When You’re Alone - Jonah Koenigseker

Karen was gone. She had been gone for three weeks now and I didn’t know what to do with myself. Due to the season, friends and family called to wish me happy holidays and inquire about how I was doing being that it was the first Christmas without Karen. The calls were appreciated, but invariably the well-wisher would quickly be escorted off by whiny, over caffeinated children or a demanding wife to perform some tired annual ritual. During the lulls between calls, I began to feel an intense tinge of loneliness. Christmas had always been a time of cheerful gatherings and exciting festivities for me. Now I was living hundreds of miles away, on the outskirts of Detroit, and while their well wishes were somewhat comforting, I was still alone.

Following an adjustment phase, I made the decision to cure the emotional and mental paralysis ailing me. The first few days of the next week I immersed myself in repetitive, tedious work, something to occupy my muscles and mind. Cleaning. Folding clothes. Going through and organizing the boxes in storage, something Karen always nagged me about doing. I missed her, even the sometimes incessant nagging.

By Thursday afternoon I completed the household chores, crossing the final one off the list I had created to track my progress and throwing the crumpled piece of paper in the trash. There was nothing remotely watchable on television, especially now that I had cut back, canceled the satellite dish and resorted to basic cable. I still had time off from work, though, and I needed something to occupy my time. I checked my work e-mail, but my mailbox was empty. Even work would be a pleasant reprieve from the solitude I was experiencing. In search of something to do, I walked into the kitchen and noticed the cupboards were beginning to look bare, so I decided to make a trip to the supermarket the next morning. A trip I use to take with Karen.

The next morning I spent nearly two hours at the market deciding I would stock the fridge and cupboards just in case a blizzard trapped me inside the cramped one bedroom apartment. Before my selection of products had been based solely on the product’s price, but this morning I made a point to review the health facts, dragging my index finger across the information printed on the boxes and cans. Calories per serving, vitamin A, sodium, I examined it all meticulously. Karen had been worried about my health.

When I arrived home I unloaded the car full of groceries. My muscles strained and it felt good in a pleasantly sadistic way. Endorphins shot up my neck and towards the receptive neurons and the human opiate reminded me to take a trip to the pharmacy the next time I was out. My hands ached, still tender from the accident and I needed something more sustainable to numb the pain.

Again, I checked my work e-mail and again there was nothing unless I was counting the few generic holiday messages, probably copied and pasted from the previous year’s greeting and sent out in a blanket e-mail. All the groceries were put away, the cupboards now overflowing with unnecessary non-perishables. I ate lunch later than usual on account of the grocery trip and was content to know it would shorten the rest of my day. While at college my mother had given me a cookbook, something to keep me from relying on burgers and tacos. I prepared a new recipe that took me about an hour and a half. Not long after I was once again looking desperately for something to cure my boredom. The afternoon’s lineup of shows were the usual; reruns of decades old sitcoms, talk shows and a racial assortment of judges. Around three I began staring lazily at an infomercial and fell asleep, but woke up forty minutes later more tired than before. That night I remained awake. I couldn’t sleep right, now that Karen was gone. I could still smell the aroma of the body lotion she used before laying down to bed. The glow from the moon displayed the still visible contours of her body on the face of the mattress. At four in the morning, I moved to the couch and was able to grab less than two hours of undisturbed sleep before the alarm rudely made its announcement.

The weekend was a monotonous two and half days of torture. My nocturnal habits had been knocked off course like a barreling train being released from its trusty steel rails. Of course, my sleep hadn’t been the same since Karen was gone. Progressively it was worsening and outside regular visits to the pharmacy, I was finding it hard to cope.

On Tuesday afternoon, I realized I needed to get out of the apartment, so I showered, shaved and searched for anywhere where I could spend idle time walking and people watching. When I had gone to the supermarket I had felt as if a weight had been lifted. For a moment, I imagined the dulling pain from my reclusiveness being absorbed by unsuspecting bystanders in doses too minute to make any considerable difference to them. It was only three by the time I had exhausted the mall, hardware store and a used book store. Earlier, I had been so immersed in a new Bentley Little novel that I skipped lunch entirely. Dinner wasn’t for another few hours, but I decided it best to eat now. Despite the other day’s forage, I decided to eat out. The company of others had either boosted my spirits or digested a share of my pain. Regardless, Karen was gone and I would have to save money, so I ended up resorting to fast-food and promised myself I would start eating healthier tomorrow. Slowly, I drove to the far side of town hoping the round trip would consume more time. Someone behind me laid on their horn. I waved back enthusiastically with a one finger greeting.

The dinner rush hadn’t yet begun, so I took my time ordering, scanning the overhead menu and quizzing the attendant behind the counter on each item. The young woman was young and attractive. A pair of large almond shaped brown eyes and plump pinkish lips set in a cream colored face. Her brunette mane was tucked tightly in the corporate hat she was obligated to wear. A pony-tail protruded from the opening in the back. It was when she smiled that I saw Karen’s face. A face of ten years ago before she was gone. Despite, her best efforts, I ended up ordering something off the dollar menu anyway. When I reached for the bag, my hand brushed against hers slightly and it was soft and supple. Soft and supple, like Karen’s hands. She giggled embarrassingly and her cheeks flushed in tones of crimson.

Upon arriving home, the contentment from earlier in the day was beginning to wear off. I tossed the keys into a basket by the door, hung up my coat and checked the answering machine where the bold, red numbers looked back unblinking. I checked my cell phone’s voicemail. Nothing. Once I was done with the sack of food, I was back to where I had been before. No, it was worse. The deep contrast of the satisfaction I felt before with the mind numbingly dullness of my life here in the apartment made me slip into a deeper depression. I checked out a social network site Karen had insisted I visit.

Something she had insisted on before she was gone.

I located some old high school friends and a couple of college buddies. I sent them all messages and my spirits were lifted to a small degree. It would have made Karen proud.

It was Friday evening when it dawned on me that I spent nearly forty-eight hours without speaking to another human soul. I checked my account online, no one had made me their friend. Maybe they were out. Maybe I should call them. But what would I say? I had lost touch long ago. I could call Evan, the guy from work that I talked to on break. He wasn’t a friend, really an acquaintance, but then again he knew I was new in town. Karen would have wanted me to call.

Evan answered. He was busy. Screw him anyway.

Karen had warned me about this. Warned me that I wasn’t friendly enough. Too cold and distant. She pleaded that I do more, make some friends, join some type of sports team. I promised I would, but never did. And here I was in a new town, away from family, friendless and without Karen.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I drank milk. I did some push ups. I even took some of the green and white pills for my hands, which made me drowsy, but nothing more than that. The television was on at all times now, a voice, a soothing human voice in the background. I popped some popcorn, opened a beer and switched it to ESPN and listened to the sportscasters carry on with some pointless drivel. Waiting for them to say something stupid, I’d yell at the screen and chuck popcorn at the two dimensional figures. It was my first semi-human interaction in more than two days. Someone from the apartment below hit the floor with a blunt object. I yelled back and they returned the verbal assault with something unintelligible. Perhaps tomorrow I would leave them a treat, maybe a broken back window or slashed tires.

The next day I decided to return to the fast-food restaurant and order from the young woman who resembled Karen. I saw her behind the counter and as I approached the register I waited. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Hi,” I replied. “I was here the other day, remember? You helped me with my order.”

She looked back with eyes wide and hands falling to a defensive position, an automatic reaction when being confronted by a potential stalker or just general creep. “I’m sorry sir. I don’t remember. Can I take your order?”

How could she not remember? She had smiled at me. “You helped me order. Two double cheeseburgers and a fry,” I looked for a reflection of recognition. “Then our hands touched.”

“Just a moment, sir. I need to talk to my manager.”

“No you don’t!” I yelled as she escaped to the back. “I was here the other day and you took my order! Stupid-”

“Listen, buddy,” A burly man behind me stepped to my side poised to leap on me if necessary. “Maybe you should go somewhere else.” The man was twice my size with facial scars that just begged ‘take the first swing.’ In spite of my anger, reason prevailed.

Once in the car my disdain for the woman for failing to recall the other day was still palpable, but the anger I had felt dissipated. Though my head was clearer, the hands that gripped the steering wheel throbbed with pain.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the acne encrusted face repeated. “Your prescription is no longer good.”

“Listen,” I moved in closely and pulled out a fifty visible to him and no one else. “I really need those pills.”

“I understand, sir, but I can’t give you anything without a prescription.”

“How much is your student loan payment this month?

“Sir, I’d love to help you out, but really I could lose my job over this.”

I leaned in closer eyeing the blue checkered tie around his neck. A noise, something falling from a back shelf was all I needed. He jerked towards me, gagging at first.

“What the-!” he shouted before the words were cut off again.

In the back, a middle aged woman with cheaply dyed hair caught a glimpse of what was transpiring at the front counter and came running. “Let go of him!”

Hours later, I was exhausted from driving around and decided to make my way back to the apartment. I first scouted out the complex for any flashing lights before parking in a discreet lot towards the back.

Nothing about either of the incidences was covered by the local news. To temper the pain in my hands I popped several Advil tablets in my mouth. Since the accident I had become resistant to most pain relievers, so I felt nothing. What would Karen have thought about me if she had been here? Would she be understanding? Or would she have been terrified?

For the rest of the week I laid low hoping to avoid attention. I kept the blinds shut and constantly made sure the doors were locked, checking it over and over like someone with an obsessive compulsive disorder. In reality, I didn’t have anything to do. Television had somehow worsened and I never was much of a reader. Still, I needed something to entertain myself. On account of the pain in my hands, I couldn’t work out. Having a dog would have provided some comfort, but Karen had been allergic. Even if I were to get one, there was no room for one in the apartment.

At two-thirty I waited anxiously in my car outside the mailboxes for some interesting correspondence. The mailman was fifteen minutes late, but when he arrived he showed no signs of urgency. My impatience swelled with each minute he wasted. Finally, he had finished, and I unlocked the tiny door and grabbed the pile of envelopes inside. Bills. Junk mail. A magazine Karen had ordered before she was gone. I was about done when I flipped over a plain envelope. It was from the DMV. I needed new tags. At last something to do.

By noon I was in line, having forgotten to grab lunch. I was the only one with a silly grin on his face. In front of me a girl, not yet school age, whined to her mother and it reminded me of my sister when she was younger. Behind me I could smell a waft of perfume and the feminine fragrance was comforting, especially since Karen had been gone.

