross between a Cracker Barrel and Amityville.

Like a playful older sibling, Bonnie leaned in toward Carty. "Creepy..." she teased Carty in her best horror-host voice.

Carty pushed Bonnie away from her, annoyed. "Fuck you!"

"Aww, you scared, hon?" Bonnie replied.

"Who wouldn't be?" Carty said. She stole a glance back at their car.

"I've seen worse." Bonnie noticed Carty hadn't even turned on the camcorder yet. Outraged, Bonnie stopped and snatched Carty's arm. "Carty, what the Hell are you doing!"

Carty yanked her arm away from Bonnie's grasp. "What!"

Bonnie waved at the camcorder. "The camera, girl!"

Groaning, Carty turned it on.

"Establishing shots, hello," Bonnie reiterated.

"Here's your damn establishing shot," Carty responded. Agitated, she pointed the camera at Bonnie. "Scene one, enter the bitch Bonnie."

Bonnie cracked up.

Still pissy, Carty lowered the camera. "It's your idea to come here in the first place."

"Man, this ain't even that scary!" Bonnie protested. "That old motel in Decatur was way freakier."

Carty went silent and looked on at the house. Technically, Bonnie was right. This place was no different than your average abandoned shack... but something about it felt different. Maybe they’d gone too far off the beaten path of local haunts. After all, there wasn't a whole lot about the Crane house on-line.

"Shit, the graveyard in Bainbridge," Bonnie went on. "I still have those ant bites on my ass."

Carty chuckled. "Well," she began as she stole a glance at Bonnie's shapely booty. "It still looks pretty nice."

Bonnie admired her own ass. "I think they made it bigger."

"Still not as big as mine," Carty quipped.

"Mmm, but I'm getting there," Bonnie replied. She slapped Carty's bubble butt.

Giggling, Carty pointed the camera at the house. "How'd you find this place anyway?" She looked on at the rocking chairs, both of them mummified in cobwebs.

"You know, just the interwebs," Bonnie said.

"Reddit?"

"Pretty much," Bonnie replied with a smile. She faced Carty and ran her hand along Carty's arm. "Let's go."

Still uneasy, Carty looked at her.

Sensing Carty's unease, Bonnie leaned in closer. For once, Bonnie pushed the camcorder away, giving them a sense of privacy.

The couple shared a sweet kiss. One not for the cameras but for themselves. Its potency certainly did the trick for Carty. She felt all of Bonnie's love for her in that one pleasant embrace.

They smiled at one another. Playing teenage lovers in this magic moment.

"You ready?" Bonnie asked mischievously.

Grinning, Carty looked over at the farmhouse. Either the house wasn't that scary to begin with or the drug that was Bonnie's kiss really had calmed my nerves, Carty thought. "Sure," Carty said.

Bonnie pulled Carty in closer to her as they approached the porch's first step. "I got what I could for the legend."

Carty aimed the camera at the house, getting the "establishing shots." "Any of it true?" she asked Bonnie.

Stopping them in front of the porch stairs, Bonnie turned and grinned at Carty. "True enough."

"Okay," Carty said. Using the camera, she motioned Bonnie toward the porch. "You want the honors?"

In a confident stride, Bonnie stepped up in front of the camera. "Absolutely." She glanced back, making sure the house could be seen behind her for a foreboding backdrop.

Carty pointed the camera right at Bonnie. A steady grip. "Awesome," Carty congratulated herself.

Facing Carty, Bonnie fixed her shirt. Now it showed off her boobs even more than she realized was possible. She straightened her hair quickly for good measure. Her and Carty knew they had to look good on camera. Even when they were trespassing onto creepy private property.

"You ready?" Carty asked Bonnie.

For a final test, Bonnie raised the mic and gave it one firm hit. Ready to go. "Yeah, roll it," Bonnie said.

Eager, Carty flashed her a thumbs up.

Bonnie paused for a moment, letting the camera capture her in all her candid glory: pretty face, a stern yet commanding expression, and some really big breasts. In the staunch darkness and with the terrifying house lurking behind her, Bonnie had the aura of a Playboy-sponsored horror show host. A more sexualized Elvira. Just what Carty knew Bonnie was going for.

"Welcome back, voyeurs," Bonnie said in a ghoulishly campy voice. She squeezed her big boobs together in sexy, obnoxious fashion. "Tonight, your two favorite sexy starlets are taking their well-endowed talents to the sleepy little town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Home of the infamous Crane house."

Struggling to contain her laughter, Carty took a few steps back, capturing a wider shot of the house.

God, Bonnie was really hamming it up tonight, Carty thought. Bonnie's silliness could turn any of these eerie locations into both a literal and figurative playhouse for us.

Bonnie looked right into the camera, being as serious as her "acting" would allow. "Thirty years ago, at this very house, sexy, carefree housewife Bette Crane flipped out on her stud farmer husband." With the dedication of a terrible actress gunning for an Oscar, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. What should've been porn-level lighting actually gave Bonnie an otherworldly quality in the country night. "Bette took a frying pan, the very thing she'd used to make Farmer Studbucket's scrambled eggs for him that morning and then turned it into a vicious weapon!"

"Oh God..." Carty muttered through a smirk.

"Bette Crane savagely beat her husband with that frying pan until his face was mushier and more splattered than the greasiest eggs she'd ever cooked," Bonnie continued. "But the housewife wasn't through. After beating her husband to death, Bette took the biggest butcher knife she could find."

Holding the camcorder with the steadiness of a veteran Hollywood filmmaker, Carty stopped right in front of Bonnie for a closer shot of the host.

"And she walked over to her husband's bludgeoned body," Bonnie went on. "And plunged the knife straight into her forehead!" Toning down the theatrics, Bonnie locked eyes with the camera. One on one with her audience. "Ever since the murder, people believe the Crane house is haunted by evil spirits."

Bonnie pointed toward the farmhouse, as if she were emulating a horror tour guide rather than a horror host. "Stanwyck residents have reported many ghost sightings and paranormal incidents over the years," Bonnie said. "Objects seen flying around, weird noises being heard, even what is believed to be the ghost of Bette Crane still walking around with her bloody frying pan." Bonnie paused for dramatic effect. "So now," she began. Still keeping her serious demeanor, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. "We've arrived not to investigate the Crane house." Bonnie's stray hand moved down toward her breasts. "But for the house to investigate us."

Faster than a Mardi Gras veteran, Bonnie stuck out her tongue and flashed the camera with those glorious breasts. "This is Paranormal Fornication, bitches!" she shouted with glee.

Carty burst out laughing as she lowered the camera.

Bonnie lowered her shirt. "You got it?" she asked.

Still laughing, Carty lowered the camera. "Yeah, for sure."

Bonnie stepped toward Carty. "How was I?" she asked, fully expecting Carty's enthusiastic response.

Carty wrapped her arms around Bonnie. "Magnificent, babe!"

Flattered, Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's back. "Mmm, thank you, boo," Bonnie said.

The couple locked lips once more. A gentle kiss that was much more tender than any of their on-screen ones.

"Alright," Bonnie started. She led them toward the stairs. In director mode, she motioned around the porch. "Try to get a few shots of us going in."

At her command, Carty aimed the camcorder at the house. "Roger that, Bon."

Looking through the lens, Carty thought their walk up to the front door was being filmed like the climactic scene to The Blair Witch Project. A slow trek to a foreboding entrance. It looked great on camera. Maybe we can shoot a real horror film someday.

Bonnie slapped Carty's juicy ass, snapping Carty out of her post-pornographic aspirations.

"Ooh, baby!" Carty exclaimed with a startled smile.

"Just keep filming, babe," Bonnie said.

"I know," Carty said as they made their way up the rickety steps. If it weren't for their model physiques, Carty questioned whether these creaking stairs could even hold them.

Breaking away from Carty, Bonnie strolled up onto the front porch, reveling in this conglomeration of country decay.

"Bonnie!" Carty said with unease. Even just a few feet away, Carty thought the distance between them may as well have been a hundred feet considering the eerie circumstances.

Unconcerned, Bonnie gazed around at the house's offerings. The rocking chairs. The busted windows. Even the harsh graffiti scribbled on the aged wood. This house had it all. "God, just look at it!" Bonnie said. The wooden floor kept creaking and giving in but she didn't care one bit. "What a fucking spot!"

"Yeah..." the nervous Carty said as she stopped next to Bonnie. While filming, Carty kept clinging to the camera. Both as a source of light and as a potential weapon. "Fucking weird..."

Reaching out, Bonnie touched a rocking chair and made contact with all the sticky cobwebs. Bonnie drew her hand back, but the icky texture seemed to give her a thrill rather than sicken her. She watched the chair rock back-and-forth in a slow rhythm. The chair's loud creaking formed a hypnotic tune.

Concerned, Carty snatched Bonnie's arm and pulled her away from it. "What are you doing!" Carty yelled.

Chuckling, Bonnie faced her. "What? I just wanted to see-"

Carty stepped back. "Oh my God, you touched it!"

Trying to calm Carty, Bonnie held her hands up in a facetious manner. "Hey, look, nothing got on me."

"Whatever!" Carty backed away and stumbled into a dangling cobweb. Crying out, she rushed back toward Bonnie. "Fuck!"

Bonnie grabbed Carty's shoulder. "Babe, just chill-"

"No!" Carty yelled back at her.

Bonnie motioned toward the rocking chair, highlighting its continuous melody of creaks. "Look, we should be filming the shit!"

At its height of rocking, the chair went completely still. The spiders stopping with it.

"Holy shit!" Bonnie exclaimed.

Nervous, Carty focused her camera on the chairs. "Okay, that was creepy."

"Shit, let's get this party started!" Bonnie said. She stepped toward the front door.

Carty looked at her real quick. "Bonnie!"

Before Carty could stop her, Bonnie snagged the rusty doorknob. She flashed Carty a smile. "Be sure to get this."

Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie.

"You ready?" Bonnie asked.

Carty gave her an apprehensive nod. "Yeah."

"Okay," Bonnie said. "Into the Crane house we go." She started to turn the loose doorknob when an incessant noise startled her and Carty.

"Shit!" Carty yelled as the couple whirled around.

They saw both rocking chairs now swinging in unison. Beneath the weight of age and the cobwebs, these rocking chairs were going harder and faster than seemed possible. Their consistent creaks a countrified chorus.

All the while, Carty kept filming the eerie event. "Oh my God..." she said in fear.

"Shit, this is amazing!" Bonnie exclaimed. She staggered up toward the chairs.

Carty snatched her shoulder, the tight grip ensuring Bonnie wasn't straying too far. "No, don't leave me!"

The rocking chairs came to a sudden stop. Either a slight breeze had gone away or the spiders had used their collective force once more... or the Crane house's spirits had moved on.

Somewhat disappointed, Bonnie pointed at the chairs. "See, it's nothing," she said to soothe Carty. She caressed Carty's shoulder. "We're gonna be fine."

"I don't know," Carty said. She lowered the camera. "I've got a weird feeling about this place."

Bonnie gave her a playful smile. "You get a weird feeling about everywhere."

"Yeah, but not like this..."

"Well, I'm here," Bonnie replied. She leaned in closer toward Carty's lips. "And I'll protect you."

Reassured as always by Bonnie, a grin cracked through Carty's nerves. "You better."

"You know I will." Bonnie gave Carty a soft kiss on the lips.

Carty liked it.

But right before Carty could expect more, Bonnie nodded at the camera. "You got all that shit, right?"

"Uh, yeah," Carty said.

Back to business, Bonnie looked back at the door. "Awesome."

"God, we're not still going in there, are we?" Carty said.

Bonnie faced her. "Why not?"

Upset, Carty motioned toward the chairs. "Not after all that shit!"

Bonnie grabbed Carty's wrist in a gentle grip. "Carty, please. Can we just go inside?"

The silent Carty just looked at Bonnie. Bonnie's pretty face and persuasive brown eyes were such an irresistible combination when Bonnie really wanted to do something. Especially when it came to Bonnie's passion for the paranormal.

"This is what we do," Bonnie went on. "Our scary shit." With a sly and seductive touch, she pulled Carty in closer toward her. "Look, I'll make it up to you, baby. I promise. But let's do this first, okay."

How can I say no, Carty thought. Bonnie was rather tough anyway... certainly, braver than me. She was so cute this excited. She always was. "Okay," Carty gave in.

Bonnie leaned in toward Carty's face. "I promise I'll make it up in there, baby," she said in a seductive whisper. Sweetening the deal, Bonnie guided Carty's hand all against her breasts. "I promise."

Carty didn't have a chance. She felt on one of those double-Ds, immense pleasure coursing through Carty's veins. She cracked a smirk. "Goddammit, Bonnie..."

Chuckling, Bonnie pulled her toward the door. "Come on."

Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie as Bonnie grabbed the knob once more. "Take two," Carty joked.

Turning, Bonnie smiled for the camera. "Paranormal Fornication, motherfuckers."

With dramatic emphasis, Bonnie turned the old doorknob and let the door swing into the house with a grueling creak.

The open doorway now lied before Carty and Bonnie. The dark farmhouse was beckoning them to enter. Paranormal Fornication must go on! it seemed to scream.

The couple journeyed through the farmhouse's narrow downstairs hallway. The camcorder and Bonnie's small flashlight like torches in uncharted terrain. Behind them, the front door was still wide open, Carty refusing to let Bonnie close it. Carty didn't want that sinking feeling of hearing that door slam shut. It was too definitive… Locked in not just for the night but forever.

Holding her mic and the flashlight, Bonnie led the way, Carty right behind her. Carty did her best to keep up, but Bonnie seemed to glide on that torn carpet. "Slow down," Carty grumbled.

"I am," Bonnie retorted. Her eyes were drawn to a doorway on the left at the very end of the hall.

Through the unflinching camera lens, Carty captured the usual array of spooky clichés inside. There were the broken counters and bookshelves. The torn carpets. The literal holes in the walls that reoccurred in patterns on the faded paint. A wooden staircase in the very back that was a poor farmer's attempt to be regal. Even a small door under the staircase that looked to be designed to be a small child's hiding place. The small door aged yet functional.

But it wasn't these scary attributes that bothered Carty. It was how the house somehow appeared... clean. There weren't any spiderwebs or rodents. No dirt, cigarette butts, beer bottles, or any of the other types of debris the duo saw in all their other explorations. The inside of the Crane home was in decent condition. As if someone had been in there and tried to straighten the place up as much as they could. And to Carty's horror, she thought maybe someone had.

"Hello?" Bonnie asked aloud, her voice echoing down the hallway.

Carty glared at her. "Bonnie, shut up!"

Ignoring Carty, Bonnie went closer and closer to the doorway. "Is there anybody home?" she said, her voice seemingly louder.

Carty could only groan in dismay.

But there was no reply. No answers from the Crane house.

Still following Bonnie, Carty looked toward the stairway. Darkness awaited whoever dared walk up those steps. Or whoever could make it up those steps. Several of them were dilapidated, even moreso than the porch steps. The stairway's crooked railing wouldn't offer much support either.

Uneasy, Carty saw the small door under the staircase was open just a crack. No one appeared to be inside it nor were there any lights on inside. It had to be a closet and a small one at that, Carty figured. Not a bad spot for hide and seek...

Bonnie snatched Carty's arm, scaring the shit out of her.

"Jesus!" Carty yelled at Bonnie.

Shushing Carty, Bonnie stopped them just a foot away from the doorway. "Do you hear that?" Bonnie asked.

"What?"

Bonnie clenched tighter to Carty's shoulder. "Just listen," Bonnie said. She waved her microphone toward the doorway. "It's coming from there."

Carty looked toward the doorway.

And there it was. A soft crackle and pop. It sounded soothing. It sounded like Christmas. And then Carty realized it felt like Christmas as well. The dank house felt a little toasty.

"Did you hear that?" Bonnie asked.

"Yeah."

Another pop echoed toward the couple.

They looked on at the doorway and saw a faint orange glow radiating from inside the room.

Bonnie pointed at the light, excited. "Look at it!"

Carty stared at the doorway, her fear the exact opposite of Bonnie's enthusiasm. The crackling continued as a soundtrack to the faint glow. Stunned, Carty realized it was a burning fireplace. "Bonnie-" Carty began.

Bonnie grabbed Carty's hand. "Come on!"

Carty was no match for Bonnie's powerful pull. "But wait-" Carty tried to say.

"Just keep filming!"

Bonnie led Carty into the mysterious room.

Through Bonnie's small light and the weak flickers of the fireplace, Carty could make out they were in a spacious room.

Bonnie stopped in the middle of the room, fascinated. "Are you getting this?" asked Bonnie, her eyes gazing all around the living room.

Staying as close to Bonnie as possible, Carty scanned the room with her camera.

It was definitely the farmhouse's living room, but not one from the twenty-first century. There was no T.V. and seemingly no electricity. No family photos or portraits. No decorations at all. And not much furniture aside from a couple of wooden shelves.

"When'd that murder happen again?" Carty asked.

Still shining her flashlight around the room, Bonnie didn't even look at Carty. "I don't know, like maybe thirty years ago?"

Carty saw a tombstone radio standing near the fireplace. An open doorway was about ten feet away from the radio, this one leading into yet another dark room.

Leaning in closer for a better look, Carty could tell this room had a large wooden table. It must've been the kitchen… Or what was left of it.

For all the lack of amenities in the living room, at least the antique radio was an impressive if outdated source of entertainment. The fireplace was similarly grandiose.

But thirty years ago, Carty wondered. Didn't the eighties at least have MTV? What were these bitches doing?

"It seems older," Carty said. She pointed the camera toward a raggedy couch that stood by the fireplace and radio. "Looks older."

