LEISURE BOOKS

$6.99 US $8.99 CAN

i PRAISE FOR TIM WAGGONER AND LIKE DEATH

"The plot is compelling... [Like Death] is the best

novel of 2005."

--Cemetery Dance

"A well-written, fast-paced, horrifically gory novel... incredibly unique."

--The Horror Channel

An "unusual, atmospheric horror novel...Waggoner does a very good job
with his characters and an even better one in creating bizarre images
and landscapes through which to conduct his readers."

--Chronicle

"Tim Waggoner works some mojo!"

--Douglas E. Winter, Author of Run

ii Pandora Drive

iii THE GRASPING HAND

"You're open, Mara. Wide open..."

Damara had no idea what the voice was talking about, but the words
nevertheless chilled her.

The scuttle-scratch of claws was louder now, and though the shower was
still running, Damara could no longer hear water falling. All she could
hear was the sound of sharp nails on metal.

"You have to stop, Mara...stop now."

The round metal cover flew off the drain as a green clawed hand covered
with spikes thrust upward. It didn't matter that the opening was too
narrow for a normal hand and forearm to pass through, let alone one that
sprouted wicked-looking black barbs. Jack Sharp could reach up through
the drain because her little brother had once imagined he could, simple
as that.

Damara reached for the shower door, but she only managed to slide the
door a few inches before the spiny green hand took a swipe at her legs.
Damara screamed as ebony needles raked her skin, lay open her flesh,
scraped against bone...

iv Other Leisure books by Tim Waggoner:

LIKE DEATH

v PANDORA DRIVE

TIM WAGGONER

LEISURE BOOKS

NEW YORK City

vi A LEISURE BOOK®

April 2006

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

200 Madison Avenue New York, NY 10016

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this
book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to
the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any
payment for this "stripped book."

Copyright ©2006 by Tim Waggoner

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher,
except where permitted by law.

ISBN 0-8439-5625-9

The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks
of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

vii PANDORA DRIVE

viii Tim Waggoner

1

Prologue

A cloudless night sky, stars spread out against the blackness from one
horizon to the other. The air humid and sticky, cool instead of hot,
though the ground beneath her sandaled feet still felt warm, as if it
hoarded the heat it had absorbed during the day and was reluctant to
give it up. The stars were alone in the sky, for tonight was a new moon.
The name had never made any sense to Damara. How could something be new
if you couldn't see it? She knew the moon was still out there somewhere,
but instead of being a glowing blue-white, it was completely black. She
supposed calling it a "dark moon" wouldn't sound as nice, but it would
be more accurate.

A small dark form flew above Damara's head, dipping and darting in a
zigzag pattern. But she wasn't afraid. She loved bats, thought they were
cool... at a distance, anyway. As she watched the bat--at least she
assumed it was a bat; she couldn't really tell for sure in the dark--a
delicious shiver

2

ran through her body. She couldn't believe that she'd really done it,
that she really was here. Tristan and she had talked about sneaking into
Riverfork in the middle of the night at least a million times. But
neither of them had ever done anything about it. Until now.

You'd never do it, Mara, so don't pretend like you would. You don't even
like to go any farther than your backyard if you don't have to. You'd
never really go into a deserted amusement park at night. Never ever.

That's what Tristan had said this afternoon on the school bus when
Damara had started talking about visiting Riverfork again. She wasn't
certain why he'd suddenly become such a butt-head about it and refused
to play along like he always had. Maybe it was because he was a year
older than she was and would be thirteen next year. Maybe he'd decided
to get a head start on being a stuck-up, obnoxious teenager. Whatever
the reason, she was looking forward to seeing Tristan tomorrow and
telling him about her adventure-- and showing him some souvenir that
she'd bring back. A sign, maybe, or some piece of abandoned equipment.
Anything would do, as long as it was proof.

She could hear Tristan now.

No freakin'way!

Tristan always replaced swear words with less harsh substitutes, as if
he wanted to talk like an adult but couldn't quite bring himself to.

You gotta be shishin' me! You really did it ...

3

snuck out and went down to Riverfork--in the middle of the night--all by
yourself. No freakin' way!

And then, best of all: Geez, Mara, I'm really sorry for what I said
yesterday. I guess I was wrong about you.

Damara giggled at the thought of Tristan's grudging apology, her
laughter sounding louder than it would've during the day, brittle,
echoing, and with the slightest edge of hysteria to it.

Okay, so maybe she was afraid of being here ... in the dark. Just a
little, anyway.

Framed against the night sky, the silhouettes of Riverfork's ghosts
surrounded her: the dark circle of a Ferris wheel, the twisting
artificial canals of a log ride, the support beams and undulating track
of a roller coaster, and many more. Surely they had once had names ...
Round-and-Around, Lumberjack Falls, the Whipcrack ... But whatever they
had once been called, whatever names had been used to thrill and entice
kids both young and old to buy a ticket they could exchange for a
five-minute thrill had long ago been lost. Riverfork--so named because
it was built on the western bank of the Clearwater River that flowed
through town, a river that forked into two smaller branches just south
of the park--had been closed since before Damara was born. And since
she, like any eleven-year-old, couldn't conceive of a world that had
existed without her, that meant the park had been closed always and forever.

No one knew why Riverfork had been shut down. At least, none of the kids
she knew, which

4

to her young girl's mind was pretty much everyone in the world. Some
said it was because the river overflowed its banks one exceptionally
rainy spring and flooded the park. The water damage had been so severe
that the owner couldn't afford to fix it and had instead shut the park
down. Other kids said it was because Riverfork couldn't compete with
Kings Island once it was built in the late sixties (right after the
dinosaurs went extinct). Kings Island was only a forty-minute drive
away, if that, and it was a zillion times better than Riverfork, which
mostly had a bunch of kiddie rides anyway. But Damara's favorite story,
one that Tristan and she told each other often, was that Riverfork had
been the scene of a grisly roller-coaster accident that had forced the
park's closure. An entire set of cars had jumped the track, sailed
through the air, their riders' screams changing from cries of delight to
shrieks of pure terror as the cars plunged down toward the fully
occupied Ferris wheel. The crash, of course, had been spectacular and
the casualties high.

Whatever the reason, mundane or sensational, Riverfork was closed and
had stayed closed, its only visitors teenagers looking for a place to
get drunk, get stoned, and get laid (though not necessarily in that
order). Unless the spirits of all those people who died on the
roller-coaster accident still wandered the park in a ghostly daze,
trying to figure out how their day of fun had turned so bad so fast.

Stop it! she told herself. You know you shouldn't think things like that!

5

Damara wished she'd brought a different flashlight from the one she
carried stuck handle-first in the back pocket of her shorts. She'd
gotten it out of the junk drawer in the kitchen before going to bed, and
she'd hidden it under her pillow while she'd waited for her mom and dad
to finish watching the evening news, brush their teeth, and go to bed.
She'd waited a whole other hour, lying in the dark, staring up at her
ceiling and glancing at the digital alarm clock on her dresser every few
minutes. When she couldn't stand waiting any longer, she got up--still
dressed in T-shirt and shorts-- slipped on her sandals, grabbed the
flashlight, and opened her bedroom window just high enough for her to
squeeze through.

The flashlight had worked just fine at first, but soon after she'd
crawled over the chain-link fence that enclosed their backyard, the
light had begun to flicker, and it continued flickering as she made her
way through the short stretch of woods that sloped downhill from her
house toward the river-- and Riverfork. By the time she reached the
rusty locked gate that closed off the entrance to the park, she was
smacking the flashlight every few seconds to keep it illuminated, and
after she found the loose board in the wooden wall that surrounded the
park--a board Tristan and she had tugged on experimentally many times,
though always during the day, and never had they gone further than
prying the board back and peeking inside--the stupid flashlight had died
on her. She didn't know if the batteries were weak or if there

6

was some kind of loose connection, or if she'd broken the little bulb
inside by smacking the flashlight so hard in her attempts to keep it
lit. It didn't really matter, though. She'd made it inside Riverfork. So
she'd stuck the useless flashlight in her pocket and began exploring the
park by starlight, the flashlight handle bumping into her right butt
cheek as she walked. She hoped that if she left it off long enough,
maybe the batteries would recharge or something, and she'd have some
light to see by so she could make her way home. She knew she was
bullshitting herself (bullshishing, Tristan would say), that batteries
didn't work like that, but the thought made her feel a little better
nevertheless.

A breeze blew through the park, and Damara folded her arms over her
chest. Though she was only eleven, she was already beginning to develop
breast buds, and the cold night air had hardened her nipples. So when
she brushed them while folding her arms, the sensation was so
tickley-shivery that she yelped as if she'd been pinched. She wished
she'd brought a jacket or even a light sweater. Though late August in
southwestern Ohio could be (and often was) hot and humid as a
motherbucket, as Tristan would say, the nights could feel more like
September or even October. For all the warmth provided by her Wonder
Woman T-shirt, shorts, and sandals, she might as well be wandering
around the park naked.

The thought made her giggle and this time her nipples felt tingly-warm.
For a moment, she was tempted to really do it, to take off her clothes, toss

7

them to the ground, and let the night air caress her skin. She imagined
the air's kiss making her nipples so swollen that they ached. She felt
heat spreading through her vagina (her Virginia, Tristan might say),
burrowing inside her as if something warm and furry were exploring the
hidden recesses of her body. She got as far as lifting her T-shirt up
over her taut belly before a piece of the night swooped down toward her.

She squealed, let her shirt drop back down, and ducked. She could feel a
swoosh of air as the bat traced the course of her spine, arced upward,
and soared off to rejoin the darkness. Except maybe it wasn't a bat.
Maybe it was something else, something ...

She straightened and looked up at the sky, trying to find the bat (or
whatever it was), flying somewhere above her. After a moment's
searching, she saw a shadowy form circling in the air, but the bat
seemed larger, its flight slower, its wings--were there four of them
now?--beating the humid air more heavily. And it was making a noise that
sounded nothing like the bat screeches she'd heard on Scooby-Doo
cartoons. This sound was a combination of a sheep's bleat and
fingernails being dragged across sheet metal.

She felt a tingling at the base of her skull, as if someone were lightly
brushing fingers across her skin. Fear hit her like a punch to the
stomach, and she began whispering aloud.

"It's a bat, just a bat, nothing else, just an ordinary furry,
pug-nosed, beady-eyed, leather-winged

8

bat-bat-bat..." And as she said this in a breathy whisper that was
almost a chant, she thought of a polar bear standing in a blizzard. An
image that was white, whiter than white, blank, nothing.

The bat was bat-sized again, flying fast and silent as it continued on
its nightly mission to keep the insect population in check.

Damara let out a shaky breath. She'd kept it from happening again.

Maybe she shouldn't have come here. The dark, the shadows, the shapes
... They were like black construction paper, black Play-Doh, black
paint... just waiting for her to reach out, take hold, and work, mold,
use them to make something different, new, and special. The shadowy
forms of the park attractions seemed to lean in closer toward her, as if
they were listening to her thoughts, eagerly waiting to find out what
she would do with them.

Damara squeezed her eyes shut. "Polar bear, polar bear, polar bear,
polar bear ..."

White ... blank ... nothing.

She could hear her father's voice, half angry, half scared.

You have to be more careful, Dee. You could ... could hurt someone. Not
that you'd ever do it on purpose, sweetheart. You wouldn't, you're a
good girl, your mother and I know that. But if you're not careful, what
happened to your brother ...

That was definitely a polar-bear thought, and Damara squashed it good
and hard. She shouldn't have come here, shouldn't have let her fight
with Tristan get to her like that. She should--

9

She heard the scrape of a shoe on gravel coming from somewhere out in
the darkness. Damara's first thought was that Tristan had somehow
figured out what she'd planned tonight, that he'd been watching from his
bedroom window across the street, saw her crawl through her own open
window, and snuck out after her. It would be just like that buttwipe to
follow her and ruin her chance to rub her adventure in his face tomorrow.

She turned toward the sound--though in the dark it was hard for her to
tell exactly which direction it had come from--and was about to call out
to Tristan, when she heard a voice.

"Dee? Where are you? I know you're here somewhere! I heard you sneak out!"

She took in a small gasp of air, and her heart-- which was already
pounding fast--began to race. Omigod! It was Daddy!

"You know you're not supposed to leave home, Dee. Not unless you have
to. You know what can happen."

Damara wanted to run, but her feet refused to move. Normally, she wasn't
afraid of Daddy. He was kind, sweet, funny ... until he thought that
there was danger of her doing it again.

"I was going to call out before you left the yard, but I decided to wait
and see what you were up to."

His voice sounded closer now, but Damara didn't see any sign of him in
the darkness. She wondered why he didn't have a flashlight, but then she
realized that since she'd taken the one in the junk drawer, Daddy
probably hadn't had enough

10

time to look for another before setting out to follow her. That was a
lucky break, for if he didn't have a light to shine on her, if she were
quiet enough and fast enough, maybe she'd be able to get away and hide
from him, maybe even sneak past him and head back home, take off her
clothes, hide the flashlight, and crawl back into bed before he got
back. Then she could try to pretend that she'd been asleep all along.
She didn't really think it would work, knew that Daddy had probably
checked her bedroom before going outside, but it was the only plan she
could come up with to escape his anger--and the punishment he was
certain to dole out for her midnight expedition--and she had to go with
it, regardless of how slim her chances for success were.

"What you're doing is dangerous, Dee. For any kid, not just you. Hell,
it's dangerous for an adult to be wandering around here in the dark." He
chuckled then, the sound so close that Damara thought she could almost
feel her father's breath on her face. "People's imaginations can run
wild in the dark, sweetheart. They can get really scared and do some
foolish things that might get themselves hurt. But we know what happens
when your imagination runs wild, don't we, Dee?"

She could tell that Daddy was fighting to sound calm, but she could hear
suppressed anger in his voice, alongside fear. Fear of her, of what she
might do.

"C'mon, Dee. Just tell me where you are so I can find you and we'll go
back home together. I won't

11

even tell your mom about tonight. It'll be our little secret, okay?"

Damara heard another scrape of shoe on gravel, and she was certain Daddy
was real close now, maybe close enough to reach out and grab her if he
knew which direction to reach. Damara took hold of the flashlight and
pulled it out of her pocket. She guessed which direction her father was
and threw the flashlight the opposite way. A couple of seconds later,
plastic clattered on asphalt, and without waiting to see whether Daddy
took the bait, Damara started running. Her sandals made a
thwop-thwop-thwop sound as she ran, and she wished she'd thought of
taking them off before she'd started running. Too late now.

She'd been inside the park long enough for her eyes to adjust somewhat,
and she headed toward what she guessed was a building of some sort. She
had no idea whether the door would be locked or not--assuming she could
even find the door in the dark--but since Daddy didn't have a
flashlight, even if he figured out which direction she'd run, she
wouldn't have to go inside to hide. She could go around the side of the
building, flatten herself against the wall, and wait until Daddy got
tired of looking for her and gave up. All she had to do was reach the
building. ...

And that's when Daddy turned on his flashlight.

Jerry Ruschmann saw his daughter scamper away from his flashlight beam
as if she were some manner of nocturnal animal that he'd startled. He

12

started to call out to her again, but he stopped himself. If words were
going to make her come to him, they would've done so by now. He tried to
track her with the flashlight--one he kept in his nightstand drawer in
case the power went out in the middle of the night--but she was moving
so fast, all he caught were glimpses of her long brown hair flying in
the wind, skinny arms, and legs pumping as if her life depended on her
mustering all the speed she was capable of.

He felt a pang of guilt then, for he knew that Dee (he never thought of
her as Damara; that was the name her mother had insisted on), ran
because she was afraid of him, afraid of what he might do to punish her.
Jerry didn't want to punish her, nor did he want to be out here with her
alone, in the dark, in an abandoned amusement park that he had visited
so many times as a child back when Riverfork had been a going concern.
In truth, though he never would admit this to anyone--had never even
told his wife, though he was certain she suspected--he was scared of
Dee. Oh, he loved her plenty, too, as much as he could imagine loving
anyone. And that was why, despite his fear, he had followed her tonight.

He started jogging after Damara, keys jingling in the pocket of the
jeans he'd hastily pulled on before leaving the house, gut bobbling
beneath the too-small T-shirt he slept in. He'd put on some weight in
the last year or so, drinking too much beer, eating too much crap, and
just getting older, he figured. But he regretted every extra ounce

13

now, and he was gulping for breath and hoping that his pounding heart
wasn't going to explode on him in protest for making it work so hard.

Goddamn, better get myself a gym membership for Christmas, Jerry
thought. And maybe start cutting back on the quarter-pounders, too.

The flashlight bounced around in his grip as he ran, making it even
harder to keep track of Damara. But he was able to see that she was
heading toward a building with dingy, cracked mirrors covering the
outside walls. There was a faded sign over the entrance, and though the
letters had been worn by wind, rain, and time, he could still read them.
Alacrity's Spectatorium. It was a hall of mirrors, and Damara was
running pell-mell toward the entrance.

"Don't." He tried to shout, but the word came out as a whisper. He
continued running toward the building, momentarily losing sight of
Damara in the darkness. He came to a panting, sweating, pulsethrobbing
stop outside the building's mirrored doors, then bent over and struggled
to catch his breath. Though he couldn't count the number of times he'd
come to Riverfork as a kid and later a teen, he had no trouble recalling
how many times he'd been inside this place. Exactly once. He wasn't sure
what "Spectatorium" meant, or who or what "Alacrity" was, but it was
just a fancy name for a hall of mirrors. And it had scared the holy
living shit out of him when he was little. The confusing maze of
mirrors, the distorted nightmarish images looking out at him from behind
the glass ... The

14

thought of going back in there after close to thirty years, going back
in there with Dee, was almost enough to make him piss his pants. But
regardless of whatever else she might be, Damara was just a little girl,
and he was her daddy. He couldn't let her run around in there, alone, in
the dark, no matter how much he might have wanted to.

He straightened, sweat cold and clammy on his skin. He took in a last
shuddering breath and, flashlight held tight, pushed open the door and
entered Alacrity's Spectatorium. And if someone had told him that he
would never walk out again, he wouldn't have been surprised. Not in the
slightest.

15

Chapter One

Damara sat on a folding chair in front of her bedroom window. The chair
wasn't especially comfortable, but since she could fold it up and slide
it under her bed, she could keep her mother from knowing how much time
she spent sitting here, looking out at the world. She used to have a
more comfortable chair, an old recliner that had once belonged to her
dad, but her mother had given it away to Amvets last year, saying, It's
not good for you to sit and stare out the window all day, but meaning so
much more.

Damara had been forced to stand or kneel in front of her window after
that, until one day when Mom was taking a shower, and Damara decided to
go down to the basement. Tucked away in one musty corner she found an
old card table and a couple chairs. On impulse, she'd carried one of the
chairs upstairs and quickly hid it beneath her bed before Mom could
finish her shower. Damara had felt foolish at the time, sneaking around
like a little

16

kid. After all, she was twenty-eight. Still, she knew that if Mom ever
found out about the folding chair, she'd take it away, just as Damara
knew that she'd do nothing to stop her.

Mom had gone grocery shopping this afternoon, though, and Damara could
sit and look out the window all she wanted. Mom often ran other errands
when she went out, sometimes even had lunch with friends or went out to
a movie. Damara wondered what it would be like to see a movie in a real
theater. She hadn't gone to a cinema since she was quite young, and she
had no memory of the experience. But she didn't need a theater, did she?
She had her window.

Two of them, actually: one that faced east and one that faced south.
Through the east window she could see across the street and had great
views of the Ledfords' house and the Marcinos'. Out the south window was
the next-door neighbors' house, and she had a decent view of both the
Coltons' front and back yards. But she had to be careful using the south
window, for it lined up almost perfectly with the Coltons' bedroom. Emma
Colton was quite the neighborhood busybody and spent more time peering
through windows than Damara did. Plus, her husband Kenneth gave Damara
the creeps. A couple of years ago, Damara had knelt in front of the
south window (she'd kept the recliner in front of the east window, and
it was too heavy to move easily). She craned her head to see the
Coltons' front yard, and when she saw that nothing was happening, she
started to turn to view

17

the back. But as her gaze passed over the Coltons' bedroom window, she
saw Kenneth there, staring out at her with a blank expression. She
froze, unable to tear her gaze away from the old man's, unable to do
anything save watch as a slow smile stretched across his face, revealing
two rows of yellowed, crooked teeth. It was a smile without humor or
joy, and it didn't reach his eyes. They remained cold and expressionless.

As if shrugging off a hypnotic spell, Damara had stood, reached for the
curtain cord, and closed the curtains. Afterward, she'd sat on the side
of her bed and trembled for the better part of a half hour. Since then,
she hadn't used the south window much. Sometimes when she passed by it,
regardless of whether the curtains were open or closed, she felt Kenneth
Colton's gaze on her, but whenever she got up the courage to look (which
wasn't often), she never saw him.

So this afternoon, as on most days, it was the east window through which
Damara viewed the world--or at least, her little corner of it. Though
Pandora Drive wasn't the busiest street in town, she usually found
enough to keep her entertained. The street ran through a suburban
neighborhood whose best days were behind it. The houses had been built
in the forties and fifties, all of them two-story Cape Cods with red
brick and green- or black-shingled roofs and shutters to match. The
yards were small and devoid of any landscaping except for the occasional
flowerbed. There were few garages in the neighborhood, so most

18 I

Tim Waggoner

residents parked in their driveways or on the street. About half the
houses on the street needed some sort of improvement--new roof, new
shutters, new porch--and most of the cars were used, with dents and
scratches, rust-nibbled frames, patches of primer and smears of Bondo.

Once, this had been one of the nicer neighborhoods in town, especially
back when the amusement park had been thriving. But after Riverfork had
closed down, the neighborhood had begun a gradual process of decay, as
if the park's dissolution were slowly spreading. Pandora Drive wasn't a
dump, and it was still safe enough, but it wasn't what it used to be,
either.

It was early October, and the leaves on the oak and elm trees that lined
both sides of the street were beginning to change color, from shades of
green to a riot of oranges, reds, browns, and yellows. Before too many
more days passed, Kenneth Colton would be outside with his leaf blower,
battling the season to keep his yard as immaculate as possible. Across
the street, Anne Marcino would wait until her yard was completely
covered. Then she and her young daughter would go outside, rake the
leaves into one big pile, and both of them would take turns jumping into
it until the leaves were scattered all over the yard, and they'd laugh,
pick up their rakes, and start the process all over again. Damara's mom
would just pay one of the teenage boys who lived down the street to rake
for them, just like Mrs. Ledford always ...

19

Damara paused in mid-thought. She'd been about to think, Just like Mrs.
Ledford always does, except that wasn't the proper verb anymore, was it?
Poor Mrs. Ledford had lost her battle with cancer less than a month ago,
and right now a For Sale sign was displayed in her yard, leaves lazily
drifting down around it and forming a small mound at its base. Damara
hadn't gone to the funeral. She'd wanted to, as much to see Tristan
again as to say goodbye to his mother, but her own mom had insisted she
stay home. "Just to be on the safe side." Damara had been so ashamed at
missing the funeral that she hadn't even tried to go across the street
to tell Tristan how sorry she was (not that her mom would've let her),
and she'd felt even more awkward about calling. Tristan had only
remained in Zephyr for a couple more days before getting back into his
rental car and, she presumed, heading to the airport. A real estate
agent had stopped by the next day and put up the For Sale sign.

Thinking about Mrs. Ledford and Tristan depressed Damara. She was about
to give up on window watching for the day when she heard the distant
rumble of the school bus coming down the street. She stayed where she
was, hands folded in her lap, and waited. Before long the bus came
hissing to a stop in front of the Marcinos'. The bus pulled away, a
couple of children looking out their own windows at Damara, so used were
they to seeing her sitting there. A couple waved and a few

20

more stuck out tongues or made similarly rude gestures. Damara, as she
always did, ignored the rude ones and waved back to the nice ones.

When the bus pulled away, Damara could see Autumn, who hated her name,
especially at this time of the year. But whether she liked it or not,
the girl certainly fit the season. Her hair was a rich, deep auburn, and
she wore a white top, brown skirt, orange socks, and brown shoes. She
was a pretty girl, and with the way she was dressed and the leaves on
the ground and in the trees, she looked as if she belonged on the cover
of a JC Penney catalog.

Carrying a heavy backpack, Autumn kicked through the leaves as she
crossed the yard (she never used the walkway) toward the front porch.
Even with the window closed, Damara could hear the leaves rustle, and
she leaned forward and rapped her knuckle against the glass three times.
Autumn stopped, turned around, saw Damara sitting at her window, and
broke into a huge grin. She dropped her backpack to the ground and ran
across the lawn toward Damara's house. As usual, the girl didn't bother
looking before she darted into the street, and Damara held her breath
and prayed that the child wouldn't be struck by a car. Autumn survived
the crossing and came skipping up to Damara's window. Damara opened it
so the two of them could talk.

"You're going to get killed if you don't start looking before you cross
the street," Damara said.

Autumn made a face. "You sound just like my

21

mom. Next you're probably going to tell me not to carry so many books in
my backpack." Autumn had a bad habit of taking out a dozen books at a
time from the school library and carrying them around in her backpack
every day. Autumn's mom, Anne, was always worried that her daughter was
going to strain a muscle or develop back problems.

Damara laughed. "And you sound just like I did when I was your age. So
how was school today?"

"It was all right. Evan chased me on the playground again. He wouldn't
stop until I threatened to kiss him." Autumn frowned. "Why are boys like
that, anyway?"

"Like what?" Damara asked.

"Stupid."

Damara smiled. "Who knows? Maybe they think that we're the stupid ones."

"C'mon, Damara--everyone knows that girls are way smarter than boys!"

Everyone knows. Such a simple phrase, so common as to be almost
meaningless. But when it came to relationships between the genders,
Damara had almost no experience to draw on, and thus she had no advice
to offer Autumn on how to deal with the attentions of Evan Dorr. The
only boyfriend she'd ever had was Tristan, and it wasn't like they'd
officially dated or anything. Not for the first time, Damara was struck
by the fact that her closest friend these days--her only friend,
really-- was a ten-year-old girl. But it made sense, didn't it? In terms
of experience, Damara wasn't all that older than Autumn, and she
wondered how long it

22

would be until the girl had learned more of life than someone like
Damara, someone who didn't go out, would ever know. How much longer
until Autumn started feeling awkward in her presence and began looking
at her funny? Before she stopped visiting the creepy woman across the
street, ceased waving to her, and eventually avoided so much as looking
toward the woman's window as she got off the bus? Not long enough,
Damara feared.

"Did I say something wrong?" Autumn asked. "You're awful quiet."

Damara realized that she'd gotten so caught up in her
self-pity--something that happened too often--she'd momentarily
forgotten about Autumn. "Sorry," she said with an apologetic smile. "I
guess my mind wandered there for a minute. Maybe you should just tell
Evan how you feel. Maybe he thinks you like it when he chases you."

"But I do. I mean, kinda. I mean ..." She trailed off and glanced to her
left. Her eyes widened and she paled. "Oh, no."

Damara felt a cold twist of revulsion in her stomach, and though she had
a pretty clear notion of what was bothering Autumn, in a soft voice she
asked, "What is it?"

Autumn replied in a whisper, "Mr. Colton. He's watching me out his front
window right now, and he's ... smiling." Autumn shuddered.

"There's nothing wrong with someone looking out a window," Damara said,
more to comfort her

23

young friend than because she believed whatever Kenneth was doing was
innocent. "Look at me; I do it all the time."

Damara hoped that last line would at least elicit a smile from Autumn,
but the girl didn't react, didn't take her gaze off the Coltons' house.

"It's hard to tell, but I... I don't think he's wearing a shirt."

Damara's revulsion grew stronger, and now it was mixed with anger as
well. She balled her hands into fists and pressed them against her
sides, but when she spoke, she fought to keep her voice calm. "Maybe
he's just hot or something. I'd ignore him. Besides, if I know Mrs.
Hamilton, you probably have some homework to do."

It took an effort, but Autumn pulled her gaze away from the shirtless
Kenneth Colton and looked at Damara. "Some history and math. But Mom
always lets me wait until after supper to do my homework."

"And who was telling me the other day how much she hates doing homework
late because she gets so tired?"

Autumn looked sheepish. "Me."

"So why don't you go on home and do your schoolwork now? That way you'll
be finished by the time your mom gets home and you'll have the rest of
the night to do whatever you want."

As Damara spoke, she tried not to imagine Kenneth standing at his front
window, looking at Autumn and leering at the little girl (he wasn't

24

just smiling, Damara was sure of that), wearing no shirt ... and maybe
not wearing anything else, either.

"Oh, all right," Autumn said, but despite her words, there was no
protest in her voice. Only relief at having an excuse to get away from
Kenneth Colton's leering gaze. "See you tomorrow, Damara!"

Before Damara could reply, Autumn turned and ran. Once again, she didn't
look before crossing the street, but this time Damara didn't blame her.
She leaned her head out the window and looked over at the Coltons'
house, but she still couldn't see Kenneth from this angle. She shook her
head in disgust. She could just imagine what that horny old bastard was
thinking. ...

But she wasn't supposed to imagine, was she? It wasn't safe.

Damara leaned back inside, closed the window, shut the curtains and ran
to her bed. She crawled under the covers, lay her head back on the
pillow and concentrated on summoning the mental image of a polar bear in
a blizzard.

Kenneth watched Autumn grab her backpack off the ground, carry it onto
her front porch, fish out her house key, open the door, go inside, and
slam the door shut. His window was closed, so he couldn't hear whether
she locked the door, but he'd bet his left nut that she did.

Speaking of his left nut, Kenneth held it in his hand, along with its
matching counterpart,

25

working them both as if they were rubber exercise balls: squeeze,
release, squeeze, release, squeeze, release ... The sensation wasn't
pleasurable exactly, but it was enough to make the tiny shriveled nub of
flesh that was his penis twitch, which was just about all the old boy
was capable of these days. A year and a half ago, Kenneth had traded his
ability to get an erection for having his cancerous prostate removed
before it could spread its poison throughout the rest of his body. At
the time, he'd thought it was a fair trade. Now he wasn't so sure.

Even though he couldn't see Autumn anymore, he stood at the window for
several moments longer, squeezing his balls and thinking about how
pretty that little girl was. She was a piece, all right, and if she kept
on going like she was, before too long she'd be even sexier than her
mamma. One of the many things he regretted about losing the lead in his
pencil was that he'd never had the chance to beat off while Anne Marcino
was out front doing yard work in her cut-off jeans and bikini top. But
she and her little girl had moved in only a couple of weeks after he'd
gotten home from the hospital. Talk about lousy fuckin' timing.

Kenneth was tempted to go into his bedroom, pull up the blinds, and see
if Damara had moved from her front window to the side one. She wasn't as
pretty as Anne--a bit too pale and bony for his taste--but beggars
couldn't be choosers, right? He decided against it. Damara hardly ever
opened the curtains on that window anymore. Besides, he'd been just
about to go online when he heard the

26

school bus coming down the street. Emma usually stayed a half hour after
school let out to prepare for the next day, and even though she had only
two years to go until she retired, his wife worked just as hard as ever.
So if he wanted to have himself a little virtual fun, he'd better get to
it. Emma didn't seem to mind that he was a Weak Willie these days--she'd
never cared too much for sex as it was--but she could be one jealous
hellcat if he so much as glanced at another woman. If she came home and
found him squeezing his balls in front of the computer screen, she'd
probably pick up the monitor and hurl it at the wall--and he'd be lucky
if that's all she'd do.

Kenneth padded out of the living room and down the hall to the computer
room, flaccid dick bobbling all the way. Emma and he had never had
children--kind of hard for a woman to get pregnant if she only wanted to
have sex once a month--and so they used their second bedroom as a small
rec room. The computer table was in one corner, and Emma had a chair
near the window that she sat in when she did needlepoint and
crossstitch. Since neither Emma nor Kenneth had any friends to speak of,
the banal samplers she liked to make were framed and hung up throughout
the house. In here, there were three. A picture of a rainbow above the
saying "Miracles Happen"; a scattering of balloons against a sky-blue
background and a single word, "Joy"; and hanging above his computer, a
cartoonish man in a flannel shirt and hip waders standing in the middle of a

27

stream fishing (though Kenneth hated fishing), fish leaping out of the
water, the man's line stretching from the tip of his pole to the fish's
mouth. Beneath the picture, this saying: "I'm hooked on you!" complete
with overlarge exclamation point. Kenneth would've liked nothing better
than to take all Emma's stupid samplers--especially the fishing one--and
toss them in the fireplace and flame on! But as satisfying as that might
be, he knew it would bring him more trouble than it was worth.

So he sat down at the computer, turned it on, and squeezed his balls
some more as he waited for the machine to boot. He was trying to decide
whether to go into the bedroom and get his penis pump, and whether he'd
have enough time to make use of it before Emma got home, when the screen
finally flickered to life. He worked the mouse with one hand while he
kept working his balls with the other, and soon he was online and ready
to hit one of his favorite porn sites. But as he started to type in the
URL (typing one-handed, of course), he changed his mind and decided to
check his e-mail. It was a special account, one that Emma didn't know he
had, and he only received special e-mail there. He reached the site,
logged on, and saw that he had three messages waiting.

The first two were junk--one for a male-enhancement drug that didn't
work (as Kenneth knew from firsthand experience) and one for cheap
prescription drugs. He deleted them both, then checked the third. It was
from NOT-E-DD.

28

Naughty Double-D, Kenneth thought, recognizing the screen name from an
adult site he frequented. He opened the e-mail, repressing a surge of
excitement. He'd gotten enough of these sort of messages to know better
than to get his hopes up.

Dear Rawdog:

Thanks for viewing my profile and sending me a message! And thanks for
the compliments on my picture! I have even better ones to share with the
right person! Here's a sample:

There was an icon all by itself on the next line, a tiny image of a
camera. Kenneth was by no means a computer expert. He'd worked in sales
his entire adult life until retiring after his prostate removal. But
he'd surfed the seamier side of the Web often enough that he was quite
familiar with the endless and ever-changing scams out there in
cyberspace. He knew there was a good chance that if he clicked on the
icon, he'd end up downloading a virus onto his computer, so he
hesitated, cursor arrow next to the little camera, index finger resting
lightly on the mouse button. But then he figured he'd come this far, so
what the hell?

He clicked on the icon.

The monitor screen went white for a second, and Kenneth feared that he'd
gambled and lost, that a virus was beginning to spread like wildfire
through his PC's files. But then a picture appeared, and he knew his
risk had paid off.

He remembered the woman at once. He spent a lot of time on the Adult
Connections site, usually when Emma was at school or after she'd gone to

29

bed. He'd viewed a lot of profiles of female members ages eighteen to
sixty, searching for what the site euphemistically termed a "friend with
benefits." Most of the profiles he viewed were unsuitable for one reason
or another. Either the women lived too far away, weren't interested in
someone his age (though his own profile claimed that he was forty-eight
instead of sixty), or they were fake profiles set up by the
male-enhancement/prescription-drug scammers and their ilk. But this
woman, NOT-E-DD, lived right here in Zephyr. Though her profile listed
her age as fifty-two and her body type as "ample," he'd found her
attractive and had sent her an e-mail saying so, though he'd colored his
admiration with somewhat raunchier terms.

This new picture she'd sent put the one displayed on her site profile to
shame. The other picture showed NOT-E-DD from the waist up, wearing a
tight red sweater, bending low to reveal a generous amount of cleavage.
Curly red hair spilled down over her shoulders, and for some unknown
reason she was wearing a Santa hat. She had a pretty, if somewhat plump
face and a nice smile. One that was inviting without being too slutty
(not that there was anything wrong with slutty as far as Kenneth was
concerned). But this new picture ...

She sat in an old-fashioned clawfoot bathtub, surrounded by mounds of
bubbles. But the bubbles didn't cover her large breasts. She held them
cupped in her hands, as if she were presenting them to the viewer--to
Kenneth--to do whatever

30

he wanted with them. She had no Santa hat this time, but her makeup was
more pronounced, more exaggerated, more slutty in the best possible way.
Best of all was her lipstick: bubble-gum pink with an overlying sheen of
lip gloss, the sort of thing a horny teenage girl might wear, thinking
it made her seem grown-up and sophisticated when in truth it made her
look like a dumb whore. And though NOT-E-DD was supposed to be
fifty-two, in this picture, she seemed ten years younger.

Kenneth squeezed his balls so hard he thought they might burst like the
yolks of a couple softboiled eggs. God-damn, that was one hot picture!
He wished like hell that he'd seen it before his cock became permanently
deflated. He'd give anything to be able to splooge all over those
gigantic tits.

And then Kenneth felt a warmth spread through his groin, a warmth that
he knew well, though it had been several years since he'd last
experienced it. He stopped squeezing his nuts and pulled his hand away
so he could get a better view of his dick. As he watched, his penis
twitched once, twice, then began to thicken and swell, the flesh growing
darker as blood rushed through the capillaries. The head of his cock
became shiny and purple, and the veins lining the shaft became thick and
ropy. He couldn't believe it; he had achieved his first erection in more
than two years. And as if his dick were making up for lost time, his
hard-on was better than any he'd ever had, including when he'd been a
teenager and it seemed like he sported a continuous boner twenty-four
hours a day. His

31

cock got so hard it hurt. The skin seemed stretched so tight he thought
it had reached the limits of its elasticity and would tear any second.
And though he wasn't sure, he thought that his erection was larger than
it had ever been, by as much as an inch, maybe two.

Tentatively, as if afraid he might do something to spoil his erection if
he touched it, Kenneth reached for his penis and slowly wrapped his
fingers around the shaft. The simple act of putting pressure on his
cock, however light, sent waves of pleasure rippling along his nerve
endings, and he thought he was going to cum like a shotgun right then.
But he gritted his teeth and did his best to hold back. For all he knew,
he might never get another erection in his life, and he wanted to make
it count.

He fastened his gaze on the picture of NOT-E-DD in the tub, offering her
large, water-slick breasts to him, and he began to stroke his cock,
slowly and gently at first, and then with increasing speed and pressure.
Even though he was only jacking off, the sensations were more intense
than anything he'd ever experienced with Emma, anything he'd ever
experienced with any woman, including all the prostitutes he'd visited
to help him endure the years of sexual drought that was his marriage.
Despite his intention to hold off as long as he could, he soon found
himself building toward orgasm. The internal pressure was incredible, as
if all the semen he had stored up for the last two years was going to
come out in a single blast. How

32

much would it be? Enough to cover the keyboard, maybe obscure the
monitor? Enough to spread across the whole damn floor, fill the room,
the house, inundate the whole goddamned world like some triple-X version
of Noah's flood?

"Goddamn, son," he whispered to himself in a thick voice as he worked
his cock with increasing vigor. "You're a machine, a goddamn sex machine!"

Almost there ... just another few seconds ...

And then Kenneth heard the sound of Emma's car pulling into the driveway.

As if a switch had been flipped somewhere inside him, his dick rapidly
began to deflate, shrinking, turning pale and yellowish, withdrawing
like a wrinkled turtle head into his body until it was barely visible in
the nest of his white pubic hair.

"Fucking bitch!" Kenneth swore, almost shouting. But he didn't have time
for anger right then--he needed to shut down the computer and get
dressed before Emma came into the house and caught him.

He didn't bother logging off the Internet or even hitting the power
switch. Instead, he grabbed the power cord and yanked it out of the
wall. The monitor screen died, and Kenneth dropped the cord, jumped out
of his chair, and started running for the bedroom where he'd left his
clothes. As he ran, he caught a glimpse of the sampler Emma had made
with the rainbow on it and once more he read the words "Miracles Happen."

I guess sometimes they do, he thought, then forgot about it as he
hurried to the bedroom.

33

Chapter Two

"Don't put that peanut butter in the cupboard, dear. It goes in the
refrigerator."

Damara held the jar closer to her face and squinted so she could better
read the label. She'd become a bit nearsighted over the last few years,
but she hadn't said anything to her mother about it. She didn't want to
go to the eye doctor--or anywhere else, for that matter--unless it was
absolutely necessary.

"How come?" she asked. "It looks like regular peanut butter to me."

"It's unhydrogenated," Claire Ruschmann said. She was busy putting cans
and boxes into the kitchen cupboards and didn't turn to look at her
daughter as she spoke. "It's healthier, but it'll spoil if it's not
refrigerated."

"Probably tastes like peanut butter-colored mud," Damara muttered, but
she opened the fridge and put the jar on the top shelf.

"And don't use the top shelf," Claire said. "I still

34

have to put the milk and juice away, so I'll need the room."

Damara almost told her mother that she could put her own damn
unhydrogenated peanut butter away if she was going to be so picky, but
she managed to hold her tongue. She moved the peanut butter to the
second shelf, then closed the door. She knew that she was irritable this
afternoon. It was all she could do to keep from biting her mom's head
off at the least provocation. But she wasn't sure why. Her period was
still a couple of weeks away, and she never had real bad PMS anyway.
Sometimes she got a little stir crazy hanging around the house all day,
but she didn't think that was her problem. Not for the first time she
wondered whether she was simply getting tired of living with her mother.
Though Mom wasn't particularly bossy, she did like things in her house
to be a certain way. And though Damara had lived here all her life, it
was Mom's house. Damara was twenty-eight, but she'd never lived on her
own, and though she did help out by doing most of the cooking and
cleaning, this would never be her house, not even once her mom passed away.

Thinking about Mom's eventual death (which she hoped was many years
away) made Damara feel guilty for feeling so irritable.

"Why don't you go sit down? I'll put the rest of the groceries away,"
she offered.

Claire finally turned around to face Damara. "Are you sure?" But though
she was looking in her daughter's direction, Claire's gaze didn't quite

35

meet Damara's eyes. She always looked slightly off to the side or above
or below Damara's eyes. Mom had been reluctant to make eye contact with
her ever since Jason had ... gone away.

Claire looked at her then, really looked, gaze meeting gaze, and Damara
was struck by how little she had changed over the years. Sure, she'd put
on some weight, but since she was short, she looked heavier than she
really was. Her short straight hair was still blond, though Damara knew
she colored it. She had tiny crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, and
the flesh beneath her chin sagged and wobbled when she laughed--not that
she laughed very often. But otherwise her mother was just as Damara
remembered from her childhood. Even the clothes she wore--gray Ohio
State sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers--seemed the same. Damara thought
she could find pictures of her mother dressed exactly the same way if
she looked through the family photo albums. It seemed that Claire hadn't
changed since Damara was eleven, since the night Jerry Ruschmann had
disappeared. It was as if Claire were determined to keep herself looking
exactly as she had when her husband vanished, just in case he came back
one day.

Another wave of guilt crashed into Damara, but she withstood it. She'd
had a great deal of practice over the years.

"C'mon, you've got to leave for work in a few hours," Damara said. "You
should take a nap, but if you won't, then at least sit down and rest."

Claire laughed and raised her hands in

36

surrender. "All right, all right! You win." She shook her head, smiling.
"You know, sometimes I can't tell which one of us is the mother and
which is the daughter."

Damara returned her mother's smile, but she thought, I can tell, Mom. I
never forget.

By the time Damara had finished putting away the groceries, Claire had
hopped in the shower to get ready for work. She ran the front desk at
the Econo Inn over in Waldron, and she left home when most folks were
finishing their dinner. The arrangement suited both of them, since they
were both night owls, and Damara normally did the housework while Claire
was at work.

Damara took a couple of microwaveable meals out of the freezer and set
them on the counter to thaw for a few minutes. She needed to go to the
bathroom, but Mom was still in the shower. If all she had to do was pee,
she'd have gone ahead and entered the bathroom, relieved herself, closed
the lid, and asked Mom to flush it for her when she finished with her
shower (otherwise, the shower water would turn instantly scalding when
Damara flushed the toilet). But Damara had to do more than pee, and
though she had lived with Mom her whole life, she wasn't comfortable
defecating in her presence. The idea was just too embarrassing.

There was another option: the house had a second bathroom, next to
Damara's room. But neither Damara nor her mother used it. They kept the
door closed, though not locked, and Damara

37

cleaned in there rarely, maybe once, twice a year at most. The plumbing
was still functional--at least, it had been the last time the bathroom
had been cleaned--but Damara would rather wait for Mom to finish in the
other bathroom if she could. Hell, she'd almost rather soil herself than
use the second one.

She went into the living room, sat down on the couch, and turned on the
television. She flipped through the cable channels, trying to find
something good. She skipped movies, drama and comedy series, kids'
cartoons, and finally settled for a nature documentary on the Discovery
Channel. Damara avoided fictional stories of any sort, whether written
or visual. She didn't want to risk any possible stimulating effect they
might have on her imagination. News, documentaries, and the tamer
reality shows were all safer choices.

An image of a river appeared on the screen, accompanied by a disembodied
narrator's voice.

"The environmental effect on the fish population downstream from where
the chemical spill took place was absolutely devastating."

The scene shifted to a close-up of the riverbank. Dead fish bobbed in
the water near the shore, surrounded by a thick foamy froth that had
collected along the bank. The camera zoomed in on one of the fish until
a single dead black eye nearly filled the entire screen.

The announcer droned on, but Damara didn't hear what he was saying. A
painful spasm wracked her gut as her bowels threatened to unburden

38

themselves right there on the couch. Despite her earlier determination
not to use the second bathroom, Damara jumped off the couch, ran out the
living room, down a short hallway, until she reached the closed bathroom
door.

Her gut spasmed again, and she gritted her teeth against the pain and
concentrated on holding on. But even so, she still hesitated at the
door, hand halfway to the knob. She decided that she'd rather use the
other bathroom and to hell with any embarrassment she might feel, but by
then it was too late. Another cramp hit her and she passed some gas, and
she knew she'd never make it to the other bathroom in time.

She grabbed the knob, opened the door, hurried inside, shut the door,
lifted the toilet seat without bothering to turn the light on first,
pulled down her pants and underwear, sat down, and waited for her body
to do what it had to do. But now that she was here, sitting on a cold
toilet seat in the dark, insides twisting and writhing as if her
intestines were angry serpents desperate to escape the trap of flesh
they were encased in, she couldn't go. The pain continued, increased,
until tears ran down her cheeks.

And then she heard a soft gurgle from the direction of the tub, as if
the drain were backing up.

"No," she whispered between clenched teeth. She tried to summon the
image of the polar bear, but all she could see in her mind's eye was a
bathtub half full of water and a naked little brownhaired boy sitting
amidst a tiny fleet of plastic

39

boats, rubber ducks, and toy fish that shot streams of water from their
mouths when squeezed.

Damara moaned as her bowels finally let go.

Jason ...

"Mara?"

"What?" Damara didn't look up from the book she was reading. She was in
second grade and had just started reading chapter books. She loved
reading, loved how grown up it made her feel, and she constantly had her
nose in one book or another.

"Is he going to get me?"

That question got Damara's full attention. She looked up from her Boxcar
Kids book and turned toward her younger brother. She sat on the toilet
seat, the lid down, her legs crossed the same way Mom crossed hers.

"Is who going to get you?" she asked.

"You know ... the sharp guy."

Damara frowned. She was almost seven while Jason was only four. She was
well on her way to being a grown-up while he was practically still a
baby. She was used to him saying weird stuff that didn't make sense, but
it still irritated her. She wished that Mom hadn't made her sit in here
and watch Jason while she put a load of laundry in the washer. Damara
might be old enough to watch her little brother for a few minutes, but
that didn't mean she wanted to.

"No, I don't know, Jason. But whatever you're talking about, it doesn't
matter. No one can get you in the tub."

40

"But he jumps out of the water!" Jason insisted. "I saw it in the ABC
book Mamma read to me!"

Damara wanted nothing more than for her brother to shut up so she could
get back to reading her book, but despite herself, she was intrigued.
"Which ABC book? You have a lot of them, you know."

"The Peter Rabbit one."

Damara knew exactly which one he was talking about. Peter Rabbit's ABC,
123. It technically was her book, but because she was much too old for
ABC's, she let Jason keep it in his room and think it was his. She also
knew who the "sharp guy" was that Jason had referred to. All the
illustrations in the book were taken from various Beatrix Potter
stories, and the page for the letter J had a picture of a frog in
waistcoat and pants named Jeremy Fisher. He sat on a lily pad, holding a
fishing pole, and he was shown jumping backward off the pad, froggy eyes
wide with surprise, as a fish leaped out of the water. There was a big
red J in the upper left-hand corner of the page, and the caption below
the illustration said, "Splash! Jack Sharp, covered in spines."

When Damara had been Jason's age, she'd thought the picture was funny,
though there was something about the fish's eye--Jack Sharp's eye-- that
bothered her. It was so black, with only a thin circle of white around
it. It looked so cold, so alien ... Damara used to touch that eye (only
one was visible in the drawing) with her index finger, gently rubbing
the smooth paper it was printed on

41

and wondering if it was just her imagination that the paper was cooler
and smoother there than on the rest of the page.

"I know what you're talking about now," Damara said. "But Jack Sharp's
just a picture in a book. He can't hurt you. And even if he was a real
fish, he wouldn't be in the bathtub. He'd be somewhere where there was a
lot more water, like in a pond or a lake."

"But there's only a little bit of water on that page," Jason said. "And
Jack Sharp jumps out of that. What if he jumps out of this water, with
all his spines? What if he tries to eat me?" Jason shuddered and
continued in a soft, frightened voice. "And what if one of his spines
pokes my wee-wee?"

Damara almost laughed to hear Jason use such a baby word. Mom had told
her last year that the real word for a boy's wee-wee was pee-nus, which
sounded liked peanuts to her, and that was funny, too. But she didn't
laugh. She could tell that Jason was really scared, and though he was
scared for a stupid reason, he was still her little brother and Mom was
depending on her to take care of him.

"That's not going to happen, Jason, because Jack Sharp is only pretend.
And even if he wasn't, I bet he's a nice fish who'd never hurt anybody."

"Really?" Jason looked at her with wide, hopeful eyes.

"Sure. Besides, he's just a little fish. It's not like he's the Creature
from the Black Lagoon or anything."

42

The water in the tub began to splash and roil, and Jason screamed as a
clawed green hand covered with cactuslike spines reached up from
somewhere beyond the bottom of the tub and grabbed hold of his throat.
As the spines plunged into the flesh of his neck, Jason's scream was
choked off. Blood bubbled over his lips, splattered onto the spiny green
hand, ran onto his chest, down into the still-roiling bathwater and
began to turn it pink.

Jason looked at her, his eyes filled with terror and pain, his lips
working as he tried to speak, but all he could get out was,
"Muh-muh-muh-muh ..."

She knew he was trying to say Mara.

He held out a hand toward her, and though she was more frightened than
she ever imagined she could be, she reached out to take it.

And that's when Jack Sharp pulled Jason under.

Damara sobbed as she wiped herself and flushed the toilet. She didn't
know whether her mother was done in the shower yet. If not, Claire was
probably screeching as the water suddenly turned hot on her, but Damara
didn't care. She couldn't abide the thought of leaving her feces
floating in the bowl any longer than she had to. But even more, she
wanted to drown out the sound of gurgling water that came from the tub
drain, along with a faint echo of a whisper that sounded like a scared
little boy saying Mara.