Someone placed a hand on my shoulders. “Excuse me. Is this the line for renewing tags” a woman about my own age asked. I assured her it was.

The touch of another human felt – shocking. It was the first time I had been touched since my first visit to the fast-food restaurant. It took an hour before I was attended to, but I didn’t mind. I was glad to be in the company of others, even if they were strangers

When I was called, I approached the counter and received the normal apathetic, condescending so-called welcome expected of a government bureaucratic. But I had done more than simply be the next person. Apparently, I had made the huge mistake of not having filled out forms X, Y and Z.

Not allowing the woman to damper my mood, I read the instructions of each form carefully and filled out all the information. When I was done I returned to the side of the counter.

She noticed me in her periphery, turned and unprovoked let loose. “Just a minute, sir! Can’t you see I am helping someone at the present moment?”

She breached the boundaries of her authority. And as we argued and shouted and came within inches of blows I wondered who this woman thought she was. What gave her the reason to believe she had some right to berate others in public as if they were misbehaving children? Soon after it all began, she yelled for security and I escorted myself out.

But I wasn’t finished with this woman. I could have reported her to her superior, but I knew how the government unions work and at the most she would have a minor blemish on a report that neither affected her pay nor her status. At these moments, Karen would have curbed my anger, touched my arm and whispered softly, easing the ebb and flow of adrenaline through my veins. But Karen was gone.

The following day I trailed the woman from the DMV’s parking lot to her residence. She drove an average car, never exceeding the speed limit. She lived in an average house in an average neighborhood. I was sure if I was to knock on the door there would be a husband and two kids.

Average. Except for her notorious rudeness, the woman was to the outside world, insignificant.

When I arrived home I plugged her license plate into a work database.

Her name. Ellen Thomas. Average.

I wondered if anyone would know what I was about to do. Would anyone even notice me? I was alone and seemingly invisible to the outside world. Only when I ordered something, took out my money and paid for something did anyone seem to notice. Of course, I wasn’t even sure yet. I had a motive and time. I’d have to let the rest run its course naturally. I was far from home and no one would have noticed me, except for Karen, but she was gone.

Insomnia struck again, but this night I was hard at work. I devised a plan, revised it and then ran it through my head more times than probably necessary. I figured the early morning would the best time to strike, but the urge nipped at my conscious. If it was going to happen, it would be tonight.

I found a plain black duffel bag and methodically placed an array of instruments I thought may be of use. By the time I was packed, showered and dressed, it was still too early, so I sat in an old stuffed chair Karen had wanted me to throw out. I sat far from the television, staring at the door. My leg involuntarily shook as I waited for the moment. Time slowed, but there was no rush. The time had to be right.

As I replayed the scene from the previous day, my anger multiplied and any apprehension that may have existed quickly disappeared. She had been curt and heartless, using her position beyond its scope. And I had a feeling this wasn’t the first time. Oh no. It wasn’t an outburst, an understandable error in judgment. This was who she was.

My heart began beating faster as time crawled by. I looked down at my watch. Only ten more minutes and I would be on my way, disguised and unnoticed.

Suddenly, below the apartment I could hear a noise. Then another. It sounded like footsteps on the stairs. Could the cops have finally come for me?

The footsteps continued until they stopped somewhere on my level. Now the cement floor absorbed most of the noise. Carefully, I placed the duffel bag on the ground in front of me and with the back of my feet slide it under the chair, hidden, but within reach.

There were more footsteps, each one growing in intensity. Finally, outside the door they stopped. A rustling of keys preceded a probing of the keyhole. The handle moved.

Slowly it began to turn, the internal mechanics weeping from the lack of lubrication.

And then it swung open.

It was Karen, smiling, “Hi, honey. Did you miss me?”

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Say Goodbye - C.J. Miozzi

Dan scrambled to his feet. Disoriented from the fall, the teenager reached out into the darkness and touched the cold, stone tombstone he had tripped over. His heart raced -- his pulse throbbed in his temples.

"Mark," he whispered. "Mark. Where the hell are you?"

Dan spun about in the dim light of the crescent moon. Amidst the shadows, he spotted a small patch of grass illuminated by Mark's flashlight. The stocky teen kept low to the ground as he rushed over to the light. He looked around nervously, but couldn't perceive any movement in the large cemetery.

When he reached the flashlight, Dan saw Mark's prone form sprawled out on the grass beside it.

"Dude, come on, we got to get out of here." Dan nudged his friend with his foot. "That guard was right behind us. He can come around any minute."

Light fell upon the tombstones mere feet away from the two friends.

Dan dove into a mound of earth behind a tombstone.

The light scanned the area. "You punks aren't getting away this time," spoke the gruff voice of the night guard. "You're going straight to juvie, and your folks are going to pay for all those tombstones you kicked over." Footsteps shuffled closer through the grass.

Dan held his breath and squeezed his eyelids shut. Don't come this way, don't come this way, he pleaded in his mind.

The footsteps receded from earshot.

The teen mentally counted sixty seconds before letting out a deep breath. He rose to his feet and tried to brush moist soil off his new Philadelphia Eagles football jersey.

After ensuring the guard was nowhere in sight, Dan turned back to Mark, who still lay on the ground. As he squatted beside his friend, Dan held a finger near Mark's nostrils, and felt warm air pulse out.

Dammit, he thought. What if he's in a coma, or something?

The teen reached into his pocket and closed his hand on his cell phone. He took a deep breath as he formulated his plan. He'd call 911 and ask them to send an ambulance. He'd set his cell to play through his music tracks, and leave the cell with Mark, so that the paramedics could just head toward the source of the music. Then, he'd hop the fence out of the cemetery before anyone caught sight of him.

Dan pulled out his phone and flipped it open. The cell's light colored his green jersey in an eerie blue. A message popped up on the screen: "No reception."

"Having difficulty calling for help?"

Dan spun around with a start.

A tall, lanky man stood beside him.

Dan staggered back and shone the blue light in the man's gaunt face. "Dude, what the hell?" He passed the light over the man's body to ensure he wasn't wearing a guard uniform. "You scared the hell out of me. You don't… you can't just sneak up on people like that, man!"

The man's hawk-like face spread into a wide smile. He stared down at Dan with his pale eyes, one blue, the other grey. A milky film clouded the grey eye.

Unsettled, Dan broke eye contact. "Look man, my friend here is hurt. Can you stay with him while I go get help?"

The man ran a pasty hand through his long, thinning hair. "My name is Mareus."

Dan paused at the unexpected answer. "Whatever, man. Just stay here with my friend, okay?" He glanced around, but there was still no sign of the guard.

"I can't do that, Daniel."

Mention of his name snapped Dan's attention back to the man. "How do you know my name?"

"I am the soul collector." The milky eye stares straight through Dan.

"What?" Dan said, incredulous. "Are you some kind of mental case?" He noted Mareus' worn vest, his patched-up pants, his veiny arms. He's a hobo druggy.

With a sigh, Dan reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. "You want money? Here." He grabbed a twenty dollar bill, and offered it. "It's all I got. Just please, stay with my friend, and don't tell anyone that I was here."

"I hold the key to the next world." Mareus opened his loose leather vest.

Dan recoiled at the sight of an antique key embedded in the man's skeletal chest. Blue veins snaked away from the key, visible beneath the waxy flesh. Green light poured out of a gem that protruded from the circular bow of the key. The light throbbed, and within the gem, Dan saw swirling clouds and flashes of ghastly faces.

"Dude, what is that?" Dan pointed a quavering finger at the key.

"Say goodbye to your friend, Daniel." Mareus loomed forward, dwarfing the stocky teen.

"What? No!" pleaded Dan. "He's not dead; we can still help him!"

"It's time." Mareus stepped forward.

"No, please, look, he's still breathing! Just let me get an ambulance. I'll stay here with him; I don't care if I get sent to juvie." Frantic, Dan waved his cell around. Why can't I get a signal? I'm outdoors, in the middle of the city!

"You cannot help him." Mareus extended a gangly arm and closed his knobby fingers around Dan's wrist.

The teen almost lost his grip on his cell as he trembled at Mareus' touch.

Mareus guided Dan's hand. He shone the cell's light by the tombstone that Dan had tripped on.

Dan's blood ran cold.

A stocky teenage boy wearing a green football jersey lay still on the ground, his head split on the tombstone.

"Say goodbye."

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The Couch Troll - Jeanna Tendean

The old man coughed and wheezed. His bones ached as he slowly climbed out of the flea-ridden, tattered bed. He hobbled into the living room, while holding his aching back. He moaned aloud, causing his dog, a shepherd-collie mix, to tweak his ears, but nothing more. “Ya lazy mutt.” The old man griped as he made his way to the beer and cigarette stained lazy boy. The wooden skeleton of the chair bulged through the trodden cotton, allowing the old man sturdy support as he eased down. He still couldn’t believe someone would throw out a good chair like this. Sure, it had its share of burns and a few stains, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d snag his pants or scratch himself on a few unruly wires or splinters snaking out, but other than that the chair was in great condition.

“Pansy wansys wantin’ somethin’ new every time they turn around,” he grumbled to no one in particular. “That’s why everyones’ in debt up to their frigholes,” he said, while glaring at the mutt. Besides food, utility bills, cigarettes, beer and soap, the old man hadn’t paid a cent for anything going on twenty years. That’s why he had a decent amount of cash hidden safely away underneath a particular floorboard in his bedroom. He had never entertained the idea of a bank account, for there was a price to pay when someone else counted your money. The old man lit a Boral cigarette and looked around admirably upon his second-hand furnished living room.

Everything that furnished his modest shack he’d found on the side of roads and at the city dump. And he prided himself at his ability to sniff out the best. He looked over at the newest couch. Loading that couch up in his truck had caused his back to sing soprano, but it was worth every note. It was the nicest piece he’d ever come across. No stains, no smells, no tears or cigarette burns: not even sagging cushions or upholstery. He couldn’t fathom why someone would just set it out at a Hannah home charity site. It was in the same condition as the couches down at Flannery’s Furniture, not that he’d ever bought one from that turd. But one day, he’d gone out for a stroll on the town’s square to look for dropped coins, and he stopped at the window and peered in at all the new couches. And he knew that sooner or later some of those couches would end up in his living room. And by the time they made their grand appearance in his home, the couches would be worth much more than what they were sitting in the swanky furniture store.

