A collection of psychological thrillers and mind-bending horror stories, with bonus tales from William Meikle and John Everson.

HEAD CASES

By Scott Nicholson

Copyright ©2010 by Scott Nicholson

Published at Smashwords by Haunted Computer Books

HauntedComputer.com

For my former counselors, may you rest in peace…or at least in pieces.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. Fear Goggles

2. Beggar’s Velvet

3. The White House by John Everson

4. Heal Thyself

5. Metabolism

6. Letters And Lies

7. The Weight of Silence

8. Wee Robbie by William Meikle

9. Do You Know Me Yet?

About the Author

Bonus article: The Writing Life

Other books by Scott Nicholson

OTHER BOOKS BY SCOTT NICHOLSON:

Disintegration

Speed Dating with the Dead

The Red Church

Drummer Boy

As I Die Lying

Forever Never Ends

Burial to Follow

Cursed! (with J.R. Rain)

Flowers

Ashes

The First

Curtains: Mystery Stories

Murdermouth: Zombie Bits

Gateway Drug

Transparent Lovers

Creative Spirit

Troubled

Solom

The Gorge

October Girls (as L.C. Glazebrook)

FEAR GOGGLES

By Scott Nicholson

“God, please help me see things as they are.”

A simple prayer, one that Elvin Meister thought even God could understand. Of course, God was also the same perverted architect who had built Overton from the ground up, with its threatening spires and plenty of shadowed, teeming alleys. Such a God could not be trusted, but Elvin had been taught that prayers never hurt, even if they often fell on deaf ears.

Elvin’s eyes had been bothering him for some time. He’d first noticed a month ago, when the talking head on the television screen grew ears that were slightly elongated and pointy, like those of a marsupial.

“Gretta,” he’d said to his wife of seven years. “Does the picture look strange to you?”

Gretta, busy in the kitchen with clattering dishes and a gurgling coffee pot, gave her usual impatient sigh and said, “The Tylers down the hall just got a flat screen and we’re still stuck with an antenna,” she said. “Of course the picture’s strange.”

She’d passed judgment without bothering to glance at the screen, and when the man’s eyes narrowed and his pupils turned a deep shade of red, Elvin decided the color aspect was shot and hurriedly flipped off the set before the image disintegrated further.

But he couldn’t chalk off last week’s incident to scrambled electrons or burned-out picture tubes. He’d been walking to his job at the corner deli, where he spent his days elbow-deep in sauerkraut and shredded corned beef, when the thing fluttered past his feet. He thought at first it was a pigeon, one of the thousands that strafed the city with fecal fusillades. But this one had been darker, more leathery, and vastly less feathery than its flying kin, and Elvin could have sworn, just before it disappeared into the rusted gap in an eave, that it had a long, decidedly non-avian tail. In fact, it had resembled a strip of shoe leather, coiled and quivering.

He hurried on down the sidewalk. The faces around him, those dots of eyes and gash mouths that marked the millions, seemed even more blank and washed-out than usual. Elvin fought an urge to grab a passerby, peer closely into a face, and demand acknowledgement. In Overton, you wanted to be invisible and ignored. That was the way, and the sooner you accepted it, the longer you lived.

If you could call this “living.”

He’d made it through that day, convinced he was merely going through one of the phases Gretta had always ascribed to him. Moody, paranoid, given to long hours by the window, scarcely talking. These selfish fugues didn’t happen as often as she claimed, but Elvin had to admit a certain truth in her words. But he couldn’t discuss such things with her. There were certain matters of which one didn’t speak.

Until last night.

After separate showers, him going last so she could have as much hot water as she desired, he was brushing his teeth when he stared into the grimy mirror and saw his ears exhibiting the same distorted growth as the television announcer’s.

“Honey?” he’d said.

She was already under blankets, propped up on three pillows, a celebrity gossip magazine on her austere lap. Of course, she wouldn’t budge from such a position and resented any suggestion that she might. “What is it now?”

He touched one ear, his inquisitive fingers rubbing the tip. It was rounded, defying the reflected image. But in the mirror, his fingers were tipped with long, yellowed, and cracked nails.

Elvin dropped his hand and it knocked against the sink. It was normal, wrinkled, with tufts of wiry hair. His hand. Not the hand in the mirror. He’d dared another glance, half expecting to see some sort of discoloration in his pupils or irises.

No. Still him, and his ears were back to normal.

But what was normal?

“What is it?” Gretta’s voice rose in pitch and brittleness. Apologies were in order.

“Nothing,” he said. “I was wondering if I should put toothpaste on the shopping list.”

“How should I know? You’re the one who brushes his teeth eight times a day.”

It was true. Phobia of germs. Which Gretta didn’t mind, because it saved needless kisses. He peeled back his upper lip, saw one of his incisors had grown pointed. His mouth closed with a plop, he turned out the light, and then made for bed, falling asleep without benefit of either prayers or matrimonial affection.

He could have convinced himself those were brief delusions suffered by a hapless fantasist if not for this morning’s breakfast. The eggs, sunny side up, had oozed red when he probed them with the fork. Gretta, an adequate cook, had remarked on his lack of appetite while she cleared the table. As she busied herself with pots and rags, Elvin slipped away and called in sick at work, then made an appointment with the eye doctor.

It was in the waiting room where Elvin had witnessed that simple prayer for clear vision, cross-stitched into brown burlap material and hung on the wall in a simple frame. Elvin repeated the words to himself, measuring their simplicity.

“God, please help me see things as they are.”

“Excuse me?” A woman across from him in a worn vinyl chair peeked over the top of her interior design magazine. Her lips quivered like two encased snakes.

He grinned and pointed to the wall. “I wonder if that’s some sort of eye test,” he said. “See how the letters are fuzzy? Get it? They’re threads.”

She frowned and returned to her magazine. Elvin was about to continue, to make the comparison between the bad lettering and the way telemarketers whispered into the phone when trying to seduce you into buying hearing aids. Instead, he decided to take the framed sign’s message to heart and assume her tight lips signaled a desire for solitude.

Solitude. The most precious commodity in Overton. Elvin often thought he was the only one who held such a philosophical leaning. It wasn’t the kind of thing one could talk about in coffee houses. After all, they’d all come from somewhere. And they’d all ended up here together.

“Mr. Meister,” came a voice from the interior door, and he found himself shepherded through a series of halls by a thin, good-looking woman whose taut rear end somehow managed to devolve into a sack of wiggling rats by the time she deposited him in an examination room.

No blood pressure check, no inquiries into his medical history. No insurance forms, no paperwork of any kind. A most unusual office. And the room had no eye charts, no soothing instructional posters, no advertisements for prescription medicine. In fact, the room resembled the antechamber of a holding cell. It was devoid of all furniture except a single padded chair with metal armrests.

A clock hung on the wall. It was the old-fashioned kind with a twitching arm that counted off seconds. Except this one seemed stuck. The long, needle-like appendage quivered as if preparing to leap into an undetermined future, but some invisible wire held it back.

Elvin sat in the chair, trying to ignore the irritating clock.

Face. It had a face.

And it was staring at him.

He flicked his eyes to the clock. Just the dumb hands pointing to three and seven, the second hand caught in an eternal spasm. Numbers ringing a round, white background. No red eyes, no elongated ears.

A face without a mouth, no sharp, threatening teeth behind a sick grin.

He turned the chair until it was facing the opposite wall. He had no idea how long he’d been waiting. He guessed five minutes, though it could have been ten thousand hummingbird hammers of the dead second hand.

At last the door opened. A round face, a real face, the eyes swollen and distorted behind thick lenses, appeared in the crack.

“Oh, sorry, I must have the wrong room,” the man said, and the door closed with a click.

Moments later, a knock came.

“Yes?” Elvin called.

Muffled, “May I come in?”

“I suppose.”

The door opened and the same man appeared. He was short, wearing a plain white lab coat with oversize pockets, a piece of elastic cable dangling from one of them. A few black wires of hair crossed his bald skull. He walked with the air of a distracted man, rubbing his chin. “A most peculiar situation,” the man said.

“Excuse me? Are you the doctor?”

The man, who had been pacing in front of him like a lifer in a lockdown, stopped and looked up as if he’d forgotten Elvin were there. “Doctor? Heavens, no, and you should be grateful.” He leaned forward like a conspirator. “You wouldn’t want the doctor. Not in this place. No, not all.”

“Are you a patient?”

“No, I’m quite impatient. That’s why they sent me here.”

Elvin, who was used to suppressing confusion, only nodded. “This is one of those things we don’t talk about, right?”

“You mean, like on the outside?”

“Yes. Where we all have to pretend everything is okay and that birds don’t have teeth and snakes don’t talk and my wife doesn’t have worms in her hair.”

“We don’t talk about those things.” The man resumed pacing, his hands thrust in his pockets. Elvin looked at the floor and noticed the paint on the concrete floor was actually worn. This man, or others like him, had marked the route by miles of directionless trudging

“What things?” Elvin asked, trying to sound casual. He well knew what things. The kind of things one couldn’t talk about.

“You’ve seen them, of course.” A statement, not a question.

Elvin risked a glance at the clock. The second hand was moving, and perhaps had been all along. “Them?”

“The other things.”

“What other things?” Elvin thought about mentioning the television announcer with the pointy ears, but then he’d have to lump himself into the same category as the bald man. After all, in the mirror, his reflection had looked every bit as supernatural. And who knew whether such things were good or evil? In Overton, the lines not only blurred, they blended together into one gray, greasy tapestry.

The man stopped pacing and went to the door. “You know.”

As the door closed behind the man, Elvin stood. The clock had marked off seven minutes. Elvin looked at the worn strip on the floor. He stepped into the middle of it, turned and faced the bare wall. One step, two, three, and he was at the stack of cold concrete blocks. Turning, six steps the other way to the opposite wall. There was no future in it, and barely a present. He retreated to the chair.

After five more minutes, he went to the door and tried the handle. Locked. Gretta would be worried.

No. She didn’t worry about anything. Especially him.

He knocked.

After a moment, the door opened. It was the balding man with the thick glasses. “Yes?”

“May I come out?” Elvin said.

“You mean, may you come in?”

Elvin looked behind him. Come to think of it, the door had opened inside the room when he’d entered, and now it swung to the outside. He peered past the man, trying to remember what the hall had looked like. “I have an appointment.”

“With the doctor?”

“Yes. Where’s the nurse who brought me here? Can I see her?”

“I don’t know whether you can see her or not. What’s the condition of your eyes?”

“My eyes are fine.”

“That’s what they all say. I said it once myself.” As if to make a point, the man removed his glasses and rubbed the lenses with the hem of his lab coat. Naked, his eyes were milky and dull.

“What are you in for?” Elvin said. The man was obviously a patient of some sort. Mental breakdown, post-traumatic stress disorder, substance abuse. The options were unlimited.

“I’m in for life,” the man said. “This is Overton.”

Elvin had developed an itch just above his elbow. He scratched idly. Something fell to the floor. He looked around the legs of the chair. Scales, like those from a reptile, lay scattered like confetti.

“Ah,” the myopic man said. “You’re changing.”

“I don’t know where those came from.” In the small room, Elvin’s breathing seemed far too loud for his lungs.

“No blood under your fingernails,” he replied, nodding. “That’s good. There’s still time.”

Elvin glanced at the clock. It was stuck again, back where it had been when he first noticed it. At least it was still faceless. “Time for what?”

“Fitting,” the man said. “The doctor will be along shortly.” The man hurried from the room, the door closing firmly behind him. Swinging the wrong way again.

But which was the right way? In or out, doors worked both ways. Seeing or not seeing, the thing was the same. If your eyes were closed, and your pupils turned red, would you notice? Would they still be red in the dark?

He tried to stand, to run for the door, knowing it would be locked. Or worse, that it would open onto a world where the skins and faces and veils that disguised the monsters inside would have all fallen away. A world where Gretta had double rows of sharp teeth and a long, curling anteater’s tongue flicking behind them. One where the pigeons no longer pretended to wear feathers and gave way to rough scales. One where the dog at the end of a leash was now a dragon, snorting and roaring fire. Where the customers at the delicatessen wanted their meat fresh and raw.

With great effort, he forced his legs to stiffen and for gravity to yield. He stepped forward and found himself in the worn groove of those who had walked before. He walked in their footsteps yet again, going nowhere and getting there, time after time.

A knock at the door stopped him. He was two steps from the chair. Should he return and sit? Or would that be the expected behavior? If it was the expected behavior, would he be better off submitting to it or defying it?

He had no opportunity to decide. The door opened, swinging outward this time, the hinges on the opposite jamb now. It was the bald man with the thick glasses.

“I thought you said the doctor would see me now,” Elvin said, feeling awkward standing in the walking track.

“I see you.”

“You’re the doctor?”

“We are each a patient,” he said, fumbling in his lab-coat pocket. He pulled the elastic cord from it. “Would you please sit?”

Elvin eyed the door and sat. He could always call for help if necessary. But what would respond? The nurse with the twitching skin, which probably housed a thousand vermin beneath it? The snake-lipped woman in the waiting room? The dozens, thousands, walking the false concrete of Overton, hiding their true natures?

He sat. The doctor stretched the cord on the floor.

“Whatever you do, don’t step across this line,” the doctor said. He leaned close and raised an index finger. “Keep your head still and look at this.”