43

Chapter Three

Emma Colton was outside pulling weeds from her flower garden when Anne
Marcino came driving down the street in her red Camaro. The woman always
drove too fast as far as Emma was concerned, and her car wasn't suitable
for a respectable woman. Not that Anne worried about that, Emma figured.
Not the way she always dressed to draw as much male attention as
possible. Her shirts never quite came down all the way to her pants,
allowing her pierced navel and part of the butterfly tattoo on her lower
back to peek out. And though she was, quote unquote, a single mom, from
what Emma understood, the woman wasn't officially divorced from her
husband. He was just ... elsewhere. Worst of all was how Anne let that
daughter of hers stay alone in the house from after school until she got
home from work. Hadn't the woman ever heard of day care? Sure, the girl
didn't run around the neighborhood, and though Emma had never had her as
a student,

44

Autumn Marcino had a reputation as a good kid around Klyburn Elementary.
But it was only a matter of time before the girl ended up a tramp like
her mother. One thing that Emma had learned during nearly thirty years
as a teacher: The acorn didn't fall too damn far from the tree.

Anne drove past the Markleys' house. As usual, the three Markley teens
and a number of their white-trash friends were hanging out on the porch.
Anne honked as she drove by, and the kids smiled and waved.

Emma frowned. Birds of a feather ... She grabbed a fistful of dead dry
weeds in her gloved hand and yanked them out of the ground.

The Markleys lived next door to Anne, and she slowed as she approached
her driveway.

Don't look at me, you tramp, Emma thought as she shoved the weeds into a
plastic trash bag. Don't you dare look at me.

Anne looked at Emma, smiled, and waved. Emma faked a smile and returned
the wave. She hated to do it, but one had to maintain certain standards.
The whole neighborhood had gone down the toilet over the last ten years
or so, with more white trash and even some blacks and Mexicans moving
in, but Emma refused to allow herself to be dragged down to the level of
her so-called neighbors. So when someone smiled at her, she smiled back,
and when someone waved, she waved. No matter how much she might loathe them.

Autumn came out onto the porch as Anne pulled into the driveway, and the
girl ran down the

45

front steps to greet her mother. Emma glanced over at the Markleys'
porch. There were seven teens there. Three of them were smoking
(including the Markley girl), and two of the remaining four (a boy and a
girl, thank God for small favors) were kissing--if you could call
ramming tongues into one another's mouth kissing. The other two were the
Markley twins, Brad and Bobby, and they were looking at Emma and
laughing. No, not at her, she realized. They were looking past her.

She turned and saw Kenneth standing at the front window, looking across
the street, watching as Anne Marcino got out of her car in a too-tight
sweater and a too-short skirt and gave Autumn a hug.

Emma heard one of the twins--she didn't know which since she'd never
been able to tell them apart, even when she'd had them both as students
years ago--say, "What a fuckin' perv!"

Warmth spread through her cheeks as she flushed with embarrassed anger.
How dare those little bastards say that about her Kenneth! As if they
were qualified to cast stones ... She'd heard from Janice Connor down
the street that one of the twins, who'd had their eighteenth birthday
this summer, was dating a tawdry little piece of sixteen-year-old jailbait.

Anne popped open the truck of her car and lifted out a cardboard box
full of files. She was an accountant and often brought work home with
her. Probably because she was always too busy flirting at the office--or
maybe doing a lot more than flirting-- to get all her work finished
during the day. Whore.

46

Emma looked back toward the front window of her house. She was too close
for Kenneth to see her unless he looked down and to his left. She'd
started working out back soon after getting home from school but had
since moved around to the front. She doubted that Kenneth realized she
was here. She watched him stare at Anne Marcino as she walked up the
front steps of her house, her barely covered ass swinging back and forth
with each step, Autumn following behind her. Kenneth's eyes shone with
lust, and though his hands weren't visible, Emma saw his left shoulder
moving up and down, back and forth, and she had a pretty goddamned good
idea what he was doing.

She grabbed a dirt clod from the flowerbed and hurled it toward the
window. It smacked into the glass and burst apart in a shower of dirt.
Kenneth jumped, startled, and he looked around in confusion until he
finally saw her. He smiled sheepishly and waved, but Emma just glared at
him. His smile fell away, and he turned and retreated deeper into the house.

Anne and Autumn had already gone inside and closed their front door, but
the kids on the Markleys' porch erupted into peals of laughter at the
show Emma and Kenneth had just put on for them. Emma felt like flashing
her middle finger at the little fuckers, but instead she ignored them
and turned her attention back to her weeds. She was determined to
maintain certain behavioral standards, even if she was the last one on
the street,

47

hell, in the whole damn world to do so. But as she yanked up another
handful of weeds, she imagined she was instead pulling up the Markley
twin who had made that perv crack about Kenneth. She tossed the weeds
toward the trash bag without looking, then reached for another handful.
But before she could pull it up, she heard a meaty thud and then one of
the girls on the Markelys' porch screamed.

One of the twins lay facedown on the porch steps, thick dark blood
running from his head, trickling over the last step and pattering onto
the walkway like a grisly miniature waterfall.

"I just can't believe it. I mean, I drove past and waved only a few
minutes ago, and now..." Anne's voice was choked off by a sob, and she
pulled Autumn closer to her. Autumn wrapped her arms around her mother's
waist, but she didn't take her eyes off the scene next door.

Paramedics knelt next to Bobby Markley, who now lay on the walkway where
his brother had dragged him. The medics were doing their best to save
Bobby's life, but there was so much blood all over, and his forehead was
a ragged ruin of flesh, blood, and what looked like bits of brain.
Damara didn't think much of Bobby's chances.

She stood on the Marcinos' lawn, along with her mom, Anne, and Autumn.
Claire and Damara both stood with their arms folded across their chests
as if they didn't know what to do with their

48

hands, or perhaps to form a barrier--however inadequate--between
themselves and the tragedy taking place next door.

"Is he going to be okay, Mom?" Autumn asked.

Anne opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out.

Damara stepped in. "We'll just have to wait and see, honey."

Claire nodded, but Damara wasn't sure what her mother meant to
communicate with the gesture.

They weren't the only ones standing out in their yards watching the
drama taking place in their midst. Up and down the length of Pandora
Drive, people stood in groups of twos, threes, or more, some talking,
some watching silently as the police and paramedics went about their
work with professional efficiency.

Besides the paramedic van pulled up in front of the Markleys', there
were three police cruisers and even a state trooper's car. Two of the
officers stood with the other Markley children and their
friends--neither of their parents had gotten home from work yet--trying
to keep them calm, especially Bobby's twin Brad, who was sobbing so
violently that he could barely catch his breath.

The boys' sister said to no one in particular, "He was standing there,
right next to me, laughing, and then it was like he just took off. He
didn't run, didn't jump, just ... took off."

"The boy was probably high on one drug or another and slipped on his way
down the stairs."

Damara turned to see that Emma and Kenneth

49

Colton had joined them. She hadn't noticed either of them cross the
street, but then she'd been unable to take her gaze off the still form
of Bobby Markley and hadn't been looking in the direction of their house.

"That's not a nice thing to say, Emma," Claire said. "Especially right
now." Damara's mother was always cordial enough to Emma Colton, but she
didn't have much tolerance for the woman's nonsense. It was one of the
traits that Damara admired most in her mom.

"Maybe not," Emma said, "but that doesn't make it any the less likely to
be true, and you all know it."

Claire pursed her lips as if she were fighting to keep her mouth shut.

Damara glanced at Kenneth. He stood next to his wife, hands in his
pockets, but he wasn't looking at Bobby; he was looking at Anne. Damara
didn't need to be able to read the man's mind to know what he was
thinking. It was perfectly evident from the way he moved his hands about
in his pockets. Damara was thoroughly disgusted. It was bad enough that
Kenneth leered at the women in the neighborhood through the windows of
his house. But it was another thing entirely for him to do it while
standing a few feet away from the woman he stared at--and while playing
pocket pool, no less! And as if that wasn't sick enough, he was doing it
while paramedics struggled to save the life of a neighbor boy who might
already be dead.

50

Damara was hardly the most sexually experienced person in the world.
She'd only made love with another person once, and even then they hadn't
completed the act. While in many ways it had been wonderful, ultimately
it had turned out to be disastrous. But Damara didn't think she needed
to be the most worldly person in Zephyr to recognize that there was
something seriously wrong with a man who yanked his crank at an accident
scene. If it hadn't been for Autumn's presence, not to mention the
distraught teens next door, Damara would've publicly denounced Kenneth
as the degenerate he was.

As if suddenly sensing she was looking at him, Kenneth turned to Damara
and smiled. She could imagine what he must be thinking: Yeah, I know you
know what I'm doing, and not only don't I give a damn, I like that you
know. Go ahead and take a good long look, honey. Bet you get off on
seein' a real man like me tenderizing his tubesteak, eh?

For an instant, it was almost as if she weren't imagining, that Kenneth
were speaking in her head, and Damara felt suddenly weak and dizzy. She
swayed and feared she might faint. Kenneth continued smiling at her
while his hands worked their pocket magic, and she seemed to hear the
faint echo of his thoughts.

Look at her ... she's getting' so hot and bothered she doesn't know what
to do. I always thought that little homebody was really a slut-in-waiting.

Damara felt her throat constrict and her pulse

51

begin to race. She was vulnerable out here in the open, exposed ... she
needed to get back inside where she was safe, where she had walls and
floors, a ceiling and windows to protect her. Darkness began to creep
outward from the edges of her vision, and she knew if she didn't do
something fast, she was going to lapse into unconsciousness. Or worse,
perhaps she would die of a heart attack or a stroke.

But then Autumn said, "I hope Bobby's going to be all right."

Over at the Markleys', one of the paramedics shouted, "I've got a pulse!"

And that was the last thing Damara knew before the darkness swallowed
her vision and swept her away from the world.

"Please, Mom, stop fussing over me. I'm all right." Damara lay on the
couch in Anne and Autumn's living room. She'd never been inside their
house before, and though their living room didn't look all that
different from hers--same basic layout, same basic furniture, though
more modern--she couldn't get over how the place smelled: like a
combination of Windex and boiled cabbage.

Claire knelt next to Damara and kept trying to press a wet cloth to her
daughter's forehead, but Damara kept pushing her hand away. Anne stood
watching, clearly amused.

"She's right, Claire. She's not the first person who's fainted at the
sight of blood. My brother's a dentist, and every time he has to have
his blood

52

drawn, like for a cholesterol test or something, he's out like a light."

Autumn came back into the living room carrying a plastic cup filled with
water. She held it out to Damara, and Damara took it with a grateful smile.

"Now this I can use." She pushed herself up into a sitting position and
took a sip of water. It was cold, so much so that the first taste came
as something of a shock to her, and she began coughing.

"Not too much at once now," Claire said. "Too much water too fast isn't
good on a queasy stomach."

Damara waved away her mother's concern. "I'm fine. I just swallowed
wrong, that's all." She looked at Autumn, and though the girl smiled at
her, Damara could see that she was paler than usual and her hands
trembled. Poor thing. First one of the neighbor boys gets injured, and
then Damara faints right in front of the girl.

"Try not to worry, sweetie," Damara said. "Like your mom said, I just
fainted. I'll be fine. And while one of the police officers was checking
on me, didn't she tell you that it looks like Bobby's going to be okay,
too?"

Autumn nodded.

"Well, there you go. Happy endings all around." Damara smiled and hoped
that she sounded more certain than she felt.

She must have pulled it off, for Autumn responded with a grin. Damara
took another sip of

53

water without coughing this time, then handed the cup back to Autumn.

"Thanks for letting me lie down for a couple minutes. I'm feeling much
better now." She pushed herself all the way up and sat with her feet
touching the floor. She experienced a fresh wave of dizziness, but it
was mild and passed quickly. "We should probably get back to our place.
Mom has to go to work soon, and I have some chores to do." Damara stood
up, and though she felt weak, she didn't feel as if she were in any
danger of collapsing back onto the couch.

Claire stood and took hold of Damara's elbow to steady her. Damara
wanted to tell Mom that while she appreciated the gesture, she didn't
need the help, but the truth of the matter was she probably did.

"You're both welcome to stay for dinner if you'd like," Anne said. "I
can whip up something fast, like spaghetti."

Autumn clapped her hands, making her seem much younger than she was.
"Yes! Please say you'll stay, Damara!"

Damara glanced at her mother. Claire looked suddenly afraid, and she
gave her head a slight shake.

"Thanks," Damara said, "but I don't think my stomach's quite ready for
food just yet. Especially something as red as tomato sauce."

Autumn looked disappointed, but Anne laughed. "All right. Another time."

54

Damara was surprised to find herself sharing Autumn's disappointment.
Staying for dinner actually sounded like fun, but her mother really did
have to get to work, and Damara knew that Claire would drive herself to
distraction with worry if Damara remained at the Marcinos' alone. So Mom
handed the wet cloth back to Anne, and the four of them headed for the
front door.

"I wonder if the police cars are gone," Autumn said.

"Probably," Anne replied. "The paramedics already took Bobby off to the
hospital, so there's really nothing left for them to do here. But let's
take a look and see." Anne opened the door, and the four of them stopped
and stared. Standing there, hand raised to knock, was Tristan Ledford.

Damara suddenly felt faint again.

55

Chapter Four

"You sure you don't want something to eat? A sandwich, maybe? There's
some cold meat in the fridge. Mom just went grocery shopping, so you
picked a good time to visit."

"Thanks," Tristan said, "but coffee's enough for now. My internal clock
is still on California time. It's not that long after lunch for me."

"Okay, but let me know if you get hungry."

"I will."

A silence descended between them then, and Damara tried not to look as
uncomfortable as she felt. They sat at the dining table in Damara's
house, mugs of fresh coffee in front of them, still so hot that neither
of them had taken a sip yet. Damara was tempted to take a drink just to
have something to do besides sit and stare at Tristan, not caring that
she'd probably scald her tongue, but before she could, Tristan started
speaking again.

"It's weird coming home again and finding

56

police cars pulling away from a neighbor's house, seeing blood all over
the front walk ... That's why I went over to Anne's--to make sure
everything was all right."

Damara felt a surge of jealousy toward Anne Marcino. She was around the
same age as Damara and Tristan, and not only was she very attractive
physically, she was also a wonderful person. In addition, she lived next
door to the house where Tristan had grown up. His family had owned the
home on the south side of Anne's place, while the Markleys lived in the
house on the northern side. Anne was far prettier than Damara, and she
lived next door to Tristan's childhood home. How could Damara compete
with that?

Damara's mother had left for work fifteen minutes ago, and while Damara
had been excited, if nervous as hell, at being alone with Tristan, now
she wished Claire were still there to form a buffer of sorts between the
two of them. She hadn't talked face to face like this with Tristan
for... God, close to ten years now. She had little idea what to say to
him and absolutely no notion what to feel.

"It's a hell of a thing," Tristan said. He picked up his coffee mug, but
he didn't take a sip right away. "Bobby Markley falling like that. You
wouldn't think someone could get hurt so bad from a simple fall."

Damara feared that it hadn't been simple at all. She wasn't sure how she
had caused the accident, or even if. She hadn't been thinking about Bobby

57

when it had happened. But then, she hadn't been thinking of healing him,
either. Autumn had put that thought into her head. Still, she couldn't
escape the feeling that she had somehow been the spark for his accident
as well.

"He did fall face-first onto concrete." Damara tried to keep the guilt
and anxiety she felt out of her voice. What she had feared for so many
years was finally beginning to happen ... she was losing control. And
she had let Tristan come into the house for coffee and conversation,
exposing him to the danger of being in her presence. She knew she should
tell him she still didn't feel all that well after fainting and needed
to lie down. She should say anything that would get him to leave, for
the sake of his own safety, if nothing else.

Tristan sat across the table from her, smiling, cupping his coffee mug
in his hands as if to warm them, and though Damara knew she should make
him get out of there, she couldn't bring herself to ask him to go. Not
only didn't she want to be alone right then, she wanted to learn how her
one-time friend had changed over the years, and why he'd returned to
Ohio once more after burying his mother.

"Yeah," he said, "I suppose even a simple fall can kill if you hit your
head on something hard enough." He paused to take his first sip of
Damara's coffee, and she watched him closely to see whether he made a
face. If he did, she'd make a fresh pot. But if Tristan had any feelings
about the coffee-- positive or negative--he didn't display them.

58

"Listen, Tristan, before we go any further, I want you to know why I
didn't make it to your mom's funeral."

"There's no need to explain, Damara. Your mother was there, and she told
me all about your rheumatoid arthritis."

"My what?" Damara didn't have arthritis, rheumatoid or otherwise. It
didn't even run in her family, as far as she knew.

"Your mom said that it can hit people as young as us, and that the pain
in your hands and feet gets so intense sometimes that you can't leave
the house."

Damara knew she should be mad at her mother for lying, but right now she
was grateful for the excuse.

"I'm surprised that you came back to town again so soon. I hope it's for
a more pleasant reason this time." Like to see me, Damara thought.

"Afraid not. I took a leave of absence from work so I could come back
and get Mom's house cleaned up and ready to sell. I don't know if you've
been in the place recently, but Mom wasn't able to keep up with the
chores and repairs during the last few years. And I wasn't much help,
living clear on the other side of the country."

While both Damara and Tristan had graduated from high school--though
Damara had been home-schooled for most of her junior and senior
years--only Tristan had gone to college. He'd majored in music, gone on
to get a Master's degree, and took a teaching position at a community

59

college in upstate California. Damara was proud of him, but she was a
little jealous, too. She wondered what it would be like to make a life
for yourself, and a successful one at that.

"How long will you be staying?" Even as she spoke, Damara knew she'd
been too blunt. Whatever social skills she possessed were rusty, if not
completely calcified.

"I took off the rest of the semester, so I'll be here until the first of
the year. I'm afraid it's going to take me that long to clear out all
the junk and fix up the place so it looks decent. I tried to do some
work on it when I was here for Mom's funeral, but I didn't get very far.
For every mess I cleaned up or repair I made, it seemed like three more
popped up to take its place. I swear, it's almost as if the house didn't
want to be sold and was fighting me every step of the way."

Damara's hand twitched and coffee spilled onto the table. Some splashed
onto her fingers, but it had cooled enough by now that it didn't hurt much.

"Are you okay?" Tristan asked, concerned.

"I'm fine. It's just my... arthritis. Makes my hands spasm sometimes."
She carefully set her mug down and stood. "Let me go get something to
wipe the table with. I'll be right back."

She hurried off to the kitchen, not wanting Tristan to see the look of
panic on her face. She hadn't spilled coffee due to her nonexistent
arthritis. She'd spilled it because she'd been startled by Tristan's
words--I swear, it's almost as if the house didn't want to be sold and
was fighting me every

60

step of the way. She went to the sink, turned on the faucet, and held
her burnt hand under the cold water that came out.

Think of the polar bear, Damara told herself. She heard the words in her
head accompanied by the tune to the old song, "Lollipop." Polar bear,
polar bear, puh-puh-puh-polar bear, polar bear! POP I Ba-dum, dum, dum!

The water gurgling out of the faucet was so cold that her hand started
to hurt, but she didn't pull it away. The pain was good, gave her
something to focus on besides the polar bear and the stupid tune, and
most of all besides the image Tristan's words had planted in her head.

... didn't want to be sold ... fighting me ...

The pain was slowly giving way to numbness, but Damara kept her hand
where it was.

"I thought you said you were fine."

Damara jumped. She turned abruptly, yanking her hand out of the water
and flinging droplets all over Tristan's light blue shirt. The water
soaked in, turned the fabric dark blue, the spots increasing in size as
more water was absorbed.

"Sorry," Damara said. She turned back around and shut off the faucet. "I
didn't hear you come into the kitchen with the water running."

"Let me take a look." Without waiting for permission, Tristan took her
hand and lifted it so he could examine it more closely. Though her flesh
was still numb, she felt a thrill jolt through her body like an electric
shock at his touch. He turned her hand one way, then the other, holding
it gently

61

as he checked to see how badly she was burned. The hand no longer felt
cold to Damara. In fact, it was starting to feel quite warm. A similar
warmth blossomed between her legs and began spreading throughout the
lower half of her body.

Tristan looked up from her hand--though he didn't let go of it--and met
her gaze.

"You're right," he said. "It looks just fine."

They stood there like that, Tristan holding her hand, Damara letting
him, looking into each other's eyes. The warmth between Damara's legs
was now accompanied by wetness, so much that she wouldn't have been
surprised if she started dripping onto the kitchen floor.

"I... should probably go," Tristan said. "I got a lot of work to do, and
the sooner I get started, the sooner I'll get finished." He still didn't
let go of her hand, though.

"Okay. Well, I, uh ... that is, will you ..."

"Come visit again? Sure. And you're welcome to come on over to Mom's ...
well, I guess it's really my place now. At least until I sell it. Come
over whenever you want. It'll give me an excuse to take a break from
doing scut work."

"I will. Come over, I mean."

"Good."

Another few seconds passed, and then Tristan finally let go of her hand.
She felt a sense of loss as he did, as if they'd forged some sort of
connection that had just been broken.

"I'll see you to the door," Damara said. But as they started to leave
the kitchen, she heard a thick,

62

wet, gurgling sound coming from the sink, accompanied by a
skrittch-skrittch-skriiiiiiiiitch as if claws were scratching metal. She
then heard a small frightened voice say, What have you done, Mara?
What-have-you-done?

Tristan stopped and frowned. "Did you hear something, Damara?"

All Damara could do was shake her head. She was afraid that if she
opened her mouth she'd start screaming and never stop.

Tristan paused, listening more closely. Then he shrugged. "Must've been
my imagination."

No, Damara thought. It was mine.

The first thing Tristan did was put a CD in the stereo he'd gotten his
mom two Christmases ago-- which he suspected she'd never used, if the
dust on it were any indication. Diana Krall's voice drifted out of the
speakers like honeyed smoke, perfect for his current mood. Melancholy,
but with a touch of weary optimism. He wasn't looking forward to getting
to work on the house. It seemed like just thinking about selling the
place was a betrayal of his mother's memory, and his own childhood for
that matter. He knew it had to be done; he just wished he didn't have to
be the one to do it. But his sister was in the air force, stationed in
Italy, and though she'd been able to get leave for the funeral, she had
returned overseas and wouldn't be able to help him with the house. His
only other relatives were some cousins in

63

Michigan, but they hadn't even come to the funeral, so there was no way
he could ask them for help.

But even though he had to get the house ready on his own and therefore
should've been thoroughly depressed, he wasn't. It had been wonderful
seeing Damara again, even though a terrible accident had been the
catalyst for the reunion. She was more introverted than he remembered
... quieter, more subdued. And it was a shame about her arthritis. He'd
gathered that it had turned her into something of a shut-in. But the
connection he remembered from when they were kids, the feeling that they
were on the same wavelength, almost to the point of knowing what the
other was thinking... that was still present, and still just as strong
as he recalled. He couldn't ask Damara to help him with the house, not
with her arthritis, but maybe she wouldn't mind coming over and keeping
him company while he worked. As much as he loved Diana Krall's voice,
he'd much rather have a real person to talk to--especially if that
person were Damara.

The stereo was on an entertainment center in the living room, one of the
few places in the house that didn't need much work. This had always been
the place where his mother received visitors while he was growing up,
and she'd done her best to keep it looking nice. The carpet needed
cleaning-- or maybe replacing--and the walls could use a fresh coat or
two of paint. Right now, they were blue, his mom's favorite color.
Though Tristan was

64

no real-estate expert, he knew that a neutral color was best when trying
to sell a house. "Relocation beige," he'd heard it called. The kitchen
needed new tile--as did the bathrooms--and it could use new cabinets,
too, but he wasn't sure he had the money, let alone the know-how, to do
that work. Mom's bedroom (it had been Mom and Dad's eight years ago,
before his father had died of a heart attack) needed carpet and paint as
well, but the worst areas of the house were the bedrooms that had once
belonged to his sister and him, and the attic. They were filled wall to
wall, floor to ceiling, with junk. Cardboard boxes jammed with books,
holiday decorations, old magazines, folded grocery sacks, empty plastic
liter bottles that had once contained soda, clothes from the time that
Tristan had been a baby up until the present, video tapes, broken
appliances (he'd counted nine toasters and five television sets of
various sizes), and on and on. His mom had always been something of a
packrat, but after he and his sister had moved out, she'd gotten worse,
it seemed. And without his dad to keep her from keeping too much, she'd
stopped throwing anything away.

But the basement ... that was an even nastier story.

Tristan left the living room, walked into the kitchen, and removed a key
from the top of the refrigerator. He then walked to the basement door
and stood in front of it. He held the key between his thumb and
forefinger, rubbing it as if it were some sort of charm, but he made no
move to

65

insert it into the lock. The cracks around the door had been sealed with
silver duct tape; he'd done the job the last time he'd been home, when
he'd come to bury his mother. Though the tape held, the air was heavy
with an odor like rotten eggs and overripe mulch. But that was no
surprise, for as Tristan had learned during his last trip, his mom had
been keeping her own little compost heap in the basement.

Like most of the rest of the house, the basement was crammed with boxes
full of junk, but there was an additional problem. Sometime in the last
few years--Tristan didn't know precisely when-- his mother had stopped
taking the trash out to the curb. Instead, she'd bagged it up, opened
the basement door, and threw it down into the darkness. He'd heard about
crazy old people doing things like that ... who hadn't? But he'd never
imagined his mother would end up as one of them.

Tristan sensed movement down at his feet. He saw that a portion of duct
tape had come loose, and a thick grayish substance was slowly oozing forth.

"What the hell?"

He started to bend down to examine it, but then the smell hit him and he
recoiled. It was a hundred times worse than he remembered from the last
time he'd opened the basement door, and he wondered what had happened
down there in the couple of weeks he'd been gone. Had some kind of nasty
mold spread throughout the basement? Or had a sewer line somehow backed
up and flooded the

66

place, soaking into the trash bags and transforming a nasty mess into a
hellish one? Whichever the case, he wasn't about to go down now.

He clapped his hand over his nose and mouth and backed away from the
door. He turned and ran to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat, and
leaned over the bowl just in time to vomit up the coffee Damara had
served him. As rank and acidic as the smell of his own sick was, it was
like a bouquet of fresh flowers compared to that gray gunk in the
kitchen. It didn't take him long to empty the contents of his stomach.
Then he flushed the toilet and rinsed his mouth out at the sink. He
opened the linen closet, grabbed a threadbare old towel, and returned to
the kitchen, careful to hold his breath this time.

More gray gunk had oozed out of the hole in the tape, forming a puddle
of glop about the size of a man's fist. Tristan rolled the towel up and
shoved it against the bottom of the door, blocking the hole as the goop
already released soaked into the towel. It wasn't much of a solution,
but it would have to do for now. It was all Tristan could do to keep
from dry heaving as it was.

Once the towel was in place, he opened the back door, stepped outside
and sat down on the rear porch. The fall air was crisp and clear, and he
allowed himself to breathe normally again, slow and even. Before long
his nausea began to subside, though it didn't leave him altogether.

He'd been hoping that he could clean the house up on his own, but after
seeing--and worse,

67

smelling--that gray shit, he was having serious second thoughts. He
didn't care if he made any money selling the house, but he'd prefer not
to lose any. And if he needed to call in someone to clean the basement
... like, say a hazmat team ... he'd have to lay out his own money to
pay for it, and community college music professors weren't exactly rich.
Maybe if he got some coveralls, rubber gloves, and some kind of mask to
filter out the stench ... but if that crap was toxic, the safest thing
to do would be to leave the cleanup to professionals.

Fuck. Maybe he should just have the goddamned place condemned and torn
down. But he could just hear what his sister would say, and besides, he
couldn't betray the memory of his parents like that.

Despite how strange his homecoming had been tonight--learning about
Bobby Markley's injury and discovering the oozing gray crud--Tristan had
had a good time over at Damara's. It'd been great seeing her again. She
was even prettier than he remembered, and she still had the same sense
of humor. Her manner was more reserved, though, and she seemed more
emotionally guarded than he recalled. He wondered if it had something to
do with being practically confined to her home due to her arthritis.
Maybe, but when they'd talked, he'd sensed that something else had been
bothering her, though he hadn't been able to tell what. But all in all,
it had been good to spend some time with an old friend, and he hoped
they'd see each other again soon.

68

One way or another, he'd get the basement cleaned up. But not tonight.
He'd do some other work around the house while he considered his
options, and then try to make a decision in the morning.

"Assuming the stink doesn't asphyxiate me in my sleep," he muttered.

He let out a deep sigh, stood, and went back into the house. He hurried
through the kitchen, holding his breath and not even looking in the
direction of the basement door. Which was a pity, because if he had, he
might've noticed that the towel he'd placed against the bottom of the
door was completely suffused with foul-smelling gray gunk, and that the
duct tape was beginning to peel away in another half dozen places.

69

Chapter Five

Emma stood at the bathroom counter, brushing her teeth. The door to the
master bathroom was open, and Kenneth sat on the edge of the bed,
wearing only a pair of slightly yellowed underwear, watching his wife.
Kenneth knew her routines just as well if not even better than his own,
and he counted her brush strokes. One, two, three, four, five, six,
seven, eight. Move the toothbrush to the next few teeth and repeat. One,
two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Emma always brushed her teeth
eight times: fronts, tops, and backs. Ordinarily the unwavering rigidity
of her nightly ritual irritated him, but tonight for some odd reason he
actually found it sort of sexy. Maybe it was the way her small breasts
joggled inside her pale yellow nightgown as she brushed. Or maybe it was
the way the sheer fabric clung to her ass and defined its curves. Or
maybe he'd just gotten his engine so revved up today what with receiving
NOT-E-DD's e-mail and watching the women (and girl) in the

70

neighborhood. Whatever the reason, he was horny as a damn hoot owl, and
he wanted to do something about it. Something that didn't require the
pump or necessitate him squeezing his balls. He'd gotten an erection
once today, and he intended to see if he could achieve lift-off for a
second time.

Emma rinsed and spit--careful not to do so with too much force lest she
splatter the counter--and then began to brush out her hair. She'd do one
hundred strokes altogether: twenty-five each for the front, back, and
sides. He heard her counting beneath her breath. "One, two, three ...,"
heard the soft whissk-whissk-whissk of the brush's bristles moving
through her hair. Kenneth felt the little man downstairs twitch, and he
knew the time had arrived at last. He stood up, padded across the
bedroom carpet in his bare feet, and walked into the bathroom until he
found himself standing behind Emma, looking over her shoulder at his own
reflection peering back from the mirror above the sink. He put his hands
on his wife's shoulders and gently began kneading them.

Emma stopped brushing and frowned at his reflection. The mirror Emma
frowned at him as well. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"What does it feel like I'm doing? I'm rubbing your shoulders. Doesn't
it feel good?"

Emma ignored his last question. "You only touch me whenever you want
something. So what is it?"

Despite Emma's less-than-welcoming tone, Kenneth's penis was getting
harder, making the front

71

of his underwear bulge. He pressed his erection against Emma's rear.
That ought to give her the message loud and clear.

Emma squawked, jumped, and dropped the hairbrush. It fell into the sink,
plastic handle clattering on porcelain. She turned around and scowled at
Kenneth. "What in the world was that?" she demanded. "Did you just poke
me with one of your horrid toys?"

After Kenneth's operation and subsequent limpdickness, he'd gone to a
sex shop just outside of Waldron and bought an assortment of dildos and
vibrators of varying designs and sizes. He'd figured that if he couldn't
pleasure his wife with his natural tool, he'd settle for performing his
husbandly duties via artificial means. But when he'd showed Emma his new
collection of equipment, she'd only grimaced and said, You can't
possibly be serious, Kenneth.

He'd put the toys away in the closet the next morning and hadn't so much
as looked at them since.

He was disappointed, and more than a little hurt by Emma's reaction to
his giving her a little pre-Christmas goose, but he grinned to cover up
his feelings. "No plastic or metal that time, Emma. That was one hundred
percent all-beef Kenny."

"What are you talking ..." and then she trailed off as she looked down
and saw the bulge in his underwear.

Kenneth hoped she'd smile in amazement,

72

throw her arms around him and shout, It's a miracle! But instead she
pursed her lips in distaste.

"I thought it didn't work anymore."

Anger flared within Kenneth, and he fought to keep his voice calm as he
replied. "I think the old boy's starting to get better. Why don't you
help me try it out and see what it can do?" He didn't know why he
bothered to persist. He knew what her answer was going to be.

"Kenneth ..." She used her
teacher-struggling-to-be-patient-with-a-slow-student voice--the one
Kenneth despised. "It's late and I'm tired."

It was only 10:40 or thereabouts, but Emma was an early-to-bed,
early-to-rise type, both by nature and from thirty years of getting up
in the morning to teach.

She went on. "Maybe tomorrow, okay? But if you want to find out if it
works, go ahead and play with yourself. I won't mind."

Kenneth stared incredulously at Emma. Had his wife just told him to go
fuck himself?

Emma reached up and patted him on the cheek. "But not in here, okay? I'd
really rather not hear you do it while I'm trying to sleep." She turned
and walked out of the bathroom, leaving him standing at the sink, bulge
in his underwear shrinking, like a balloon with a slow leak.

Kenneth's hands curled into fists so tight they shook. He wanted to go
after Emma, grab her by the arm, turn her around and tell her what a
frigid, dried-up old cooz she was. But he forced himself to stay where
he was and keep quiet. Emma was

73

no pushover; she could give as good as she got... better even. The best
way to get back at her was to find someone else who was willing to help
him field test his reborn dick. And he thought he knew just the person.

Emma was already under the covers and breathing deeply when he walked
into the bedroom. He didn't know if she really was asleep or if she was
faking it so he wouldn't come on to her again--like that was going to
happen. But it didn't matter, just so long as she stayed where she was
and left him alone. He'd dropped his clothes in a pile on the floor by
his side of the bed, as usual. He scooped them up and carried them out
of the bedroom, closing the door behind him. If Emma weren't asleep yet,
with any luck she soon would be. He went into the computer room, started
the machine, then dressed while he waited for it to boot up. When it was
ready, he sat down in blue slacks and red polo shirt, logged on to the
Internet, and opened his e-mail program. Screw Emma--or not, as the case
may be. He had other options, and they didn't involve a date with Rosie
Palm and her five sisters.

He began composing an e-mail.

Dear NOT-E-DD:

(He wasn't sure whether to spell out her screen name or type it the way
she did, so he decided to play it safe and went with the latter.)

I got your e-mail and your pictures, and all I can say is wow! You are
one fine-looking woman! How about you and I get together for coffee

74

sometime (or maybe something stronger?). We can talk and get to know
each other and see what happens from there. What do you say?

He signed it with his screen name, Rawdog, then clicked Send. The
message vanished and began its trip through cyberspace. Kenneth hoped
NOT-E-DD checked her e-mail regularly. If she were agreeable to meeting
him--and why wouldn't she be after sending those pictures of herself,
especially that bubble-bath one--maybe they could meet sometime in the
next few days, or maybe sometime this weekend. He'd have to come up with
some kind of excuse to tell Emma about why he wanted to go out alone,
but it shouldn't be too hard to think of something. Maybe he could tell
her he wanted to go see an action movie. Emma hated--

Kenneth was startled when an envelope icon appeared in the corner of his
computer screen and a soft electronic chime sounded to tell him he had
mail. There was no way it could be a reply from NOT-E-DD, not so fast.
Still, he couldn't repress his excitement as he clicked on the envelope
icon to download his new message.

He stared at the From line for almost thirty seconds before reading
further. It was from NOT-E-DD.

Hey, Rawdog!

Guess we must both be online right now ... what a happy coincidence,
huh? I don't usually agree to meet with someone after only exchanging a
couple of e-mails, but I'm feeling bored and

75

lonely tonight, so what the hell? <g> How bout we meet at Spinners? Do
you know the place? It's a bar on the north side of town, not too far
from the Wal-Mart. Send me a reply in the next fifteen minutes or so if
you want to get together tonight, sugar.

P.S.: I sure hope you're not a psycho or anything! lol

Kenneth read the message over again, his lips slowly forming a grin.
Talk about lucky! Not only did she want to meet, she wanted to do so
right now. The problem was, he didn't know if he could get out of the
house, start his van, and pull out of the driveway without Emma knowing.
Sure, she was a sound sleeper, but ...

If you want to find out if it works, go ahead and play with yourself. I
won't mind. But not in here, okay? I'd really rather not hear you do it
while I'm trying to sleep.

Fuck it. He clicked on Reply and typed a quick message.

Dear NOT-E-DD:

I know Spinners, and I'd love to get together tonight. See you in about
a half hour?

Her response came even faster this time.

Sounds great! See you soon!

Still grinning, Kenneth logged off the Internet and shut down the
computer. No more time for farting around on the Web--he had a date to
keep! He looked down at his crotch.

"All right, boy. Ready for your big comeback appearance?"

76

It was probably his imagination, but he thought he felt his cock twitch,
almost as if it were answering him.

Emma was dozing, hovering in that drowsy pleasant state between sleep
and wakefulness. She thought she heard a car engine start, but she was
enjoying the sensation of being almost but not quite asleep too much to
care. Soon, the sound of the engine diminished as the car traveled down
the road, and then all was quiet once more. Still not all the way
asleep, Emma found herself wondering if the car she'd heard had belonged
to the Markleys, if perhaps they were headed to the hospital to visit
their son and brother. It was too late for regular visiting hours, but
then rules like that didn't always apply to immediate family.

Emma wasn't sorry at all that the little whitetrash bastard had split
his skull open on his front walkway. But she was sorry that the
paramedics arrived in time to save his life. As far as she was
concerned, the world would be better off without trash like Bobby
Markley around. If he lived, all he'd do was knock up some stupid girl
who'd squeeze out a white-trash baby of his, and the whole damn cycle of
ignorance and immorality would start all over again. They were like
human weeds; pull up a few and a hundred more took their place. It was
an inescapable law of nature.

Emma rolled onto her side and pulled the blanket up over her head. A
petite woman, she was usually cold, no matter the time of year. As she

77

wiggled her head in an attempt to find the most comfortable spot on her
pillow, she began to slip more fully into sleep. Just before doing so,
she had one last half-coherent thought.

Bobby Markley ... hospital ... weeds ...

And then she descended completely into darkness--in more ways than one.

Bobby Markley had one motherfucker of a headache. He lay propped up on
the hospital bed, head wrapped in what his sister had jokingly called a
mummy bandage, saline IV in the back of his hand, the TV on but the
volume turned low. The other bed in the room was empty, so he didn't
have to worry about the TV bothering anyone else, but the noise made his
head pound even worse. His pain medication had worn off, but he wasn't
due to get more for another hour yet, and he knew the night nurses
wouldn't give him anything until the appointed hour arrived. He'd
already asked three times, each time receiving a polite but firm no. He
had some good stuff at home that would probably kill the pain, or at
least take enough of the edge off to allow him to sleep, but there was
no way he could get hold of it. His parents would kick his ass if they
found out about his stash, and his brother and sister would just claim
it for themselves, so he was shit out of luck on that score.

He clicked the TV remote, surfing through the channels in yet another
vain attempt to find something at least halfway decent to watch. But the
hospital only had basic cable, and this time of

78

night all that was on was local TV news with way too many commercials.
There was a Playstation in the room that could be hooked up to the TV,
but the assortment of games on hand was lame, mostly video tennis and
simple Space Invaders-type games. Boring as hell. Besides, bad as his
head felt, he wasn't certain that he'd be able to play a videogame right
now. He was sure his parents would be shocked to hear that, since almost
all he ever did at home was play video and computer games. He wanted to
be a videogame designer someday, but his dad--who was an electrician--
told him that fantasizing about stuff like that was nothing but mental
jacking off: It might feel good at the time, but in the long run, it
wouldn't get you anywhere.

Bobby found an old Simpsons episode and left the channel where it was.
He turned up the volume just a bit and told himself not to laugh unless
he wanted his aching head to explode. He settled back against the
so-firm-it-was-almost-hard hospital mattress and tried not to think
about how much his head hurt.

The doctor who'd taken care of Bobby in the emergency unit had asked him
how he'd managed to hit his head so hard, but he hadn't been able to
give the woman a good answer. He remembered sitting on the porch with
his twin brother Brad, their sister, and a few of their friends, just
hanging out and shooting the shit while they waited for Mom and Dad to
get home from work. And then he'd felt as if a pair of strong invisible
arms had

79

grabbed him around the middle and heaved him into the air. He'd been so
surprised that all he'd been able to do was flail about with his arms
and legs as he fell head-first toward the concrete walkway. After that,
he didn't remember anything until he woke up in the ER.

Nobody had believed him about the invisible arms, though. Not the
doctor, not Mom and Dad (who were back at home now but who'd promised to
return first thing in the morning), and certainly not his brother and
sister, who'd accused him of having "scrambled eggs for brains" now. Who
knows? Maybe they were right. He had hit his head pretty damn hard. The
doctor had said he was lucky to be alive, that he might have a
concussion, and that it might be days or weeks before the full extent of
the brain damage he'd suffered would make itself known. Even so, he
could still remember what it had felt like when those unseen arms had
enveloped him and began to lift ...

"Hello, Bobby."

Startled, he turned toward the voice and moaned as jagged bolts of pain
shot through his head and neck.

"Mrs. Colton?"

She stood next to his bed, smiling at him. Which was weird, not only
because visiting hours were over, but because he hadn't heard her come
in. And why would she be coming to see him anyway? She didn't like him,
or anyone else in his family. And why was she still dressed in her
gardening clothes, gloves and all?

80

"How are you feeling?" Her voice was pleasant, almost too much so, as if
she thought she were in her classroom, and he were still one of her
little pupils. He had been once, but that had been years ago. He'd hated
having her as a teacher then, and he still hated her today. She was a
nosy, judgmental, bitter old bitch. But despite all that, he was touched
that she'd come to see him. Maybe the rotten hag wasn't so bad after all.

"My head hurts." He managed a smile. "No big surprise there, huh? But
I'm due for some more pain medication soon, so I should be all right
before too long."

"You took quite a nasty fall, Bobby. But not quite nasty enough, it seems."

Bobby frowned. What the hell did she mean by that?

"I'm not the sort of person who likes leaving a job half finished,
Bobby. Especially when it comes to pulling weeds."

Her smile took on a hard edge, and there was a strange glow in her eyes
that made Bobby uncomfortable. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't. That's because you're an idiot, Bobby. Just like
the rest of your family. All your kind know how to do is smoke, drink,
fuck, take drugs, and turn the world into more of a sewer than it
already is."

Bobby was starting to get scared. He'd known Mrs. Colton could be mean,
but he'd never thought she was crazy--until now, that is. "Look, I don't
know what your problem with me is, but my head's

81

really pounding, and I could use some rest. So I'd appreciate it if you
would leave. Now."

"I'll be going in just a moment, Bobby. Don't worry about that. But as I
said before, I have a job to finish first."

She stepped closer to Bobby's bed and put her gloved hands on the rail.
He tried to scoot away from her, but he had nowhere to go.

"Have you heard the expression a mind is a terrible thing to waste?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Well, it's also a wonderful thing to taste." She smiled, revealing a
mouth full of razor-sharp teeth more suited to the mouth of some
carnivorous beast than that of a sixtyish elementary school teacher.

Bobby Markley opened his own mouth to scream, but before he could make a
sound, Mrs. Colton's jaws unhinged like those of a snake preparing to
feed. She lunged for him and bit through his mummy bandage, her
nightmarish teeth penetrating his skull and plunging into the soft,
sweet meat inside.

One good thing: At least Bobby wouldn't have to worry about his headache
anymore.

Miles away, Emma sighed contentedly in her sleep and snuggled further
under the covers. She had a smile on her face and a thin trickle of
blood running from the corner of her mouth.

82 Tim Waggoner

83

Chapter Six

"I assure you, sir, 111 is a non-smoking room."

The man standing before the front desk narrowed his eyes, as if he
thought Claire were trying to put one over on him.

"Don't tell me it's a non-smoking room. I'm very sensitive to the
presence of tobacco products, and that room reeks of cigarette smoke.
The walls are even yellow from nicotine residue!"

Claire decided it wouldn't do her any good to point out that the hotel's
rooms had off-white wallpaper. This idiot wasn't in the mood to listen.
She forced herself to smile and hoped it didn't look too much like a
grimace.

"I'll be happy to put you in another room if you'd like. Just let me see
what else we have that's available."

"You bet your ass you'll find me another room-- and no jerking me around
this time, either!"

Mr. Natural--as Claire had come to think of him--was almost cadaverously
thin and pale (a

84

vegetarian, she guessed). This was the second time he'd requested in
less-than-polite terms to be moved to another room, and Claire knew that
no matter where she put him, it wouldn't be good enough.

As she turned to the computer screen behind the front desk, she caught a
glimpse of someone else walking into the lobby. She swore inwardly.
Tuesday nights were usually pretty slow, so her boss only scheduled one
person to work the front desk from nine p.m. to six a.m. But after the
night she'd had so far--starting with Bobby Markley's accident,
beginning her shift with a woman who refused to believe her credit card
wasn't valid when she tried to check in, and moving on to Mr. Natural
here--she could use some help, even one of the bubble-headed teenagers
with the big boobs that her boss loved to hire.

As she began tapping keys, the new guest walked up to the front desk.
Without taking her gaze off the screen, she said, "I'll be with you in
just a moment, sir."

"Take your time. I'm in no hurry."

Her hands froze on the keyboard. She knew that voice, and though she
hadn't heard it outside of home videos for the last seventeen years,
somehow it came as no great surprise that she should hear it now.

She looked up and there, standing slightly behind Mr. Natural and off to
the side, was Jerry, her long-lost husband. He looked exactly as she
remembered him, as if the last seventeen years

85

hadn't touched him in the slightest. Six feet tall, broad-shouldered,
the merest beginning of a paunch, brown hair, strong chin, thin lips
that didn't look like they'd be much good for kissing, but which Jerry
knew how to use to maximum advantage. He wore a blue windbreaker over a
brown plaid shirt and jeans: his usual autumn outfit. It seemed his
taste in clothing hadn't changed in seventeen years, either.

Jerry smiled and gave her a wink, and suddenly she felt flushed, as if
she'd been hit by an instant fever. It took everything she had to force
herself to turn back to the computer screen and finish finding another
vacant non-smoking room for Mr. Natural.

"How about 313?" she asked him. "It has a lovely view of the river." And
before he could say anything, she added, "And yes, it is a non-smoking
room. It always has been."

Mr. Natural grunted as if his daily allotment of fiber was backing up on
him. "It had better be, or I'm going to have a few words with your manager."

At this time of night, her boss was probably sitting in front of a TV in
his underwear, beer in one hand, remote control in the other. But she
doubted Mr. Natural would care to hear that. So she took his current
plastic key-card and reset it to open 313.

She managed a smile as she handed back the key. "I hope this solves your
problem, Mr. Saltzman."

He hrumpfed, snatched the key out of her hand, bent down to pick up a
backpack, and without so much as a thank-you, stomped off.

86

Frowning, Jerry watched him go. "Doesn't he have any luggage?"

"Just that backpack," Claire answered.

"What do you suppose he has in there?"

"I've been in the hotel business for too many years. I know better than
to ask questions like that."

They both laughed, and the oddity of having such an ordinary
conversation with her missing husband hit Claire then, and she felt
ridiculous. But she also felt confused. How was a person supposed to
react when her husband returned after having disappeared without a word
nearly two decades ago? What was she supposed to say? Should she curse
him a blue streak for abandoning Damara and her? Or should she come
around from behind the counter, throw her arms around him and kiss him
while tears fell from her eyes like rain? In the end, she did neither of
these things.

"How are you doing, Jerry?" She was surprised at how easily the words
came out and how even her tone was.

He smiled sadly. "Not so bad, i guess. Though I've been awfully lonely
without you and Damara these last few years."

Claire opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hands to stop her.

"I can guess what you're thinking: he's been lonely? What about us? And
you'd be right, of course. I know I don't deserve it, but I hope you'll
give me a chance to explain why I did what I did."

87

So many conflicting emotions were surging through Claire that she half
expected her head to explode from the pressure of trying to contain them
all. Fury, joy, relief, curiosity, love, hatred ... She wanted to tell
Jerry that he could fuck off and die, that indeed he'd been gone long
enough for her to have declared him legally dead if she'd had a mind to.

But he looked at her with a combination of love and contrition, almost
like a puppy that had been caught crapping on the new carpet and was
hoping his cute face and big moist eyes were going to get him out of
trouble. Jerry Ruschmann had been a good husband and father for the most
part, and he'd had few occasions to use this puppy-dog expression on
Claire. But whenever he had used it, it had always worked.

So though Claire hated herself for saying it, she said, "I guess it
won't do any harm just to talk."

Jerry grinned, displaying a mouthful of white, even teeth. Though his
teeth hadn't been terrible when he'd cut out, his parents hadn't been
big on dentists, and as an adult, his teeth had become yellowed and
slightly crooked. But now they were perfect, like something out of a
tooth-whitening commercial. She wondered where he'd gotten the money to
get his dental work done. She decided that it was a foolish detail,
especially when they had so many other important things to talk over,
and she resolved to put the thought of Jerry's new teeth out of her
mind. Still, she had to admit that he had a much nicer smile now.

88

"We could sit here in the lobby and talk," she said. "The kitchen's
closed this time of night, but there's a coffeemaker in the back office.
I can brew up a pot if you like."

His smile widened, and his teeth seemed to become even wider. "Coffee
sounds good, but the lobby's a little ... public, isn't it? Especially
for the kinds of things we need to talk about. You know ... personal...
intimate ..."

She didn't remember Jerry being quite so well-spoken. She decided she
liked it. His blue eyes (when did he get blue eyes, they'd always been
hazel ... maybe he was wearing tinted contacts, but his vision was fine,
or at least it had been) seemed to grow larger until they merged into a
single field of deep blue that encompassed the whole world. Claire found
herself getting lost in that blue--it had always been her favorite
color--and she realized that she not only agreed with Jerry, she was
willing to do whatever he asked. After all, wasn't this what she'd been
hoping, praying, wishing, dreaming for all these long years? For him to
come back to her?

"I could always check us into a room," she said, heart pounding. "But I
can't leave the front desk. I'm the only one on duty tonight."

Though it was impossible, his smile widened even more and the deep blue
of his eyes grew darker, until it was almost black. "Isn't there someone
you could call to come in to take your place? You could always tell them
you're sick or something."

89

"Uh, well, I guess I could try Debbie. She's a single mother with four
kids, and she can always use the extra money."

"There you go, then. This way we'll be able to have a proper reunion,
won't we?" Jerry's white teeth seemed to glitter now, the sparkles like
stars set against the endless black depths of his eyes.

Claire smiled. "That sounds wonderful."

She quickly reserved a room on the hotel's computer system and activated
two key-cards--one for him, one for her.

"Why don't you go on to the room and wait for me?" she said. "It'll take
a little while before Deb can get here to take over."

She held out a key-card for Jerry to take. As he did so, his fingers
brushed hers, and the contact almost made her gasp. She hadn't exactly
been celibate for the last seventeen years, but it had been a while
since she'd felt a man's touch. A long while. And no one had ever
touched her like Jerry had.

"It's 3041, just around the east side of the building. There's hardly
anyone booked over there tonight, so it'll be nice and quiet."

"Sounds perfect. Try to hurry. We've been apart too long as it is." He
held her gaze a moment before turning and walking out of the lobby.

She watched him go until she couldn't see him anymore. Then she grabbed
the phone and almost frantically pushed the buttons for Debbie's number.
It never occurred to her to question why she was so eager to do what
Jerry asked of her, any

90

more than it occurred to her to wonder how he'd known to come here to
find her. She hadn't been working here seventeen years ago, and if he'd
stopped at home first and spoken with Damara, she'd have called to tell
Claire.