The old man stubbed out his cigarette and sat back in the groaning chair. He glanced at the couch again and chuckled, causing phlegm to lurch up his throat. He swallowed it down and chuckled harder. He has had his fair share of roadside couches, and half of his wealth he’d found inside them. Oh, the quarters, nickels and dimes lost by fools and more fools. He’d found dollar bills, five-dollar bills and one hundred dollars bills numerous times. He had even lucked up and found three diamond rings, a gold Rolex and a strand of genuine mother of pearls. Yes, over the years he’d found many riches inside the dark bowels of couches. He’d found pictures, and he kept those, too. He leaned up, reached under the coffee table and pulled out a 30 cal. ammo box he’d had since his stint in Vietnam, and positioned it between his legs. He gently unlatched the lock and looked inside. Smiling back at him was a snaggletooth grin from a child with a gapped up haircut, an elderly couple celebrating their 54th wedding anniversary, a wild punk-eyed teenager with blue hair and black nails, and there was even a lady with no legs, smoking a cigarette, perched on a bed. The old man wasn’t a thinker, wasn’t a philosopher, but he did, at times, question his motive for keeping the pictures of people he never knew, nor will. But when those complicated thoughts crossed his mind, he waved them away, just like a pesky fly.

He closed the steel box and pushed it back under the coffee table. The couch was beautiful, he thought and looked a little closer at the designs in the upholstery. With his head cocked in one direction, he saw Asian dragons blowing fire from their mouths, but when he looked from a different angle, all he saw were gold squiggly designs with a deep orange underlay. He didn’t know what fabric made up the upholstery. He’d never owned a couch so new, so expensive, but it felt like silk to the old man. And the couch had a smell, too. Not a bad one, rather musky and piney. Yes, he was lucky. The old man sat back, closed his eyes and laughed, because he knew, better than any moron, that he’d be a few coins richer in the morning…

The sun was up, but jaded by dark rain clouds. The old man sweated profusely after turning the couch, so the bottom faced outward. “Just like a woman positionin’ to give me her goods,” he said to the dog that snoozed on the floor and flicked an ear at the occasional flea. “Lazy mutt,” he said. “I don’t even know why I let your bag of bones stay around here.” The old man got onto his knees; they popped from the weight of his beer belly. He clicked his box cutter out as far as it would go. The old man had a set routine for this, having done this many times. He had learned that not all treasure was lost between and under the cushions. The good stuff fell deep down inside the dark bowels, because when people sat down, it widened the gap between the side and back walls of couches. He began to cut at one end and made a straight line to the other side of the under fabric. He dropped the box cutter on the floor and reached into the dark slit. He felt over thick metal coils and roughened pieces of wood, fingered the small nooks and crannies. As he neared the end, his heart sank. Nothing, nothing at all. “Sure as a dog’s got fleas, there’s gotta be somethin’ in here,” he said aloud. He frantically groped over every inch of the metal and wooden guts of the couch and finally struck pay dirt. It was round, a tad larger than a softball and smooth, but his fingers didn’t recognize its dynamics. He felt a hollow spot, and he prodded a finger into the round mystery, and slowly pulled it out into the clouded light of day.

It was a skull. A baby’s skull. He was sure of it. While in Vietnam, he’d seen many skulls, skulls from adults and babies, alike. It was toothless, with large round eye sockets. On top of the skull was a V-shape jagged slit where the baby’s skull had not fused together, yet. It didn’t have time. It looked alien to the old man. He dropped the skull on the hardwood floor, and it clanked, like porcelain smacking wood. He shook, while the hairs on his back and neck stood up. Its hollowed eyes gaped up at him. Fear surfed in his stomach. What should I do? The old man’s thoughts ran like a hamster on a wheel. If he called the police, they’d not only take the skull, but also the couch. They were a package deal. But he wanted the couch more than any other piece he’d found. It was a gem. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, uh huh, there’s no way on god’s green earth I’m giving this couch to a bunch of badge-totin’ Barney Fifes’,” the old man confirmed aloud. He picked up the baby’s skull and pushed up from the couch. He retrieved his box and locked the skull inside with the pictures. Not a picture box anymore, now it’s a steel coffin. The old man shivered at the unwanted thought. He maneuvered the couch right side up again and went to his chair, reclined back and thought about the skull. He wondered who the babe was and why someone would murder a newborn. He wasn’t a bleedin’ heart for no one, but hurting a baby crawled under his skin. It gave him the willies. He also felt a little guilty for not doing what he knew was right and moral; feelings he wasn’t accustomed to feeling. But the old man waved the complicated thoughts away, just like a pesky fly…

He had drifted off to sleep, but something roused him from a forgotten dream. He opened his eyes. Night had fallen, and the living room was dark. As he reached for the lamp switch, a voice sounded from the new couch.

“Don’t do that.” The voice was deep and melodic. The old man gasped and looked in the direction of the couch. The moonlight spilled in through a gap in the curtains, and he saw a silhouette sat on the couch. Panic seized the old man. “I’ll make this quick for the both of us. You’ve got something that belongs to me and I want it back – now.”

The old man reached further for the lamp switch but thought better of it, so he strained his eyes to see the stranger that rattled off a demand. “Who are you?”

“My name is Emos, and I want my skull back.”

The old man grabbed his chest and stuttered, “You’re -- you’re crazy, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ bout’.

“Sure you do, I watched you take it.” The old man was speechless. Fear shadowed his heart.

“Get outta my house,” the old man demanded. Emos laughed a husky laugh and said, “Give me the skull, and I’ll be more than willing to depart for my humble abode.”

“I ain’t got no skull, now get out of here.”

“The skull is mine, and you took it from my home,” the stranger hissed.

“I’ve never taken nothin’ from anybody’s house – I might be a lot of things, but one thing I ain’t is no thief. Everything I get, I get fair and square.” Though his vision had adjusted to the moonlight, darkness still swallowed the living room, and the old man couldn’t distinguish the features on the stranger’s face.

“The skull is in that steel box under your coffee table, is it not?” Emos asked. The old man’s heart beat harder, like eager hands on a bongo drum; he had been caught.

“What if it is? I didn’t steal it from your home. I found it in that there couch your sitting on.”

“Yes, I know, this couch is my home,” Emos explained.

The old man couldn’t believe his ears. “That couch is your home?”

“Yes, I live down inside the couch. I’m a couch troll.” It started deep down inside the old man’s stomach and slowly inched its way up into his chest and then into his throat. He couldn’t contain it any longer. He burst out laughing so hard he choked on his own phlegm. “That’s the craziest gobbledygook I’ve heard in my whole life. You need help, boy.” The old man laughed, wheezed, and then coughed again, until he thought he would croak. Relief swept over him. Somebody who thought of his self as a couch troll was nuttier than a tin-house rat. “Go on, boy, get outta here, I won’t tell a soul,” the old man chuckled. He grasped the lamp switch between his thumb and index finger, but let go when the stranger said, “There are couch trolls in many couches, and this is my couch.”

The old man rolled his eyes in the darkness and said, “Uh huh, if you live down in that couch, then I piss silver and shit gold. I mean, how could you fit? A human can’t survive inside a couch, for Christ sake,” the old man said and snickered.

“I’m not human. And when we trolls burrow down in a couch, the couch expands inside, and it expands for everything we snatch. And there is plenty of room. You humans think you lose your precious possessions down in couches, but you never lose them. We reach up and snatch them,” Emos explained. “In fact, the lady who had the couch before you always folded her laundry sitting right where I am now. She would leave it stacked up nice and neat, while she pulled lint from socks and went about putting it in the trash. And when she’d walk out of the room, I’d reach up and snatch what I wanted – a sock, underwear, tee-shirts. After a while, she realized she was losing her clothes in the couch, so she stopped laying her laundry here. In fact, she stopped laying everything on this couch after her baby went missing. Oh, I’ve snatched some wonderful things – you name it, I’ve snatched it. You know, when you ponder on it, you and me are a lot alike. We both troll for possessions that aren’t quite ours.”

The old man’s smile completely vanished, along with his relief, and fear replaced his amusement. This guy is nuts, a grade-A, number one fruit-friggin’ loop. “Listen to me,” the old man pleaded, “I have found a lot of couches in my day and have found some really nice stuff down inside – even money, but I have never seen hide nor hair of a couch troll. Why now, after all these years?” the old man asked, although he didn’t know why. He learned a long time ago that you couldn’t reason with insanity.

“Perhaps you’ve only acquired abandoned couches. We move, too. A couch doesn’t last forever, so we move on to another couch when ours start falling apart. Sometimes, we move for the simple fact we’re bored. And when we move we leave everything we’ve snatched behind. We don’t take anything with us. Good for you, huh?” Emos grinned. “When I do move on, I’ll be sure to leave the skull behind, and it’s yours for the snatching. But as you can see, I still reside inside, and the skull is mine. I consider myself a patient troll, but even I have my limit.”

Emos clasped his hands together and said through clenched teeth, “If you don’t give the skull back, I’ll snatch your skull.” Sweat popped out on the old man’s forehead and armpits. He’d seen many basket cases in Nam, but this guy took the cake and crammed it down his throat. He shouted the first thing that came to mind. “I’m gonna blow a hole between your friggin’ eyes! You got five seconds to get the hell outta my house, an--.” The old man felt a swarm of fluttering moths in his chest. Blood coursed hotly through his veins, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. The old man had never felt this way before; it terrified him. Was it a heart attack or a stroke? No, it wasn’t, he realized, after a few moments. It was panic. Minutes passed, while he desperately tried to calm himself. After his heartbeat slowed and his eardrums stopped banging, finally, he opened his eyes. He looked towards the couch and switched on the lamp. The stranger was gone. The old man looked at the front door; it was ajar. He clutched his chest, cautiously got up, and stumbled to the door. He walked out onto his front porch; his eyes scanned his front yard. He saw nothing, except a dense patch of fog draped lazily on the trees. All was quiet and still, except for a band of frogs crooning to the night. He closed and locked the door and looked at the mutt on the floor, who flicked its ear at the occasional flea. “A lot of good you do, ya son of bitch.” He retrieved the ammo box, slowly unlatched the lock and looked inside. The skull stared back at him with hollow eyes. “Couch troll, my ass,” the old man scoffed. But as much as the he hated to admit it, he was scared. How did that loon know the skull was in the box? He had to have been looking through the window, the old man reasoned with himself. Adrenaline conquered his panic, and he paced back and forth in the living room, staring at the steel box. He couldn’t keep the skull now, since that fruitcake had been spying on him. He’d take the skull to the police station and tell them he found it on the side of the road, because he still wanted the couch. He just didn’t want the skull in his possession now that he’d met Mr. Mentally Insane. So if he did come back, the old man could tell him the police had it, to go harass them. He lifted the skull from the ammo box, put it in a plastic bag and walked out into the quiet night towards his pick-up truck.