Elvin watched the finger ease back and forth in the air. He focused on the blistered whorl, skin that peeled itself as he watched, an absurd banana stripping away to reveal milk-white fruit beneath.

“Focus on the finger,” the doctor urged in a calm voice.

Elvin did. The pale meat gave way to pink veins, a knuckle of bone.

Behind the mesmerizing motion, Elvin sensed more than saw, the man’s face was changing. Flesh swelled in his jowls, the eyeballs receded, an unwholesome evanescence issued from his glittering irises. Elvin blinked despite himself but the soothing voice kept him focused.

“The finger, Mr. Meister.”

The finger. The face behind it bulged like a bag of living soup. But Elvin ignored it as much as he could.

“There are things we don’t talk about,” the doctor said.

“Yes.”

“Childish things. A dust monster under the bed, a creature in the closet, a reptile in the bathroom. Invisible things, such as microorganisms in our mouths and on our skin.”

“We don’t talk about them.”

“Because they are not real.”

“Even if we see them.”

“It’s all in how you look at things, Mr. Meister. You can choose to be afraid, or you can see things the way they are.”

“Afraid.” Elvin fought an urge to stand, step across the elastic cord, and pace the worn route. But that would mean tearing his gaze from the finger, which was now rebuilding itself, knitting sinew and nerves, donning a dermal layer. Costuming itself for the elegant masquerade.

Elvin watched, the simple prayer running through his mind. “God, please help me see things the way they are.”

The doctor let the finger drop. Elvin met his eyes–horrible, red-weeping eyes, bulging like soft fruit after a heavy rain, magnified by the thick lenses. Elvin drew back in the chair.

“Ah,” the doctor said. “You are still seeing things.”

Elvin couldn’t speak. His tongue lay against the back of his teeth, a dead rat. He glanced at the clock. It quivered in place, stuck in no time, marking nothing.

“Try these.” The doctor removed the eyeglasses and turned them around, guiding the two earpieces along the sides of Elvin’s skull. Elvin closed his eyes.

“Please look at my finger,” the doctor said again, still madly deadpan.

“I can’t,” Elvin said.

“You must.”

“Why must I? I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not ill. My eyes are fine.”

“Your eyes function, but they don’t see correctly. There’s a big difference.”

“The prayer on the wall in the waiting room. Is that yours?”

The doctor patted Elvin on the arm. “No, those are God’s words. You’ll see, in time. Now, please open your eyes, Mr. Meister.”

Elvin did. The doctor’s face was bland and kind, the eyes clear, the pupils round, black dots. Behind him, the room was the same. The floor bore no path, the door handle was in the same place it had been when Elvin entered.

The clock ticked regularly, the second hand moving forward in an inexorable countdown toward forever. The glasses were heavy on the bridge of his nose and the plastic hooks dug into the backs of his ears.

“How do they fit?” the doctor asked.

Elvin adjusted them. “The lenses seem a little smeared.”

“You’ll get used to them.”

“Do I have to wear them all the time?”

“Well, you take them off to sleep, of course.”

Sleep. Did that mean the things would still creep and slither through his dreams? Half-glimpsed forms frolicking in the shadows of his subconscious mind?

Elvin stood, expecting to wobble as if he had stepped off a carnival ride. Instead, the floor was firm and his legs were steady. Strong, even. “Will I need a follow-up visit?”

“I don’t think so,” the doctor said. “You are fine. We all just need a little tune-up once in a while. We tend to stray from the path if we don’t keep focused on our day-to-day affairs.”

“The big picture,” Elvin said, nodding. “That’s not for us to worry about.”

“Ah, you’re better already.”

Elvin felt as a if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He hadn’t been this energetic in years. He wanted to skip and dance. He thrust his hand out and the doctor shook it, smiling.

The doctor opened the door, which swung on its hinges just fine, the way a proper door should. He stood aside and let Elvin go down the hall and back toward the waiting room. Elvin approached the counter as the doctor took a seat, grabbing a magazine off one of the tables.

“What do I owe?” he asked the nurse.

“This is a free clinic,” she said. “Government subsidized.” She called out, “Next patient, please.”

The doctor set aside his magazine and rose, heading back down the hall and toward the room Elvin had just exited. As he went through the door, Elvin imagined, for the briefest of moments, that the man had a long, reptilian tail. Elvin smiled. Imagination and nothing more.

He glanced at the wall, at the fuzzy little cross stitch. “God, please help me see things as they are.”

He would go home, along a sidewalk where all people were happy, all dogs sniffed and barked and behaved, all alleys offered up emptiness and light. No monsters, no flesheaters, no serpents. Gretta would be waiting at home, with a beautiful and warm smile and a well-balanced dinner and maybe some romance.

Elvin pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose, peering straight ahead, relieved. Things were as they were, and he finally saw them that way. How silly the problem, and how simple the solution.

It was all in how you looked at things. And, of course, in knowing what not to talk about.

It was as he exited the doctor’s office into the bright sunlight that he remembered the elastic cord, the one that doctor had warned him not to step over. He thought of that old children’s chant, “Step on a crack, break your momma’s back.”

If you didn’t see the cracks, then you couldn’t step on them. Because they weren’t there. The sidewalk was no challenge at all. He entered the world with new eyes, brave eyes, ones that would never again need to close in fear.

The pigeon flew out of the alley with a suddenness that defied its species. As Elvin ducked away instinctively, the glasses dropped from his face, the earpieces slick with sweat. The lenses shattered on the sparkling concrete.

And, in the blink of an eye, Overton fell into night.

Things, the kind of things one shouldn’t talk about, screamed and rustled and growled and clattered teeth and claw. They closed in, and, at last, even in the darkness, or perhaps because of it, Elvin finally saw things as they really were.

###

BEGGAR'S VELVET

By Scott Nicholson

Cynthia knew she should have left the light on.

Because now the noise came again, soft, like the purr of a rat or the settling of disturbed lint.

A layer of lint had gathered under her bed because she couldn’t clean there. She was afraid of that dark, mysterious space that had never been explained to her satisfaction. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and pictured the sea of dust, the fine powdered layers of accumulated motes. Beggar's velvet, she'd heard it called. But that thick gray fur didn't bother her. What bothered her was the beggar, the man that wore the dust, the creature that slept in the bright of day and made those terrible sounds at night.

The noise came again, a flutter or sigh. Louder tonight. The beggar must be more formed, closer to whole.

Cynthia had moved in three weeks ago, though the efficiency flat was a little beyond her means. She'd been attracted by the cleanliness, the wooden floors, the queen-sized four-poster in the bedroom. That, and the streetlights that burned outside the bedroom window. Best of all, the neighbors were within easy screaming distance.

Not that she would scream. If she screamed, the beggar would awaken, reach up with one monstrous hand and grab her around the ankle, tug her down twisted sheets and all, draw her into the deep, thick fog of the underthere. Better to bite her lip, close her eyes, and put the pillow around her head.

She shouldn't have moved so often. She should have stayed and faced him that first time, back when she had a roommate. So what if the roommate, a fellow college student, looked at Cynthia strangely when Cynthia crossed the room at a run and dived into the bed from several feet away? So what if the roommate poked fun because Cynthia always slept in socks? The roommate wasn't the one who had to worry about the beggar, because he only lived under Cynthia's bed.

Six months, and the roommate had forced Cynthia to leave. Cynthia's name wasn't on the lease, she was behind on her half of the bills, and she'd lost her job because she had to sleep during the day. Perhaps having to move out was for the best, though. Her roommate had started muttering strange languages in her sleep.

So Cynthia dropped out of college, worked the graveyard shift at the Hop'N Go, and took a cramped studio apartment downtown. That place lasted two months, and she'd ended up sleeping on the couch. Even with such a small space to work with, the beggar had still knitted himself into flesh, worked the lint into skin and flesh, formed arms and legs from the dust, shaped its terrible rasping mouth.

Though her new landlord said a professional cleaning crew had given the efficiency a white-glove treatment, the dust gathered fast, like clouds in a thunderstorm. The noises had started on the second night, so hushed that nobody would have heard them who didn't know what to listen for. Every night louder, every night another ounce of substance incorporated, every night a new muscle to be flexed.

But the beggar had never been as loud as he was tonight. Her night off from work, she should have known better. If only she had a friend to stay with, but she was a stranger in this city, locked out of the social circles by her odd hours. But here she was, in the dark, a silver swathe from the streetlight the only companion.

Except for her beggar.

Even with the pillow wrapped so tightly around her head that she could barely breath, the muted clatter reached her, chilled her, cut like a claw on bone. Maybe if she held her breath . . .

She did, her heart a distressed timpani, thudding in a merciless race to some vague coda.

But it worked. The rustling died, the velvet fell in upon itself, the dust settled back into its slumber. All was still in the underthere.

Cynthia couldn't hold her breath forever. Every time she exhaled, slowly, the air burning through her throat, the noises came again. With each new lungful of darkness, the beggar twitched. She should have slept with the light on. Not that the light made any difference.

But worse than the fear, the tension in her limbs and stomach from clenching in anticipation of his touch, would be actually seeing that hand rise above the edge of the mattress, claws glittering amid the matted gray fur, the beggar made flesh.

Better to imagine him, because she was sure her imagination could never paint as terrible a picture as reality could.

Better to hold her breath and swallow her whimpers and bathe in her own sweat than to peek out from under the blankets and see if tonight would be the night of the hand.

Better to lie here and never dream, eyes closed, better to wait for morning, morning, morning.

The next morning came as always, the sun strong and orange this time, not sulking behind clouds. It was the kind of morning where she could sleep, and no sounds rose from that strange land beneath the bed. She slept until early afternoon, then rose, still tired.

Cynthia always felt silly in the morning. She wasn't a child, after all. As Mom was so fond of reminding her.

With the sun so bright and the world busy outside, normal people on everyday errands, Cynthia almost had the courage to jump out of bed, go to the other side of the room, bend down on her hands and knees, and look at the empty space under the bed. Because everyone knew nothing was there. Just an old story to scare children with.

But she wouldn't dare look. Because he might look back, his eyes cold amongst the velvet, his hand reaching out, wanting to touch.

Cynthia shuddered, her bedclothes damp from perspiration. She kicked off the blankets and stretched her cramped body. She rolled off the side of the bed, looking between her legs. But he only stirred at night. The floor was safe.

She showered, brushed her teeth, adjusted the angle of the cabinet mirror so that she couldn't see the bed.

"Why don't you put the mattress on the floor?" her reflection asked. "That way, there would be no underthere."

"No," she said, a froth of toothpaste around her lips. "Then I'd be in the underthere. Lying right alongside him, or on top of him, or him on top of me, or something."

"It's only dust."

"From dust we come, to dust we go. Haven't you ever heard that?"

"Only crazy people talk to mirrors," her reflection said.

"You said it, I didn't."

Behind the mirror were drab vials with small pills. Pills could talk, if you let them. She couldn’t trust pills, not with those strange runes scribbled across their faces. One therapist said they made you shrink, another said they made you grow tall. She wasn’t that hungry.

The telephone rang. Cynthia went into the living room to answer it, standing so she could keep an eye under the bed. It was Mom.

"Hey, honey, how's school going?" Mom was five hundred miles away, but sounded twice as far.

"Great," Cynthia said, too loudly, too assuredly.

After a pause, Mom asked, "Have you had any more of your . . . problems?"

"They told me I was so much over it that I didn't need to come in for a while."

"I know we shouldn't talk about it--"

Yet they did. Every time they talked. As if this were all the two of them had in common. "I'm fine, Mom. Really."

"He wasn't like that when I married him. If only I had known--"

Here it came, the Capital-G Guilt Trip, as Mom shifted the blame from the one who deserved it onto Cynthia. That way, Mom wouldn't have any share of it. "I know I should have told you," Cynthia said. "But it's the kind of thing you just try to forget about. You lie to yourself about it, know what I mean?"

"Yes, honey, you're right. He's dead. Let's forget about him."

Forget who, Cynthia wanted to say. But lying to herself didn't do any good. "So, how's Aunt Reba?"

They talked about Aunt Reba, Mom's new car, and Cynthia's grades. Somehow Mom was never able to turn the conversation back to that sore spot she loved so much. Cynthia could never understand her mother's fixation with the past. Let the dead be dust.

"Got to go, Mom," Cynthia finally cut in. "Got class. Love you, bye."

Cynthia locked the apartment, left the beggar to his daydreams, and caught a bus downtown. A fat man with an anaconda face sat next to her.

"Afternoon for the pigeons," he said.

Cynthia stared straight ahead. She didn't want to hear him.

"At the airport, cannonball to the heart,' he said, thumping his chest for emphasis.

He didn't exist. None of them did, not him, not the Puerto Rican woman with the scars on her cheeks, not the longhair with the busted boom box, not the old man asleep under his beret. These people were nothing but hollow flesh. Formed from dust, passing through on their way back to dust.

The bus stopped and she got off, even though she was two blocks from her destination. "Cigarette weather," the fat man shouted after her.

She bought a hot dog from a street vendor, after checking under his cart to make sure the beggar wasn't hiding there. She sat on a park bench, ate the hot dog, and threw the wrapper into the bushes. Pigeons pecked at the paper.