When a dream comes true, you don't question it, lest you risk making it
vanish with a pop like a child's soap bubble floating on the air. No,
you don't question a dream come true ...

... even when you should.

"So I said to her, 'If you think you're all that and a bag of low-carb
chips, then you try to sell the damn place.' And do you know what she
said then?"

Kenneth didn't really want to know, but he said, "What?" anyway.

Nancy--who went by the nom de screen NOT-E-DD--grinned. "She said, 'Just
forget it. But if you do sell that house, I'll give you my commission on
my next two sales and I'll eat you out!'" She burst out laughing.

Kenneth was taken aback by his companion's sudden display of crudity,
but he knew he shouldn't be. Though he'd only spent twenty minutes or so
with her, this was far from the only--or indeed the crudest--such
comment she'd made.

Kenneth had driven past Spinners numerous times over the years, but he'd
never been inside. Now that he had, he knew he hadn't been missing
anything. The place was decorated with too much dull chrome and cheap
neon to suit him, and the

91

music blaring from speakers throughout the place was awful, mostly
eighties pop with a sprinkling of barely tolerable seventies rock. The
bar had a small mirrored dance floor in one corner, complete with a
disco ball spinning overhead, but no one was dancing tonight. The place
might be jumping on the weekend, but right now in was nearly deserted,
save for a bartender, a single server, and a handful of customers
sitting at the bar or at tables, alone, in pairs, or small groups,
drinking quietly. Perhaps if the music hadn't been so damn loud, they'd
be talking to one another. As it was, Kenneth and Nancy had to shout to
be heard, and while she didn't seem to mind, Kenneth was already
starting to get a hoarse voice.

Nancy took a sip of her scotch and water, and very little water at that.
"I sold that house yesterday. I haven't seen Connie since, but I can't
wait to see the look on her face when I tell her it's time to pay up!"
She laughed again, loud and brittle. A drunk's laugh.

Kenneth wondered if Nancy was kidding or if she really did intend to
collect on the bet--all of it. He imagined her calling Connie into the
restroom of the real estate office where they worked, closing and
locking the door, then saying, On your knees, bitch! His cock, which had
been erect since the moment he'd walked into the bar now twitched, and
Kenneth thought he was going to spooge in his pants right then. But he
didn't. It was almost as if the old boy had not only roared back to life
but was better than ever. He'd never been able to

92

maintain an erection this long before, and though he was no one-minute
man, he'd never had this sort of control before. He wondered if his
prostate operation had something to do with it, if it had somehow
improved things downstairs instead of messing them up like the doctors said.

Whatever the reason, it was a damn good thing his meat was in tip-top
condition, because NOT-E-DD didn't look like the pictures she'd sent
him. They hadn't been fakes; Nancy clearly was the same woman. But those
photos had been taken several years--and several dozen pounds--ago. She
wasn't a complete dick-drooper now, but she'd passed beyond what the
Adult Connections site euphemistically referred to as having "a little
extra padding." She was squeezed into a pair of jeans that were too
small for her; so much so that Kenneth feared the straining seams might
burst any minute and cover the bar with scraps of denim. Her blouse
complemented her figure more than her pants did, but that was primarily
because she'd left the top few buttons undone to better display her
impressive overabundance of cleavage. Kenneth understood that her
breasts were so large in part because the rest of her was so large, but
he didn't care. Big tits were big tits as far as he was concerned.

Normally, Kenneth might have been disappointed, even angry, at Nancy's
deception, but tonight he was so horny that she'd still look good to him
even if she were missing all her teeth and one or more extremities. All
he cared about was that

93

she have a nice wet garage where he could park his dick for a little while.

Nancy downed what was left of her scotch in a single gulp.

God, but that gal can drink, Kenneth thought. That was fine with him.
The more panty-peeler she swallowed, the better.

Nancy's cheeks flushed red, and she fanned herself with her hand. "Is it
just me, or is it just me?" Then she giggled. "I mean, is it me or it is
just hot?" She giggled again. "Sorry. Guess I shouldn't have drank that
one so fast." She swirled her glass and watched the ice cubes slide
around inside. "I'm glad you took a chance and e-mailed me, Kenneth.
It's been a while since I did anything this impulsive." She continued
looking at the ice cubes as she spoke, as if, like tea leaves, they
might have some important message to impart. "Hell, it's been too long
since I did anything, and with anyone, for that matter." She looked up
at Kenneth and gave him an embarrassed smile. "Listen to me getting all
maudlin. We're here to have fun, right?" Before Kenneth could respond,
she set her glass on the table and stood.

"How about you and me go outside and get some fresh air, sugar?" She
held out her hand to him.

Kenneth stood and took her hand. "That's a fine idea, darlin'. Mighty
fine." He tossed some cash onto the table to pay for their drinks; then
both of them grinned as they headed hand in hand for the exit.

94

They started walking toward Kenneth's van, but Nancy pulled him in
another direction, and he let her lead him around the side of the bar to
the rear of the building. She continued to lead him to a nook between
the Dumpster and the back wall, and Kenneth had the sense that this
wasn't the first time she'd met a gentleman friend at Spinners, nor was
it the first time she brought one of her new friends back here. The
thought excited him even more.

It doesn't matter how many men you've brought back here for a quickie,
Kenneth thought. You've had the rest, so get ready, baby, 'cause tonight
you're gonna have the best!

Giggling, Nancy turned Kenneth around and pushed his back against the
wall. Normally he was the aggressor when it came to sex, but he found
Nancy's assertiveness to be a most welcome change of pace from Emma's
frigid refusals.

She leaned forward, mashing her gigantic tits against his chest and
pressing her lips in the general vicinity of his mouth. Man, was she
wasted! But that was fine with him; after all, liquor was the best
lubricant there was. Their lips found each other, then their tongues,
and for several minutes they coated each other's faces with saliva. When
Kenneth could no longer resist, he grabbed double handfuls of her boobs
and began kneading them as if he were a baker and they were two large
mounds of dough. He expected her to protest, say he was being too rough,
that she really didn't like having

95

her breasts fondled, let alone squeezed this hard. Emma didn't like him
to touch her breasts at all, and her nipples--which she claimed were
"too sensitive"--were strictly off limits. But not only didn't Nancy
mind Kenneth giving her boobs a solid workout, she actually seemed to be
enjoying it, moaning and wiggling as he squeezed the soft meat and
teased the hard nipples through the fabric of her clothes.

He reached into her shirt, intending to unsnap her bra so he could feel
her bare tits with his hands. Touching them through fabric was okay, but
touching the actual flesh was a thousand times better. Besides, that way
he'd have the chance to suck on those rock-hard nipples of hers. He'd
never had a woman with tits this big before, and he wondered if her
nipples would be extra-large as well. They sure as hell felt like it,
but he wanted to see--and taste--for himself.

But before he could go to work on her bra, she gently took hold of his
wrist and pulled his hand out of her blouse.

Kenneth scowled. "You some kinda tease?" he demanded.

Still smiling, she shook her head. "No, there's just something I want to
do first."

She got down on her knees, almost falling over as she did, but Kenneth
put a hand on the woman's shoulder to steady her. Nancy began to undo
his belt, and when it was open, she slowly drew down his pants zipper.
She then tugged his

96

pants down around his knees, revealing the huge bulge in the front of
his underwear.

"My god," she breathed as she lightly ran her fingers over his package.
"Did you put a brick in your shorts? 'Cause that's what it damn well
feels like."

Kenneth grinned. "Why don't you take a look and see for yourself?"

"Exactly what I had in mind." She gripped the band of his underwear with
both hands and pulled his shorts down.

Free of its cloth restraint, his cock bobbed in the cool night air, skin
stretched shiny tight, head so engorged with blood that even in the
fluorescent glow emitted by the parking lot lights, it seemed a dark
crimson-purple. His dick jerked in time with his pulse, and though
Kenneth wasn't sure, it almost looked like the veins in his cock were
expanding and contracting as blood gushed through the vessels.

Nancy examined Kenneth's penis with wide eyes, as if she'd never seen
one before. And she reached out and slowly--as if his cock were some
sort of wild animal she was afraid to touch but couldn't keep her hands
off--she began to gently stroke her fingers across the taut skin.

Kenneth moaned as waves of intense pleasure rippled outward from his
dick, the sensations far more intense that anything he had ever felt before.

Nancy gripped his shaft and began pumping his penis as she gently licked
the head, tonguing the slit, nibbling the spongy-hard flesh. Then she took

97

the head completely into her mouth and it was as if Kenneth had stuck
his cock into a jarful of warm honey. He gasped and pressed back against
the wall harder to brace himself.

"If you keep doing what you doing, it won't be too much longer before I
cum," he said hoarsely.

His words excited her even further, and she began to pump his cock more
vigorously, sucking the tip as if she were attempting to inhale it.
Within mere moments, Kenneth felt the tingling heat of impending orgasm
in his balls, and he knew that he was about to shoot his load into
Nancy's mouth.

"I'm gonna cum, baby," he gasped. "Cum like a shotgun ..."

She made an mmmmmm sound and increased the speed with which she worked
his cock.

"Oh, yeah ..." Kenneth gritted his teeth and tried to hold off as long
as he could. But he was able to forestall the inevitable only a few more
seconds when a wave of pleasure rolled forth from deep inside him and
rippled along the length of his monster of a cock.

"I'm cumming, baby, I'm cumming!" Kenneth grunted like an animal as the
first gout of sperm blasted out of his cock.

Nancy's eyes flew open wide and her hand clenched tight on his dick.
With a sickening hollow-wet sound, like a pumpkin being slammed onto
concrete, her head exploded in a shower of blood, brains, and semen,
splattering Kenneth with gobs of meat and bits of bone. Her body
shuddered and jerked, but her hand continued to

98

squeeze his cock in her death spasms, gripping the shaft so tight it
felt as if she might tear it off. Nancy's head was gone, and a fountain
of blood jetted up from the ragged stump of her neck. His cock continued
to spew gooey white as his orgasm subsided, his sperm splattering onto
her neck stump and mixing with the bubbling dark blood.

I'm gonna cum, baby ... cum like a shotgun ...

Nancy's body soon grew still and swayed for a moment, her hand giving
his dick a last reflexive squeeze before letting go. Her headless corpse
fell onto its side, landing in a wet mass of spilled blood, torn tissue,
shattered bone, and broken teeth.

My god, she's ... she's ... The word dead, even the concept of dead
refused to form in his mind. There was no way this could be happening,
no way such a thing was possible outside a nightmare.

His cock was slowly beginning to go limp, but semen continued dribbling
out. He watched the milky strands stretch down toward Nancy's neckhole
and then land, turning pink as they mingled with her blood. He imagined
thousands, millions of sperm swimming around Nancy's blood cells,
perhaps even mistaking them for ova and latching on to them. Shitfire,
he realized. He was fucking her on a microscopic level!

His horror and revulsion faded, and along with them went the memory of
ever having experienced such emotions in the first place.

A couple last spurts of cum dribbled onto her body, and then Kenneth's
cock began to deflate. He stared at the headless corpse of the woman

99

he'd first known as NOT-E-DD as his penis continued to empty itself.
After a bit his mouth stretched into a wide grin. "God-damn! Now that
was an orgasm!"

100 100 Tim Waggoner

101

Chapter Seven

Tristan lay in bed--the same bed he'd slept in from childhood until he'd
left for college--tossing and turning as he desperately sought a
comfortable position. The bed was a single, and he slept on a double in
his apartment in California. He felt cramped trying to sleep in this
smaller bed, and he couldn't escape feeling that he was going to roll
over in his sleep, fall onto the wooden floor, and probably break his
arm or something. It didn't help that the mattress was old and saggy. If
he didn't fall out of bed in the middle of the night, he might slowly
sink further and further down into the mattress until he was trapped and
couldn't pull himself out. Not very likely, probably, but the thought
didn't do much to help him get to sleep.

It also didn't help that his mother had used his old room as yet another
storage area for her junk. The floor was covered with lopsided stacks of
cardboard boxes that nearly reached all the way to the ceiling. The
boxes were covered with dust, and

102

breathing the air made his eyes water and sinuses ache. Plus, he
couldn't keep from wondering if one or more of the unsteady box towers
would fall over onto him during the night. Some of the boxes were light,
but some were quite heavy. With his luck, a box full of anvils, or maybe
cannonballs, would land on his head, crushing his skull and reducing its
contents to spongy gray jelly. He hadn't helped the stability of the
stacks by moving some boxes around so he could get from the door to the
bed. It could have been worse, though. His sister's old room was so
packed full of junk that he hadn't been able to get inside yet. He was
starting to wonder whether he was going to have to buy some dynamite and
blast in there in order to be able to clear enough space to move.

During his last visit home for the funeral, he'd slept on the living
room couch--he hadn't been able to bring himself to sleep in his
mother's bed then, and he still couldn't--and he'd tried to do so again
tonight. It was really more of a loveseat than a couch, and there was no
room for him to stretch out his feet, but he didn't care much. The
cushions were firm without being rock-hard, and if he did roll out
during the night, he'd land on soft carpet. Best of all, there were no
unstable mountains of junk ready to collapse onto the couch. But tonight
the stench from the kitchen--or more precisely, from the homemade dump
in the basement--had filtered into the living room, coating everything
with its greasy stink. He'd tried to tough it out on the couch, but the
foul odor finally got to him, and

103

he retreated to his old bedroom. The smell was in here too, but not so
strong as to be intolerable. If he didn't do something soon about the
ungodly mess in the basement, he feared the stink would settle into the
house, penetrating the plaster walls and wooden floors. And once an odor
that bad had seeped into a house's structure, he knew there was no way
to get rid of it, short of burning the place down.

First things first, he cautioned himself. He had to get all that glop in
the basement out and dispose of it before even joking about burning down
the house. But even then he figured the smell would linger, forcing him
to wash the walls and floor with bleach. Arson was sounding like a more
viable option all the time.

He decided to do his best to put the house out of his mind for the rest
of the night and instead focus on something far more pleasant: Damara.
Seeing her had brought back so many memories, but the most vivid had
occurred right here in this very room, this very bed. They'd both been
sixteen years old. ...

"Are you sure your mom's not going to come home and catch us?"

Tristan wasn't sure of any such thing, but he said, "Don't worry. She
won't be back for hours." In truth, he had no idea where she was. She
hadn't told him where she was going, and she hadn't left a note. Her car
was gone from the driveway, and his sister wasn't around, so he figured
that maybe the

104

two of them had gone shopping, but he really didn't have a clue.
Wherever his mom was, she wasn't here right now, and that was all that
mattered to a horny teenage boy who'd finally coaxed the girl across the
street--the girl who had been both his best friend and one true love
since they'd been kids--into his bedroom.

They knelt on his saggy mattress, facing each other. The bed was made,
comforter drawn neatly up over the sheet. Tristan hoped that whatever
they did here this afternoon--and he hoped it would be a lot--they'd be
able to do it without pulling back the comforter and getting under the
sheets. He had wet dreams almost every night these days, but his mother
would only do laundry once a week, regardless of how often it needed to
be done. He still had two more days until the next laundry cycle began,
and he didn't want Damara to see the dried cum stains on his sheets.

"Well... if you're sure ..." Damara smiled at him, but it was a smile
he'd never seen on her before. One filled with promise and secret
knowledge, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking, and it amused
her to play along. One of his friends in band, Ron Santarini, a
pear-shaped kid who'd had even less experience with girls than Tristan,
had once passed along this tidbit of masculine wisdom: When it comes to
sex, women are the ones really in charge. They decide where, when, and
if they're going to do it. All us guys can do is hope they choose US to
do it with.

At the time, Tristan had thought Ron was

105

merely rationalizing his nonexistent luck with girls, but now, after
seeing that knowing smile on Damara's face, he wasn't so sure.

Damara leaned forward, closing her eyes, and Tristan did the same, only
he kept his eyes open. They'd kissed lots of times before, but Tristan
loved looking at Damara's face when they did. Hell, he loved looking at
her face no matter what they were doing.

They kissed for several minutes, starting off slow and then with
increasing passion. It had been raining all day, and the sound of water
hitting the roof and pattering on his bedroom windows enhanced the
romantic atmosphere. Their tongues met and explored each other, and
their hands touched faces, shoulders, legs, backs ... Tristan ached to
touch Damara's breasts, but he was too afraid to do so without her
explicit permission. He didn't want to upset her and risk scaring her
off. Besides, he'd never touched a girl's breasts before, and he wasn't
quite sure how to do it. He didn't want to squeeze too hard and maybe
hurt her or, almost as bad, come off looking like a complete idiot in
her eyes. He didn't think he could bear that.

But as one of his hands moved across her shoulder blade, he realized
that all he could feel beneath her sweater was skin. She wasn't wearing
a bra.

Evidently knowing what he'd just figured out, Damara pulled away and
giggled. Tristan felt his cheeks flush, but then Damara gazed at him
with such understanding and love that any embarrassment he felt melted away.

106

"Go ahead. I don't mind." She paused, as if considering whether to go
on, then smiled shyly. "I want you to."

Tristan's penis had already been straining painfully against his jeans,
but now it got so hard that he had to fight to keep from grimacing. The
last thing he wanted was for Damara to think he was making a face
because of what she'd said. He tried to think of a delicate way to tell
her that he needed to shift his position to get more comfortable.

"I... uh, could we maybe ... idunno, lie down or something?"

Again that knowing smile, and Tristan wondered if all women were born
with the power to read men's minds and just kept it a secret among the
members of their gender.

Damara nodded and lay back on the mattress, pulling Tristan down with
her. They kissed for a few more minutes before Tristan worked up the
courage to gently slip his hand under her sweater. He felt the taut,
warm flesh of her stomach, then the slight depression of her belly
button. He moved his hand farther, Damara taking in a small gasping
breath as he did. He felt her ribs, smaller and more delicate than his
own, and then the tips of his fingers encountered the swell of her left
breast.

Tristan's own breath caught in his throat, and he felt suddenly warm, as
if the room temperature had shot up twenty degrees in the last few
seconds. He was lying half on Damara as he kissed her and brushed the
bottom of her breast with his fingers.

107

His penis was pressed against her leg, and he felt a warm tingling in
his balls. He knew if he wasn't careful, he was going to cum in his
pants. As good as that might feel, it would be embarrassing as hell if
Damara found out, and he shifted his position so he wasn't pressing
against her leg so hard.

Slowly, savoring each inch of flesh gained, Tristan moved his hand along
the curve of Damara's breast until his questing fingers encountered a
hard nub. Damara gasped more loudly this time and, encouraged by her
reaction, Tristan took her erect nipple between his thumb and forefinger
and began gently massaging it. Damara moaned and undulated slowly, as if
waves of pleasures were coursing through her body. Like any teenage boy,
Tristan constantly thought about sex, but those thoughts always focused
on the pleasures his body might experience. But now that he was doing
this with Damara, he realized that sex was far more than merely feeling
good. It was also about making someone you loved feel good too. And
maybe that was the most important thing about sex--maybe that was why
some people referred to it as making love, while others just called it
fucking.

He had no doubt which one he and Damara were doing.

He continued massaging her nipple, going a bit faster, applying a bit
more pressure, when he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of
his eye. At first he ignored it, too caught up in Damara to care about
anything else. But then he saw another, and another, and as difficult as
it was,

108

he took his attention off Damara, drew his lips away from her, and looked.

The room was a swirling mass of color--bright reds, striking blues, warm
yellows, vibrant oranges, soothing greens ... At first they were nothing
but patches of color, darting and dipping as they circled around and
above the bed. But as Tristan watched, the colors began to solidify and
take on form, becoming sharper and more distinct, as if he were looking
at them through a slowly focusing lens. They were butterflies, dozens of
them, soaring silently through the air on wings of bright primary
colors. Tristan was awed by their beauty. He'd never seen butterflies
like this, with colors so intense they almost glowed.

He withdrew his hand from beneath Damara's shirt, prompting her to open
her eyes.

"Is something..." She broke off, eyes widening as she saw the mass of
butterflies that filled the room.

"Aren't they beautiful?" Tristan said in a hushed voice. He was afraid
that if he spoke louder he'd break this wonderful enchantment. He looked
at Damara's face to gauge her reaction and was surprised to see she
stared at the butterflies with horror.

"No ... please, not here ... not now!"

The despair in her voice nearly broke his heart.

"What's wrong, Dee? They're just butterflies. I don't know where they
came from or how they got into the house, but they aren't hurting
anything. It's almost like ..." He wanted to say that it was

109

almost like they had been drawn by the love Damara and he shared, had
come to celebrate it... perhaps had in a sense even been created by it.
But the words sounded too much like something out of a bad romance
novel, and he couldn't bring himself to say them aloud.

"I've got to go, Tristan. I'm ... I'm sorry!" She leaped off the bed
before he could stop her and, holding her hands up to shield her face,
she ran through the swirling cloud of butterflies parting to make way
for her.

He heard the front door open and then shut before he was halfway down
the hall. By the time he reached the door and opened it again, Damara
was in her yard, sprinting through the rain toward her own front door.
Tristan stepped onto the porch, intending to go after her, but he saw
his mom's Sunbird coming down the street, headlights on, wipers swishing
back and forth over the windshield. She honked and waved as she
approached the driveway, and Tristan saw his sister was sitting in the
front passenger seat.

His hesitation had given Damara more than enough time to get inside and
shut her door. There was no way he could hear from across the street,
especially not with the rain and the sound of the Sunbird's tires
rolling over wet asphalt, but he imagined that Damara had locked the
door as soon as she'd closed it. Without bothering to return his mom's
wave, he went back inside and trudged miserably down the hallway to his
room, trying to figure out what the hell had just

110

happened. He felt somehow as if he might've been responsible, at least
in part, for Damara's reaction to the butterflies, though he couldn't
say why. It was just a feeling he had.

Speaking of the butterflies, he wondered how he was going to get rid of
them. He could open the windows in his room, but with the way it was
raining, he doubted they would fly outside. He might be forced to try
and catch them, though he didn't have anything he might use as a
butterfly net. But when he stepped back into his bedroom, he discovered
that his musings had been academic. The butterflies were gone.

Tristan sighed in the dark. He never had found out where those
butterflies had come from or where they'd gone. He'd tried talking to
Damara about them a couple of times, but she'd been unresponsive, and
soon after they'd stopped talking altogether, aside from exchanging a
few how ya doin's at school. Before long, they didn't even do that much.
Tristan had thought about that rainy afternoon many times over the last
twelve years, trying to understand what had gone wrong between Damara
and him. They had been so close to something special--and not just the
sex, though he imagined that would've been wonderful, too. He'd always
had the feeling that they'd been on the verge of forging a connection
beyond friendship, beyond boyfriend-girlfriend, beyond even lovers. A
soul-to-soul connection that would've bonded them

111

together forever. But something had happened to ruin it, and he wished
to God he knew what it was.

He let out a bitter laugh. There he was, sounding like a poorly written
romance novel again. Soul-to-soul connection ... Still, that's how he'd
felt at the time, with the intensity of emotion that only a teenager was
capable of. Still, he'd been encouraged by tonight. It seemed that a
spark of what Damara and he had almost had still existed, and he hoped
that given a little time, that spark might grow into a flame.

He thought of Damara and brilliant-hued butterflies, and as he did,
sleep finally came to him.

While he slept, patches of color appeared in the darkness above him,
colors that merged to form the outline of a woman--a woman with
multifaceted eyes, like those of an insect. She regarded Tristan's
sleeping form for a time and then, as if coming to a decision, she
unfurled her rainbowcolored wings and crawled on top of him.

Damara lay on the couch, staring at the TV without really watching it.
She had the sound turned down so low that it was nothing but a soft
murmur. She was absolutely exhausted, so tired that she could barely
hold her head up, but she wasn't sleepy. She felt drained of energy, as
if she were coming down with something. Since she didn't go out, she
rarely got sick unless her mother caught something and passed it on to
her. But now she felt as if she might be starting a nasty bout of flu.

112

She glanced at the digital clock on the cable box and saw it was 1:54 in
the morning. Dawn was still a long way off.

A very long way.

113

Chapter Eight

Damara knew she should try to sleep, but the idea of crawling into bed
and tossing and turning in the darkness didn't appeal to her. With
nothing else to do, she'd think, and when she thought too much, she
started imagining, and when she started imagining, bad things happened.
But she knew a way she could get to sleep fast, and without having any
dreams.

She got up from the couch and headed for the bathroom--not the one near
her bedroom, but the one next to Mother's. She turned on the light, then
stepped to the sink and opened the door to the medicine cabinet. On the
top shelf was a row of prescription bottles, all with labels bearing
Damara's name. Pills for allergy, migraine, depression, anxiety, and
what she had come seeking relief from tonight: insomnia. She took the
bottle off the shelf, opened it, shook out a single pill onto her palm,
and then, thinking better of it, shook out another. She set the bottle
on the counter, pulled a

114

Dixie cup out of the dispenser and filled it with water. But as she
lifted the pills toward her mouth, she hesitated. She knew from
experience that two pills would knock her out within minutes and keep
her unconscious for close to twelve hours. Twelve hours of peace, twelve
hours of not having to worry that her imagination might be slipping out
of her control... so why was she hesitating? She wasn't sure, but she
thought maybe it had something to do with Tristan.

Taking the sleeping pills would be the easiest way to escape her fears,
at least for a while. But that was the problem--it would be too easy.
She'd been taking the easy way out for the last ten years. Taking a pill
whenever she couldn't sleep, was worried or depressed. Staying inside
the house, only going out for doctor and dentist appointments. But
Tristan wasn't taking the easy way out of his problem. He'd come back
home all the way from California to get his mom's house ready to sell.
Though the task was sure to be emotionally difficult, he wasn't leaving
the job to someone else. He was here, and he was going to do it himself.
Damara admired that in him, and she was ashamed of herself for wanting a
chemical escape so badly.

She looked at the pills cupped in her hand, then replaced them in their
bottle, put the cap back on, put the bottle back in the medicine
cabinet, poured out the water, crumpled the Dixie cup, and threw it into
the wastebasket beneath the sink. When she was done, she smiled, proud
of herself

115

for not taking the easy route. But her feeling of pride soon vanished as
she realized she was still faced with the same problem as before: how to
get sleepy.

Well, she was already in the bathroom. Why not take a shower? A warm,
soothing shower would be just the thing to relax her, and with any luck,
once she was relaxed, sleep wouldn't be long in coming. Decision made,
she disrobed, dropping her clothes to the tiled floor, then got a big
fluffy towel and washcloth from the linen closet. She flipped on the
ceiling fan to keep the bathroom from becoming too steamy, then walked
over to the shower and reached inside to turn on the water. But she
didn't turn the knob right away. Instead, she looked down at the drain
in the center of the shower floor.

She thought of how she'd been forced to use the other bathroom earlier
this evening, and of the sounds she'd heard coming from the tub drain
... and then later from the drain in the kitchen sink. She didn't think
she could stand in the shower, naked and vulnerable, while those sounds
issued from the drain between her bare wet feet.

Don't think about it, she scolded herself. Thinking about it might make
it happen!

She concentrated on the idea of a polar bear trapped in a blizzard, but
try as she might, she couldn't picture a completely white expanse of
nothingness. The harder she tried, the more the image eluded her. All
she could think about was the wet gurgley sounds of movement, the skritch-

116

skritch of claws on metal, the lonely plaintive voice of a little boy
calling, Mara? Maaaaaaaraaaaa!

She almost turned and fled the bathroom before her imagination could
become reality, but then she thought of how brave Tristan was being,
coming home to confront his past and make peace with it before selling
it off to the highest bidder. She wanted to be brave like him, to be
brave for him.

The image of the polar bear still refused to come. Instead, she saw
Tristan's face, his eyes, his smile, heard the kindness and humor in his
voice. Her fear began to subside, and though it didn't recede
altogether, it became more manageable. She took a deep breath and then
turned on the water. She kept her fingers in the spray as she carefully
adjusted the water temperature. Her mom liked hot showers--the hotter,
the better--and she insisted the water heater be kept on a high setting.
Damara always had to be careful not to scald herself when she used the
shower. When she had the temperature just right, warm but not too hot,
she stepped into the shower and slid the glass door shut.

She stood with her back to the water and closed her eyes as the warmth
trickled over her shoulders, breasts, stomach, back, butt, and legs. She
kept her breathing even and relaxed, and without any conscious effort on
her part, her mind achieved a state of calm, if not total equilibrium.
She turned slowly around until the spray was hitting her chest. The
sensation felt good on her nipples, almost ticklish, and they became
erect. She lightly brushed her hands over her breasts, shivered with

117

pleasure, then dipped her head beneath the spray to wet her hair. She
rubbed water over her face, then turned her back to the spray once more
and reached for the soap. She gripped it too tightly and it squirted out
of her hands. It hit the shower floor with a loud clack! and slid around
in a half circle before coming to a stop.

Right next to the drain.

She looked down at the bar of soap, water streaming down from the sides
of her face. Maybe she should just forget about the soap. After all,
she'd come in here to relax, not necessarily to get clean. Besides, her
mom had a bottle of body wash on the shower rack alongside their
shampoos and conditioners. She could just use that and worry about
picking up the soap later. She stared down at the soap again--it was
only an inch or less from the drain--and felt disgusted with herself.
This was ridiculous! All she had to do was bend down and pick up the
soap. It wasn't like she would be any closer to the drain by doing so.
Her feet were already only a few inches away from it. True, her face
would be closer, but that was more a matter of psychological distance
than physical, wasn't it? If her face was closer, she might hear
something coming from inside the drain, might even catch a glimpse of
something below the grating. But if anything was there, it would be
there whether she bent to retrieve the soap or not.

Somehow, that last thought failed to be of much comfort.

Tristan would pick up the soap, she thought.

118

The girl she had once been, the Damara who had been both brave and
foolish enough to sneak into the Riverfork amusement park in the middle
of the night would've picked up the soap.

"Shit," she muttered, and bent down.

Her fingers brushed the soap, and it slid away from her grasp. She tried
again, water pounding on her back, pouring off her like rain, pattering
onto the shower floor around her. Slowly ... slowly ... This time she
managed to catch hold of the soap. Grinning with triumph, she started to
straighten up. And that's when she heard it.

"Mmmmmm ..."

Though the water temperature hadn't changed, Damara suddenly felt cold,
as if she were standing beneath the frigid flow of an arctic spring.

God, no!

"aaaaaaaraaa?"

She wanted to stand, wanted to throw open the shower door and run,
wanted to smash the soap against the drain and shove it in, plug the
drain up, seal off the sound along with whatever--or whoever--was making
it. But she remained hunched over, water streaming off her as if she
were some strange manner of fountain statuary. She couldn't move; all
she could do was stare at the drain and listen.

"Maaraaa? Are you up there?" The voice was muted, distant, and thick, as
if whoever it was, were speaking underwater.

Whoever it was ... Damara knew she was being dishonest with herself. She
knew damn well

119

who was speaking. It was Jason, her little brother. Her long-lost little
brother.

"Jason?" she whispered. "Is that you?"

At first there was no reply, and the only sounds Damara heard were water
spraying out of the shower nozzle, pounding against the skin on her
back, and splashing onto the floor. She began to hope that there hadn't
been any voice, that it had been nothing but an auditory illusion
created by the shower noise and her own anxieties.

But then she heard it again.

"Mara ... let me out..." The voice was louder, closer, and accompanied
by the sound of claws scrabbling on metal, as if something were climbing
up the drain pipe toward her--something large.

Damara knew that nothing larger than a mouse could fit through the
narrow pipe, and with the shower water pouring down, a small animal or
insect wouldn't be able to make its way upward against the flow. But
then, a small animal or insect wouldn't be speaking with Jason's voice,
would it?

"You're open, Mara. Wide open ..."

She had no idea what the voice was talking about, but the words
nevertheless chilled her.

The scuttle-scratch of claws was louder now, and though the shower was
still running, Damara could no longer hear water falling. All she could
hear was the sound of sharp nails on metal. She couldn't take any more
of this. She reached around to turn off the water, but before she could
do so, the voice spoke again.

120

"You have to stop, Mara ... stop now. If you don't stop, we'll stop it
for you."

The round metal cover flew off as a green clawed hand covered with
spikes thrust upward. It didn't matter that the opening was too narrow
for a normal hand and forearm to pass through, let alone one that
sprouted wicked-looking black barbs. And it didn't matter that nothing
larger than a goldfish could fit inside the pipe. Jack Sharp could reach
up through the drain because Jason had once imagined he could, simple as
that.

Damara no longer cared about turning off the water. She wanted to get
out of the shower and away from Jack Sharp. She reached for the shower
door, intending to throw it open and stumble out to safety. But she only
managed to slide the door a few inches before the spiny green hand took
a swipe at her legs. Damara screamed as ebony needles raked her skin,
lay open her flesh, scraped against bone ... Blood poured from the
wounds, ran over her feet, mixed with the shower water, circled red
around the drain. The bulk of the monstrous arm blocked the drain,
though, and crimson-tinged water began to rise.

Jason's words came back to her then. If you don't, we'll stop it for you
... Maybe it wasn't only Jack Sharp she was facing. Maybe somehow the
spine-covered thing was Jason, too. Perhaps they'd merged into a single
entity, one that wanted revenge on a sister who, once upon a time, had
failed to protect her little brother.

121

Damara pressed her back against the tiled shower wall and spread her
feet out until they touched the corners of the stall. Jack Sharp kept
reaching around, fingers clawing the air as they sought to catch hold of
her once more. But the creature's elbow was below the level of the
drain, so it couldn't bend its arm, greatly restricting its range of
motion. Damara was safe for the moment, but she was trapped. As long as
the arm stretched upward, there was no way she could pass by it without
getting shredded further-- which was bad for several reasons. Chief
among them being that her leg wound was bleeding like a sonofabitch, and
if she didn't get out of the shower and stop the bleeding, she'd pass
out soon. And once she was unconscious, she'd collapse limply to the
shower floor, and then Jack Sharp could slice and dice her at his leisure.

Her leg throbbed, and the warm water pouring over her wound made it hurt
even worse. She felt like crying, like screaming, but she forced herself
to maintain control. If she lost it, she was as good as dead.

Maybe that wouldn't be so bad, she thought. If she were gone, then her
imagination would cease to exist along with her. And once her
imagination was shut down, the people around her--the people she cared
about--would be safe.

The hand stopped reaching for her and swayed back and forth as if it
were some manner of serpent that traveled through household plumbing.

122

"Don't be so sure, Mara. If a mother gives birth to a child, does that
child cease to exist when she does? Or does it continue to have a life
of its own?"

She wasn't certain if the hand had given up its attack or was merely
pausing a moment. Whichever it was, Damara knew she couldn't afford to
keep bleeding like this. With her gaze fixed firmly on Jack Sharp's
hand, she bent down and pressed her own hand tight against the gashes on
her foreleg. The pressure made her wound feel as if she'd dipped it in
kerosene and set it aflame. She ground her teeth so hard, she wouldn't
have been surprised if shards of enamel shot out of her mouth, but she
managed to refrain from screaming and avoided falling into unconsciousness.

"Why are you doing this?" she said in a voice made quavery from equal
amounts pain and fear.

"Because you can't go, Mara ... you can't!"

Blood was dribbling between her fingers, and she began to feel weak and
lightheaded. She figured the blood loss was starting to affect her and
shock was beginning to set in. She had to do something, and do it fast.

A thought occurred to her: If she had imagined Jack Sharp--or at least
helped Jason to imagine him--maybe she could unimagine him. She did her
best to concentrate past her pain, to think through the thick layer of
cotton wrapped around her brain. She pictured the arm growing smaller,
shrinking, then spinning around and around as it was sucked down the
drain, dwindling away to nothingness as it went.

123

But the arm stayed the same size and remained where it was.

"You can't wish us away, Mara. You're wide open. Others have tapped into
your mind and are drawing on your power. You've grown weak--in more ways
than one. So ... time to play! Red rover, red rover, send Mara right over!"

The hand wiggled its fingers, making a "come here" gesture.

Damara's field of vision had narrowed, and now it seemed as if she were
looking at the spiny hand from the other end of a long, dark tunnel. She
understood what Jack Sharp ... Jason ... they wanted. If the shower door
had been open, then maybe she could've tried to execute some sort of
half-assed jump over the hand. But the door wasn't open, not more than a
couple inches anyway, and if she attempted to jump over the hand, she
risked smashing into the door and breaking the glass. She'd likely end
up cutting herself to ribbons faster than Jack Sharp could. She had to
think of another way out of here, and quickly, before she bled to death.

She thought of grabbing the bottles of shampoo and conditioners and
pouring them all over the hand. Maybe the chemicals would filter down to
wherever the creature's eyes and mouth were. She had no idea if the
chemicals in the products would have any effect on Jack Sharp, but she
decided to try. She took her hand away from her wound, rinsed the blood
off in the shower spray, then reached up and gripped a bottle of
shampoo. She

124

flipped open the lid and was about to squeeze shampoo onto Jack Sharp's
hand when she remembered that the arm blocked the drain, so the
chemicals wouldn't be washed down the pipe. With a hand shaking from a
combination of terror and blood loss, she put the shampoo back on the
shower caddy.

Think! she told herself. Use your mind; it's the only thing left you
have to fight with!

Despite how long the shower had been running, the water was still warm.
As high as her mom kept the water heater set, Damara never ran out of...
An idea occurred to her then, and she smiled grimly. Thanks, Mom.

She adjusted the angle of the shower nozzle so the spray struck the
spiny hand dead on. She then turned the cold water off and cranked the
hot water as high as it would go, pressing her body against the side of
the stall to keep herself from getting burned. Within seconds, steam
rose from the water, filling the shower with moist white haze. Jack
Sharp's hand began to thrash back and forth, and his/its/their scream
was one of heartache, loneliness, and pain. Damara felt so sorry for the
creature that might or might not be her little brother, and she started
to turn the hot water off. But before she could, the arm withdrew,
disappearing down the drain. Damara turned off the water, opened the
shower door, and hurried through. She stepped onto the bath mat, leaving
a bloody footprint on the blue fabric. From behind her, she heard Jack
Sharp's wails becoming more

125

and more faint as he headed back to wherever it was he'd come from.

But she didn't have time to worry about that. She had a wound to tend
to. She grabbed the towel she'd left hanging over the shower door handle
and pressed it hard against her lower left leg. She took in a hiss of
breath; damn, that hurt! She kept the towel pressed to her wound for a
few minutes, letting the fabric sop up the blood. Then she pulled the
towel away and took her first good look at her injury. There were three
deep furrows--made by Jack Sharp's claws, no doubt-- and several smaller
scratches caused by his spines. As she watched, they immediately began
to fill with blood once more.

"Shit!" she swore. Of course this would have to happen when Mom was at
work. And though Damara had taken driver's ed in high school, her
license had long ago lapsed, and it had been years since she'd driven a
car. Not that she had a car of her own, and not that she could drive it
bleeding like this. She needed help.

She took the towel--which already had a crimson patch where blood had
soaked through--and quickly tied it around her wounded leg. Then she
hobbled out of the bathroom in search of a phone.

126 126 Tim Waggoner

127

Chapter Nine

Damara smiled with relief when Tristan walked into the emergency room
lobby carrying a brown grocery sack. He was dressed in a blue
windbreaker, a rumpled white shirt and equally rumpled jeans, and tennis
shoes. His hair was mussed, and his eyes were only half open. He
stopped, looked around, and saw her sitting in a wheelchair over by a TV
set mounted on the wall. She waved and he hurried over to her.

"My God, are you all right?" As he spoke he stared at the gauze-wrapped
leg poking out from her bathrobe. It had been the only clothing she'd
had the presence of mind to grab after calling 911, and there were dried
bloodstains on the hem. She didn't even have on a pair of panties, since
there'd been no way to slip them over her bleeding leg without getting
them soaked in blood.

"I don't mean to shock you, Tristan, but it doesn't talk. My leg, I mean."

He lifted his gaze to meet hers and grinned in

128

embarrassment. "Sorry. Over the years, I've taught enough students with
disabilities to know better than to talk to you without looking in your
eyes. So? How are you?"

"Twenty-eight stitches altogether. I lost some blood, as you might well
imagine, so they gave me a pint or so to top me off. "She reached into
her robe pocket and brought out a plastic prescription bottle. "And they
gave me some great pills." She shook the bottle for emphasis. "They
don't take away all the pain, but they dope me up enough so I don't give
a damn about it."

Tristan smiled. "Ah, the wonders of modern science!"

It was 5:20 in the morning, and aside from a nurse at the front desk and
a man with blond hair and a goatee who'd come in a few minutes ago
claiming to suffer from appendicitis, the lobby was deserted. The poor
man--who wore a trench coat over a pair of pajamas--sat hunched over,
grimacing in pain as he worked to fill out a sheaf of forms on a
clipboard. The decor was bland and impersonal: white tiled floor, white
walls, white ceiling... chairs, couches, and side tables all brown, all
square and rectangular. Everything illuminated in the harsh blue-white
of fluorescent lights overhead. The lobby had all the charm and comfort
of a morgue, Damara thought. As if whoever had designed it hadn't
bothered to consider the people who'd be using it. The walls could be
painted puke green and the floor bare dirt. What did it matter? The
patients would all be in too much discomfort

129

to care what the hell their surroundings looked like anyway, right?

Damara nodded toward the sack Tristan carried. "I assume those are some
of your mother's things."

"Yep. Some underwear, a turtleneck, a sweater, and a pair of sweatpants.
I was afraid her regular pants would be too big for you. At least with
the sweats, you can tighten the drawstring."

He held out the sack and she took it and set it on her lap. Tristan's
mother hadn't been obese, but she'd been heavier than Damara, and her
pants probably wouldn't have fit. At least, she had been heavier--until
the cancer had started eating her alive.

"Thanks, Tristan."

He looked genuinely puzzled, which was so like him, Damara thought. It
would never occur to him that he'd done anything special by coming to
help her.

"For what?"

"For coming here to get me, especially at five-thirty in the morning.
And for letting me borrow your mother's clothes."

He gave her an uncomfortable smile. He'd never been very good at
accepting someone's gratitude, Damara recalled.

He sat down in a chair next to her. "Hey, what are friends for, and
other assorted cliches. Besides, I was up anyway. I had trouble sleeping
... had the strangest dreams." He shook his head as if to clear it. "I'm
just surprised that the doctors are going to let you leave so soon. From
the way you

130

described your cuts over the phone, I figured they'd at least keep you
for a day or so."

"It's the age of managed care. They don't keep you unless you're dying,
and even then they'd probably put a bandage on you and send you on your
way." The truth was the doctor who'd stitched her up had wanted to keep
her--mostly because of the amount of blood she'd lost--but Damara had
insisted on leaving, and since her injuries were no longer
life-threatening, the doctor had relented, though he hadn't been happy
about it. But she saw no need to tell Tristan all that.

"How did you cut yourself, anyway?" Tristan asked. "You said something
on the phone about an accident in the shower, but I didn't quite
understand what you were saying."

Damara wanted to tell Tristan the truth, but she knew this wasn't the
time and place. Besides, she feared that he'd think she was crazy if she
told him what had really happened.

"Like I said, I was taking a shower and I grabbed hold of a bar of soap
to wash myself. I started with my left leg, and as I ran the soap across
my skin, I felt a stinging sensation. At first I figured that I probably
had a little cut that I didn't know about and some soap got in it and
made it sting. But I felt the same sharp stinging when I started washing
again. Then I saw the blood. I looked at the soap and saw that a razor
blade was stuck in it. Mom keeps her razor on the same shelf where we
keep the soap, and I guess one of the

131

blades came loose and one of us put the soap down on it after our last
shower."

That had actually happened to her a few years ago, except that she'd
started soaping her arm and she'd realized something was wrong after the
first sting, so she hadn't cut herself very badly. She hoped Tristan
would believe her story. The doctor had looked skeptical when she'd told
him, but he hadn't questioned her further.

Tristan winced. "That must've hurt like hell. You're lucky you didn't
get cut even worse."

Damara saw Jack Sharp's spine-covered hand reaching for her.

"Yeah, I sure am."

They were silent for a few moments, and then Tristan asked, "Have you
managed to get hold of your mom yet?"

"I called the hotel again, but I got the same woman I spoke with before.
I'd hoped the manager would've shown up by now, but I guess it's still
too early. The woman told me the same thing as before: that Mom called
her around midnight, told her she was sick, and asked if she could come
in to relieve her. The woman agreed, and when she got to the hotel, Mom
was gone, leaving only a note behind for the woman that said, Thanks,
owe you one!' Mom didn't even take the time to sign it."

"I assume you tried calling your house again?" Tristan asked.

Damara nodded. "Twice. I got the machine both times."

132

"And you don't have any idea at all where she might be?"

"None. It's not like her to take off work, even when she's sick. She has
to be at death's door to even think about staying home, and even then
she'd probably go in for a couple hours. And if she were sick, she'd
come straight home."

"Maybe she didn't think she could make it all the way home and went to a
friend's place instead," Tristan offered.

"I doubt it. None of her friends work third shift, at least none that I
know about. She wouldn't want to bother them that late at night."

"Don't worry. I'm sure there's some logical explanation for where she went."

Damara let out a bark of a laugh. "That's the sort of thing people say
when they don't want to admit they haven't got a goddamned clue."

Tristan smiled. "I like you when you're on pain medication. It makes you
feisty."

"Feisty? Isn't that a word you used to describe an old woman?"

"How about sassy then?"

Damara pretended to think about it a moment. "On second thought, I think
I'll stick with feisty." She grew serious then. "I've got some bad news.
After I called you, I asked the nurse at the desk if she could check on
Bobby Markley for me. She looked him up in their computer system." She
paused to take a breath before going on. "He's dead, Tristan. He died
sometime before midnight."

"How? I mean, I know he had a bad head injury,

133

but from what you told me at your place, he was moving when the
paramedics took him away."

Damara sniffed back tears. "The same paramedics came to get me, you
know. They said there must be a curse on our neighborhood or something."
As soon as she said the words, she wished she hadn't. There was a curse
on Pandora Drive-- and the curse was her. "The nurse either couldn't
tell me how Bobby died or she wouldn't. Either way, I didn't find out
anything else about him. I guess his head injury was the cause."

Tristan shook his head. "God, that sucks. Bobby was a kid, and to die
like that, from a simple fall ... Hell, we used to fall all the time
when we were kids, remember? We never got any head injuries, didn't even
suffer so much as a single broken bone. And Bobby trips on his front
steps and dies a few hours later. Luck of the draw, I guess."

Damara wasn't certain luck had anything to do with it, but she wasn't
ready to tell Tristan that-- not just yet.

The man with appendicitis must have finished completing his forms, for
he stood up--still hunched over--and hobbled toward the nurse's desk.
The woman was typing on her computer and didn't look up as he approached.

"I hate to ask you for another favor, Tristan, but if you wouldn't mind ..."

"Sure, Mara. Anything you need."

She felt a rush of love for Tristan then, because she knew he wasn't
just saying that; he meant it.

"Would you mind driving me to the hotel where

134

Mom works? I'd feel better if I could take a look around myself. Maybe
Mom left some indication where she was going, and the woman who filled
in for her missed it."

She was afraid that Tristan would tell her that she was clutching at
straws, but he smiled and said, "Sure. It'll keep me from having to get
started cleaning my mom's place. But are you sure you're up to it? You
must be exhausted, not to mention groggy from your medication. And is it
really a smart idea for you to be walking right now?"

"I'll manage. The doctor said I could walk as long as I took it easy.
And I don't plan on sprinting anytime soon."

"But the wheelchair?"

"Hospital policy. They wouldn't let me walk to the lobby on my own.
Probably afraid I'd trip and sue the hospital. I figured I'd sit in it
until it was time to go. Just let me wheel on over to the women's
restroom and change, then we can--"

Damara was interrupted as the man with appendicitis--who now stood over
at the nurse's desk--let out a cry of pain.

"Goddamn, that hurts!" He sounded like he was scared and in agony.
Damara didn't blame him a bit.

He pressed his hands to his abdomen. "Feels ... urg! ... like the
fucking thing... is trying to get out!"

As soon as he spoke, Damara stood up, ignoring the stabbing pain in her
injured leg.

135

"No!" she shouted, but it was too late.

The man screamed as his abdomen exploded in a shower of blood and loops
of intestine. As he fell to the floor--which was no longer as white as
it had been a few seconds ago--a small narrow piece of inflamed meat
plapped onto the blood-smeared tile and wriggled away from its previous
home as fast as it could go, leaving a crimson trail in its wake like
some manner of demonic snail.

HEADLESS BODY FOUND BEHIND LOCAL BAR

Kenneth felt an electric thrill shoot through his cock as he read the
headline. Zephyr wasn't a large enough town to have a daily
paper--Dayton and Cincinnati were the closest cities with dailies--but
the weekly came out every Wednesday. Kenneth was surprised, but
pleasantly so, to see the story about Nancy. He'd thought their little
tete-a-tete had occurred too late to make this week's edition.

He picked up his coffee mug from the dining table and took a sip before
quickly skimming the article to make sure his name wasn't mentioned. He
didn't see how it could be, but it didn't hurt to be careful. Several
customers in the bar had reported seeing Nancy leave with a "middle-aged
man," but there was no further description. Kenneth was sure the cops
assumed that man was the killer, but if they didn't have any more
details to go on, they'd never figure out he was that man. He was as
safe as a baby floating in its mother's womb. He went back to the
beginning of the article and read it more slowly this time, lingering

136

over certain phrases, such as "head completely destroyed as if by a
shotgun blast" and "an unidentified substance was found at the scene."
He knew damn well what that substance was, didn't he? High-octane Kenny
love-juice!

He closed his eyes as he recalled the incredible sensations of the
orgasm that had brought about Nancy's demise. What did they say, fuck
off and die? That certainly fit Nancy--she'd gotten him off and then
she'd died, face, skull, and brains disintegrated in the greatest
cum-blast in the history of the human race. He started to get hard again
just thinking about it. His penis pushed against his underwear and
bulged against the fabric of his robe.

Deep inside him, somewhere in the darkness of his soul, a part of
Kenneth that was still sane cried out in despair over what he'd done to
Nancy/NOT-E-DD. But the rest of him didn't listen. It was too busy
reliving that glorious moment when the pressure had built up inside him
and his cock swelled to the bursting point in Nancy's mouth. And then,
when he could no longer hold back--

"Are you reading that filth?"

Kenneth's eyes snapped open and he scowled, irritated at having been
torn away from such a pleasant memory. He glanced over his shoulder at
Emma, saw she was dressed for school in a white blouse and a denim
skirt. She had one earring in and was in the process of putting in the
other.

His scowl melted away and became a sly smile. The paper lay open on the
table before him. "If you're referring to this--" he tapped the article

137

about Nancy's death with his index finger--"then yes, I was. Did you
read it?"

Emma made a face as if hot bile splashed the back of her throat. "It's
lurid and disgusting! Not fit for a cheap tabloid, let alone the town
paper. And they put it on the front page where anyone-- including
children--might see the headline."

Kenneth's smile widened, and he felt his cock grow harder. He wasn't
certain, but he thought he could hear a slight tearing sound, as if the
fabric of his underwear were starting to rip.

"So you did read it."