He was relieved to be back home; his eyes burned from exhaustion. After five hours of questioning, answering and lying, the old man wanted nothing more than to fall into a deep sleep. He looked around the living room, but didn’t see his dog. He whistled through his horse-sized false teeth, but the dog didn’t come. “Lazy mutt,” the old man grumbled. He glanced at the clock. 3:48 a.m. What a night. He’d never thought in all his seventy-two years of living that he would’ve experienced madness like this. Crazier than the Vietnam War. The old man thought and yawned. He sat down on the new couch and rubbed his callused hand over its silky upholstery. He decided to sleep there. But first, he retrieved his 45. from his bedroom, and then he reached behind the couch to close the curtains up tight, if by some chance the couch troll, no, window troll, more like it, decided to come back and peek in at him. Laughing, the old man stripped down to his underwear, lay down on the couch, and placed the gun on his chest. The soft fabric was cool against his weathered skin. It was more than comfortable: it was heaven. He felt like he was lying on a silken cloud. Man, what a find. Damn, if he wasn’t the luckiest son of a bitch, he didn’t know who was. As he rubbed his heavy eyes, a six-fingered claw with sharpened yellowed talons snaked up between the cushions of the couch and snatched the old man, twisting and screaming, down inside the darkness.

The workers loaded the couch onto the flatbed truck and climbed inside the cab. “That’s a nice couch.” “Yeah, it is. Ya want it? It’ll just sit at the dump if you don’t.” “Sure. Me and the ole’ lady’s been wanting a newer couch since the baby came along.” The workers stopped at the man’s house and hauled the couch into the living room. “Oh wow,” a lady, carrying a newborn baby, cried. “It’s the prettiest couch I’ve ever laid my eyes on.” “Glad you like it, sweetie, but I have to get back to work – got to finish cleaning out that ole’ man’s house.” They kissed goodbye, and the lady sat down on the new couch. She rubbed her hand over its soft upholstery. Was it dragon patterns, or just squiggly designs? She wasn’t sure. The microwave beeped from the kitchen, so she got up, and gently laid the baby on the couch. And the old man down inside looked at his lazy mutt, while rubbing his yellowed talon claws together, waiting for the perfect moment…

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Horror House - Richard McLaren

The problems started for Frankie Maegre on the fourteenth of December, 1994. It was a normal night, just before Christmas and all the neighbors were in good spirits. Christmas light adorned most of the houses on the estate, and Christmas songs were being merrily blasted out from many a passing car. Ice was laid thick on the road, and the bright glow of the many streetlights illuminated the whole road like a runway. Not that Frankie could see any of this. He never went outside, especially at Christmas.

A man and his dog walked past his house and garden. If the walker was puzzled by the closed windows and curtains, without any sign of life or seasonal cheer, he made no indication of it. But who would, after all, everyone knew Frankie Maegre, and most tended to stay away. He was a peaceful, yet quite man, and no one minded his quietness, nor did they seem it to be odd. He was just a lonely old man.

At seventy-something years old, Frankie was by far the oldest person on the estate, with the other residents tending to be young couples in their late twenties. As he sat there, watching the television behind his closed curtains, the grey of his fringe hung low over his face, and the wrinkles in his skin, already well defined, were already mapping out his look for the remainder of his life. He signed. Turned off the TV. Stood up, reached for his crutches. He had been in Vietnam, and his left leg had been so badly burned in a napalm attack that it had to be removed. He had used the same pair of crutches since he left Vietnam, all those years ago.

The dog stopped by his lawn ran round the back of his house, following the garden.. It began to dig; it needed to go to the toilet. Its owner yawned followed the dog slowly, and then picked up a pooper scooper from inside his front pocket pocket. A few seconds after he looked up again, he was already reaching in his pocket for his mobile phone, and dialing on the keypad the number nine, nine, nine.

What his beloved spot had dug up was, what appeared to be, the part of a human head. When the police arrived, it was fully exposed and revealed to be a severed head. The rest of the body was never found, but judging by the partially rotting face, it had belonged to a young girl, aged between seventeen and twenty. She had had long brown hair, and had been exceptionally beautiful. She was also from an Asian background, or as it was later identified as, Vietnamese.

Frankie was immediately called upon for questioning, but it appears that he had heard the police sirens and ran. They found tire tracks on the opposite side of the house to the body, which backed onto a piece of farm land. The police were exceptionally worried as the tire tracks were going in the general direction of the city of Manchester, not a place for an old murderer.

Some followed in hot pursuit. He had been gone only twenty minutes, and he was restricted to the speed limits on the very busy roads around the area, leading to Manchester. The police were not.

The rest went inside his house. There was nothing unusual about the inside, but upon further investigation a trapdoor was found, underneath the television set. This led to the houses basement, which seemed to have been built by Maegre himself. Inside was a truly horrific site. Huge steel barrels that contained alcohol and a mixture of at least twenty human torsos were found. On the walls were hung several bodies, hung with hugs like disfigured ornaments. It appeared as if meagre had raped the corpses on many occasions, over several years. All of the corpses were old. They were all well preserved, so we can only deduce that they all spent some time in the alcohol. There was a table, with a corpse on it, which seemed to be in the middle of an operation of some sort. Her skull had been broken into with a hammer, and the table was stained with multiple batches of blood.

There was one particular thing. All of the girls were Vietnamese. When the garden was dug up, they found as many as thirty heads, limbs and other entrails. These were his used up and useless corpses, but it was the internal corpses that were getting his attention.

I have already mentioned that he had been in ‘Nam. What was kept more secret by the soldiers at the time was the brutality and sexual violence that most of them committed against the local Vietnamese women. Maegre took it another stage further. He had killed what had appeared to be over fifty women, and after the war was over, facing the concept of being unable to commit the murders any more, took the bodies that he had stashed in the thick jungle (he was noted to be a gifted navigational aid) and had taken them, via private boat, slowly back to England. And that is where he remained. Nearly fifty years of butchering, both on and off the battlefield, now refined to the confines of his home. Now, years later, his acts had been quite literally, unearthed.

A manhunt was soon launched. It did not take long to find him. There are few options for someone over the age of seventy with one leg, and was found in a Manchester red light district the following night. It is possible that he wanted to kill the girl; she was after all, Asian, although this is merely speculation.

He was arrested for thirty four murders, as there were thirty four identifiably separate bodies. He was taken to court, and was given the sentence of life for each account of murder, totaling to 680 years, with no chance of parole or appeal. This sentence was to be spent in Broadmoor prison for the criminally insane. It is noted that upon hearing the sentence, he swore loudly at the judge, and when the restraining officer attempted to intervene, he bit him in the neck, nearly severing the main artery. There seemed to be little point of adding one account of attempted murder to his list of offenses, but he insisted it was, giving him a new total of 690 years behind bars.

To be very honest, we will never know the true number of the pile of corpses that were victims of Frankie Maegre, although it is certain to be over fifty. As the bodies were never found in Vietnam, they were never traced back to England. He took the real number to his grave.

In late 1996, Maegre was himself killed, by another inmate. He was stabbed with a handmade weapon, a piece of metal roughly resembling a screw driver that had been smuggled in to the prison from outside. Supplier unknown.

Buried in the usual fashion, in an unmarked grave at Broadmoor cemetery. Only his brother, the priest and a few journalists appeared, and the piece was never actually published in any paper. It seemed as if the world had lost its interests in psychopaths. The name Frankie meagre has been erased from history, without a single breath of his name has been uttered.

The entire estate where he lived was razed to the ground, with a new industrial park now sitting on the site were so many horrors took place. Maybe there are more bodies that reside there, waiting to be discovered in a future generation. Pity, they wont be able to find a word about the man who was once known as the ‘butcher of ‘Nam’, or his private little horror house.

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Death Town - Linnea Clayton

Sometimes dead is good in the eyes of the inhuman people. In the middle of the metro, death lies everywhere, people dying and I witness everything.

Demons down the stairs, I have no where to, and then I see my friend the albino man and he helped me go outside and I was free for now.

Then I look in to the albino mans eyes and they turn red, then all of a sudden he tries to kill me.

Then I go back to the metro and I befriended a demon named Yuri, he was the only good demon there.

Then after the metro starts shaking and then I start to scream, and maggots start coming out of my skin eating me alive and I don’t know what to?

Then I took a knife to my chest and I start to kill my self, then all of a sudden I became a nasty demon as well.

I started killing other people and I was eating them alive because I had a very bad demonic craving for human flesh. And other people around me started to see that I ate other human people alive with a passion. Then I see I’m on the news and the police are looking for me, but they know they can’t kill a demon.

As days pass by my hunger for human flesh really got worse and I’m a demonic inhuman girl in a human world. Now I’m known as the Red-eyed lady an evil demon girl with a bad craving for human flesh.

Then later on I looked in one of my old mirrors and what I saw in my reflection was really cool my hair turned black and my eyes blood red. I’m a 16 teen year old demon girl eating rotten human flesh.

Then the next day in the metro I see these other demons that are just like me so I decided to become there friends.

The loved me so much I started to notice I was there queen as well. And they started giving me dead bodies on platters and I started to eat them and feed them to the demons of the metro. Them all of a sudden I see a human come in the metro them I ordered the demons to bring him to me. But when they did I took the human man and held him by his neck and I bit some of his flesh, then I tore him apart and he was dead.

As days pass by, and I get stronger, people on the earth were dying out because of me.

As I walk down the street in earth, I noticed I was killing so much, I started to cry blood. As I was still walking, all of a sudden I was a bright light shining in my face, telling me to stop my evil ways.

So I did for now at least. Then the earth started looking alive again and the human started to live in peace.

Then a month later it was all the same I started turning evil again.

Then eating my demonic flesh but I didn’t die I noticed my can regenerate myself. And I ate started to chew on the other demons and they regenerated themselves as well.