The bench was perfect for a late afternoon nap. The seat was made of evenly-spaced wooden slats, so she could occasionally open her eyes and make sure the beggar wasn't lying on the ground beneath her. He could have been hiding in the shadows of the tall oaks. But he was most likely in her bedroom, waiting.

Cynthia's back ached by the time she awoke near dusk. At least some of the weariness, built up over months of restless nights, had ebbed away. She hurried around the corner, ignoring the strange people on the sidewalk. Their faces were blank in the glow of shop windows.

The counter clerk at the Hop'N Go nodded when Cynthia walked in the door. They settled the register, Cynthia mumbling responses to the clerk's attempts at conversation. Her shift started at ten, and she rang up cigarettes, condoms, candy bars, corn chips, shiny products in shiny wrappers, taking the money without touching the hands of those giving it. At midnight, the other clerk left and the beer sales increased.

At around two in the morning, a young man in an army jacket came through the door. It was that point in the shift when the wild-eyed ones came in, those who smelled of danger and sweat. Cynthia wasn't afraid of being robbed, though. Compared to the beggar, even a loaded automatic was a laughable threat. But this customer had no gun.

He placed a can of insect spray on the counter. His fingers were dirty.

"Four-seventeen," she said after ringing up the purchase.

"You don't look like the type of person who works a night shift at a convenience store," he said. He put a five in her hand.

She tried to smile the way the manager had taught her, but her face felt like a brick. She glanced into the man's eyes. They were bright, warm, focused.

"How fresh is the coffee?" he asked when she gave him change.

"I made it an hour ago."

"Bet you drink a few cups to get through the night. Always thought it was weird, people who didn't sleep in a regular cycle."

There was a button under the counter which she could press and send an alarm to the police. If he kept being friendly . . .

"It's natural to sleep when it's dark," he continued. He smiled, his rows of teeth even between his lips. He looked to be two or three years older than Cynthia.

"Unless you have to work in the dark," she said.

"Throws your whole cycle off. Do you go to State?"

Another customer came in, this one the normal, shifty-eyed sort. The man in the army jacket poured a cup of coffee and sat in one of the corner booths near the refrigerated sandwiches. The shifty-eyed man bought a can of smokeless tobacco, glared at Army Jacket, then asked for a copy of Score from the rack behind Cynthia. The magazine was wrapped in plain brown paper, but Cynthia could imagine the lurid pose of the cover girl, airbrushed breasts thrust teasingly out.

The shifty-eyed man paid, rolled the magazine and tucked it under his arm, then headed out under the streetlights. Army Jacket brought his coffee to the counter.

"Pervert," Army Jacket said. "Bet you get a lot of weirdoes on this shift."

To Cynthia, the weirdest people were the ones who talked to her. But this guy didn't talk crazy. Even for a man whose mouth was a cavern filled with invisible snakes.

"It's okay," she said, feeling under the counter for the alarm button. "My job likes me."

He laughed, took a sip of his coffee, then poked his tongue out. "Ouch. That's hot."

She pointed to the sign that was taped to the coffee maker. "Caution! Coffee is hot," she read aloud.

Army Jacket laughed again for some reason. She read the name sewn in a patch above his breast pocket. Weams. He didn't look like a Weams, so she decided to still think of him as Army Jacket.

"My name's David," he said. "What's yours?"

"Alice Miller Jones," she said, making up a name from somewhere.

"Alice. That's a good, old-fashioned name. Most girls these days are named Maleena or Caitlin or something trendy like that."

"Ask Alice. Wasn't that in an old Sixties' song?"

Army Jacket, who might be a David as far as she could tell, shook his head and took another, smaller sip of his coffee. He reached in his pocket for change. "Guess I better pay for this."

"Ask Alice."

He smiled. "What do you do when you're not running a convenience store register, Alice?"

"Trying not to sleep."

His eyelids drooped slightly. "Sleep is the greatest waste of time ever invented. There are so many better ways to spend time. Even in bed."

She looked at him. His eyes were like Styrofoam picnic plates, bright and empty. "I have a strange bed," she said. "Would you like to see it?"

His hand shook, splashing a few drops of coffee on the floor. She took the change from him and the coins were covered in sweat.

"Sure," Army Jacket said, leaning stiffly against the counter in an attempt to look relaxed.

"How do you feel about dust?" she asked.

His eyebrows raised in a questioning expression. "I don't mind a little dust. Dust thou art, isn't that what the Bible says?"

"Only talking Bibles."

A couple of people came in the store, rummaged around near the candy rack, then came to the counter with a bottle of wine. Cynthia thought one of them had swiped a candy bar. He had a bulge in his front pocket. She decided to let him wait, so that the chocolate would melt and stain his underwear.

"I can't sell wine," she said. "It's illegal to sell alcohol after 2 AM."

The man with the bulge looked at his wristwatch, which was plated with fake gold. "Sister, it five o'clock. It already tomorrow, and I goin' by tomorrow time."

"Sorry," she said, folding her arms. "Cigarette weather."

"What the hell?" the man said.

His companion, a pasty-looking blonde, grabbed his arm. "Forget it, Jerry. I got some back at my place."

"This bitch tellin' me it ain't tomorrow yet," he said.

Army Jacket cleared his throat and straightened himself. "Sir, she's only doing her job," he said, looking down at the man from a four-inch height advantage.

"She's only doing her job," Cynthia said.

"Don't get smart with me, bitch." The man raised the wine bottle as if he were going to swing it. Army Jacket stepped forward and grabbed his wrist, taking the bottle with his other hand. The man grunted and the aroma of vomit and cheap booze wafted across the room. He struggled free and headed for the door, the blonde following.

At the door, the man paused and squeezed the bulge in his pants. "Got something for ya next time," he said. The blonde pulled him cussing toward the street.

Army Jacket placed his coffee cup on the counter.

"You get a lot of weirdoes on this shift," Cynthia said.

"I already said that. When do you get off work?"

They had breakfast in a little sidewalk cafe. Cynthia ordered coffee and butter croissants and scrambled eggs. Army Jacket was a vegetarian, but he said he could eat eggs. Cynthia thought that was strange, because eggs weren't vegetables.

They reached Cynthia's apartment just before noon. "So, where's this bed of yours?" Army Jacket asked.

Cynthia had a few boyfriends in high school. After the beggar had started sleeping under her bed, she'd quit dating. But now that Army Jacket was in her apartment, she decided that she'd been foolish to face the fear alone. She'd give Army Jacket what he wanted, and then she'd get what she wanted.

She led him to the tiny bedroom. She half-suspected that the beggar crawled from beneath the bed while she was gone, to sleep between cloth sheets and dream of being human. But the beggar belonged to dust, the dark, permanent shadow of underthere. The blankets were rumpled, just as she'd left them.

"You don't mess around, do you?" Army Jacket said.

"It's only dust," she said.

"I didn't mean that kind of mess," he said, looking at the dirty laundry scattered on the floor. He sat on the bed, Cynthia watching from across the room, waiting to see if the gray hand would clutch his ankle.

He patted the mattress beside him. "Come on over. Don't be shy."

She looked out the window. "Looks like cigarette weather."

Army Jacket took off his army jacket. Without the jacket, he was just a David. Not a protector. Not some big, brave hero who would slay the beggar.

"Come on," he said. "This isn't a spectator sport."

She crossed the room, crawled onto the bed beside him, mindful of her feet. They undressed in silence. David kissed her, then clumsily leaned her back against the pillows. Through it all, she listened for the breathing, the soft knitting of dust into flesh, the strange animations of the beggar.

David finished, rolled away. "Where are the cigarettes?"

"I don't smoke."

"What's this about 'cigarette weather,' then?"

"The man with the anaconda face said that."

"Huh?"

She put her arm across his chest, afraid he'd leave. She scolded herself for being so dumb. If David left, she'd be alone again when darkness fell. Alone with the beggar.

David kissed her on the forehead. "Ocean eyes like ice cream," he said.

She tensed beside him, sticky from the body contact. "Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"Under the bed. A noise."

"I don't hear anything." David made a show of checking the clock on her dresser.

The soft choking sound came again, the painful drawing of an inhuman breath. The beggar stirred, fingers creeping like thick worms across the floor. He was angry, jealous. Cynthia should not have brought another man to this bed. Cynthia belonged to the beggar, and always had.

"He's coming," she said.

David sat up and looked at the door. "Damn. Why didn't you tell me you had a boyfriend?"

"Only crazy people talk to mirrors."

David reached off the bed, grabbed his clothes, and began dressing. "You're crazy, Alice."

"Who's Alice?"

David ignored her, teeth clenched in his rush to pull up his pants. "I hope to hell he doesn't carry a gun."

"Shhh. He'll hear you."

David slipped his arms into his jacket. Now he was Army Jacket again, just another one of them, a hollow man, a mound of dust surrounding a bag of air. None of them were real.

Except the man under the bed.

Army Jacket struggled into his shoes. Cynthia leaned forward and watched, wondering how far the beggar would let Army Jacket get before pulling him into the velvet.

"Green licorice. Frightened of storms?" Army Jacket asked, his breath shallow and rapid.

"No, only of him."

"Razor in the closet since yesterday." Army Jacket tiptoed out of the room, paused at the front door and listened.

"He doesn't use the door," Cynthia called out, giggling. The beggar would slide out from under the bed any moment now, shake of the accumulated dust of his long sleep, and make Army Jacket go away.

The phone rang. It had to be Mom. Seven rings before Mom gave up.

Army Jacket swallowed, twisted the knob, and yanked the door open, falling into a defensive crouch. The hallway was empty.

"Allergies," he yelled at her, then slipped out the doorway and disappeared.

Cynthia fell back on the pillows, sweat gathering on her brow. The beggar hadn't taken him. The beggar had not been jealous. The beggar was too confident, too patient, to be jealous.

She clutched the blankets as the afternoon sun sank and the shadows grew long on the bedroom wall. She should have fled while it was still light, but her limbs were limp as sacks of jelly. Fleeing was useless, anyway. He'd always had her.

Dusk came, dangling its gray rags, shaking lint over the world.

Under the bed, stirrings and scratches.

Under the bed, breathing.

Cynthia whimpered, curled into a fetal position, nude and burning and vulnerable. Waiting, like always.

The hand scrabbled along the side of the mattress. It clutched the blankets and began dragging the body that wore it from the vague ether. Cynthia closed her eyes, tight like she had as a small child, so tight the tears pressed out. She trembled, her sobs in rhythm with the horrible rasping of the beggar's breath.

She could feel it looming over her now, its legs formed, the transition from dust back to flesh complete. Cynthia held her breath, the last trick. Maybe if she could hold her breath forever . . .

The hand touched her gently. The skin was soft, soft as velvet.

Cynthia almost screamed. But she knew what would happen if she screamed. Because Mommy might hear and things like this are secret and it's okay to touch people who love you but some people wouldn't understand. Bad girls who scream have to be punished. They have to be sent into the dark place under the bed.

And they have to stay under the bed until Daddy says it's okay to come out.

So Cynthia didn't scream, even as the hand ran over her skin, leaving a trail of dust.

She didn't make a sound as the beggar climbed onto the bed. If she was a good little girl, then the beggar would go away after he finished, and wouldn't drag her into the underthere.

The dust settled over her, a smothering blanket of velvet.

If only she could hold her breath forever.

THE WHITE HOUSE

By John Everson

“There is no poetry in death,” Mrs. Tanser said. “Only loss and rot, stink and waste. I never could understand those gothic romantics who celebrate the dark and lust after the cycle of decay.”

The little girl in front of her didn’t say a thing, but nodded creamy, unblemished cheeks as if she understood.

“I suppose that doesn’t make much sense to you,” Mrs. Tanser continued, running a powder-coated finger up the girl’s cheek. “You came here hoping to sell cookies and to visit my nieces, and here I am talking to you about death! But I can’t deny death, mind you. Everything has its place. And every place, its thing.”

The older woman laughed, and stood up from the table. Her plate of thinly sliced apples remained untouched, uneaten, the brown creep of time already shadowing the fruit. The girl’s plate, however, glistened with the juice of apple long gone.

Mrs. Tanser ground a pestle into a tall bucket that squeaked and shifted on the counter as she worked.

“Well, I'm sorry my nieces Genna and Jillie aren’t here any longer. They only came for a visit, so I'm glad you got to meet them. Perhaps you’ll have the chance to be with them again soon. But I talk too much and time passes. Too fast, too fast. Eat my apples dear. Waste not, want not.”

The plate slid across the table. Mrs. Tanser raised a silver eyebrow as it did.

“You are afraid of this house, aren’t you?”

The child nodded, slowly. Her eyes were blue and wide, and the reflection of the older woman’s methodic grinding and pummeling of the substance in the bucket glimmered like a ghost in their mirror.

“I can’t say that I’m surprised. Quite the reputation it has. I didn’t realize that when I moved in, but now it makes sense what a steal it was. I knew there was something wrong when the realtor quoted me the price–you could see it in her face. She was afraid, that silly woman was, not that she knew why. A beautiful old mansion like this, perched on the top of the most scenic hill in town? I have to admit, I didn’t care what was wrong with it–for that price, I thought, I could fix it. And then I moved in, and started teaching down at Barnard Elementary, and I found out why that girl was scared. You know, she wouldn’t even walk into the house past the front foyer?”

Mrs. Tanser laughed. The pestle clinked against the top of the bucket, and a hazy cloud puffed from the opening like blown flour.