Emma hrumpfed and, second earring in place, headed back to the bathroom
to finish putting her makeup on. Kenneth watched her go, admiring her
trim form. A lot of women put on weight as they aged, but not his Emma.
She was exactly the same dress size she'd been on their wedding day. He
thought about sneaking into the bathroom and opening his robe to reveal
the erection straining at his underwear just to see how Emma would
react. Would the sight of his newly reborn monster cock ignite the
dormant embers of desire in her? Or would she recoil in horror? Kenneth
couldn't decide which reaction would turn him on more. Either way, he
could yank that denim skirt of hers down and give her a taste of what
Nancy had gotten last night.

He took a last sip of coffee and started to stand--already wondering
what would happen to Emma's body when he came in her--but then he caught
movement out of the corner of his eye. He

138

turned to look out the window and saw Anne Marcino and Autumn walking
down their front steps, Anne carrying a cardboard box full of papers,
and Autumn wearing her backpack. Her hair was done in pigtails today,
and somehow they made her look at once older and younger. Kenneth found
the look unbearably sexy and his cock gave an excited twitch in his
underwear.

Easy, boy, Kenneth thought, and he had to resist the urge to reach down
and pat his quivering erection as if it were some sort of anxious pet
that needed reassurance. He got up from the table and walked to the
front window. It was a chilly morning, and both Anne and Autumn wore
jackets. He was disappointed, especially about Anne. He preferred warmer
weather, when women wore less clothing and he could get a better look at
their shape. Still, Anne was wearing a skirt, and though the hemline
wasn't as high as he would've liked, it still gave him a good look at
her legs. From this distance, he couldn't tell whether she was wearing
hose or not. He chose to think of her legs bare, and maybe she wasn't
wearing any panties, either.

Are you going commando today, Anne? He'd sure love to find out. He
imagined standing next to her, talking to her about something, maybe
what had happened to that obnoxious Markley kid last night. He imagined
slowly reaching his hand under her skirt, exploring with his fingers,
eager to discover whether he would touch soft cloth or warm wet flesh. ...

When they reached the bottom of the steps,

139

Anne kissed Autumn on the forehead and headed for her car, which was
parked in the driveway. She loaded the box of papers into the trunk
while Autumn sat down on the bottom step to await the school bus, the
same way she did every morning.

"Kenneth Arthur Colton! You should be ashamed of yourself!"

Kenneth frowned as he turned to face his wife. "What are you talking about?"

Emma pointed at his crotch. "I'm talking about that!"

Kenneth looked down and saw that his penis-- his very naked, very erect
penis--was sticking out from his robe. That was weird. He hadn't pulled
his underwear down and let his cock free. So how had it... He saw a tiny
piece of white cloth sticking out of the slit of his penis. The organ
twitched and the scrap of cloth was sucked inside. Kenneth realized what
had happened. His dick, eager to be free of the confinement of his
underwear, had made an exit for itself.

He looked back up at Emma. The expression on her face hadn't changed, so
he doubted she'd noticed his cock slurp up the bit of cloth.

"Ashamed? Take a good long look at it, Emma. This isn't just a dick
anymore. It's a monster cock! Hell, it's the goddamned king of cocks!"

As if responding to his words, Kenneth's penis swelled even more, the
skin turned dark purple, and violet-blue veins stood out, pulsing gently
as blood flowed through them.

Emma's upper lip curled in disgust, and she

140

looked away from his erection, past his shoulder, and out the window.
When she saw what--or rather who--he'd been looking at, she let out a
snort that was almost, but not quite a laugh. "The reason you should be
ashamed is because you got ... that way from ogling Anne Marcino and her
daughter!"

Kenneth felt a sudden urge to cover himself, as if he were a kid who'd
just been caught masturbating by his mother. But then a voice whispered
in his mind, one that was both his and not his. And though it seemed to
originate in his head, he knew it came from somewhere farther south.

Don't let her intimidate you, Kenny! You don't have to take shit from
her--you don't have to take it from anyone--not with what you got
swinging between your legs!

Kenneth took a step toward Emma, his cock so hard it barely jiggled as
he moved. "So what if I did? Anne's a real piece, and it's not like you
do anything to get me stiff."

He took another step toward Emma, and she started to retreat before him,
but at the last instant she held her ground.

"Anne's got great tits, great legs, a great ass, blowjob lips ... Do you
think she'd be able to take this monster of mine in her mouth without
gagging? I bet she could. I'm sure she's had lots of practice."

He took another step forward, and now the smaller, shiny head of his
cock was only inches from Emma's belly. She continued to avert her

141

gaze, but she did take a step back this time. She'd never given ground
to Kenneth before, not like this, not so completely, so fearfully. He
liked it, liked it a lot.

"As for Autumn, I bet she'd choke if she tried to swallow so much
Kenny-kielbasa. That is, if she didn't just faint dead away as soon as
she saw the King coming at her. Course, if I put it in any of her other
holes, I'd probably end up splitting the poor thing right down the middle."

Another step forward for Kenneth, another step backward for Emma.

"What do you think, darling?" he said. "Could Autumn take it? Could you?"

He took a last step toward Emma, but this time she didn't back away, and
the head of his cock bumped into her stomach. Kenneth winced. Her blouse
was cold as ice, as if she'd kept her clothes in a deep-freeze all night
instead of the closet. Without meaning to but unable to stop himself,
Kenneth took a step back. The tip of his penis ached from the cold, and
though his dick remained erect, it wasn't quite so hard now.

Emma's face was no longer pale, her eyes no longer filled with
uncertainty. Though he was certain it had to be a trick of the light,
her skin appeared to take on a greenish cast, and her eyes smoldered
with barely restrained fury.

"Don't push me, Kenneth." Her voice was low and dangerous. "You might
think you're a big man now just because your thing is working again, but
I'm not exactly Little Miss Helpless. The

142

neighborhood's starting to become overgrown with weeds, and the worst
two are growing right across the street from us. It's high time I did
something about them, don't you think?" Then she reached toward his
cock, made a pair of scissors with her fingers, and slid them around his
shaft. "And if you don't watch out, I might just prune this too while
I'm at it. Snip-snip!"

Then she smiled, withdrew her hand, turned, and walked away, leaving
Kenneth just standing there. By the time she'd gotten her purse and her
school bag and left through the back door, his penis was as limp as a
strand of spaghetti. A moment later he heard the engine of Emma's Geo
start, and he turned back to the window.

Anne was already in her car and backing out of her driveway. She waved
to Autumn as she backed onto the street, then honked and waved to Emma
as she drove off. Emma didn't honk, and though Kenneth couldn't see her
from this angle, he doubted she waved, either. Emma pulled out of the
driveway then. Autumn waved at her, but Emma didn't so much as look in
the girl's direction as she headed down the street, driving faster than
usual.

Glad that his wife was finally gone, Kenneth reached between the folds
of his robe and into his underwear, intending to get himself hard again
so he could masturbate while he watched little pigtailed Autumn wait for
the bus. But his monster cock refused to return, and his dick remained a
tiny lump of cold, shapeless meat. Kenneth

143

reached farther down, grabbed hold of his testicles and squeezed them in
frustration.

Goddamn that Emma ... goddamn her straight to frigid-bitch hell!

Emma watched Autumn grow smaller in her rearview mirror as she drove
down the street. She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles turning
white. "You little tease," she muttered. "Nothing but a
whore-in-training. Cunt. Slut."

Emma might not have been particularly fond of sex--it had been something
of a relief when Kenneth's equipment had refused to function after his
prostate operation, actually--but that didn't mean she tolerated her
husband's roving eye. Kenneth was her man, no one else's, and whether
she chose to make use of it or not, his penis was hers, too. Her
goddamned property, to do with as she saw fit. And no one was going to
take it away from her. Not that tramp Anne ...

... and certainly not her little cooz of a daughter.

Emma continued driving toward school, and as she did, she began to make
plans.

Inside Tristan's house, up in the attic that was crammed almost ceiling
to floor with cardboard boxes full of the forgotten detritus of a
family's life, she rested. It was warm up here, and far from feeling
uncomfortable in the cramped attic, she felt snug, safe, secure. She
hung upside down, clinging to the exposed ceiling beams with all of her
limbs, her delicate wings folded against her

144

back, brown hair hanging down and brushing the top of a box. But though
she rested, she did not sleep.

She was tired after the night she had spent with the man. They had done
many things together-- many good things--but sleeping had not been among
them. This morning, she had called the man. The Other. And he went to
her, though where exactly he had gone, she did not know. She did know
one thing, however. It was the Other the man truly loved, not her.
During all the good things that they had done together in the dark, it
had been the Other he was thinking of the entire time. She understood
that she was a substitute for the Other, and that if it came down to a
choice, the man would choose the Other over her. This knowledge made her
sad and angry.

Her multi-faceted eyes detected movement and locked on to a small spider
crawling across one of the beams not far from her face. She opened her
mouth, unrolled her tongue, and extended it quick as a whip toward the
spider. A split-second later, she was chewing, then swallowing, and
thinking about how much she'd like to do the same thing to the Other.

145

Chapter Ten

Tristan got breakfast sandwiches and coffee for them at a drive-thru,
and they ate as he drove to the Econo Inn over in Waldron where Damara's
mother worked. As if by unspoken agreement, neither of them said
anything about the man whose appendix had burst out of his body then
made a run for it. The man had died from shock and blood loss, but there
was no sign of the renegade organ. Damara had heard one of the doctors
who had rushed to the ER lobby too late to help the man say that the
appendix had ruptured so violently that it had for all intents and
purposes disintegrated into blood and shredded bits of meat. But Damara
knew better; she figured the appendix had succeeded in escaping.

Damara wondered if she shouldn't have called

911, shouldn't have come to the hospital, should've stayed home instead
and let herself bleed to death. If she had, the man with the appendix
would still be alive. She hadn't killed him

146

on purpose, of course, but her ability, power, talent, curse, whatever
the hell it was, had provided the impetus for bringing his morbid
fantasy to life.

She glanced at Tristan. He had one hand on the steering wheel and held
his coffee in the other. Every moment she spent in his presence put him
in further danger. She should have him take her home right now where she
could be alone and not be a threat to anyone. She almost asked him to do
just that, but then she thought of her mother. Something was wrong with
Claire. It wasn't like her to just disappear. Damara was determined to
find and help her mother, but to do so, she needed Tristan's help. She
would just have to hope that he would keep a lid on his imagination as
long as they were together.

The sun had risen over the horizon by the time they reached Waldron, and
a short time after that, they pulled into the parking lot of the Econo
Inn. Tristan parked at the curb in front of the lobby so Damara wouldn't
have far to walk, and she was grateful for this thoughtfulness. Despite
the pain medication, her leg throbbed and she felt muzzyheaded both from
the pills and lack of sleep. She wasn't confident that she could take
more than two steps without losing her balance and falling.

Damara opened the door and started to get out, but Tristan told her to
wait. He hurried around to her side and held out a hand. She took it and
he gently helped her climb out of her seat and limp over the curb onto
the front walk. Tristan then

147

closed her door, locked the car with his key-chain remote, then extended
an elbow for her to take.

"I see living in California has made you quite the gentleman." She put
her hand in the crook of his arm and let him steady her.

"Not really. I just seem like a gentleman compared to all the
self-centered jerks out on the coast."

Tristan grinned and Damara laughed, and together they walked into the
hotel lobby.

A short, heavy woman in her fifties with hair dyed so black it was
glossy sat behind the front desk. Damara hadn't met her before, but she
recognized her from her mother's description. This had to be Arlene, the
woman who took over the desk when Mother's shift ended. Damara wanted to
hurry to the desk, but her injured leg wouldn't let her. The best she
could manage was an unsteady hobble, and even then she could only do
that because Tristan had hold of her elbow.

A sign propped on the counter said Enjoy Our Continental Breakfast. Next
to the sign was an old coffeemaker with a pot full of foul-smelling
black liquid and beside that a tray covered with stale donuts and
crumbly muffins. Damara wondered on just what continent people
considered this crap breakfast.

Arlene looked up as they approached, and Damara saw that she'd troweled
her makeup on as thick as paste this morning. Her eye shadow was
parrot-green, her lipstick a strange bluish gray that

148

made Damara think of oyster flesh, and her foundation was so heavy, it
made her face as tight and unmoving as a mannequin's. Damara had always
thought her mother had been exaggerating when she talked about Arlene's
makeup. Now Damara knew that, if anything, Claire had been understating
the truth.

"Can I help you folks?"

Damara was taken aback by the woman's voice. It was soft, gentle,
mellow, with just the right hint of sexiness underneath. With a voice
like that, Arlene could've been a radio announcer, a voice-over actor, a
phone sex operator ...

Damara was suddenly aware of how plain her own voice was as she spoke.
"I'm Damara Ruschmann, Claire's daughter."

Arlene's eyes widened, creating tiny cracks in her green eye shadow. She
smiled, revealing teeth so white they gleamed. Damara wondered if they
were capped or false. They couldn't have been natural, not with a shine
like that.

"Yeah, yeah ... Claire's talked about you before. Sometimes I get here
early and we shoot the shit before the manager gets here. He always
strolls in late--and today's no exception." Arlene laughed, and despite
her lovely voice, the sound was harsh and grating, like a donkey's bray.
"Is Claire doin' all right?'

"I'm not sure."

Arlene frowned. "The girl who was here when I came in said your ma took
off sick last night. I thought you lived with her."

149

"I do."

Arlene's frowned deepened, causing a seismic shift in her foundation.
"Then you should know how she's doin', right? You woulda been there when
she got home ..." Arlene's voice trailed off and she looked at Tristan
as if only just noticing him. Her frown smoothed away and her
oyster-colored lips stretched into a grin. "Or maybe you weren't home
last night." She chuckled. "And your ma's always sayin' how she's afraid
you're gonna end up an old maid!"

Damara was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the turn the
conversation was taking. She knew her mother worried about her, but she
hadn't realized that she'd shared those worries with anyone else.

"I was home last night," Damara said, unable to resist adding, "and I
was alone." She glanced at Tristan. He looked like he was trying very
hard not to smile.

I'm glad one of us is amused, she thought.

"The reason we're here, Arlene, is because Mom didn't come home last
night. She didn't even call to tell me she was sick. I only found out
when I called and spoke with the woman who took over for her."

Arlene's frown returned, so deep this time that it threatened to shatter
her foundation like fleshcolored glass. Damara wondered what would be
left behind if that happened. A faceless skull? Or maybe just a great
vapid void.

A tiny fissure appeared on Arlene's forehead and a small dark-red bead
of blood welled forth.

150

Sudden terror jolted Damara, and she squeezed her eyes shut and thought
about polar bears and snowstorms. When she opened her eyes a moment
later, she was relieved to see both the blood and the fissure were gone.

Arlene had been too busy talking to notice Damara closing her eyes, but
Tristan had. He gave Damara a questioning look, but she responded with a
quick shake of the head, as if to say, Not now--later.

"... weird. I mean, it's not like Claire to do something like that.
She's real responsible, you know? She would've made manager by now if
she'd wanted to. But to just take off like that, say she's sick and then
not go home ..." Arlene gave a little gasp and touched her hand to her
mouth. "You don't think something's happened to her, do you?"

There was a host of implications in the way Arlene stressed happened,
all of them bad. ""I don't know," Damara said. "I hope not."

"I hate to say it, hon, but did you call the police? God forbid your
ma's, been in an accident or anything, but if she has ..." Arlene broke
off and stared past Damara.

Puzzled, Damara turned in the direction Arlene was looking and saw a
woman walk into the lobby. She wore an over-sized flannel shirt untucked
and jeans that didn't quite fit her. Her hair was mussed and her feet
were bare. It took Damara several seconds to realize that she was
looking at her mother. Despite Claire's atypical appearance--she always
prided herself on looking her best, especially at

151

work--Damara felt relieved. Whatever was going on, at least she now knew
that Mom was safe.

Arlene was the first to speak to her mother.

"Hey, Claire, where the hell have you been? Your girl's been worried
sick about you!"

Claire didn't answer right away, didn't even look in Arlene's direction,
and Damara wondered if her mother had even heard the other woman. Claire
walked up to the counter, grabbed two styrofoam cups from the stack next
to the pot and began filling them with the tarry substance that was
intended to pass for coffee. Claire had a lazy, sleepy smile on her
face, and her eyes had a faraway look to them, as if they were focused
on something only she could see.

Damara was almost afraid to say anything to her mother. She remembered
an old bit of folk wisdom about how you weren't supposed to wake someone
who was sleep-walking. That's what Claire looked like to her--someone
who was walking in her sleep, or maybe caught in a trance.

But she stepped past Tristan and hobbled over to her mother. Claire had
already finished pouring one cup of coffee and was just starting on the
second.

"Mom? Are you ... are you all right?" She almost added, It's me--Damara,
but doing so would have been like acknowledging that something was
seriously wrong with her mother, and Damara wasn't prepared to do that yet.

Claire responded without looking at her. "Hmmm? Oh, I'm fine, honey.
Better than fine. In fact, I'm pretty goddamned great."

152

Damara was shocked. It wasn't as if her mother didn't swear from time to
time, but it was completely out of character for her to do so this casually.

"Where have you been all night? When you didn't come home, I called here
and was told you'd left because you were sick. What happened? Are you
sick?" Damara felt as if she were babbling, but she couldn't help
herself. All her worries of the last few hours were pouring out of her,
and there was nothing she could do to stop them.

Claire finished pouring the second cup of coffee. She put the pot back
on the coffeemaker's burner, then picked up two white plastic lids to
put on top of the steaming cups. She still didn't look at Damara as she
answered.

"It's a long story, sweetheart. I'll explain it to you later, I promise.
But I have to get back now. You understand." Then, without so much as a
glance at Damara, Tristan, or Arlene, she put the lids on the cups and
headed back the way she'd came. Damara could only watch in stunned
confusion as her mother walked off down one of the hotel corridors.

For a moment, no one spoke, but then Arlene said, "Don't that beat all
to shit!"

Damara could only agree with the woman.

"She's got to be checked into a room here," Tristan said. "I mean, given
the way she was dressed."

"Maybe," Arlene said. "If she felt sick enough, she might've decided to
use an empty room to rest in. We're not supposed to, of course, but it
wouldn't be the first time." She turned to the

153

computer at her workstation, moved the mouse around, clicked a few
times, pressed a few keys before finally saying, "Yep, and she
registered under her own name. Room 3041. Maybe she's got the flu or
something." She lowered her voice. "Could be the change of life, too. My
sister had her brain scrambled something fierce for a couple
years--memory problems, mood swings--until her doctor finally got her on
the right medicine. If that's what it is, you tell Claire to get her
butt to her doctor and ask about getting some of those pills for herself."

"We will," Damara said, just to shut the woman up. "Thanks." She turned
to Tristan, and as if he read her mind, he nodded, and together they
headed for the corridor Claire had gone down.

It took them a little while to get there because of Damara's leg--and
her pain meds were wearing off so her injury was beginning to throb--but
after traversing a hallway and taking an elevator up two floors,
eventually they found themselves standing in front of room 3041. Damara
was breathing heavily, as if she'd just run a foot race, but now that
they were here, she wasn't sure what to do.

"Something wrong?" Tristan asked.

"I'm not sure whether I should knock. It's kind of like an invasion of
privacy, isn't it? After all, Mom's an adult. If she wants to check into
a hotel room, what business is it of mine? Besides, she said she'd tell
me about it later."

"It's your decision. But you got worried in the first place because this
isn't normal behavior for

154

Claire. She took off sick at the start of her shift, then didn't call
you before she checked into this room ... and you have to admit, she was
acting weird in the lobby. Whatever the reason she's in there, I'm sure
she'll understand why you were concerned and wanted to make sure she was
all right."

Damara thought about it for a moment, then smiled and nodded. Tristan
was right.

She raised her hand and, trembling only slightly, knocked softly three
times. When that got no response, she knocked three more times and said,
"Mother? It's Damara. Are--are you okay in there?"

At first, nothing happened, and Damara started to fear that Arlene had
given them the wrong room number, or maybe Claire hadn't gone back to
her room, or worst of all, maybe she was inside but unable to come to
the door because she really was sick.

Damara knocked again, more frantically this time.

"Mother, open the door! Please!"

She was on the verge of tears when she heard the sound of someone in the
room walking toward the door. Locks disengaged and the door swung open,
but the person standing in the doorway wasn't Claire Ruschmann. It was a
man wearing only a pair of jeans--the same pair that Claire had on only
a short time ago, only they fit him better. He scowled at Damara and
Tristan and barked, "What the hell do you want? Do you know how early it
is?"

155

Damara couldn't answer. She could only stare open-mouthed at the man. It
was her father. But this wasn't Jerry Ruschmann the way he would be
today: a man in his fifties. This was Jerry Ruschmann as he'd been on
the night he'd vanished in the park. A man just ending his thirties,
still relatively young and in his prime.

So many emotions ran through Damara at the sight of him that she stood
frozen, unable to breathe, let alone move. Joy upon seeing her father
for the first time in seventeen years, resulting in an almost
overwhelming urge to rush forward and wrap her arms around him, to touch
him, hold him, confirm that he was solid, that he was real. Fear,
because she was the reason he had gone to Riverfork that night, had gone
into Alacrity's Spectatorium, and never came out. Did he blame her for
what had happened, worse, did he hate her? Confusion, for how could he
look exactly the same, as if the last seventeen years had passed for
everyone else on the planet except for him? And denial, because she knew
deep down that this wasn't really her father, that whatever he was, he
was here because somehow she'd created him.

Tristan looked at the man standing in the doorway for a long moment
before turning to Damara. "This can't be who I think it is ... can it?"

From within the hotel room came the sound of a woman's voice. Claire's
voice.

"Jerry, honey? Whoever it is, tell them to go away and come back to bed!"

The man in the doorway, who looked as if he'd

156

stepped out of an old photograph of Jerry Ruschmann, turned and called
back over his shoulder. "Okay, babe. Just a minute." He turned back to
face Damara and Tristan. "You heard the lady. You get ten seconds to
tell me what you want before I close the door in your faces." He smiled
to take some of the harshness out of his words. "Sorry to be such a
hard-ass, but this is kind of a reunion for us. We haven't seen each
other in a long, long time."

"But you're not going to leave me again, are you, Jerry?"

Once more Jerry turned to call back over his shoulder. "That's right,
babe, I'm not going anywhere. You and me, we're going to be together
forever!" Again, he turned back around to face them. "Five seconds left,
better make it quick."

Damara gazed deeply into the eyes of the man who was the exact copy of
her father as he had been almost two decades ago, and for a moment she
found herself hoping that somehow it really was him, her father come
back to her.

"Daddy, it's me ... Damara. Don't you recognize me?"

Jerry--or rather his doppelganger--narrowed his eyes as he examined
Damara closely. Finally, he scowled. "Look, I don't know what kind of
joke this is, but my daughter is eleven years old. And your ten seconds
are up." He shut the door and engaged the locks.

Damara listened for a moment, heard footsteps moving away from the door,
heard the sound of

157

someone jumping onto a bed, heard a woman who sounded far younger than
her mother giggle. She knew the man who'd shut the door in her face
wasn't her father, only an image of him, and yet his rejection of her
hurt just as bad as if he were the real Jerry Ruschmann. She sniffed
back tears and wiped at her eyes. She didn't want to break down here, in
the hall with Tristan standing right next to her.

"Mara, what's going on here?"

She looked into Tristan's eyes, saw confusion and fear there, but most
of all concern. Concern for her.

She forced a smile. "How about you buy me a cup of coffee--somewhere
other than the front lobby, that is--and I'll try to explain."

Tristan looked at the door to 3041 for a moment then back to her.

"Okay. But it's too bad there aren't any bars open this early in the
morning."

Damara knew just how he felt.

Inside 3041, Claire--now lying naked on the bed--wrapped her arms around
her husband's bare back and hugged him to her. When she'd first disrobed
in front of him hours ago, she'd felt terribly self-conscious about how
much her body had changed in the last seventeen years--none of it for
the better. But Jerry had made it clear that he didn't care, that it was
she he loved, not her body, and then he'd spent the next several hours
proving it. She pressed her face into the corner of his neck,

158

breathed in the sweet smell of him--a smell she hadn't forgotten in all
these years--and gently pressed her mouth to the vein in his neck and
felt his pulse flutter on her lips.

"Did you mean it?" she whispered. "When you said you'd never leave me
again?"

" 'Course I did. We'll be together--"

"--forever," she finished. She released him from her embrace and reached
down to take his hand. Then fingers intertwined, clasped tight, and
their flesh began to merge.

Together.

Forever.

159

Chapter Eleven

"I didn't know there was a Starbucks in Waldron."

Tristan laughed. "Mara, there's a Starbucks everywhere. They pop up
overnight like mushrooms after a long rain. I wouldn't be surprised if
there was one on the moon by now."

She smiled. Tristan's jokes had grown more sophisticated over the years,
but he still retained his sense of humor.

"I don't get out much." Damara took a sip of what Tristan called "candy
coffee," a Caramel Frappuccino. It was sweet and smooth, not bitter at
all. It was good, but in a way Damara regretted her choice. She could
use the taste of something bitter and bracing right now.

Though it was midmorning on a Wednesday, the place was packed. There
were a few business types in suits tapping away on laptops or talking
into cell phones, but the customers mostly consisted of young men and
women in their late teens and early twenties. Students from the community

160

college nearby, Damara guessed, though only a few of them looked to be
studying. The rest were chatting and laughing, enjoying one another,
enjoying being young, enjoying life. She envied the hell out of them.

Music filtered out of speakers in the ceiling, a woman singing a slow,
earnest ballad accompanied only by an acoustic guitar. Damara had no
idea who the performer was, but figured she was bound to be someone
trendy. She and Tristan sat near the back of the coffee shop, Tristan
across from her at the small round table they'd chosen. The chairs were
tiny and cramped, and Damara kept shifting her weight in futile attempts
to get comfortable. She felt out of place here--too old even though she
was only twenty-eight, and underdressed in the sweat pants Tristan had
brought to the hospital for her, though some of the college students
were dressed even grubbier. Part of her discomfort came from not being
used to crowds, but a larger part was due to what they had come here
for: so she could tell Tristan the truth about what was happening, at
least as far as she understood it.

Despite everything that had happened in the last day or so, Damara
couldn't help feeling a certain amount of excitement at being here as
well, at being anywhere, as long as she was out of her house. She
started to remark on this to Tristan, but stopped herself. A place like
this was bound to be nothing special to him. He taught at a community
college in California and probably went to Starbucks a lot like this one
all the time.

161

Tristan took a sip of his drink--plain old black coffee.

"I'm surprised you didn't get something more adventurous than coffee,"
Damara said, teasing him. "I thought you had a better imagination than
that."

Tristan smiled. "Maybe my imagination is starting to atrophy with age.
Besides, of the two of us, you were always the more imaginative."

Damara nearly dropped her Frappuccino as he said this, but she managed
to put it down on the table with a trembling hand.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Tristan. Sort of." She'd
never discussed this openly with anyone in her entire life--not even her
mother--and now that she was prepared to tell Tristan, had to tell him,
she had no idea how to go about doing so.

"I don't understand." No impatience, no frustration, just a statement of
fact.

"I'm not sure I do, either. Not completely, anyway." She started to
reach for her drink again, but her hand was shaking even worse now, and
she was afraid she might spill her "candy coffee," so she put her hands
in her lap to hide their trembling from Tristan.

"Do you remember when my little brother ... disappeared? And how a
couple years later, my father left and never came back?"

Tristan put his coffee down on the table. "You're kidding, right? How
could I forget? Those were the worst few years of your life. I still
don't know how you made it through all that."

162

She smiled. "I made it because of my mother, and because you were my
best friend."

Tristan shrugged. "I'm not sure I did all that much."

"You were there when I needed you, and you cared for me," Damara said.
"I'd say that's plenty."

Tristan smiled back at her. "Well, if I helped, I'm glad. So yeah, I
remember about your brother and your dad. What about them?"

Damara took a deep breath and then said it.

"What happened to them was my fault." And then, as if a floodgate had
been opened, the words came tumbling out of Damara's mouth, one after
the other, and before she knew it, she'd told Tristan everything. When
she finished, he didn't respond right away. He cradled his coffee cup in
his hands, gently rubbing it, rotating it back and forth as he frowned
in thought.

After a bit he looked straight at her and said, "What are you telling
me, Mara? That you have the power to bring people's dreams to life?"

"Their fantasies and fears. I don't do it on purpose, though. It just
kind of happens."

"I see." More rotating of the coffee cup, as if he were using it to
stall for time to think. "How about your fantasies? Can you bring those
to life as well?"

"I try real hard not to," Damara said. "But the more I struggle to keep
a lid on my own thoughts, the more my ability? Gift? Curse? The more it
begins to leak out and affect the people around me."

Tristan actually took a sip of his coffee this time

163

instead of just playing with it. Damara didn't try to drink any of hers;
she feared she'd spill it the way her hands still trembled. What was
Tristan thinking? That she was crazy? That she was a monster? Both?

"So you're telling me that you're some kind of supernatural version of
Typhoid Mary, a carrier of this whatever-it-is without being a victim
yourself."

"That's one way to put it, I guess," Damara said. "So here's where you
tell me I'm insane and suggest in a calm, quiet voice--to avoid
upsetting me--that I should consider seeing someone."

Tristan looked pained, as if he'd been caught thinking that very thing,
but he said, "Give me some credit, Mara." Then in a softer voice he
added, "I remember the butterflies."

Damara felt a sudden urge to take his hand, but to do so she would've
had to reach across the table, and she couldn't bring herself to do it,
not then, not there.

"So the guy in the emergency room ... your father ... the hand in the
shower ..."

"Were the result of this weird power I have," Damara confirmed. "And
though I'm not quite sure how or why, I'm afraid I somehow caused Bobby
Markley's accident, too."

Tristan didn't say anything more for a time, just sipped his coffee and
stared past her at the people around them. He had a troubled look on his
face, and she had the impression that he was remembering something.

"What is it?" she asked. "Has something strange

164

happened to you, too?" She prayed it hadn't. She didn't think she could
live with herself if whatever was wrong with her had spilled over and
affected Tristan.

"Hmm? Oh no, not really. I had a ... strange dream last night. All last
night, actually. But it was just a dream. A real dream, I mean. It had
to be."

But he continued gazing past her, and Damara doubted his words. She
believed it likely that he thought he was telling her the truth, at
least the truth as he wanted it to be. But she decided not to press the
point right now. Whatever had happened, he was obviously unharmed, and
he'd tell her about it whenever he was ready.

Bullshit, Damara told herself. You're just afraid to find out what it
is, and maybe also find out that Tristan hates you for making it happen.

"That's the reason I couldn't allow our ... friendship to continue,"
Damara said. "I didn't want to put you in any danger. It was getting
harder and harder for me to maintain control over my power, and I knew
it would affect you sooner or later." When next she spoke, it was in a
whisper. "I'd already lost Jason and Dad. I didn't want to lose you, too."

Tristan finally met her gaze then, and she saw that his eyes held no
anger, no fear. Just pity and understanding.

"That's why you don't go out, isn't it? You don't have arthritis. That's
just a cover story. The real reason is that you don't want to risk being
exposed to other people's thoughts, to their dreams."

165

She nodded. "If I hadn't been injured, I wouldn't have left the house.
And if I'd stayed home, the man in the emergency room wouldn't have lost
his appendix the way he did. I probably shouldn't be here right now, but
after seeing Mom and ... him--" she couldn't bring herself to say my
father--"I didn't want to go home. Didn't want to be alone." She gave
Tristan a small, sad smile. "Pretty selfish of me, huh?"

"No, not selfish. Just human. So how long have you had this ... I don't
know what to call it. Talent?"

"All my life," Damara said. Her hands were almost completely steady now
that she had told Tristan everything, so she took another drink of her
Frappuccino. "I have no idea where it came from, or why it seems to be
flaring up so strongly right now, like some supernatural version of a
herpes outbreak. As far as I know, no one in my family has ever had a
similar ability. I suppose I'm just a freak of nature."

Tristan reached across the table and took both of her hands in his. She
almost pulled away, afraid of his touch, of how much she wanted it, of
what might happen to him if she allowed it, but she didn't stop him and
she was glad.

"You may be a lot of things, Damara Ruschmann, but a freak isn't one of
them." He squeezed her hands and she gave him a grateful smile.

And that's when the screaming started.

There were two women sitting at the table next

166

to them, one thin with short red hair and a sprinkling of freckles on
her nose, the other stout, with frizzy blond hair and a tiny nose ring
in her left nostril. They both wore clothing that looked as if it had
come from Goodwill and heavy men's workboots. The frizzy-haired blonde
was screaming, her hands balled into fists and pressed against her
cheeks as if she were trying to hold her screams in and failing miserably.

Across the table from her, Freckle-Nose was shaking and jerking as if in
the throes of a seizure. Her left eye was swelling like a white balloon
shot through with bright red capillaries, while her right eye subsided
into her face, the flesh closing over it like pale pink water. Her nose
receded until it was gone, leaving only a single ragged opening that
dripped mucus and whistled as she breathed. Her jaw jutted forward and
shifted to the left with a series of cracking and popping sounds. Her
teeth crowded together and twisted until they stuck out in all
directions. Drool spilled from the corner of her mouth as terror and
agony shone out of her bulbous left eye.

And still her hideous transformation wasn't finished.

Her shoulders drew together, merged, rounded, became a hump. Her right
arm withered, the fingers on the hand becoming misshapen stumps. Her
breasts--which had been small before--grew large and pendulous, and she
sprouted several more. A small puckered orifice opened on her

167

throat, and a new eye looked out at the world, blinking moistly.

Damara gripped Tristan's hands as tight as she could.

"You've got to stop it, Tristan!" She had to shout to be heard over
Frizzy-Hair's screams and the red-headed woman's keening wail as her
metamorphosis continued.

But Tristan couldn't take his gaze off the malformed thing the woman had
become. His eyes were wide with disbelief, his face pale with horror.

Damara dug her nails into his hands as hard as she could. "You're
thinking about freaks, Tristan, and you have to stop, stop now!"

His gaze shifted to her, but from the confusion in his eyes, she knew he
didn't understand.

"Think of a snowfield," Damara said, "a white cloud, a blank canvas, an
empty piece of paper ... anything, just as long as it's nothing!"

The red-haired woman's legs lengthened, became boneless as octopus
tentacles. Her boots slipped off what once had been feet, and her rear
changed shape, flattened until she could no longer remain seated. She
slumped sideways in the chair, then fell to the floor with a sickening
soft smack. The horrid lumpy mass she'd become bounced and quivered, as
if she had no bones remaining in her body at all.

Tristan kept shaking his head back and forth, trying to deny what was
taking place in front of him. The frizzy-haired blonde jumped up from her

168

table and took a couple steps away from the mound of clothing and flesh
her friend had become, as if she feared that whatever had caused the
nightmarish transformation was contagious. Frizzy-Hair still had her
fists pressed to her cheeks, but she no longer screamed. Now all that
came out of her mouth was a soft mewling sound.

The red-headed woman lifted a boneless hand, fingers waving like the
fronds of a strange undersea plant, and she reached toward her
companion, a thick gurgling noise bubbling up from somewhere deep within
her reconfigured anatomy. It was difficult to tell, but Damara thought
it sounded like she was trying to say Help me ... Then with a wet sound
like a dozen balloons filled with shaving cream exploded, the woman's
bowels let go, and reddish-black shit streamed through the fabric of her
jeans, the force of the expulsion enough to make the thick liquid
penetrate the cloth's tight weave. As the shit splattered onto the
hardwood floor, a vicious stench erupted in the air. Rank, nauseating,
foul, stomach-churning ... it was the stink of waste and rot and death.

Up until this moment, the coffee shop customers had all been staring at
the red-headed woman, transfixed by her metamorphosis. But the stink
broke their group trance, and people leaped up from their tables, some
screaming, some sobbing, some holding hands to their mouths to keep from
vomiting, others shotgunning undigested blasts of lattes and biscotti
onto themselves, the

169

table, the floors, and each other as they stumbled, clawed, and fought
like animals to reach the exit.

Damara felt hot bile sear the back of her throat, but she struggled to
keep from puking, for the frizzy-haired blonde still stood mewling, but
now tiny fleshy pseudopods were beginning to grow out of her forehead.

"Tristan!"

He didn't look at her, so she stood and attempted to pull him to his
feet. But he was deadweight in his chair and she couldn't budge him. She
slapped him across the face, hard, and when he didn't react, she slapped
him once more, even harder. His eyes darted back and forth several
times, almost as if he were a machine resetting itself. Then his gaze
locked onto Damara and he said, "I didn't mean ..."

But Damara didn't wait for the rest. She grabbed his arm and yanked him
out of his chair. This time he helped, and she got him up and moving
toward the exit. Her injured leg throbbed like a sonofabitch as they
went, but she ignored the pain and kept hold of Tristan's hand the whole
way to make sure he made it.

Just before they passed through the exit, Damara glanced back over her
shoulder. When she saw the tendril-covered monstrosity that the blonde
was in the process of becoming, she wished to Christ she hadn't.

170 170 Tim Waggoner

171

Chapter Twelve

Autumn sat by herself on the school bus. Sometimes she sat with Missy
Mcintyre and Lindsey Shelhaus, but both were chatterboxes and talked
nonstop from the moment they got on the bus until the moment they got
off. And while sometimes they could be fun, Autumn wasn't in a chatty
mood today. Besides, it wasn't like she was best friends with them or
anything, and Autumn wanted to be alone so she could think.

This morning while she and her mom had been getting ready, the phone
rang. Her mom answered it. Autumn was in the bathroom brushing her
teeth, so she couldn't see her mom or overhear her side of the
conversation. When Autumn finished, she spit, rinsed, wiped her mouth on
the hand towel hanging next to the sink, and left the bathroom. She
found her mother standing in the kitchen, leaning back against the
counter with a cold cup of coffee in her hand. She gazed straight

172

ahead and Autumn noticed that her hands were shaking. Not a lot, but
enough to worry her.

"Is everything okay?" she asked.

Her mom turned abruptly to look at her, her eyes widening as if she
didn't recognize Autumn at first. But then she smiled--though the smile
looked fake to Autumn--and said, "Everything's all right, honey. Why do
you ask?"

Autumn shrugged. "I don't know." It was a standard answer she gave
whenever she didn't want to say anything more about an uncomfortable
subject. It always worked with her mother, and today was no exception.
Her mom just nodded, as if in agreement with something Autumn hadn't
said, then took a sip of her cold coffee. Autumn knew it was cold
because her mom always made coffee first thing in the morning, even
before she got Autumn up, and once it was done, she turned the
coffeemaker off. By now the coffee was surely cold, and since her mom
loathed cold coffee, she always heated it in the microwave before
drinking it. But Autumn hadn't heard the hum of the microwave working,
hadn't heard the ding of the bell that indicated its job was done. So
that meant her mother was drinking cold coffee, something Autumn had
never ever known her to do--and she didn't say anything about it, didn't
complain, didn't make a face. She just drank it as she once more stared
straight ahead, as if she didn't even taste the coffee, or if she did
taste it, she didn't care that it was cold.

Autumn grabbed a strawberry fruit bar from the

173

cupboard, then poured herself a glass of apple-cranberry juice. She took
a bite of the bar and chewed.

"Who was on the phone?" Autumn asked, voice muffled by cakey-strawberry
gunk.

"What?" Her mom's gaze darted to her, then just as quickly darted away.
A hummingbird gaze. "No one. Just a sales call."

Autumn knew she was lying. Her mother couldn't look someone in the eye
when she did. The last time she remembered a phone call having this sort
of effect on her mom was a few months ago, when Dad had called to tell
her he was dating someone else, even though the divorce wasn't final
yet. Autumn's mom had acted similarly then-- hands shaking, gaze
distant, putting Autumn off whenever she asked if something was wrong.
So Autumn figured the call had probably been bad news. She just wondered
how bad.

The bus pulled into the parking lot of Klyburn Elementary, and the
driver stopped at the curb in front of the side entrance. She opened the
door, and Autumn stood up at the same time the other kids did, and filed
off with the rest of them, still thinking about her mom and that phone
call. Weighed down by her heavy backpack full of books, Autumn trudged
down the hall toward Mrs. Hamilton's classroom, surrounded by a
laughing, joking, gossiping, teasing mass of children. She paid no
attention to them and ignored those who called her name, inviting her
over to talk to them or just greeting her as she passed. The

174

hallway walls were covered with posters, pictures, and
construction-paper displays taped up by various teachers. One was titled
Study Buddies and showed photographs of students working together on
math problems. Another was Voyages of Discovery, and showed maps drawn
by students that traced the journeys of great explorers like Columbus,
Marco Polo, Leif Erikson, Lewis and Clark, Amerigo Vespucci, and Ernest
Shackleton. But regardless of their academic focus--which was sometimes
vague at best--the displays projected the same gung-ho, cheerful, our
school is great and our students are awesome attitude. Autumn knew that
the displays were another way the teachers tried to reach kids and get
them excited about learning. Even though they were obvious and all too
often cheesy, it usually made her feel good to see them. But not today.

She figured she was being stupid worrying so much about her mom and that
phone call, but she couldn't make herself stop. Since her dad had moved
out, all Anne and Autumn had left were each other. Well, Autumn had
Damara too, but while she was great, she didn't replace Autumn's dad.
Autumn felt protective of her mother. She'd been hurt so much when dad
left, even more than Autumn had, she thought. Autumn figured her mother
had been hurt enough for a while--a long while--and she just didn't want
her to get hurt anymore.

Autumn was so caught up in her worries that

175

she didn't notice when she walked by Mrs. Colton's classroom.

"Good morning, Autumn."

The words were friendly enough, but there was a coldness in her tone
that made Autumn stop, the instinctive reaction of a child hearing an
adult authority figure calling her name as if she were in trouble.

She tried her best to smile as she turned to face Mrs. Colton, who stood
in the open doorway of her classroom. It was bad enough having a teacher
living across the street from you, but both Autumn's mom and Damara said
that Mrs. Colton was "nosy" and a "busybody," and so Autumn was always
doubly on guard whenever she spoke to the woman. Plus, there was that
creepy husband of hers ... Autumn hated the way he looked at her sometimes.

The walls on each side of Mrs. Colton's door were bare. No cheesy,
encouraging displays for her. Her door was bereft of decoration as well,
with only a small laminated white sign that said mrs. colton in stark
black letters. There were two signs, actually--one on the outside of the
door, one on the inside, as if she didn't want students forgetting who
she was, like that could ever happen. No one wanted to get Mrs. Colton
for a teacher, and Autumn was grateful that she'd been lucky enough to
escape being assigned to her classroom.

She peeked past Mrs. Colton and looked into her room. The desks were
arranged in precise,

176

orderly rows, and her students were already sitting at them, staring at
the chalkboard, not talking to one another, not even looking at one
another. Just sitting quiet and still, waiting for class to begin. Poor
kids, Autumn thought. They looked miserable. Still, she was glad she
wasn't one of them.

Mrs. Colton's classroom had one pleasant touch, however. There were
plants everywhere: on shelves, on counters, hanging from the ceiling,
sitting on her desk--green and leafy, lush and healthy. Autumn
remembered something Damara had once said to her about Mrs. Colton's
love of gardening.

I'll never understand how a woman like her can bring such beauty into
the world.

That was something Autumn didn't get either, but then grown-ups were
funny. They seemed one way on the surface, but they could be a whole
different person inside. Even Damara was like that a little. Sometimes
Autumn had the feeling that Damara was almost afraid to talk to her, as
if she knew she shouldn't be doing it but couldn't help herself.

Grown-ups could be so weird.

"I saw you this morning," Mrs. Colton said. Her thin, bloodless lips
stretched into a smile, but there was no kindness in the woman's eyes.

Autumn wasn't sure how to respond. Mrs. Colton always saw her waiting
for the bus. And even though Autumn always waved to her to be
polite--just like her mom had taught her--Mrs. Colton hardly ever waved
back. Autumn lowered

177

her gaze from Mrs. Colton's face and noticed that she was holding on to
a tiny flower planted in moist black soil inside a Styrofoam cup.

"It's a buttercup," Mrs. Colton said. "I have some flowers growing in my
classroom, and I took this one and put it into a cup when I got to
school this morning. Do you like it?"

It was nothing special, just a flower, but Autumn said, "Yeah, sure,"
because she didn't want to make Mrs. Colton mad.

"Here." Mrs. Colton thrust the flower toward Autumn, almost as if she
intended to hit her with it. "It's yours."

Autumn stared at the flower for a moment. She understood what Mrs.
Colton had told her, but she couldn't quite bring herself to believe it.
Mrs. Colton had never given her anything before, not even at Christmas
time. Autumn's mother usually took some of her chocolate walnut fudge
over to the Coltons during the holiday season, but though they always
accepted the gift, they'd never reciprocated. Autumn's mom had never
seemed too put off by the Coltons' failure to make a return holiday gesture.

You don't give gifts because you expect to get something back, her mom
had said last Christmas when Autumn asked why she kept making fudge for
the Coltons each year. You do it because you want to, because it makes
you feel good.

Now, after never giving anything to either Autumn or her mother for
years, Mrs. Colton was giving her a flower in a Styrofoam cup.

178

"Go ahead, take it." Mrs. Colton's voice was strained, as if she were
irritated and trying to keep from showing it. "You only have a couple
minutes to get to your classroom before the first bell rings."

Mrs. Colton's mention of the first bell got Autumn moving again. She
reached out with both hands and took the flower. For one instant, the
tips of her fingers brushed Mrs. Colton's and Autumn was surprised to
find them ice cold. She also saw they were tinted light green, as if
smudged by colored chalk or marker.

Autumn tried to smile but couldn't, so she just said, "Thanks."

Mrs. Colton's lips drew back from her teeth in what Autumn guessed was a
smile. It must have been a trick of the light or something, but for an
instant, Autumn thought Mrs. Colton's teeth were tinted green, just like
her fingers.

"You're very welcome, child." Her voice was no longer strained. Now she
sounded almost as if she were purring. "But you must make me a solemn
promise. This little flower--" she reached out and gently touched her
green-tinged fingers to the buttercup--"is quite fragile. It will need a
great deal of loving attention from you. It would be best for the next
few days if you didn't let it out of your sight. Not for an instant.
Until it's grown strong enough. Can you do that, Autumn?"

Autumn looked at the tiny yellow flower. It seemed healthy enough to
her, but then she didn't know a lot about plants--certainly not as much
as Mrs. Colton did.

179

"Sure, okay."

"Good." Mrs. Colton's lips drew even farther back from her greenish
teeth and a strange glint came into her eyes. "Very good."

At 10:23 Kenneth pulled his van into the parking lot of an office
complex. Most of the spaces were already taken, but he found one in
front of a pediatrician's and grabbed it, having to cut off a little old
lady in a Caddy to do so. The blue-haired munchkin behind the wheel gave
him the finger, then stomped on the gas and roared off.

Kenneth smirked. First come, first served, bitch.

He cut the engine and, though it wasn't especially warm out, cracked the
windows. After he retired, he'd sold his "certified pre-owned" Lexus
because he didn't want to fuck with the payments anymore and bought a
used van, just to have a second vehicle to run around in. The van was
painted light gold, and the interior was stained with faint splotches of
what he took to be juice and chocolate. No doubt the vehicle had been
used as a kiddie-mover by the previous owners. But today he planned to
put it to a far different use. Before leaving the house, he'd removed
the two back rows of passenger seats and stored them in the wooden shed
in the backyard where Emma kept her gardening tools. He'd need plenty of
room for what he had in mind.

The office complex was a long two-story building that sat in the middle
of a sea of black-top. The design was professionally generic--salmon-colored

180

brick, green sheet-metal roof, lots of large rectangular windows. The
complex was divided into dozens of smaller units, each housing a
different business: doctors, tax preparers, psychologists,
orthodontists, opticians, lawyers, and the like. But the business that
Kenneth was most interested in was located three offices down from the
pediatrician's he'd parked in front of. Browning, Curlow, and Burroughs:
Accountants. But not only wasn't Kenneth a customer of theirs, he'd
never even been inside their office. He was here because this was where
Anne Marcino worked.

Once during the summer, he and Anne had been out mowing their lawns at
the same time. He'd gone over--just for a little neighborly chat, of
course. Although Anne wearing tight cut-off jeans and a bikini top
might've had a little something to do with it. Anne obviously wasn't
thrilled to see him coming across the street, but she turned off her
mower and gave him a reasonable facsimile of a welcoming smile. They'd
talked for maybe fifteen minutes, mostly about neighborhood horseshit
like how bad the Japanese beetles were this year and whether or not it
would rain soon. But at one point during the conversation, Kenneth had
started talking about what it was like being retired, and that got them
onto the subject of work in general, and the next thing he knew, Anne
was telling him she was an accountant for Browning, Curlow, and
Burroughs. Kenneth memorized the name on the spot, and when their
conversation died off and Anne returned to mowing, Kenneth hurried
inside his

181

house, got out the phone book, looked up Browning, Curlow, and
Burroughs, then dog-eared the page. At the time he hadn't been sure why
he'd done it. He'd simply been acting on instinct, feeling that maybe
the information might come in handy someday.

Like today.

He shifted in his seat so he had a good view of the accountants' front
door. He'd really gotten lucky with this spot. Any farther away and he
would've had a more difficult time watching the door. Any closer, and
there was a chance Anne might look out one of those big rectangular
windows at the front of the office and see him. Kenneth caught motion
out of the corner of his eye and turned to see a short, chubby brunette
with huge, heavy breasts carry an infant wrapped in a baby blanket into
the pediatrician's. Kenneth figured her breasts were so full because she
was lactating, and he imagined her naked, cupping one of her swollen
breasts with both hands, taking aim, and then squeezing a jet of white
fluid into his face.

He waited for his reborn cock to harden, but it didn't so much as
twitch, and Kenneth ground his teeth in frustration. He wasn't certain
what had happened between Emma and him this morning-- wasn't certain
about a lot of things lately, which was why he tried to avoid thinking
about them too much. But whatever had gone on, one thing was clear: Emma
had done something to ruin his monster cock. Since their confrontation,
he hadn't been able to achieve an erection, couldn't even get

182

it partially hard, no matter what he fantasized. It was like whatever
miracle had resurrected his cock had been undone, returning him to
limp-dick city.

He thought of the fury in Emma's eyes, her fingers mimicking scissors as
she placed them around his cock and said, "Snip-snip!"

Goddamned bitch ... He'd show her--all he needed was a little extra
motivation to achieve liftoff. Motivation that only a hot piece like
Anne Marcino could provide. He'd just wait here until lunchtime; then
when she came walking out the door...

As if the thought was all it took to make it happen, the door to
Browning, Curlow, and Burroughs opened and Anne stepped outside. Kenneth
glanced at the van's dashboard clock and saw it was only a bit past
10:30. Too early for lunch, so what was she doing outside?

Anne didn't have her coat on, but she was carrying her purse. She
reached into it and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Kenneth
was surprised; he hadn't known she smoked. He supposed it was no big
deal, but he didn't like the smell--or the taste--of cigarette smoke.
Besides, watching her put her purse down on the sidewalk that surrounded
the complex and light up reminded him of Nancy, aka NOT-E-DD, aka
headless body found behind local bar. Not the smoking, since Nancy
hadn't smoked, but Anne enjoyed dressing provocatively, as had Nancy,
and they both had big tits, though Nancy's were larger. Still, Anne was
a thousand times sexier than that fat old cunt.

183

Besides, Kenneth thought with a grin, Anne still had her head.

Anne leaned back against the wall, lifting one foot and pressing it to
the brick to support herself. She folded her free arm across her chest
and hunched her shoulders as if she were cold. She then took a long drag
on her cigarette and exhaled a cloud of white smoke into the crisp
autumn air. And that's when Kenneth noticed she was crying.