The next day I and my demon friends had maggots for dinner. It was so tasty because it smelt and tasted like rotten human flesh.

As years went by and I got older, and now I’m 20 years old, still the Red-eyed lady killing people.

Since I’m twenty years old I will have a demonic party, for all my demon friends. We would play an evil little game. First we trap human on the dance floor in the middle of the party. And when the music stops

We all eat them alive

The game was fun because, I hated humans because they killed are kind back in 1800 hundred when we were very weak. And then the party ended with dead bodies every where.

Then the next day I did my usual, I brushed my teeth and I killed people and ate them alive.

So later on I was walking in the metro and I finally, met a mixed inhuman called the Korn bird.

I fell in love with him because he had an evil twisted heart just like mine. When I married him, he became the king of the demons. And I loved him so with my decomposing bleeding heart.

Since I’m twenty years old I went to demon high school, it was so much fun because at my age I still love to go hyper on the school bus.

I hated human’s everyday; sometimes I would cry blood again down my face, because I wanted them to die so bad, that I had my demon friends eat them alive.

I was happy as well that I had another party to celebrate the death of the human race, most of them at least.

Late at night I started hearing voices in my head to stop eating people alive because I was turning into a monster!

I didn’t care I ignored the voices in my head and I kept on eating rotten human flesh.

Then I walk down the street and I saw all my demon friends eat all the humans in Montreal, and I was proud of them that they knew I was there queen.

I realized the police finally found me, so I gave myself in and I went to jail and I saw lots of human people to eat. And then I escaped out of jails and I ate the cops alive.

And then I took over the world, and I thought no one can stop me, but I was wrong and god got rid of my evil ways, and I thanked him and I became a good inhuman girl in a human world. And I learned to like human as well. And I never ate human flesh ever again.

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He Came Back - Mike Burleson

The creature is born of the fetid swamp.

From the muck and mire, it rises to life, created from decay, rot, and strange gases that rise from the noxious fauna. It is a brute, an unthinking, unfeeling man-thing. It drags itself from the bog like some monstrous heap. It is bulky massive. The stench of the thing drives all in the woods before it.

Something drives it onward, from its putrid lair and the mass of trees and clinging ivy. A forest creature dives swiftly by. Impossibly fast, it reaches out a mossy, vine-covered appendage, snaring the animal, and dragging it to hits gaping maw.

The beast forges ahead, soon leaving the swamp far behind. It comes upon a smooth, hard trail that is unfamiliar to its simple mind. It is different from the moist softness of the forest.

Further down the path it sees, or rather senses, a glow further on. From a structure off the smooth trail, something bright glares at it, taunting it, as if beckoning. The creature is annoyed.

The deformed mass turns toward the yellow thing that calls to it. It will consume this irritation!

A new sensation is felt, coming from inside the structure. It is voices, muffled and indiscernible. It also will be consumed.

As the beast draws nearer, the stinging becomes intense. It hurries. It feels anger.

The little girl finishes putting away the plates and pulls the drain plug. She stares blankly as the whirlpool of dishwater disappears down the sink. She finally pulls herself away, turns off the kitchen light, and enters the living room where her mother reclines on a couch.

After preparing a modest supper, the mother had sat with her, barely touching the meal, and finally retiring to the couch. It is the same each night.

The girls leans against the arm of the sofa, and gently caresses her mother’s long tangled hair, once beautiful, now uncared for. Still pretty, though, she thinks, but the eyes are swollen from crying, her face drawn from worry.

"I finished the dishes, Mom."

The mother only stares unhearing into space.

She tries again, leaning her frail body against the woman.

" Would you like some tea, mother?"

Still no response. The girl feels her own tears welling up and she hugs her mother tightly.

"I miss Daddy, too!"

Her sorrow is quickly forgotten as the room implodes around them.

Something massive and decaying flows in, bringing with it disgust, and choking, smothering vapors. It opens it cavernous mouth, but it emits no sound. There is only the clamor of the screaming women.

The mother awakes from her stupor. Grasping the child as if a toy, she seeks some avenue of escape. The mass bars her way, its appendages groping for her as clinging vines or tangled limbs. The woman and her child are cutoff, without hope.

The stinging is now intense and very bothersome to the beast. It must destroy! With its arms thrashing wildly, it gropes for the shiny annoyance, and connects with a lamp. The brightness is crushed instantly but a new pain flares into the putrid mass.

Sparks fly from the crushed lamp. The monster’s bizarre gaseous form ignites. The brightness flows over the creatures’ limbs, devouring it.

The beast from the swamp sees the irony: it is consumed by that which it would have consumed.

Next Morning

What remains of the monster is pulled from the still smoldering rubble. A pile of charred human bones is found in the debris. On the burnt finger is found a blackened wedding ring, which is given to the mother, who begins to weep uncontrollably.

"It was Daddy wasn’t it Mother?" the girl at her side exclaims. "He walked into the swamp and didn’t come back, till now!"

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The Death Maze - Sam Samantha

It was the night of Halloween in Louisiana, everyone was excited, and people were all busy decorating, buying costumes, setting up attractions and parties. Holly and her best friend Kate was at holly’s house making cup cakes, Holly and Kate were both 8 years old and Halloween was their favourite season.

"Tonight is the night." Squeaked Holly,

"Year I can’t wait." Laughed Kate,

"Finished, c’mon lets go get changed." Said Holly.

Holly dressed up as witch and Kate dressed up as a clown. They head out the house to go to the annual Halloween maze, it is always so fun, and it is huge. The race started, everyone raced in hoping to get out first, Holly and Kate would have known the way now, but they changed every year to make it fair, so off they went giggling and screaming at the decorations inside the maze.

Ten minutes later it had gotten dark and most of the children had not made it, Holly and Kate were still full of spirit though, there was screams occasionally piercing their ears and howls with other sound effects. As Holly and Kate sprinted down another corridor Holly had arrived at a t junction but Kate had disappeared. Poor Holly was devastated, she looked around but Kate was gone, Holly was terrified walking the maze by herself, but what scared her most was she could no longer hear anyone scream, it was like she was the only one left.

She had been walking around aimlessly for 20 minutes, when a killer clown jumped out on her, she did not think it was real but it grabbed her tightly around the throat and started to strangle her, Holly could not escape, the clown looked evilly into her eyes then started to tighten his grip, chocking, holly soon died.

Everything went silent, so soon a search party was sent into the maze to recover the lost children, but all was recovered was dead, skinned bodies.

The maze was soon flooded with cops and paramedics, parents were all crying together with sleazy paparazzi trying to make a fortune out of the story.

With all this going on how could the killer escape. But he had one advantage, a costume on Halloween evening, so he ran out of the busy maze unnoticed, into the curios crowd that had gathered. And that was it, he was free, he walked back to his apartment and took all his clown makeup off, he could not wait till next Halloween.

A YEAR LATER...

Halloween had come again; he had already planned what he was going to do. He just loved killing children; he wanted to have some fun skinning them again. So he rented a building, and put a vampire costume on. He was going to attract trick or treating kids buy filling the building with sweets, and soon enough children started coming and helping themselves, once there was about five children, he grabbed them and stuffed them into his truck. They were all about ten years old, and in his apartment, he had his fun skinning them alive individually, blood dripped everywhere, good job he wanted to move anyway.

Once all the bodies were skinned, he dragged them back into his truck and took them into the post office, put a stamp on them, and left them on the floor. He made a dash, another successful Halloween evening completed. He pushed open his apartment door to find a dozen policemen pointing their guns up to his head, before he could think he made a run for the elevator, he had a plan. Once the elevator was at the top, he ran down the stairs only until he was out of sight, it was a long shot, but he hoped they would go down the elevator. He was wrong, they came dashing after him, he was going too fast and tripped, he broke his neck.

"It’s a trip to the hospital, then jail for life for you." Shouted the policeman,

And so, they took him away for his future in jail.

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Tragedy - Josh Nicosia

I – Village

I heard their wretched cries approaching and knew I could give no adequate recourse. The feminine of their group had entered our village before; leaving tears to stream down the face of my brother’s widowed bride. How she prayed for them to take her and spare her child, but they would not. They knew their purpose and would not be dissuaded by the laments of a mere human. Their laughter filled the woods as they left with their child-acquisition. My brother’s widowed bride spoke not again and within days we found her battered corpse at the foot of the highest tree in our village. She had climbed to the top only to throw herself down. The tree branches are strong and did not break as her body bashed against them on the way to her self-made demise.

We threw her body into the woods as the sun beat down with its mocking lightness. The faces of those left living in the village wore a strange look of pity and jealousy. Pity for the woman whose husband and child were taken; jealous of the peace-in-death they knew she was now experiencing. But what if there is no peace in death? Those we hide against in the moon’s light seem not living or dead. They exist and that is all. As mortals our time is precious. The Myths have no need to justify their time and/or existence. They belong to the world that is theirs. Their justification is in their very presence.

When it was only my child left in the village, I knew the feminine of their group would return seeking my child’s life. They come from the castle where the King allowed them entry into our world through his foolish act of opening the Gates. The castle is home now not to a human King, but to an un-dead one. The feminine of their group scour the barren land for food to appease their master’s sick taste. The children are all but gone; my child remains for as long as they allow.

A few of the headstrong men decided to take action and have not been seen since leaving the village; it is certain they will not return. The woods we once hunted in have become where we are now hunted. The Myths shape our miserable lives to their whim. We are all equal now in this new world created. Humans are what we are: flesh, blood, bone, and Spirit. The first three they can take away, but the Spirit…

I fear my wife has lost faith. She knows what waits for us and isn’t able to cope with its dim reality. She is but skin and bones, trying unsuccessfully to nurse the child that will soon be taken from us. If he were not taken – if by some chance we were allowed to remain a family – I know it would not matter. We shall all starve before our next birthday. Our child shall starve before his first birthday.

Madness and despair shape the daylight hours. The village of friends and family has become the village of the uncompassionate and distraught. To try and comprehend the fate we have been given is too much weight upon the mind. As Faith is lost, so is humanity. As the Spirit gives in, so will the mind. I pray for the strength of my heart. I pray for the sanity of my wife. I pray for a quick death for our son.

They are approaching. The darkness of night is their time. From all sides they emerge. From above they descend. From one home to the next they search. I can see their pale, winged forms as they sniff the air with crude smiles formed upon their red lips.