“The one warning that woman said to me was, ‘You know, it’s a bad place for children.’ I didn’t even ask why. ‘I don’t have any,’ I told her. That shut her up. Or maybe it didn’t, I didn’t care. I walked up those gorgeous oak stairs that wind out of the living room and up to the boudoir. I wanted to see it all, with or without her help. She didn’t come with me.”

Mrs. Tanser stopped her grinding then and considered. “Would you like to see the upstairs?” she asked.

The little girl shrugged, and the older woman dropped the pestle.

“That settles it. Genna and Jillie aren't here, but I can still show you the house. Come on upstairs. I’m going to show you the most beautiful four-poster bed your little eyes have ever seen. The girls loved it! It may be the only four-poster bed your little eyes have ever seen.”

The girl rose from the table, hands held straight at the sides of her red and green striped skirt. She wanted to leave, felt embarrassed that she'd been coaxed into staying somehow. Her freckles threatened to burst into flame as she waited for Mrs. Tanser to wash her hands in the sink.

“C’mon then,” Mrs. Tanser said at last, and led the girl back towards the front door she’d come in. Her backpack from school still lay abandoned on the floor nearby. Mrs. Tanser put a foot on the first varnished step, and then paused.

“What’s your name again then, young lady?”

“Tricia,” the girl answered, in a voice high as a flute song.

“Tricia,” Mrs. Tanser announced, waving at the crystal jewels of the chandelier above, and the burnished curves of the banister on the second floor landing above.

“Welcome to White House,” she said. “Welcome to the House of Bones.”

At the top of the landing, Mrs. Tanser stopped again. “This house was built in 1878 by Garfield White,” she announced. “I looked it up. He was a railroad man, made his living helping folks move their steel and wood and food and such from one place to the next. Why he settled here, in the middle of nowhere, I’ll never know, but there you go. Every thing has a place, and every place a thing. He built this place, and put his wife here in it to raise their son. Maybe he thought she’d give the boy a good upbringing here, away from the corruption and sin of the cities.”

Mrs. Tanser motioned the girl to follow her down the hall to the dark rimmed doorway of a room.

“That woman spent her time in here, so the stories go, day after day after day while her Garfield rode the rails making his fortune. He stayed out on those rails more and more, hoping maybe to gain his son an inheritance.”

The older woman stepped with a click and an echoey clack into the room. The walls were papered in a pattern of whirling pinks and blossomed yellows. But the garish sidelights did little to detract from the majesty of the enormous mahogany bed that dominated the center. Its rich posts rose from lion claw paws on the floor to taper in spears to within inches of the faded ceiling. A translucent gauze of yellowed lace hung between the posts and darkened the space with ghostly light.

“The more her husband stayed lost on the trains, the more his wife stayed lost here, in this very bed,” Mrs. Tanser said. “Go ahead, sit on it yourself and see why!”

Tricia stepped into the room but stopped at the edge of the mattress, which was nearly as tall as her.

“Use the step,” Mrs. Tanser said, pointing to the dark wooden box near the girl’s feet. “In those days, you wanted to sleep as high above the ground as you could. Rats, you know.”

Tricia hopped up on the step with the mention of rodents, and rolled her body onto the heavy down mattress, smiling at the caress of the silken blue comforter that covered it.

“They called it the White House, and not because it was in Washington, D.C.,” Mrs. Tanser said. “But it was anything but white inside. Mrs. White kept all of the drapes pulled shut, and spent more and more time here, in this bed. They say she was trying to make it feel like nighttime inside, so her son would sleep. Had the colic, and cried all day long. But pulling the drapes did nothing to calm the boy, and after awhile, Mrs. White went a little bit mad, I think. Day after day, night after night, her baby cried, cried, cried and she paced this floor with him, pounding his tiny back and begging him to burp and then screaming at him to burp.”

Mrs. Tanser shook her head.

“That boy never saw that nest egg his father was out putting away. When Mr. White came back from one of his long trips down the rails, he found the house dark, and all the shutters pulled. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, you being a young girl and all–but you’ve probably seen worse on TV. Oh the things they show on that tube.” Mrs. Tanser shook her head brows creased in dreadful sadness.

“When Mr. White came home that day, he walked up those same stairs you and I just did, and knew right away something was wrong. I won’t say more than this, but the smell was in the air, and he was no fool. He rushed to the bedroom and threw open this door and…”

Tricia’s eyes widened as the story unfolded.

“…when the light streamed into the pitch-black room, he found his wife and his son, here in the shadows. Only they were in no condition to leave. The poor boy was hung from his tiny neck right off of that pole there,” Mrs. Tanser pointed at the right pole at the foot of the bed. “Mrs. White had tried to quiet him by wrapping a sheet around his head–but when he didn’t quiet, she’d finally snapped. She hung him by his tiny neck like a Christmas ornament at the foot of the bed, and when he finally quieted, she laid down on the pillow and went to sleep. When she woke, and realized what she’d done, she took her own life, using her husband’s straight razor.

“If I took the sheets off this bed you could still see the marks of her blood. Nobody’s ever changed that mattress. She laid down right there, where you are, and cut her self again and again and again until she couldn’t cut or scream anymore.”

Tricia leapt from the bed as if it had turned to a stove burner.

Mrs. Tanser grinned, wrinkles catching at the corner of her eyes like broken glass.

“She used that blade so much, they say she had to have a closed casket. Can’t imagine cutting your own face with a razorblade myself, but, I can’t imagine hanging your own baby, neither!

“There’s a reason they started calling this place the House of Bones. But that came later. Mr. White kept this place for almost 30 years after his wife killed their son, and herself here. And he never remarried. In fact, he may have been dead for a year or more before the town grew the wiser. He was gone for long periods at a time on the railroad, and it was only when the spring winds brought a tree down on the west wing of the house that someone from the town realized it had been months and months since Mr. White had been seen. When they looked into it, they found out that he hadn’t been out on a rail for more than a year, and that’s when someone thought to look in the basement.”

Mrs. Tanser looked at the trembling girl and shook her head.

“I’m sorry, I’m scaring you. My home does not have a cheery history, I must admit. But it’s fascinating too, don’t you think?”

The old woman shook her head. “C’mon downstairs, and I’ll buy some of those Girl Scout cookies. A lady needs her vices, huh?”

The doorbell rang. But there was no silhouette showing through the stained purple glass in the front door of White House.

Mrs. Tanser answered the ring, nevertheless, and smiled as she saw the pale features of the girl on the landing, shivering and yet waiting outside. So small, she couldn't even send her shadow through the glass.

“Come in, child,” she insisted. “You’ll catch your death of cold. I don’t believe your mother lets you go out like that in the fall chill.”

Tricia entered the house again, driven by a feeling she could not have explained. The house scared her to death. Mrs. Tanser was strange. But interesting. A welcome diversion after a boring day at school.

“I didn’t think you’d come back after the story of Mr. and Mrs. White,” the teacher exclaimed. “Sometimes I feel like I am just the steward for this house. I have to give its history, no matter how twisted it may be.”

She motioned the girl into the kitchen, a room colored in orange walls and burnished counters.

“You're probably hoping for my nieces, but I'm afraid they're not around to play with you right now. Can I cut you an apple?” Mrs. Tanser asked again, and Tricia nodded.

“Good.”

After awhile, the older woman went back to her grinding, pounding work at the counter, and talked to Tricia from across the room.

“Hmmm…where did we leave off last time? How it all began, I think. Yes. I suppose you’re wondering, what happened after the Whites lived in White House?”

The girl nodded, and Mrs. Tanser barely waited for that response.

Mr. White was found in the basement. I won’t go into how his disposition was, other than to say that the bones of Mrs. White and Baby White were found with him. The house was eventually sold to another family, and life went on–for a time.”

Mrs. Tanser brushed the dust from the lapels of her maroon collar. It smeared like dried milk across her chest.

“You can’t hide the past,” she said. “Nor can you hide from the past. What is, is, and what was, was. The next people who bought this house pretended that the Whites hadn’t killed themselves here, and as a result…”

Tricia looked up from her slice of apple with a keen gaze of expectation.

“Well, they didn’t consider the fact that they might also spend their lives–and deaths–here.”

“Sometimes,” Mrs. Tanser said, eyes looking far, far away. “A mother’s love is not endless. In fact, it doesn’t even really begin.”

The older woman rubbed a tear from the wrinkles at the side of her eye, and forced a grin. “Silly old woman I am,” she said. “You’re just a girl and you can’t even begin to understand the twists and cul de sacs of a mother’s love. I had a tough one, is all, and even now I can hear her scolding me. I’ve met your mama at the PTA, and she’s not like that. Not like that at all. You’re a very lucky girl.

“So where was I? Oh yes, the next family. A pastor, the father was, come here all the way from Omaha. Why here, again I’ll never know. This must be the end of the line for some folks, and they just don’t know it. Hell, why would they come here if they did? Something draws them though, because no matter how many young folks try to escape this town after they graduate, the place keeps growing. Back in those days, before the Great War, there were just a couple hundred here, and the Martins moved into this house with a huge welcome from the townsfolk. For a time, Pastor Martin even held services right here in this house–in the sitting room, I believe–until a proper parish chapel could be built down in the center of town.”

“All that holiness didn’t settle things apparently, though, in White House. Because the pastor and his family came to a similar end as the White’s did. Things were happy here for a few years, and the Martins had two children, Becky and Joseph. But, just like Mr. White, Pastor Martin’s vocation began to consume him, leaving Mrs. Martin here in the house all alone with the children day after day. The story goes that Mrs. Martin got bit by the green bug, and started thinking that Pastor Martin was spending far too much time down at the new chapel in town. There’s no telling if it’s true or not, but she thought the pastor was making time with a pretty little hussy in the back pew, while she was trapped here, in this old, cold house with two screaming kids.

“I’m talking too big for you, aren’t I?” Mrs. Tanser said noting the confused expression on the girl’s face. “The pastor’s wife thought he had gotten a girlfriend, is the thing. And he was married to her and she didn’t want him to have a girlfriend. So she started locking little Becky and Joseph into a small room at the back of the house. Someone, probably Mr. White, had added on, and built the room by hand. It wasn’t completely true. Sometimes, Pastor Martin would come home at night and hear those kids screaming in the back of the house, and when he’d let them out, they’d tumble into the house proper shaking and blue with cold, because none of the seams of that room were level. The outside could leech in easily, you could see the grass waving in the wind through the gaps and the draughts on this hill in the winter are something horrible, I have to tell you. Even asleep in that big four-post bed upstairs, I put an afghan on top of the covers in December. Can you imagine how cold it must have been for those children when they could actually see the outside through the cracks in the walls?

“Anyway, Pastor Martin yelled at his wife many a time for how she treated those children, yelled so loud the people a mile down the hill in town could hear him and mark his words. And she’d yell right back and accuse him of taking the Lord’s work to the devil, not to mention that tart Beatrice Long. She thought he was making time with a church whore.”

Tricia put a hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn, and Mrs. Tanser pushed the plate of apples closer to the girl.

“I’m going on too long, aren’t I? Let me speed it up for you some. An old woman can go on. One day Pastor Martin came home and for once, the house was quiet. His wife told him the kids had gone to stay with friends in town for the weekend, and he heaved a sigh of relief. The noise had really begun to get to him, and that, as much as anything, was why he’d been spending more and more time at the chapel. The Martins reportedly had a lovely dinner, and even broke out a bottle of wine to celebrate their brief ‘vacation’ from the children. Pastor Martin tried to get romantic with his wife, but she waved him off of that. ‘You wouldn’t want to make more of the little screamers, would you?’ she said.”

Mrs. Tanser paused, looking quizzically at Tricia’s moon-round cheeks. “That probably doesn’t mean much to you yet, does it? Hmmm.”

“Well, it came to Sunday, and Pastor Martin spoke after the church service with the folks his children were supposedly staying with, thanking them for their hospitality. But they looked confused at his thanks, and told him that they would be happy to have Becky and Joseph over any time, but they hadn’t seen the kids these past few days.

“Pastor Martin was upset by that, and after the last service, headed home in a rush. He wondered if he’d gotten the family wrong that the kids were staying with. When he entered the house, for the third day in a row it was completely silent, but Mrs. Martin waited for him at the table.

“‘Sit,’ she insisted. ‘Eat.’

“He sat, but asked her where the children were. Mrs. Martin smiled sweetly, and ignored him, fixing herself a sandwich and then pushing the plate towards him. ‘Light or dark?’ she asked.

“‘Both,’ he said absently, and as she put the meat on his plate, along with a long crust of bread, he asked her again. ‘Where are the kids?’

“Mrs. Martin smiled that strange little grin again and nodded, as he lifted the bread to his mouth and chewed.

“‘You’re eating them, dear. Becky’s light, and Joseph’s dark.’”

Tricia’s eyes went wide and she set the piece of apple she held back on the plate, uneaten.

“Horrible, hmmm? Apparently Mrs. Martin had used that back room to turn her children into cold cuts. When he screamed and beat on her for her horrible crime, she only smiled and smiled, and told him to make more with Beatrice Long. Back then, in a town this size, they didn’t have asylums, and so Mrs. Martin never actually left this house. Pastor Martin locked her in the room she’d killed her children in and fed her meals at morning and night. She never came out of there again, and whenever he’d break down and cry and ask her ‘Why?’, all she would say was ‘The house needs strong bones.’”