An idea occurred to him then, and he got out of his van, closed the
door, and started walking toward Anne, head down, hands in his coat
pockets, as if he too were chilly. As he drew near Anne, she said,
"Kenneth?"

He resisted the urge to smile as he stopped and looked up. "Oh, hi,
Anne. What are you doing here?"

She wiped the tears from her face, then nodded toward the words printed
on the office window. "I work here." Her voice was thick, as if she were
going to break out sobbing any moment.

He looked at the accountants' office as if only just noticing it. "Oh,
yeah. I'm here to see my dentist. Time for the old six-month check-up
and cleaning." Kenneth's dentist had an office on the other side of town
and he'd just gone there less than a month ago. But he wasn't about to
tell Anne that, no sir.

"Look, is everything okay? I mean, not to be nosy or anything, but I can
tell you've been crying."

Anne sniffed, rubbed her nose, then let out an embarrassed laugh. "What
was your first clue?"

184

She took another drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke out of the
corner of her mouth so it wouldn't go into his face.

"I didn't know you smoked," Kenneth said.

"I don't. That is, I quit a few years ago. I sometimes still buy a pack
now and then, whenever ..." She trailed off as a fresh tear rolled down
her cheek.

Kenneth invested his voice with as much sympathy as he could fake.
"Whenever what?"

Anne took another drag and again blew the smoke away from him. "Whenever
I'm really stressed. Or something bad happens." Though the cigarette was
only half-smoked, she dropped it to the ground and crushed it with her
high-heeled shoe.

Kenneth watched the movement of her leg muscles as she put out her
cigarette, and though his cock remained limp, he felt the first
sensations of warmth down below.

Anne knelt to retrieve her purse--Kenneth once more enjoying watching
her legs work--then stood and tucked it under her arm. "I don't mean to
be rude, Kenneth, but I really should go back inside and get to work."

"How many times have I told you to call me Kenny? And whatever's wrong,
it might make you feel better to tell someone. I know we're just
neighbors--it's not like we're friends or anything--but I still have
some time before my appointment, and I'll be happy to listen if you want
to talk."

Anne frowned, not in disapproval but in

185

uncertainty. Kenneth had a good idea what she was thinking. Since when
did the old lech who lived across the street become Mr. Sensitive? But
he didn't say anything, just kept looking at her while he waited for her
to come to a decision.

"I got a phone call this morning before I left for work. It was my
mother-in-law. Well, ex-mother-in-law. My ex-husband Jamey, he ..." She
took in a shuddering breath. "He was killed in a car accident last night."

"I'm sorry," Kenneth said, though he wasn't, not in the least. "What
terrible news."

"Not so much for me, I guess. Don't get me wrong, I'm not happy Jamey's
dead, but ... well, let's just say I made a bad choice when I married
him." Her mouth twisted into a bitter grimace. "The world isn't
necessarily going to miss him, you know?"

Kenneth was both surprised and delighted to see this side of Anne. A
little nastiness added some dark spice to her personality, he thought.
He wondered what Jamey had done to earn her hatred. Had he beaten her?
Cheated on her? Worse? He supposed it really didn't matter; whatever
he'd done to Anne, it was nowhere near as bad as what Kenneth wanted to
do to her. But he knew one thing: Anne had lied when she'd said she
wasn't happy that her ex was dead. He'd bet she'd fantasized about it a
lot. It was probably a goddamned dream come true for her. No, something
else was bothering her.

"It's Autumn," she said. "Jamey hasn't seen her

186

since last Christmas, and he hasn't called since her birthday--and even
then he called collect. But despite everything, Autumn still loves her
dad. I just ... don't know how to tell her that he's dead."

All the bitterness was gone from her voice. All that remained was
weariness, and in her eyes he saw the pain as she imagined how her
daughter would react to the news that Daddy was dead.

As if a switch had been flipped somewhere inside him, Kenneth's cock
swelled painfully in his pants, so hard and fast that he thought it
might explode. He took a step toward Anne, and the smile he gave her
then contained no sympathy and no mercy. Only hunger.

"Let me hip you to something, Anne. Breaking the bad news to Autumn is
the least of your worries right now."

187

Chapter Thirteen

Tristan and Damara drove in silence along a country road on their way
back to Zephyr. Damara kept waiting for Tristan to say something, to
tell her he never should 've agreed to drive her to the Econo Inn, that
he hated her for what she'd made him do, how her monstrous power had
somehow picked up on his thoughts and brought them to hideous life,
resulting in the deformation--and maybe even death--of two women. She
waited for him to yell at her for being both selfish and stupid enough
to agree to go to a coffee shop when she'd known what would happen.

But he said nothing, just kept his eyes on the road as he drove. He
might as well have been alone in the car for all the notice he took of
her. Finally, she couldn't stand the silence between them anymore.

"It's never been that bad before," she said. "My power, I mean. I've
been able to keep control of it ever since that afternoon we ... spent
together."

188

Tristan still didn't respond. He gripped the steering wheel more tightly
and his brow furrowed, as if he were concentrating. But on what? Not
knowing was driving Damara crazy.

"I don't know why things have started happening again. Maybe the power
can only be suppressed for so long until it reaches some kind of, of
critical mass and just has to come out. If I'd had any idea things had
gotten to this point..." She stopped herself. Not because she didn't
know what to say, but because she wasn't certain it was the truth. After
the attack by Jack Sharp and that poor man in the emergency room, she'd
known that her whatever-it-was had suddenly gotten bad. Real bad. But
she'd been so worried about her mother that she didn't want to admit to
herself what a danger she'd become. She'd lived at home all her life,
and Claire Ruschmann wasn't just her mother: She was her best, her only,
friend. Damara's sole companion in her self-imposed exile from everyone
and everything else in the world.

She thought of Autumn--the only exception to her exile--and felt a brief
flash of guilt. It didn't last long. Damara had a lifetime of experience
at suppressing thoughts and emotions, and with minimal effort, her guilt
vanished like morning dew in the glare of a hot summer sun.

"Do you know why I haven't killed myself, Tristan?" She'd hoped the
question might shock him into reacting, but he might as well not have
heard her for all the reaction he showed.

"It's not like I haven't thought about it. I have--

189

a lot. I've even come close to doing it a couple times. If I were gone,
then maybe this power ... this force I have inside me would be gone too,
and then nobody else would be hurt by it. But every time I tried to kill
myself, a thought stopped me. What if when I die, instead of taking the
power with me, I release it? Would the power find someone else to use
... someone who might not be able to control it as well as I can, or who
might not even want to? Or would it be free to go wherever it wants, do
whatever it wants? Can you imagine what such unleashed power might do?

"And there's something else. What if I succeed in killing myself and I
do take the power with me. If there's an afterworld, will the power
follow me there? And if so, will it bring to life the fears and
fantasies of the dead? I don't have any way of answering these
questions, so I stay alive, try to control the power the best I can, and
pray I've made the right choice."

She paused to see what, if any, impression her words were having on
Tristan. He was frowning a little now, which she thought meant he'd been
listening, but she wasn't sure.

"Tristan, please ... talk to me!" She didn't like the childish pleading
in her voice, but she hoped it would work all the same.

It did.

"I'm afraid to talk to you," Tristan said, his voice so soft it was
barely audible above the sound of the car engine and the wheels rolling
over the road surface. "Not so much of you and what you can

190

do. But of what I might say or think that'll trigger your power. I..."
He swallowed, glanced at her briefly, then looked away. "I keep hearing
that woman screaming as her friend ... as she ..."

Damara reached toward him, intending to touch his arm in a comforting
gesture. But before her fingers could make contact, Tristan pulled away,
a small cry of terror escaping from his throat. He still had hold of the
steering wheel and the car veered to the left.

They slid into the opposite lane, and for a terrible instant Damara
feared they would slam into an oncoming car, but the road in front of
them was empty. Tristan tried to pull them back into their lane, but he
overcorrected and the car slid too far. The passenger-side tires grabbed
hold of the shoulder, and the car started juddering as it threatened to
go off into the ditch. Finally, Tristan managed to get back onto the
road and straighten out the car again. He eased off the accelerator and
continued driving more slowly.

"I'm sorry, Damara. I didn't mean to react like that. I guess I'm just
jumpy after ... what happened back in Waldron."

Damara's heart was still pounding from the adrenaline rush of their car
nearly running off the road. She nodded her head and folded her arms so
her hands wouldn't be anywhere near Tristan.

"Sure, I understand."

A sign flashed by. Zephyr: 8 mi.

Damara turned her head to look out the window. She watched the fields
and farmhouses go

191

past and hoped Tristan wouldn't notice she was crying.

Not long after that, Tristan pulled into Damara's driveway. But he
didn't turn off the engine or unbuckle his seatbelt.

Damara got the hint.

"Thanks for picking me up at the hospital, and for driving me to the
hotel to check on Mom. Thanks for the clothes, too. I'll return them
after I've run them through the wash." She picked up the plastic bag
they'd given her at the hospital to hold her robe, keys, and pain
medication, then undid her belt and opened the passenger door. She
started to get out, but a jolt of pain shot through her injured leg, and
she took in a hissing breath. She didn't turn to look at Tristan,
though. She didn't want him to feel obligated to assist her in getting
out. Because doing so would mean he had to touch her, and she couldn't
bear to watch him shrink away from her again.

So she gritted her teeth, took hold of the doorframe and hauled herself
out of the car. Hot fire seared her leg and she wondered if she'd torn
her stitches. She didn't care if she had, though; she'd made it out on
her own.

Tristan leaned over so he could speak to her through the open passenger
door. "Try not to worry about your mom, Mara. I'm sure she'll come to
her senses soon."

Damara wasn't, but she smiled and nodded just the same. "Thanks again."
She started to close the door.

192

"Look, would you like me to call you later or--" The sound of the
passenger door closing cut off the rest of Tristan's words. She gave a
last wave, then turned and started heading toward the front door. It
took her a long time to make it across the walkway and up the front
steps, but Tristan sat in his car and watched her the entire time. She
reached the door, fished her keys out of the plastic bag, opened the
door and went inside. Only after she closed and locked the door did she
hear Tristan back out of the driveway. She wanted to go to the window
and watch, but she didn't let herself. Instead, she hobbled to the
kitchen, filled a glass of water at the tap, took another pain pill,
drank half the water, then poured out the rest into the sink. She set
the glass down and paused, listening for the sound of scratching claws
or the whispery echoes of a little boy's voice coming from the drain.
But she heard nothing.

She then hobbled into her bedroom and, careful of her wounded leg,
crawled beneath the covers and cried.

The first thing Tristan noticed when he walked into the house was the
smell--a sour odor like rotten eggs and spoiled meat. He went into the
kitchen and swore when he saw the gray sludge oozing from beneath the
basement door. The towel he'd crammed into the crack yesterday was
completely soaked in the gray muck, and he wasn't sure, but it almost
looked as if the goo was

193

beginning to eat away at the towel's fabric. What the hell was that stuff?

There was no help for it. He was going to have to call someone, a
plumber, the sanitation department ... hell, maybe the national guard.
Whatever the gray shit was, he didn't feel like trying to deal with it
himself, not after everything he'd seen today. A man with a rogue
appendix... a longlost father and husband who returned after seventeen
years looking as if he hadn't aged a day ... two women who'd suddenly,
grotesquely changed because of a chance remark he'd made.

He felt ashamed of himself for how he'd treated Damara. He'd acted as if
she were a monster--just like she'd feared he would.

Don't be so hard on yourself. It's not every day that you learn a woman
you grew up with--whom you nearly made love to, for godsakes--has the
ability to bring nightmares to life. Anyone would've reacted the same
way, if not worse.

Maybe so. But he couldn't stop thinking about the hurt in Damara's eyes
after he'd pulled away from her touch and nearly ran them off the road.

He looked down at the gray sludge. It extended a foot, maybe a foot and
a half from the bottom of the basement door. He wasn't sure, but he
thought maybe there was more goo now than when he'd first entered the
kitchen a few moments ago. A new thought occurred to him then, and
accompanying it came a fluttery-crawly feeling in his stomach. Could
Damara somehow be responsible for

194

this muck? It didn't look like anything he'd ever seen or heard of
before, and last night he had been obsessing over the cluttered state
his mother had left the house in. He supposed it was possible-- after
all, not even Damara seemed to understand the extent of her abilities.
But even if she had inadvertently brought this gray sludge into
existence, unless she could wish it gone with a simple act of will, and
somehow Tristan didn't think it would be that easy, then he still had to
deal with the muck on his own.

He started toward the drawer where his mother kept the phone book, but
he stopped when he saw Damara standing in the kitchen's open doorway.
No, not Damara. Something that looked a lot like her ... And then it
came back to him, all of it. Everything the two of them had done last
night, and he knew none of it had been a dream.

"I know you want her, Tristan," she said, her voice so much like
Damara's, but with the sound of thrumming cicadas underneath. Her
multifaceted eyes twitched continuously, back and forth, up and down,
but he knew they were focused on him. "But she can't have you. You're mine."

She unfurled her wings, reached out with all her limbs, and came toward him.

The playground was full of children running and laughing, swinging on
swings, sliding down slides, and chasing one another for no particular
reason other than the pure joy of pursuit. But one girl

195

didn't join in with the others. She walked slowly across the
gravel-covered play area, holding a tiny flower planted in a Styrofoam
cup cradled against her chest, as if it were a helpless baby animal that
needed protection. She made her way to the edge of the playground, where
the gravel ended and the green grass of the soccer field began. She sat
down, crossed her legs, then placed the cup on the grass in front of
her. She looked at the buttercup, examining its yellow petals and its
light green stem as she tried to determine if the flower really was as
fragile as Mrs. Colton had said.

Autumn felt creepy about accepting a gift from the woman, and she was
considering planting the buttercup right here. She poked the ground with
her index finger and found the soil soft. She should be able to dig a
large enough hole using the scissors she'd "borrowed" from her teacher's
classroom. If the flower was strong enough--and despite its small size
it looked plenty strong to Autumn--it would survive just fine here at
the edge of the playground. Sure, winter would be coming before long,
but her mom had told her once that trees and flowers didn't die when
winter came. They just went to sleep and then woke up in spring, when it
was warm again. With any luck, the buttercup would be back in spring,
and maybe it would even have babies, too. In a few years, there could be
a lot of buttercups here, maybe enough to cover the whole soccer field.
The image appealed to Autumn, and she decided to do it.

She reached into her right sock, where she'd

196

hidden the scissors, and pulled them out so she could start digging
right away. She didn't know how long it would take her to plant the
buttercup, but they only got fifteen minutes for morning recess, and she
wanted to get the job done as quickly as she could so she'd have some
time left to play. She chose a spot where the ground seemed softest and
plunged the scissors into the soil.

But before she could pull the scissors out of the ground for another
jab, she saw a streak of brown coming toward her across the green of the
soccer field. She looked up and couldn't believe what she was seeing. It
was a tiny dachshund puppy, and it was bounding toward her, eyes bright
and tongue lolling happily from the corner of its mouth. The puppy ran
right up to her and, without the slightest hesitation, jumped into her
lap. The little thing was panting hard and she could feel its tiny heart
pounding where its chest rested against her leg. She left the scissors
sticking in the ground and began petting and stroking the dog with both
hands.

"Hi, puppy. Where did you come from?" Autumn asked. The dachshund's only
response was to start licking her hand. It tickled and Autumn laughed,
but she didn't pull her hand away.

Klyburn Elementary was located in the middle of a suburban neighborhood,
so Autumn knew the dog could've come from anywhere. It wasn't wearing a
collar, but it--she did a quick check--he looked in good shape, so she
didn't think he was a stray.

197

"You're a good boy, do you know that? A very good boy!"

The dachshund's tail whipped back and forth in doggy delight, the tip
curving around so far that it touched his haunches.

Autumn glanced over her shoulder and was glad to see that none of the
other kids seemed to have noticed the dachshund's arrival. An animal on
the playground was a big deal and always attracted a crowd of children
who wanted to pet, play, or just look at it. But Autumn didn't want to
share the dachshund, which she was already beginning to think of as hers.

She'd wanted a puppy for as long as she could remember. Her grandmother
on her dad's side of the family had several dachshunds, and before
Autumn could even walk, she'd loved visiting Grandma's and playing with
the dogs. But the dogs were already old by then, and as Autumn grew
older, one by one, they died. When the last one was gone, Grandma sold
her house and moved in with Autumn's Aunt Patty, who lived in Indiana.
Autumn had been begging her mom for a puppy ever since, but pet
allergies ran in her mom's family, so every time Autumn asked, the
answer was no.

But here was a puppy sitting in her lap, and not just any puppy, but a
dachshund puppy, and it was a rich chocolate brown, just like she'd
always wanted. She knew she couldn't keep the dog. Even if it didn't
already belong to someone, and she

198

could figure out a way to keep him from running off when she went back
to class, and she could manage to sneak him onto the school bus and then
into her house, her mom's allergies would flare up, the puppy would be
discovered, and that would be the end of that.

Autumn leaned forward and let the puppy lick her nose. Sometimes life
could be so unfair!

The dachshund stopped licking and turned its head, raised its ears, and
growled.

Autumn felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. "Is something
wrong, boy?" She held on to the dachshund, as if she were afraid he
might suddenly run off. "What is it?"

She heard a soft rustling sound and realized it was coming from the
direction of the buttercup. She looked at the Styrofoam cup and saw that
the tiny plant inside was quivering, its yellow petals widening,
lengthening, becoming thicker ... Green tendrils burst out of the side
of the cup, unfurled and began slithering forward like featureless
snakes as they continued to grow. The yellow petals became flat, fleshy
fronds broad as human hands, and their color changed from a warm,
cheerful yellow to a nauseating grayish-green that made Autumn think of
diseased phlegm. Styrofoam was ripped apart as the plant grew too large
for its cup. Potting soil spilled onto the grass, but the mucus-colored
fronds didn't fall over. They remained upright, supported by a thick
central stalk covered with tiny black thorns. Clear liquid oozed like
sap from the tips of the thorns and dripped

199

heavily to the grass. The root tendrils stretched toward Autumn, curling
and uncurling like fingers impatient to grasp hold of what they reached for.

The buttercup's transformation had occurred so swiftly that Autumn had
barely realized she was in danger by the time the first of the tendrils
brushed her shoe. The dachshund puppy started barking then, not
high-pitched yaps but deep warning barks, and then it leaped out of
Autumn's lap and attacked the plant-thing.

Autumn's grandma had once told her that while dachshunds looked cute,
they had originally been bred as hunting dogs. Their tiny legs and long
muscular bodies were designed for going down badger holes and dragging
their prey back to the surface. They're tough little fellas, her grandma
had said. That's one of the reasons I love them so much, I guess. Seeing
the chocolate-brown puppy tear into the ugly thing that Mrs. Colton's
buttercup had become, Autumn knew her grandma had told the truth.

The dachshund's teeth pierced a frond and a thick foul-smelling
substance that looked like pus gushed forth. The plant jerked and
spasmed as if it were in pain, and the tendrils drew away from Autumn
and whipped toward the dachshund. The puppy hacked out a mouthful of pus
and bit into another frond just as the tips of the tendrils sank into
its flesh. The dog whined in pain, but it didn't stop its attack. If
anything, it fought more fiercely, biting, tearing, ripping, clawing
until the central part of the plant was a chewed-up, pus-splattered

200

mess. But the plant wasn't dead yet. The tendrils continued burrowing
into the dachshund, and as Autumn watched in horror, they began to
pulse. Within seconds the green tendrils began to darken, turning red,
then purple, then black as they drained the puppy of fluid with awful
sucking sounds. The dachshund began to shrink in on itself, its coat
drawing tight against its skeleton, eyes drying and wrinkling like
raisins, tongue withering to a lump of leather in its mouth, but though
it was obviously dying--and dying horribly at that--the dachshund fought on.

Autumn felt something happen inside her. It was as if a door within her
mind had suddenly been slammed shut, or heavy curtains drawn across a
window to block out the light. She slowly stood up, turned, and began
walking away from what was left of the plant and the dog. She didn't
think anything as she crossed the playground, didn't feel anything,
didn't even really see or hear anything. She just kept walking at a
slow, measured pace until she reached the door to the school, opened it,
and went inside. A few seconds later, the bell rang.

Recess was over.

201

Chapter Fourteen

It's Wednesday afternoon on Pandora Drive, and the street is quiet. The
kids are in school, their parents still at work. The only activity comes
from squirrels scurrying about, rustling through leaves, climbing up and
down trees, crawling along phone lines with a balance and ease that no
human tightrope walker could ever hope to match. Winter is still weeks
away, but the squirrels know it's coming, and their kind hasn't survived
for thousands of years by putting off till tomorrow what should've been
done yesterday.

But if anyone was present to observe the squirrels at work, he or she
might notice the animals move faster than usual, their motions abrupt
and nervous. They keep sitting up and looking around, whiskers
twitching, moist black eyes scanning the area as if they're on guard.
The squirrels know winter is coming, but they know that something else
is coming, too. Something bad. And it's coming soon.

202

"Nice place you got here, Anne. Thanks for asking me in."

Anne didn't answer, but Kenneth didn't take it personally. He figured it
was hard to talk with a sock jammed into your mouth and your lips sealed
by duct tape.

She lay on the couch, wrists and ankles bound by tape as well. She was
naked, her blouse, skirt, and panties on the floor where Kenneth had
tossed them. Well, she wasn't entirely naked. He'd left her high heels
and earrings on; he liked the look.

Kenneth sat in a wooden chair he'd brought in from the dining room and
placed in front of the couch. He'd moved the coffee table out of the
way, not only to make space for the chair but to give him room to work.
He wasn't quite sure what he was going to do with Anne yet, but he was
confident he'd think of something. Right now he was just enjoying gazing
at her naked body and feeling the deliciously painful sensation of his
hard monster cock pressing against the constraint of his pants. On the
floor at his feet rested a knife he'd brought in from the kitchen.

He was grateful to Anne for providing the ... inspiration he'd needed to
achieve an erection again. Not only had Kenneth gotten hard once more,
but he'd found strength and renewed confidence surging through his
entire body, making him feel thirty years younger. He'd had no problem
at all getting Anne into his van, then subduing and binding her. He'd
then driven to her place and

203

carried her inside, thrilled to find that she seemed almost weightless
to him now. He'd plopped her onto the couch, then hurried outside, got
in the van, backed out of Anne's driveway and pulled into his. He didn't
know how long his play date with Anne would last, and he didn't want
Emma to come home and find his van parked across the street.

When he'd returned to Anne's, he'd found her on the floor, trying to
crawl toward the phone. Rather than being angry, he'd laughed in
delight, scooped her up, tossed her back onto the couch, and removed her
clothes. Now he sat here looking at her, his penis throbbing in time
with his pulse.

"I've been watching you for a long time, Anne. Ever since you and Autumn
moved in, as a matter of fact. And you knew I was watching, didn't you?
That's why you dress the way you do. You want me to see, you like
teasing me ... don't you?"

Anne's eyes held equal measures of anger and fear, and she shook her
head no.

"You can deny it all you want, bitch." He smiled. "That just makes the
game all the more fun."

Anne let out a muffled cry of frustration and thrashed back and forth on
the couch. The motion made her large breasts jiggle and Kenneth watched
them appreciatively. She was such a beautiful woman, quite possible the
loveliest he'd ever seen in person. She was slender with hardly any fat
on her. Her skin was creamy and smooth, and he'd been pleased to see
that she kept her blond pubic hair--so blond he wondered if she dyed
it--neatly

204

trimmed. A trim quim. Her belly was taut, her arms and legs toned. She
had a few stretch marks, souvenirs of bringing Autumn into the world,
but instead of marring her beauty, they were a contrast that accentuated
it. Her breasts weren't as large as Nancy's, but they were full, round,
and firm, the brown aureolae large as half dollars, the nipples thick
and erect. It was those nipples that told him she was enjoying this
every bit as much as he was. Otherwise, why would they be standing at
attention?

Quit stalling, Kenny, a voice within him-- hungry, impatient--urged.
Show her what's on the menu this afternoon.

Good idea.

Kenneth leaned over and took off his shoes and socks. Then he stood and
removed his shirt. He let it fall to the floor, then stood for a moment,
giving Anne an opportunity to look him over. He figured he wasn't in bad
shape for a guy in his early sixties. His pecs weren't as firm as they
had been when he was twenty, but at least they hadn't become droopy
man-titties. His chest hair was thick and though it was mostly white,
there was still some black in the mix. But this was just the appetizer.
Time to hit her with the entree. He began unbuckling his belt.

His cock was so big and hard by now that he had trouble slipping his
pants down over it. Anne's eyes widened when she saw the bulge in his
underwear, and he laughed. A second later, his underwear was off and
discarded, and his monster cock was free in all its tumescent glory. It
was nearly as long as

205

Kenneth's forearm now, and just about as thick. The skin was purple and
stretched shiny tight, and the shaft was covered with swollen discolored
veins the size of fat earthworms. The head was a round hard knob and a
drop of clear fluid glistened at the tip.

Kenneth put his hands on his hips and spread his legs out, assuming what
he figured was an impressive stance, kind of like Superman or something.
Superschlong.

"So ... what do you think?"

Her eyes grew so wide that Kenneth thought they might pop right out of
their sockets.

He grinned. "I figured you'd like it. Gal like you, I'm sure you've seen
plenty of cock in your time, up close and personal, eh? But you've never
seen one as fine as this bad boy, am I right?"

Anne didn't respond. She just kept staring at his monster cock, her face
a shade paler than it had been a moment ago.

"Got any preferences where I put it first? I guess your mouth is out,
but that still leaves two other holes for me to play with. I'd flip a
coin, but I don't seem to have any change on me at the moment." He
chuckled at his little joke.

Anne shook her head and made high-pitched noises through the duct tape.
She squirmed as if she were trying to work her way deeper into the couch
and get away from him.

Kenneth smiled. "Don't go getting shy on me now, Anne. No one likes a
cock tease, you know."

He stepped toward her, and she let out a muffled scream. As if the sound
of her terror was a signal,

206

he knelt down, snatched up the knife, and rushed forward. He quickly
sawed through the duct tape binding Anne's ankles, and then before she
could try to kick him or get off the couch, he pressed the blade to her
flat belly.

"Lie still and spread your legs, or I'll slice a hole in your stomach
and fuck that." He gazed into her eyes and waited for her to make her
decision. He saw the terror drain away, replaced by resignation. She
nodded, relaxed, and opened her legs to him. He was a bit disappointed
that she'd given in to him so easily, but his cock wasn't. He could feel
the blood coursing through it, could sense its eagerness to have its
desires sated. It was feeding time at the zoo. Kenneth slid the knife in
between the couch cushions where he could get at it if he needed it. He
then pushed Anne's bound wrists up over her head and climbed on top of
her. He maneuvered his dick into position and thrust it inside her.

Her cunt was as dry as Sahara sandpaper, and she screamed as his monster
cock penetrated her body. To Kenneth, it felt as if he were wearing a
condom made of fiberglass insulation and steel wool. It hurt like a
motherfucker, but it was a good hurt, a great hurt, a
felt-so-fine-he-had-to-grit-histeeth-to-keep-from-shooting-his-load hurt.

"You think that's something? Wait until you feel this!"

He slowly withdrew his cock and then slammed it into her again. Once
more Anne screamed and every muscle in her body went rigid. Kenneth felt
warm wetness envelope his dick, and when he

207

pulled back this time, he saw his swollen shaft was coated with thick,
dark blood. He smiled. Anne wasn't dry anymore.

"I think natural lubricants are the best, don't you?" Kenneth laughed
and started pumping away in earnest. He closed his eyes as waves of
pleasure beyond anything he'd ever known, anything he'd ever conceived
possible, rippled along the nerve endings of his cock and into his
central nervous system before radiating back out to every cell in his
body. As he continued to fuck Anne, he imagined his penis growing
longer, wider, harder with each stroke.

Anne was screaming constantly now, and she bucked beneath him as her
body was wracked by a series of violent spasms. Kenneth opened his eyes
and saw that Anne's head was tilted back and resting on the arm of the
couch. The center of the duct tape over her mouth was pulsating.

Bigger, he thought. Longer ...

Anne stopped screaming. She made a chuffing sound and blood sprayed out
of her nostrils. The tape tore free from her mouth and the sodden
crimson mess that had been a sock was forced out. It hit Anne's left
breast with a sickeningly wet plap and stuck there.

Kenneth watched as the turgid head of his cock emerged from Anne's
mouth, slick with blood and bits of viscera. He could see the light
dimming in her eyes, but she wasn't gone yet.

"Hang in there, Anne," Kenneth panted as he continued thrusting, the
head of his cock 207

208

bobbing in and out of Anne's mouth in a nightmarish game of peekaboo.
"Stay with me just another few seconds ..."

A guttural cry burst from deep in his throat as thick jets of semen
streamed out of Anne's mouth, shot over the arm of the couch, and
splashed onto the floor. Kenneth tensed his groin muscles, flexed his
cock, and was rewarded with the raw wet sound of tearing flesh as his
gigantic member-- now more than four feet long--rose upward from the
streaming red ruin that had once been Anne Marcino. Cum continued to jet
out the tip of his penis for another few seconds until it finally
subsided to a trickle that dripped into the open cavity of Anne's corpse.

Kenneth let out a shuddering breath as he gazed upon the remains of his
latest lover. A part of him--now so small and weak that it was almost
nonexistent--recoiled from the desecration he'd done to his neighbor.
But the rest of him felt only exultation.

"Goddamn! I split that bitch right down the middle!" He laughed and
considered what more he might do to Anne. After all, just because she
was dead didn't mean that he had to stop having fun. But as much as he
wanted to go on playing with her, he didn't want to waste any time.
School would be letting out soon, and he wanted to be ready to greet
Autumn properly when she got home.

Claire was having the most wonderful dream. Jerry had returned to her,
and they'd spent the day

209

making love near the bank of a river, beneath blue skies, white clouds,
and a warm summer sun. Now they were lying on their backs, naked,
covered with each other's juices, the thick musky scent of their
lovemaking hanging heavy and sweet in the air as they looked up at the
clouds and spoke of what shapes they saw in them. It was the best dream
Claire had ever had, and she never wanted to wake from it.

But then, as if it came from a great distance away, Claire heard the
jangling of a telephone. She tried to ignore it, but the noise
continued, growing louder and more insistent. The clouds, the sky, the
sun, and the river slowly faded, and Claire opened her eyes and
experienced a crushing sense of loss. She was lying on a bed in a hotel
room, and the phone on the night stand was ringing. At first she wasn't
sure where she was or how she'd gotten here, but then she remembered: It
hadn't been a dream, at least not the most important part. Jerry had
come back to her, and they had spent the night and most of the day
making love.

The phone continued to demand her attention, but she let it ring. She
tried to turn to look at Jerry but her body felt awkward and stiff, and
she couldn't quite manage to do so.

"It's okay, babe. I'm still here."

His voice sounded close to her ear. Reassured, she started to reach for
the phone, but her right arm wouldn't move. Weird. Maybe she'd slept on
it wrong and it had lost circulation. She decided not to worry about it
and picked up the phone receiver with her left hand and placed it to her
ear.

210

"Hello?"

"Claire, this is Gene."

At first the name and the voice didn't mean anything to her, but then
she realized who it was. Her boss.

She started to sit up, but her body felt heavy and sluggish on the right
side, and it took an extra effort to accomplish this simple task. What
the hell had happened to her? Had she had a stroke or something? She
wasn't ancient, but she was old enough for that to be a possibility, and
strokes did run in her family. She was still too groggy to deal with
more than one thing at a time, though, and she decided to concentrate on
Gene first.

"Hi, Gene. What's up?" Her voice was thick from sleep.

"You are, I hope. I was going over the registrations in the computer and
came across yours. I asked Arlene about it, and she just spilled the
beans. I'm not happy that you took off at the start of your shift to
spend the night in one of our rooms--though you at least had the good
grace to pay for it. I'd like you to come in early for your shift
tonight so we can discuss the matter. But right now I'd like to remind
you that check-out time is noon, and it's now 1:48. Get up, check out,
go home and freshen up, and we'll discuss your future with the Econo
Inn--assuming you'd still like to have one-- tonight." He hung up
without waiting for a reply.

Claire held the receiver for a moment longer before replacing it on the
base unit. She was almost fully awake now, and she was pissed. How dare

211

that little prick talk to her like that! She had to admit that checking
into a room with Jerry hadn't exactly been the most responsible thing
she'd ever done, but Gene hadn't even allowed her to tell her side of
it. After all, seeing her husband again for the first time in almost
twenty years could make any woman a little crazy.

To hell with it. She'd try to smooth things over with Gene tonight
before her shift, and if she couldn't and she ended up getting fired, it
would be worth it. The time she and Jerry had spent together had been
fantastic, better than it ever had been before he'd left, and it had
been pretty goddamned good then.

"C'mon, hon," Jerry said. "We'd better get moving." He scooted over to
the edge of the bed--as did Claire--and then stood. Claire did the same.

"You overheard?" she asked as they walked together toward the bathroom.

"Of course I did. I'll be happy to tear that little bastard's head off
for you if you want."

They stepped into the bathroom and walked over to the toilet without
turning on the lights. Jerry put the lid up and peed, and Claire waited
until he'd finished. They both felt better afterward. Jerry then flushed
the toilet and the two of them went over to the sink to wash their hands.

"Don't worry about Gene," Claire said. "I can handle him. He's not worth
getting worked up about."

They finished washing and dried their hands. They started to leave the
bathroom, but Claire

212

happened to glance toward the mirror over the sink, and what she saw
made her pause. She turned on the light and stepped back to the mirror
and took a good long look at her reflection ... and Jerry's. "I told you
we'd be together forever, didn't I?"

Kenneth sat naked, covered with blood, his erect monster cock shrunken
to a more manageable twelve inches for the time being. He'd positioned
the chair so that he could watch the front door from the living room
while still keeping Anne's corpse in sight. He'd moved the coffee table
next to him, and had placed on its surface all the supplies he'd
gathered from his search of the house. The duct tape and kitchen knife
were still there, but he'd added a coil of rope, an enema kit he'd found
in the bathroom, a sawed-off mop handle, an old-fashioned pearl-handled
hair brush that was perfect for spanking, and the piece de resistance, a
vibrator and a tube of KY that he'd found in one of Anne's dresser
drawers. He was ready; now all he had to do was wait. He glanced at the
digital readout on the cable box sitting on top of the television. 2:17.
School let out at 2:30. He wouldn't have to wait much longer.

He stroked his cock and tried to decide which of his tools he would use
on Autumn first.

Tristan thrashed as he tried to free himself from the sticky white
substance he was bound in, but it was no use. The stuff was too strong,
and he

213

couldn't get any leverage hanging from the living room ceiling like
this. His feet were only a few inches from the floor, but those inches
might as well have been miles for all the good they did him. He was
almost entirely encased in the cocoon spun by the nightmarish version of
Damara his mind had conjured. Only his face was uncovered, and even then
there were enough strands attached to his jaw that he could barely move
his mouth enough to speak.

Below him, the floor was covered by a thin film of gray that grew
thicker and deeper the longer he hung here. Much longer, and it would be
up to the level of his feet, and he didn't want to think about what the
muck might do to his flesh if he got any on himself.

Nightmare Damara hung upside down from the ceiling in front of him,
crouching so that her face was aligned with his, their eyes level with
each other. He couldn't stop thinking of all the things they had done
together last night, and the images that kept playing in his mind made
him feel sick to his stomach. How he ever could have mistaken this ...
this thing for Damara was beyond him. It was as if he'd been under some
sort of spell, a delusion that had made him believe this creature was
the real Damara. He wondered if such delusion was part of Damara's power
and decided it must be. Look at Claire--she hadn't seemed to notice
anything wrong with the Jerry Ruschmann she'd brought to life, even
though he remained the same age he'd been when he'd vanished. Tristan

214

wasn't sure why he was no longer deluded himself. Maybe because Damara
had told him the truth and he'd witnessed her power at work on others.
Or maybe the dreams and fantasies Damara's power brought into existence
could only last so long before they began to break down. Whatever the
reason, Tristan now saw the nightmare Damara for what she was, but that
knowledge was of little use to him now that he was trapped like a fly in
a spider's web.

Nightmare Damara gazed at him with insectine eyes, and Tristan couldn't
read any emotion or thought there, could only see tiny images of his
face reflected in their multitude of facets. He wasn't surprised to see
that he looked scared a hundred times over.

"It's going to happen soon, my love," Nightmare Damara said in her
cicada-drone voice.

Tristan tried to respond, but his throat was so dry that his reply came
out in a soft rasp. "What's going to happen?"

She reached out to touch his cheek--with one of her human hands, thank
Christ--and he tried to draw away, but he was bound too tightly to move.
Her fingers felt cold on his skin.

"My chance to finally get you all to myself." She smiled. "Won't that be
nice?"

And then she leaned forward to kiss him. He closed his eyes as her cold
lips touched his and wondered what was going to happen to him ... and to
the real Damara.

215

Autumn sat on the school bus and looked out the window. Rosemary
Valiquette was sitting in a seat directly in front of her, and she'd
turned around and tried to get Autumn to talk to her, but without
success. Autumn hadn't responded to her friend's words, had barely even
heard them. All she could think about was the way the dachshund had
looked--so shrunken and withered--and how it had been killed saving her
from Mrs. Colton's buttercup. Except it hadn't been a buttercup, had it?
It had been something else, something bad, something nasty and evil,
just like Mrs. Colton.

Autumn wondered what she would tell her mother when she got home, or if
she should tell her anything at all. Her mother was always good about
listening to her, but Autumn wasn't sure she'd believe what happened at
the playground today. Maybe she'd tell Damara first. But to talk to
Damara, she'd have to go across the street and then she'd be next door
to Mrs. Colton's house. And she didn't think she could stand being that
close to the woman, not after what her buttercup had become and what it
had done to her puppy. Well, she still had a little time to decide. She
was one of the last kids to be dropped off by the school bus. Maybe
she'd figure something out by then.

The bus continued down the street as it made its roundabout way toward
Pandora Drive.

Emma finished getting her classroom ready for the next day, then put on
her coat, picked up her canvas bag, turned out the lights, and stepped
into the

216

hallway. She closed the door but left it unlocked so the custodian could
get inside to clean. She started walking down the hallway and when she
came to the office, instead of going inside to check her mailbox and say
goodbye to the secretary, she kept going. She wanted to get home and get
to work.

She'd seen Autumn at lunchtime, but she'd hadn't seen the buttercup
she'd given the little temptress. She wasn't sure what had happened to
the flower, but she'd had the sense that it had failed in its purpose.
She'd taken some measure of satisfaction upon seeing Autumn sitting
subdued at the lunch table, not talking to anyone, not eating, just
staring off into the distance as if she'd been traumatized. It appeared
that her little present hadn't been completely without impact, though it
hadn't performed as well as Emma had hoped. But that was all right. Some
weeds were more stubborn than others and took more effort to pull,
that's all.

Emma Colton--the whites of her eyes tinted a sour green--stepped outside
and headed for the teachers' parking lot.

Claire was about halfway home by the time she began to feel comfortable
driving. Coordinating her left hand with Jerry's right was almost
natural now and required little thought on either of their parts. Her
vision was a little wonky, though. Their eyes were still learning to
work together, and sometimes she saw a double image. But she figured if
she drove slowly enough and stuck to back roads, they'd be okay.

217

She felt bad for what she'd put Damara through. When she got home, she'd
do her best to explain and hope that her daughter understood. She
thought she probably would. Damara was a good kid. Oh, sure, she had her
troubles, but who didn't?

Jerry was looking forward to getting home, too. It would be the first
time he'd set foot inside his house in seventeen years. He'd been gone a
long time, but he was determined to make up for lost time. It might take
some work, but he, Claire, and Damara were going to be a family again.
The three of them, together.

Forever.

Damara tossed and turned in her sleep, and though each movement sent
bolts of pain shooting through her injured leg, she didn't wake up, not
completely. She hovered in the dusky twilight between sleep and
consciousness, nothingness and awareness, and if the thoughts, feelings,
and images that drifted through her mind weren't exactly dreams, they
nevertheless seemed as real and as disturbing as any nightmare. Images
of blood and death, darkness and hate. The past, the present, and worst
of all... the future.

218 218 Tim Waggoner

219

Chapter Fifteen

Emma pulled into her driveway, glad to see Kenneth's van was there.
Whenever he had one of his little episodes of independence, he had a
tendency to hop in his van and take off for the day. She didn't know
where he went--a bar, a strip club, or maybe just driving around for
hours--and she didn't care. He eventually got over his latest childish
rebellion against her and came home, and the balance of power in their
relationship was restored--in her favor, of course. It looked like
Kenneth had gotten over this morning's ... disagreement faster than
usual. She smiled with satisfaction. Maybe after all these years, the
fool was finally learning who ruled their roost.

There was room enough to park beside the van, barely, but Emma chose to
park behind it, blocking the vehicle so Kenneth couldn't back out if the
urge to leave suddenly came upon him again when she entered the house.
She turned off the engine, got out, and went into the house through the back

220

door. The moment she closed the door, however, she realized something
was wrong. She heard no TV, no stereo, no sound of Kenneth puttering
around. Though he always gave in after they fought, he would make more
noise than usual around the house for a day or two, his
passive-aggressive way of venting his anger at her. But the house was
silent.

"Kenneth?" she called. When she received no answer, she went into the
dining room, put her canvas bag, keys, and purse on the table, then
removed her coat and slung it over the back of a chair.

"Kenneth, are you here?" She called out louder this time, but she didn't
shout. She refused to allow Kenneth to provoke her into yelling.

Still no answer.

She wondered briefly if this silence was a new tactic on Kenneth's part,
if he was hiding out somewhere in the house, say the attic or basement,
and pretending not to hear her. She considered going through the house
and checking each room for him, but then she realized that he wasn't
here. There was only one place he could be, only one place he'd been
obsessed with the last couple of days. The Marcinos'.

Fury welled up within her, but she prided herself on her emotional
control. She clamped down on the anger before it could overwhelm her,
but she didn't attempt to banish it. She welcomed the anger, for she
knew she could make good use of it--as long as she maintained control.

She started toward the front door.

221

Kenneth sat up straight when he heard the doorknob turn, and his cock
grew a couple inches longer in anticipation. He stood and grinned,
imagining the shock on Autumn's face when she saw the present he had for
her--and what that present had done to her poor mommy.

But even as the door began to open, he knew something was wrong. He
hadn't heard the sound of the school bus pulling up in front of the
house and stopping to let Autumn off. A second later, the door swung
open wide and he knew why he hadn't heard the bus.

"I thought I'd find you over here, you lecherous sonofabitch."

Emma's voice was cold and deadly, and the menace in it sent a shiver
through his penis. The organ retracted several inches, as if it were a
frightened animal backing away from a fearsome predator.

No, he thought. Don't let her get to you. He was trying to encourage
both himself and his cock, and it seemed to work, for his dick stopped
its retreat.

Emma stepped into the foyer--leaving the door open--and her gaze flicked
to the couch where Anne's mutilated body lay soaking in its own blood.
Emma turned back to Kenneth and sneered. "I wish I could say that I'm
surprised, but I'm not." She glanced at the coffee table and the
assortment of tools he'd gathered. "So now that you've had your way with
Anne, you're planning on indulging in more playtime with Autumn, eh?"
She took a step forward and her gaze bore into

222

him. "Too bad that I'm going to have to spoil your fun." She raised her
right hand. The fingers were gone; sprouting from her wrist in their
place was a pair of garden shears, the blades honed to razor sharpness.

Emma grinned, revealing green-tinged gums. "Like I told you, Kenneth:
snip-snip!" The shears opened and closed twice to emphasize her words,
the shhkt-shhkt sound making Kenneth wince.

Kenneth didn't think to question how his wife's flesh and bone had been
transformed into deadly steel, any more than he wondered how his limp
dick had become a monster cock. It somehow seemed perfectly natural that
these things should be so. Besides, what man would take the time to
think when his mad-as-hell wife was about to cut his dick off?

Kenneth lunged for the coffee table, intending to grab the knife there,
but his fingers instead closed around the vibrator. Emma came at him,
and without time to grab a better weapon, he whirled around and slammed
the vibrator against the side of her head, his gigantic cock smacking
the outside of her leg as he did. Emma let out a grunt of pain as the
vibrator shattered in Kenneth's hand. She stumbled to the side and
staggered, but she didn't fall. A broken piece of plastic had cut her,
and a thin trickle of blood began to run down the side of her face.

Kenneth hesitated for a split second. In all the years they'd been
married, he'd never laid a hand on Emma, no matter how many times he'd
wanted

223

to and how many times she'd deserved it. A line had been crossed and now
that it had, Kenneth knew there was no going back.

He stepped forward--careful to stay clear of Emma's shears--grabbed her
by the shoulders and shoved her toward the couch. She stumbled
backwards, arms windmilling as she tried to maintain her balance, but
then the back of her legs hit the couch and she fell onto Anne's corpse.
Or rather, given its eviscerated state, fell into it. Emma screeched in
fury and disgust as blood splattered her clothes and organs slid beneath
her. Kenneth took the opportunity to snatch the knife off the coffee
table. He wasn't going to bother with fucking Emma to death. The crusty
old cunt didn't deserve to be done in by something as grand and glorious
as his monster cock. He was going to slit her fucking throat and be done
with it. He gripped the knife tight and stepped toward the couch.

And that's when he heard Autumn scream.

He froze and turned to look at her. She'd dropped her backpack on the
floor and was holding both hands over her mouth as if she were trying to
hold back her screams. She needn't have bothered, though; they still
came through just fine. Her eyes were wild with terror, and Kenneth
almost felt sorry for the poor kid, coming home to find her mother
gutted, one of her neighbors stuck ass-first in the body cavity, while
another stood naked and covered with mommy's dried blood, holding a
knife and sporting a giant erection.

Life could be a real bitch sometimes.

224

Autumn felt dizzy and darkness flickered at the edges of her vision.
She'd never fainted before, but she knew she was about to. She also knew
that if she lost consciousness now, she'd never regain it. Several
seconds went by while she struggled to keep from passing out. The sound
of her screaming became faint and the darkness continued to encroach on
her vision, and she feared she was losing the battle.

Mr. Colton grinned at her, his teeth a slash of white in the middle of
his blood-smeared face.

"Surprise!" he said in an awful, cheerful voice.

Autumn's vision continued to narrow until it became a tiny pinhole in
the darkness. Through the pinhole she saw Mrs. Colton sit up on the
couch-- beneath her a torn, ragged, red, wet thing that Autumn didn't
want to think about. She was holding a pair of shears in her right hand
... no, the shears were her hand ... and she slashed them at her husband.

She hit him on the left side, just under his armpit, and Mr. Colton
cried out in pain as blood gushed from the wound. He staggered forward a
step, then back, and gave Mrs. Colton a look of absolute hatred before
he slumped to the floor. Mrs. Colton stared down at her naked husband as
his awful thing began to shrink. She then turned to Autumn, the blades
of her shears opening wide. It was the sight of those blades--and the
knowledge of what they could do--that gave Autumn the

225

strength to drive the darkness back. She stopped screaming and ran out
the door.

Autumn burst onto the porch and leaped down the front steps. She almost
cleared them, but her left heel clipped the bottom step and she fell
onto her right side. She hit the walkway hard, but she didn't feel any
pain. Her body was too busy trying to ensure her survival to worry about
such trivial matters as transmitting pain signals through her nervous
system. The impact, however, did knock the breath out of her, and Autumn
gulped for air as she pulled herself to her feet and began hobbling
across the walkway. Her right leg didn't seem to want to work properly
now, and she couldn't draw in enough oxygen. She didn't stop to catch
her breath, though. She knew if she did, Mrs. Colton would surely catch
her. She forced herself to keep moving and tried not to think about how
her mommy was dead, and probably Mr. Colton, too. Between her leg and
her lungs, she began to move more slowly, and she felt the darkness
threaten to take her away again.

But then she was in the street and her breath started coming more
easily. She picked up speed, and though her leg still felt funny, it
wasn't holding her back as much as before. And then she'd made it across
the street and into Damara's yard. She glanced at the driveway and was
relieved to see Mrs. Ruschmann's car. That meant both Damara and her
mother were home. As she headed for the front porch, she experienced an
urge to glance

226

behind her and see if Mrs. Colton was coming after her, but she
resisted. If the woman was going to get her, Autumn wasn't about to give
the old witch any help by slowing down.

She made it to the steps and hurried up to the front door.

"Wake up, honey."

Damara heard her mother's voice, gentle but insistent. Felt her mother
take hold of her shoulders and shake her. Not too hard, just enough so
that Damara couldn't drift back to sleep. Damara squeezed her eyes shut
even tighter. She didn't want to wake up, not now, maybe not ever.

"Don't make me go get an ice cube," her mother said in a tone of mock
warning.

Despite herself, Damara chuckled sleepily. They'd played this game ever
since Damara had been a little girl. Whenever Claire couldn't get her
up, she'd threaten to go into the kitchen, get an ice cube from the
freezer, come back, and press it against Damara's stomach. Claire had
never really done it, of course. The closest she'd ever come was holding
a melting ice cube over Damara's head and allowing a few drops to fall
on her. Damara had been so surprised that she'd sprung out of bed, and
both Claire and she had laughed and laughed.

It was a good memory, and Damara wanted to stay with it for as long as
she could. She knew that if she opened her eyes, she wouldn't like what
she saw.

227

"Come on, sleepy-head!" Claire shook her harder this time. "There's
someone here who wants to say hi to you--someone who hasn't been in your
room for a long time."

"Wake up, Dee." This voice was masculine, and hearing it made frost
gather on Damara's spine.

She didn't want to, would've given anything not to, but she opened her eyes.

At first she didn't understand what she was looking at. It was a face,
but it was broader than it should be, the space between the eyes--one
blue, one brown--too wide. The nose was lopsided, large on the right,
small on the left, and one nostril was higher than the other. The left
side had a high cheekbone and sharp chin, while the right side was
fuller, with a more rounded chin dotted with dark stubble. The hair was
short, straight and black on the left, and shoulder-length brown mixed
with gray on the right.

"What's wrong?" Two voices came out of a single mouth, one male, one
female. "Don't you recognize your parents?"

Damara could only shake her head, as if she might deny the thing that
stood before her into nonexistence with such a simple motion.

"I wanted him to never leave me again," said her mother's voice. "And
now he won't." Her half of their shared face smiled. "He can't."

Damara understood that her mother's wish had become a quite literal
reality, Gerry Ruschmann could never leave her again because they were
inextricably joined, melded together in a perverse

228

incarnation of matrimonial union. Claire on the left, Jerry on the
right. They wore Jerry's plaid shirt, jeans, and shoes, though the
clothes were too large and baggy on Claire's side.

Damara thought of a film she'd once seen in her freshman biology class
in high school. The subject of the film had been genetics, and while she
remembered very little of it, one image had stuck with her--a scene at a
circus sideshow purporting to show the Amazing Two-Headed Cow. The
animal had been scrawny, its coat shaggy and matted, and at first there
didn't seem to be anything memorable about it. But then the cow turned
its head to reveal that its face was bifurcated. It didn't have two
heads, more like two faces. There was only one set of eyes, but two
snouts with separate sets of nostrils, mouths, tongues, and teeth. Mucus
continually dripped out of all four nostrils and the animal--or
animals--kept lapping the gunk up with its tongues.