They are coming! They know what prize we hide. My beloved wife holds our child close to her bosom. I know this is the final event that will break her apart. Will her fate be the same as the widowed bride of my brother? Outside the door I hear their feminine whispers. The door opens and naked before me stand those who are to take my precious son. My beloved kisses her child one last time. Her sobs are too heavy for me not to join in. Our son is in the hands of destiny. A new destiny for all the young: To be fed to the leader of these filthy creations.

Wings beat hard against the ground and then elevate to the highest clouds to soar off to the castle; the castle that allowed the Myths to enter this world: The castle that is now the abode of the dead.

II – Loss

As I feared, the loss of our son has proved too much for my beloved to handle. For too many nights she has not slept, and in daylight she does nothing other than stare at the tree line of the woods no one dare to enter. On an afternoon where sleep forcibly took hold of her body, I heard her lips speak words her dreaming mind created. She spoke of revenge in shallow whispers, adding desperation to the already desperate tone of her voice. Venom I knew not possible was emanating from my beloved, a separation of Spirit and heart was occurring before my very eyes. When she awoke I begged her to speak to me of her dream, but silence spoke more than any words uttered could have.

A chasm formed between us, but my love in no way waned. I looked upon her as I always had. Love for her is what my world was, is, and forever shall be. I massage her stiff shoulders when she allows me to touch her, and even in those moments of closeness her body is not with me. Her mind is off somewhere: I want to bring it back; but I fear my beloved does not want to be brought back from the misery into which she has entered. I feel the only thing she now wants is that which she cannot have: our child.

They entered the village again last night and, finding there were no children left, attacked a few of the old and then departed as quickly as they came. The elderly lie bleeding and unattended to. We stayed in our homes watching them die, to afraid to exit and give assistance. Come morning they will finish their transformation only to be destroyed by the sunlight. Why do they not kill and only maim? Why do they spread their disease to those who do not know how to handle it? So many times we have had to lock our doors to those who were infected. Slowly they transformed and grew more violent. With the sunlight they cease to be; victims of a curse brought on by the cursed.

I search these morning hours for my one true love. She is not here and I know now her dream-speak was that of self-prophesy. What evil has befallen my beloved’s once pure heart? For now she is one of them; not cursed, but hunter of the hunting. She is mortal, but for how long? I stand on the edge of the woods and look in. The sunlight shows normalcy; how extravagantly inappropriate. My beloved has left the village to go in search of our child! How far will she make it and to what end?

I glance at the village – starved, lonely, destroyed – nothing is left here for me. My child and bride have gone. To be with them again is all I wish. To hold my beloved’s hand for one-second more before my life’s end is all I ask. To gaze upon my child’s smile…

But alas, it is too much to hope for in this new world created. What is love in a world of lies? No! I will not let them take that from me. I will not let the Myths take away that which is human, that which is my Spirit, my love, my family. I will not let emptiness claim me in the name of solitude. To stay in this village would be to wait for my own end. To enter these woods would be to summon my Spirit’s strength. What fate lies waiting does not matter. The fate I chose for myself is what counts. Better to choose my own end than to allow someone else to.

III – Woods

Sunlight, a bitter reminder of the old days, shines down uncaring. The woods appear the same as always, save for the absence of creatures scurrying to and fro. The animals who remain stay as hidden as the humans try to. The leaves crushed under my feet seem as much apart of the curse as the air I breathe. To turn back now would be for naught, for I would not reach the village by nightfall. The fear I hold in going forward is the same I feel towards returning back from whence I came.

The sun begins its descent; can I still appreciate the beauty of nature? I must, for love is apart of human nature, which is apart of all. The sun sends color spraying across the low hanging clouds and for a moment I feel my beloved is with me watching this beautiful sight. Wherever she is, I know she is not admiring this beauty as I am. Her thoughts have disconnected form the past realities; her mind taken in her pursuit of revenge and appeasement. My only hope is that she will turn back to me. If I am to perish in this night’s arrival, I wish that she were her to fall with me. Together we could go to the other world where our son is waiting for us.

The moon signals for the Myths to emerge from their daytime slumber. With the final rays of the sun come the final glimpse of what once was. Darkness sets quick. Lit only by the pale moon, I feel life start to emerge around me. But it is not life that I sense. The cold breeze I feel does not disturb the leaves at my feet. If this be not a wind I feel, then what?

Despair enters my mind. These are the ones who couldn’t fight. These are the ones who lost what is human to them, only to be forced to stay in the state in which they died. Those Without Life circle me, calling on me to share the life I posses. They seek to drain me of what they no longer possess. But I have barely enough will and strength to support my own Spirit. To try and share with these wanderers of the nether world would only make me one of them. My Spirit is mine and not to be shared…even if I could…

With loneliness and longing they call out to me. Transparent forms traveling in a directionless mass. I quicken my steps to be rid of these apparitions but they are as much apart of the night as the fear in my heart. How they vex me! Upon my knees I pray for their deliverance from the anguished state they are in. Feeling my positive intentions only encourages them more. They see my willingness to help as a sign that I can help…but I can’t.

I know not what they are or what they will become; possibly this and only this will be their un-life. I must not spend too much energy trying to help those who have no hope. For I have hope, and to stay amongst these restless wanderers will only drain that which I need to move forward. I cannot block my ears from their cries, but to block my heart will have to be enough. Will my son be damned to this fate, or will his soul ascend to its proper place? Will my wife become one of these tortured apparitions?

My wife…my beloved. Darkness has set on her also. Do those who surround me surround her? Will she notice the despair that permeates from this group, or is her heart too broken to break as mine is? Those Without Life, the ghosts of humankind, must be ignored while on my search. My child I know I will not find; my wife…I fear how I will find her and in what state she will be in. Keep walking and shut down the desire to help those who cannot be helped. It is not on me to provide for all that are immersed in this terrible time, it is my accepted quest to help the only one I feel I can help, and who in turn will help me. Together with love is how we should spend whatever time is left for us.

I feel that in her quest, my beloved has allowed them to win. The anger and savagery they produce in her are just as bad as any physical torture that can be had. Without infecting her physically, the Myths have stripped away the human that is my beloved, leaving only a shell holding hatred, loathing, and contempt. And what if I find her safe and she does not look upon me the same? The light in her eyes has drained over time; what light, if any, shall they hold now?

Oh, Those Without Life are having their way with me. My hope is waning in the face of their desolation. I must steel my reserve and push forward through them. They will not bother if they know there is nothing to take. To stay positive is my only hope, and in turn possibly the best gift I can give to these pitied poltergeists. Although they might not appreciate it, my living human Spirit is a testament to what they were. I realize they are not against me, only for themselves; as I am for my beloved.

Passing through brush, I feel them leaving me. Even in death, the unsatisfied shall not persevere; reaming unsatisfied as if to justify their existence. Or maybe my Spirit did have an effect. Perhaps they left me be because they know I am much like them, or soon will be much like them. But I will not be like them! I will pass when it is my time. I will not stay attached to the world, stubbornly trying to change that which cannot and will not ever change. I may give my life, but I will not give my death.

IV – Graveyard

The misery of death seems not so in times such as these. I break free of the woods to find myself at the sight of my village’s graveyard. A body has not been buried here for as long as I can remember, the dead instead being left in the woods for the night creatures to partake upon. Fourth row back I find my father’s grave. The stone is aged by the forces of nature; making the epitaph hard to read. Visions of my father’s funeral recall nothing of the graveyard in which I now stand. The sunny day we buried my father is a childhood memory I usually keep hidden. Now, kneeling before my father’s grave, I’m glad he is in the safety of the ground and not above in the world as it is now.

It is almost as if I can hear my father’s voice calling out to me. I fight back a tear as the fantasy voice continues its lament. Graves surrounding my father’s are empty; dug up or dug out of, I do not know.

In the woods! I hear labored breathing; a wheeze mixed with guttural hunger. Did my beloved stop at her parent’s graves as she passed through? Did she hear the cries from the other side and the creatures in the woods? My father’s voice, it seems so real. It is as if I hear it coming from below. Beneath my knees, below the dirt…

The horror! A hand, the hand of my father’s, reaches out of the ground to lock its fingers around my ankle. I am frozen in fright as my father breaks through the dirt to face his child once again. His voice, what despair it holds as he calls my name and looks upon me with sightless eyes. I move away, but his grip on me is strong. I pull him free from the dirt that has imprisoned him. To his feet he arises! I, on my knees, break down and let the tears flow. My father moves towards me. I realize he wants what Those Without Life want – what I cannot provide. I scurry away but am unable to take my eyes off him. An unseen open grave swallows me in. I fall and land hard six feet below. On my back I look up at the stars and the moon; they are as they always were, yet they now belong to something that never was.

My father stands above me looking down. If he enters this grave with me I fear I will lose my sanity. Against my back I feel not dirt, but the hard wood of a coffin. My father releases an anguished cry and I realize where I lie: in my mother’s grave. Quickly I’m up and out of the hole, standing on the opposite side of my father. I felt no presence of my mother and am relieved that she has not been forced to become as my father now is.

The graves that are not emptied begin to. Hands break free through the dirt, quickly followed by head, neck, torso, and legs. They move towards me with hunger in their lifeless eyes. The creatures in the woods can still be heard, and I wonder if their intent is the same as the Undead standing before me.

My Mother! My once beautiful mother who I hoped was resting peacefully in her grave. I see know that she has been watching me. Against the tree line she stands bathed in shadow. She doesn’t move towards me as the others do, but looks upon me with a seemingly indifferent air.

They move towards me slowly; my father leading the group, my mother staying behind. I can easily run past them, but I feel I must take in this spectacle for as long as I can. This group of once-humans is not the enemy. They do only what they feel they must. Not out of spite or anger do they wish to destroy me, but out of an unquenchable hunger that drives them mindless towards their goal.

The creatures in the forest seem to be coming closer. I sidestep the slow moving Undead and step towards the back of the graveyard as the first of the hyenas exits the woods.

Hyenas with exposed teeth growl and circle the Undead, corralling them into the center of the graveyard. I feel I must run, but am unable to. My presence is ignored and anticipation and curiosity as to what might happen next forces my legs to stay still and my eyes to stay fixed upon whatever horror might occur. My father and mother stand close together, but neither acknowledges the other’s presence. The hyenas have the small group of Undead surrounded; is their fear in the eyes of the Undead?