Mrs. Tanser grinned. “Creepy, hmm? Want to see the room?”

Tricia’s eyes widened.

“Oh, don’t worry, the Martins are long gone from there. Come along, I’ll show you.”

Mrs. Tanser led Tricia through a hallway and a long, dark sitting room to a white door. She turned a latch and a metal bolt clacked audibly before she turned the old round knob.

They stepped through into a small, dark room. It had no windows at all, but still was lit. The sun beamed in through hairline cracks in the grout between the stones that had been shaved and stacked to form the addition. Shadows played like anxious ghosts on the walls and dust motes rained in lazy dances as the wind shifted and groaned outside.

“This is it,” Mrs. Tanser said. “The infamous White room. They think that Mr. White built it with his own hands, and used the bones of his wife and son as the grout between the rocks. Mrs. Martin followed his lead. The paint you see in here? The reason the room is so white? She ground up the bones of those two kids after carving them up for lunchmeat here in this room. She used the dust of their bones to paint this room an everlasting off-white.”

Tricia stared in horror at the walls. “The paint is…their bones?”

Mrs. Tanser nodded. “It seemed a sacrilege to paint over the remains of those poor souls, so the room has been left exactly as it was when Pastor Martin sat down here in the middle of the room and … well…there’s no delicate way to put this. He blew his brains out with a hunting rifle. Lord knows where he got it, a man of the clergy and all. Someone wiped down the ceiling and wall over there…” She pointed to a shadowy stain to their right.

“But all in all, the bones of those children are still right here, chalky and white, for anyone to see.

“Oh my dear, you’re trembling; you’re white as the walls. Come here, I’m so sorry. I’m an old woman and talk too much. I forget myself. And you, just a 10th grader and all. Let’s have us a soda pop, hmmm?”

Mrs. Tanser pulled the wide-eyed girl from the room and bolted the lock once again.

“Don’t need any of those summer breezes or restless ghosts getting in,” she mumbled, and then shook her head. “Darn it all, there I go again.”

The massive door opened with a long squeak. Mrs. Tanser peered through the foot-wide opening with a suspicious look on her face. Then her eyes lighted on the tousled hair of Tricia.

“You’re probably here to see my nieces, aren’t you?” she asked.

The girl shook her head. “No, ma’am. I don’t know them.”

“Don’t know them?” Mrs. Tanser looked confused. Then she slapped a palm to her forehead. “My oh my, that’s right. They came a-visiting awhile before you came a-visiting. And you’ve been too polite to correct an old woman before.”

She opened the door wider and motioned Tricia inside. “Sometimes it’s all a blur,” she confided, and pushed the door shut.

“I remember now. I’ve been giving you the history of the house, and fattening you up on apples. Not the best choice for fattening, I’ll give you, but it’s what I have. No chocolate cakes up here on the hill!”

Mrs. Tanser motioned her into the kitchen.

“Where were we last time? I told you about the Whites and the Martins…There were others, too. But then in the ‘50s, they turned the place into an orphanage.”

Mrs. Tanser laughed. “I know, it sounds ridiculous. A house where children kept dying in horrible ways. A house where children’s bones actually painted the walls white–and they turned it into an orphanage. But there you go. I wonder if they ever even saw the irony.”

The rhythmic sound of a knife on stone filled the kitchen as Mrs. Tanser cut the girl an apple.

“Here we go,” the older woman said, pushing a plate in front of the girl. She stared at the ceiling a moment and then grinned and nodded. “Forty-seven.”

Mrs. Tanser scooped the core of the apple and a couple seeds from the counter and threw them in a waste can. “Forty-seven children in all disappeared while this house was an orphanage. That’s what I found out down there at the village hall. God knows why the town didn’t have this place bulldozed, but, then again, who cares so much about orphans?”

The old woman shook her head in obvious disgust and then motioned for Tricia to follow her.

“Grab an apple,” she said. “I want to show you something.”

Mrs. Tanser led the way past the dining room and a dark hallway and the horrible room of bone paint, with its locked door. She stopped at another door, this one painted dark as a 2 a.m. shadow.

She pulled a ring of keys from the depths of her apron and explained, “Sometimes at night, I hear voices from in here. Terrible voices. Men howling. Children screaming. When I open the door, they’re never there...but I keep it locked anyway.”

She pushed the door open and stepped inside. Tricia followed, though hesitantly.

The room expanded to fill the eye with a vista of beautiful stonework and a floor of intricate mosaic. Like most of the house, the predominant color was no color. The room hurt the eye in its melding of cream and vanilla and starving, emaciated white. It also ascended three stories in the air and ran as deep as a football field.

“Over here,” Mrs. Tanser called, and led Tricia to a corner. She reached down to the floor and pulled on a small cord that poked out from beneath the shards of tile. A hidden trap door opened upwards at her pull.

“Look,” Mrs. Tanser pointed, and Tricia leaned in to stare down into the gap. The trap secreted a small cubbyhole, maybe 18 inches deep and a foot wide. Its bottom was hidden by dozens of small white pebble-like shards. They covered the bottom and stacked on top of each other like a pound of gravel.

“Hold out your hand,” Mrs. Tanser said. As Tricia did, her arm visibly shook.

The older woman squeezed her outstretched palm and grinned. “It’s okay. They can’t get you here. There time was a long time ago. Now. You see these?” She turned the girl’s hand palm side up and ran a finger across the top joint, on the other side of the fingernail.

“I’m not sure what they intended, but I believe that little stack of bones down there are the top joints of all those missing orphans’ fingers.”

Tricia ripped her hand away and gasped.

Mrs. Tanser shook her head. “They say down in town that those orphans disappeared, but it’s no mystery where they went.”

She let the trap fall down with a smack that echoed through the too-still room.

“Just look around you,” she said and gestured at the intricately laid floor. “Those kids never left this room. Their bones are here, laid into the walls and the floor and the ceiling. Those kids built this room.”

Tricia’s eyes had now widened so large that the whites of her eyes were circled in red.

“Yep,” the old woman sighed. “You’re standing on them.”

The girl screamed.

“Just bones,” Mrs. Tanser said. “I wanted you to see, to understand. This house has a bad reputation, and rightly so. I’m sure those voices I hear coming from this room are from all those innocent orphans who had their fingers cropped off, and their bones ground down to shards of decorative tile.”

“It’s this house,” she said and shook her head, pulling Tricia closer. The girl didn’t fight her embrace. All she could think of was that she was standing on the chopped-up bones of dead people.

“Everyone who’s ever lived here has felt the need to add to the house,” Mrs. Tanser said, and pulled the girl towards the back of the long room.

“The White House was large by the standards of the 1800s when Mr. White built it, but there have been many rooms added since. I showed you the draughty room last time you were here. And this room–which I think was probably a gymnasium for the orphans–was built over a long period. There are others. In the basement is a small closet that I believe was painted in the paste of a child...its colors are faded and dulled now, but it looks to be a mad swirl of mud and blood and bone if you stare closely. There’s a shed on the back of the property that has window frames that are rounded and made of what looks to be rib bones. And the lock on that shed is a primitive thing, but it seems to be made of an arm or a leg bone that drops into place and holds the door fast.

“There's no way the realtor could have warned me,” Mrs. Tanser said. “There’s no way she could ever really have known–she wouldn’t even stand inside this house. I wish she could have told me what I was in for. But the house...once you’re here...”

They walked across the long bone mosaic room, and the chatter of Tricia’s teeth began to reverberate through the silence.

“It’s okay, child,” Mrs. Tanser said. “I just want to show you one more room.”

At the back of the long white room she stopped, and reached out to turn the latch on a door that only announced itself as thin seams set in the wall. It opened outward at her touch, and a cool breeze hit them as it did.

“I think that some of the rooms people added to the house were afraid to show their real colors,” Mrs. Tanser said. “The people knew what they were doing, on some level, and they bleached the bones and carved the bones and crushed the bones into paste and mortar and paint.

“But when the house told me...when I realized what I would have to do, I made a pledge to myself to be true to the children who came here. The people who grew this house. They shouldn't be hidden in pieces, I said to myself, but celebrated. After all, every thing has its place. And every place, its thing. The things that build this house have their place. They had life, and in death...they grow the White House in rooms of bone.

“And this house...must have its thing. These days...that’s me.”

Mrs. Tanser picked up a hammer and raised it above Tricia’s head. She breathed deep as the girl squealed and tried desperately to run. Her screams rang out like bullets scraping metal. But Mrs. Tanser’s other hand held the small girl fast. A trapped animal.

“You’ll live here forever,” she promised. “And I promise you’ll hardly feel a thing. I can’t believe the torture some of these kids must have gone through. I could never be so cruel.”

Tricia screamed again. A horrible, larynx-shredding sound. But she couldn’t break free of the old woman’s grip. Mrs. Tanser lived only for the house now, and Tricia had never felt such desperate strength before. The veins of the woman’s hands stood out blue and serious above the small girl’s reddening fingers. “I came to this town because I loved children. Genna and Jillie didn’t want to stay here either,” she whispered. “Look at them up there.” She nodded at two tiny skulls shrieking in silence on the wall. “But what could I do? I adore children. The house...This house...it never relents...”

“Hold still,” Mrs. Tanser said. “I want your face to stay this beautiful, always.”

Tricia twisted and turned, staring at the bone-white eye sockets and jaws of the handful of splintered skulls that lined the half-constructed wall of the small room like fractured masks. Those perfect, unblemished bone faces screamed silently in chorus with her, as Mrs. Tanser turned to make her kill.

“It’s going to take a long time to finish this room,” the old woman lamented. “But I will finish my room. Everything has its place. And every place, its thing. This room is mine.”

She brought the hammer down.

###

HEAL THYSELF

By Scott Nicholson

Jeffrey Jackson peeked over the top of the magazine. His eyes went to the clock on the wall. Had it really been only four minutes since he'd last looked?

His hands shook, so he put the magazine aside before the pages started flapping. Every session with Dr. Edelhart left him calm for a day or two, fists unclenched, the red behind his eyelids dulled to brown. But always the raging night crawled out on its belly, fingers tickled his brain, his cabbies got radio messages from Mars, and sweaty, dark figures flitted along the perimeter of his dreams. And in the mirror he saw the man he had once been. Those last days leading up to the next session were a cold turkey of the soul.

Jackson wondered if what he'd read were true, that patients became more addicted to therapy than they ever could to drugs. He gripped the arms of the waiting room chair, palms slick on the vinyl. He tried one of the relaxation techniques that Dr. Edelhart had taught him. That wallpaper pattern, reproduced a thousand times in the expanse of the room. If Jackson crossed his eyes slightly....

No good. He settled on watching the receptionist, who pretended to be busy with paperwork. She was white and almost pretty, but Jackson no longer had much interest in the opposite sex. Or any sex, for that matter.

He started from his chair when the buzzer rang. The receptionist gave him a two o'clock smile and said, "Dr. Edelhart will see you now."

Why did the doctor never have an appointment before Jackson's? If only Jackson could see another patient walk out of Dr. Edelhart's office, face rosy with beatitude. Perhaps that would give Jackson hope of being healed. He crossed the room and, as always, reached the door just as it swung open.

Dr. Edelhart smiled broadly, teeth bright against his wide, dark face. He extended his hand. Jackson wiped his own hand on his pants leg and shook Edelhart's. Prelude to The Ritual.

"How are you, Jeffrey?" The same question as always.

You know damned good and well how I am, Doc. You've shrunk my brain and cracked open my past and put every little memory under your magnifying glass. Walked me back to my childhood. Into the womb, even. And beyond.

Way beyond.

Jackson blinked, barely able to meet the taller man's eyes. "I...I'm doing fine."

He brushed past the doctor, headed for the security of the familiar stuffed chair. Edelhart didn't believe in the couch. He was too post-Freudian for that. Edelhart was of the New High Church, a dash of Jung, a pinch of Skinner, and equal portions of new age-right action-spirit releasement-astral projection-veda dharmic-divine starpath to inner beingness. Add water and stir.

Edelhart's mental porridge cost $150 an hour, and Jackson considered it a bargain. He settled in the chair as Edelhart closed the door and adjusted the window shades. Since the office was on the seventh floor, the traffic sounds below were muted. Jackson was almost able to forget his fear of cars. And windows. And the faces on either side of them.

Jackson closed his eyes. Edelhart's chair squeaked behind his polished mahogany desk. The room had an aroma of carpet cleaner and sweat. Or maybe Jackson was smelling his own panic. He tried to breath deeply and evenly, but he was too aware of his racing heartbeat. And the past, where he would soon be headed.

"So, where were we, Jeffrey?" The doctor's voice was deep, resonant, a soul-singer’s pipes. Even this familiar question took on a musical quality, a sonorous bass. Or maybe he was stereotyping. After all, not every black had the rid’dem.

"We were..." Jackson swallowed. "Going back."

Jackson didn't have to look to visualize the doctor's head gravely nodding. "Ah, yes," said Dr. Edelhart. The shuffling of papers, a quick perusal of notes, Jackson's round peg of a head being fitted into this square hole and that triangular niche. "So you've accepted that present life conflicts and traumas can have their roots in past lifetimes?"

"Of course, Doctor.” Jackson was too eager to please and too afraid to do otherwise. “Especially that one past life."