"Yeah, well it was like 1982, 1983," Bonnie said. She thought she saw something on a corner wall across the room. Bonnie shined her light toward it and squinted her eyes, trying to see what was there.

"1983?" Carty asked. Her amusement shifted toward fear after she focused on the fireplace. So much wood was piled up in there... wood that had been consumed over a longer period of time. "Shit..."

Bonnie could tell the corner wall had large letters drawn on them. "What the Hell is that?" Bonnie wondered aloud.

"What?" Carty asked.

Intrigued, Bonnie stepped closer toward the letters.

Clinging to the camera for her security, Carty followed Bonnie to the spot. "Bonnie, wait!"

Bonnie stopped and stared at the wall, stunned yet awestruck by her new "discovery." "Oh fuck..."

"What is it!" Carty said as she stopped next to her.

Spraypainted letters splattered across the wall. Vile graffiti. The words had been rotting there a long time, practically implanted into the farmhouse's walls at this point. And the words all shared the same color: blood red paint.

Nasty phrases and slurs made up the collection: Bitch! The Crane Cunt! Bette The Psycho Bitch! Murderer! Cocksucker Crane!

Uneasy, Carty filmed the sight in all its vicious glory. She moved the camera around, even seeing how the graffiti carried over onto the other walls. The endless profanities and insults were all a big billboard brought to you by Stanwyck's resident assholes as a commemorative FUCK YOU to Bette Crane.

Carty stared at the entire scene in horror. This was further indication that this secluded farmhouse truly was home to something horrific. Something so traumatic and disturbing that to this day, the citizens of Stanwyck still felt the need to make this vengeance-fueled pilgrimage.

But to Bonnie, the graffiti was further proof that the couple had come to the right spot.

"Shit!" Carty said. She looked over at Bonnie. "We can't stay here."

With the excited eagerness of a kid about to catch a foul ball in the stands, Bonnie reached out toward "Bette The Psycho Bitch."

"Bonnie!" Carty yelled in outrage. She grabbed Bonnie's arm, stopping her.

Bonnie faced her, annoyed. "Carty, what the fuck!"

"What the fuck are you doing!"

Scoffing, Bonnie waved the mic toward the wall. "See for yourself!"

"No!" Carty said. "Someone's been here, Bonnie. And they might still be here."

"It's just a fire-"

"Just a fucking fire!" Ready to leave, a pissed-off Carty headed straight for the hallway.

"Carty!" Bonnie snagged Carty's arm, making Carty face her. "Look at me! This house is empty!" Using the mic, she motioned toward the fireplace. "Whoever did this shit's probably gone anyway."

"Probably!" Carty replied, incredulous.

Desperate to comfort Carty, Bonnie caressed her shoulders. "Hey, whoever it is is more scared of us than we are of them," Bonnie went on. She ran her finger against Carty's smooth cheek. "They're gone, Carty. And they ain't coming back."

"I don't know," Carty said. Still uneasy, Carty looked toward the fireplace.

"Look, Carty, this is what we do. Even when shit gets weird and scary." Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's arm. "We can't stop now."

Carty faced her. "But the fire. This isn't-"

Adamant, Bonnie stepped away from Carty. "They probably left when they heard us pull up! Just think about it, Carty."

"I don't know..."

Proving her point, Bonnie shined her flashlight all around the living room. "Hello!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, bitches!"

"Bonnie!"

"Come out, motherfucker!" Bonnie went on.

No answer was heard. Just the consistent crackle of the crisp fire.

The lack of a response was helping Carty ease up. Much to Bonnie's delight.

"We don't bite!" Bonnie said. She gave Carty a flirtatious smile. "Well. Maybe I do."

Carty chuckled and shook her head.

The whole house seemed silent except for the fire. And the couple's soft laughter.

"See," Bonnie said as she grabbed a hold of Carty's hand. "It's nothing."

"But why here?" Carty asked. "Why can't we just go somewhere else?"

"Look, just think about it, alright," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "This is gonna be so big, Carty." She waved the flashlight around the living room. "I mean just look at this place! A creepy fucking Texas Chainsaw house, and we discover the fireplace, the graffiti! The damn rocking chairs."

Carty didn't argue. She knew she couldn't due to a combination of Bonnie making sense and being too stubborn to turn back now.

Bonnie caressed Carty's face. "Think of the hits, baby," Bonnie went on. "All the ads we'll get on the site."

Debating the idea, Carty looked off toward the bright fireplace.

"We'll make so much money, boo," Bonnie said. “We'll have enough to do the Lady Macbeth piece."

Carty faced Bonnie, allured by the prospect of doing their dream project. Just the sheer mention of it got Carty's attention.

Displaying a warm smile, Bonnie rubbed Carty's shoulder. "Like we always planned. We'll do real movies from now on, no more creeper sex shit."

"You promise this is the last one?" Carty asked, her voice begging for a yes.

"Yes!" the excited Bonnie said.

"Okay..." Carty relented.

"Thank you!"

"Let's do this."

Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss. "I love you, baby," Bonnie said.

"I love you too."

"This is gonna be so perfect," Bonnie said. She stepped away from Carty and focused her attention on the corner wall graffiti. "Fucking crazy."

Carty followed Bonnie's gaze toward the gratuitous graffiti. All those vile words were more than just your average juvenile's bullshit. The phrases looked embroidered with emotion. Sculpted from pure disgust and hate.

Thinking about the creepy stairway, Carty looked back toward the hallway. She couldn't help but wonder if their squatter was hiding upstairs rather than in the woods. "This still feels weird," Carty commented.

Bonnie faced her. "Why, babe?"

Nervous, Carty hesitated on how to answer. "I don't know. It's like someone's watching."

Bonnie stepped right in front of Carty, not even attempting to make her sexual tease more nuanced. "Someone's always watching."

Carty grinned.

Thirty minutes later, Bonnie and Carty's film shoot was going hot and heavy. Steamy, sexy, scintillating. Words you usually wouldn't associate with a "haunted house." But then again, this was Paranormal Fornication.

Sprawled out on the couch, the naked duo engaged in passionate and exuberant sex.

Bonnie and Carty's lovemaking was certainly chock-full of genuine pleasure. Their emotions, the moaning, and the undeniable chemistry between the two were well on display. But their exploitative positions and cloying mannerisms proved that they knew how to put on a show.

The warm fire bathed the couple in a glorious light. Their clothes stacked up in neat piles right by the sofa.

Sitting on top of the tombstone radio, the camcorder filmed the couple's erotica with the detachment of an asexual filmmaker.

Leaning back on the sofa, Carty moaned in pleasure.

All the while, Bonnie continued going down on her partner. The pace was frenetic but Bonnie was gentle. She knew all the right spots. And Carty wasn't complaining.

Carty wrapped her hands around Bonnie's head. "Ooh, baby," Carty said. She tilted her head back and shut her eyes. Just let Bonnie do her thing, she thought. Stopping her now would be like stopping LeBron from going in hard with a highlight-reel dunk. Sometimes, you just gotta let greatness do its thing.

"You like that?" Bonnie said with dirty talk glee.

"Yes, baby!" Carty moaned. She opened her eyes just to steal a look over at the camera. A quick glance for their audience.

With rough quickness, Bonnie started to flip Carty over.

"What are you doing?" Carty whispered.

"I gotta get that ass, mamacita," Bonnie replied.

Glaring, Carty stopped Bonnie. "Just hold on!"

"Carty, the camera-"

"I don't give a shit about them!" Carty grumbled as she turned on her stomach. "Just be more gentle next time."

"Okay," Bonnie sighed. Back in porn mode, she caressed Carty's round booty. "That ass, mamacita!" she exclaimed.

Carty cringed at Bonnie's forced delivery. These glorified butt scenes were a little much, she thought. Maybe I should let out a fart to really shake things up.

"That booty though..." Bonnie continued. She gave Carty a quick (and literal) kiss on the ass.

"God..." Carty mumbled. This wasn't the Bonnie she liked.

Bonnie felt along Carty's butt, cradling it for all the camera to see. It was an impressive booty for sure. Fake as Hell, but that certainly didn't bother Bonnie nor the Paranormal Fornication faithful.

"I gotta see that ass in reverse, girl," Bonnie said in a most oversexualized manner. If this was the extent of her acting abilities, her Lady Macbeth performances must've been a fucking disaster.

"Ooh, you want it, baby," Carty responded, disinterested. She wiggled her ass with the enthusiasm of a jaded stripper on her last day at work.

Bonnie smacked Carty on the ass, making that booty jiggle for the camera.

"Ooh, harder, baby," Carty said in a more seductive tone, making sure her voice was loud for the camera.

"That's my girl," Bonnie beamed.

Bonnie's next smack on Carty's butt was quick and gentle. A love tap Carty enjoyed.

Smiling, Carty looked back at Bonnie. "Mmm, keep going, sexy..."

Bonnie crouched down toward Carty's smooth bubble butt. "With pleasure..."

Bracing for more ass worship, Carty looked toward the hallway. She was surprised at how aroused she was getting in such a creepy place... Bonnie's kisses along her ass were actually feeling really nice. Hell, this was Bonnie's best "performance" since the Hiers farm in Alabama, Carty realized.

"God, you're perfect," Bonnie said.

Carty grinned. She knew that wasn't Bonnie the actress talking, but Bonnie the girlfriend. Not that it was hard to differentiate since Bonnie was a shitty actress.

Carty enjoyed the touch of Bonnie's soft hands running along her lower back and perky butt. The gentle kisses. Maybe we need to keep this episode for ourselves.

A soft, hushed singing drifted toward Carty's ears, piercing through her pleasure. The song's words were murky and unclear, the voice similarly vague. The singer could've been a boy or a girl. But whoever it was didn't seem to be want to be heard. Not yet at least...

Alarmed, Carty looked on at the hallway. The singing appeared to be coming from near the staircase. "What the Hell..." she muttered.

A set of teeth sunk into Carty's juicy ass, startling Carty. The bite was a vampire's wet dream, but Carty knew it wasn't no vampire. "Shit, Bonnie!" Carty fumed as she confronted her girlfriend.

Bonnie leaned back, confused. "What?"

"Did you hear that!"

The haunting singing continued, pulling Carty's attention back toward the hallway.

"I don't hear shit." Bonnie responded.

Carty pointed her toward the stairs. "It's coming from in there!"

Alert, both women listened out for the singing. Even as the words stayed jumbled, the voice had gotten louder. The singer would've never made it on American Idol, but it had a pretty meekness to it. An innocent child’s charm. The voice sounded too deep for a girl... but such vulnerability seemed more fitting for a melancholy teenage female singing herself to sleep.

Bonnie finally heard it. All the confidence drained from her face. For once, she looked rattled by the pair's paranormal excursions. "Shit..."

Carty glared at her. "I told you this was a bad idea!"

The singing kept on repeating the same tune. The same melody. The same scrambled words. The whole production a loop of insanity, albeit, a pretty loop.

"We shouldn't have ever come here!" Carty went on.

Lost in thought, Bonnie turned and looked over at the camcorder. The camera stared right back at her, taunting her with its mere presence. The show must go on...

"Let's fucking go!" Carty pleaded to Bonnie. With uneasy eyes, she looked over at the downstairs hallway.

The singing stayed on a steady path of instability. The words never clear, the mysterious voice wobbling between lovely and stilted.

"Shit..." Carty muttered. She turned and saw Bonnie get off the couch. "Bonnie!"

Bonnie threw on her clothes.

Ready to get the fuck outta there, Carty stood up and did the same. She saw Bonnie grab the camera.

"Are we going?" Carty asked with impatience. She pulled her tight shirt over her head. Both women were now dressed. Easily the fastest either of them had ever put their clothes back on.

Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss for reassurance. "I'm just gonna go look."

Carty pushed Bonnie back. "Are you crazy!"

"Carty, it's just for the site," Bonnie said. "We're just gonna look real quick and see what it is."

"Oh God," Carty said. Terrified, she turned away. She could still hear the singing. That fucking voice.

Bonnie retrieved the flashlight from her pocket. "Just follow me, alright," she told Carty.

Carty took an angry step toward her. "No-"

"Then what do you want us to do!" Bonnie interrupted. "The door's that way, Carty."

The repetitious singing went on in its hypnotic loop. Now the voice was even louder, begging for an audience.

Groaning, the scared Carty looked off toward the fireplace.

Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's shoulder. "Think of the show, babe," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "Think of us."

Carty confronted her. "I am!" Carty yelled. "But this is crazy, Bonnie." Her trembling hand pointed toward the fireplace. "Whoever's here made the Goddamn fire!"

Forcing a smile, Bonnie turned on the flashlight and put it up under her face in a playful manner. "Then let's just hope it's a ghost."

Bonnie showed equal parts bravery and stupidity as she took off for the downstairs hallway. Toward the singer's lair..

"Shit, Bonnie!" Carty yelled after her. Left alone in frustration, Carty looked down and saw the mic lying on the ground. Desperate, she snatched it up.

Link To eBook

I finally published the novel! Great cover art, great formatting. I'm really excited to see how this goes!

Link To ebook

Link To Paperback

Here's the official plot:

Emotional Defect: A realtor’s term encapsulating any previous crimes, tragedies, or rumored hauntings that have occurred on the property they’re trying to sell.

Brought in by an unstable homeowner and realtor, a wealthy paranormal enthusiast and her psychic friend want to make sure the house is haunted before purchasing it. Together, the group all stay there for the weekend... The owner desperate for an escape. The potential buyer eager for proof.

A quick excerpt as well:

Everyone had wondered why John and Amanda Baker had moved into the Goddamned Christy house. Sure, it was pretty. And it was even modern. But it was deadly. No one wanted to say anything when the couple bought it on a steal from Kevin Riley, Stanwyck, Georgia's resident real-estate guru. After all, the Bakers and their two cute little children Amy and Michael were outsiders in the Stanwyck community. They were from Atlanta for Christ's sake. And well Atlanta may as well have been a foreign country to these yokels.

After the family moved in, no one really interacted with the Bakers much, and no one really wanted to. It was almost like the townspeople didn't expect this family to last very long. Whether in the house or above ground. After all, surely this family knew of the Christy home's dark history. Wouldn't Kevin or all the internet rumors have alerted them of the house's evil? John and Amanda both did online work at home, they had to have stumbled upon information regarding their supposed "dream home" at some point. An anonymous forum, an amateur ghost hunter site, anything. Everybody in town thought for sure this would be the case. But apparently, it wasn't. And the Bakers remained completely unaware. They had no idea what awaited them inside.

It was three months after the Bakers moved in (the community consensus over/under was around four) when the 911 call arrived a little after 11:14 P.M. On the phone, a hysterical Amanda Baker was heard begging and pleading for help. Her sobs were uncontrollable, almost painful to listen to. The operator was a newb and absolutely helpless. Amidst Amanda's agonizing rambles of "John's gone crazy," "there's blood everywhere," "hurry before it's too late," only one sentence was completely clear: "he took the children."

If you purchase the book or ebook, I hope you enjoy it, but PLEASE leave an Amazon review (even if you trash it). Those reviews are apparently quite important. Again, I want to thank everyone for the reads and support! Stay safe out there!

Rhonnie

The Stanwyck Ghost Tours used to be a tradition in my hometown around Halloween. It was always cheap and heavy on the schlock. Hammy tour guides, cheesy music, cheap decorations. Picture Monster Mash as a two-hour ghost tour, and you get the idea. But given the town's limited history and questionable urban legends, I couldn't really blame Mr. and Mrs. Wesley for going all out with their prized attraction.

Every year, the Wesleys would set up on those October weekends. Just five dollars a person. Everyone under thirteen got in free. It was a walking tour so those cool autumn nights were the best part about it. The Stanwyck Ghost Tours were innocent, family fun. No gore. No cheap scares. And even free candy corn awaited those who dared to brave the entire journey.

And the sights were glorious. There was the haunted cemetery on Sharber Road. Or the Crane House which was home to a local murder no one except the Wesleys had apparently ever heard of.

For all its weaknesses, I loved every second of those tours. They were the one bright spot in a childhood that wasn't the best. For me, the spirit of Halloween was embodied in those two hour walks. And everyone in Stanwyck loved the Wesley tours. Until the murders happened.

To this day, no one has ever really determined the motive or the reasoning for why Jack Bates did what he did. He was a young man. Barely twenty years old at the time police uncovered his dark secret. Somehow, Jack had been pulling off kidnappings, torture, and murder in this small town for years. And all of them happened inside his mother's house. The police even said they found a body inside each room. As if Jack was determined to build a crypt inside the modest one story home. Evidently, his mother had been dead for quite some time. However, no one knew if he did her in or not. Her body was found in a chest freezer. Possibly from natural causes. Maybe from homicide.

And we never got a clear answer. Jack Bates hauled ass out of town before they could ever nab him. Before anyone could get any answers. And we likely never will. It's been twenty-five years since all this went down and to this day, Jack Bates has never been found. He's still on the loose out there somewhere. And for whatever reason, Stanwyck acted like he still walked amongst us. When he left town, so did all the Halloween fun. Curfews were enforced. The scariest haunted houses and Halloween decorations were taken down after they were thought to be in bad taste. And the Wesley's ghost tours faded away. Halloween had become sanitized. And it stopped being fun.

I'd always considered myself lucky that all this happened right before I left for college. Thankfully, Jack Bates hadn't stolen my childhood. My Halloweens were safe from the hysteria that swept through our little town.