What are these creatures I see emerging from the woods? They stand as men but are nothing human. Burned, deformed skin covers their naked bodies. Dark eyes set in excited faces expose the hungered state they are in. The Undead moan as the hyenas slowly back away. The creatures are quick to attack and I realize these are the Eaters Of The Undead.

The feeding frenzy before me is sickening. The Eaters tear at the Undead in a savage joy the likes of which I have never seen. A clawed hand pushes its way into my father’s chest only to pull out the heart of the man who raised me. My mothers neck is bitten so ferociously that it can no longer support her head.

The Undead are reduced to a pile of bone and gore as the Eaters Of The Undead feed themselves to the point of gluttony. My fathers dead eyes fall upon me as his head is thrown aside. I stare at the face I haven’t seen in years and will never see again. Will my eyes fall upon my child in the same way? Or will my child’s eyes fall upon me in the same way?

The Eaters Of The Undead have had their fill and are returning back into the woods. The hyenas quickly pounce upon what is left of the Undead. How their teeth cut through bone so easily I do not know. What is left of my mother is devoured with casual acceptance by these animals who have found their place amongst the Myths. The pack finishes and I am thankful to be spared of another sickening second.

Why! Why must it come to this? In the village I am sure they are experiencing their own laborious night, but why could I not be there now with my beloved? What did she hope to accomplish by leaving me? I, who love her so and wish only for her best. What could I have done differently to make her stay? What pain could I have ceased in order to break her from her deranged pursuit of our child? But it is not deranged for a mother to go after her child; even if she realizes the futility of her actions.

And what of my action? Is it futile? Am I setting myself up to find my beloved in a state of…No! I will not think the worst. Doing nothing is futile. I search for my beloved as my beloved searches for our child. Which quest stands more of a chance of success…it does not matter. To try is to do. To do is to accomplish something, anything, while in the face of unrelenting reality.

As I stand above what remains of my parents, I feel accomplishment already. I was here to witness my parent’s second passing. Hopefully, for their sake, a permanent one.

V – Abandoned Village

I am lost in thought and direction. By the grace of some divine hand I find the first traces of the approaching morning sun. I am weary and look forward to the sleep that only the safety of pure daylight can provide. A break in the trees ahead provides even more elation. A village! With smoke rising from chimneys! The smoke of cooking and food; the smoke of human occupancy. I quicken my pace, anxious to again be amongst my own.

Standing in the center of town with the dawn’s light on my back, I find no human lives within this once-human place. The crude jewelry scattered about shows me who now dwells in this place. Behind those closed doors and hidden from the sun, the Large Ones sleep.

I have heard stories of the Large Ones, as I have heard stories of all the Myths that have been released. Never have I seen half of that which has been spoken of, therefore I know not which parts of the stories are true.

There is movement inside the homes. They are not asleep. A large pit filled with burning embers means there must be some food I can take. Disgusting! That they would chose to kill and eat the Eaters of the Undead is too much for my empty stomach to handle. If I had eaten one bite of food within the past days I surly would be expelling what little was left in my stomach. Thankfully the Large Ones have caught some hyenas as well. Cooked meat is exactly what I crave after running like an animal through the night.

They are exciting the houses! They can barely squeeze through the doorways and I am thankful for the time it gives me to run. They have my scent and curses on me if they don’t run as fast as the wind. Almost had me! Their size makes them clumsy in this thick forest. If I can keep at a good pace for a while I’ll be in the clear. If only I could’ve had one more bite of food, I would have the energy needed to put some good distance between them and me.

My head is bleeding. I can feel it wetting my hair and dripping down my back. I felt the impact this time: they’re throwing rocks. Shoulder is in pain and my arm is tingling. I can still run but the headshot is making my vision blur. I fear my blood loss is rapidly draining me of energy. To the hip! My left leg is slowly becoming useless. Rocks landing all around! Tree stumps crash on all sides and I feel that I will not survive if I am hit by one of the bigger objects being thrown.

Silence fills my ears. I feel only the beating of my heart. I run yet I don’t know how. My beloved, where is she? Did she pass this village of brutality? I won’t believe she won’t survive. As my love for her will pull me through, her love for our child will pull her through. But the fate of our child is known! That’s what weighs on my heart most of all. My beloved entered the impossible, so I must do the same for her. No! This is not impossible! As I am alive, so shall she be. Our child, a defenseless infant, is no more, but we shall not succumb to the evil.

I can’t breath and it forces me to open my eyes. The stench that emanates from the mouths of the Large Ones is putrid. The hand around my throat seems to be deciding whether or not to pop my head off. My feet dangle above the ground and if he doesn’t put me down soon I will suffocate. The rest of the Large Ones appear from the woods. My vision is blurring and I’m relived to feel the grip loosening. Thrown to the hard rock next to the river, I look up at the group. Laughter like I’ve never heard comes from their rank mouths.

My body is badly hurt. The rocks shredded layers of skin and I’m unable to tell if my head has stopped bleeding. The river is flowing steady and down stream I can see it breaks into rapids. The Large One is swinging his foot back and as he brings it forward I can’t help but think that I’m about to be kicked the hardest I’ve ever been kicked.

…Momentary unconsciousness…the frigid water is waking me up and shocking my body. I tumble in the first set of rapids and know the Large Ones have cast me aside. The rocks smash me from every angle. If I can try and float on my back I might have a chance. The water is getting a little shallower; I can almost catch my footing. My leg! The rocks seem designed to cut and shred. One more hit to the face…

VI – Death

On the edge – feet in water – body on land. Are my eyes open? Or is what I’m seeing not…the sky is clear. Heartbeat weak. My beloved…our child…

Owls of pure white float above me. Their wings extended, riding on a wind that I cannot feel. They stay in perfect form. Coming closer. Dropping down so close that I could touch them if I was able to move my arm. Between them a light forms. The white of their bellies is nothing to the white materializing in the air between where they float. Water fills my mouth, coming from my stomach. I feel as though I’m drowning.

Not her! Anyone but her! I beg, send the Myths upon me, but keep this Truth away. Her white robe doth flow just as they said it would. Her beauty is unmatched by any human. Please, don’t allow me to admire for too long, I do not wish to be taken by her now.

The sword! She has the sword of choice! It is not my time, but why must she tempt? I will not ask for it! I am not defeated! My body will move, my Will shall move it! Yes, she is beautiful; I will not deny myself that. Look at how perfect her gaze is. She understands my pain. Has she seen my beloved? Has she tempted my beloved? My beloved! Death is certain; life is not. If my beloved has passed then I will see her there. If she is alive…do I doubt that she is? Must get up. Expel the water in my lungs. Sit up.

The owls fly higher and I see no trace of what was just between them.

VII – Lake

The water is clear. I know where it leads and feel it is the safest route to the castle. With luck I reach the lake with sunlight to spare. To soak my aching body and cleanse my tempered mind is all I wish for the moment. Colder than expected, but it sooths. I could stay here for the night, just floating and staring at the stars. What beautiful sounds the water makes under the breeze, I can almost make music out of what I hear. Yes, I hear voices singing. How heavenly, how divine they are as they sing their glorious chorus.

My beloved! I see her! Out in the middle of the lake she waits for me, if only I could swim faster, if only I wasn’t injured….but how can this be? Two of my beloveds, singing to me from the center of this…my eyes are deceiving me. As I swim, with nothingness below my feet, three of my beloveds appear before me!

How could I not have known? The daylight is a devil also. The Myths have left no stone unturned. Will they use nothing to destroy me? And to what end? What could Those Who Sing possibly gain for playing their cruel hoax on me. To lure me with beautiful melodies and wishes pulled from my psyche is a crime amongst crimes. And their goal is simply to drown me in a fit of ecstasy. That is what gives them pleasure. They can tell I’m not falling as easily as some others may have. I know reality even when reality’s definition has been redefined. The stories have been told about these seductress’, and to ignore them is to make them go away.

I must swim back to the shore. They are changing to their natural form. I can’t look; I must swim. Keep my back to them. Oh, their voices! The sun sets and I wish not to go back into the woods. I would let them sing to me forever if only I didn’t have to…what beauty they possess. White-haired; glowing green eyes – three of them – one more beautiful than the next. I’ll just swim closer to get one last look before I leave. The night will be cold and these harmonious sounds will keep me company. They sing to me alone. So beautiful, so white…as white as the owls!

Harbingers of death and destruction; you three are nothing! I must swim back to shore for my beloved waits for me! My beloved is safe and sound and I must find her in the same fashion.

Yes, the shore! I can’t look back. I must take the long way around the lake. They must not deter my quest. I will have to transverse the mountain in the daylight, which means I must find a place of security for the night.

VIII – Cave

The dark of night falls too quick. But what does it matter when the light of day proves to hold no tranquility. The mountain cannot – will not – be traveled over in the dark. What lies waiting at its top I do not know, and I wish not to find out under the pale moon’s glow. But this cave, how am I to feel comfortable in its darkened drafts? Is there no other place for me to rest my head far enough away from the voices of Those Who Sing. I must enter and give myself to whatever fate the rock and dirt tunnel holds.

It is empty! Alas, good luck may still shine down upon me time and again. I have reached the end of the cave to find myself alone and grateful. The wind is picking up force outside and I can hear the rain begin to fall. Thank-you for this night’s respite. A drip from the ceiling falls in precise monotony to the floor at my feet. I am alone with this forming pool of rain, which, like I, has found its way into the safety of the cave.

Push aside some rocks and find a flat level of dirt to rest my weary head. The ache in my body is surpassed only by the ache in my heart. What loneliness I find on my search for my beloved! The longing, the yearning; why must it all be so?

Movement! Above me, something rouses me from my half-sleep. All is dark, save for the palest of moonlight that enters through the same tiny crevasse that allows the rain to drip ever so slightly. The ceiling is not a ceiling! Awakening slowly above me are bats; suddenly I feel not so alone. The sounds they make would once have made my skin crawl, but now I welcome them and the company they provide.

Do not leave the cave, my friends! Stay with me ‘till the morn. But they must leave. Their ways of the night predate the Myths and I am jealous of the way these hairy, wide-eyed creatures continue on with their old ways. If I could carry on with my old ways…

IX – Mountain

The bats return to their perch above me. The morning sun approaches and I am thankful for my night’s rest. I wish to stay here in the darkness with my winged friends, but I know what lies before is what is important. I must leave this community of old and travel through the new. The sun is bright; I shield my eyes. The last squeaks and cries of the bats fade away as I leave the mouth of the cave and begin up the side of the mountain.