"We each have at least one bad former life, Jeffrey. Otherwise, there would be no reason to live again. Nothing to resolve."

Jackson wanted to ask which of the doctor's past lives were the most haunting. But of course that was wrong. Dr. Edelhart was the one behind the desk, the one with the pencil. He was the doctor, for Christ's sake. The answer man. The black dude delivering The Word to the square honky.

Sheesh, no wonder you're on the teeter brink of bumblefuck crazy. Starting to shrink the SHRINK. And this guy’s the only thing standing between you and a rubber room. Good thing dear Dr. Edelhart doesn't believe in medication, or you'd be on a brain salad of Prozac, Thorazine, lithium, Xanax, Xanadu, whatever.

No, the only drug that Edelhart believed in was plain and simple holism. Jackson's soul fragments were all over the place, in both space and time. Edelhart was the shaman, the quest leader, the spirit guide. His job was to take Jackson to those far corners of the universe where the fragments were buried or broken. Once the fragments were recovered, then all it took was a little psychic superglue and Jackson would “Become Authentic.”

Jackson just wished Edelhart would hurry the hell up. Seven months of regression therapy and they were just now getting to the good stuff. The tongue in the sore tooth. The fly in the ointment. The nail in the karmic wheel. The past life that pain built.

"I'm ready to go all the way," Jackson said, surer now. After all, what was a century-and-a-half of forgotten existence compared to thirty-plus years of real, remembered anxiety?

"Okay, Jeffrey. Breathe, count down from ten, your eyes are closed and looking through the ceiling, past the sky, past the long night above..."

Jackson could handle this. He fell into the meditation with practiced ease, and by the time the doctor reached "Seven, a gate awakens," Jackson was swaddled in the tender arms of a hypnotic trance. He scarcely heard Dr. Edelhart's feet approaching across the soft carpet. The doctor's breath was like a sea breeze on his cheek, the deep voice quieter now.

"You're on the plantation, Jeffrey. The wheat is golden, the cotton fields rolling out like a blanket of snow. The oaks are in bloom, the air sweet with the ripeness of the earth. Somebody's frying chicken in the main house. The sun is Carolina hot but it will go down soon."

Jackson smiled, distantly, drowsily. The Doc was good. It was almost like the man was there himself, simultaneously living Jackson's past life. But Jackson had described this scene so well, it was seared so deeply into his subconsciousness, that it was no wonder Dr. Edelhart could almost watch it like a movie.

Part of Jackson knew he was half-dreaming, that he was actually sitting in a chair in a Charlotte high rise. But the image was vivid, the farm spread out around him, the boots heavy on his feet, the smell of horses drifting from the barn, a cool draft on his neck from the creek. This wasn't real, but it was. He was this farmer, edging along the fence line, poking along the rim of the cornfield.

Past visits to this past life had made it familiar.

He was Dell Bedford, Southern gentleman, landowner, a colonel in the Tryon militia. Because they all knew Lincoln and them Federalist hogwashers were going to try to muscle the South back into the Union. But what Lincoln and his boot-licker McLellan didn't figure on was that the Confederate States of America might have other plans.

The nerve of that Lincoln, telling them what to do with their niggers.

Jackson swallowed hard, back in the modern padded chair, sweat ringing his scalp line. This part bothered him. He wasn't a racist, not anymore, not now. He'd voted against Jesse Helms, he supported illegal immigrants. He even saw a black therapist. He was cool with it all, brotherhood of man, harmony of one people.

But he had no proof that he hadn't once been Dell Bedford, slave master and arrogant white swine. How could he deny the word "nigger" that sat on his tongue, ready to be spat over and over again, a sick well of hate that never ran dry? He was Dell, or had been, or...

"Are you there, Jeffrey?" came Dr. Edelhart's voice. Decades away, yet right on the plantation with him, like a bee hovering around his ear.

"Yep," Jackson/Bedford said. "Corn's come in, gone to yeller on top. If I can round me up some niggers, might get an ear or two in before first frost."

"Those slaves. Always causing you problems, aren't they? Building up stress, making your chest burn with rage." Dr. Edelhart's voice was nigger-rich with sympathy.

"Damned right." Jackson/Bedford felt the muscles in his neck go rigid. He thrashed at the corn, then hollered. "Claybo!"

The shout scurried across the stalks of corn, rattled the corners of Dr. Edelhart's office. "Never can find that Claybo when you need him, can you?" said the doctor.

Bedford left Jackson, had no use for him, just as well let him sit in a chair and talk to a dandified free boy. Bedford had chores to get done. And there was only one way to get them done. Work the niggers.

"Claybo," he shouted again.

Sweat ran down the back of his neck, the brim of his hat serving hell for shade. Bedford hurried into the field, leather coiled in his taut right hand. His oldest son was on horseback in a far meadow, galloping toward the Johnson place to scramble hay with one of Johnson's bucolic daughters. Bedford gritted his teeth and waded into the corn.

"Claybo, if I ever get my hands on you..."

"Then what, Dell?" It was the dandy nigger. Dell shook his head. A damned voice from nowhere. The nerve of an invisible nigger to mess in a white man's business. A white man’s dreams.

"Then I'll kick his uppity ass. What else can you do with a sorry nigger?"

"He's not in the cornfield, Dell. You know that, don't you? We've already been through this."

"Shut up, nigger." Bedford tore through the corn, knocking over stalks, heading toward the thin stand of pines where the slaves were quartered. "Bet that damned good-for-nothing Claybo is taking himself a little snooze. And the sun ain't even barely touched the trees yet."

"That Claybo. He's nothing but trouble. Probably even learning to read. Bet he's got a spelling book under his strawtick."

"Niggers. Don’t let ‘em read. The first word they teach each other is 'no.' Well, I know how to drive the book-learning out of them." Bedford let the whip play out as he ran, jerked his wrist so that the length of leather undulated like a snake.

"That's it, Bedford,” came the easy voice. “Feel the anger. Embrace it. Breathe it."

Bedford scratched at his ear and ran on. He burst from the cornrows and crossed the bare patch of dirt that served as nigger-town square. Six cabins of rough logs and mud squatted under the spindly pines. A little pickaninnie sat in front of one of them, playing with a rag doll. She'd be able to walk soon, and finally be able to work for her keep.

Bedford went to the last cabin and kicked at the door. It fell open, and Bedford shouted into the dark. Then he saw them, three pairs of white eyes. There was nothing quite like a nigger in the dark. Hell, he didn't even mind when his neighbors had runaways, because they were so much fun to hunt.

"Tell me what you see," said the distant voice. Smooth-talking nigger, like one of them Yankee preachers that come down once in a while to rub in their faces that, up North, niggers were free. How Northern niggers owned all kinds of land, while Bedford had only thirty hardscrabble acres of Carolina clay.

"What the hell you think I see? You were here with me last time I done this." Bedford was nearly as mad at the invisible nigger as he was at Claybo. He hurried into the cramped dark.

"Don't hurt me, Mar's Bedford," Claybo pleaded. Like a little sissy girl who was going to get a hickory switch across the bloomers. "My baby's took sick. I swear, I was going to go back and work. I just had to come look in—"

“Shut up, nigger.” Bedford's eyes had adjusted now, and he could make their outlines. The woman on the bed, holding the infant, both of them slick with sweat. Claybo kneeling beside the bed, hands lifted up like Bedford was Jesus Christ the Holy Savior, but Claybo should know that Jesus never helped niggers, only good, holy whites.

The woman wailed, then the baby started crying. Bedford's blood coursed hot through his veins, his pulse was a hammer against the anvil of his temples, his head was a powder keg with a beeswax fuse.

"You're right to feel anger," whispered the educated nigger, the one that was so far away. "You've been wounded. This is where your soul bleeds, Jeffrey."

Bedford wondered who the hell Jeffrey was, but that didn’t matter, that was another world and another worry. He grabbed Claybo by the shirt and tugged him toward the door. As much as he would have loved to stripe the nigger in front of his woman, the cabin didn't allow for good elbow room. Claybo only half resisted, dead weight. He didn't dare struggle too much. Because the nigger knew if he did, his woman would be next.

Bedford's anger settled lower, took a turn, became something warm and light in his stomach.

Joy.

He loved beating a nigger.

He pushed Claybo to the ground, tore at the big man's shirt. He gave the nigger a kick in the ribs to get the juices flowing. The whip handle almost throbbed in his hand, as if it had a turgid life of its own.

"Seize the fragment," came that confounded, invisible nigger, the one in his head. "Look at yourself, Jeffrey. You're splintered, apart from the world. Outside the circle of your own soul."

"My fragment." Bedford grunted through clenched teeth.

"These are the traumatic emotions and body sensations that have tracked you through the years. This is where your pain comes from. This is your unfinished business. This is your wound."

Bedford tried to ignore the nigger-talk. He stepped back, hefted the whip, sensed the graceful leather unfurling, rolled his arm in an easy motion, sent the knotted tip into Claybo's broad back. The ebony flesh split like a dropped melon.

A sweet pleasure surged through Bedford, a fever that was better than what he found between his wife's legs, even between the nigger cook's, a honey-hot heaven. He whisked the whip back to deliver another blow—

"This is your discarnate self, Jeffrey. Doesn't it sicken you? Don't you see why your soul is so far from releasement?"

Bedford paused, the leather dripping red, hungry for a second taste.

"Restore balance, Jeffrey."

Bedford/Jackson looked down at the huddled, quivering Claybo.

Dr. Edelhart spoke again, gentle, encouraging. "Resolve the conflict and heal the emotional vulnerability. Seek your spiritual reattachment."

Jackson felt dizzy. The whip wilted in his hand. He wanted to vomit. He couldn't believe he had ever been so brutal. Not in any of his lives. "I didn't..."

"Denial is not the path to wholeness, Jeffrey. Empower yourself."

Tears trickled down Jackson's face. He could feel the eyes watching Bedford from the cabin door. A witness to his spiritual fracture. How could he possibly make this right? How could he become a soul-mind healed?

Sobbing, he turned to the only one he could trust. "What do I do now, Dr. Edelhart?"

"You know the answer. I can only lead you to the door. The final steps are yours."

Jackson bent to his victim. Claybo looked at him, wide-eyed, wary. Jackson placed the whip at Claybo's feet. Then he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, his skin pale in the sunset.

Jackson knelt on the ground. He put his face against the dirt, pine needles scratching his cheek, dust clinging to his tears. "Free me," he said to the man he had whipped.

"Mar's?" Claybo’s voice was wracked with hidden hurt.

“Do it.”

“Yes, suh.” Claybo slowly lifted himself, his shirt hanging in rags from his dark muscles. Both men were on their knees, equal.

"Whip me," Jackson commanded. Then, begging, "Please."

Claybo stood, six-three, a man, black anger. He fumbled with the whip, making an awkward arc in the air with its length. He snapped his wrist and the leather slapped against Jackson's bare back.

Not a strong blow, yet the pain sluiced along Jackson's spinal cord.

Jackson swallowed a scream, his lungs feeling stuffed with embers. He gasped, then panted, "Harder."

The agony was soul-searing, but Jackson knew the blow wasn't nearly hard enough to drive the transpersonal residue from his soiled psyche.

The whip descended again, more controlled this time, scattering sparks across Jackson's fragmented but hopeful spirit-flesh. Claybo was intelligent for a darkie. A fast learner. The whip fell a third time, inflicting a deeper, more meaningful misery. Flogging Jackson closer to whole.

"Your hour's up," Dr. Edelhart interrupted.

Jackson came around, brought back by the words that he'd been trained to recognize as the trigger that would pull him from hypnosis. He blinked as he looked around the office. He was soaked with sweat, his muscles aching, his throat dry. Dr. Edelhart was standing over him.

"How do you feel?" said the doctor, eyes half-closed as if studying a rare insect.

Jackson tried the air, found that it came into his lungs, then out, though it tasted of tannin. He was alive, back in the reality he knew. Years away from the scarred night of his soul. A strange peace descended, though he was tired, drained.

"I...I feel..." He searched through Dr. Edelhart's catalog of catch phrases, then found one that seemed to fit. "I feel a little more integrated."

Dr. Edelhart smiled. "I feel that we've made true progress today, Jeffrey."

Jackson sat up in the chair, energy returning. "Wow. I haven't felt this good in years."

"A hundred and forty, give or take a few."

"How...how did you know?"

Dr. Edelhart waved at the diplomas and framed certificates on the wall behind his desk. "I'm the doctor. I'm supposed to know."

Jackson stood, walked the soreness from his legs. "I could run through a crowd right now, and not even notice all the eyes watching me. I don’t feel angry at all. Nobody to hate."

"Progress through regression. But. . . " Dr. Edelhart's word hung suspended in the air, like a tiny sliver of discarnate spirit.

"But what?" Jackson said.

"Let's not forget. This is only the beginning. A giant step, to be sure. But only a step."

Jackson looked at the carpet. "I should have guessed it wouldn't be that easy. Not after spending months just to get to this point."

"Now we know where your spiritual bondage is. Next time, we can go a little farther."

Jackson gave a smile, enjoying this moment of enlightenment. He was on the road to recovery. Sure, it might take months, maybe years. But he'd be whole. Even if it killed him.

Or rather, killed Dell Bedford.