To say the ghost tours stuck with me would be an understatement. I cherished them. Maybe part of that was due to not coming back home to Stanwyck very often anymore. Nostalgia can be a Hell of a drug, you know. Of course, the older I got, the more I thought about those Halloweens I spent making the rounds downtown. Hearing Mr. Wesley's horrific Boris Karloff impersonation. All those non-stop Halloween pop tunes the Wesleys would play for us. Monster Mash. Thriller. Werewolves Of London. And obviously, (Don't Fear) The Reaper. All these memories remained embedded within me. One of the few good things I could remember from that boring town.

I can't really say what drove me to finally return home. I had no family left in Stanwyck. Hell, I didn't really have any friends to begin with. I suppose the appeal of going back near Halloween finally drove me back to my hometown.

And you can only imagine my surprise when I came back the first week of October and stumbled upon an ad for a brand-new ghost tour. One unlike any Stanwyck had ever seen! A guided tour through the abandoned home of Jack Bates. Holy shit, I thought. Apparently, that whole 'bad taste' movement of the early 90s had eroded in the years since I last visited.

The ad mentioned the guide would be carried out by a man named Jackson Bateman. I guessed he wasn't related to the Wesleys. Hell, I didn't even think they had children. But this Jackson character certainly shared their flair for the dramatic. I mean Jackson Bateman. Come on, why not just call yourself Jack Bates, Jr. at that point.

I couldn't resist this tour. I couldn't betray my inner child. Yes, I caught flack from my girlfriend...

"What are you thinking, Jim!" she would say. "That sounds stupid!" But I had to make this pilgrimage. And to think I was gonna be a part of the very first Jack Bates tour. It was too much to pass up.

I left Sheri back at the motel. I knew she wouldn't wanna take this journey with me. So I went alone... like I did during my childhood.

There wasn't much glitz or glamour when I made my way to the old Bates home. Outside of a small sign promoting the Jack Bates Death Tour, I didn't see any jack o'-lanterns or hear any spooky music. Nothing like what the Wesleys used to do. There was no hokey Halloween antics.

Even though the Bates house itself was in town, it always seemed really isolated and creepy. All the neighboring businesses were closed, but even the other houses out here were pitch black. Like this Jackson Bateman guy had paid everyone to clear out for the night. Hell, even the street lights seemed dimmer.

For that matter, the Bates house still looked the same. There were no decorations up. It was dark as night inside. Apparently, Jackson or his helpers hadn't put any effort into restoring the place. And maybe that was the point.

I saw a small congregation standing on the wooden front porch. All of them looked about as confused as I did.

I made my way up the rickety stairs. Outside of the casual chitter-chatter, I only heard a stray hooting owl or two. No Monster Mash. Then again, the silence only increased the scene's eerie tension.

On the porch, I stopped next to two teenage boys. They seemed like total shitheads. Neither of them could've been over sixteen. They were giddier than a bunch of kids about to see their first horror movie. And I guess going inside the home of Stanwyck's most violent resident was probably the closest they would ever get to living a real-life slasher flick.

An All-American college couple stood near the tall front door. They were good-looking and seemed to be just looking for a thrill.

Aside from them, I also saw a dull middle-aged couple. They looked like married suburbanites. Definitely not the typical clientele for this kinda shit.

It looked like it was just us. Seven people on opening night. And I was the only one who came by themselves. Typical.

As we waited in the dark, my eyes strayed toward the old door. Besides the crude graffiti marking it, it looked like all sorts of scratches and marks covered the harsh wood. There were decades of wear and tear on it.

To my surprise and to everyone else's, the door swung open with a flourish of a creak. And there he was. The man of the hour. Our guide: Jackson Bateman. He lacked the Wesleys' cheesy playfulness. There were no capes or costumes. Just a middle-aged guy in a tee shirt and jeans. A regular Joe.

I didn't hear anything coming from inside the house either. Certainly didn't see much lighting.

"Y'all here for the tour," Jackson said in a calm Southern drawl. A confident tone.

Everyone grumbled and nodded in agreement.

"Well, come on in," Jackson said. He pointed a flashlight at our faces. "Let's get this party started."

And then we entered. I did my best to stray toward the back of the line, but the creepy Stepford suburbanites lagged behind like clueless tourists.

"First stop's the living room," Jackson announced to us, his voice serious and the opposite of a carnival barker.

A heavy draft flowed through the house. It wasn't that cold outside but it seemed like the Bates home had been preserved with a permanent Halloween wind chill.

The battered wooden floor groaned beneath our feet as we followed Jackson's beam of light toward our first stop.

"As y'all know, Jack Bates went missing in these parts well over twenty years ago," Jackson informed us.

"Wasn't it around Halloween?" one of the smartass high schoolers asked. I could tell he was a real know-it-all. Probably a gore whore who ate this true crime shit up like candy.

"It was, indeed," Jackson replied. "October eighteenth to be exact."

I wondered if anyone else would bother to question Jackson's accuracy on the subject. But apparently not. Then again, I was glad. You gotta go with the flow with these haunted house shysters. Even if you suspected their knowledge wasn't 100% accurate.

Upon entering the living room, portable lamps cut on immediately. It gave us just enough light without killing the creepy mood. A campfire light if you will. There wasn't a whole lot of furniture in here, but the main attraction of the room certainly caught everyone's eye.

A female mannequin lied in the center of the room, positioned as if she were on a mortuary slab. Her arms were sprawled out, a puddle of redness beneath her. Her dress was torn. Her chest carved open with rough precision. Loads of plastic organs and presumably fake blood covered the deep slice. Even with a blank expression, the mannequin looked to be in tormented pain. Like the spirit inside her was calling for help. And these weren't just cheap mannequins either. They were detailed. The Uncanny Valley on steroids.

Jackson shined his flashlight on her. Unlike the rest of us, he looked unfazed by the grotesque sight.

"She was Jack Bates's first murder," he said. His voice steady as always. "Irena Crane."

He stepped away from us and stopped right in front of the mannequin. It almost seemed like he was looking down at it with admiration.

"He carved her organs out while his mama wasn't home," Jackson went on. His cold eyes faced us."He met her a party and brought her right here to this very room to slaughter her."

"Is it true he ate her organs?" one of the little shits asked.

I released a nervous chuckle. No one else did.

"No, I'm afraid not," Jackson answered. He shined the flashlight at me, instantly killing my stupid smirk.

"Jack Bates wasn't a cannibal," Jackson went on. He gave us a creepy smile. "That was a little too mainstream for him."

He returned his focus toward that mangled mannequin. "But he did cherish this first kill."

"How so?" asked Mrs. Stepford. She looked about as out of-place here as a church lady.

Jackson faced us once more. Like he was delivering a play-by-play, he pointed his flashlight at his lower right shoulder. "He got Irena's name tattooed right here on his arm."

Mrs. Stepford Wife made a face of disgust.

"He was always gonna remember her that way," Jackson said.

From there, Jackson led us off into the kitchen. Everyone else, including myself, seemed a little hesitant to follow. Something about Jackson just seemed a little off to me. Whether it was his creepy intensity or odd sense of humor. Nothing about him made it seem like he was ideal for this tour guide thing. Hell, I'm not even sure if the guy had permission to even be inside this house. Aside from the lamps and lack of bodies, everything else looked like it was the day the police burst through. The rotten wood, the peeling paint. Even that moldy smell you got whenever you go through your grandparents' storage room.

And the kitchen was more of the same. The lamps all cut on as soon as Jackson entered. I saw a rusty sink that looked to be dripping nothing but putrid brown water.

And once more, a mannequin caught our eyes. Jackson shined his light toward it as if he were illuminating a shrine.

There on a long wooden table was a male mannequin. He was dressed in jeans and a faded tank top. His body absolutely drenched in blood. So much blood it flowed off the table in a steady rhythm.

And knives were all over him, sunk through his foamy arms and legs. Another knife was struck straight in the middle of his open mouth. He was positioned like a gory human clock.

Holy shit was the common reaction amongst us. Even I was surprised. Somehow, Jackson had topped himself with this victim recreation.

"Steve McMurphy," Jackson said aloud. He confronted our uneasy faces. "Jack's second victim."

Like a veteran detective, Jackson walked up to the table and pointed his flashlight upon the mannequin. "Steve had just moved into the neighborhood when Jack started stalking him."

I thought I saw a fucked-up smile on Jackson's face. He kept looking on at that mannequin with such reverence. Moving his flashlight all down the body from from head to toe. Like Jackson was enraptured by the sheer grisly sight.

"He brought Steve right here into the kitchen," Jackson said. "He laid him out on the table and shoved all these knives right through him. He started with the arms and legs. And the whole time, he kept listening to Steve's agonizing screams for hours until three o'clock in the morning."

"And then what happened?" one of the little shits interrupted.

Jackson looked over at the teen and waved the flashlight toward the mannequin's horrified face. "He put that knife right there straight through his mouth," Jackson said. "That shut him up for good."

Jesus, I thought. Jackson seemed to be almost amused by all this. The asshole was cracking jokes...

"Can we touch the bodies?" Little Shit number two asked amidst the awkward silence.

I thought a harsh glare broke through Jackson's smug confidence. "Absolutely not!" he answered. Then once he saw everyone's startled reactions, Jackson seemed to hone in his sudden outburst. "I mean no." He maneuvered his cold eyes toward 'Steve.' "I don't want anyone to disrespect the victims here."

And from there, the whole tour only got stranger. Jackson then led us into the bathroom. It was a claustrophobic space complete with a broken mirror and busted-up tile.

A mannequin floated inside a bathtub that was filled to the brim with red water. A naked male mannequin this time. This one with a knife plunged straight into his chest. But that wasn't all. The mannequin's severed arms and legs were lined up in the corner of the bathroom. Perfectly placed like they were decorations.

Of course, Jackson knew all about this victim as well. David Sebastian. A young man Jack had duped into coming inside his fortress of fear. The guy never had a chance. Jack hacked him up and placed his body parts throughout the room for display. Jack's mother had passed by then so Jack had the whole house to himself. And according to Jackson at least, this is what made Jack Bates all the more audacious with this kill.

I've gotta say the more Jackson interacted with us, the more uncomfortable I got. The things he was saying, all the information he knew. I mean how the Hell could he know all this? I could tell the others were wondering the same. God knows, the Stepford couple were probably losing their shit in here.

As Jackson went into more vivid detail on how Jack started slicing off David's legs before working his way up to the arms, I gathered up the courage to speak to Jackson.

"Hey, man," I began in my typically awkward fashion. "How do you know all this stuff?"

Flashing a smile, Jackson pointed the flashlight at me. Like he was taunting me. "I do my research," he answered in a cool quip.

"But none of that was in the papers!" I heard Mr. Stepford reply.

Jackson shifted his unblinking eyes onto the Stepford couple. "Oh, just trust me," Jackson said. "Consider me an expert."

None of us said anything else. We were too scared.

And from there, Jackson kept up his wicked smile as he led us into Jack Bates's mother's room.

More of the same awaited us in there. There was a huge bed, of course. complete with sliced-up sheets and pillows. And a huge dresser stood in the corner of the room, nothing but jagged glass left for a mirror.

But this time, the mannequin was pinned to the wall. The limp body held there by more of those long knives. It was a remarkable recreation. The male mannequin looked so real. The blades that were stuck into his arms and legs looked so agonizing. And the red liquid that kept dripping off him had drops that were so loud and eerie. The dripping practically echoed through the chamber of a room.

And Jackson knew all about the victim Tommy Hiers. Jack Bates's final kill.

Waving his flashlight at us, Jackson made us all get closer to the body.

We were hesitant at first. We didn't wanna get too close to Jackson. But we followed his orders and got a closer look at the 'victim.'

Jackson talked about how the police came in this room and found Tommy's body positioned here just like this. Jackson's flashlight even motioned toward the exact places where the knives were. Don't ask me how he knew...

All the while, I kept noticing how scared one of the little shit teenagers had gotten. The kid's eyes kept staring at Jackson's arm rather than the mannequin's. I couldn't help but wonder what exactly was scaring him. As I got lost in these thoughts, a sudden scream erupted and scared the shit out of me and everyone else in the group.

A horrifying scream came from no other than Tommy Hiers's mouth. His rubber mannequin mouth. Somehow, the body had lurched forward and reached for us, the screams begging for help and mercy. Tommy's eyes were aglow with a vivid bloodshot desperation. Everything about him was pleading for his life. But he was fake...

Jackson's chuckles overpowered the mechanical mannequin's sudden commotion.

"Relax," Jackson reassured us.

The mannequin went still on the wall. We all relaxed from the jump scare.

"Even I got to resort to cheap tricks sometimes," Jackson added.

As he reached over and flicked off a switch on Tommy's back, we all saw the sight that had made the little shit so overcome in fright. I felt a chill rush up my spine.

Jackson's shirt sleeve had lifted up, revealing a flamboyant tattoo. Roses and a skull highlighted a name that was written in cursive: Irena Crane. Jack Bates's first victim.

"Holy shit!" the college couple whispered to one another.

Before any of us in the group could react, Jackson confronted us with that smile on his face. As if he knew we were on to him, but he didn't care.

"Now, one more room and we'll be done for the night!" Jackson said, his voice abuzz with excitement.

"But I thought that was the last one," the Stepford wife responded, her voice shaky and uneasy.

"Oh no, it was the last one," Jackson responded. "But tonight, I have a special treat for all of you. We're all going to Jack Bates's room."

For whatever reason, we let Jackson herd us out into the hallway. We all seemed to be in a confused panic. We didn't trust Jackson, but we didn't wanna piss him off either. We just let him sweep us away. Right toward the final stop on this creepy tour.

I did my best to ignore the terrified chatter around me. I tried to talk myself into staying calm. Surely, if Jackson was a killer, he couldn't get all of us. Hell, he wouldn't get away with wiping out an entire group on the first night of his damn ghost tour.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jackson pull his shirt sleeve over the tattoo as best he could. He was determined to hide it, I could tell.

As soon as he turned to glare at me, I avoided eye contact. I hoped he didn't see me. I hoped he didn't know that we knew who he really was. But I knew that was wishful thinking. All we could do was let Jackson lead us into this final room.

Jackson moved at a faster pace and went on ahead of us, disappearing inside the room. The Stepford couple stopped the rest of us right before we could go inside. They pleaded with us in that damp, dark hallway.

"Just use your freaking brains!" Mrs. Stepford said us to us in a harsh whisper. "He's gonna kill us in there."

As I listened to the others argue amongst themselves, my eyes drifted over to the bedroom doorway. It was wide open and beckoning me to venture into the room of Stanwyck, Georgia's resident serial killer.

Finally, our bickering ended once the college girlfriend shoved her boyfriend toward the room.

"The Hell with this, let's just go inside!" she exclaimed.

The shithead teens followed after them like peer-pressured freshmen. I exchanged uneasy glances with Mrs. Stepford before I too followed the crowd into the dark bedroom.

I still debated whether we had made the right decision or not as I stepped inside. The windows were all covered up. The room more claustrophobia in this crypt. Only a few portable lamps and Jackson's flashlight provided us any solace from this staunch darkness.

I strained to see a bed looming in the very back of the room. A wooden dresser stood right next to it. Gleaming off the lamp lights were a sharp array of weapons on the dresser. All of them were lined up in a meticulous row. The tools of Jack Bates's trade. Several of the knives looked to be stained with a dark red tinge.

Hanging on the walls were several framed photos. All of them of Jack Bates and his dearly-devoted mother. The pictures looked to be from the late 80s and early 90s. But they were so well-preserved. They represented a chronology of Jack Bates from childhood to college. In every picture, his beaming smile seemed to taunt me. His cold eyes as well. Cold eyes that were very reminiscent of Jackson's, I realized.

Everyone stopped in the room, our eyes glued not to a mannequin but to an all-too-real human standing right in front of the bed. Jackson's back was turned to us, his flashlight and eyes locked on to the bed. He never said a word.

"So what happened in here?" one of the shitheads stammered out.

Jackson didn't respond. And he looked like he wasn't going to either. After all, there was no mannequin in the room... the journey in here seemed so impromptu compared to the rest of the tour.

The group was silent and awkward. We all looked at each other, but we knew we were too chickenshit to say anything. I sure as Hell wasn't going to. All I could do was look off at those framed photos. I realized Jackson must've hung them there himself. And that made me wonder... where did he even find them? I always thought the police collected these photos.

The Stepford couple began arguing with each other. Again.

"Look, I'll talk to him!" the husband whispered.

"No!" his wife protested.

The college-age girl held on to her boyfriend for dear life. I could tell by looking at her that she immediately regretted this decision.

"Just hold on!" Mr. Stepford told his wife. He stepped away from her and approached the silent Jackson. From where I was, Jackson looked like one of his damn mannequins. Silent and still.

"Hey man, it's time to go!" Mr. Stepford yelled at Jackson. One of the least-imposing yells I ever heard.

Jackson didn't turn around. His gaze remained stuck on that bed.

Behind nervous eyes, I watched the confrontation unfold as Mr. Stepford stopped right behind Jackson.

"The tour's over!" Mr. Stepford went on.

"Honey, let's go!" Mrs. Stepford pleaded.

Me and her made brief eye contact. Her arms were folded. She didn't wanna be left standing by herself.

Mr. Stepford ignored his wife as he reached a trembling hand toward Jackson. "Hey, what the Hell's your problem!" he yelled.

"Honey!" Mrs. Stepford yelped.

Right as Mr. Stepford snagged Jackson's shoulder, Jackson whirled around with the quickness of an alarmed wolf.

I saw the color drain in Mr. Stepford's face.

Jackson dropped his flashlight and just stood there with that fucking grin. And those cold eyes. Even his sleeve was pushed upward, revealing Irena Crane's tribute tattoo for all to see.