The film's narrator had explained that the animal was a set of twins
that had barely begun the process of separation in the womb before it
had been halted for some unknown reason. That's what Damara was looking
at now: the Amazing BiFaced Parent. If she had eaten anything before
going to bed, she'd have thrown it up now.

The Jerry hand reached out to take Damara's. She scooted backward on her
bed, trying to draw away from him, but her back pressed against the
wall, and there was nowhere to go. Jerry grabbed her hand and held it
tight. She'd expected the

229

touch to feel alien somehow, the skin texture obviously artificial, too
hard, too smooth, too cold, like a mannequin that was able to imitate
life without actually possessing it. But his hand felt perfectly normal:
warm, soft, and though its grip was firm, it was also surprisingly gentle.

"I'm sorry about the way I behaved at the hotel earlier," the Jerry
voice said. "I didn't realize that you're my little girl all grown up.
I'm sorry that I've been gone for so long, Dee. But I'm going to make
you a promise, right here and now." The right side of the combined face
smiled. "I'm never going to leave you again."

The Jerry hand shifted bonelessly around hers, and Damara had the sudden
impression that her hand was being caressed by a fleshy invertebrate of
some sort. She looked down and saw that the fingers of the Jerry hand
were growing longer, flattening out and widening. They merged into a
single sheath of flesh that covered her hand like a second skin. She
could feel her own flesh responding, growing softer as it began to blend
with the Jerry hand. She understood then what her MotherFather had in
mind. They intended to absorb her-- mind, body, and soul--and become a
trio instead of a duo, a Mother-Father-Daughter combination that would
give the concept of family togetherness a whole new meaning.

Damara tried to pull her hand free, but the left side of the
Mother-Father gripped her shoulder with Claire's hand and fought to keep
Damara still.

230

"Please, don't make this harder on yourself," said the Claire voice.
"You'll be so much happier once it's all over. We all will."

Damara kept pulling, but it seemed the more she resisted, the more
securely she was held. It was like a Chinese finger trap. The harder you
pulled, the more impossible it was to escape.

Maybe it would be for the best, she thought. If she joined with them,
her individual identity would merge with theirs, and Damara Ruschmann
would cease to exist. And if that happened maybe her power or gift or
curse or whatever it was would cease to exist as well. Maybe she should
stop resisting and just give in, let herself be absorbed. ...

Someone pounded on the front door, shouted Damara's name. It sounded
like Autumn, and the girl seemed terrified. Damara didn't know what
could be wrong, but she had a bad feeling that the shit had finally hit
the fan on Pandora Drive.

She pulled her good leg back and kicked the Mother-Father as hard as she
could in the stomach. She aimed for the center of the abdomen, hoping
that perhaps they would be more sensitive at the juncture of their
separate bodies. The Mother-Father grunted in two voices and doubled
over. Damara hopped off the bed, letting out a cry of pain as the foot
of her wounded leg hit the floor. With her free hand, she grabbed hold
of her forearm just above where the Jerry flesh ended and she gave a
hard yank. The Jerry voice shrieked as Damara tore away from him, thin
strips of flesh from his hand still clinging to hers.

231

She turned and limped out of the bedroom as fast as she was capable of,
shaking her hand to dislodge the bloody shreds of Jerry skin. She
hurried into the living room, urged on by Autumn's pounding and yelling,
both of which had become increasingly frantic. Damara reached the door
and with fingers slick with the Mother-Father's blood, she undid the
chain, turned the deadbolt, and opened the door.

Autumn flung herself at Damara, nearly knocking her down. Pale and
trembling, the girl grabbed hold of Damara and began sobbing.

"Mom's dead! They killed her! Cut her up! She must've used her
scissor-hand, and he had a... had a big thing! A real big thing!"

Damara couldn't make sense of Autumn's words, and she was about to tell
the girl to calm down and speak more slowly, but then she glanced past
Autumn and saw Emma Colton coming up the porch steps. The woman's
clothes were covered with blood and she was bleeding from a head wound.
At first Damara thought she held a pair of gardening shears in her right
hand, but a split second later she realized that the shears were Emma's
hand. She wasn't sure what had happened to Autumn, but she knew one
thing: She couldn't let Emma into her house.

Damara disentangled herself from Autumn enough to start to close the
door, but before she could get it shut, a pair of voices behind her
asked, "What's wrong?"

What isn't? Damara thought, and then Emma was coming at them through the
door, hand-shears held high, eyes burning with hatred.

232 232 Tim Waggoner

233

Chapter Sixteen

The gray sludge was up to Tristan's thighs now and rising rapidly. The
silken prison Nightmare Damara had encased him in was holding up against
the corrosive power of the muck so far, but he thought he could feel
pinpricks of pain in his feet and ankles, as if the gunk were beginning
to finally dissolve the lower part of the cocoon and eat into his flesh.
The stench wafting upward was nearly as thick as the sludge itself. It
caked the inside of Tristan's nostrils and coated his throat. Every
breath was an effort, and it felt as if no matter what he did, he
couldn't draw in enough oxygen.

Nightmare Damara appeared unaffected by the fumes. She still hung upside
down from the ceiling, well out of the sludge's reach--for now at least.
But instead of remaining next to Tristan, she'd crawled across the
living room ceiling and now peered upside down through the front picture
window.

234

"Things are starting to happen," she said in her insect-drone voice.

"What... things?" Tristan managed to gasp out.

Her head turned all the way around to face him, her inhuman neck supple
as an owl's.

"Bad things," she said, then turned back around to peer out the window
once more.

Tristan felt the gray sludge ooze past his crotch as it continued rising.

"No shit," he muttered.

"Get away from her!" Emma shouted. "That little bitch is mine!" She
jabbed her shears toward Damara's face, but Damara swung the door
halfway shut in time to block the attack. The blade-points cut into the
door's surface, but instead of pulling them out, Emma shoved and pushed
the door open once again.

Damara grabbed Autumn's hand and tugged the child farther into the
living room as Emma yanked her shears free of the door and entered the
house. Emma smiled and opened and closed her shears.

Shhkt-shhkt!

"I don't have any quibble with you, Damara." Emma's voice was calmer
now, but there was still an undercurrent of anger to it. "You're an
attractive enough girl, and I'm sure Kenneth lusted after you just like
he did all the other sluts in the neighborhood. But I didn't catch him
with you. I caught him with Anne ... or rather, I caught him with

235

what was left of her. But one slut wasn't enough for him. He wanted
another." She closed her shears and pointed them at Autumn. "He wanted
her. But I'm going to make sure he can't have her, that no one can have
her." She glared at Autumn for a second, causing the girl to cling
tighter to Damara. "Give her to me," she said, looking at Damara again,
"or I swear I'll gut you where you stand. Not that it would be any great
loss, considering how many years you've been mooching off your mother."

Before Damara could reply--not that she had any idea what to say to the
crazy old bitch--a pair of voices behind her spoke.

"You can't talk to our daughter that way."

Emma looked past Damara and noticed the Mother-Father for the first
time. She frowned.

"What the hell are you?" she demanded.

The ragged bloody stump where the Jerry hand had been gently pushed
Damara and Autumn aside, and the Mother-Father stepped between Emma
Colton and their daughter.

"We've already lost one child," the MotherFather said in its dual voice.
"We're not going to lose another."

Emma opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, the
Mother-Father rushed forward and fastened the Claire hand around her
throat. Emma's eyes registered momentary surprise, and then she brought
her shears around and plunged them into the Claire side of the
amalgamation's

236

neck. Two voices screamed as one and a crimson fountain of blood sprayed
the air.

"We have to go!" Autumn grabbed Damara's hand and tried to pull her away
from the front door and the sight of Emma digging her shears deeper into
the Mother-Father's wound. But Damara hesitated. While the Jerry
Ruschmann part was only a construct fashioned from Claire's longing,
Claire herself was real--and Emma was killing her.

Autumn tugged Damara's arm again.

"Damara, please!" The girl's voice broke this last word, and Damara
realized that Claire had bought Autumn and her a few precious moments to
escape, and she was wasting them by standing here wrestling with
indecision. Damara wished she could at least say goodbye--with a last
glance if nothing else--but the Mother-Father was thrashing in agony,
blood jetting from its ravaged throat while the Claire hand desperately
tried to strangle Emma before she could finish what she'd started with
her shears.

Damara turned away from her mother and holding tight to Autumn's hand,
started running through the house toward the back door.

Emma twisted her shears in the raw, ragged mess that she'd made of
Claire's neck. She didn't have anything against the woman--oh, she'd
likely done something to run her husband off and she'd coddled her feeb
of a daughter far too long--but

237

Claire had always been an acceptable neighbor, and as far as Emma knew,
Kenneth had never desired her. But Claire stood between her and Autumn,
and that Emma couldn't allow.

The woman had a strong grip, though, that was for sure. Her fingers dug
into Emma's neck like claws, and she could feel Claire's nails cutting
into her skin. Emma could still breathe--Claire wasn't that strong--but
she was finding it increasingly difficult to do so. Her lungs felt heavy
and were starting to ache. Pressure built behind her eyes and pinpoints
of light dotted her vision. She kept stabbing, digging, twisting her
shears into Claire's neck ... except it wasn't Claire, not entirely; it
was someone else too, someone who looked vaguely familiar, though she
couldn't tell who it was.

But no matter how much damage Emma did to her ... to their neck, no
matter how much blood gushed from the wound, the thing that Claire had
become didn't seem to weaken and the grip on Emma's throat didn't slacken.

Her vision began to go gray, and she could no longer draw in any air.
Her arm felt weak, tired, and sluggish, and she could barely raise her
shears, let alone plunge them into Claire's flesh with any force. Emma
understood that she was in serious danger of dying. She doubted the
Clairething would survive, either, and she took some satisfaction in
that, but it wasn't enough. She wanted Autumn.

238

There was no conscious thought on Emma's part, but the shears sprouting
from her wrist lengthened, grew even sharper until they looked capable
of cutting a tree limb in two. As the gray that swam in her vision edged
toward black, Emma opened her shears wide and slid them around the
Claire-thing's neck. Then she gritted her teeth, and with all the
strength she could muster closed the shears.

The flesh and muscle were no problem; they parted like tissue paper. But
the neck bone proved to be more stubborn, and Emma really had to bear
down. Even so, for a moment, she thought the bone was going to defeat
her, but then the blades of her shears met, and the Claire-thing's head
popped off in a fountain of blood. The head seemed to hang in the air
for a second, its eyes-- one brown, one blue--looking at Emma with a
combination of surprise and resignation. And then the head fell to the
floor, hit with a hollow thump, and bounced several times before coming
to a stop.

The hand around Emma's throat continued its pressure for another second
or two, as if the body were operating on its own. But then the strength
began to drain out of the fingers, and the hand released its grip. The
body slumped forward, and Emma had to sidestep quickly to avoid being
struck by it. The headless corpse fell half in and half out the open
doorway, blood from its neck stump trickling onto the front porch. Emma
looked

239

at the Claire-thing's head. Its eyes were still open and staring, but
they might as well have been made of glass for all the life in them.

Emma took a moment to catch her breath. Her vision cleared, though her
throat hurt and she had a headache now. But these were minor
inconveniences; certainly nothing that would slow her down, let alone
stop her. She looked around the Ruschmanns' living room, but saw no sign
of Damara and Autumn. She remembered them running off as she fought with
the Claire-thing and decided she would have to search the house for
them. But then she heard voices coming from the street, and she turned
and stepped through the doorway, over the headless corpse, and onto the
Ruschmanns' front porch.

And when she saw what was taking place in the street, she smiled.

Damara led Autumn out the back door and around the side of the house.
Piercing pain shot through Damara's injured leg with every step, but she
refused to slow down. She had to get Autumn to safety. She had no plan,
other than a vague notion that they needed to get to Tristan. Despite
how they'd left things between then when he'd dropped her off, Damara
had no doubt that he'd help them now. Though what he might do to protect
them against Emma, she didn't know.

They made their way down the driveway and into the street, Damara
holding tight to Autumn's

240

hand, the girl whimpering as they ran. Damara felt an urge to comfort
Autumn, but she kept silent, not wishing to spend her breath on anything
other than getting them to safety.

They were two-thirds of the way across the street when the front picture
window of Tristan's house exploded outward. A wave of thick gray muck
spilled out of the window and onto the front lawn, while the object that
had shattered the glass rose up into the air. It moved so swiftly that
at first Damara couldn't tell what it was, her eyes registering the
object only as a blur of movement and color. But then the thing stopped
in midair and above the lawn and hovered in place, giving Damara her
first good look at it. It was human-shaped for the most part, and since
it was naked she could see it was obviously female. It had long brown
hair and was slender, but that was where its resemblance to humanity
ended. It had large insectine eyes, and an extra pair of arms jutting
out from the torso. They were the same length as the other arms, but
thinner and possessed of additional joints. The fingers were long and
segmented and each ended in a hooked barb like an insect's stinger. But
the most striking features were the huge, multi-colored wings that held
the creature aloft, their colors so bright they almost seemed to glow
with their own internal light.

Autumn no longer whimpered in fear. She looked up at the hovering
apparition, eyes wide with wonder.

"She's beautiful," Autumn said. She turned to Damara. "She looks like you."

241

With a start, Damara realized Autumn was right. The creature--at least
its human aspect-- did resemble her, to the point where they could 've
been twins. She remembered what Tristan had said in the car before
dropping her off.

I remember the butterflies.

Conflicting emotions surged through Damara. Love for Tristan, joy upon
discovering that she was his dream, disgust over the distorted form that
dream had taken, and fear of what this creature might do.

The Insect-Damara said nothing, did nothing other than flap her
rainbow-colored wings and gaze down at them with her inhuman eyes.
Damara looked away from the creature and glanced at the broken window in
Tristan's house. The strange muck was pouring out now in a steady
stream. It had already covered most of Tristan's lawn and was beginning
to flow toward the street. Damara had no idea what the gray substance
was, but it stank like hell, and considering how things had been going
this afternoon, she doubted it was harmless.

"So you're here ... the Other."

The insect woman's voice was identical to Damara's, but with the
addition of an angry buzzing drone.

"You don't look all that special. Tristan is a fool to prefer you to me."

From the bitterness in her double's voice, Damara realized that
Tristan's construct was not only a nightmarish blend of human and
insect, it was also jealous of her.

242

"Get behind me, honey," Damara whispered to Autumn, trying not to sound
as scared as she felt. She put a hand on the girl's shoulder and stepped
in front of her--

--just as her insectine doppelganger attacked.

Tristan tried to call out after Insect-Damara, but the strands of silk
stuck to his jaw and facial muscles made it impossible for him to open
his mouth wide enough to get much sound out. He wanted to call
Insect-Damara back, to plead with her not to hurt the real Damara, for
although he couldn't see through the broken window from where he hung,
he had a damn good idea what was happening outside. He wanted to go to
Damara's aid, to protect her from the insect-thing his subconscious had
created from her power. But the cocoon encasing him was as strong as
ever, and he still couldn't get any leverage to try to pull his way free.

To make matters worse, the gray sludge was flowing more rapidly now, as
if the destruction of the window had been some sort of trigger. The muck
was up to Tristan's waist now, but no longer rising, thanks to
Insect-Damara creating an exit for the foul-smelling shit. His legs and
trunk burned from where the ooze had eaten through the cocoon, but even
if the gray muck completely dissolved the silk covering the lower half
of his body, he'd still be attached to the ceiling and unable to break
free. And if the gunk continued to eat away at his unprotected flesh, when

243

he was eventually found, he'd be a skeleton from the waist down.

The force of the surging ooze pushed the lower half of his body forward,
as if it were eager to take him along with it, but the strands affixing
him to the ceiling held tight. The muck was no longer coming only from
the basement; cracks had appeared in the living room--and throughout the
house, presumably--and streams of the viscous gray substance were
running down the walls to join the main tide. It was as if the entire
house--the walls, floors, and ceiling--were filled with the gunk, as if
Tristan's childhood home had been afflicted with an infection that had
built up to the point where it was about to burst like a gigantic boil.

And all he could do was hang here and wait for it to happen.

Kenneth opened his eyes and gasped as agony slammed him back into full
consciousness.

"Motherfuck!"

Kenneth's left side felt as if it were on fire, and for a moment, he
didn't know what was wrong, but then he remembered: Emma had stabbed him
with a pair of goddamned garden shears that had grown out of her wrist.

He was lying naked on the floor of the Marcinos' living room and ruining
their carpet by bleeding all over it. He grimaced as he pushed himself
to a sitting position, then--though he was terrified of what he might
find--he checked out his wound,

244

gently probing it with his fingers. He didn't have any medical training,
but from what he could tell, it looked worse than it was. His left side
was smeared with blood, but the actual wound wasn't very large. It
looked like Emma's shears had hit his ribs, which had turned her strike
downward. Her shears had sliced through a couple inches of love handle
on his side, but hadn't penetrated enough to damage any organs.

"Stupid bitch. She should've stuck around and made sure she finished the
job." Then he remembered the threat she had made this morning, how she
had held out her index and middle fingers like scissors and placed them
around his cock.

Snip-snip.

Panic gripped him, far worse than the fear he'd felt while examining his
stab wound. Getting mortally wounded was one thing, but to lose your
dick ...

He spread his legs and looked--he was afraid to reach down with his
hand, afraid of what he might or might not touch. He let out a relieved
sigh when he saw that his penis was still right where it should be. It
had returned to its normal length and girth, but Kenneth wasn't
concerned about that. He was confident his monster cock would come
roaring back to life when he needed it.

He glanced around and saw the kitchen knife lying on the carpet a few
feet away. He retrieved it, then rose to his feet, gritting his teeth
against the fiery pain in his side.

"You made a big mistake leaving me alive,

245

Emma," he said, and then clutching the knife, he started toward the open
door. His cock was already three-quarters erect when he stepped across
the threshold.

246 246 Tim Waggoner

247

Chapter Seventeen

Damara threw Autumn to the ground and dropped down beside her as her
doppelganger came at them. Her wings were eerily silent as they beat the
air, and Damara felt a breeze waft over them as the insect woman passed
by. Damara felt a tug on her shoulder, or rather, the fabric of her
shirt. When she glanced over, she saw a hole had been torn in her shirt
and the ragged edges were moist with a greenish slime. She thought of
the extra pair of limbs her other self had, and how the fingers ended in
barbs. It looked like those barbs were more than mere decoration; they
were weapons, sharp and containing a poison she felt confident was as
deadly as any scorpion's sting.

She sat up, keeping a hand on Autumn to make sure the girl stayed down.
She looked around quickly for her insect-double and found her crouching
on a tree limb in the Markleys' yard. Without taking her gaze off her
other self, Damara leaned her head down close to Autumn.

248

"She doesn't care about you. It's me she's after. I'm going to try to
distract her, and when I do, I want you to run away as fast as you can.
Keep going and don't look back." Damara didn't know how well she could
move on her injured leg, but she was determined to try.

Autumn looked at her with eyes wide with fear, and Damara gave her what
she hoped was a reassuring smile. "It'll be okay. Remember, run as fast
as you can."

Damara rose to her feet and began half-running, half-hopping down the
street in the direction of the Marcinos' house. She hoped Insect-Damara
would launch herself into the air and follow her, leaving Autumn free to
flee in the opposite direction. It was a good plan, especially for one
formed at the spur of the moment. Unfortunately, Damara had forgotten
something.

Emma Colton.

Damara ran straight into the woman and collided with her. The two of
them fell to the street, and Damara waited to feel Emma's shears slice
into her. But she managed to avoid impaling herself on the other woman's
blades. Emma was drenched with blood, a good deal of which was now
smeared across the front of Damara's shirt. She had a good idea where
the blood had come from, but she tried not to think about it. She was
afraid if she did, she'd start crying and never stop.

She rolled off Emma and tried to get to her feet, hoping to put some
distance between them so she wouldn't be in range of those shears. But
before

249

she could take more than two steps, Emma grabbed hold of her shirt with
her normal hand and held tight.

"And just where do you think you're going, young lady?" Emma said.

Damara tried to pull free from Emma's grip, but the older woman held on
with a strength beyond her years and pulled herself to a standing position.

"I was going to spare you," Emma said, her voice nearly a growl. "But
now you've pissed me off."

She raised her shears, and as Damara steeled herself to feel the blades
cut into her, she hoped Autumn had managed to get away. But before Emma
could strike, a shriek pierced the air.

"Mine!"

Damara turned to see a rainbow-hued blur coming toward them. She ducked
and her insect-double slammed into Emma Colton. Damara's shirt tore as
Emma's hand was yanked away, and she almost fell, but she managed to
maintain her footing. Her other self struck Emma with such force that
the impact knocked her off her feet. Insect-Damara carried Emma through
the air, rising upward as they passed over the Ruschmanns' front yard,
her second pair of arms repeatedly stinging the older woman with her
finger barbs. Emma screamed in pain and flailed at her attacker with her
shears. Then it was the insect-woman's turn to scream as gouts of
greenish blood jetted from the wounds Emma inflicted. Insect-Damara
wobbled in the air. Then her wings suddenly folded and she plunged
toward the ground,

250

carrying Emma with her. They crashed to the grass, slid several feet,
then lay still, Insect-Damara atop Emma, her multi-colored wings spread
wide and covering them both.

Damara didn't wait to see how badly they were injured. If she were
lucky, they'd have killed each other. Her main concern was for Autumn.
She turned to see if the girl had managed to escape, aware as she did so
of a shallow wave of gray muck splashing across her feet.

"I don't know what this shit is, but it's a real bitch to run in."

Kenneth Colton, naked, holding a knife and sporting an erection that was
at least a foot and a half long, stood in the middle of the street up to
his ankles in gray sludge. With his free hand, he held on to Autumn's
arm. The girl was covered with gray gook, and Damara realized that she
must have slipped in the spreading muck while trying to flee, giving
Kenneth enough time to capture her.

Kenneth gestured toward Damara's yard with the knife. "Looks like
butterfly girl did me a favor by taking out Emma for me. To tell you the
truth, I'm a little disappointed. I would've liked to kill her myself.
But now there's no one to keep me from having some fun with little miss
Autumn here." He gave Autumn's arm a yank and the girl cried out in
pain. "Who knows? Maybe when I'm finished with her, I'll give you a try.
What do you say, Damara? Want to take a spin on Mr. Colton's Wild Ride?"

251

As Damara watched, Kenneth's erection swelled several more inches.

The sight of his obscenely long organ--and the thought of what he might
do to Autumn with it-- nauseated Damara. Here was another victim of her
power, but Kenneth wasn't treating his deformity as an affliction. He
was acting as if he were having the time of his life.

Damara wished she could tap into her own power and consciously use it.
If she could, she could stop Kenneth easily, stop all of this, make it
go away and repair whatever damage had been done. But she had no more
control over her ability than a paint brush did over the picture it was
used to create. She might generate the strange energies others drew on,
but she could never make use of them herself. However, she did have
other attributes to fight with.

"Forget about her, Kenneth," Damara said. "She's just a kid. I'm a woman."

Kenneth lifted an eyebrow, looking both surprised and intrigued.

Damara went on. "If you let Autumn go, I promise that you can do
whatever you want to me for as long as you want. And I won't put up a
fight." She forced herself to smile. "That is, not unless you want me to."

Kenneth laughed. "You're just trying to save the kid. You don't give a
damn about me."

"So what?" Damara countered. "My offer still stands."

252

Kenneth looked at her for several moments, then down at Autumn. "I don't
know," he said at last. "It's a good offer, but I'd hate like hell to
give this little sweetmeat up, especially after everything I've gone
through to get hold of her." He considered a moment longer before
finally shaking his head.

"Sorry, no deal."

He turned to go, yanking Autumn along after him, when Tristan's house
burst apart in an eruption of gray sludge. A massive wave of the stuff
came rushing toward them so swiftly that all they could do was watch its
approach. And then the muck engulfed them and they were swept off their
feet. Damara closed her mouth so she wouldn't swallow any of the gray
goo, and she thrashed her arms and legs, as if she might somehow swim
through the mucus-like substance. But it was too thick, like a
combination of mud and molasses, and swimming was impossible. All she
could do was relax her body and let the gray wave toss and turn her as
it carried her along. Her flesh began to burn where the ooze touched it,
and she knew whatever this stuff was, it was corrosive. She clamped her
eyes shut to protect them, and the world became a dizzying darkness as
the muck bore her where it would.

Suddenly her left shoulder slammed into something hard and she stopped
moving. She felt solid ground beneath her--a street curb, she thought,
which would explain the pain in her shoulder. She was still submerged in
muck, and she struggled to sit up, desperate to take a breath. It took some

253

effort, but she managed to raise herself into a sitting position, and by
doing so broke the surface of the sludge. She opened her eyes, but
immediately closed them again when they began stinging. She reached up
with slime-covered hands and did her best to clear the gook away from
her mouth. Then she attempted to draw in a breath. The air tasted sour
and rotten, but her lungs didn't care. As far as they were concerned
right then, air was air.

She tried to open her eyes again, and while they still burned somewhat,
the sensation had lessened to the point where she could bear it. The
street and the neighboring yards were covered with gray muck. Damara
didn't know what the substance was, but she was certain of one thing:
One way or another, she was the cause of it. The gray ooze hung from
tree limbs in thick ropy strands, and was smeared on windows as if giant
snails had crawled over them, leaving slime trails behind. The Ledford
house was little more than a shell now. The front was completely gone,
and what remained leaned to the left and looked as if it would collapse
any moment. Bits of wood, roofing tiles, plaster, and even furniture
were spread out across the street and yards, carried there by the gray
tide. Damara prayed that Tristan hadn't been in the house when it had
exploded, for if he had--

"Mara?"

The voice was weak, but it was unmistakably Tristan's.

Damara scanned the street, searching for him and saw a large lump about
a dozen feet from

254

where she sat. The goo was draining off into the sewer slowly but
surely, and she could see the lump was more or less human-shaped. She
rose to her feet and slogged through the muck toward the lump, treading
carefully to avoid slipping. As she drew near the shape, she could see
Tristan's face, though that was all she could see of him. It was as if
his body were encased in a shell of solid ooze.

She knelt down next to him and wiped gray slime from his face, and he
looked up at her with grateful eyes.

"I'm glad it's you, Mara. The real you, I mean."

His skin was red, as if he'd been sunburned, and Damara realized the
discoloration was likely due to the muck's corrosive effect. She gazed
down at her hands and saw they were equally as red.

"Can you get me out?" Tristan asked. "I'm covered in some kind of
cocoon, I'd guess you'd call it. She wrapped me in it."

Damara understood then that Tristan wasn't encased in muck; the gray
substance was instead covering the cocoon he was trapped in. She reached
for him, intending to help him tear free if she could, when she suddenly
remembered Autumn.

"Tristan, I have to find Autumn. She's out here somewhere, and Kenneth ..."

"I understand. Go. I'll be all right."

Damara didn't know if he would, but she couldn't abandon Autumn, was
ashamed that she'd forgotten about the girl, if only momentarily.

"I'll be back as soon as I can." Damara stood and gazed at the
muck-covered yards and street,

255

searching for some sign of Autumn. Some of the neighbors stood on their
porches or peered out windows, gaping at the mass of gray gunk that had
erupted in their street. Damara hoped they'd all have the good sense to
stay where they were. She feared the worst wasn't over yet.

"Damara!"

She turned in the direction of Autumn's voice. The goo flood had carried
Autumn down the street past her own house, and the girl was just now
attempting to stand.

"Stay there!" Damara called. "I'm coming!"

She began slogging through the muck in the street as fast as she dared.
The level was still up to her mid-calf, and moving through it was like
trying to walk through a sea of glue, especially with her injured leg.
Autumn obeyed Damara and remained where she was, trying to wipe the
worst of the muck off her body.

"Is he gone?" Autumn asked.

Damara knew she was referring to Kenneth. "I don't know," she said,
wishing she could bring herself to tell Autumn a comforting lie. "But as
soon as I get you, we'll try to free Tristan and then the three of us--"

Damara felt fingers close around the ankle of her wounded leg. The hand
yanked and knives of agony sliced through her nerve endings. She
shrieked and fell forward, splashing into the muck face-first. She lay
there for a moment, unable to do anything other than hurt. She had the
sense that someone stood up next to her, and she slowly

256

rolled over onto her back--crying out in pain as she did so--so she
could see who it was.

The giant slime-coated erection bobbing in the air above Damara told her
everything she needed to know.

"Looks like you lose, girl." Gray ooze dripped off Kenneth's naked body
in large phlegmy chunks and plapped onto the muck in the street. His
skin, like Tristan's and hers, was red, but either he didn't notice or
didn't care. Or, sick bastard that he was, maybe he enjoyed the burning
sensation caused by the ooze. He no longer held the knife, and Damara
figured he must have lost it in the gray flood.

"You can't have her, Kenneth!" Damara started to sit up, but then
Kenneth kicked her hard in the side with his bare foot, driving the
breath out of her lungs. She fell back into the muck and gasped for air,
noticing that his cock had swollen several more inches.

Kenneth sneered down at her. "Don't be ridiculous. You can't stop me
from doing what I want with my little playmate. No one can."

"Really?"

Both Kenneth and Damara turned at the same time to look at Emma. She
stood on the other side of Damara, facing her husband. Like the rest of
them, she was covered with gray gunk, but mixed with hers was a greenish
substance that Damara knew was her other selfs blood. There was so much
of it that Damara doubted the insect-woman still lived. But beyond the
muck and the blood,

257

Emma's face and arms were covered with swollen black pustules from where
Damara's other self had stung her. The pustules looked nasty as hell,
large as golf balls, black, skin tight and shiny. But if they had any
adverse effect on Emma, she showed no sign of it. Her right arm still
ended in a pair of gardening shears, though for the moment she held them
relaxed at her side.

Kenneth raised his hands and took a step back, his bravado gone. "Now
Emma, let's talk about this." His penis remained erect, but it was
beginning to grow shorter.

Emma smiled and stepped over Damara, the older woman's feet dripping
muck onto her chest as she crossed. "Of course we can, Kenneth. After
all, we've been married for so many years ... it would be a shame to
throw away everything we have over a simple misunderstanding."

Kenneth kept his hands raised, but he stopped retreating. "Really?" he
said, sounding half-skeptical, half-hopeful.

Emma took another step toward him. "Really, Kenneth. I've been thinking,
maybe I haven't been the kind of wife I should have, the kind of wife
you deserve." Another step closer. "Maybe it's my fault that you've been
... deprived. And maybe I've been depriving myself as well."

Kenneth narrowed his eyes, as if he were trying to see inside her to
determine whether she was telling the truth. Another step, a small one
this time, and she was in striking distance. Emma took hold of her
husband's penis with her normal hand

258

and squeezed it gently. The organ once more swelled in length at her touch.

She looked into his eyes. "I want your cock, Kenneth."

Her right hand flashed, her shears closed-- shhkt!--and Kenneth
screamed. Blood jetted out from the hole between his legs, and he
clapped his hands over the wound as if he might physically hold back the
blood.

"You ... fucking ... cunt!" he growled, eyes blazing with hatred at Emma.

As blood gushed past her husband's fingers, Emma lifted his amputated
penis to her face and examined it. It was no longer a giant, tumescent
thing, just a lump of limp flesh no longer than a finger.

"That's the last time you're going to give me any trouble," Emma said,
and Damara didn't know whether she was addressing Kenneth, his penis, or
both.

"Give..." Kenneth said, but he didn't get the rest out. Blood still
streamed out from between his legs to mix with the muck in the street
and turn it from gray to reddish black. He swayed and fell back onto his
ass, already weak from loss of blood.

"Give it back?" Emma said. "I don't think so. You've caused enough
problems with it already." She looked at the flaccid organ for a moment
longer, as if trying to decide what to do with it. Then with a single
quick motion, she popped Kenneth's penis into her mouth and began chewing.

"NO!" Kenneth screamed. He reached out

259

toward Emma, tried to stand once more, but he fell back down and slumped
over onto his side, his red face turning pale.

Blood trickled past Emma's lips and ran down her chin. She chewed for
several more seconds, then swallowed. She looked thoughtful for a
moment. "Not bad ... not bad at all." Then, without another glance at
her husband or at Damara, she turned and began walking toward Autumn.

Damara was still having trouble catching her breath. Her side hurt where
Kenneth had kicked her, and her injured leg felt like it had been dipped
in acid. Nevertheless, she managed to sit up and turned to see Emma
approaching Autumn. The girl had been true to her promise, she hadn't
moved since Damara had told her to stay put, no doubt held there by
shock more than anything else.

When Emma reached Autumn, she looked down at the girl for several long
moments, her expression unreadable. When she at last spoke, her voice
didn't exactly soften, but it no longer contained an edge of insane fury.

"I suppose it wasn't completely your fault you turned out the way you
did. After all, you did come from a broken home, and you lived with a
mother who was a world-class slut." She paused, as if thinking. "But
she's gone now, isn't she? As is Kenneth, so you can hardly be a
temptation to him anymore."

"That's right!" Damara shouted, trying not to sound as desperate as she
felt. "So why don't you let her go? Give her a chance to grow up to be

260

better than her mother." Damara hated herself for saying this, for even
pretending to agree with Emma's warped view of Anne, but she'd say or do
anything to save Autumn.

"I've taught hundreds of children over the years," Emma said, "and
though I never had any of my own, I used to hope I could compensate for
that lack by making a difference in the lives of my students, but I know
better now. Parents are the real influence, while teachers are little
more than glorified babysitters. And since most parents are
small-minded, selfish, hedonistic oafs, it's no wonder their children
turn out the way they do." She looked at Autumn once more. "But you no
longer have a parent. And you're young enough that you might still be
salvageable."

Emma touched her fingers to the bottom of Autumn's chin and lifted her
head slightly, as if the child were a piece of merchandise to be examined.

"When a plant suffers from disease, the infected areas can be cut away,
and if enough remains-- and with the right care and attention--a plant
that was once in danger of dying can not only continue to live, it can
thrive."

Emma removed her hand from Autumn's chin and her thin lips stretched
into a smile that was almost warm.

"You're that plant, Autumn. I can see that now, and it's my duty to take
care of you, to tend to you, to teach you and help you grow up right."
Her smile widened and her voice took on a cold edge. "Just like me."

261

Damara tried once more to get to her feet, and this time she succeeded.
Most of the street muck had drained away by now, leaving behind a slimy
gray film coating the street. She hurried toward Emma and Autumn as fast
as she could, half-limping, half-dragging her wounded leg.

"Let her go, Emma! I have this ... this power and it affected you,
turned you into some kind of avenging witch!" She had almost reached
them ... only a few more feet. "You've killed Kenneth and devoured his
penis, for godsakes! Is that the act of a sane woman? If you really care
for Autumn, you'll let me take her!"

As she reached them, Autumn looked up at Damara hopefully and held out a
hand. Damara smiled and reached out to take it, but just as their
fingers made contact, Emma swung the flat of her shears toward Damara's
head and struck her hard on the temple. Damara fell to her hands and
knees and struggled to hold on to consciousness. She fought to lift her
head enough to see Emma and watched as the older woman tugged Autumn
after her toward the Ruschmanns' yard.

"Come, child," Emma said. "The sooner we get your education started, the
better."

The last thing Damara heard before she passed out was the sound of
Autumn crying.

"Wake up, Mara!"

Damara was aware that someone was shaking her gently, and she knew it
was important that she wake up--though she wasn't quite sure why--but

262

she couldn't manage to do so. It was as if she lay sleeping at the
bottom of an impossibly deep well listening to someone shout down to her
from the top. Even if she woke and responded, what good would it do her?
She'd still be trapped. Better to go on sleeping.

"C'mon, Mara! Emma's taken Autumn and we have to get her back!"

Autumn. The word conjured conflicting images in her mind: trees filled
with orange, brown, red, and yellow leaves--and a smiling young girl
with brown hair done up in pigtails. Somehow, these images were both
Autumn, but that hardly seemed likely. After all, what did trees and a
girl have in common? It was all so confusing, and she decided to just go
on sleeping for as long as she could, maybe forever, when she
remembered. Autumn, Tristan, her mother, Emma, Kenneth, her other self,
the flood of gray ooze ...

Emma's taken Autumn and we have to get her back!

Damara opened her eyes and sat up. Her head throbbed, and she was so
dizzy that she almost fell back down, but Tristan put his arm around her
shoulders and steadied her. She looked at him, saw his skin was
splotchy, sunburn-red with darker patches that edged toward black. His
clothes were slick with ooze, as were hers, but he was free of the cocoon.

"What happened?" She started to rise, wobbled, and Tristan helped her
onto her feet.

"I told you, Emma--"

263

"No, I mean to you. You were trapped in a web of some kind or a cocoon.
Something like that."

Tristan gestured at the street. While most of the gray goo had drained
into the sewer, puddles of it still remained here and there. "Whatever
that crap was, it finally ate through enough of the cocoon and I was
able to tear free. I just wish I could've gotten out in time to prevent
Emma from taking Autumn."

Damara was still groggy from the blow on the head Emma had given her.
She looked at Kenneth's naked body lying in the middle of the street,
and at first she didn't recognize it. But when she saw the wet ragged
hole between his legs, she remembered.

She nodded toward him. "Is he ... ?"

"Dead? Oh, yeah. Bled out pretty fast from the look of it."

She then turned to her yard and saw the muck-covered wings sprouting
from the body of her other self. "And her?"

"She's dead, too. After I got free, I checked to make sure you were
alive, and then I checked both her and Kenneth. I didn't want either of
them sneaking up and attacking us later in case they were playing
possum. After I made sure they were dead, I came back to wake you up."
Tristan gazed at the dead insect-woman. "Emma sliced her up good. You
can barely tell what she looked like."

There was a wistful, almost sorrowful tone in Tristan's voice, as if he
were mourning the loss of a friend or a lover. Damara felt a pang of
jealousy, but when she remembered how possessive her double had been,
she pushed the emotion aside.

264

She looked up and down the street and saw a number of people standing on
their porches and lawns, gawking at Tristan and her. Damara wondered how
she would be able to keep her power a secret now, and was surprised to
find that she didn't much care. Off in the distance, she heard the wail
of a siren, and she knew someone had called the police. Unless she and
Tristan wanted to stick around and answer the officers' questions--
answers that would more than likely earn the two of them a free trip to
the nearest asylum--Damara figured they'd better get moving. Besides,
Autumn needed them.

"Where did they go? Emma and Autumn, I mean."

Before Tristan could answer, Damara's eye was caught by movement on her
front porch. She turned and saw a scaly green figure covered with spines
kneeling next to a decapitated body. In one hand, the creature held a
severed head by the hair--hair that was a mixture of brown and black. It
was the Mother-Father's head, and the creature that was holding it was
the one that had taken away her brother, that might somehow even be her
brother, at least partially: Jack Sharp.

"Christ, it's another one!" Tristan said. "Is that the thing that got
your leg?"

Damara didn't answer, only watched as the spine-covered monster lifted
the Mother-Father's headless corpse as if it weighed nothing. The
creature straightened, tucked the body under its arm--

265

spines piercing dead flesh--and carrying the head in its other hand,
started down the front steps.

Now that she got a good look at it, Damara could see the monster was a
blend of reptile, human, and fish covered with spines straighter,
thicker, and sharper than any found in nature. As Jack Sharp descended
the steps and began coming down the front walk, Damara feared the thing
was going to come for her, too, and she grabbed hold of Tristan and held
him tight.

But as the creature walked into the street on clawed, finlike feet, it
became clear that it wasn't headed for them. It continued across Pandora
Drive, toward the sewer grating on the opposite side of the street. As
it reached the grating, it paused and turned to look at Damara. Its eyes
were human, and familiar, and they were full of sadness.

Then the creature inserted a fin-foot into the grating and both it and
the body of the MotherFather flowed like water down into the sewer and
vanished.

Damara stared at the sewer grating. Her entire family was gone now, all
victims of her goddamned power. Despair filled her then, stronger and
more oppressive than anything she'd ever felt before. She thought of all
the devastation she'd caused--knowingly or not--on Pandora Drive. The
deaths of Bobby Markley, Anne Marcino, Kenneth Colton, and her mother
... the destruction of Tristan's house ... For so many years she'd

266

managed to maintain control of her power, to keep it at bay, but now, in
the course of a single day, it had gotten away from her, and look at all
the misery it had caused. Better that she had killed herself years ago
and risked releasing the power into the world than lose control and have
all this happen.

But just as her despair threatened to overwhelm her, she remembered
Autumn. She couldn't afford to wallow in self-loathing right now, not as
long as Emma had the girl.

She turned to Tristan. "We have to save Autumn."

"I know," Tristan said.

"I'd do it alone if I could."

A sigh, followed by a tired smile. "C'mon, they went this way." As the
sound of sirens closed in on Pandora Drive, Tristan took Damara's hand
and led her toward her backyard.

267

Chapter Eighteen

It wasn't as if Emma had a plan, certainly not a conscious one. It was
the sound of approaching sirens that first urged her to get off the
street--she wasn't afraid of the police, but she didn't feel like
wasting time explaining things to them. Her situation was already
complicated enough as it was. What she wanted, what she needed was a
retreat, a refuge, someplace where she could go and begin making plans
for Autumn's education without being bothered by the rest of the world.
Emma thought the girl could use a little time to adjust to everything
that had happened to her as well. After all, Autumn's life had undergone
some rather major changes this afternoon, and she doubtless needed a bit
of time to get used to them.

So Emma led Autumn through Damara's backyard, over the chainlink
fence--which wasn't all that easy to negotiate at Emma's age, especially
while holding onto a young girl so she couldn't escape. But Emma had
wrangled enough children in

268

thirty years as a teacher, and she managed. The poor girl kept sobbing
quietly, tears rolling down her cheeks in unbroken streams. But Emma
wasn't unduly concerned. She knew that these were healing tears,
cleansing tears, and that they were washing away the taint of Autumn's
old life and getting her ready to start fresh, with Emma as both her
parent and teacher.

The woods behind the Ruschmanns' house were thick with undergrowth, but
though it was fall, it was early enough for most of the vegetation to
still be green and supple, so while the brush slowed them down, it
didn't stop them. As Emma led Autumn down the gently curving slope of
the hillside, holding tight to the girl's hand, the older woman realized
where they were heading, and she smiled. She didn't know whether her
subconscious had directed her this way or whether it was sheer dumb
luck, but it was absolutely perfect. She decided not to say anything to
Autumn until they were there; she wanted it to be a surprise.

It took another ten minutes before they reached the bottom of the hill.
The woods thinned out here and opened onto a field of waist-high grass.
The day was warm and a gentle breeze was blowing from the south, making
the grass ripple like green water. The sky was blue and cloudless, and
birds sang with a hint of urgency, as if determined to make as much
music as they could before winter crept up on them. Though Emma couldn't
see the Clearwater River from here, she could hear the

269

gentle whisper-hush of running water and smell its muddy-fishy odor.

Emma gazed at Autumn's face to determine if the child had guessed where
they were going, but Autumn continued to cry, her eyes puffy and
squeezed shut. Her left pigtail had come undone and her hair had fallen
onto her face and, moistened by tears, now stuck to her cheek. Still
holding securely on to the girl's hand, Emma reached out, intending to
brush the wet hair off the child's face. But when she realized that her
right hand remained a pair of oversized garden shears, she stopped
before she accidentally plunged the tips of the blades into Autumn's
cheek. It wouldn't do to injure the child so soon in their new
relationship; that was hardly a way to build trust between teacher and
pupil.

Emma looked at her shears and concentrated on making them become fingers
once again. After all, it wasn't as if she needed them anymore, now that
Kenneth was gone. The thought of her not-so-dearly but most assuredly
departed husband made Emma scowl. Had she actually cut off his penis and
then eaten it? It seemed too bizarre, too nightmarish, and yet that was
what had happened, or at least, what she remembered happening. But now
that she was standing here at the edge of a grassy field--holding the
hand of a girl she'd just kidnapped, for godsakes--it all seemed so unreal.

But she couldn't deny the physical reality of her condition. Her right
hand remained shears, no

270

matter how much she willed it to return to normal. And what was more,
she could see purple-black bumps the size of golf balls on her wrist and
forearm. She glanced at the hand holding on to Autumn and saw it too was
covered with dark lumps, as was the arm. Emma assumed that her face and
neck were similarly affected, though with only her hand-shears free, she
could hardly reach up and touch her flesh to check. At first she wasn't
sure where the lumps had come from, but then she remembered the
insect-woman attacking, stinging her as they both fell toward the
ground. Emma had slain the strange creature that had resembled Damara,
but it appeared she hadn't escaped their short battle unscathed. If the
stings had injected some kind of toxin into her system, though, she
didn't feel it. While the lumps were swollen, they didn't hurt, and she
seemed to be suffering no ill effects--no lightheadedness, no trouble
breathing, no rapid heartbeat. Perhaps the venom hadn't been very
potent, or perhaps whatever change had come over Emma in the last
twenty-four hours or so made her resistant. Whatever the case, she
decided it wasn't worth worrying about, and chose to think about her
stings no longer.

Forget the questions, she told herself. You're a teacher; it's your job
to supply answers.

And so, along with her stings, Emma forgot about the battle on Pandora
Drive, about Tristan and Damara, about the two-faced thing Claire had
become ... Most of all, she forgot about Kenneth and whatever vestigial
feelings of guilt or remorse

271

she might or might not have felt for what she'd done to him. The past,
like the people who inhabited it, was dead. She needed to turn her
thoughts to the future, for Autumn's sake, if nothing else.

She started across the field, tugging Autumn behind her. The girl came
along without any struggle, which Emma took as a good sign. Maybe the
child was already beginning to accept--and perhaps even look forward
to--the new life she was about to embark on.

On the far side of the field was a high wooden fence that stretched for
dozens of yards in each direction, coiled barbed wire lining the top as
a deterrent to would-be trespassers. At periodic intervals along the
fence, weather-worn signs warned this property condemned in faded red
letters. Despite herself, Emma grinned like a little girl. It had been
ages since she'd visited an amusement park. This was going to be fun.

She increased her speed until she and Autumn were nearly running toward
Riverfork.

"Jesus H. Motherfucking Christ! What the hell happened here?"

The voice cut through the darkness like a laser, and though he didn't
want to listen to it, wanted nothing more than to swim through the black
waters of the endless night that surrounded him, he couldn't help it.

"Got me. And did you see that thing on the lawn over there? Some kinda
fuckin' freak."

A second voice. And there were other sounds,

272

too. Shoes scraping on asphalt, car doors opening and closing, tinny
voices and electronic tones coming from radios. A word came to him from
somewhere outside the darkness: police. He wasn't sure what it meant,
but it held no surprise. It seemed appropriate somehow. Expected.

"I heard Carter found a woman ripped in half in one of the houses, and
there's a mess of blood in the front room of that house over there, but
no body. Nothing but bloody footprints on the porch that look like they
were made by someone wearing swim fins."

"Yeah, well that's nothing compared to Madame Butterfly. And what about
that house? Looks like a bomb went off and ripped away the whole
goddamned front. And don't forget that kid yesterday--Bobby Markley. He
was killed in the hospital last night. Pretty damn gruesome thing, too,
from what I heard."

He was beginning to become interested in what these two were talking
about, and that made him angry because he didn't want to be interested,
didn't want to start thinking about the things they said, didn't want to
remember. All he wanted to do was be left alone so that he could
surrender himself to the great ebon sea and float forever unaware and
unfeeling on its strange dark tides. But these two idiots weren't going
to let him.

"What about that gray shit? It's all over the inside of the house and
the yard. Have you ever seen--or smelled--anything that nasty before?"

"It's all fucked up, far as I'm concerned, but I

273

gotta tell you, this guy here is the worst of it for me. Makes my balls
shrivel just to look at him."

"I know what you mean. Hell of a way to go, huh? Bleedin' to death after
a radical dickectomy."

There was something more with him in the darkness now than the two
voices. There was anger. A small red-hot spark that grew as the men
continued to speak.

"You s'pose whoever cut it off took it with them?"

"I don't know, but I ain't seen it around yet. Hell, a damn dog might've
run up and grabbed it for all we know."

A laugh. "A free hotdog lunch, eh?"

Both of them were laughing now, and the anger swelled into a raging fire
and burned away the darkness.

Kenneth opened his eyes and saw two uniformed police officers standing
over him. They were laughing like men who didn't want anyone to hear
them, mouths closed to keep the sound muffled, snorts of amusement
escaping from their nostrils.

Kenneth sat up. "What's so fuckin' funny?" he demanded.

The two cops jumped back as if Kenneth had just pulled a gun and fired
at them.

"Holy shit!" one of them said, instinctively reaching for his weapon. He
was short, thin, and young, with a sprinkling of acne on his cheeks and
a sparse black mustache that looked more like a chocolate milk stain
than facial hair.

The second cop--taller, middle-aged,

274

whitehaired and fat--put a hand on his partner's arm to stop him from
drawing his gun.

"We need a paramedic over here now!" the fat cop shouted. "We got a
survivor!" He looked at his partner, whose face had turned chalk-white,
and then as if convinced the kid wasn't going to start shooting, let go
of his arm.

"Why don't you lie down and take it easy, sir?" the fat cop suggested.
"Just rest until the paramedics get here." He started forward and
reached out as if he intended to gently push Kenneth back down onto the
asphalt, but the cop hesitated, hands trembling as if he couldn't bring
himself to make contact with Kenneth's flesh.

"What the hell are you talking about? I feel fine." That wasn't exactly
the truth. Kenneth didn't really feel fine; he didn't feel anything at
all. His entire body was numb. Not even that, for numb was a sensation
of a sort, and Kenneth didn't even feel that. He felt nothing,
absolutely nothing at all, as if his nervous system had shut down
completely.

"I don't know what happened to you, man," the young cop said, "but
whatever you are, you damn well ain't fine!"

Kenneth wasn't sure what the dumb fuck was talking about, but then he
looked down and saw the empty space between his legs. At first he
couldn't comprehend what he was looking at, and when he finally
understood, he refused to believe it. But then he remembered the
darkness and the anger he'd felt there, the anger that had brought him back.

275

He remembered everything.

"She did it. The goddamned bitch."

"Who?" the fat cop asked.

"My cunt of a wife. She cut off my dick and then ate it. Fuckin' frigid
cooz! But if she thinks she's going to keep me from getting back what's
mine, she's got another goddamned think comin'!"

Kenneth started to rise to his feet. It wasn't easy to move since he had
no sensation in his body, but he managed.

"Your wife ate your dick? Jesus!" The young cop looked as if he were
about to throw up.

The fat cop didn't look much better. "Sir, you've suffered a very
serious injury and lost a lot of blood. To be honest, my partner and I
thought you were dead. I don't know how you're even able to move right
now. Maybe it's shock or something, but I have to insist that you sit
back down and wait for the paramedics."

"I don't have time to wait," Kenneth said. "I have to get it back."

"Get what back?" the fat cop said, although from the quavering tone of
his voice, it was clear he had a good idea what Kenneth's answer would be.

"My dick, of course. What else?" He looked around but saw no sign of
Emma. Just other cops--some of which were starting to head his way--and
nosy neighbors standing around in their yards and in the street in
groups of twos, threes, and fours. Women and children mostly, since it
was still afternoon. No Autumn, either. Or Damara. He wondered where
they had gone,

276

wondered how he might find them ... and then he felt a gentle pull
behind his eyes, as if he had a compass inside his head, and the needle
was slowly swiveling to point toward ...