"Funny, isn't it?" Jackson said. He always felt a little more informal at the end of a session. He'd be on top of the world for the next few days, no worries, the spiders at bay, the clowns snoozing in circus shadows. He'd even be able to take the elevator to the street.

Dr. Edelhart seemed to be in a good mood as well. "What's funny?"

"My fragmented past life. That my psychic wound would be racism. Well, racism, sadism, masochism, the whole laundry list we've already been through."

"What's so funny about that?"

"Well, you being black and all. Or should I say African-American?"

"Black's fine. Maybe it's not a coincidence at all, Jeffrey. Spiritual paths do have a way of intersecting here and there along the way. Sometimes more than once."

Jackson looked into the doctor's eyes. For just a second. Then the brightness was gone, the doctor shielded behind his clinical expression, lost behind the other end of the magnifying glass.

But for just that one second, Jackson had seen Claybo in there, hunted, haunted, vengeful. Wet with his own psychic scars.

No. Jackson shook the image from his head. He wasn't here to drive himself crazy. He was here to be healed.

"See you next week, same time?" Jackson said.

Dr. Edelhart smiled. "I'm looking forward to it."

###

METABOLISM

By Scott Nicholson

The city had eyes.

It watched Elise from the glass squares set into its walls, walls that were sheer cliff faces of mortar and brick. She held her breath, waiting for them to blink. No, not eyes, only windows. She kept walking.

And the street was not a tongue, a long black ribbon of asphalt flesh that would roll her into the city's hot jaws at any second. The parking meter poles were not needly teeth, eager to gnash. The city would not swallow her, here in front of everybody. The city kept its secrets.

And the people on the sidewalk- how much did they know? Were they enemy agents or blissful cattle? The man in the charcoal-gray London Fog trench coat, the Times tucked under his elbow, dark head down and hands in pockets. A gesture of submission or a crafted stance of neutrality?

The blue-haired lady in the chinchilla wrap, her turquoise eyeliner making her look like a psychedelic raccoon. Was the lady colorblind or had she adopted a clever disguise? And were her mincing high-heeled steps carrying her to a midlevel townhouse or was she on some municipal mission?

That round-faced cabdriver, his black mustache brushing the bleached peg of his cigarette, the tires of his battered yellow cab nudged against the curb. Were his eyes scanning the passersby in hopes of a fare, or was he scouting for plump prey?

Elise tugged on her belt, wrapping her coat more tightly around her waist. The thinner one looked the better. Not that she had to rely on illusion. Her appetite had been buried with the other things of her old blind life, ordinary pleasures like window shopping and jogging. She had once traveled these streets voluntarily.

Best not to think of the past. Best to pack the pieces of it away like old toys in a closet. Perhaps someday she could open that door, shed some light, blow off the dust, oil the squeaky parts, and resume living. But for now, living must be traded for surviving.

She sucked in her cheeks, hoping she looked as gaunt as she felt. The wisp of breeze that blew up the street, more carbon monoxide than oxygen, was not even strong enough to ruffle the fringe on the awning above that shoe shop. But she felt as if the breeze might sweep her across the broken concrete, sending her tumbling and skittering like a cellophane candy wrapper. Sweeping her toward the city's throat.

She dared a glance up at the twenty-story tower of glass to her right. Eyes, eyes, eyes. Show no fear. Stare the monster in the face. It thinks itself invisible.

What a perfectly blatant masquerade. The city was rising from the earth, steel beams and guy wire and cinder block assembling right before their human eyes. Growing bold and hard and reaching for the sky, always bigger, bigger. How could everyone be so easily fooled?

Forget it, Elise. Maybe it reads minds. And you don't want to let it know what you're up to. You can keep a secret as well as it can.

She turned her gaze down to the tips of her shoes. There, just like a good city dweller is supposed to do. Count the cracks. Blend in. Be small.

Ignore the window front of the adult bookstore you pass. Don't see the leather whips, the rude plastic rods that gleam like eager rockets, the burlesque mockery of human flesh displayed on the placards. And the next window, plywooded and barred like an abandoned prison, "Liquor" hand-painted in dull green letters across the dented steel door beside it.

All to keep us drugged, dazed with easy pleasure. Elise knew. If it let us have our little amusements, then we wouldn't flee. We'd stay and graze on lust and drunkenness, growing fat and sleepy and tired and dull.

She flicked her eyes to the sky overhead, ignoring the sharp spears of the building-tops, with their antennae for ears. The low red haze meant that night was falling. The city constantly exhaled smog, so thick now that the sun barely peeped down onto the atrocities that were committed under its yellow eye. Even from the vigilant universe, the city kept its secrets.

Elise felt only dimly aware of the traffic that clogged the streets. Not streets. The arteries of the city. The cars rattled past, with raspy breath and an occasional growl of impatience. In the distance, somewhere on the far side of the city, sirens wailed. Sirens, or the screams of victims, face-to-face with the horrible thing that had crouched around them for years, cold and stone-silent one moment but alive and hungry the next.

Can't waste pity on them. The unwritten code of city life. Inbred indifference. Ignorance is bliss. A natural social instinct developed from decades of being piled atop one another like cold cuts in a grocer's counter. Or was the code taught, learned by rote, instilled upon them by a stern master who had its own best interests at heart?

And what would its heart be like? The sewers, raw black sludge snaking through its veins? The hot coal furnaces that huffed away in basements, leaking steam from corroded pipes? Or the electrical plant, a Gorgon's wig of wire sprouting from its roof, sending its veins into the apartments and office towers and factories so that no part of the city was untouched?

Or was it, as she suspected, heartless? Just a giant meat-eating cement slab of instinct?

She had walked ten blocks now. Not hurriedly, but steadily and with purpose. Perhaps like a thirty-year-old woman out for a leisurely stroll, headed to the park to watch from a bench while the sun set smugly over the jagged skyline. Maybe out to the theater, for an early seat at a second-rate staging of Waiting For Godot. Not like someone who was trying to escape.

No. Don't think about it.

She hadn't meant to, but now that the thought had risen from the murky swamp of subconsciousness, she turned it over in her mind, mentally fingering it like a mechanic checking out a carburetor.

No one escaped. At least no one she knew. They all slid, bloody and soft and bawling, from their mother's wombs into the arms of the city. Fed on love and hopes and dreams. Fed on lies.

She had considered taking a cab, hunching down in the back seat until the city became only a speck in the rear-view mirror. But she had seen the faces of the cabbies. They were too robust, too thick-jowled. Such as they should have been taken long ago. No, they were in on it.

And she had shuddered at the thought of stepping onto a city bus, hearing the hissing of the airbrakes and the door closing behind her like a squealing mouth. Delivering her not to the outskirts, but to the belly of the beast. They were city buses, after all.

Walking was the only way. So she walked. And the night fell around her, in broken scraps at first, furry shadows and gray insubstantial wedges. Lights came on in the buildings around her, soft pale globes and amber specks and opalescent blue stars and yellow-green window squares. Pretty baubles to pacify the masses.

She felt the walls slide toward her, closing in on her under the cloak of darkness. Don't panic, she told herself. Eyes straight ahead. You don't need to look to know the scenery. Sheer concrete, double-doors drooling with glass and rubber, geometrical orifices secreting the noxious effluence of consumption.

She thought perhaps she was safe. She was thin. But her sister Leanna had been thin. So thin she had been desired as a model, wearing long sleek gowns and leaning into the greedy eye of the camera, or preening in bathing suits on mock-up beaches in high rise studios. So wonderfully waifish that she had graced the covers of the magazines that lined the checkout racks. Such a fine sliver of flesh that she had been lured to Los Angeles on the promise of acting work.

They said that she'd hopped on a plane to sunny California , was lounging around swimming pools and getting to know all the right people. Elise had received letters in which Leanna told about the palm trees and open skies, about mountains and moonlit bays. About the bit part she'd gotten in a movie, not much but a start.

Elise had gone to see the movie. She sat in a shabby, gum-tarred seat, the soles of her shoes sticking to the sloping cement floor. There she'd seen Leanna, up on the big screen, walking and talking and doing all the things that she used to do back when she was alive. Leanna, pale and ravishing and now forever young and two-dimensional.

Oh, but putting her in a film could be easily faked, just like the letters. A city that could control and herd a million people would go to such lengths to keep its secrets. All she knew was that Leanna was gone, gobbled up by some manhole or doorway or the hydraulic jaws of a sanitation truck.

And she knew others who had gone missing. Out to the country, they said. Away on vacation. Business trips. Weddings and funerals to attend. But never heard from again. Some of them overweight, some healthy, some muscular, some withered.

So being thin was no guarantee. But she suspected that it helped her chances. If only she was light enough that the sidewalk didn't measure her footsteps.

She'd reached unfamiliar territory now. A strange part of the city. But wasn't it all strange? Alien caves, too precise to be man-made? Elevators, metal boxes dangling at the ends of rusty spider webs? Storm grates grinning and leering from street corners? Lampposts bending like alloyed preying mantises?

The faces of the few pedestrians out at that hour were clouded with shadows. Did the white arrow tips of their eyes flick ever so slightly at her as she passed? Did they sense a traitor in their midst? Were they glaring jealously at her tiny bones, the skin stretched taut around her skull, her meatless appearance?

The smell of donuts wafted across her face, followed by the bittersweet tang of coffee. Her nostrils flared in arousal in spite of herself. She looked into the window of the deli. Couples were huddled at round oak tables, the steam of their drinks rising in front of them like smoke from chemical fires. They were chatting, laughing, eating from loaded plates, reading magazines, acting as if they had all the time in the world. They had tasted the lie, and found it palatable.

She tore her eyes away. They traded pleasure for inevitability. Dinner would one day be served, and they would find themselves on the plate, pale legs splayed indignantly upward, wire mesh at their heads for garnish. Well, she had no tears to spare for them. One chose one's own path.

Her path had started about a year ago, shortly before Leanna left. Not left, was taken, she reminded herself. Elise's understanding had started with the television set. The TV stood on a Formica cabinet against the sheet rock wall of her tiny apartment, flashing colorful images at her. Showing her all the things she was being offered. Brand new sedans. Dental floss and mouthwash. The other white meat. The quicker-picker-upper. The uncola.

The television made things attractive. The angle of the lighting, eye-pleasing color schemes, seductive layouts and product designs. Straight teeth cutting white lines across handsome tan faces. And behind those rigid smiles, she had seen the fear. Fear masquerading as vacancy. Threatened puppets spouting monologues, the sales pitch of complacency.

She had found other clues. The police, for instance. Never around when one needed them. Delivery vans with unmarked sideboards, prowling at all hours. Limousines, long and dark-glassed. advertisements for conspicuous consumption. Around-the-clock convenience stores and neon billboards. A quiet conspiracy in the streets, unobserved among the bustle and noise of daily life, everyone too busy grabbing merchandise to stop and smell the slagheap acid of the roses.

But Elise had noticed. Saw how the city grew, stretching obscenely higher, ever thicker and more oppressive and powerful. And she had made the connection. The city fed itself. It was getting bloated on the human hors d'oeuvres that tracked across its tongue like live chocolate-covered ants.

When one knew where to look, one saw signs of its life. The pillars of filthy smoke that marked its exhalations, the iridescent ribbons of its urine that trickled through the gutters, the sweat of the city clinging to moist masonry. The gray snowy ash of its dandruff, the chipped gravel of its sloughed dead skin. The crush of the walls, squeezing in like cobbled teeth, outflanking and surrounding its prey. And all the while spinning its serenade of sonic booms and fire alarms, automobile horns and fast-food speakers, ringing cash registers and clattering jackhammers.

Elise had bided her time, staying cautious, not telling a soul. Whom could she trust? Her neighbors might have an ear pressed to the wall. The city employed thousands.

So she had hid behind her closed door, the TV turned to face the corner. Oh, she had still gone to work, leaving every weekday morning for her post at the bank. It was important to keep up appearances. But, once home, she locked herself in and pulled the window shade. She turned on the radio, just in case the city was using its ears, but she always tuned to commercial-free classical stations. Music to eat sweets by.

Her workmates had expressed concern.

"You're nothing but skin and bones. You feeling okay?"

"You're getting split-ends, girl."

"You look a little pale. Maybe you should go to the doctor, Elise."

As if she were going to listen to them, with their new forty-dollar hairstyles every week and retirement accounts and lawyer husbands and City Council wives and panty hose and wristwatches and power ties and deodorant. Elise only smiled and shook her head and pretended. Took care of the customers and kept her accounts balanced.

And she had plotted. Steeled herself. Got up her nerve and slung her handbag over her shoulder and walked out of the bank after work and headed downtown. She kept reminding herself that she had nothing to lose.

And now she was almost free. She could taste the cleaner air, could feel the pressure of the hovering structures ease as she drew nearer to the outskirts. But now darkness descended, and she wasn't sure if that brought the city to keen-edged life or sent it fat and dull into dreamy slumber.

She passed the maw of a subway station. A few people jogged down the steps into the bright throat of the tunnel. She thought of human meat packed into the smooth silver tubes and shot through the intestines of the city.

She walked faster now, gaining confidence and strength as hope spasmed in her chest like a pigeon with a broken wing. She could see the level horizon, a beautiful black flatness only blocks ahead. Buildings skulked here and there, but they were short and squat and clumsy.