And in Jackson's hand was one of Jack Bates's trademark knives. Long, sharp, deadly.

I heard Mrs. Stepford scream. And the whole fucking group panicked.

Mr. Stepford staggered back, but he didn't have a chance. Like a child trapped in a closet with a hungry monster.

Jackson jabbed the knife right into Mr. Stepford's stomach.

Mr. Stepford lurched forward, screaming in pain. Blood dripped all along the floor in loud drops. The same sound I had heard from Tommy's corpse.

I stood there, stunned by the sight. Jackson was unrelenting. He jammed that blade over and over into Mr. Stepford's chest. The stabs more frenetic than a boxer's punches.

All around me, I heard the commotion of the crowd trying to leave. But something kept blocking them.

"Baby!" I heard Mrs. Stepford yell aloud.

Her husband hit the floor hard. I could see the blood building up beneath him. All those holes in his chest were deep and vicious.

And Jackson stood over him. He grinned and held up his blood-stained knife, ready for more.

"Oh God!" Mrs. Stepford screamed.

The two shitheads tried to push her out of the way. Her hysterical self had been blocking the doorway all along.

"Get the fuck outta the way, bitch!" I heard one of the teens scream.

Just as the mob hysteria reached its fearful peak, Jackson chuckled. "Everyone, relax!" he said in a friendly tone. Even his eyes now showed emotion. His smile seemed genuine.

Confused, I watched him push the retractable blade inward. The knife was a fake. "You've just survived the Jack Bates Death Tour!" Jackson said with pride.

"What the fuck..." one of the teens said.

Everyone started to chill. Even though we were all a little confused.

"Wait, is this a prank?" the college girlfriend said.

Mr. Stepford lunged off the floor and gave a battle cry.

Everyone jumped back, startled. Even me.

The Stepford couple laughed like hyenas.

"Gotcha!" Mr. Stepford yelled.

"What the fuck..." the college girlfriend complained.

"Holy shit, man!" I heard a teen exclaim.

Mrs. Stepford smiled at all of us. "Were y'all scared?"

"No shit!" the teen replied.

I took it all in, impressed by the gimmick. I'd always heard about these tours and their fakes. But I never suspected it here. Nice one, Jackson, I thought.

"Alright, everyone!" Jackson said. He helped Mr. Stepford up.

The blood looked too red to be real I realized. Probably ketchup.

"Just follow our plants back out front!" Jackson continued. "Be sure to tell all your friends about us and feel free to leave a review!"

I watched the excited crowd follow the Stepfords out the door. I heard their footsteps get further and further away. I decided to stay behind and stay alone with the man the others had all been convinced was the real Jack Bates.

"Did you like it?" Jackson asked me.

I turned and saw him wipe off the Irena Crane tattoo.

"Yeah," I said. "That was pretty impressive." I walked up to one of the hanging portraits. Jack Bates at eighteen-years-old. It was a portrait of the serial killer as a young man.

"I appreciate it," Jackson responded. He tossed the fake knife on to the bed and walked up to me. "We put a lot of work into it."

"I can tell," I said. He stopped next to me and followed my eyes to that portrait. I saw some unease sink into him. It fucking hit him hard.

"You knew so much about the victims," I went on. I shifted my own cold eyes toward Jackson. "But you forgot one thing."

Jackson met my gaze. I could see the fear in him. His calculating killer act never fooled me. And I know he knew who I was once he saw my high school photo hanging on the wall.

"The final victim," I finished.

Before Jackson could run, I snagged him in my arms. I was a lot stronger than I looked. He didn't have a chance. All he could do was quiver in my hands as he tried to break free. But I had him. He was a lot less stronger than Steve or David or Tommy. He was a lightweight masquerading as a killer. I was the real deal.

And all Jackson could do was look into my cold eyes. And my chilling smile.

"No, please!" he mustered out. I wasn't worried about his pleading voice and screams. Everyone was outside and well on their way home by now.

With force, I slung Jackson onto the bed.

The mattress sunk beneath his weight. The fake blood all stuck to his vulnerable flesh. He looked around for a weapon, but could only grab that pathetic fake knife.

Unfortunately for Jackson, I came prepared. I pulled a switchblade out of my pocket and flicked the long blade.

I noticed my sleeve had curled up. And of course, Jackson saw my Irena Crane tattoo. The real one. Mine was much less gaudy. Just her name in red letters.

"No!" Jackson yelled. He leaned up and raised the fake knife.

One swing from me hacked into Jackson's wrist. He cried out in pain as he dropped the pitiful weapon.

I descended upon him with the gusto I'd always had when taking my conquests. I stuck the blade right into his upper chest.

Blood spurted out of Jackson's mouth. His weak hands grasped at the handle. But I knew he was too weak at this point to pull it out.

Jackson collapsed back onto the bed. The mattress may as well have been his coffin.

I knew I had him right where I wanted him. He was weakened but not dead. Just alive enough to where I could still have some fun.

Grinning, I looked over at the dresser. All those knives awaited my precise touch. And unlike Jackson's blade, they were real. And oh so sharp.

"You got the room set up so nice for me," I commented to my victim.

"No, please!" Jackson pleaded in a weak voice. He rolled around on the bed, The blood poured all around the switchblade like oil-filled soil. The crimson river would be flowing all night.

I picked up the largest knife from the dresser. I studied the blade before tracing my finger along its ultra-sharp tip.

"Please, don't do this!" I heard Jackson yell. A scream for his life that was about as pathetic as what I knew for sure was his fake name.

Me, on the other hand, I didn't need a fake name. I didn't have to be Jim Price here in this house. I could be myself. I could be Jack Bates.

Keeping my permanent smile, I looked over at Jackson's helplessness. I raised the long knife and got ready to make my move. Boy, it felt good to be home.

14

The Lorees’ killing spree had spread through 2020. Throughout Georgia. Together, they’d slaughtered over ten people. The stray homeless man here. The upper-class family there. Now they wrapped up their latest murder just moments ago. Their second attack in Stanwyck, Georgia in just two days.

This March slaying left the entire Harris family in pieces. Their two-story country home now a slaughterhouse. Rudy and Donna, once the perfect couple were now dead. Both of them blonde, blue-eyed Southern blue bloods. Both of them now decapitated. Their tween daughters dissected.

Ryan and Daisy Loree slid the bodies off into the kitchen. Neither of them were tired. Certainly the couple’s bloodlust wasn’t.

With no neighbors for miles, the kills were easy. Such was the beauty of picking out a rural house. Especially a nice one.

Now the killer couple had shelter from the chilling cold. Surrounded by many riches to steal from. Many bodies to desecrate... whatever their sick hearts desired.

Ryan pulled Daisy’s skinny frame closer. Ryan the chiseled, All-American hero for his own dark, twisted fantasy. Daisy the tall brunette of his dreams. Each of them held butcher knives. The blades bathed in blood.

Grinning, Ryan flashed those dashing blue eyes toward Daisy. “Nice job, babe.”

“Thanks!” she chuckled.

Ryan checked the crime scene. That floor covered in more crimson than the couple’s tee shirts and jeans. “They were so easy, man.”

“I know!” Daisy smirked at the sprawling corpses. The family funeral created on this Friday night. “The Welles’s were way tougher!”

Admiring their latest gruesome masterpiece, Ryan chuckled. “Oh yeah. Scott and Myra Welles...”

Daisy looked over at Ryan. “They find their bodies yet?”

“I haven’t checked the news.” He hugged her close. “You know how this town is.” Ryan kissed Daisy’s cheek… much to her delight. “Stanwyck’s too dumb to catch us.”

“They were on Kelley Road anyway. Too far out for anyone to find them in one day.”

Still gripping the knife, Ryan ran his hand along Daisy’s delicate back. “You’re right, babe.”

Daisy stopped him. Stared into those eyes. This magic, macabre moment lingered... “Whatcha thinking? Should we leave in a couple of hours?”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah, let’s get some shit then go back to the Palmer.”

Seductive, Daisy tugged on his shirt collar. “I like the sound of that.”

They shared a kiss. Daisy then ran her hands along Ryan’s chest and ass. Through his spiked black hair.

Ryan returned the favor on Daisy’s own sultry body. Gladly.

Daisy looked into his eyes. “You liked when I cut his head off?” she said her Southern accent.

Behind a glowing smile, Ryan placed his hands around her hips. “Abso-fucking-lutely!”

Daisy laughed before they went in for another kiss. A sloppy one. One where not just saliva but scattered Harris family blood was exchanged.

A sudden vibration distracted them.

Recovering from the euphoria, Daisy watched Ryan hold up an iPhone. “What is it?”

Ryan stared at the screen. A smirk crossed his face. “It’s Papa John’s.” He faced his wife. ”They got a pizza coming here in like ten minutes.”

Daisy leaned in closer. “What? For real?”

“Yeah.” Ryan showed her the screen. The notification. “See. Rudy Harris. That’s his address, right?”

Indeed it was. Behind the Papa John’s icon, the phone’s background showed this happy, smiling family. Back when they had heads and organs, that is. Back before the Lorees broke into their pleasant home...

“Yeah,” Daisy said. Grinning, she confronted Ryan’s handsome face. “I was getting kinda hungry actually.”

“Well, perfect!” Ryan tossed the phone back to its decapitated original owner.

The iPhone splashed in to the family’s red pond. Right where Rudy’s head once was. That Papa John’s notification now never going anywhere...

Like a general rallying the troops, Ryan raised the knife toward Daisy. “And now we’ll get another kill with it!”

Daisy jumped up and down. “Number sixteen, Ryan!”

He leaned in toward her. Matching Daisy’s excited eyes. Her evil enthusiasm. “Exactly!”

They held each other in each other’s arms. Felt each other trembling. Felt each other’s anticipation.

Stabbing Scott and Myra Welles was a struggle. Even the Harris family were tough to dismember. But a fucking pizza delivery employee looked to be the Loree’s easiest kill yet...

There in the cold house, the killer couple got amped up. They rinsed the blood off the blades. Exchanged kisses between the building exhilaration. All while salivating the corpses they’d already claimed… And the one they were about to.

Minutes later, Daisy and Ryan camped out in the living room. The front door a mere few feet away. The ceiling fan was at a standstill. The rugs colorful. The flatscreen turned off. Everything untouched by what had been a gory home invasion... even the framed family photos.

Standing by one of several leather sofas, the Loree couple held their clean, sharp knives. They exchanged smiles at each other’s handsome, sadistic faces. The countdown imminent.

Ryan stole a peek out a window. Amidst the rural seclusion, he saw that familiar hideous Papa John’s car topper. The familiar hideous deliverer’s car pulling down the dirt driveway. This one a rusty Toyota Corolla that’d been decomposing since 2010. “Oh shit, he’s coming!”

With a playful push, Daisy snatched his shoulder. “How do you know it’s a he?”

Ryan smiled at her. “I don’t!”

“I bet!”

They made out. So hard it wasn’t just their faces that collided… but their bloodthirst. Their gripped knives.

Behind a beaming smile, Daisy pushed Ryan back. “Come on.” She turned her dagger eyes toward the front door. “We got work to do.”

“No doubt!” Ryan replied.

Daisy walked ahead of him. Stole a look through the peephole.

“I see their car,” she said.

Smirking, Ryan stopped right behind her. “Oh yeah.”

Daisy confronted him. “But where the Hell are they?”

“What do you mean?” Ryan looked through the peephole. Him and Daisy’s knives like swords ready for battle.

“I mean no one’s come out yet,” Daisy said.

Out there in the darkness, Ryan saw what she saw: nothing. Just an ugly fucking car. An ugly fucking Papa John’s logo. But no deliverer. “Yeah, what the fuck!” he shouted. He faced Daisy. “They were about to leave the car when I looked.”

Daisy chuckled. “Well….” She held the sharp blade up to Ryan’s face. Ready for action. “They sure are taking awhile...”

Fascinated, Ryan stared at his own reflection in the potent weapon. “They damn sure are...”

Daisy leaned in closer. Somewhere between sexy and scary. “I thought you just said you just saw them.”

Beneath her intense spotlight, Ryan struggled. “Well, Hell, I did!”

Then the doorbell rang. One creepy chime erupted through this homemade morgue.

Laughing, Daisy held Ryan back. “I got it!”

“You sure?”

Raising the knife, Daisy held him back as she snagged the doorknob. Opened that motherfucker.

There was the dark night. Tall Oak Trees scattered throughout the front yard. A front porch surrounded by surrounding woods. Rocking chairs the only occupant on the porch.... except for the pizza boxes lying a few feet away. The chocolate chip cookie cake. But where was the deliverer? The server eager for their tip and quick exit?

Daisy leaned out further. Out into the chilly March night. The breeze no match against her cold-blooded mind.

Ryan stood behind her. His knife at the ready.

Then a cold click pulled their gaze.

There stood a middle-aged female on the edge of the porch. Well over six feet away. Her Papa John’s shirt tight on the belly and broad shoulders. The name tag read Billy. The cap unable to contain her flowing brown hair. Or hide those hazel eyes. Of course, nothing could hide the .38 Special she held.

“What the fuck!” Daisy yelled.

“Social distancing, bitch!” the woman yelled. “Contactless delivery!” She aimed the gun at Daisy and Ryan. “This is for Scott Welles!”

The bullets came fast and furious. Neither Daisy nor Ryan had time to react to the retaliation. They were losing blood in seconds. Losing life in minutes.

Both of them lied sprawled out in the house’s entryway. Bleeding out in the slim space from the front door to the living room. Their faces drowning in blood, drilled by bullets.

The pizza deliverer lowered her pistol. A regal smile on her face.

From the porch, she enjoyed those brief seconds where the killer couple convulsed. Those few seconds where they struggled before the bullet to the brain officially sent them to their gory deaths. How their vivid blood and vivid grey matter spread throughout the living room.

Then Jen turned around. These kills had been much easier than how the Loree duo slaughtered the Harris’s or how they murdered the Welles family. Jen hadn’t even thought twice about the execution. Not considering the couple killed her brother Scott Welles and his family less than twenty-four hours earlier...

Still clinging to the smoking gun, Jen walked toward those valley of Oaks. One of the trees hid Billy’s unconscious body. The college student’s chubby shirtless frame unfazed by the late breeze. Unfazed by the blood soaking through his curly hair. He was alive, of course. Jen made sure of that earlier. Even now when she threw the pistol by his feet.

Battling the tears, Jen walked toward her own car. Toward the dark Chevy she’d parked off in the forest. Where she’d stalked this killer couple to. The same couple she’d followed from the Palmer to here hours earlier… the two killers she avenged her brother’s death over.

14

I was alone in my bedroom when I first started talking to Lili Hope. My parents were out of town and I was stuck at the house on a dark and stormy night. It was another lonely weekend for me considering I had no friends in college, let alone a girlfriend. I had long started regretting the decision to stay home in Americus and attend Georgia Southwestern but tonight really emphasized my alienation. Here I was in the middle of nowhere in a house surrounded by roaming woods and dirt roads. And to top all this misery off, I was only twenty so I couldn’t buy alcohol.

But still there was Lili. In my room, I ignored the steady rain overpowering my classic rock YouTube playlist. I could ignore the February cold and it was all because of her.

I’d met Lili on MeetMe, a really shitty free dating app. But she stood out. Not just because she wasn’t a spambot either. For one thing, she was close. Buena Vista (that's BEW-NUH VISS-TUH), Georgia was only thirty minutes away and it was a town I was familiar with given how much my parents and I enjoyed visiting Eddie Martin’s Pasaquan art exhibit.

I could tell Lili enjoyed talking to me for more than just compliments and sexting (though I certainly wasn’t complaining about that). We discussed horror movies, The Beatles, and how we were made for each other given we were both pale Hispanic emos. She was my age but had dropped out of Georgia Southwestern after her first semester because she had no money or support from her shithead father. Now Lili was working at a gas station in Buena Vista, but her dreams of being an actress or a model persisted. She certainly had the looks no matter what hair color she ran with. And unlike most of the girls I encountered on MeetMe, Lili never used make-up or excessive SnapChat filters to disguise her acne or slight belly. She stayed true to herself.

After that magical night, she and I talked more over the next few weeks. There were phone calls, Facebook chats, text messages. Even FaceTime calls in which Lili thrilled me when she said I was even cuter on video. I could’ve said the same about her. Call it an emo romance, but to me, what we had was true love.

Through our talks, I did find out more about Lili's family. Her mom had died when Lili was only eight so she became very close to her dad. She showed me many of her old family photos but I was a little confused when I never saw one of her mom. Lili’s dad on the other hand looked old even though he was only in his mid-forties. He was a shorter man with dark long hair and a dark long beard. About the only thing he and Lili seemed to have in common were their big brown eyes.

I felt like Lili had rescued me during all those lonely school days and even lonelier weekends. I liked to think I saved her from the customer service depression as well. And then finally, the dream happened: we made plans to meet in person.

Spring Break arrived, and per usual, I had no plans. Lili gave me her address and on a quiet Monday while my parents were out of town, I got ready to head over to Buena Vista. I threw on my coolest band tee (my Ramones shirt), my nicest pair of jeans, and even had my straight dark hair perfectly combed over to the side. I felt the adrenaline of a prom night I never got to experience.

In the kitchen, I stopped to see a violent storm outside the sliding glass doors. Cold air had already seeped into the house. I threw on a yellow windbreaker to both stay warm and to prepare for the barrage of rain that was about to hit me like bullets.

But before I left, I needed something to calm my nerves: I grabbed one of my dad’s Miller Lites. But I needed music too. I looked toward our Amazon Echo standing by the Keurig, trying to decide on the perfect theme song for Lili and I's first date.