West. That's where Emma had gone, carrying his chewed-up cock nestled in
her stomach. She'd gone westward.

For a moment, Kenneth considered going into his house and putting on
some clothes, but then he figured, what the fuck? It wasn't as if he had
any private parts to conceal anymore. He turned in the direction of
Damara's house and started walking.

"Sir, I mean it!" The fat cop grabbed Kenneth's shoulder. "We can't let
you leave, not in the condition you're in!"

Kenneth stopped, paused, and then slowly turned around to face the two
officers. "What makes you think you can stop me?"

The fat cop swallowed nervously. "We'll physically restrain you if we
have to."

The young cop undid the snap on his holster, as if he intended to force
Kenneth to accept medical aid by threatening to kill him.

Kenneth became aware of a sound then, a soft whistling as if air were
rushing through a long, narrow space. And for the first time since
surfacing from the sea of darkness, he felt something. A strong
sensation of coolness, of the movement of air, as if he were drawing in
a deep breath. Except this sensation wasn't coming from his mouth or
nostrils. It was coming from between his legs. He looked down at his
crotch and saw not a wound,

277

but rather an empty space filled with Nothing. He realized then that he
hadn't left the darkness behind when he'd awakened, not completely. He'd
brought a little of it back with him.

The whistling-rushing sound increased and the two cops staggered forward
a step, as if they were being pulled by some unseen force. Sudden wind
whipped at their hair and clothes, and they stiffened as they tried to
back away from Kenneth, faces grimacing, muscles locked tight and
shaking with tremendous effort. And then all at once, the pull became
too much to resist, and the cops--one middle-aged and fat, one too young
and thin--flew off their feet and vanished into the darkness between
Kenneth's legs with a soft jwoop! Once they were gone, the wind died
down and the air grew still again.

Kenneth looked around and saw that the other officers, perhaps a half
dozen in all, stood where they were, unmoving, watching him with wide,
frightened eyes.

"Anyone else want to try and stop me?" Kenneth called out.

The officers said nothing, but a couple of them shook their heads.

Kenneth sniffed. "I didn't think so."

He turned and started walking westward toward Damara's house and what
lay beyond it.

"Better than a trail of bread crumbs, huh?" Tristan said. Damara didn't
reply. The broken section of

278

fence spoke for itself. Splintered planks lay on the ground, their wood
gouged and scarred by deep furrows caused, no doubt, by Emma's hand shears.

"Why do you suppose she brought Autumn here?" Tristan asked.

Damara shrugged. "The woman's insane; she doesn't need a reason." Her
wound throbbed and the bandages that covered it were soaked through with
blood. Not that a little more blood mattered considering how much she
had on her clothes, along with a slimy residue of the gray muck. She
looked--and smelled--like she'd just emerged from a sewer beneath a
slaughterhouse. Tristan's clothes weren't in much better condition.

"Let's get moving. There's no telling how dangerous it is in there." He
nodded toward a this property condemned sign. "We need to get Autumn out
before a building collapses on her or something." He didn't say what the
or something might be. He didn't have to. Before Emma changed her
diseased mind and killed the child.

"It might be even more dangerous if I do go in," Damara said.

Tristan frowned. "I don't understand.

Damara didn't answer right away. She looked at the opening Emma had made
in the fence but tried not to look past it and into the park itself.
"The night I snuck in here ... the night my father disappeared ... it
was almost like Riverfork started to come to life around me. Like it had
only been sleeping for all those years, waiting for something to wake it
up again."

279

"Something like you and your power," Tristan said.

She nodded. "I was able to keep it from happening then. I thought a lot
about polar bears in snowstorms." She gave him a wan smile. "When I
realized what was happening--and that Dad had come after me--I got out
of the park as fast as I could. But not fast enough to save my father."

"Do you know what happened to him?"

"Not exactly. He went into one of the buildings that used to house an
attraction. I don't remember which one. He never came out again. That's
why I shouldn't go in there, Tristan. My dad disappeared because of me.
What if, by trying to save Autumn, I cause the same thing--or worse--to
happen to her? Or to you?"

"You didn't see what happened to your father after he went inside the
building, right? Not to be morbid, but there's a reason the place was
condemned. He might've fallen through rotten floorboards or had a
ceiling beam collapse on him. Your power might've had nothing to do with
it."

"Yes, it did. I'm sure of it."

"Look, Mara, you told me your power works by making people's fantasies
and wishes come true. But a place isn't alive. It doesn't have any
thoughts or feelings for your power to feed."

Sudden anger flared in Damara. "Don't tell me what my power can and
can't do, Tristan! I've spent my whole life trying to figure it out so I
could control it, and keep myself and the people I care about safe. But
it's not like the damn thing

280

came with an owner's manual, you know. You're looking for logic and
reason where there may not be any. All I know is what happened the last
time I went into Riverfork, and considering what my power has done in
the last twenty-four hours ..." She trailed off, reluctant even to
contemplate the havoc that might result should she pass through the
crude entrance Emma had created.

Tristan said nothing for several moments, but when he at last spoke, his
tone was kind and understanding. "Maybe you're right, Mara. Maybe
there's no way to completely know what rules--if any--your power
operates by. One thing seems clear, though. Once a change begins, it
keeps going whether you're present or not. It's like people carry a
piece of your power with them. Emma's already in there, and for all we
know, Riverfork is responding to her thoughts and feelings. Perhaps it's
already begun to wake up, and maybe your power is the only thing that
can put it to sleep again. Maybe you'll make things worse, maybe you'll
make them better. I don't know. The only way to find out is for you to
go inside. But let me ask you this: If you don't go in, can you live
with yourself if something bad happens to Autumn?"

Damara thought about Tristan's words, but she didn't have to think very
long.

"All right. Let's go."

Tristan nodded, though now that he'd talked her into it, she saw
uncertainty in his eyes. He stepped toward the opening Emma had made in
the fence and squeezed through. Damara took a deep breath

281

then followed. Tristan offered his hand to help her, and she took it,
using his strength to support her as she gingerly swung her wounded leg
through the opening. Once she was inside, she gave Tristan a grateful
smile and let go of his hand, but not before giving it a gentle squeeze.
Then the two of them turned and took their first good look at Riverfork.

282 282 Tim Waggoner

283

Chapter Nineteen

Since the amusement park had been closed before either Damara or Tristan
was born, neither of them had a clear idea what to expect. Damara had
been here once before, of course, but it had been dark then, and since
that visit had gone horribly wrong, she'd worked to forget as many of
the specific details of the park as she could. In the decades since its
closure, Riverfork had achieved near legendary status among the children
of Zephyr. It had been, so the stories went, the greatest amusement park
ever built, with the largest Ferris wheel, fastest roller coaster, and
sweetest cotton candy in the world. Its Tilt-a-Whirl could make a kid
with even the strongest stomach puke in less than five seconds, and the
game booths on the Midway gave out stuffed animals the size of elephants
as prizes--and all the games were easy to win. In short, it was the sort
of place that children envision when they try to imagine what heaven is
like.

284

The truth, as it usually is, was somewhat more prosaic.

In front of them stood the main entrance, a stone arch with the word
riverfork formed out of carved wooden letters. Below the arch were
boarded-up ticket booths and rust-laden turnstiles. Beyond the
turnstiles was a brick-covered walkway, though the bricks were a dour
gray without so much as a hint of magical yellow. Both a roller coaster
and a Ferris wheel loomed above the rest of the park, but neither was so
large as to be particularly impressive. Both looked as if they'd been
built for children no older than ten--kiddie rides, Damara and Tristan
would've called them when they'd been kids themselves--and the
attractions looked as if they'd been constructed from cobbled-together
leftovers of thousands of cast-off tinkertoy and erector sets. They
looked so rickety that Damara was surprised they were still standing
after so many years of neglect.

Spreading out from the stone arch were walls that were supposed to look
like natural stone barriers--craggy and corrugated, colored varying
shades of gray--but they were obviously molded plaster. Chunks were
missing from the walls, exposing the crumbly white material beneath.

"How do you suppose Emma and Autumn got in?" Damara asked. "They
couldn't have climbed over the wall. That stuff looks like it would
crumble away as soon as they touched it."

Tristan looked up and down the length of the wall, though you could only
see so far in each

285

direction as close as the wooden fence was. "I don't see any holes in
the wall big enough for them to crawl through. Do you suppose they went
in the main entrance?"

"Those turnstiles look too rusty to turn. And even if they aren't,
they're probably locked."

"Autumn could climb under them without any trouble. As for Emma ..."
Tristan trailed off. "Who knows what she's capable of now?" He stepped
up to one of the turnstiles and tried to get it to move, but the best he
could do was jiggle it. "You're right. It's locked."

"That's because you haven't paid to get in."

They turned toward the sound of the voice and saw that one of the ticket
booths was no longer boarded-up. The ticket window was open, and
standing behind the counter was a rather haggard-looking woman in her
late thirties. Her shoulderlength hair was unwashed and tangled, and
while she was wearing makeup, she'd applied it too heavily. She wore a
fuzzy pink bathrobe dotted with various unidentifiable stains, and
resting on the counter in front of her--along with a glass tumbler half
full of clear liquid that was likely either vodka or gin--were three
wooden bowls filled with candy. One held lollipops (the kind with
bubblegum in the center), another peanut-butter cups, and the third
plain chocolate bars.

"Doesn't cost much, though," the woman said, her speech slightly
slurred. "Just an answer." Her red-rimmed eyes narrowed and seemed to
glitter. "But it has to be the right answer."

286

"Mara ..."

Damara put a hand on Tristan's arm to reassure him. "Don't you recognize
her?"

Tristan gave her a blank look.

"The time we went trick-or-treating when we were six?"

At first, Tristan just shook his head, but then his eyes widened as the
memory came back to him. "Yeah ... she yelled at us, didn't she?"

Damara nodded. Now that she was an adult, it was no big deal, but at the
time it had been quite traumatic. Tristan and Damara had gone
trick-or-treating by themselves for the first time. Well, kind of--their
moms had waited at the corner of each block, gabbing while they kept an
eye on their kids. Damara had been dressed as a gypsy princess, which
meant she wore a pair of plastic hoop earrings, a green skirt, and one
of her mother's scarves on her head. Tristan had put even less effort
into his costume. He wore a T-shirt, jeans, and a blue ski mask.

"I'm a bank robber," he'd explained when Damara had first seen him. "I
was going to carry a toy gun, but Mom wouldn't let me."

They'd been out for over an hour, it was dark, and their bags were
bulging with candy. Their mothers had tried to get them to call it a
night, but they'd begged to remain out for one more block, and both moms
had agreed. They were down to the last house, and when they walked onto
the porch, they saw the front door was open. Before they could say
anything, a woman called from inside.

287

"Come on in, candy's on the coffee table, take one apiece."

They hesitated, looked at each other, shrugged, then stepped inside.

They saw the woman--mussed hair, pink bathrobe, glass of booze in her
hand--sitting on the couch, phone receiver held to her ear. She didn't
look at either of them as they entered her home.

The candy was indeed on the coffee table, along with a lopsided stack of
TV Guides and a collection of cardboard coasters with logos of various
beer companies printed on them. Three wooden bowls, three types of
candy: lollipops, peanutbutter cups, chocolate bars. Tristan reached for
the lollipops, took one, and popped it into his bag. Then he reached for
a peanut-butter cup.

"Hey," Damara whispered. The woman was talking on the phone, though her
side of the conversation consisted primarily of yes's, no's, and
mm-hmm's, and Damara didn't want to disturb her. "She said one apiece."

"I know," Tristan whispered back. "There are three bowls. So we get to
take a piece of candy from each one."

Damara was about to tell him he was wrong, but then she realized that
the woman's words could be interpreted that way. She looked at the
woman, hoping that she might notice their hesitation and clarify her
directions. But the woman just kept mm-hming in between sips of alcohol.
Damara looked at the bowls. There seemed to be an even amount of candy
in each one. If one had contained

288

less than the others, that would've been a clue that they weren't
supposed to take a piece of candy from each bowl. But they were even.

Damara wasn't sure what to do, so she decided to err on the side of
caution and take only a single piece of candy. She was reaching for the
peanutbutter cups when the woman suddenly dropped the phone, reached
across the coffee table with her free hand, and grabbed Damara's wrist.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she shouted. "I said one apiece!
Can't you fucking hear?"

Damara wanted to cry, wanted to turn and run out the door and down the
block to her mother. But instead she found her voice and said, "But I
haven't taken any yet."

The woman's bloodshot eyes flew wide and her face turned red with anger.
"Are you calling me a liar? Are you? Huh? Huh?" With each huh the woman
tightened her grip on Damara's wrist. It hurt and Damara tried to pull
free, but the woman held her fast.

"Let her go, you old butch!" Tristan shouted, the use of one of his odd
euphemisms draining away whatever sort of force his words might've
otherwise carried.

The woman looked at Tristan then and frowned. "Butch? What the hell are
you talking about? Are you are a retard or something? I don't want any
fucking retards in my house!" She gave Damara's wrist a last powerful
squeeze before finally letting

289

go. Then the woman flopped back down onto the couch and picked up the phone.

"Yeah, I'm still here. What were we saying?" The woman had held tight to
her booze the entire time and now she finished it off with a single last
gulp, put the empty glass down on the coffee table, and started
mm-hmming again.

Though she hadn't told them to get out, Damara and Tristan were only too
happy to do so, but not before Tristan had put his lollipop back in the
wooden bowl he'd gotten it from. When they got back to their moms,
neither of them said anything about the woman, though Damara wasn't sure
why. Maybe because they were afraid their moms would drag them back to
the woman's house and confront her. Damara had had more than enough of
the woman for one night.

She and Tristan had talked about the crazy woman a few times after that,
trying to puzzle out precisely what she'd meant by Take one apiece, but
they'd never reached a definite conclusion.

And now here the woman was, manning the ticket booth at Riverfork,
looking exactly like she had all those years ago. Whose memory had she
sprung from, Damara wondered. Hers or Tristan's? Both? She supposed it
didn't matter. The woman was here and it appeared they had to get past
her if they wanted to enter the amusement park. And it seemed they were
now faced with the same choice they've been given then.

The woman smiled at them, revealing

290

chocolate-smeared teeth. "All you have to do is take one apiece."

"What is this?" Tristan asked. "The riddle of the Sphinx?"

"I guess so," Damara said, trying not to stare at the woman's teeth. "A
version of it, anyway."

"We don't have time for this bullshit," Tristan said. "Autumn doesn't
have time." He turned to the woman behind the counter. "We need to get
in right now. We're trying to rescue a little girl that's been
kidnapped. Maybe you saw her, she's about ten, has brown hair and
pigtails, and was accompanied by a woman with garden shears in place of
her right hand."

The woman in the fuzzy pink robe just looked at Tristan, smiling with
her chocolate teeth and not blinking, as if she were a mechanical device
and someone had hit her pause button.

"I don't think she hears you, Tristan," Damara said. She looked at the
woman. "Do you?"

No response. She continued staring straight ahead, bowls of candy laid
out on the counter before her.

"To hell with her then," Tristan said. "We'll just climb over the
turnstile."

He approached one of the turnstiles, but it was no longer covered with
rust. Its metal had become a gleaming silver, and instead of rounded
bars, the turnstile now consisted of a series of long doubleedged blades
like in an old-fashioned push mower. As Tristan took a step toward the
turnstile, the blades began spinning, whirling so fast that they

291

soon became a humming blur. The other turnstiles had undergone a similar
transformation, and their blades now began spinning as well.

Tristan stopped and stared at the whirling blades.

"Then again, maybe we can't climb over." He walked away from the
turnstile and rejoined Damara at the ticket booth. "I guess we answer
the question."

"Looks that way, doesn't it?" Damara gazed at the bowls of candy.
"Unfortunately, after all these years I still don't know what the right
answer is."

"Even if you did, it might not help now. The real-life answer might be
the wrong one here. This woman, her question, the whole situation, are
all just imagination and memory brought to life by your power, right? In
that case, the right answer might be an unreal one. It could be almost
anything."

Damara hadn't thought of that, but she knew Tristan was right. The woman
had been crazy enough in real life. Who knew what sort of bizarre,
twisted logic she might operate by now that she was a creature born of
Damara's power?

"Let's start by taking a piece from each bowl and see what happens,"
Tristan said. He reached toward the lollipop bowl, but Damara grabbed
his hand and stopped him.

"What if we don't get a second chance?" she said. "Worse, what if
there's a punishment for guessing wrong?" She nodded meaningfully toward
the whirling blades that the turnstiles had become.

292

Tristan looked at the blades as well, then lowered his hand. "We can't
just stand here for the rest of our lives trying to decide!"

"Of course we can't," Damara said gently, trying to soothe him. Tristan
sounded scared, and she didn't blame him. She was plenty scared as well.
"We just need to think before we do anything, that's all."

"But like you said, we've had twenty years to think about it. Why do you
think we'll be able to come up with the right answer now?"

"Because we have to," Damara said.

Her response brought Tristan up short. He blinked at her in surprise,
then forced a smile and nodded.

Damara smiled back. Good, Tristan was ready to work as a team to solve
this riddle--assuming it could be solved at all.

Now that you've gotten Tristan calmed down, don't you go giving into
despair, she scolded herself. There had to be an answer, if for no other
reason than Autumn needed there to be one.

Damara gazed at the three bowls of candy and concentrated on
interpreting the woman's words. All you have to do is take one apiece.

"The first two choices I can think of are the most obvious ones,"
Tristan said. "Like I said a minute ago, we each take one piece of candy
from each of the bowls, or we each select one type of candy and take
only one piece of it."

"But we tried those in real life, didn't we?" Damara said. "Or at least,
we'd been in the

293

process of doing so when the woman freaked out. You were going to take
three pieces of candy and--despite what the woman thought--I was only
going to take one. But from the way she grabbed my arm, it seemed like
neither choice was the right one."

"So we should avoid doing either this time?" Tristan said.

"Yes. Maybe. I don't know." Now Damara was beginning to get frustrated.

The woman behind the counter continued staring straight ahead, not
blinking, mouth still stretched into a smile, chocolate drying to a hard
coating on her teeth as she stood there waiting for them to make up
their minds. Damara wondered how long the woman would keep standing like
that, waiting for them. Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? Years? Forever? And
if so, what would happen to Autumn in the meantime? Damara forced
herself to keep thinking.

"We could take a bowl and leave the candy," she suggested. "Or each take
a bowl." When Tristan gave her a skeptical look, she added. "Well, the
woman said to take one apiece, but she never said one what."

"I suppose she didn't," Tristan admitted. "But it doesn't seem very
likely, does it? I mean, why would a bowl gain us entrance into the park?"

"Why would candy?" Damara countered.

"True." Tristan looked suddenly thoughtful. "Remember what I said bout
the riddle of the Sphinx a minute ago?"

294

"Yes, but you were just making a joke... weren't you?"

"That's what I thought, but what if the comment was true in a way? Or
became true the moment I said it, like what happened to those two poor
women in the coffee shop this morning."

Had it really been that short of a time since the two women had been
twisted, molded, and reshaped by her power? It seemed so much longer.

"All right," Damara said. "So you mentioned the Sphinx. What about it?"

"For a time in college I considered switching majors to philosophy. I
took a few classes in mythology and folklore, and I was really into it
for a while. In so many stories heroes are put through various
challenges--riddles, sacrifices, contests of strength, speed, and
bravery--in order to prove worthy of reaching the place they journey to,
or obtaining whatever reward they might seek. The Riddle of the Sphinx
was always one of my favorites. Another favorite is from Norse
mythology. Odin, the chieftain of the gods, visited the magic well Mimir
in search of knowledge regarding the future. The spirit of the well was
only too happy to grant Odin's request--for a price. The god had to
pluck out one of his eyes and throw it into the well. I forget why, but
Odin really needed the information, so he did it."

"You mean he just reached up and..." Damara's stomach did a flip and she
couldn't finish the sentence.

Tristan nodded. "And afterward Odin wore an

295

eyepatch over his empty socket until the end of time."

"Please tell me you aren't suggesting we pull out our eyes," Damara said.

"I'm not. We need to get inside. An answer to the woman's question is
the payment, but after you pay to get into an amusement park, a movie,
or a museum, what are you handed?"

"A ticket," Damara said. "But I still don't see where you're going with
this."

"A ticket is a token of passage. It doesn't have to be paper. It can be
anything."

"Omigod, you're saying that instead of giving her our eyes ..."

Tristan shrugged. "She did say take one apiece, didn't she?"

Damara glanced at the woman, but she was still immobile, face frozen in
a chocolatey smile as if she were completely unfazed by listening to two
strangers discuss mutilating her. Damara wasn't sure, but she thought
the woman's eyes were more prominent than a moment ago, as if they
bulged outward, almost daring Tristan and Damara to reach for them. A
hint, perhaps?

"We tried to take the candy when we were eight," Tristan said, "and we
got yelled at. For whatever reason, it was the wrong thing to do then,
and I think it's the wrong thing to do now. And what else does the woman
have two of that we can take? Without performing major surgery that is?"
His voice was strained as he made this joke, as if he recognized how
insane it sounded but

296

couldn't stop himself from saying it. "Besides," he added, "it isn't as
if she's real."

Damara gave the woman a sideways glance. "Who's to say what's real?" she
said softly. Then, more loudly, "All right then." She couldn't believe
this madness was happening, couldn't believe she'd agreed to it. "Are
you going to take them out or do you want me to do it?"

Tristan dry-swallowed several times, as if he were trying to keep from
vomiting. "We both have to Take one apiece,' remember?"

"I was afraid you'd say that."

After a moment's hesitation, they reached out together--Damara for the
left eye, Tristan for the right. It was wet, soft, and slippery, but the
woman remained motionless while they worked, and a few moments later,
Tristan and Damara held the woman's eyeballs in their blood-smeared
palms. One apiece.

The woman in the pink bathrobe--which was now speckled with
red--suddenly began moving again.

"Please keep your tickets with you at all times," she said in a cheery
voice as two streams of crimson ran down from her empty sockets like
tears of blood. The whirring turnstiles began to slow, and when they
came to a stop, the deadly blades were gone, and they were once more
perfectly ordinary. "Enjoy your stay in Riverfork, and make sure to take
the time to visit all our attractions. After all, there's lots to see!"

Tristan took the grisly white orb from Damara

297

and tucked both it and his into his shirt pocket. The fabric immediately
turned dark with blood. He then grabbed Damara's hand and they hurried
through the turnstile, neither of them looking back at the woman behind
the ticket counter. They were in.

298 298 Tim Waggoner

299

Chapter Twenty

"Isn't this fun?"

Autumn heard Emma's words, but they were nothing but sound to the child,
completely devoid of meaning, devoid of any sense that sound could carry
meaning, or indeed, that there was such a concept of meaning at all. She
followed wherever Emma went--crawled under the turnstile when Emma had
told her to, even helped the older woman climb overtop--but she did
these things out of blind, automatic instinct. She was no longer capable
of doing otherwise because, for now at least, she could not conceive of
acting on her own. In fact, at that precise moment, Autumn wasn't a she,
wasn't even an it. She was just a collection of chemicals and water
shaped into a particular form that happened to be following a woman
named Emma Colton around an abandoned amusement park. It was better this
way, because if Autumn didn't exist, she didn't have to think about the
terrible things that she'd seen, the awful things that

300

had happened, the unspeakable way her mother had died ...

To be or not to be? Autumn knew which was better. It was, as she'd often
said to her friends at school after a test she'd done especially well
on, a no-brainer.

If Autumn had been more than an ambulatory nervous system at that
moment, she would've noticed--and been revolted by--the black lumps
covering Emma's skin. She would've had a difficult time taking her eyes
off them, and if she stared long enough, she might've noticed the lumps
were slowly but steadily growing larger.

Riverfork wasn't, strictly speaking, abandoned anymore. After all,
Autumn and Emma were there, but the farther they walked along the gray
brick path that wound through the park, the more alive the place became.
People--or at least the vague suggestions of them--walked past Autumn
and Emma. They were hazy, indistinct forms at first, like creatures
shaped from mist. But increasingly they gained more substance and
detail, became sharper, as if they were images viewed through a focusing
lens. Men and women dressed in clothes and wearing hairstyles from the
1950s walked hand in hand, children skipping along at their sides. The
children held balloons or ice cream cones, and some of them carried
stuffed animals-- purple teddy bears, red alligators--that their dads
had won for them. These happy apparitions made no noise as they walked,
talked, skipped, and

301

laughed. It was like watching television with the sound muted.

The buildings and rides, which had been sagging ramshackle collections
of rotting wood and rust-eaten metal, were slowly becoming good as new,
the wood strong and solid, the metal smooth and gleaming. Colors
returned to the park--bright and cheerful, almost glimmering in the
sunlight. Paint seemed to emerge from within the wood and metal, and the
dead dry weeds covering the ground retreated into the earth to be
replaced with lush green grass and beautiful blooming flowers more
appropriate for the height of summer than early fall. And from somewhere
close by came the jaunty rhythm of carousel music.

"It's just as I remember it," Emma said. "Clean, neat, orderly ...
attentive parents, well-behaved children ... Not a scrap of litter on
the ground, no kids whining or screaming, no adults yelling or swearing.
Everyone doing exactly what they should."

Autumn wasn't really present, despite her body's proximity to Emma, but
if she had been, she might well have noticed how strange, how
artificial, how wrong the park looked. But she wasn't, so she didn't.

"I've got an idea," Emma said. "How about a Sno-Cone? My treat."

Autumn gave no response, just continued to stare off blankly into space.

Emma grinned. "I thought you'd like that! Let's go."

302

The older woman started walking down the brick path, making her way
through a crowd of happy, smiling ghosts. A moment later, Autumn's body
began following.

Damara tried not to look at the moist lumps in Tristan's shirt pocket as
they walked through the park. At first they were alone on the brick
path, but before long Damara began to sense unseen presences moving
around them. If she had been anyone else, she would've dismissed the
impression as nothing more than imagination. But she knew better. She
waited and watched as the presences gradually took on form and solidity,
becoming small family groups straight out of a 1950s sitcom. The happy
white people seemed real enough, except they made no sound whatsoever.
Not even their footsteps were audible.

Tristan waved his hand in front of the eyes of a passing man dressed in
a green sweater and khaki pants who reminded Damara a little of Bing
Crosby. The man gave no sign that he noticed Tristan--didn't glance at
him, didn't slow down-- and Tristan had to pull his hand back to avoid
accidentally smacking the man as he walked by.

"What are they?" Tristan asked. "Ghosts of some kind?"

"More like memories," Damara said. "Emma's, I bet. She entered the park
before us, so she's the first one to have an impact on the place."

Tristan watched a pair of young girls--twins--

303

skip by, laughing silently. "Funny, I wouldn't have figured Emma for the
nostalgic type."

Damara shrugged. "There's no telling what my power will bring to life.
It's not like it can consciously be controlled. It just happens, like
the weather. All we can do is react to it."

Tristan gazed at the crowd of silent families that moved around them,
his brow furrowed in thought. Though whatever was on his mind, he chose
not to share it.

Not only were the people returning to Riverfork, the rides and
attractions were coming back as well. Old buildings on the verge of
collapse were refurbishing themselves, and rides that had been nothing
more than immobile sculptures of rusted junk were reclaiming their
former glory. The smell of frying funnel cakes and cotton candy wafted
forth from a small square building labeled tastee shack. Close by a mini
roller coaster called Bug Out!--its cars once more round and green
instead of dented gray-black--began undulating along its track. The
cartoonish bug head at the front of the cars wore a top hat and sported
a happy grin, as if delighted by its miraculous restoration.

They continued walking, past attractions that urged them to see the
frozen baby whale and dared them to take a spin on the dizzying
whirlabout! And then they came to a large building, its outside
completely covered by shimmering mirrors.

Damara stopped walking and stared at the

304

letters above the entrance. They were formed from glass tubes that
glowed an electric neon green and proclaimed come see what mysteries the
mirrors

REVEAL INSIDE ALACRITY'S SPECTATORIUM!

Tristan also stopped and asked, "What is it, Mara?"

At first she couldn't find her voice, and it took her several tries
before she was able to speak. "I remember now. This is the place where
my father disappeared."

Large mirrored doors formed the entrance. They were closed, preventing
Damara from seeing inside--not that she wanted to. The longer she looked
at the mirrors covering the building, the more they seemed to ripple
slowly like liquid silver. She had the impression that if she walked up
to Alacrity's Spectatorium and reached out toward the glass, instead of
touching a cold smooth surface, the rippling silver would gently yield
to her fingers, permitting her entire hand to enter.

Is that what happened to Daddy? she wondered. Had he passed through the
liquid silver barrier to whatever lay beyond, become lost and unable to
find his way back? Was he still in there now, and if so, would she have
the courage to go inside and see?

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Tristan asked. "You said it was
dark that night."

Damara wanted to say yes, she was sure, wanted to ask Tristan to
accompany her inside, wanted to search for her father and, if she
couldn't find him, at least learn what had happened to him. But

305

standing there, looking at the rippling surface of Alacrity's
Spectatorium and seeing the reflections of herself and Tristan distorted
in its glass, she was suddenly eleven years old again and paralyzed with
terror.

Besides, she told herself, Autumn needs us. And though it was true, she
knew that it was nevertheless an excuse.

"Never mind," she whispered. She took Tristan's arm and pulled him away
from the building. He gave her a puzzled look, but he didn't question
her any further.

They came to an arrow-shaped sign that said to the midway, and without
any better destination in mind, they turned in the direction the sign
indicated. As they continued making their way through the now living,
breathing park, the people around them began to change. Many still
looked like refugees from the fifties, but more and more of them were
dressed in contemporary clothing and had modern hairstyles. They weren't
all white anymore, either. It wasn't exactly the U.N., but the crowd now
contained more African-Americans, Hispanics, and Asians.

"Now what's happening?" Tristan asked.

"I'd guess that you're starting to have an impact on Riverfork now, and
you have a more modern, tolerant worldview than Emma."

Tristan smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment."

While the crowd was more diverse, still none of them made any sound.

"It's eerie how quiet they are," Tristan

306

continued. "It's almost as if neither they nor we completely exist in
the same world, but only overlap a bit. I wonder if Emma's imagination
isn't strong enough to give them sound."

"Maybe. Or maybe she really hates noise and subconsciously isn't letting
them make any."

"Good guess, girlie-girl! Wanna try your luck over here?"

They turned in the direction of the voice and saw a sleazy carny type
leaning across the counter of a game booth.

"Looks like we found the Midway," Tristan muttered.

The gray brick pathway widened here, and on both sides game booths were
lined up, crammed so close together that it was difficult to tell where
one ended and another began. You could throw darts at balloons, rings
over the necks of milk bottles, ping-pong balls at bowls of goldfish,
bean bags (three for a dollar!) at pyramids of pewter vases, footballs
through hoops that were almost but not quite too small ... And your
reward, should you possess enough luck and skill to succeed at any of
these contests, was to pick from a selection of prizes ranging from
cheap plastic rings shaped like black spiders or purple gems on up to
generic stuffed animals the size of a large child. The games, along with
their challenges and prizes, were so ubiquitous and similar that they
didn't even have names. But then, none were really needed to draw
customers. The seeming simplicity of their tasks, along with a generous
mixture of

307

encouragements and insults from the man--and it almost always was a
man--running the game was usually enough. Certainly, there were plenty
of people ready to chance their luck today. Most were either the 1950s
sitcom clones Emma had conjured, though there were a good amount of the
contemporary folk from Tristan's imagination as well. Still, there were
a few that Damara couldn't place, and which for some unaccountable
reason disturbed her.

In front of a ring-toss game, a normal-looking man in a shirt and tie
stood arguing with a lean man dressed in an old-fashioned white suit
that looked more appropriate for a revival meeting than an amusement
park. Damara wasn't sure, but it looked like the man in the white suit
had pools of inky darkness where his eyes should be. A few booths
farther down, a man in a black suede jacket was trying to win his girl a
prize at a shooting gallery by firing wooden pellets from an air rifle
at metal targets shaped like woodland creatures. The girl, who was quite
a bit younger than her date, wore tight shorts and a halter top that
allowed part of a dragonfly tattoo on her back to be visible.

Of all the game booths, only one had no customers standing in front--the
one run by the man who'd called out to them.

"Come on, I haven't got all day, and you two certainly don't. Not if you
want to save the little girl, that is."

Damara felt a cold twist in her gut upon hearing the man's words, but
she grabbed Tristan's arm

308

and pulled him over to the booth. The man grinned as they approached,
displaying yellow-brown teeth. What he still had of them, that is, for
he was missing both his two front uppers and two front lowers. The
gumline where his teeth had been was red and sore looking. He was bald
but wore the rest of his straight greasy black hair long as if to
compensate. His black mustache was bristly and badly in need of a trim,
and his cheeks and chin were covered with stubble. He wore a faded,
cracked leather vest without a shirt, exposing a hairy chest, flabby
pecs, and the tight mound of his bulging gut. His left cheek was puffed
out, as if swollen, and his jaw worked in a rhythmic, mechanical
fashion. He held a rusted coffee can in his left hand, and as Damara and
Tristan stepped up to his booth, he turned his head and spit a brown
stream of tobacco juice into the can.

Unlike many of the other booths on the Midway, his had nothing to do
with any shooting, throwing, puncturing, breaking, or knocking down
anything. On the counter before him was a neatly stacked deck of playing
cards lying facedown. A cardboard sign with crudely painted letters was
tacked to the wall of the booth behind him. It said try your luck, 21 or
bust!

"My god," Tristan said. "I remember this guy! We saw him at the county
fair, Mara, remember? We were ... hell, I don't know ... ten, maybe? It
was summer and we were playing one morning, and I told you my mom was
going to take me to the fair

309

that afternoon. You ran inside to beg your mother to let you come with
me. At first she said no--"

"But I started crying and she finally changed her mind," Damara
finished. "How could I forget?"

The man spat another stream of tobacco juice into his can, then grinned
again. "Nice to be remembered," he said, his voice rough from too many
cigarettes, too much booze, maybe both.

"I wouldn't exactly say nice," Tristan said. "We'd wandered away from my
mom and sister, and you lured us over to your booth with some simple
card tricks ..."

"Like this?" The man put his personal spittoon down on the counter,
picked up the deck of cards, and fanned them out facedown. His hands
were pudgy, the fingers stubby, but they handled the cards with a
surgeon's deftness. He passed his hand over the cards, seeming not to
touch them, but when he was finished, the cards were lying faceup. With
a quick motion, he scooped up the cards and, using only one hand mixed
and shuffled the cards for several moments. When he was finished, he
fanned them out on the counter once more, only this time they were
organized by both number and suit.

"Just like that," Damara said. "You told us to call you Wheeler, said it
was short for WheelerDealer. Then you showed us a few more tricks, had
us pick cards that you always guessed, and then you asked if we'd like
to see the trailer where you lived."

310

"Good thing my mom and sister found us then," Tristan said, "or else we
might have been stupid enough to fall for your most dangerous trick, and
who knows what might have happened to us?"

The man scooped up the cards again and idly reshuffled them once more.
He shrugged. "Can't blame a guy for trying. 'Cept that wasn't me,
exactly. I'm your memory of that guy, with a few extras added on." He
put the cards facedown on the counter in a neat pile, then picked up his
tobacco can and spat into it once more.

"What sort of extras?" Damara asked.

"Both you and Tristan thought that I was some kind of magician instead
of just a pedophile who knew a few card tricks. So here, in this place
and at this time, I am a magician. I know all, see all, and tell
all--when I feel like it. I can tell you the thing you want to know the
most: where Autumn is. But information like that doesn't come cheap.
There's a price." He grinned again, and this time his gums were raw and
bleeding.

Damara knew they couldn't fully trust Wheeler, but if there was even a
chance he could direct them to Autumn ...

"What sort of price?" she asked.

The man chuckled. "I just love it when a pretty little fish like you
nibbles at the bait. Does my shriveled black soul good."

But before he could answer Damara's question, a shadow fell across the
Midway. Everyone looked up to see that dark clouds had drifted overhead
and now blocked the sun.

311

"Looks like another player has entered the game," Wheeler said.

Kenneth walked through the opening in the wooden fence and found himself
standing in front of a stone arch. A fake stone arch at that. Pretty
damn cheesy, he thought. And everyone he'd ever talked to about
Riverfork--including Emma--had always acted like the park had been such
hot shit. What a joke! He wasn't irritated, though; he was actually in a
pretty good mood. Since he'd awakened on Pandora Drive and made his way
down the hill to Riverfork, the feeling had returned to his body, and he
felt whole and healthy again-- except for the fact that he was still
missing his penis, of course.

"Would you like a ticket, sir?"

Only one of the ticket booths was open, and a woman in a fuzzy pink
bathrobe stood behind the counter. Her tits were nice, if not
spectacular, and Kenneth's gaze lingered on them for a moment as he
tried to imagine what they looked like beneath the cloth. Just because
he no longer had a penis didn't mean he couldn't look, right? But when
he finally lifted his gaze to look at her face, he saw that the woman
had no eyes.

Interesting.

"I was going to say that, as you can see, I don't have any money on me,
but you can't, can you? See, I mean." He liked the way dark blood coated
her sockets and painted her cheeks with crimson trails. He wanted to
lick the blood on those

312

cheeks, then thrust his tongue into the sockets one at a time, clean out
the blood inside, and see if his tongue would stretch far enough to
taste her brain. The more he thought about doing these things, the more
her empty sockets came to resemble a pair of vaginas. If only he still
had his dick, maybe he could've literally fucked her brains out.

Then the woman, who thanks to Kenneth's imagination really did have
vaginas instead of eye sockets now, gave him a chocolate-encrusted smile.

"You don't have to pay money to get inside," she said. "All you have to
do is make a choice. But it has to be the right choice."

She spread her hands and Kenneth suddenly noticed there were three
wooden bowls of candy sitting on the counter in front of her. He
couldn't recall seeing them there before, but then he'd been too busy
staring at the woman's tits and eye cunts, so maybe he just hadn't seen
the candy until now.

"Take one apiece," she said.

Kenneth looked at the bowls and frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Take one apiece," the woman repeated, her tone and inflection exactly
the same, as if her voice were a recording.

"You mean you want me to take a piece of candy from each bowl? Or do you
want me to take only one piece total?"

"Take one apiece," the woman said for a third time.

Kenneth glared at her. "Screw this. I'm going in

313

and you can just fuckin' bill me." He started for the turnstile, but
suddenly it became a set of rotary blades that looked sharp as hell.
They began spinning, slowly at first, but they quickly picked up speed
until they were a humming blur.

He turned back to the woman. She was still smiling, but her eye pussies
were now larger, the labia swollen, the soft inner flesh glistening, and
she had pubic hair in place of eyebrows.

"Take one apiece," she said once more, and though it was subtle, Kenneth
thought he detected a bit of irritation in her voice this time.

"Sorry, I'm not big on games,"

Kenneth stepped back, spread his legs wide, and let the darkness between
them pull in both the woman and her goddamned bowls of candy. When she
was gone, the turnstile blades stopped spinning and returned to their
previously harmless configuration.

"That's more like it," Kenneth muttered, and he walked through the
turnstile and entered Riverfork. As his bare feet first touched the gray
stone of the main pathway, the sky began to grow dark.

314 314 Tim Waggoner

315

Chapter Twenly-one

Emma paid the smiling glassy-eyed vendor of the Tastee Shack for the
Sno-Cones, then turned to Autumn and held out the girl's to her. Autumn
didn't reach out to take it, and Emma had to switch her own Sno-Cone to
her other hand and hold on to both while she raised Autumn's arm and
gently pried open her fingers. When she let go, Autumn kept her hand in
that position, and Emma quickly put a Sno-Cone into it and folded
Autumn's fingers over the paper cone. Emma half expected the girl to
drop her Sno-Cone the moment she let go of her hand, but that didn't
happen. Autumn made no move to bring the Sno-Cone to her mouth--as near
as Emma could tell the girl wasn't even aware that she was holding
it--but she didn't let go. Emma smiled. It was a start.

"I didn't know what flavors you liked, so I gambled and got you
strawberry. If you don't like it, I'll trade you. I've got lime."

Autumn said nothing, which didn't especially

316

surprise Emma. Well, if the girl wasn't going to speak up, she'd just
have to stick with strawberry and like it, wouldn't she? Emma started to
lift her Sno-Cone--crushed ice drizzled with thick green syrup that
looked like antifreeze--and was about to take her first taste when a
shadow fell over them. She looked up and saw that what had moments ago
been an empty blue sky was now filled with dark clouds. They were
bruise-colored, purple-black, and looked heavy with rain. Emma scowled.
She didn't like the idea of her first outing as Autumn's new parent
being spoiled by bad weather. She supposed they'd have to make the best
of it. Besides, this was Ohio, where you never knew what the weather
might be like from moment to moment. There was always a chance that the
clouds would blow over before they released any precipitation.

"Better get to work on that Sno-Cone, Autumn," Emma said. "Looks like it
might start raining soon."

Autumn still gave no sign that she'd heard Emma, so the older woman
decided not to worry about her for the moment. It had been years--and
far too many of them, at that--since she'd had a Sno-Cone, and Emma was
really looking forward to this. She raised the Sno-Cone to her mouth
once more and was about to take a taste, when she noticed that the syrup
was no longer lime-green. And then she realized it was no longer syrup,
either. The ice in her Sno-Cone was now covered with thick red blood.

317

"Lovely," she muttered. She threw her Sno-Cone to the ground, not
bothering to dispose of it properly, even though there was a trash
receptacle less than five yards from where they stood. She turned to
Autumn, intending to take the girl's Sno-Cone and throw it away, but
Autumn held the paper cone tight in her grip. So tight that some of the
ice had been squeezed out and had fallen to the ground. While the
substance that now covered the ice was still red, Emma knew that it was
no longer strawberry syrup.

Autumn stared at her bloody Sno-Cone, eyes slowly widening, hand
trembling. Her mouth worked, but nothing came out. Then her hand sprang
open and the Sno-Cone dropped to the ground where it splattered
crimson-coated ice all over the walkway's gray brick. Autumn's mouth
flew open and a shrill scream escaped her lips. With a sudden burst of
movement, Autumn turned and fled, arms and legs pumping at a pace that
would've done an Olympic athlete proud. Emma made a grab for the girl,
but she was too late. Her hand closed only on empty air.

Emma considered chasing after Autumn, but she decided against it. Though
she tried to keep in shape, she knew she was too old to win a footrace
against a terrified little girl. This was a race she could only win by
following Autumn and waiting for the girl to tire herself out. And when
that moment came, Emma would reclaim her.

She noted the direction Autumn had run off in, then looked upward. The
discolored clouds had

318

merged to form a blanket of darkness over Riverfork. The clouds hung
heavy now, pendulous and gravid with rain. She could think of only one
person who could turn her paradise into a hell: Kenneth. Somehow, even
mutilated as she'd left him, the sonofabitch had survived and was coming
after her. She could sense it. Her stomach gurgled then, and she gave it
an affectionate pat.

Don't worry, she thought. You'll soon be fed. And next time we'll cut
off more than just his dick. A lot more.

But first things first; she had to get her new daughter back.

Emma started walking in the direction Autumn had taken, her stomach
growling softly with every step.

Autumn ran without thought of direction. She had no idea where she was
or how she'd gotten here, but somehow she knew this was a bad place,
very bad, and she had to get away.

The blood ... the ice had been covered with blood. ...

Her shoes pounded on hard brick, and she ran past groups of
people--mothers, fathers, grandparents, kids ... But she didn't call out
to them, didn't plead for someone to stop and help her. She wasn't sure
why, but she knew there was something wrong with these people. None of
them seemed to notice that there was a terrified young girl running in
their midst. None of them said anything to her or so much as even
flicked a glance in

319

her direction. She was used to adults being too wrapped up in their own
concerns to notice anything much past the end of their own nose, but the
other kids not looking at her--not even to make fun of her--well, that
was just downright creepy. And then there was the sound, or rather the
lack of it. Despite the presence of all these people, the only noise
Autumn heard was the slap-slap-slap of her shoes as she ran.

The longer she ran, the more she began to become aware of her
surroundings, and despite the fear that still impelled her, she found
herself slowing, slowing and then finally stopping. She stood and
stared, unable to believe what she was seeing.

In front of her, a large caterpillar trundled along a set of metal
rails, cars rattling as they negotiated the gentle hills and curves of
the track. The caterpillar's face was cheerfully cartoonish, almost
grotesquely so, and as it rolled around the track one more time, she had
the impression that the thing was actually looking at her with its
paintedon eyes. As the top-hatted head passed by her, she thought she
saw it wink, but then it was moving on, and she wasn't sure.

She turned in a slow circle, saw a machine that allowed you to test your
strength (if you're man enough) ! opposite the caterpillar ride, which
according to its sign was called bug-out!, exclamation point included.
Not far away, she saw a slowly rotating Ferris wheel and a bit beyond
that, an oldfashioned roller coaster, its cars juddering up the first
hill, riders holding their arms high above their

320

heads to show that they were too brave--or too foolish--to use their
safety bars. There were other attractions in the vicinity, all with
signs that vied almost desperately at times for customers' attention.
RIDE THE SPINNING BARRELS, TRY A FROZEN BANANA (THE ULTIMATE TASTE
TREAT), DON'T MISS THE AMAZING MOONWALK--IT'S OUT OF THIS WORLD!

Autumn didn't understand how it was possible, but it seemed she was in
an amusement park. But the closest one was Kings Island, and that was
almost an hour away. The only other amusement park she could think of
anywhere near where she lived was Riverfork. It was on the other side of
Damara's house, down a hill, and through some woods, but it had been
abandoned years ago. So why did she have the strange feeling that this
was Riverfork?

Images flashed through her mind then-- someone holding her hand, helping
her over a chainlink fence, guiding her down a tree-covered slope, then
through a field of tall grass ... She wasn't sure who the person was;
she (was it a she?) wasn't clear in these images, visions, memories,
whatever they were. She was a blurry figure, almost as if Autumn had
tried to erase her from her mind with only partial success. But even
though Autumn knew it was crazy, that it couldn't possibly be true, she
felt that this was Riverfork, but a Riverfork that had somehow been
restored to life. Why would Mrs. Colton bring her here, though? It
didn't make any ...

321

Mrs. Colton. That's who the blurry figure was! That's who'd brought her
here!

And that realization was the key that unlocked the door where Autumn had
hidden the memories of what she'd discovered in her house upon coming
home from school, and all the terrible things that had occurred
afterward. Her understanding of these memories was imperfect, for they
came back to her in a confused, nightmarish jumble, but one thing she
was certain of: Her mother was dead. Grief fell upon her like a crushing
weight, and it was all she could do to keep from falling to the ground,
curling up into a ball and sobbing. But she knew she couldn't afford to
take the time to mourn her mother right now, for Mrs. Colton--Emma--
would surely be coming after her soon. She needed help, and she needed
it now.

Autumn had been taught well by both her mother and her school. She knew
not to talk to strangers and not to allow them to lure her into a car.
She knew to call 911 in an emergency and that police officers and
firefighters were always ready to help kids in trouble. But when no
police or firefighters were available, any adult in authority could
help. And the nearest equivalent Autumn could think of at the moment
were the workers running the rides and manning the various other
attractions. And the closest ride to her right now was Bug-Out!.

She ran toward the set of trundling green cars, praying that whoever was
in charge of their

322

operation could help her. As she ran, she didn't notice the cloud cover
overhead shift colors from purple-black to all black. The black of
emptiness, of nothingness, of death ...

As artificial night fell on Riverfork, the park's lights came on, their
gentle yellow glow doing little to push back the darkness.

"It certainly gets dark early around here," Wheeler said, favoring
Damara and Tristan with a tobacco-stained, gap-toothed grin.

Damara glanced upward and saw the sky had become a mantle of solid
darkness. The sight chilled her to the core of her being, and though she
wasn't sure she wanted to know, she looked at Wheeler and asked, "You
said someone else had entered Riverfork?"

"That's right. A friend of yours, though he's not exactly the man he
used to be. In fact, you might say he's not a man at all anymore."

"Kenneth," Tristan said.

Wheeler nodded. "Just as Emma's imagination first shaped the park, and
then yours, now Kenneth's is having its impact. And let me tell you, the
guy has one seriously twisted mind."

"We know," Tristan said. "That's why I'm personally scared shitless at
the moment."

Tristan's tone was light as he said this, but there was an edge of
hysteria to his words. Damara didn't blame him. What sort of nightmare
would Riverfork become in response to Kenneth's mental influence?

323

The air seemed to ripple, as if an invisible wave were rolling through
the park. And where it passed, things changed. In the Midway, the game
booths no longer featured simple diversions such as tossing rings at
milk bottles or throwing darts at balloons. Now the games took on a more
sinister and far less innocent aspect. Rings carved from human bone were
tossed onto bleached spinal columns, butcher knives were thrown at
wriggling fetuses nailed to wooden planks, patrons earned points for
seeing how long they could keep their hands inside a meat grinder ...
The prizes the games offered also changed. No more stuffed animals or
cheap plastic novelties. Coils of intestines, swatches of flensed skin,
severed limbs, eviscerated hearts, lungs, livers, kidneys... all hung on
meat hooks--fresh, red, wet, and tempting.

The park-goers were altered as well. Few wore clothing any longer, and
those who did had on studded leather with openings for their erogenous
zones. The males became well endowed, with penises that stretched nearly
all the way to the ground, and many had clusters of multiple sex organs.
The women's breasts became large and swollen as if massive amounts of
silicon were being pumped into their mammary glands by some unseen
source. The skin of the breasts stretched tight and tracings of thick
blue veins were visible just beneath the surface. Their vaginas widened
to become gaping orifices and lubricant dripped steadily from between
their legs.

Wheeler wasn't immune from the

324

transformation taking place in Riverfork. His sagging pectoral muscles
became large saggy breasts, and his bristly mustache became finer,
softer, and curly, until it resembled a thatch of pubic hair. The lobes
of his ears became swollen testicles, the skin so lax that it drooped
down to his jawline like a pair of grotesque fleshy earrings.

The only ones unaffected by the hideous wave of change were Damara and
Tristan--and, Damara noticed, the man wearing a tie and his companion in
the white preacher's suit (who were still arguing), and the man in the
black jacket and his dragonfly-tattooed piece of jailbait. None of the
four seemed to be aware of the transformation that had occurred around
them, and if they were, they showed no sign. Damara began to wonder if
they hadn't changed because, like Tristan and herself, they were real.

But the worst aspect of all these changes was that she was powering
them; Kenneth was unconsciously directing her power to reshape Riverfork
in his own foul image. If only there were some way she could cut off his
access to her power ...

"But there isn't," Wheeler said, as if he'd read her thoughts. Given
everything that had happened over the course of the last day, this
wasn't particularly surprising or disturbing. In fact, it was among the
least of the dark miracles her power had wrought.

"You have no choice in how your power is used. You are the medium,
Damara, but you can never

325

be the artist. At least, not so long as you continue to deny your gift."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "I haven't denied it; I've
spent my whole life trying to control it."

Wheeler spit a stream of tobacco into his can, then put it down on the
counter and fished a package of chew out of his pants pocket. He pulled
out a pinch, stuffed it between his cheek and gum, then put the package
back in his pocket. Damara saw tiny slits in the tips of his
fingers--slits that resembled the opening in the glans of a penis.
Wheeler continued speaking as he began to work the tobacco around in his
mouth.