Of all the stories referring to the Myths there is one that is told in a slightly deferent way. When usually the stories are told as warning, the stories of Those Who Fly Atop The Mountain are told in awe. I could travel around the base of this gigantic obstacle, but on my way to the castle I feel it important to take in the sight that so few Humans have seen. The sun beats down hot and sweat drips from every available pore on my body. If only it would rain, then I could drink some of the water I so desperately need.

Hours have passed and if I don’t reach the summit soon I fear I will turn around and give up my side-quest. Through the clouds I pass and…Yes! I see the top! Only a few more ledges to conquer and I will reach the summit. I see not the Myths I hope to find, but the story says they will appear to those who wait.

The clearing at the top is flat; before me I see the starved wolves. Pity onto them! The old lie withered and dying, the young already dead. Those who would be the leaders stare at me too weak too attack; too weak too acknowledge the food source I could be.

Never in my life did I think I would be able to approach a pack of wolves as I am doing now. So soft is their fur, so weak is their Spirit. I understand their plight and am reminded of my village’s plunge into despair. No food means no life sustained. The dead cubs…what tortures hath befallen us all?

There! I see them approach! The wolves sit with me, and I with them, as we watch the approach of the soaring, scaled forms of Those Who Fly Atop The Mountain. They are as large and as glorious as the stories have told. They feed on nothing and live only to fly free above the lands. Fire shoots from their mouths ever so often, but they stay at heights too high for the fire to do any damage. I wrap my arms around the wolves who are cuddling close to me. I see now the beauty that is the motivation for my quest. I feel now the warmth and togetherness that waits for me in my beloved’s arms. I feel the grief in these wolves that is my beloved’s grief.

Oh, scaled ones, continue your flight for all time, unfazed by what might happen on the ground. Stay free in the air and away from the misery unfolding below. Wolves, I pray for thee, as I feel you pray for me.

X – Evil

All that keeps me from my beloved is the trees and the night. The mountain blends in with the rest of that which is behind me as the sun sets and the moon begins its night pass. Something is different. I fear not the dark, but what emanates from it. Something is approaching yet I hear and see nothing. I can only feel the presence. A chill passes through my body. My thoughts, they are clouding over. My quest…what is it? Where am I going and why am I out here in this forsaken land risking my life? It comes closer, ever closer still. I cannot fight whatever it is. I know not how to fight, or what to fight for. So cold and…so alone…

It is on top of me, I feel its weight. It crushes my heart. My heart? Do I still feel? What do I feel for? Love! My beloved! Remove this weight and disband this dread! I must stand as human and fight with the only weapon I have: my Spirit. But it is so cold in its grip. My legs shake and my mind…

Those Without Life, please, not now. When I am losing a battle against the Evil these formless wanderers appear! They call to me but there is nothing for me to provide them. The Evil takes hold of my mind if I drop my defense for even a moment. I can do nothing to help these restless souls without endangering myself. I will not succumb! My Will shall not succumb. One foot in front of the other, that is how I shall reach my beloved.

But what is this? A graveyard, a sight I wish not to see. I must keep walking before…No, not now, not here. They are rising from their silent slumber. They smell my flesh and it arouses them so. Dirt lines their fingernails as they dig themselves out of the ground. Lifeless eyes stare upon me and I am thankful for their slow movements. I can escape these pathetic bodies without much effort. But the Evil, it catches me when I forget to defend. It is the real enemy here, not the restless Spirits or the Undead looking to feed. The Evil tests me as no other can. Others will only distract me, and then the Evil will see its opportunity to claim my soul.

The hyenas! How can they sniff out the undead so quickly? I can’t bear to watch. The hyenas surround them and the movement in the woods signals me as to what will happen next. The Eaters Of The Undead! How glad I am that they pay me no mind. They are quick and I could not escape their hunt should it be turned on me. Savages! The undead are torn limbless and devoured. The hyenas quickly consume the scraps that fall. Nature will always find its way.

The Evil…Those Without Life…they drain me so…must stay focused and continue on.

Footsteps, heavy and fast they approach. The Eaters Of The Undead know whom approaches, and judging by the fear in their monster eyes, I can only assume it is those who eat the Eaters Of The Undead: The Large Ones. Trees are knocked aside as the Large Ones club their way towards the Eaters Of The Undead. I cannot tell what is corpse of human and what is corpse of nonhuman. The Large Ones swing wildly; tearing apart all who stand in their way. The Eaters Of The Undead are falling in pieces to the ground. The hyenas have run off and I am doing the same. The Large Ones have proven that they have no want for me, so I have no need to stay and witness the gore unfolding. The Evil will stay where the violence is and the Those Without Life are not following. What terror I feel!

XI – Moat

Can it be? Yes, the castle is within sight. I can barely make out its broken form, but I see it just the same. Daylight is far off, yet I cannot wait to enter and find my beloved. Since she is not out here, she must be inside that wretched tomb of monstrous filth. I quicken my pace and come within full sight of the stone structure. Silence…like none I have ever known.

The drawbridge is destroyed. My feet stand on land’s edge, my eyes look down into the murky depths of the moat that is blocking my entrance to the castle. I see that something is circling within the sickly thick water. Two somethings! What are they and what will they do to me if I enter this water with them? If? When I enter!

How cold it is against my skin. Just a quick swim to the other side and then I can find my beloved. Tightly I’m grabbed! So tight is their grip as they suck me under. I feel my bones will break if a scant bit more pressure is applied. I feel no teeth bite down upon me, so what can these foul water creatures want from me? To simply snuff out my life can’t possibly be their aim. But how am I to know what their desire is? They swim in circles for all-time, how must that be? What kind of life is theirs? To kill me would be to do something. To spare me would give them no joy, this I can tell. So tight…too tight. Underwater I can’t breath. They will not let me go.

The light…the white! I see it above the water. Not now! Not while I am so close! The owls float above the water, between them forms the Truth I wish not to see. Light is fading from my eyes. Vision is blurring under this dark, rank water. The tip of her sword drops below the surface. The choice is again mine to make: Life or Death. But now it seems I can’t fight, so how am I to choose.

I am released. I float to the top of the water and quickly pull my self onto the land. The castle door is at my back, yet Death stays floating above the water. She is not here to give me a choice. She is tempting Those Who Live In Water. The two creatures huddle close under her blade. They choose not the life they are given. To circle to no end is not their fate, they choose the sword of Death. They choose to exit this world of monotony and enter whatever waits for them on the other side. The owls fly high and Death disappears.

I must stand and enter the finale of my quest.

XII – Castle

Those Who Drink Blood have claimed their home in this once majestic place. I see and hear nothing to make me believe I am not alone. Through these halls I find no one. The first floor appears desolate, but wait, through large glass doors I can see what once was used as a room for throwing balls and dinners fit for a king; now I see bodies lying in darkness.

Human victims, I fear…my beloved! Could she be amongst this fallen group? I turn over the first body and find these are not humans at all. The heads have been severed, the mouths sewn shut. In their chests have been plunged wooden stakes. Scattered on the floor around me, Those Who Drink Blood lie slain.

Could this be the work of my beloved? This savagery, this violence; I cannot picture my wife, the mother of my child, my beloved, acting in such a way as to leave these killers viciously destroyed. I must leave these victims of…

Staircase leading down. A fire burns in a fireplace, take a torch from the wall and light it. Down the stairs I travel slowly. It curves in a never ending arc; circling down, circling down, circling down. She might be down here…I do not know. To find her is to look everywhere.

Dungeon filled with sights I wish not to be seeing. What tortures were done on these sick devices? What pleasure did the hand that turned the wheels (making this instrument of pain work) find? Who slipped the latch and let the blades drop? What victims were made in this den of perversion? Victims of the king, and now I see there is someone in there. This unused room by the Myths contains now only one tortured human. His crown doesn’t shine as it once did, and to say he is living is to state an uncertainty. I fear getting too close, for I know not what I will find waiting for me in his stare. Yet I must free him if he is still alive! I must get close enough to see if his Spirit is still of this…no, it is not. I have to look away, to pity him would be to great and futile an act. He is gone; flesh and hunger are all that remain.

Back up the stairs and through the ballroom. I can almost hear the music that was once played in here. It’s as if it echoes in time; a memory of gaiety and joviality. I step over these decapitated victims of possibly my beloved’s hands and feel her presence.

My beloved! Even through this dreaded stone I can feel her with me. She is calling out to me not in voice but in heart. Staircase to the second floor is worn out; the carpet rips under my feet. Endless hallways meet innumerable doorways. Where can she be? Where are Those Who Drink Blood?

The third floor hallway is filled with them. It looks as though they were brought here and piled up. A pile of heads sits next to a pile of bodies. The mouths are all sewn shut, the eyes lids left open. The heads that are facing my direction seem to be begging me for help. To walk passed them would be to crawl over them. So disgusting the carpet is. The stench of these hacked horrors is so putrid. They are warm to the touch. I must make my way over them and…oh, the blood I must now wear: How it stains the skin!

Stairs leading up. The roof is gone and I can see the stars shine. The moon is full, how beautiful a sight. I find myself overlooking the woods. This side of the castle has been destroyed. There is carpet under my feet, but no walls around me, no ceiling above. Behind me, the top of the castle points high into the air.

A child crying? In the tower…I hear a child crying! I must muster of all my strength to climb up the side of the castle. Onto the stone my fingers are pressed tight. I have come this far not to be dissuaded. I pass a window and see another pile of decapitated Myths. The top window ledge is just within my reach. If I were to fall right now, surely I would meet my end.

XIII – Tragedy

From the top of the tower can be seen all…all of which I wish not to see. The crying child is mine, yet no longer the same. My beloved, she looks upon me with eyes no longer her own. In her arms she holds what once was ours.

Tragedy upon tragedy! She has not been successful.

In her slaying of Those Who Drink Blood she was inadvertently infected. The child was already lost to us! She found nothing of which she sought! Revenge…unsatisfying revenge! That is all she found here.

She comes towards me not as a lover, but as a killer. She wishes to feed on me, and I wish to wrap her in my arms. But it is not she! This is not my beloved! What is left of her I do not know, but this creature before me is not…but it is she…of course it is. And that is our child lying on the floor. Yes, wrap your arms around me! Sink your teeth into my neck! Do with me what you will in this foul and beautiful world we now live in…

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