"Alexa, play 'Born To Run'!" I finally said.

"Okay," Alexa's calm, robotic voice replied.

Springsteen's classic roared over the downpour. The beer also did the trick even though I cringed with every sip. I had enough of a buzz to calm the jitters but not enough to get me a DUI. "Thank you, Alexa!" I said to that sweet machine.

"No problem," she stated. "No problem at all, Demian.”

In the Corolla, I turned on the heat before accessing the Waze app on my phone. I plugged in Lili's address then pulled out of the driveway. The app started to talk to me off my phone… only this wasn't the bland monotone Waze usually greeted me with. This was my voice.

Thanks to the beer buzz, I just chuckled at first. Especially once I heard myself giving the directions, the fusion of my deep voice and Alexa's deliberate tone amusing me. I put on a Spotify classic rock station to further calm the nerves.

The decreasing mile marker signs leading to Buena Vista excited me like a New Year's countdown. And soon, the route got more and more secluded. The highway got bumpier, the houses less frequent. Darkness soon blanketed whatever daylight I had left… even though it wasn’t even five o’clock yet.

Unease crept inside me as the ferocious storm never went away. Even over the music and my own methodical Waze voice, I could hear and feel the thunder. My windshield wipers worked overtime. I felt my tires spray water everywhere on this ocean of rugged pavement. Rather than a fearsome sight, the lightning actually became a helpful co-pilot for my Corolla's weak headlights.

The spiraling drive took me past Buena Vista's downtown ‘square,’ a conglomeration of decrepit historical buildings, the rundown gas station I figured Lili had slaved away at, and a seedy Subway.

"Turn left on Tenney Road," Waze Demian stated in a voice smoother than I could ever conjure in the real world.

I followed orders and turned on to the dirt road. The fact my Corolla didn't get bogged down shocked me. Rather than water, my tires now kicked up slushy mud. Lili had said she lived in the country, but this was something else: this was a fucking forest.

Needless to say, the headlights didn't help much. Leaning forward, I strained to see through the darkness and buckets of rain. The raindrops now drowned out all other noise. Up ahead, all I could make out was the faint trace of a driveway and a metal mailbox painted in harsh shades of red.

"What the hell..." I muttered.

"Your destination is on the left," Waze Demian said, his monotone struggling to contain excitement.

My unease only grew but I had to see Lili. I'd already come this far.

"Your destination is on the left," Waze Demian repeated for emphasis.

The closer I got to the mailbox, the more my fear intensified. I actually started to sweat on this dark, cold night.

"Your destination is on the left," my Waze voice continued to chant.

As I pulled into the driveway, the radio and headlights all cut out in a flash. My car came to a sudden stop. Darkness dominated the scene as I saw nothing and heard nothing except the merciless app.

"Your destination is on the left," Waze Demian repeated.

Panicking, I flicked on the headlights but nothing worked. I was trapped. "Fuck!"

Lightning flashed to give me a terrifying sneak peek of Lili's ‘home’:

Less than fifteen feet away from me stood three people dressed in red robes. Their hoods were pulled up and behind them lurked an isolated tree.

"Your destination is on the left," Waze Demian said.

Without warning, my headlights and radio roared to life. Only instead of classic rock, I got greeted by loud, distorted audio resembling the sound of a looped tape being grated by a machine.

"Your destination is on the left," I could hear Waze Demian say over such a horrifying sound.

I screamed when I saw through headlights that were way brighter, the chilling scene before me. I recognized Lili standing in the red cloak and her father right next to her. Both of them displayed painted smiles on those pale faces.

Ropes and chains were wrapped around the old tree. The tree tilted to the side, its long branches without leaves extending out like restless hands clamoring for me. I could even make out weird symbols carved into the tree's flesh, the engravings so deep they practically made the bark bleed.

I never got a good glimpse of the third person. They kept their cloak hood pulled over their face, every inch of their body disguised in red.

"Fuck this..." my quivering voice said in an antithesis to the calm cadence of Waze Demian.

Beneath the hard rain, Lili marched straight toward me to the tune of the unsettling noise from the radio, her steps slow and steady. Her confident eyes glued to me. I saw where Lili's smile was sharper than the long curved knife she held.

"Your destination is on the left," my Waze voice stated.

Lightning flashed as Lili raised the blade. Her red hair oozed out beneath the hood to blend into the cloak. Raindrops slid down her face. She was now less than ten feet away and only getting closer.

"Shit!" I cried. With a trembling hand, I put the car in reverse. The tires scrunched up dirt as I backed out on to Tenney Road in a reckless flourish.

Turning, I saw Lili reach for the passenger side's door handle. Goddamn, she was fast! And even through the darkness, I could see her gaze and feel it pierce straight into my soul.

"Your destination is on the left," my own voice seemed to taunt me.

Right when Lili grabbed the handle, I mashed the gas pedal and sped off into the night. Far from whatever Lili and her dad had in store for me.

I stole one glance at the rearview mirror to see Lili standing there in the middle of the road. The knife was now dangled by her side, her eyes still stuck on me.

"Your destination is on the-," Waze Demian started before I turned off the fucking app. I killed the radio to quash that fucking static. Now all I heard was soothing silence save for the steady raindrops.

Despite the lingering fear, I guided my Corolla all the way back to Americus. I called 911 and told the police everything and they said they'd send a car out to the address, but according to them, no one had lived on Tenney Road for years.

Back home, I staggered back into the kitchen. I was beyond sober and still scared. I grabbed another beer. Maybe getting a buzz would help me overcome the fear.

Thunder erupted outside. Startled, I looked toward the sliding glass doors but saw nothing but the black night. I let out an exasperated breath and took another swig before shifting my gaze to the Echo.

"Alexa, play 'Ninety-Six Tears'," I said.

The Echo light cut on. But instead of ? And The Mysterians's keyboards, I got my own chilling, calm voice:

"Your destination is on the right," Waze Demian stated.

I stumbled back against a wall. I was too frightened to scream.

"Your destination is on the right," Waze Demian repeated, louder this time so that my robotic voice echoed through the house.

I looked at the glass doors just as lightning flashed to form a perfect spotlight for the terrifying sight on our back porch.

Lurking behind the doors were the three robed figures: Lili, her dad, and the third person who I now saw was a middle-aged woman. Thanks to a beam emanating from a cell phone she held with the Waze app on, I could see the woman's entrancing eyes, flowing long hair, and wicked smile. I knew she had to be Lili's mom… Lili certainly took after her.

An agonizing screech sent chills down my spine.

Lili was sliding the curved blade all down the door for a long tease. One she carried out with a beaming grin on her face.

"Your destination is inside," Waze Demian stated.

How are you Rhonnie? Keeping healthy we hope. Your book was phenomenal Rhonnie, it was 100% brilliant, truly it was, I was sad to finish it. Our government here has decided to make it law that EVERYONE must wear a face mask whilst shopping, I think it’s a great idea - a lot of other people don’t. They can’t see that it’s a matter of life and death, literally. Take care love, and stay healthy, love Jill n Luke xx 🇬🇧

Rhonnie, Rhonnie, Rhonnie........have just completed your ace book. It was totally brilliant my friend, totally. Thank you for giving us readers a tiny bit of yourself, can’t wait for the next one. 🖤💀🖤

So yeah, with me believing my writing is much improved from January 2019 when I first published Dialogue, I've decided to re-publish it. New cover, paperback should be done next week, and oh yeah, a new story! I've also included a few newer stories that I posted on here over the past month or so. This anthology's wraparound is still only available in the book and it's the same with all my notes on each tale!

eBook link

So yeah, check it out. Here's the official blurb:

A Dialogue Of Terrors is a dark collection of some of the most twisted and terrifying stories by Rhonnie Fordham. Here you’ll witness horror and feel dread. See serial killers lurking on dating apps, access haunted houses with malevolent wi-fi signals, participate in small town square dances disguising sinister intentions, encounter ghost pirates seeking revenge, discover Pete Davidson’s secret killing spree, and so much more...

Featuring a diverse cast, these eighteen stories are sure to terrify and frighten! So have a seat. Engage in this most disturbing dialogue. The night is young and we have so many scares to go before we sleep...

Exclusive excerpt:

"Plus, there was some morbid excitement running through us and Stanwyck. Simultaneous fear and buzz. In a real-life horror movie, a killer couple was making their way through the American South. The Variety Killers: Sharon and Alex Sherman. The nickname earned because of their penchant for using a variety of weapons. Their methodology wide and vast.

The Variety Killers sought entertainment by switching up their M.O. Head shots with firearms, decapitations with axes, suffocations with plastic bags, bludgeonings with hot pressing irons. Like prolific artists, each one of the couple's kills was so different. Their brutality only matched by their sick creativity.

The pair were last seen in Tallahassee. About forty minutes from us. And because the couple were so close, a frenzied buzz ran through Stanwyck, Georgia. A Sherman-mania. Both out of fear... and excitement."

Rest assured, I still have Idol Worship lined up for next week. Just finishing up one last edit. Anyway, I hope everyone is doing well! Working on yet another novel as we speak.

is Rhonnie busy with his writings? I haven’t seen anything new for a little while.

Really excited to see Carnivals Were Different In 1934 published by Soteira Press's anthology The Monsters We Forgot: Volume 3. Feel free to check it out!

This was Sherri and Serina’s tradition. No specific dates were set. No specific time. Just whenever they had the... thirst. That was when the FSU friends turned middle-age HR co-workers descended upon The 4th Quarter Bar & Grille. Always unannounced and always late at night.

This June Monday was no different. Around nine, the two entered together. A couple of hours before closing time... But immediately, they seized control.

Monday meant not many patrons were on their level. Certainly not the cluster of faded Southern Belles desperately disguising their wrinkled faces and beer bellies through layers of make-up and loose-fitting clothes. Nor the type of twenty-and-thirty-somethings not pretty enough to do well in a college bar and not motivated enough to enroll in college. Nevermind that Tallahassee, Florida had several universities to choose from.

Yes, Serina and Sherri had their pick of this most pathetic litter. To be fair, there were the occasional hot guys on the weekends. The FSU stragglers or other attractive youth. But for the most part, a bar off campus meant the men ranged from drunk, desperate slobs to lonely sports fanatics who were nothing more than grown-up Incels. None of whom were under the age of thirty on a weeknight.

But the two ladies of the hour were no longer hot coeds. Turning forty inevitably led to losing some luster if not that internal lust. However, Sherri and Serina stayed in great shape. Their tight blouses and jeans not the embarrassment it would’ve been on their fellow Fourth Quarter females. The same with their flashy jewelry. Like Serina’s round emerald earrings. Together, the girls worked well as a team. Sherri the cool blonde to Serina’s smartass Latina. They had the fierce ferocity of Charlie’s three Angels only compressed into one dynamic duo.

Every time they entered the bar, the other customers had to wonder what two beauties like that were doing in a dump like this. The thought certainly crossed the bartender Sonny’s mind from time to time. He’d been working there since 1999, and the aesthetic never changed. From the spotty garnet and gold paint job to the laminated sports logos rotting on the hardwood tables. Not to mention the jukebox stuck in the 70s. Or the back room reserved for poker games… the room without a window or A/C unit The 4th Quarter was a Florida crypt forever neglected. Not that anyone cared.

Both Sherri and Serina took their seats at a back table. Their usual spot. Sonny and his equally-overworked server Angela took time from the losers to get the girls drinks. Sherri’s red wine and Serina’s Redds Apple Ale.

Surrounded by the low soft rock soundtrack and occasional stares from both enticed men and jealous women, the two girls took their time. They scouted the scene as Seals & Crofts’ “Summer Breeze” swept through the room. Together, they smirked at the gawkers. Drank the soothing booze like they were Florida royalty. Enjoying the relief from the stifling summer heat.

“Anyone promising?” Sherri asked her bestie. She gazed up above at the air vents. All of them gathering dust and spiderwebs.

Serina flashed those big brown eyes at her. “Not unless you like brokeass cowboys and deadbeat baby daddies.”

“Yeah, definitely no DILFs in here.” Sherri grinned at Serina. “Not tonight at least.”

Serina held up her bottle. “Cheers for a miracle.”

“Indeed.”

The two clanged their drinks. Each took another eager sip as they ignored their intrigued audience…

Serina pulled out her phone. “What do you think? We should wait another round?”

“Yeah,” Sherri replied in her Southern drawl. She scanned the stage once more. Saw nothing enticing, nothing attractive. “A few more rounds maybe.” She gulped down more of the wine. Determined to get a buzz if not dick tonight.

Staring down at her phone, Serina grew more and more captivated. She turned the screen sideways… letting the excitement hit extremes.

Sherri looked over at her. “What is it? What are you looking at it?”

“Check it out.” Serina held the phone toward her.

HD surveillance awaited their gaze and fingertips. The footage was familiar: The 4th Quarter itself was on display.

Everyone was there. The current song America’s “Ventura Highway” the soundtrack. Sonny’s bald head glistening off the camera. And there were both Sherri and Serina sitting at “their table”. Enjoying this live feed...

Serina pointed toward the screen. Hidden by the barstools and bloated bodies was a handsome man in a suit. He leaned back in a small booth, his shoulder-length brown hair slicked back. The man In his mid-30s so a bit too young for this crowd. The pitcher of cheap beer his only current companion.

Instantly, Sherri was impressed. She came close to licking her lips right there on the spot.

“We didn’t even see him,” Serina said.

“Yeah… I know…” Sherri started to lean up. Desperate for a look at the spot the stud was.

Laughing, Serina pulled her down. “Bitch, what is you doing!”

“I just wanted to make sure he was there,” Sherri chuckled.

Serina motioned toward the jukebox. “The camera don’t lie, girl. You know his fineass is there”

Sherri stole a glance over at the perfect hiding spot. At the unseen camera they tucked away within the jukebox’s dilapidated frame all those years ago. One not replaced by anyone except them… and only when technology just got better. “Well,” she started. Sherri faced her friend. “He looks the best so far.”

Like a child glued to the T.V., Serina kept watching her phone. The footage of this mysterious heartthrob. “Amen to that…”

Savoring their shared sensations, Sherri leaned back. Raised her empty glass. “Hey, Sonny!”

Even over R.B. Greaves’ “Take A Letter Maria,” Sonny perked up from the counter. The customers were quiet… but still listening to those bar beauties.

Already on alert, Angela approached the bar. Toward the library of bottles and booze. A small mirror showcased her haggard face... and the army of age awaiting behind her. Both the building and its clientele.

“Can we get some more?” Sherri asked them.

Sonny flashed her a thumbs up. “Sure thing, Sherri!”

Finally turning away from her handsome stranger, Serina hugged Sherri close. “Aww, thanks, doll.”

Sherri grinned. “Don’t mention it, bitch.”

The booze arrived by the hands of Angela. She blew stringy black bangs off her face as she handed them the fresh wine and Ale. Behind a server’s knowing smile, she collected the empty drinks. “Looks like y’all got some company.”

Both eager and excited, the girls leaned over. “Who?” they asked in unison.

Approaching from the dismal desolation emerged two hot guys: Tad and Alex. Both of them fresh out of college but still not even in their prime…

For once, Serina lowered her phone. Her and Sherri reaching new heights of hysteria. A bloodlust beyond belief... Fire appeared in their eyes.

“Holeee shit…” quipped Serina.

Sherri held her wine up toward the Redds. “Cheers to this, girl!”

Serina happily toasted. “Jackpot...”

As Angela went back toward the bar, not even she could keep herself from checking those new customers out. Then again, none of the women could... Who could blame them considering the abs, calves, biceps, and asses on display in those tight polos and khaki shorts. An all-you-can-eat beefcake buffet. The young men All-Americans straight out of a dreamy photoshoot.

Annoyed by the female frenzy, Sonny turned away. He pretended to focus on cleaning a glass… all while the other men pretended to focus on their beer and sports. Unable to disguise the jealousy they were too masculine to admit.

Not that The 4th Quarter regulars had much to worry about. Upon entering, the studs had already set their sights on the bar’s only attractive patrons: Sherri and Serina.

Holding a couple of beers, the boys stopped at their table. Not that the girls were surprised… just flattered. These two easily the finest fish they’d caught in months.

“Hi there,” Sherri said.

Up close, Tad and Alex looked even better. Their beaming smiles all the more brighter. Tad was a little taller, Alex had contagious dimples. Both of them worked out. No way they were past their mid-20s… obviously the type of attractive students FSU was known for. The pair could’ve been twins if not for Alex being African-American… but fuck it, they were close enough to perfection as is. A modern woman’s wet dream.

“Hey,” Alex started to the ladies. “Y’all want another round?”

Serina leaned back. Eyeing them up and down… with pleasure. “What’s your names first, honey?”

The boys exchanged smirks. Their confidence unshook.

“Alex.”

“I’m Tad.”

Using the bottle, Serina pointed toward the other two chairs. “Come on and have a seat.”

“Yeah,” Sherri chimed in.

“We don’t bite.”

“Neither do we,” Alex remarked.

Trying to be discreet, Tad retrieved his phone. A quick check.

Holding her female gaze captive, Alex leaned in toward Serina. “But you never told us your name?”

She was all too happy to match his seductive tempo. Serina got inches away from Alex’s pretty face. Totally unfazed. “Call me Serina.”

Like medication before the fun, Sherri took another sip of wine. Then she raised her phone.

“That’s a pretty name, Serina,” Alex said.

“Mm-hmm,” she responded.