"You haven't tried to control it. Not really. You've tried to suppress
it, girlie-girl. Big difference. Maybe if you'd accepted your power,
embraced it, you'd have gained some measure of control over it by now.
Maybe then it wouldn't have built up to the point where it leaked out
and spilled over onto your neighbors."

Damara wanted to deny Wheeler's words, to tell him that her power was
too strong, too wild to be controlled in the way he was suggesting. But
deep down, she knew he was right. She'd never really tried, had always
been too afraid to. Instead she'd attempted to lock her power away
inside and isolate herself from the rest of the world, to turn her home
into a prison. And to what ultimate purpose? Her power had still managed
to escape, and look at all the damage it had caused. She hadn't

326

asked to be born with this power, but she had been, and that meant that,
whether she liked it or not, she had the responsibility to learn to
wield it effectively, if only to know how to keep from using it. But
she'd denied that responsibility, had refused even to acknowledge it,
and that meant everything that had happened--from the disappearance of
her little brother years ago up to this very moment--truly was her fault.

"But why would Damara's power flare up so strongly now, after all these
years?" Tristan asked.

"Why ask me?" Wheeler said. "You ought to be asking yourself."

Tristan frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you're what set Damara off. Or rather, your returning to
town for your mother's funeral. Seeing you--if only from behind the
safety of her window--stirred up all sorts of feelings in our pretty
friend here. Feelings of longing, confusion, desire ..." Wheeler leered
at Damara. "She became so emotionally unsettled that the control she'd
worked so hard to achieve began to slip little by little until she
finally couldn't hold on any longer, and pow! Her psychic walls burst
like a giant mystical pimple popping, and her power spilled onto those
around her. Claire, Autumn, Anne, Emma, and Kenneth."

"What about Tristan?" Damara asked. "My power spilled onto him as well."

"Not exactly," Wheeler said, then spit a fresh stream of tobacco juice
into his can. He hadn't bothered to pick up the can this time, and the

327

impact from the tobacco juice hitting the inside of the can nearly
knocked it over.

"But Tristan imagined that double of me, the one with butterfly wings."

"True," Wheeler admitted. "But just because you can't consciously direct
your power doesn't mean that it can't feed on your imagination by
itself. And once Tristan returned home to California, your imagination
started working overtime." Wheeler gave Tristan a meaningful look.

Tristan's eyes widened as the implications of Wheeler's words hit home,
but he said nothing to refute them.

Damara couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Are you seriously
suggesting that I imagined Tristan? That he's not real?"

"You didn't imagine him the first time," Wheeler said. "He really did
return home when his mother died. And he is intending to return to clear
out the junk his mother collected over the years and then put the house
up for sale. But he has not returned to Ohio yet. Poor guy. I wonder how
he's going to react when he learns his mother's house has been destroyed."

"No," Tristan whispered, then more loudly. "No, I can't be a fantasy of
Damara's given flesh. I think, feel, remember... I had fantasies of my
own come to life: the gray sludge and the butterfly woman. Can a dream
have dreams?"

"Dreams and wishes, fantasy and reality ... the divisions between them
aren't as clear-cut as you might think," Wheeler said. "Especially when

328

someone of Damara's abilities is involved. Fantasies can be like nesting
dolls, with one hidden inside another. The Damara doll opens and you pop
out, then you open and the Butterfly Damara pops out."

Tristan looked pale and he was trembling, but he said, "Of all the
insane things that have happened since I got home, this is the absolute
craziest! I am real!"

"Cogito ego sum, eh?" Wheeler said. "Well, it's easy enough to check."
He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small silver cell
phone. He tossed it to Tristan, who caught it out of reflex.

"It's what, after one o'clock in California? Isn't this the time you
usually hold office hours? All you have to do is turn on the phone, call
your office number, see who--if anyone--picks up. If Professor Tristan
Ledford answers, then you'll know."

Tristan looked down at the phone he held in a trembling hand. He made no
move to lift the cover, just kept staring at its silvery plastic surface.

"Either he's wrong or he's lying. I'm sure of it," Damara said, though
she really wasn't sure at all.

Tristan just kept staring at the phone.

"You imagined me as all-knowing, remember?" Wheeler said. "Thanks to
your power, I am. I know exactly what will happen if Tristan makes the
call." He gave them an evil grin. "Which is why I want him to so badly."

Tristan looked at Damara as if he were hoping she could tell him what to
do, but she had no idea what to say.

329

"Ever since he returned to town, he's been so loyal, so brave, so kind
and considerate. So damn good in every way," Wheeler pointed out.
"Almost like a dream come true."

"If Tristan isn't real, then why didn't he change with everything else
in the park once Kenneth entered?" Damara asked.

"Because Tristan is standing right next to you," Wheeler said, "and
because he's so important to you. And perhaps even because Kenneth
believes that he's real as well."

Damara was beginning to feel sick. What if it were true? What if
Tristan--this Tristan--weren't real?

Tristan looked down at the cell phone in his hand one more time before
tossing it back to Wheeler. The big man caught the phone easily in his
stubby fingers. When Tristan spoke, his voice quavered a bit, but his
resolve was firm. "Maybe I'm real, maybe I'm not. That doesn't matter
right now. All that matters is getting Autumn away from Emma."

And at that moment Damara knew that real or not, she loved this Tristan.

"So tell us where to find her," Tristan finished.

"I'll be happy to," Wheeler said. He picked up the deck of cards and
began shuffling them onehanded once more. But the edges of the cards
were razor-sharp now, and despite the man's skill, his fingers were
sliced to the bone. Blood dripped from his wounds and pattered onto the
counter, but if the pain bothered him, he didn't show it. He just kept
on shuffling and bleeding. "All you have

330

to do is play a single game of blackjack against the house." He grinned,
and the gaps where his front upper and lower teeth had been now had tiny
vaginas in the empty spaces. "I'm the house, in case you couldn't guess.
Or more accurately, all of Riverfork is the house in this game. If you
beat me, I'll tell you how to find Autumn."

"And what happens if you win?" Damara said. She tried to keep from
looking at Wheeler's hand. He was still shuffling cards, and the flesh
of his fingers now hung in tatters, exposing white bone.

"If you lose, you stay here, Damara. In Riverfork--forever."

Damara frowned. "I don't understand."

"It's simple enough," Wheeler said. "A place like Riverfork, which
thousands of people visit over the course of many years to enjoy
themselves, becomes a repository--or a dumping ground, to put it less
elegantly--for the residue of the intense emotions experienced here.
Every time someone screams in terror as a roller coaster roars down the
first hill, every time a child laughs with delight over an especially
wonderful prize that a beloved adult has won for him or her ... whenever
these and a hundred other similar events happen in a place like
Riverfork, a small amount of emotional energy is released. This energy
seeps into the wood, brick, metal, and concrete and joins with the very
substance of the park itself. When this energy eventually reaches
critical mass, it can even achieve a kind of life of its own, though
nothing that approaches sentience.

331

"Such was the case here in Riverfork--until a night seventeen years ago
when you came, Damara. Your power reached out to the psychic residue
that Riverfork had absorbed and which had lain dormant for so many
years. Your power woke up that energy, Damara. More, it bestowed
self-awareness upon it. But you stayed so briefly and left so quickly
that Riverfork returned to its slumber once you were gone. But in that
all too short a time, the park developed enough sentience to remember
and dream while it slept. And what the park dreamed of was your return,
Damara, so that it might remain awake and fully self-aware forever."

"You mean you want me to stay in Riverfork and be your ... your psychic
battery?" Damara asked.

"Essentially," Wheeler confessed.

A disturbing thought passed through Damara's mind then. "Does this mean
that everything that's happened during the last day was your doing? That
Riverfork was trying to lure me back all along?"

Wheeler chuckled. "Don't be so overly dramatic. If we'd had the ability
to lure you back, we wouldn't have waited seventeen years to use it. In
fact, we would never have let you leave in the first place if we could
have prevented it. No, this current flare-up of your talent had nothing
to do with us, though we admit to reaching out to Emma and ...
encouraging her to bring Autumn here." Another gap-toothed,
vagina-gummed grin. "Just because we didn't cause this latest episode of
your

332

power running amok doesn't mean we weren't going to try to take
advantage of it." Wheeler fanned the blood-stained cards from his
mutilated hand to the other--slicing the flesh of those fingers in the
process--then back again. "What do you say? Is it a bet?"

"Don't do it, Mara," Tristan urged. "Who knows what would happen if
Riverfork became truly alive--especially the way it is now? We can find
Autumn on our own."

Damara wasn't so certain. Given the way the park kept altering itself to
suit the imagination of both friend and foe, they might never be able to
find Autumn simply by searching for her. Damara didn't want to remain in
Riverfork forever, letting the emotional ghosts of thousands of
park-goers feed off her power so that they could maintain some phantom
semblance of life. But she couldn't simply abandon Autumn, either.
Before she could decide, however, a soft scratching sound came from the
inside of Wheeler's spit can.

"What's that noise?" Tristan asked.

"Nothing," Wheeler said, casting a nervous glance at the can. "Just, ah,
the tobacco juice settling, that's all."

The scratching sound came again, louder this time.

"Bullshit," Tristan said. "There's something in there." He started to
reach for the can, but before he could take hold of it, a green scaled
finger covered with sharp black spines--along with slimy brown tobacco
spit--poked up over the edge.

333

"It's Jack Sharp!" Damara said, and her leg wound throbbed as if
responding to the nearness of the creature that had caused it.

"And your brother," Wheeler said, sounding irritated. "His spirit merged
with Jack Sharp after he was stolen away."

Tristan quickly pulled back his hand. "Why?" he asked.

"Because as Jason Ruschmann died, he imagined that Jack Sharp was going
to devour him," Wheeler explained. "And Jack Sharp did; though not quite
in the way he feared."

"Some brother," Tristan said. "He tried to kill Damara in the shower."

The finger tapped the side of the can as if to get their attention, then
waggled back and forth.

"I think he's trying to say no," Damara said.

Wheeler sighed. "It's true. Jack Sharp had no intention of harming you.
Well, no more than necessary, at any rate. As another being fueled by
your power, he sensed our presence and our intention. He wanted to
incapacitate you, to keep you from coming here and perhaps being trapped
in Riverfork forever." He scowled into the can. "Fuck off, junior. We're
trying to play some cards here." He aimed a stream of tobacco juice at
the spine-covered finger and hit it dead-on. The finger stiffened as if
the juice had wounded it somehow, then slowly sank back down into the
can. A moment later, Damara leaned forward and peered down into the can,
but all she saw was brown slime. She felt a strange mixture of joy,
loss, and revulsion ...

334

joy to know that her brother still existed, loss because he had departed
once more, and revulsion at the thing her power had made him into.

Wheeler looked at Damara and fixed her with a penetrating gaze full of
excitement and hunger. "Are you going to play or not?"

Damara didn't need any time to decide.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?" Tristan asked. "How can you be certain he won't cheat?
Or if you win, that he'll honor the deal? If he's the ... the spokesman
for Riverfork, and the park needs you to remain alive, or whatever it
is, then he'll do anything to win."

"I understand all that," Damara said. "But I'm still going to play. It
may be the only chance Autumn has left."

A broad grin spread across Wheeler's face. "Excellent!" He shuffled the
cards, then dealt them out, one facedown for Damara, then one facedown
for him. The next card of Damara's he lay face-up. Seven of diamonds. He
dealt his next card face-up. It was the jack of spades. He then put the
deck down on the counter and said, "Time to check our hole cards."

Grimacing at the bloodstains on it, Damara lifted the corner of her hole
card just high enough to reveal its suit and number. Ten of clubs. She
looked up and watched Wheeler examine his hole card. The man--assuming
he still qualified as male given the transformation he'd undergone--gave
nothing away with his facial expression as he said, "The dealer stays."

335

Damara considered what to do. She and her mother had played cards
sometimes, but they hadn't played blackjack very often. Claire had loved
cards, though, much more than Damara, and she often got together with
friends to play. Damara wished Claire were here now to advise her, but
her poor mother was dead, killed by Emma while giving Damara and Autumn
a chance to escape. Damara felt grief threaten to overwhelm her, but she
fought it down. The best thing she could do right now to honor her
mother's memory and make certain her sacrifice hadn't been in vain was
to win this game and save Autumn.

Okay, she had seventeen and Wheeler had a jack showing, which counted as
ten. If he was staying instead of taking another card, that meant he was
close enough to twenty-one that he didn't want to risk going over. The
question was, did he have seventeen or better? Maybe. No, probably. If
he had sixteen he wouldn't have been confident of a win--not with five
more points to go for twenty-one--so he would've risked drawing another
card. Besides, with only a seven showing for her, Wheeler had to know
that the highest hole card she could have was one that counted for ten.
That meant he knew that his hand could beat hers as things currently
stood. She had no choice but to take another card.

"Hit me," Damara said.

Grinning, Wheeler lifted the deck of cards, pulled one off the top with
bloody fingers, and placed it face-up in front of Damara.

336 336 Tim Waggoner

337

Chapter Twenly-lwo

Autumn ran up to the entrance of Bug-Out! and opened the waist-high gate
next to a sign in the form of a cartoon caterpillar that said you must
be taller than this to ride. She hurried inside the metal enclosure that
separated the ride from the rest of the park and saw a man sitting on a
wooden stool over by a set of controls. The controls were mounted in a
metal box sitting atop a metal pole, and a mass of thick black cables
ran out from the back of the box and coiled across the ground to where
they were attached to the track. Autumn picked her way carefully through
the snarl of cables as she hurried over to the ride's operator. She
started talking in a rush before she reached him, almost shouting to be
heard over the clacketyclack of the caterpillar ride rolling around on
its endless trip to nowhere.

"Please. I need help, there's a lady chasing me, and she's crazy, she's
got shears instead of a hand, and I think she killed my mommy or at least

338

helped her husband do it, and I'm afraid she's going to do the same
thing to me!"

Autumn stopped next to Bug-Out !'s operator. He was a small man, not
much larger than Autumn, and he sat hunched over atop a long-legged
stool. He wore a faded black T-shirt with a logo for something called
Led Zeppelin on it, and his jeans had holes in both knees. His tennis
shoes were so dirty, it was impossible for Autumn to guess what color
they might have originally been.

He looked up at her, and Autumn gasped. The man was bald, and instead of
a face, he had a vertical slit running from scalp to chin. As Autumn
watched, the man's head began to swell like a balloon, the flesh
darkening, becoming a deep red, and a pearl of clear liquid oozed out of
the slit in his face and ran down his chin.

Autumn screamed and backed away, but she'd forgotten about the tangle of
cables on the ground. She tripped and fell backward onto her butt. She
hit hard, and the impact jarred her tailbone and made her teeth clack
together painfully. She didn't care about the pain, though. All she
wanted to do was get away from the man and his awful swelling head. So
far he hadn't done anything but sit on his stool and look at her--if he
could look without any eyes--but Autumn wasn't about to stick around and
wait for him to finally decide to start moving. She got to her feet and
turned to run.

But she stopped when she saw that the train of green cars that made up
the Bug-Out! ride had started to change. They melded together, metal

339

becoming soft pliant flesh, wheels becoming rapidly scuttling insect
legs. But worst of all was the lead car. The top hat suddenly flew off
the plastic caterpillar head, and the jolly anthropomorphic face became
that of a real caterpillar--large glossy black eyes, an open orifice
filled with constantly working mouth parts searching for something,
anything to quell its gnawing hunger.

Something like Autumn, for example.

On its next go-round the caterpillar jumped the track and headed
straight for Autumn. The girl screamed once more and ran like hell
toward the gate marked exit.

Damara looked at her new card. It was a deuce.

Nineteen.

Wheeler displayed no reaction, and Damara did her best to maintain a
poker face as well, though inside she was thinking furiously.

I've got nineteen, but there's a good chance he's got twenty. The only
way I can win is if I get twenty-one, but to do that I need another deuce.

If she got an ace, which could count as either one or eleven, she could
tie him, but then they'd just have to play another hand. And the longer
she stayed here screwing around, the more danger Autumn might be in. She
needed a win, and she needed it now.

Sudden inspiration struck her then, and with a grin she turned to
Tristan. "I need a deuce."

He frowned in confusion. "Why are you telling me, I don't..." He broke
off, and she could see

340

sudden understanding in his eyes. "A deuce, huh? Well, that's exactly
the card I want you to get. Any particular suit?"

"Hearts, of course."

Tristan smiled. "Hearts it is." He closed his eyes and his brow furrowed
in concentration.

Damara turned back to Wheeler and said, "Hit me."

Wheeler's face was no longer expressionless. He looked quite nervous as
he dealt Damara her card.

And there it was, exactly what she needed: the two of hearts.

Tristan opened his eyes and stared at the card in amazement, the
expression on his face making Damara laugh.

"All right," she said to Wheeler. "We've won-- now tell us how to find
Autumn."

Before the man could answer, a high-pitched scream cut through the air
of the Midway. Damara, Tristan, and Wheeler all turned to look in its
direction and saw a girl run past the entrance to the Midway, followed
closely by an undulating green monster.

"Easy," Wheeler said. "Just follow the giant caterpillar."

Emma pursed her lips in disgust as she made her way through the park in
search of Autumn. Since the sky had darkened, the rides and attractions
had become nightmarish. The Ferris wheel was now a construction of bone,
muscle, and sinew, and it screamed with every rotation as if it were in

341

excruciating agony. The roller coaster was a giant length of oversized
intestine; cars of passengers entered the fleshy tunnel at one end and
came out as processed waste at the other. The carousel continued
spinning, but no longer did horses make the circular journey. They'd
been replaced by torsos with no heads or limbs that were impaled on
poles running through their anuses and out their open neck stumps.
Children clung to the torsos in an obscene version of piggy-back rides,
the torsos slowly bobbing up and down in time with the hurdy-gurdy music
as the carousel slowly spun round and around.

Like the rides, the things she passed (she refused to think of them as
people) were surely Kenneth's doing. Nothing so base could ever have
sprung from her imagination. Though no two of them looked precisely
alike, they all shared a dominant trait of grossly exaggerated sexual
characteristics. Giant penises, dripping vaginas, ridiculously large
breasts ... and then there were the ones that had been more creatively
designed, with anuses in place of nostrils, or testicles bulging out of
eye sockets. Take the one coming at her now, an old man with a vagina
instead of a penis. Sickening. And then it stopped and spoke to her.

"Hello, Emma."

At first she didn't recognize him, but then she blinked and said, "Kenneth?"

"The one and only. Why do you look so surprised? You had to have sensed
I was coming."

"I did. It's just ..." She wasn't sure what it was.

342

Now that he was close enough, she could see that what she had at first
taken to be a vagina between his legs was instead a ragged
blood-encrusted gash, and within it was ... nothing. Just darkness. No,
not even that, for darkness is the absence of light, and that's
something. But inside Kenneth's gash was absolute and total Nothingness.
The sight of it made Emma feel cold all over, as if her blood had turned
to freon in her veins. She hadn't been afraid of Kenneth when she'd
confronted him back on Pandora Drive, but she was afraid of him now.
More than that, actually. She was terrified out of her fucking mind. She
had her shears, but what good were they? How could you cut nothing?

"You're not looking so good," Kenneth said, his voice eerily
dispassionate. "Those black things all over your skin ..."

"They're nothing, just insect stings. They'll heal soon enough."

Kenneth nodded, accepting her explanation. "It's funny, isn't it? Us
ending up like this after thirty years of marriage."

"Thirty-three," Emma automatically corrected.

"You'd think that if we'd wanted to kill each other, we'd have done it
long before now."

Emma shrugged. "Maybe we just didn't hate each other enough until now."

"Maybe. Or maybe we loved each other, too. At least enough to balance
out some of the hate."

"Maybe," she allowed. "But hate's all we have left now."

343

"True enough."

Emma snicked her shears nervously. "So, are we going to do this or not?"

"I guess we are."

Emma raised her hand shears and ran shrieking at Kenneth. Her
husband--whom she'd already killed once--just stood there, legs spread,
waiting for her attack. And then the darkness within his gash reached
out for her, and Emma's screams of hatred became screams of an entirely
different sort as Nothingness claimed her.

When it was over, Kenneth stood for a moment, alone on the gray brick
walkway. He felt something wet, warm, and sticky hit his shoulder. As he
reached up to scoop it off with a finger, he felt several more drops hit
him, heard some strike the brick. He held his finger up to his face and
inspected the viscous slimy substance. It was whitish, yellowish,
pinkish, red. He held it to his nose, sniffed, and found it smelled
coppery-salty. He grinned then and flicked the goop off his finger as
the rain of cum and blood continued falling from the black sky overhead.

Autumn's heart pounded in her ears like thunder, and her lungs felt as
if they were on fire. She was having trouble catching her breath, and
she feared she wouldn't be able to keep running much longer. The thing
behind her wasn't showing any signs of slowing down, though. If
anything, she thought it might be picking up speed. Not that she intended

344

to turn around and check. She was terrified, but she wasn't stupid.
Besides, she didn't need to see it; she could hear the almost hypnotic
rhythm of its feet, dozens of tiny insect legs scuttling across the
brick walkway.

She passed many people, but she didn't bother trying to ask them for
help. Like the operator of the Bug-Out! ride, they'd all been hideously
transformed into sexual monsters of one sort or another. And when they
saw her coming toward them--with a hungry giant caterpillar close on her
heels--they opened their mouths in silent screams and fled in all
directions.

She tried to think of a way to escape the monstrous insect larva chasing
her--hadn't her mother always told her to keep a cool head in a bad
situation?--but she couldn't think clearly. She'd seen too much, felt
too much today, and her brain was numb and sluggish. She supposed she
was in shock, although since she'd only heard about the condition on TV
shows, she wasn't certain.

As she ran, rain began to fall. At least, that's what she first thought
it was. But the gunk that fell from the black sky was thick and slimy,
and it had a funny smell that was nothing like rain. Whatever it was,
the stuff was slippery and it was beginning to coat the walkway. Autumn
started to slow down so she wouldn't--

Her right foot slipped out from under her, and Autumn slid forward. She
fell onto her side and the impact drove the breath out of her lungs. She
slid in the pinkish muck, hands scrabbling to find

345

purchase to slow her down, but all they found was more slime. She came
to a stop and, unable to get any leverage to push herself up to a
standing position, she leaned her head back to get a look at the
caterpillar. She saw an upside-down view of the giant insect's mouth
parts coming toward her face, and she closed her eyes and waited for the
creature to begin devouring her. Several seconds passed, and when she
still felt no pain, she risked opening a single eye to take a peek.

The caterpillar was only a few feet from her face, but it was no longer
making any forward progress. It thrashed its head back and forth,
squealing as if in frustration. Then as Autumn watched, the caterpillar
began to slide backward, despite its best efforts to maintain its
footing. A strong wind suddenly whipped up out of nowhere, and Autumn
could feel it tugging at her, pulling her along the slime-covered
walkway after the caterpillar. Frantically, she moved her hands across
the path, feeling for some sort of handhold--a crack or irregularity in
the stone--but all she felt was warm, viscous sky-gunk.

She looked back once again and saw the caterpillar retreating from her
at increasing speed. As the insect pulled away, Autumn became aware that
a naked man was standing behind the thing, and her heart seized in her
chest as she recognized Kenneth. He had his hands at his sides, balled
into fists, and his face was contorted into an expression of supreme
effort. The wind tearing at Autumn increased until it felt as if solid
hands were dragging

346

her backward. The wind shrieked and howled as the caterpillar fought in
vain to resist it. It had continued to rain all this time, and the
walkway had become so slick with sky-gunk that the caterpillar could no
longer resist. It slipped and its belly hit the walkway, sending
splatters of sky-gunk flying everywhere. Now that the creature was no
longer able to fight, it slid backward toward Kenneth at a rapid pace
and then seemed to pass into Kenneth, or rather into an opening between
Kenneth's legs. How such a gigantic creature could fit into such a small
space, Autumn didn't know, but fit it did. The last thing to be
swallowed was the caterpillar's oversized head, the creature squealing
in agony as its last piece was compressed, crushed, and devoured.

Then the caterpillar was gone, and all that was left was the naked form
of Kenneth standing in the rain of sky-gunk and breathing heavily, as if
he'd just fought a titanic battle. The wind still tore at Autumn, but it
quickly began to diminish. By the time she had slid halfway across the
walk toward Kenneth, the wind died away completely and she stopped
moving. Kenneth remained standing where he was for several
moments--shadows roiling and seething between his legs. But then he
began coming toward her and Autumn, panicked, once more began trying to
get to her feet. Between being devoured by a giant caterpillar and being
alone with Kenneth, she'd take the caterpillar every time.

She managed to get herself standing again, but

347

by that time Kenneth was only a couple of yards from her.

"You can't escape me, Autumn. I may not have a cock anymore, but that
doesn't mean you and I still can't have fun. I've got lots of tricks
left to show you--and not a single one requires a penis. Besides, you
know what the experts say..." He gave Autumn a ghastly parody of an
avuncular smile. "The most important sexual organ is the mind."

Looking at Kenneth had been bad enough when his thing had been giant.
Autumn hadn't thought there could be anything worse in the whole wide
world, but she'd been wrong. The open gash of Nothingness between his
legs was far worse. Autumn turned and, being careful of the gunk coating
the walkway, began moving away from Kenneth as fast as she could. She
knew it was only a matter of time before Kenneth got her and did to her
as he pleased. She needed to get away from him, and needed to do it now.

"Go ahead and run if you want," Kenneth said. "I can use my Nothingness
to pull you back anytime I wish."

Autumn thought of how the giant caterpillar had been sucked into the
small dark orifice between Kenneth's legs, and she was determined to
avoid a similar fate happening to her. She needed to find someplace
where she could hide and rest, someplace that even if Kenneth followed
her inside, he wouldn't be able to find her.

And then she saw it: Alacrity's Spectatorium. A

348

hall of mirrors ... perfect! If she were lucky, maybe she could lure
Kenneth inside and lose him in there. So, running faster than she
should've on the slime-covered ground, she hurried toward the building.
Kenneth called out her name again, along with a list of some of the
disgusting things he intended to do once he had hold of her. Autumn did
her best to shut him out and keep running.

"... coke enema, Autumn. Then I'll take a rubber hose and ..."

Slipping and sliding in the white-red slime, Autumn reached the entrance
to the Spectatorium and without hesitation, pressed her hands to the
slime-smeared surface of its glass doors and shoved. They opened easily,
and Autumn plunged through and into the darkness beyond.

Damara and Tristan had taken Wheeler's advice. They'd fled the Midway in
pursuit of the giant caterpillar, but both the creature and Autumn were
faster than them, especially with Damara's wounded leg. To make matters
more difficult, thick dollops of cum mixed with blood began to fall from
the sky, courtesy of Kenneth's diseased imagination, no doubt. The
ground soon became slick with the disgusting muck--not to mention what
it did to their clothes and hair--and before long they were forced to
slow almost to a walk. By the time they managed to get Autumn and the
caterpillar in view once more, they saw that Kenneth had gotten there
ahead of them. They approached the old man from behind, but before

349

either Damara or Tristan could yell for him to leave Autumn alone, they
watched in horrified disbelief as Kenneth somehow drew the gigantic
caterpillar toward him and then absorbed the creature into his own body.

Kenneth began calling out to Autumn then as the girl fled, voicing a
litany of perversions that nauseated Damara and made her more determined
than ever to protect her young friend. But she found herself stopping
when she saw Autumn head for Alacrity's Spectatorium and dash inside,
Kenneth following close behind.

"What's wrong?" Tristan asked, scooping a smear of blood-cum off his
face and flicking it onto the ground with a grimace.

"That's the place where my father disappeared, remember?" Damara said.
"He thought I went inside, but at the last minute I veered away from the
entrance. He didn't see me do that, though, so he ... he went in. He
never came out again." She felt the foul warm stickiness of blood-cum
collecting on her body, but she didn't care right then. "I... I don't
know if I can go in there."

"Not even for Autumn?" he challenged.

Damara didn't respond. She didn't know what to say.

Tristan gently gripped her shoulders. "Don't worry about it. You stay
out here, and I'll go in." He gave her a half-smile. "After all, I'm not
real. What have I got to lose?"

Before she could say anything to that, he leaned forward and kissed her
with lips that felt real

350

enough. And then he pulled away and hurried toward the entrance to
Alacrity's Spectatorium. A moment later, he was inside and lost to sight.

Damara stood there, staring at the mirrored entrance to the attraction
while blood-cum continued to splatter down around and on her. She
imagined darkness, imagined her father finding his way through the hall
of mirrors by touch alone, fingers sliding across smooth glass. Imagined
hearing him call her name, the sound of his heavy footfalls as he
searched for her ...

Imagined hearing him scream.

She didn't need to imagine that last part, though. She'd heard it
seventeen years ago, standing in this very spot or close to it.

Damara could've entered the Spectatorium in search of her father back
then, could've attempted to go to his aid. But she hadn't. Instead she'd
run, leaving her father to whatever fate had claimed him. A fate created
by his imagination, but fueled by her damn power.

Damara stared at the doors, blood-cum plapplap-plapping as it struck the
ground. Then slowly, grimacing as her wounded leg protested in pain, she
began hobbling toward Alacrity's Spectatorium.

351

Chapter Twenty-three

When Damara reached the doors, she almost turned away, but she pressed
her hands to the mirrored glass and pushed. The doors swung open easily,
as if their hinges had been oiled recently instead of neglected for
decades. It was dark inside, but then it was dark outside too, in more
ways than one. Damara stepped inside and allowed the door to swing shut
and seal her inside. She stood for a moment, listening. Autumn, Kenneth,
and Tristan were all in here somewhere, and she should have been able to
hear them shuffling around and bumping into mirrors as they tried to
find their way in the darkness. But she heard nothing. Were they all
standing still and listening like her? It hardly seemed likely, but then
why was it so damn quiet in here?

She supplied her own answer. Because it's not just a hall of mirrors
anymore, she thought. It's changed, like the rest of the park. But into
what, she had no idea.

352

She decided to risk whispering. "Autumn? Tristan? Where are you?" She
strained to hear a reply, but none came. She tried calling their names
again, louder this time, but with the same result.

Frustrated and scared, she shouted, "Would one of you do me a favor and
imagine a light switch?" But there was no answer and the Spectatorium
wasn't suddenly flooded with illumination. She continued standing there
in the darkness by the entrance, covered with stinking blood-cum, and
thought.

So many of the changes caused by her power were either exaggerations of
reality or reversals of it. So how might a hall of mirrors be affected?
The curved and rippled glass presented distorted versions of the viewer,
making one appear thinner, fatter, taller, shorter and so on. What was
an exaggeration of that? To actually cause those distortions to happen
to the viewer's body? Maybe, but Damara didn't feel any physical
transformation happening to her. Besides, it was dark, there was no
light for the mirrors to reflect. So how about an opposite effect? Maybe
instead of reflecting light, these mirrors reflected darkness. No, what
would reflected darkness be but simply more darkness? Besides, it didn't
feel right.

Then it came to her. Mirrors normally reflected. The opposite of that
would be to absorb.

She reached out with a surprisingly steady hand and felt around for a
smooth glass surface. She felt nothing, though, and she began to fear
that maybe there weren't any mirrors in here, that there was

353

only darkness and the unseen things that dwelled within it. But her
fingertips finally came in contact with cool smoothness and she knew
she'd found a mirror at last. She pushed, not hard at first, but with
mounting pressure. She thought she could feel the glass surface begin to
yield beneath her fingers, but she wasn't sure. And then, as if finally
breaking the surface tension of a giant bubble, Damara felt her hand
slide forward, and she was suddenly thrown off balance. She stumbled
forward and felt a momentary sensation of cold pass over her body as if
she'd just stepped through a curtain of flowing water. Then she was on
the other side and fighting to keep from falling flat on her face. It
was a near thing, but she managed to maintain her balance, if only just.

Wherever she was, it was still as dark as before, but the air felt
different. Cooler, cleaner, less oppressive ... and she could no longer
smell the stench of blood-cum wafting from her clothes and hair. She
reached up to touch herself, intending to pat her shirt, hair, pants to
see if they were dry, but the passage must've numbed her hand because
she felt nothing. She tried to lift her foot and stamp it down, but she
heard no sound, felt no impact, and she wasn't sure she'd actually
stamped her foot at all.

"Hello? Anyone here?"

Her voice sounded flat, as if it didn't travel very far after leaving
her mouth.

"I'm here, Dee."

She saw nothing in the darkness, but she heard

354

the voice clearly enough. It was her father's, and it seemed to come
from right next to her. No, rather from inside her.

"Daddy?" She reached toward where his voice had seemed to come from, but
nothing was there. Nothing she could touch, anyway. "Is that you? Really
you?"

"Yes, sweetheart. I wish I could touch you ... hug you ... but we aren't
exactly physical beings in here. At least, I think that's how it works."
He sounded slightly embarrassed. "To tell you the truth, even after all
these years, I'm not really sure."

That would explain why Damara hadn't been able to feel anything since
she'd come here. "But what about our voices? I can hear us speak."

"Do you feel your mouth and tongue move? Your throat vibrate?"

"No," she realized. "I don't."

"We can hear each other's thoughts in this place, but that's all we can do."

"Where are we?"

"Inside a mirror. We're inhabiting a two-dimensional space between a
sheet of glass and a silver backing. If there were light, we might be
able to see something, but then again, maybe not. I've never had the
chance to check. There hasn't been so much as a flicker of light in here
since I entered, and who knows how many years that's been?"

"Seventeen," Damara said.

"Seventeen years," her father repeated, his

355

mental voice heavy with both wonder and sadness. "That would make you
... twenty-eight. My god, my little girl is all grown up. What I
wouldn't give to be able to see you right now. I bet you look just like
your mother did at your age."

Damara experienced a pang of sorrow. She tried to imagine what it
must've been like for her father to be trapped inside a mirror for so
long. In the dark, alone, not dead but not truly alive, either.
Suspended between one world and another, held trapped and immobile but
fully aware every moment, every instant... for seventeen years.

"Daddy, I have to tell you something. It's about Mom ..."

"I know. Not the specific details, but I can sense that she's gone. It
was one of the first thoughts I picked up from you once you entered the
mirror."

"Then you're aware of what's happening in the park?"

"Yes. I've been here so long, I'm connected to Riverfork now, literally
a part of the place. I know about the transformation the park's
undergone and how it wants you to stay here and continue feeding on your
power so it can remain alive and aware."

"Daddy, there's so much I want to tell you ... so much that I want to
apologize for..." Emotionally, she felt as if she were crying, but she
felt no tears rolling down her cheeks, no tightness in her throat.

"There's no need to apologize. It's not your fault you were born with
your power. If your mother

356

and I had reacted to it better, tried to help you accept it... but we
didn't. We were too afraid, so we tried to pretend that it didn't exist.
Not the best of plans as it turned out, eh?"

"But if I hadn't snuck out that night ... hadn't come to Riverfork..."

"I've had plenty of time to go over what-ifs, Dee, and believe me when I
tell you they don't get you anywhere. What if I hadn't followed you that
night? Maybe you'd have been trapped here instead of me. Maybe Riverfork
would've fed on your power all these years and who knows what it
might've become then? What if my mother--your grandma--had never read
Alice Through the Looking Glass to me? Then maybe I wouldn't have been
frightened by this place as a child and my adult imagination never
would've caused me to be trapped in here. Maybe I would've made it home,
been able to be a father to you and a husband to your mom. What-ifs and
maybes will kill you if you let them. We are here now, and we have a
problem to deal with. How are we going to free you and your friends and
return Riverfork to normal?"

"Tristan and Autumn are here, too?"

"And Kenneth," Jerry Ruschmann confirmed. "They're in different mirrors,
so we can't hear them and they can't hear us. I've been here long enough
that I can sense their presence as well as what they're feeling. Autumn
is scared, Tristan's trying to figure out a way to escape, and Kenneth
is raging over being imprisoned and separated from Autumn. None of them
have the power to

357

break free of their mirrors, just as I don't have the power to break
free from mine. Only you have the power, Dee. Only you can set us all free."

"But I can't! It's like Tristan said, I'm a psychic Typhoid Mary, a
carrier but not a user. Others can draw on my power and wield it to
shape reality, but I can't!"

"You haven't tried. You don't want to. But that's not the same thing as
can't."

Damara thought then of what Wheeler had said.

You haven't tried to control it. Not really. You've tried to suppress
it, girlie-girl. Big difference. Maybe if you'd accepted your power,
embraced it, you'd have gained some measure of control over it by now.

"Even if it's possible, how am I suddenly supposed to know how to use my
power when I've spend my whole life trying not to?"

"You aren't supposed to know. You can't know. There aren't any
assurances in life, Dee. All you can do is try and see what happens."

Damara thought about this for a time. When she finally responded to her
father, her mental voice sounded small and weak.

"But I'm afraid."

"Of course you are, sweetheart. But you can't let that fear stop you,
not if you want to save Autumn and Tristan from a lifetime isolated in
darkness."

Damara's fear didn't diminish and she doubted it ever would. But she'd
seen too much of what could happen when her power was left uncontrolled.
For good or ill, she had to try to learn to

358

use it. For Autumn, for Tristan, and for herself, so that she
might--just might--find a measure of peace at last.

"All right, I'll try. Any advice?"

"From your thoughts I can see that over the years you've used a
particular image to help you suppress your power. Use it again, but this
time adapt the image and use it to set your power free. And don't forget
that even if you can't physically feel my presence, I'm right beside
you, Dee, and I'll be lending you every bit of mental support I can."

"Thanks, Dad." Reassured, Damara turned her mind to the task of freeing
her power once and for all.

The only image that she could think of that her father might have meant
was the polar bear in a snowstorm. She'd always used this image, and the
field of white nothingness that it conjured in her mind, as a way to
close down her imagination so that her power would have nothing to feed
on. But her father had suggested she use the image as fodder for her
power. But how was she supposed to do that? Maybe, instead of just
imagining blank whiteness, she should try to imagine a real snowstorm.

She thought of cold ... cold so intense that your nose hairs freeze when
you inhale, and the frigid air hits your lungs like blades of ice
slicing into the soft pink tissue inside. She thought of wind ... wind
so fast and fierce that it strikes flesh like a thousand barbed-wire
whips, flaying skin and cutting into the bone beneath, blood and marrow
oozing forth only to be frozen solid. She

359

thought of snow and ice, crystals so cold, clear, pure, and sharp that
they tumble on the air like a flight of miniature shurikens, no two
exactly alike in shape, but every single one of them deadly.

Though previously she'd been bereft of sensation in this strange dark
place, now she began to feel the cold air caressing her skin, curling
down her throat and into her lungs, which tried in vain to warm it. Felt
herself exhale and thought she saw a puff of white before her eyes as
breath misted out from between her lips. She saw faint white patterns of
frost begin to form before her eyes-- maybe on her eyes?--and she heard
a soft cracking sound as if of glass becoming brittle in reaction to the
intense cold. The frost continued gathering until what had been a world
of unrelieved darkness had become a world of white.

She then began to imagine polar bears. Huge, savage, majestic creatures
with shaggy white fur, black padded feet, obsidian claws, feral yellow
eyes, and sharp ivory teeth. Dozens, no, hundreds of them, standing
upright--twelve feet high or more--on a vast arctic plain, oblivious to
the maelstrom of snow, ice, and wind that swirled around them. She
imagined the bears opening their great ursine maws and releasing a
combined roar. The sound was deafening, easily drowning out the raging
fury of the snowstorm, and it seemed to reverberate throughout all
existence. Damara felt the vibrations in her body, her mind, and in her
soul. She gritted her teeth--though she still wasn't precisely sure she
had teeth in this

360

placeless place on the other side of the mirror-- closed her eyes, and
pictured raising her arms over her face to protect herself when all at
once Creation shattered.

Damara felt suddenly heavy again, like she was walking back onto shore
after a long period of being buoyed by water. She fell forward, and put
her hands out to catch herself as she hit snow studded with shards of
broken glass. She felt sharp pain as her hands and forearms were cut,
but she didn't care; she was too glad to be free. She lay in the snow
for a moment, bleeding from where she'd been cut, but not bleeding
badly, all things considered. She sat up halfway--ignoring the splashes
of crimson in the white snow--and looked around the interior of
Alacrity's Spectatorium. The real interior. The roof had partially
collapsed some years ago, allowing more than enough early evening
sunlight streaming in for her to see by.

Sunlight? That meant that Kenneth's black clouds were gone! She felt
like cheering, but she held her exuberance in check. What of Autumn and
Tristan? What of her father?

She saw no sign of her dad, but both Autumn and Tristan lay several
yards away from Damara, both of them motionless. The interior of
Alacrity's Spectatorium was covered with mounds of snow, and there were
no intact mirrors visible; it appeared they'd all been reduced to glass
shards when the polar bears had roared. The snowstorm was over now,
though. No more wind, snow or ice. She thought she detected a line of
large tracks on

361

the far side of the building, as if a great number of bears had stood up
on their hind legs there. But if any bears had been present, there were
none now.

Damara was torn about which of her friends to go to first, Tristan or
Autumn. Finally, she chose Autumn and made her way across the
snow-covered floor toward her, almost slipping and falling a couple
times, but she managed to keep her footing until she'd reached the
girl's side. Damara knelt next to Autumn and was relieved to discover
she was still breathing. Damara sat and cradled the girl's head on her
lap while she gently stroked her cheeks. She visually examined Autumn's
body and face for lacerations, but she saw only a few shallow cuts,
thank god.

"Wake up, Autumn. It's all over."

It took a few more moments of cheek-rubbing and speaking softly on
Damara's part before Autumn's eyes finally flickered open.

Damara smiled in relief. "Glad to see you're still with us."

Autumn frowned in confusion. "Where are we? Where did all this snow come
from? The last thing I remember is Kenneth chasing me. He didn't ... get
me, did he?"

"No, sweetie. He didn't get anyone." Damara helped Autumn up into a
sitting position. "Do you think you'll be okay for a minute while I go
check on Tristan?"

Autumn didn't look fully conscious yet, but she nodded and Damara got up
and hurried over to Tristan. He had rolled onto his side and was

362

groaning, which Damara took to be a fairly good indication that he was
still alive. He had a jagged shard of glass embedded in his left
shoulder and a number of cuts on his face, most of them shallow, but one
or two were serious enough to need medical attention, if not
immediately, then soon. But that glass in his shoulder definitely called
for a trip to the hospital.

He sat up as Damara knelt next to him. "Please tell me I don't look as
bad as I feel."

She smiled. "That depends. How bad do you feel?"

Tristan touched a hand to his shoulder wound and winced in pain. "Like I
was hit by a truck and the sonofabitch driving backed up to finish the job."

"In that case, you do look as bad as you feel. Maybe even worse."

Tristan started to laugh, but then his laughter gave way to a series of
dry barking coughs. Damara patted his back until his coughing spell was
over. Since Tristan was the worst of them, Damara motioned for Autumn to
crawl over and join them. The girl did so, though injured, still moving
with the ease and confidence that only the young possessed. Autumn took
one of Tristan's hands and began patting it gently.

"Do you think he'll be okay?" Autumn asked Damara.

"I think so," Damara said. "But we need to get him to a doctor as soon as--"

Before she could finish, a large mound of snow in front of them burst
apart to reveal Kenneth's

363

shivering naked body. He stood up, wrinkly skin blue-tinged, the gash
between his legs seething with angry darkness.

"Thanks for getting me out of there, Damara." Kenneth looked down
between his legs. "Too bad you didn't dream me up a new cock while you
were at it. Oh, well. Maybe next time, right?"

Autumn let out a wordless cry of fright and grabbed hold of Damara.
Tristan didn't move, but he said, "You understand what's been happening
and that Damara's power was the cause of it all?"

Kenneth nodded. "Once I sucked in the jumbo-sized tequila worm that was
going after Autumn, I had a ... connection, I guess you could say, to
the park. I understand everything, more or less."

"And you don't feel anything?" Tristan said. "Guilt, remorse, disgust,
shame?"

Kenneth grinned. "Why should I? I like what I've become, and once I've
absorbed Damara-- along with you and Autumn, Tristan, just for fun--
maybe I'll have her power then. Can you imagine all the things I could
do with it?"

A wild glint came into Kenneth's eyes, and Damara knew he was picturing
a world re-created in his own vile image. She also knew that he was
completely and irrevocably insane. She tried to think of a way to stop
him, but before she could, he spread his legs wider and the dark vortex
at the center of his mutilated crotch began pulling at them. Wind flared
to life and snow flew past them and vanished within Kenneth's ebony
gash. Damara held tight to Autumn and Tristan, and desperately

364

tried to concentrate. If only her father were here ...

Above the roaring of the wind, Damara heard a soft tinkling, as if
someone were sifting through a pile of glass shards. She turned her head
and saw her father standing a few yards away. No, not Jerry Ruschmann,
not precisely. It was his image, his reflection cast into hundreds of
mirror shards that had joined together to approximate the form of a
human being. Each piece of glass contained a different fragment of
Jerry's reflection, so that he appeared to be a patchwork re-creation of
the man he'd been seventeen years ago.

Damara remembered what her father had told her. I've been here so long,
I'm connected to Riverfork now, literally a part of the place. That was
why he hadn't been released from his mirror like the rest of them. He'd
become the mirror.

"You know something, Kenneth?" Jerry said, his voice muffled as if he
spoke from behind a glass barrier. "I never liked you. You were a lousy
neighbor."

And then the glass amalgamation that was Jerry Ruschmann started running
toward Kenneth, mirror fragments bouncing and quivering as if they were
being held together solely by the force of the man's will. When Jerry
closed to within six feet of Kenneth, he leaped toward him, hands
outstretched, and his mirror body separated into a hailstorm of deadly
sharp glass.

Kenneth shrieked as pieces of Jerry Ruschmann sliced into his body, and
the wind pulling at

365

Damara, Tristan, and Autumn suddenly died. Kenneth, glass shards
protruding from nearly every inch of his body, blood pouring from dozens
of wounds, turned to look at them, his eyes wide with surprise as if he
couldn't believe this was really happening. Then he fell sideways onto
the snow and lay still, the white around him absorbing his blood and
becoming bright red.

Several long moments passed while Damara, Tristan, and Autumn stared at
Kenneth's motionless body. Finally, it was Autumn who gave voice to the
question all three of them were asking.

"Is it over?"

Kenneth's body jerked as a pair of metal shears thrust their way out of
the opening between his legs.

"Not quite," Damara said.

Huddled together, the three of them watched as Emma Colton cut her way
free from her husband's corpse. She pulled herself out, slick with blood
and viscera, as if the husband was giving birth to the wife. Once she
was finally free, she stood and gasped for breath.

"I thought I'd never find my way back," she said. Along with her late
husband's gore, Emma's skin was covered with black boils large as
clenched fists. She turned to Damara, Tristan, and Autumn, then smiled.

"Now that Kenneth is finally out of the way, will you be so kind as to
hand over Autumn? If you do, I'll consider letting you leave here with a
majority of your body parts intact."

Damara ignored the woman. "C'mon," she said

366

to Autumn, and together she and the girl helped Tristan to his feet.
Leaning on each other, the three of them started walking through the
snow-covered floor toward the exit.

"Don't you dare turn your backs on me!" Emma said.

"We're leaving," Damara answered. "We've had enough of this shit to last
us a lifetime."

"You'll have had enough when I say you've had enough!" Her shears
snicked together ominously as she started after them.

Damara didn't bother to turn around. "You know those boils of yours,
Emma? Right now I'm imagining that instead of welts, they're eggs."

Damara, Tristan, and Autumn continued toward the exit, accompanied first
by the sounds of popping flesh, then by Emma's screams as the newly
hatched and very hungry larvae began to feed.

367

Chapter Twenty-four

Outside the ruined, half-collapsed building that had once housed
Alacrity's Spectatorium, Damara, Tristan, and Autumn stood looking up at
the sky. It was clear now, and orange blazed on the western horizon as
the sun prepared to retire for yet another day. The ground was dry--the
blood-cum was gone, if indeed it had ever truly been here-- and the park
was once again deserted. No happy fifties sitcom families, no S&M
mutants ... just them.

And the park, of course. It might look like nothing more than a
collection of abandoned rides and attractions, but Damara could sense it
watching them, could feel its need. It didn't want them to go, didn't
want to lose its self-awareness and lapse back into a dream state from
which it might never again awaken.

Stay! It was Wheeler's voice, and it seemed to come floating to Damara
on a gentle but insistent

368

breeze. You know how to control your power now. You can restore
Riverfork to its former grandeur, make it even better than it was, make
it into a paradise!

The park shimmered around them as it came to wondrous, glorious life.
Everything was bright, shiny, clean, and beautiful. The rides were
larger, more intricate, more exciting, more fun than those in any other
amusement park on earth. The food and drink were exquisite, so sweet, so
delicious, that a single taste would eclipse the high from any drug ever
known. The air was filled with music and laughter and the soft whispers
of a thousand voices urging them to stay, stay, stay ...

Autumn looked around, eyes wide with joy and disbelief. "Oh, how pretty!
I wish we could stay here forev--"

Damara clamped a hand over the girl's mouth, silencing her.

"No, you don't."

With an almost audible sigh, Riverfork shimmered once more and became
what it had been and what it was destined to remain. An old forgotten
place that had once seen happier times, a memory cast in rotting wood,
crumbling concrete, rusting metal, and nothing more.

"Damara, maybe I should stay," Tristan said. "I mean, if I'm not real--"

"You're real enough," Damara said. "We'll worry about the details later."

Tristan smiled, nodded, and the three of them

369

began hobbling toward the exit. They had a long way to go, but that was
all right. They weren't in any hurry. Not anymore.

When they finished their meal, the younglings unfurled rainbow-colored
wings and took to the air, abandoning the stripped skeleton of the body
that had served as both their incubator and first home. Each of them was
small, hardly larger than a real butterfly, but they were already
growing ... and growing fast. They circled above the snow-covered floor,
the pristine white dotted with mirror fragments, splashes of crimson,
and the remains of two people: a gutted corpse that had been split open
from throat to crotch, and a skeleton with a pair of long metal shears
fused to the bones of its right wrist. Husband and wife, united in death
in a way they never had been in life.

And then, one by one, the younglings soared upward and through the open
spaces in the partially collapsed roof. They hovered above the abandoned
amusement park for a time, listening, as if waiting for something--a
signal or sign--to tell them what to do next. Perhaps it came to them,
perhaps not, but after a while they began to disperse, some flying east,
some west, some north, some south.

Maybe you're right, Mara. Maybe there's no way to completely know what
rules--if any--your power operates by. One thing seems clear, though.
Once a change begins, it keeps going whether

370

you're present or not. It's like people carry a piece of your power with
them.

The younglings scattered in all directions, bearing with them the dark
seeds from which tomorrow would be born.

371 TIM WAGGONER wrote his first story at the age of five when he
created a comic book version of the film King Kong vs. Godzilla on a
stenographer's pad. It took him a few more years until he began selling
professionally, though.

Since then, Tim has written and published novels for both adult and
young readers, including The Harmony Society, Temple of the
Dragonslayer, Return of the Sorceress, Dark Ages: Gangrel, Exalted: A
Shadow Over Heaven's Eye, Necropolis and Defender: Hyperswarm. He is
also the author of the short story collection All Too Surreal. He's
published over seventy short stories in the fantasy and horror genres,
and his articles on writing have appeared in Writer's Digest, Writers'
Journal, New Writer's Magazine, Ohio Writer, Speculations and Teaching
English in the TwoYear College. He teaches creative writing at Sinclair
Community College in Dayton, Ohio.

His home page is located at www.timwaggoner.com.