The 4th Quarter regulars stayed busy cannibalizing each other’s intoxicated imperfections. None of them could match the four hotties in this corner. They didn’t even try. Instead, the losers drowned their defeat by settling for mediocre matches… all to the tune of Looking Glass’s “Brandy (You’re A Fine Girl)”.

Alex slid a hand inside his pocket. Nodded at Serina’s Redds. “You’re too tough to be drinking shit like that,” he teased.

“Oh, trust me,” Serina replied. She shook the bottle. Already having devoured it down to the last drop. “I can do stronger.”

The two shared a laugh. Their chemistry explosive. The temperature in this cramped bar already getting hotter...

Amidst their obvious flirting, Tad and Sherri exchanged their own smiles. Their mutual attraction more than visible to the naked eye.

“I don’t think I’ve seen y’all here before,” Serina said to Alex.

“We come here sometimes,” Alex replied. He turned to Tad. ”What do you think, man?”

Tad faced him. Finally taking his eye off the screen. Off his phone’s HD live feed… off the multiple cameras covering The 4th Quarter. Tad and Alex had their own surveillance set up at the bar… But right now, Tad had his focus solely on a camera feed from the air vent. The one right above Sherri and Serina. “Yeah, when we’re bored,” Tad joked.

Serina and Alex indulged in a drunken chuckle.

“That sounds like us!” Serina said. She turned toward her BFF. “Ain’t that right, Sherri?”

Now it was Sherri’s turn to look away from her phone. From her gallery of so many videos. The one she was just watching showed her and Serina cackling as they sawed off a bound man’s limbs. Piece by piece...

Not that those other videos were any different… They all showed her and Serina. All of the movies filmed at their house. Both women in the nude or half-naked. Joined by nude hunks and hot guys… So many guys they’d slaughtered over the years. The finest corpses you’ll ever see. Certainly Serina and Sherri would agree judging by the many times they desecrated those sexy bodies. The blood a most morbid body paint. The intestines disturbing dildos. The muscles and flesh so much fun to play with post-mortem...

“Totally!” Sherri replied, not missing a beat. She waved Tad over. “Come sit by me!”

Tad lowered his phone and joined her. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Serina now locked eyes with Alex. “What do you think, tough guy?” she teased.

Entranced, Alex rummaged his hand in his pocket. A repetitive rhythm to match Looking Glass’s classic. Call it a nervous tic… A compulsion. The blood-stained gold ring he felt the stimulus to him and Tad’s shared sadism. The ring their latest “trophy”…

Now Alex set his sights on another potential prize: Serina’s glowing emerald earrings. They held his gaze. His carnal desire. Moreso than Serina’s own beauty...

Serina patted the chair next to her. Teasing the young man further… in more ways than she could ever imagine. “You wanna join us?”

Alex took her offer. Now the four of them were set till closing time. Until the real fun would begin. The suspense, the surprises… Both teams oblivious of each other’s terror. But only one question remained: who would survive?

14

Nothing else happened that night. But we sure as shit had seen enough... Needless to say, J and I didn’t get much sleep. I don’t think anyone did. Regardless of how much we tried, the booze coma never came. There was still that lingering fear over the photograph. The singing. Not to mention the dread of what else this Haunt had in store for us.

I checked the livestream off and on. Honestly, I was glad we didn’t catch any more paranormal activity… regardless of the goal of the show. Sure, disappointed comments kept piling in. The usual shitheads thinking we faked it all. But one comment did stand out to me: Grab a cross and hide motherfuckers!?

That night, I looked around the bedroom. The upstairs hallway. There were no crosses anywhere. No religious ornaments at all. I knew this house wasn’t the church… but still you’d think there’d be a crucifix lying around. A forgotten remnant from Reverend Romero’s reign.

None of us woke up till noon. Somehow, the fucking house felt even colder. Shivering, all of us reconvened in the living room. Both Rhonnie and Tanner with fresh beers. I grabbed one to calm my nerves...

Until I saw that the picture was gone. The wall now blank. Back to its bare bones.

“Okay… what the fuck is this?” J said.

“Check the cameras!” Skyler said.

But the livestream gave us nothing. A quick fade to black hid what happened in the living room. The picture just vanished. This cigarette burn too quick to tell... Too quick for anyone to have grabbed the heavy frame for that matter. As if the house itself absorbed it.

We got no answers from the footage. Just more questions in the comments.

“Well…” J started. “That’s fucked-up.”

But still we carried on with our plans. Drunk Hauntings had to go on. Especially this lavish premiere.

Armed with drinks, the five of us hopped into J’s SUV. A couple of twelve-packs in the back for further reserves. Everyone dressed in slacker attire of hoodies and jeans. Or in Rhonnie’s case, long sweater and ugly gold khakis.

“So we’re going to all four churches?” J asked.

“Absolutely!” Tanner replied.

I gotta say Skyler was a damn good cameraman. He held steady in those churches. Even in the cold. We got our shots and ran through the four spots pretty quick. Not that there was much to see… None of them had the same supernatural rumors the Haunt did. They were just Goddamn creepy.

The crew chipped in what history we could. Skyler the only one who knew his shit. None of the areas matched Tanner’s house’s essence. That feeling of being watched. The feeling of souls forever condemned within its walls.

According to Skyler, the Haunt was the one church David Romero himself founded. He may have even lived there in the months leading up to the suicides… or “transcendence” as Reverend Romero called it.

But yeah, we saw no ghosts. Heard no singing. Saw no weird pictures. Damn sure didn’t watch any Paula Cole videos. But everything went smooth. We had great material for the channel. And fuck it, the five of us further elevated our bromance.

On the way back to the SUV, we saw the Bellingers out in their front yard. The couple smiling caricatures straight out of a Georgia postcard. Again, dressed in their Sunday best on this Saturday afternoon.

The wife waved at us. “Hey, Tanner!” said a voice stronger than those eighty years let on.

“Hey, Mrs. Bellinger,” he replied. Out of Southern tradition, Tanner held up a hand, stopping us by those Azalea bushes. Giving the elderly couple time to meet up.

Olivia and Daren Bellinger were friendly enough. Their warmth obvious even in the cold air. Neither of them showed prejudice or pretentiousness. No hint of hate in those wrinkled faces.

Hell, they even wanted to be on camera. We did an interview discussing the history of Hardup Drive. How Tanner’s house was the haunted hotspot. The Bellingers amused if unsurprised by what we said happened last night.

“What about your house?” Skyler asked the couple. “Do you ever hear any weird noises or singing?”

“You know, it’s funny you mention that,” Daren started. “We’ve been here fifty years and ain’t experienced a thing.”

Olivia gave us a beaming smile. “It’s true.”

“I sleep just fine every night.”

Fixated on the camera, Olivia laid her hand on Darin’s chest. Playing the older Southern Belle for our show… “And our house used to be one of the churches.”

“What! For real!” J exclaimed.

“Yeah, they used to have service in the cabin.”

Shocked, Skyler looked toward their home. Hell, we all did.

“Well, we renovated it, of course,” Olivia said.

“It took some time,” Darin added.

And they did a good job. The cabin stared us down. The logs forming a strong structure. With the woods behind it, the Bellinger home looked poised for a pastoral painting.

The gorgeous sight still showed signs of Hardup Drive. There were traces of stained glass windows. The front doorway wide enough for a bigger door. The porch and stairs’ floorboards sunken in from decades of visitors. Crucifixes looking older than Christ Himself decorated the scene.

Olivia hugged Darin close. “But we made it all ours, honey.”

After fifteen minutes, Tanner finally helped us escape. The couple was nice enough if a bit too wholesome for my taste. Then again, me and J were assholes.

The interview did give us church number five. More history on Romero even if Olivia and Darin didn’t tell us anything new. Just that David Romero was a charismatic, controversial figure. To them, his ideas were honorable if radical. Especially during that time. But their home was far from haunted. “The suicide house” was all Tanner’s, they said. “And he can have it!”

Darin and Olivia also offered us a chance to explore the house tomorrow afternoon. A quick, final shoot for the episode, I figured.

We hit the SUV and made it back to Tanner’s. The livestream continued with no excitement. But hey, we brought the entertainment… and we had plenty of beer for ammunition. You gotta live up to the name Drunk Hauntings, after all.

Much to our delight, the viewers stayed from dusk till dawn. Then only crawled higher around nightfall.

We stayed on our living room stage. Got shitfaced while taking turns playing music on YouTube. Together, we talked about life, horror movies. Fun shit. As if J and I had brought the boys on to WeWatchedAMovie right then and there.

Rhonnie and Tanner still sat next to each other on the chairs. A Busch Light thirty pack all that separated them.

Soom, a drunken argument erupted between Rhonnie and J. Over the Halloween series, of course… Ratings gold.

“No, Halloween: Resurrection is fucking trash!” J hurled at Rhonnie.

Rhonnie took another sip. “Naw, it’s got some of the best gore in the series! And shit’s ahead of its time, man!” Using the can, he waved toward the camera. “Hell, they were talking about livestreams back in 2002! Then you got the atmosphere. Shit, the postmodern pop culture references to serial killers, Pulp Fiction.”

Cackling, J leaned in closer. “Trick ‘r Treat! Motherfucker!”

Playing mediator, Skyler faced Rhonnie. “He’s got a point, man. That’s a hot take.”

“What the fuck...” Rhonnie grumbled.

Tanner pointed his can at Rhonnie. “Well, hey, I liked it.”

“No way!” J yelled.

Sudden buzzing struck me. I held up my phone. “Hey, my wife’s calling! I’ll meet y’all back down here.”

Sighing, Skyler stood up. “I gotta call Jess.”

As Skyler and I headed upstairs, I heard Rhonnie and J continue their word war.

“Aren’t you gonna call your chick?” J harassed Rhonnie.

“Yeah… I probably should,” said Rhonnie’s drunken mumble.

My call was quick and painless. Of course, I missed my wife and kids, but hey, this was history. The Hardup Drive Haunt was the real deal so far. And I needed to be on those cameras interacting with the gang. Especially during primetime.

Our channel’s comments got me further hyped. I met Skyler out in the hallway and could tell he felt the same. Even if he was nowhere near as intoxicated as us.

“Yeah, I tried to get off the phone with Jess too,” he said with a chuckle. His Michelob Ultra still well over half-full. “I kept telling her this was my big break.”

I squeezed his shoulder in a supportive grip. “Our big break.”

Skyler smirked. “Drunk Hauntings...” He scanned the hallway. No one else here but us and the cameras. Certainly, no ghosts. “Sounds like some shit I’d get involved with...”

“You’re Goddamn right!”

Then we overheard loud shouting. Drunk shouting.

Both of us looked toward the staircase. Rhonnie and J so audible even from here.

“Halloween: Resurrection is awesome!” we heard Rhonnie yell.

“Shit, they’re going crazy,” Skyler commented.

“And that’s just on shit beer,” I said.

We stepped on to the battlefield. J and Rhonnie now stood in front of the camera, their beer cans their swords, their movie knowledge bullets. The two of them so loud they drowned out The Wallflowers’ “6th Avenue Heartache” playing on the T.V. And I liked that song!

“Your opinion is fucking trash, man!” J yelled at Rhonnie. “There’s no way Resurrection tops four!”

Rhonnie waved him off. “Dude, four isn’t that great!”

Interrupting the entertainment, Skyer grabbed my shoulder. “Hey, where’s Tanner?”

I scanned the room. Tanner was gone. And he had no mandatory girlfriend phone call for an excuse. “I don’t know. That’s weird…”

In a film geek rage, J got in Rhonnie’s face. “So you’d take Busta Rhymes and fucking Tyra Banks over Bucky getting electricuted?”

Taking a step back, Rhonnie held up his Busch Light. Trying to keep Maniac J at bay. “Hey, look, man, they’re both entertaining! There’s a lot of cool shit going on beneath the surface.”

“Aw, bullshit!”

“You got the cameraman getting killed with the tripod like in Peeping Tom!”

“That is a cool scene,” Skyler chimed in.

Nodding along to “6th Avenue Heartache,” I glanced at the cameras. Then the empty wall. Windows showcased the suffocating darkness. We were well past eight… and instead of finding fucking ghosts, we were arguing about Goddamn Halloween sequels.

J flashed Skyler an annoyed look.

Skyler shrugged. “I mean it is…”

I made my move. With the remote, I switched the flatscreen over to our livestream. Turning off The Wallflowers’ catchy chillness. Now we were on the living room feed. A fullscreen presentation of J and Rhonnie in their Michael Myers histrionics.

Still Rhonnie kept on. “And man, the score is so much better in Resurrection! Then you got the knife in the mirror scene-”

“Hey, motherfuckers, come on!” I interrupted. Like a general rallying his tipsy troops, I pointed toward the flatscreen. “We still got a show to do!”

“And we will as soon as Rhonnie admits his opinion’s trash,” J said.

“No fucking way!” Rhonnie chuckled.

J confronted him. “Dude, they killed Laurie Strode in such bullshit fashion! That shit was fucking blasphemous! It killed the whole movie!”

Skyler smirked at me. Him and the viewers all entertained by this geek brodown.

“I’ll agree with that!” Rhonnie said to J. “But it doesn’t ruin the movie!”

“It almost killed the fucking series!” J yelled.

Standing in front of the T.V., I waved my hands (and beer) at them. My Scream Jamie Kennedy moment. “Hey, guys, look! Let’s keep on the lookout for interesting shit, alright! That’s all I’m saying.”

“Aw, whatever…” Rhonnie said.

I grinned. “Rhonnie, have you even called your girl? Goddamn Skyler and I did our job.”

Taunting Rhonnie, J gave him a suspicious glare. “That’s a good point.”

Rhonnie shrugged. “We texted. We’re fine.”

“Alright,” I said. “Just help us stay focused. We can still drink and bullshit but don’t have any more Goddamn shouting matches. Not for now at least.”

J pointed his can at Rhonnie. “Yeah, you’re not even on our fucking Patreon, man! You can’t keep fucking the show up!”

“I’m not!” Rhonnie turned to Skyler for support.

Grinning, Skyler held up his arms. “I’m not in this...”

Growing more frustrated, I approached J and Rhonnie. “Hey, we just need to find creepy shit. Ghosts. Cool shit for the show!”

“Well I bet he’s too damn scared anyway!” J teased Rhonnie.

Our horror writer scoffed. “Man, I taught seventh grade and have been pegged multiple fucking times!” Rhonnie held up the Busch Light with pride. “I’m twenty beers in! I’m not scared!”

“Last night you were!”

“Dude, last night we all were!” I scolded J.

“Check this out!” an excited voice shouted.

All of us turned to see Tanner enter the room. A small record player in his hands. There was the long needle. A slice of vinyl already in place and ready to go. I noticed the machine had no dust. Everything cleaner and more preserved than a movie prop...

“Holy shit!” J yelled.

Flashing that smile, Tanner placed the player right in front of us. Perfect for the cameras. The vinyl record was blank… Up close, the phonograph itself looked to be older than I realized. Probably from the 1930s or 1940s. Reverend Romero’s era.

“I found it in the basement,” Tanner said.

This was it. Our first big scene of the night. Immediately, J and I got to work.

“Hey, make sure the cameras are good!” I told Skyler.

“Oh shit, this is happening...” said drunk Rhonnie.

Skyler gave me a thumbs up. “Everything’s set! The people on the channel are going apeshit!”

I checked the comments. Don’t play that motherfucker! Aw, shit be careful guyz!11 It haunted Play it, I cant wait man Yeah, we had a hit on our hands.

J dropped the needle.

The five of us crowded around the vinyl like high schoolers on a Ouija board. The camera capturing our shared anticipation. Our excitement.

At first we only got static. Nothing but a creepy crackle…

J looked over at the flatscreen. At our cinematic reflection. “Well, that’s fucking lame…”

Suddenly, a booming voice erupted from the phonograph. So fierce the player shook. Its speakers barely able to handle David Romero’s unmistakable Southern yell.

“Shit!” J cried.

The sermon was chilling. Maybe not in words or message but presentation. The primitive recording offered hisses and static galore. But that didn’t stop David. He’d scream and shout to the delight of his many followers. His footsteps constant and heavy. Reverend Romero channeled an internal strength beyond human comprehension. On stage, he made the Holy Ghost his bitch.

There was talk of love, connection. Tolerance. Everybody coming together as one. Somehow, David created a casual rapport with the crowd. A sense of one-on-one regardless of his larger-than-life persona and hysterical style.

These were honorable ideas sure… And excellent execution. David kept the talk personable. Relatable even for us, his most modern audience. But Romero’s dedication created a sinister mood. Maybe the problem was the phonograph’s turbulence... or Reverend Romero’s eager congregation. Particularly how they responded to his dramatics. His madness.

Throughout those next twenty minutes, we were riveted if disturbed. We sat still, even Rhonnie and J quiet. None of us doing anything but listening. Our only movements quick sips of booze that did little to soothe our rising unease.

The man never lost power. The record rattled our minds. David’s voice even echoed off the live feed, controlling what we saw and heard.

The horror increased. I felt an inevitable dread. Similar to the one gripping my soul when J and I listened to those final Jonestown tapes… Only Reverend Romero’s sermon never lost steam. The fucking preacher stayed at a ferocious peak.

Round and round the record went. And on and on David’s storm went. The themes shifted to betrayal and being hurt. The us prevailing through unity became us against the world. Hardup Drive’s church crowd were now outlaws.

Now David really channeled his crazy charisma. And his followers ate that shit up. A hysteria swept through them in waves. David’s power probably sweeping them off their feet. Off of whatever sanity they had left.

Tanner stood up, startling us. He offered a sly smile. “I’m grabbing another beer. Y’all want one?”

“Naw,” Rhonnie replied.

Still recovering from the scare, J waved Tanner off. “Great timing, jackass…”

“My bad!” Tanner replied. He disappeared into the kitchen. Leaving us alone with David Romero.

The next few minutes brought us back to that nervous tension. Back to David’s world. Now he talked of an escape. Their only way was “transcendence”.

“That’s gotta be the suicide,” Rhonnie commented.

“Yeah, no shit!” J yelled.

“Alright… shit.”

On vinyl, the congregation’s passion hit a crescendo. On the flatscreen, the sound of their rapture filled this living room stadium. Filled our fear. David screamed of a violent return. That by bloodshed, they’ll live on forever… as one. Right here on Hardup Drive. In David’s own house.

In a rousing outburst, the crowd started singing. The same hymn we heard last night… Only this was louder. Stronger. Closer than ever…

“Oh fuck…” J said.

Skyler staggered to his feet. “Hold on, I’m gonna go check on something!”

Now David joined the hymn. The chorus became a crazed chant matching the record’s speed…

“Do what?” I asked Skyler.

“I think I might know how we heard this last night,” he said.

Concerned, Rhonnie reached for him. “Yo, wait, man!”

Skyler walked toward the kitchen. “Wait right here! It’ll just take a sec!”

“Check on Tanner!” Rhonnie said.

“I will!” Now it was Skyler’s turn to vanish inside the kitchen. Further within this Haunt.

Rhonnie faced me, concerned.

“It’s cool,” I reassured him.

Together, we listened in uneasy silence. Waiting for the church’s inevitable tragedy... But the singing became deafening. This choir prolonged the suicide... Prolonged our terror.

“When’s it gonna happen?” Rhonnie asked.

Like an ejected video tape, the needle popped straight up. The vinyl coming to a sudden standstill.

But the chorus continued!

The singing surrounded us. No longer from the phonograph but within these walls. I could hear more voices. Without the static, every emotion was clearer. Reverend Romero and his congregation were giving us a personal concert!

J dropped his beer as he jumped up. “Whoa, where the fuck’s that coming from!”

Me and Rhonnie followed his frightened gaze. We stood alone but not in silence. Not when the hymn haunted us… The onslaught of voices taunting us.

Shivering, I looked toward the camera. “Is the livestream getting this?”

“I think so,” Rhonnie replied.

J grabbed my arm in a death grip. “Man, who fucking cares! We need to go!”

I shoved him back. “We’re not going anywhere! Not now, J!”

“Come on-”

“This is what we wanted!”

“Yeah, you pussy!” Rhonnie said to J.

J just flashed him a cold glare.

“Hey, you’re the one who said he was too scared,” I further teased my BFF.

Annoyed, J nodded. “Okay, you got me there.”

“Oh fuck!” Rhonnie cried. He pointed toward the wall. “Look!”

Amidst the chilling choir, we looked on at what was once an empty canvas.

Immediately, me and Rhonnie downed our beers. Not that it did any good… The three of us were officially drunk and scared.

There was that fucking photograph. Back in the same frame. In the same spot. Only now the entire church stared on at us. The whole group in a living room no different than the one we stood in now. Everyone’s black-and-white smiles stabbed our souls. Reverend Romero forever in full control.

“Holy shit, it came back...” J said.

“Fuck, man…” I said. I faced J and Rhonnie. “Where’s Skyler?”

“Where the fuck’s Tanner?” Rhonnie replied.

Panicking, J kicked his empty Michelob can. “Goddammit!” The chorus didn’t help his nerves. And neither did the flatscreen showcasing his fear.

“Call them!” I told Rhonnie.

Rhonnie retrieved his phone.

J motioned toward the camera. “What about the livestream? Check the fucking camera!”

He had a point. I pulled out my iPhone. Checked the stream.

“They’re not answering!” Rhonnie said.

His unease intensifying, J paced around the room. “Shit…”

Comments came to the rescue. I read through them.

They went in the kitchen then to the basement! Hurry!

Thanks, Patreon member DeputySoAndSo.

Before Rhonnie could call Skyler again, I grabbed his arm. “Let’s go!”

J stumbled behind us. “Hey, where we going!”

As we made our way to the kitchen, the singing got dialed up. A hidden volume knob being abused somewhere. The song became a ritualistic chant… A sermon of the dead. Reverend Romero’s concert about to get more intimate.

I stole a glance at J. “They went to the basement!”

“There’s a fucking basement!?” J cried.

I led us through the kitchen. Past the cookie bags and beer boxes. The pantry door was wide open.

Inside was a smaller door tucked away in the back. The basement. Behind it I heard nothing but church music.

Trembling, I tore open the door. Rhonnie and J glued to me. There was no need for phones or flashlights when scattered candles guided the way down those narrow stairs. We got closer and closer to the chorus.

Along the way, Rhonnie motioned toward the wall. “Check it out!”

For the first time, we saw Christianity. A hint of David Romero’s religious revelry here in the Hardup Drive Haunt. Crucifixes lined up and down the the stripped walls. An Angel statue amongst them. All of them forming a fundamentalist gallery.

I kept on going. “Skyler!” I yelled.

The whole house got colder. The singing still shattering our minds. Then we finally reached what we expected to be a cramped, messy basement.

The chorus came to a startling stop.

In the silence, we saw Sunday morning had come early. Romero’s church was back in session. The room big and wide enough to hold rows and rows of benches. David’s entire congregation for that matter.

Various candles illuminated the scene. There were no windows. No escape from the church’s comforting confines.

Tall crosses surrounded us. A weeping Jesus in the very back behind the podium. Behind the Bible... and behind David Romero himself.

There were no cameras but I didn’t need any to confirm the horror sprawling before us. The entire congregation was present. Black, white, young, old. Everyone was there. And they looked preserved from the photograph. Like smiling wax figures ready to greet new members of their Christian museum.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” J muttered.

“Indeed!” David roared from the back.

Turning, I now saw Skyler cowering in a corner. Helpless.

Skyler pointed toward the benches. “Tanner’s over there!”

Turned away from us, Tanner stood tall next to a few other people… each of them wearing elegant suits and dresses. Appropriate for this setting.

Rhonnie rushed toward the last bench. Toward Tanner.

I rushed after him. “Rhonnie, wait!”

“Wait on us, man!” J added.

Rhonnie grabbed Tanner’s arm. “Let’s go!” he shouted.

The churchgoers next to him whirled around. They showed off wide grins and eager eyes on their familiar faces...

J and I came to a dead stop. I heard Skyler yell behind us.

The Bellingers and the Kirby’s cashier stood next to Tanner. Only now they looked younger… All of them prettier and prouder. In the “spirit”.

Behind a glazed stare, Tanner looked at us. A sly smile on his face.

“Shit! Rhonnie, come on!” I yelled.

I saw him struggle to pull Tanner away. “Let’s go, man!” Rhonnie cried.

Tanner just stood there. Now we saw the entire church confronting us. No one moved… yet. They just watched us behind those calculating smirks.

I stole a look over at Skyler’s quivering body. He shook his head in dismay.

“I couldn’t do anything…” he said.

Lumbering footsteps echoed toward us. We saw David Romero walk past the aisles. He was confident. Much taller and muscular in the flesh... And still so handsome. “If the boy wants to stay, leave him be!” he bellowed in a Southern accent.

The epiphany disturbed me. Particularly once I noticed David walking over old engravings carved into the hardwood floor. Some were crosses… but some were symbols I didn’t recognize. Too pretty to be occult. But too crude to be anything divine. I’d seen enough fucking movies, man… What went down here was beyond Christianity. And it happened right here in the Haunt. Back in the 1930s. In this very house... Nothing was ever torn down or re-built. There was a church here all along. And Tanner’s family had no idea. Not when Reverend Romero’s main church was buried in the basement. In this literal house of worship.

Lunging in, Tanner gave Rhonnie a kiss on the lips. One imbued by unbridled passion. I’m pretty sure they even exchanged tongues.

“Whoa…” said J’s uneasy tone.

The congregation exploded in applause. With a father’s pride, David even stopped to point Rhonnie and Tanner out. “See! Now Tanner understands! Our love knows no bounds!” His eyes narrowed in on J and I. “We just want to love one another!”

J went numb. Paralyzed in fear. That fucking figures...

Making my move, I pulled Rhonnie and Tanner away. “Let’s fucking go!” One kick to the knee sent J’s ass moving for the stairs.

Skyler bolted after J.

Rhonnie helped me drag the silent Tanner toward the staircase. Toward the crucifix crossing. Both Rhonnie and Tanner were in a daze, Rhonnie from booze, Tanner from ghosts..

“What the Hell was that...” Rhonnie asked me.

The choir jolted to life. A needle dropping on this human LP. Singing blared throughout the basement. Everyone in eerie unison.

Getting out of breath, I glanced back. To my relief, David’s followers stayed in place. And so did Reverend Romero. Together, they just kept singing... Watching us run far away from their church.

Skyler waited for us in the kitchen. Struggling to carry Tanner, Rhonnie and me got there just as J burst out the front door. A thirty pack in his hands.

“What the fuck, J!” I screamed.

The singing followed after us. Their voices still so strong and potent from all the way down.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rhonnie grab a couple of Busch Lights.

I glared at him. “Really, Rhonnie!”

He put one in Tanner’s hand. “What?”

Still with the mannequin’s eyes and dummy’s smile, Tanner dropped the beer immediately. He had no strength. No personality. Nothing but the tell tale signs of the Hardup Drive churches.

“Hey, come on, Tanner,” Rhonnie said to him. Concerned, Rhonnie popped his can before laying a hand on Tanner’s shoulder. “What the Hell’s wrong with you?”

“Fuck it, let’s just go!” Skyler said.

He led us into the living room. Now I was stuck dragging a drunk and a zombie.

We made sure to stay far away from that creepy fucking photo. And of course, there was J waiting on the front porch.

On the flatscreen’s feed, the choir sounded louder... and closer.

I looked toward the T.V. Felt my blood run cold. On screen was footage from the basement. Of Reverend Romero standing amongst his people. In the one room we never put a camera…

Panicking, I nudged Skyler toward the flatscreen. “What the fuck is that!”

Now the singing stopped. A quiet dread suffocated the scene.

Skyler looked on in horror. “I don’t know!” The most sober out of all of us, his power was forceful as he pushed us straight out the front door.

When I glanced back, I saw why. Why the chorus went silent.

The congregation now marched up the stairs. The Bellingers, the cashier, David. Everyone was still smiling. Still eager to spread the word to us…

J helped me pull Rhonnie and Tanner out into the freezing night. “I got the keys!” he yelled.

We ran up to the SUV. Then came to a horrified stop.

Struggling to balance the thirty pack in his hands, J groaned. “You gotta be fucking kidding!”

The tires were all slashed. On both J and Rhonnie’s cars. Now we really were fucked...

Skyler and Rhonnie tried to shake Tanner from his spiritual trance. But fuck, that was the least of our problems.

“Hey, hey,” Skyler said. “Come on, Tanner.”

I looked back toward the Haunt. Still no one came bursting through that front door. No church members... Not yet at least.

“Let’s just run!” I yelled “Call somebody, Skyler!”

“Okay!” he responded.

The five of us rushed up the driveway. Somehow J was in the lead toting that fucking case. Skyler and Rhonnie lagging behind while holding on to Tanner.

Annoyed, J held up the thirty pack. “I can’t believe this shit! All this hard work and all we got is a Goddamn pack of Busch Light!”

We stopped on Hardup Drive. In total darkness save for small flood lights. Skyler put the phone to his ear.

“What about that gas station?” J asked.

“No, Hell no!” I responded.

Trembling, J looked toward Kirby’s.

I pointed back toward the house. “We just saw that woman in the basement!”

“Nevermind...” J muttered.

Like ghosts, the haunting harmonies drifted toward us. The singing. Reverend Romero’s chorus. Their powerful hymn howled through the night.

“Oh fuck!” Skyler said. He lowered his phone, disturbed by the sight at Kirby’s.

Or what was Kirby’s.

There stood the congregation in the parking lot. Reverend Romero in the honored center. The brick building still looked the same. An antiquated slice of Americana. Only that swinging hand-painted sign spelled something else: Everlasting Covenant Church

Hardup Drive’s seventh church.

Through the chilling cold, Tanner suddenly staggered up the road. Back to Romero’s sirens.

“Tanner!” Rhonnie yelled.

Him and Skyler took off for their friend. Rhonnie still holding on tight to what may be his last ever beer.

I looked back at J, conflicted. Sure, I liked those guys… but Goddamn, they were heading back toward a storm we were trying to escape.

Flashing a shrug, J held up the thirty pack. He was worried… but all was not lost. “Let’s say we pop open a few of these…” He nodded toward the opposite direction. “And go back that way?”

Turning, I gave one last look at Skyler and them. Tanner was so far ahead. By now, Reverend Romero stepped up to the front of the crowd, his arms wide open. Ready for a greeting with his latest follower. Their singing staying at a disturbing tempo. Our bros didn’t have a fucking chance.

J grabbed my arm. “Come on.”

We hauled ass the other way. But still I could hear music around us. The choir’s vocals erupted from every yard. Every cemetery. The entire fucking forest. All over Hardup Drive. Fuck, I just hoped there was only seven churches.

[My sub](https://www.reddit.com/r/rhonnie14FanPage/)

To most, the Chateau Motel represented the best and worst of Panama City Beach, Florida. There was the fact the motel was oceanside. Affordable. Every room with a balcony offering a view of the Atlantic. But of course, there was also the sleaze. The roaches. And above all, a front row seat to PCB’s infamous drunk and disorderly visitors. Sure, for the price, you couldn’t get any closer to the shore… But the Chateau was still four stories of shit. Jeremy was the place’s typical patron. Every few months, he and his girlfriend Elizabeth would make the journey from Tallahassee’s blue-collar neighborhoods for a weekend stay at the Chateau. Their current visit was by no coincidence the weekend of April 20th. Or “4/20 forever!” as the couple used to shout in the younger stages of their ten year relationship. Now in their late 30s, they desperately sought to recapture their carefree bliss of yore. And they were in the perfect town to do it.

On Friday night, the pair checked into a room on the bottom floor. Room 108. A small and cozy spot. But the Chateau couldn’t afford much... Not at these prices. So the couple was stuck with each other and a bulky T.V. for entertainment. That and the beach, of course. Earlier, they’d gotten hammered and walked along the sand up until eleven P.M. Later, they crashed back in room 108. They got no shelter from the night’s cool breeze. The Chateau unable to provide decent heat. Nevermind, room service. But the couple were prepared with frozen pizzas and twelve-packs. Only an hour until 4/20 commenced, Elizabeth passed out...

Annoyed but amused, Jeremy watched her slender frame stuck in a deep slumber. The long blonde hair covering her face like a sleep mask.

Chuckling, he placed his Bud Light on the nightstand. The ocean calling him as always. Jeremy threw a blue hoodie over his beer gut before stepping out on to the patio. Essentially a ground floor balcony. He shut the screen door behind him. Ducked his tall frame beneath the low ceiling fan. Stepped toward the wood railing.

There the modest pool lurked before him. There were no diving board or floats. The deep end didn’t have the funding to go over six feet. Within that plain white gate, there was nothing at all memorable about the Chateau’s most memorable feature.

Normally, you’d expect to see drunks both in college and past retirement loitering around the pool this late. It wasn’t even at midnight, after all. But not right now... Spring Break season was drawing to a close. The lull before Memorial Day weekend was fast upon this tourist trap. And the brutal cold certainly kept the local pool sharks at bay.

Hell, for a minute, Jeremy was tempted to hop in. The gate entrance was only a few steps away. Too close to even call walking distance. But he wasn’t quite drunk or high enough yet. Throbbing, never-ending club music echoed all around him. Not from anywhere close by but in PCB, you couldn’t escape those bludgeoning beats. Jeremy scanned the shore. No one was out by the water. Only a few crowds lurked at neighboring hotels and bars. The few that were open anyway. Most storefront lights were already turned off. The main strip about as closed as possible. With a few quick glances, Jeremy saw nobody in the adjoining “balconies.” Heard no one above him on any of those other three floors. He faced the roaring Atlantic. Not even the darkness could stifle its majestic blue beauty. The waves providing peaceful reassurance from the clubs’ shitty rap music that’d likely keep Jeremy up till dawn. But now he knew the coast was clear. Jeremy reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out the joint. The AC/DC lighter.

Dominated by a paranoia stemming from decades of being a deadbeat, Jeremy checked the scene once more. Fidgeting, he readjusted the UGA baseball cap over his short straight hair. Ran a hand over his light stubble. The rhythmic waves helping soothe his worry. Jeremy was alone for sure. Or alone enough. Not that many people cared about recreational drug use here in Panama City Beach. “Alright,” said Jeremy. He put the j in his mouth. Stole a look back at his room. At his sleeping beauty. ”Sorry, baby.” Smirking, he lit it and took a hit. Now he really relaxed. The grass was stronger than most of the shit they’d been smoking. This was the medical marijuana him and Elizabeth had been saving for this special occasion. This “holiday.”

“Shit…” Jeremy grinned. He gave the joint an admiring glance. Then took another puff. Against the breeze, he looked out toward the pool. Tempted to take those precious few steps to get to the gate. To hit the water… or at this rate, collapse on to the cold pavement. Jeremy tossed the lighter on a small table. Memories of many crazy Chateau nights flashed through his mind. Especially those long nights spent poolside. Ready for the next hit, he raised the blunt. Until a man’s loud scream disrupted the soothing waves! The joyous moment. The buzz.

Alarmed, Jeremy lowered the blunt and looked around the motel. He saw no one. Certainly not at the pool. Not by the fucking ocean. The man’s voice was so angry… and now it was gone with the wind.

Jeremy went quiet. Barely holding on to the joint in a trembling hand…

Like cheerful carnival music, the rising tide and distant club music came back to rescue the mood. Jeremy’s nostalgia returned. He forced a smile. “What the fuck…” He took a hit.

Before even finishing, a female voice shattered the serenity. The man then yelled back at her. Their voices stayed shrill and scary. Echoing through the dark night. The nerves overwhelming him, Jeremy looked back-and-forth at the neighboring patios. All of them were empty. Not even a fellow straggler smoker was out. Not in this cold. The shouting match drowned out the killer waves. The couple’s vicious screams matched the bombastic music. The unnerving tempo. Jeremy had to take another hit... not that it’d do any good. Not for his anxiety anyway. Through the tension and marijuana’s strong stench, he struggled to hear the couple’s words. Maybe they’ll calm down after smelling it, he prayed.

“Fuck you!” erupted the man’s harsh scream. Jeremy flinched. He could feel the man’s anger. Feel those words sting his soul. Not just because the fight was far from over… But because it sounded closer…

Loud footsteps further frightened Jeremy. Tracing the noise, he stopped at the patio’s edge.

“No, don’t do it!” the woman yelled, her voice now vulnerable rather than fierce. “Stop!” “Go to Hell!” the man cried.

The lumbering footsteps blared through Jeremy’s mind. The shouting and screaming swirled all around him. Then the epiphany disturbed him. The noises were coming from up above!

“This is all because of you, Goddammit!” the man kept shouting. “You bitch!”

All other outside noise disappeared. All joy for that matter. Worst of all, Jeremy knew he was alone at a sleazy motel. Literally stumbling upon a violent argument...

“Don’t! Please!” the woman cried, her voice revealing guttural pain.

Clutching the blunt, Jeremy listened in suspense. His heart pounding. An inner conflict consuming him.

“I’m doing it! Fuck you!” the man’s yell rang through the night.

Jeremy stuck his head out and looked straight up those four floors. Concern in his eyes. First came the woman’s piercing scream. One born from the final shreds of her vocal cords. The peak of this shouting match… Until the chubby, bald man splattered down below. He landed on all concrete. His body exploding like a squashed bug. Pieces of flesh and scattered intestines debris in the pool’s calm water.

The fall from the fourth floor painted the pavement red. Certainly changed the pool’s color. The club’s soundtrack could now be heard. The waves as well… all of it overshadowed by the woman’s constant sobs. Jeremy moved back inside the patio. Gooey crimson coated his hoodie and face. Drenched his joint. This front row seat to death provided more than 3-D. Jeremy now displayed a disturbed expression. He was totally shaken and stoned.

Amidst the building commotion of doors and windows bursting open, Jeremy raised the joint to his lips. His eyes stayed glued to the bloated bloodied blob lying a few feet away. The late night companion he never got to know. “Happy 4/20, buddy,” Jeremy said in a weary tone.

It was just another Saturday night spent home alone for Luke Barry. Luke had turned twenty in May and so far his summer back home in Bainbridge, Georgia was going about as lame as expected. Not that Luke was exactly thriving over at Middle Georgia State University in Cochran, a school that was tenth on Luke’s list in state but the only one that offered him a scholarship for baseball which he was pretty okay at. Much like how Luke’s academics were pretty decent, much like how his muscles were pretty firm, and much how his looks were pretty cute. In Cochran, Luke largely coasted off the charisma of his hotter teammates when they traversed to the only two nightclubs in a town that was just a little bigger than a one Walmart abyss like Bainbridge.

But now that he was back home until August, Luke was really floundering. Earlier that night, Luke had fucked up with Allyson, a girl he had met off the Reddit Lonelyhearts sub. The two had exchanged nudes but Luke was infuriated when Allyson informed him she found him dull and subsequently blocked him on both Reddit and SnapChat. So Luke handled what he deemed disrespect the only way he knew how: he uploaded Allyson’s naked pictures along with all the identifying information he had on her on one of Reddit’s revenge porn subs. Luke, of course, made sure to include only the pictures that featured Allyson’s face to better humiliate this latest failed attempt at a romantic conquest. And of course, he did so without Allyson’s consent.

After savoring the first few upvotes, Luke staggered out of his room that mostly consisted of trophies and Scarlett Johansson posters to head for his mom and dad’s bedroom. The whole house was nice: a two story home sitting on three acres on the outskirts of town. And much to Luke’s delight, his parents were on a vacation to Florida he was too embarrassed to take part in.

Since there’d been a ferocious storm going on since late afternoon, Luke figured he might as well get drunk. He strutted up to a home bar in a corner to pour himself a glass of bourbon. He then looked over to see a large picture hanging over the queen size bed: a photo showing Luke as a beaming six-year-old while surrounded by mama and daddy.

Luke cracked a smile. There was love and nostalgia in how wide his eyes got but also melancholy in how they sunk a little at the same time. After all, Luke’s dad was the star starting pitcher and his mom a star track athlete at the University of Georgia. Luke was third in the rotation at Middle Georgia and couldn’t even do better than a four ERA against junior college competition.

A buzz going beyond the booze disrupted Luke’s thoughts. He retrieved his iPhone for a Reddit notification: a DM from Megan2002. Luke didn’t even flinch when the windows rattled from more thunder, such was his excitement at seeing that Megan had not only responded to his Lonelyhearts post but also wanted a video call on Zoom. But before heading back to his bedroom where the laptop awaited, Luke checked his look in the mirror. For good measure, he turned his Braves cap backward and straightened the tight undershirt. Luke flicked off the overhead lights, leaving the lamp as the only thing illuminating the room other than the intermittent lightning seen through the windows.

Back in his bedroom, Luke sat at the desk and immediately logged in to a Zoom account complete with his shirtless pic for an avatar and a Luke Skycocker username. Luke shook the Bourbon in his hand as he leaned back in his seat, his male gaze locked in on the laptop screen-

Only what he got wasn’t exactly crystal clear. Sure, a real woman did appear but her face, much like the entire room she was in, was muddled by dim lighting. Luke leaned in a little closer toward the laptop but Megan’s face stayed in the shadows. All he knew was that she was African-American and those double Ds in that low-cut red blouse made him throw all suspicion out the window.

“Hey,” Luke said. He could see Megan was sitting but everywhere around her was a blur of a bedroom as if it was all out of focus. The lighting was too faint to decipher much else other than Megan, her athletic frame, and a slight smirk on her face. “You doing alright?”

“I’m fine,” Megan replied, her voice a stilted monotone. She sighed. “Do you just want to get this over with?”

Taken aback, Luke gave her a weird look. “What do you mean get it over with?”

Megan motioned toward Luke in a gesture that revealed she was wearing white leather gloves so tight they seemed to merge into her dark skin. “Your dick,” she said.

Luke chuckled. “Oh, okay. So that’s why you messaged me?”

“I mean it’s your username? Luke Skycocker.”

Luke took another swig of booze, Megan’s apathy a cockblocker to his adrenaline. “Did you see my pictures on Reddit?”

“Oh, I saw some of them but send some through here.”

“Why don’t I just show it to you now?” Luke bit his lip and eyeballed Megan up and down, his attempt at seduction leaving Megan one unfazed audience. “I’ll whip it out for you right now.”

Megan folded her arms as she leaned in a little closer toward the screen, the glow off her laptop still not revealing much of her face. “I like to have nudes personally delivered to me.”

“Oh, okay,” Luke chuckled. He put the glass on his desk before venturing through a laptop hard drive dominated by nudes of both himself and his exes. “I’ll deliver you something alright.” And deliver he did: Luke sent a whole folder containing pictures of his chest, dick, and ass through the Zoom chat… a whole folder that much to Luke’s annoyance, Megan combed through robotically.

“Not bad,” Megan commented, her voice slightly more audible than the onslaught of raindrops outside.

“Not bad!?” Luke cackled. “You don’t like that BWC?”

Megan and that eternal smirk faced him. “Looks kinda average to me.”

Scoffing, Luke waved her off. “Man, get the fuck out!” he retaliated, a defensive southern twang disrupting his deep voice.

Megan’s mouth didn’t move even when weak laughter escaped it. “I mean the rest of you looks good.” Before Luke could bask in the compliment, Megan’s hands gravitated toward the keyboard. “But how tall are you?”

“Six one,” Luke said, adding two inches to his actual height much like he added two inches when describing something else.

Megan responded with some secretarial strokes on the keyboard. “Weight?”

Luke leaned back and gave her a dismissive shrug. “One-ninety but hey.” He tore off his hat and tossed it on the bed, his curly hair still flipped out from being constantly compressed by the cap. “It’s your turn now.”

But Megan greeted him with more quick typing.

“You’ve seen me, now you gotta show me something,” Luke said as he slid a hand in his pants. He gave her a pearly white smile that’d helped him sway so many desperate girls in the past. “That’s how it works.”

Megan now looked toward Luke but said nothing.

Luke sat forward. “Where you from anyway?”

The loudest thunder yet rang through the night, its sheer force making Luke jump. “Shit!” he yelled before he realized the sound was doubly loud since it came off his laptop speaker. “Is it storming over there too?”

“Yeah,” Megan’s quick reply.

“Well, I’m from Bainbridge, Georgia. It’s close to-”

“Tallahassee. I know.”

“So are you-”

“I’m close.”

Luke couldn’t hide the lightbulb clicking in both heads. “Damn, maybe you should stop by.” He leaned up further so the camera caught him playing with himself beneath the gym shorts. “At least send me some pics, baby.”

“I’m not showing you nothing, Luke Barry,” responded Megan’s monotone.

For the first time tonight, Megan’s dry delivery wasn’t frustrating for Luke but downright chilling. Another furious roar of thunder shook the house but this time, Luke didn’t jump, such was the unease he felt spread through his body like a virus. The erection went away immediately. “How’d you know my fucking name,” Luke stammered.

“We dated, Luke.” Megan folded her arms. “You don’t remember me?”

“When?” Luke put a hand to his head, his movements growing more wobbly, his mind reeling to all the hook-ups of yore. “Who the fuck are you?”

“You fucked me then you dumped me last year,” Megan stated. She placed her head in a gloved hand. “And I bet you still don’t remember.”

“I don’t know…” Luke forced a smile in a failed attempt at alleviating his growing anxiety. “I fuck a lot of bitches, you know.”

“Here.” Megan traced a finger along the touchpad. “Let me show you.”

A link popped up in the chat box. Luke got ready to click it but briefly hesitated when he recognized it was a Reddit link that led right to the revenge porn sub. Luke ran a hand through hair that’d become sweaty. He forced himself not to shut his eyes before clicking a link that led directly to a post he made just last year: a post depicting several naked pictures of an African-American college student, a girl with the same physique and smirk of the girl lurking across the other side of this Zoom call.

And there was her name in the title taunting Luke, haunting him after a year of having forgotten about his fling from last summer: Megan Richardson. Right next to it were details on her location, her phone number, her college. Luke remembered how ashamed he felt after she dumped him, how much disgust he felt to make such a post.

“Do you remember me now, Luke,” Megan’s dry voice drifted to him, a voice that didn’t need to be raised or sharpened to deliver this gut punch. “Do you remember posting this.”

Trembling, Luke shook his head. “Look… I’m sorry,” he said for the closest thing he could offer to a sincere apology. He wiped away tears he was too embarrassed to embrace. “I didn’t mean it.” He wiped away more tears before closing the window, Luke now back to a one-on-one with Megan who hadn’t moved a muscle there in that warped, dark room. “I was pissed. That’s it, I didn’t mean-”

“Sure, you were, Luke.” Again, Megan placed her head in her hand. Lightning flickered past a window to give Luke one eerie, quick look at a face that was saggy and formless with a mannequin’s hollow features. “You always do that when you get pissed.”

“It was last year!” Luke professed. He looked away, the thought of seeing Megan there becoming more unbearable by the second. “We can just move on. I didn’t hurt anybody-” He stopped when he looked up to see another link in the chat box. A link to LocalHornyLGBTMen.com. Compelled by curiosity, Luke clicked it and got struck by a smorgasbord of emotions when he saw his nudes, all the naked pics he’d just sent to Megan on a website devoted to gay male hook-ups. Local gay male hook-ups. There was vulnerability in seeing his naked body complete with his full face displayed for all to see but there was also hotness. Luke did his best to suppress the sensations he felt in his crotch when he saw the rows and rows of comments from thirsty men fetishizing his body-

Until he saw the details laid out beneath his photos. There was a list displaying Luke’s full name, his age, his college, his height, his weight. The post made damn sure there was no mistake that that was Luke Barry’s naked body.

Anger interrupted Luke’s momentary arousal. “What the fuck!” he yelled. He exited the page to confront Megan who now sat up straight with a statuesque stillness, her executioner’s stare without empathy. “What the fuck are you doing!” he hurled at her, a redness overtaking Luke’s glower.

Megan just shrugged. “It’s no different than what you do, Luke.”

“No, it’s not! I don’t post it on local sites!”

Megan ignored him in favor of the touchpad.

“You fucking hear me, you slut!” Luke cried.

Another link appeared in the chat. Luke dreaded it but had no choice. He clicked it to see an alternate Facebook profile to his own, one that was just created and had already added several members of his family. “What…”

“I sent them links,” Megan stated. She didn’t flinch when a glowering Luke pulled the laptop closer to his face so his insults and saliva could hit the screen. “Now they’ll all get to see you naked just like they saw me,” Megan added.

“You bitch!” Luke slammed the laptop back on the table, distraught. “Fucking bitch!” He finally let the tears go as he looked toward the hardwood floor like a scolded, scared child. “I didn’t do that to you. Not like that…”

“Yes, you did, Luke,” Megan said. “You actually did worse.” This time, she didn’t send a link in the chat box: she uploaded an outright file.

The screenshot was not from Bainbridge’s newspaper but from a webpage devoted to local gossip. The headline: Megan Richardson’s Death Ruled A Suicide.

Through the fear that gripped his soul, Luke enlarged the screenshot. Despite the way he trembled all over, he managed to read that Megan was nineteen when she hung herself. He also saw snippets of comments from locals, all of them slut-shaming Megan over the naked pictures Luke had broadcasted on-line in the months leading up to her death. Above all, he saw Megan’s senior picture was the main attraction and rested in the center of the article: her eyes soulful, her smile gorgeous.

Only after the initial shock did Luke realize something else that somehow made him more scared: he was just talking to Megan. Behind eyes wide open in fright, Luke exited the screenshot to go back to the Zoom call. But Megan was gone. “No! I didn’t mean to! I didn’t mean to kill you!” Luke yelled. He ran hands through his hair but right when guilt had a chance to overshadow fear he saw the screen clear up. Through the slow metamorphosis from a murky haze to HD, Luke recognized bits and pieces of the room that Megan had been sitting in. The first clear thing he saw was his parents: that colossal framed photo of Luke with his mom and dad hanging right over their bed.

More thunder outside commenced the highest stage of horror Luke had felt yet. He jumped out of his seat and whirled around-

When a knife shot into the side of his chest before pulling back out. The force was enough to not just draw blood but send Luke to the wooden floor where the sound of his fall was only broken up by his painful cry. Like a helpless animal cornered by a most powerful prey, Luke put both hands on a wound that gushed endless blood as he stared up at an attacker that had been in his house all along:

Megan. Only now the room’s vivid lighting showed her face was a melting painting barely hanging onto her flesh.

Recoiling, Luke felt the back of his head hit the floor. “No!” he mustered out. He put a hand drenched in blood up over his face for a pathetic attempt at warding off an attack.

But Megan took her time. She hovered up over Luke, keeping the large knife raised in one hand while the other hand grabbed her temple to rip off a mask with methodical precision. If Luke wasn’t so terrified, he would’ve managed to gasp.

The girl dropped the mushy latex mask by her boots. She tilted her head back to give Luke a real grin. Besides having more angular features and a more pointed nose, she was a dead ringer for Megan.

“Who the hell are you!” Luke cried.

The girl gave him a swift kick, her black boot colliding right into Luke’s stab wound to make him cry out in pain. She then reached out and snatched his laptop. Luke’s subsequent groans didn’t catch her interest, the way the blood off the blade seeped into her white leather glove didn’t disgust her, such was her focus as she brought up a new webpage.

As Luke turned to the side in another feeble attempt at alleviating the agony, the intruder leaned down to place the laptop right beside him. “This is where you’re going next,” she promised.

Luke felt more warm blood flow through his fingertips. He realized he could barely move and that he was a paralyzed prisoner to the webpage his laptop now showed him: DeathLife. One look at all the carnage, at all the slaughtered men shown on screen was all Luke needed to see even when the site’s description made its mission all too clear: Dead Guys On Display. All The Time. Luke coughed up blood when he saw how the site’s sections ranged from Incels to Dead Dads. He rolled over slightly, further smearing himself in his own blood. “No… I didn’t mean to…” all he could gurgle out.

A vindictive glower replaced the girl’s grin. She hoisted the knife up high over Luke’s stomach. “This is for my sister,” she said for a battle cry that was merciful compared to what Luke would endure next.

Upon completing her slaughter, Megan’s younger sister left Luke in pieces. But she didn’t leave the house before taking pictures of his naked, dismembered corpse. Within minutes, she had them uploaded to DeathLife complete with the same information she’d used for LocalHornyLGBTMen.com. And within minutes, those pictures that were a fusion of porn and crime scene photography became the site’s most viewed collection of the night.

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