The road was devoid of traffic, the dead-end arms of the city. The streetlights thinned, casting weak cones of light every few hundred feet.

Her footsteps echoed down the empty street, bouncing into the dark canyons of the side alleys. The hollowness of the sound enhanced her sense of isolation. She felt exposed and vulnerable. Easy meat.

Her ears pricked up, tingling.

A noise behind her, out of step with her echo.

Breathing.

The spiteful puff of a forklift, its tines aimed for her back? A fire hydrant, hissing in anger at her audacity? The sputtering gasp of a sinuous power cable?

Footsteps.

A rain of light bulbs, dropping in her wake? The concrete slabs of the sidewalk, folding upon themselves like an accordion, chasing her heels? A street sign hopping after her like a crazed pogo stick?

Not now. Not when she was so close.

But did she really expect that the city would let her simply step out of its garden?

She ducked into an alley, even though the walls gathered on three sides. Instinct had driven her into the darkness. But then, why shouldn't the city control her instinct? It owned everything else.

And now it moved in for the kill, taking its due. Now she was ripe fruit to be plucked from the chaotic fields the city had sown, a harvest to be reaped by rubber belts and pulleys and metal fins.

Elise stumbled into a garbage heap, knocking over a trash can in her blindness. She fell face-first into greasy cloth and rotten paper and moldering food scraps. She felt a sting at her knee as she rolled into broken glass.

She turned on her back, resigned to her fate. She would die quietly, but she wanted to see its face. Not the face it showed to human eyes, the one of glass panes and cornerstones and sheet metal. She wanted to see its true face.

She saw a silhouette, a blacker shape against the night. A splinter of silver catching a stray strand of distant streetlight, flashing at her like a false grin. A featureless machine pressing close, its breath like stale gin and cigarette butts and warm copper.

Its voice fell from out of the thick air, not with the jarring clang of a bulldozer or the sharp rumble of tractor trailer rig, but as a harsh whisper.

"Gimme your money, bitch."

So the city had sent this puny agent after her? With all its great and awesome might, its monumental obelisks, its omnipotent industry, its cast-iron claws, its impregnable asphalt hide, its pressurized fangs, it sends this?

The city had a sense of humor. How wonderful!

She thought of that old children's story, the "Three Billy Goats Gruff," how the smaller ones had offered up the larger ones to slake the evil troll's appetite. She laughed, filling the cramped alley with her cackles. "A skinny thing like me would hardly be a mouthful for you," she said, the words squeezing out between giggles.

She felt the city's knife press against her chest, heard a quick snip, and felt her handbag being lifted from her shoulder. The straps hung like dark spaghetti, and the city tucked the purse against its belly. The city, small and dark and- human.

Now she saw it. The human machine had a face the color of bleached rags, dingy mop strings dangling down over the hot sparks of eyes. Thin wires sprouted above the coin-slot mouth. Why, he was young. The city eats its young.

"You freakin' city folks is all nuts," the city said, then ran into the street, back under the safe sane lights.

Its words hung over Elise's head, but they'd come from another world. A world of platinum and fiberglass, locomotives and razor blades. The real world. Not her world.

As the real city awoke and busied itself with its commerce and caffeine, it might have seen Elise sprawled among the rubble of a rundown neighborhood, flanked by empty wine bottles and used condoms and milk cartons graced with the photographs of anonymous children. It might have smelled her civet perfume, faint but there, which she had dabbed on her neck in an attempt to smell like everyone else. It might have heard the wind fluttering the collar of her Christian Dior blouse, bought so that she could blend in with the crowd. It might have felt the too-light weight of her frail body, wasted by a steady diet of fear. It might have tasted the human salt where tears of relief had dried on her cheeks.

It might have divined her dreams, intruded on her sleep to find goats at the wheels of steamrollers, corrugated snakes slithering as endlessly as escalators among gelatin hills, caravans of television antennas dancing across flat desert sands, and a flotilla of cellular phones on a windswept ocean of antifreeze, an owl and a pussycat in each.

If the city sensed these things, it remained silent.

The city kept its secrets.

###

LETTERS AND LIES

By Scott Nicholson

"Neither rain nor gloom nor dead of night...that doesn't sound right. Now how does that go?" Charlie Blevins shook his head. "Something something appointed rounds."

Charlie steered his postal jeep to the curb on Poplar Hills, where box houses with vinyl siding and slatted shutters horseshoed around a cul-de-sac. All the poplars had been cut down because the trees got too tall and homeowners' insurance had gone up. The leaves of the spindly maples that had been planted in their stead were just beginning to turn orange-red, and the grass smelled sweetly of autumn. This was Charlie's favorite time of year.

He lifted the bundle of papers, letters, and catalogs off the seat beside him and swung his tan, knobby legs onto the pavement. The two little dogs behind the fence at 106 were yapping, just as if he hadn't driven by every day, excepting legal holidays and Sundays, for the last five years. Punters, Charlie called them, the kind that would lift satisfyingly off the foot and sail about ten yards.

Charlie walked along the fence to the mail slot hanging by the garage door. The punters followed him every step of the way, tumbling over each other in their frenzy. Charlie pulled a rubber band off the pile of mail, glanced around to make sure the snoopy old bat at 108 wasn't watching, and shot the rubber band through the chain links, hitting the closest dog in the nose. Its face registered surprise, and a good two seconds passed as its brain analyzed the new information. It decided pain was the message the brain was receiving, and the brain sent an order to the dog's mouth commanding it to yelp.

"The U.S. Postal Service. We deliver," Charlie said, blissfully unaware that he had lifted the line from a rival package company. He walked to 107, whistling cheerfully. 107 had a heft of mail, including a pair of periodicals in plain brown wrappers. Charlie recognized the return address. He delivered a lot of these "pictorials" to this end of town, where the citizens were just solid enough to worry about appearances. They couldn't just buy their smut off the convenience store rack, right in front of God, the PTA, or whoever else might happen to stop in for a Big Gulp and a pack of smokes.

Charlie dropped off the stack and continued to 108. The curtains didn't part, so Miss Mauretta Whiting, You May Already Be A Winner, was definitely not at home. Today she had a pair of sweepstakes packages from the same clearing house, one addressed to "Maura White," the other to "Ma Whiting." If she had been home, she would be standing by the mailbox waiting for him.

"Time-dated material," she would say. She personally blamed him for all the shortcomings of the postal service. She didn't even have to be standing there for Charlie to hear her thin, scratchy voice.

"Why, for thirty-three cents, I'd expect a letter to get here the day before it was mailed. You keep chargin' more and more and gettin' slower and slower. Sometimes they don't get through at all. Back in my day..."

Yeah, they used to walk through six feet of snow with one hand tied behind their backs and a pack of starving wolves latched onto their ankles. Well, this isn't your day anymore, lady, thought Charlie.

He opened her mailbox and crammed it full with her beloved sweepstakes material. Maybe she was just perpetually disappointed that his jeep, and not Ed McMahon's prize wagon, that drove up.

She vanished from his mind as he made his way to 109. The flag was up at the box, so Charlie reached in and pulled out a couple of letters in #10 envelopes. As his fingers brushed the letters, a mild tingle crawled up his arm. He hoped his blood sugar wasn't getting low again. He walked back to the jeep and tossed the letters in the "out" basket without looking at them.

Charlie finished his rounds and drove back to the office. He walked up the loading bay ramp with the basket of outgoing mail, passing Susan, the counter clerk, who was sucking on a Virginia Slim. Her eyelashes drooped from the weight of mascara, like tree branches that were laden with wet leaves. Charlie's private nickname for her was "Next Window," because she had the far more pressing responsibility of pleasing the stockholders of her favorite tobacco company than satisfying the postal customers of Silver Falls, Virginia.

She looked ready to complain, so Charlie obliged. "Hey, Susan, how's it going?"

"My feet are killing me," she said. "I'm thinking about putting in for disability."

"Well, darling, you go right ahead and then come back in a few months and see how this place falls apart without you. We'd have St. Louis in with San Francisco and next-day air freight would be stacked in the broom closet."

She fluttered her eyelashes. "And you'd think a girl would get a raise once in a while. At least a 'thank you' would be nice."

"There's always the satisfaction of a job well done." Not that you would know, Charlie silently added. He walked over to the sorter and dumped his basket. Most of the mail would zip down to the center in Danville, where it would leave tonight for parts all over the country and world. Some of it would stay in the office and go out tomorrow on the local routes. A piece or two would fall in a crack and gather lint for a while.

Bob Fender stood by a package bin, looking at a letter as if it were a spot of blood. His blue suspenders, already taut, stretched to the snapping point as he bent over and picked it up. He saw Charlie and said, "Hey, look here at this."

Charlie squinted at the letter, cursing the weak fluorescent lights. The postmark was dated fifteen years ago. This branch office had only been open for four years. Before that, they had worked out of a little stone building that had been crumbling since the turn of the century. Somehow, the letter had made the move and remained hidden, like a stowaway that had forgotten to disembark. Bob was willing and able to spend a half-hour of government-subsidized time recounting its possible history.

"That damned thing is loster than a preacher at a strip joint," said Bob. A good-natured guffaw rippled the folds of his beer gut.

"If it was a love letter, you can bet the flame has long since flickered out," said Charlie. "If it's a check, the account's probably closed. If it was news from home, there's sure nothing new about it now."

"Makes you wonder, though. Looks like a woman's handwriting, or maybe one of them fancy college boy’s. Funny, ain't one word changed in this thing in fifteen years while the rest of the world's just gone on getting crazier. Just like every time there's a mail bomb, everybody yells, 'It was the Aye-rabs,' but then they come to find out it was a good corn-fed country boy instead of a raghead. Just gone on getting crazier." Bob shook his head. "Them was simpler times back then."

"Sure was." Charlie was anxious to steer Bob off-track before he really got rolling on the list of society's ills. "So, you going to give this to Red?"

"Well, curiosity killed the cat and never did no good for the mouse, neither. If we deliver this, there'd be a story in the local paper for sure. Some snot-nosed kid fresh out of newspaper school would have a field day comparing us to snails and all that."

"Yeah, and then laugh up their sleeve like they were the first ones to ever think of it."

"This baby's going on a one-way trip to the dead letter office." Bob tossed it in the trash can. "What they don't know won't hurt them."

After Bob left, Charlie picked the letter out of the can and looked at the return address. He went into the bathroom and locked the door, then tore open the envelope and slid the letter out. It was musty, like a canvas tent that had been stored in the basement too long. Charlie unfolded the two yellowed pages and read the big cursive scrawl:

Dear Rita:

I know you really owe me nothing since it was a mutual decision to break up. I heard you got married, and I hope you're happy because you deserve it. Here in Kansas, even the sky is flat. I can hardly go day-to-day, sometimes there's no reason to get out of bed. Remember when you used to laugh and say I was crazy? Well, I guess you were more right than you know.

There's a hole where hope used to be. See that trick of words, how one letter can change everything. The world I see is now the word I see. Sometimes when the night is black, I look for stars and all I see are scars. My heart is bound with barbwire, and despair is a prison of my own design and execution. Funny, I wanted to be a writer, now I'm a waiter. I guess it's only people and words, and words tell lies.

I used to play the existentialist, all that heavy stuff about the individual and the freedom of choice. Well, Camus and Nietzsche are dead, so what does it mean? Maybe that's the point. Enough philosophy, I know that stuff always bored you silly. I'd love to hear from you, so drop a note (not a not) to say you're alive and that somewhere there are butterflies and sunshine. I'm not asking you to understand, I just want to hear from you while I figure out if life is worth living. One letter makes all the difference.

Best wishes,

Jason

Charlie had a feeling that Jason was reunited with his old friends Cay-mus and Nietzsche, whoever they were. Well, if Jason wanted to feel good about himself, he should have gotten the hell out of Kansas. Wait a second, Charlie thought. Didn't Nietzsche used to play middle linebacker for the Packers?

Charlie shook the gloom off like it was dandruff and stuffed the letter in his back pocket. He took a leak and went back to the sorting floor.

Red Stallings, the regional postmaster, was there, his postal blues pressed so sharply that they wore like wood instead of cotton. Red was a Viet Nam vet, and tried to run the office like it was a military unit. Charlie wished Red would choke on his "oh-seven-hundred hours" and his referring to sacks and jeeps as "ordnance." Red glared at Charlie as if expecting a salute, but Charlie just waved and rolled a cart of mail over to the loading bay.

Charlie killed the rest of the day, dodging Red when he could, then drove his jeep home. He pulled into the drive and looked at his small brown house with its blistered yellow trim and the window screens with fist-sized holes in them. He didn't think of it as his castle so much as a place where his mail got sent. He went inside and changed clothes so he could mow the grass.

His wife caught him as he was about to go out the door, her face sweaty. "I found this in your work shorts. It about went through the washer," she said, waving the letter in the air as if it were a stick she wanted him to fetch.

"Oh, I found that in the trash."

"Since when did you take up stealing people's letters?"

"When you started sticking your nose in my business, that's when."

"Why are you getting all mad over somebody you don't even know?" She shaded her eyes with the letter.

"There's something funny about that letter, and I'm going to try to figure it out," he said.

"Well, I read it, and it's crazy. Says here 'despair is a prison of my own design and execution.' What's that mean?"

"Maybe it means sometimes people ask for help and they never get an answer. It's like those letters addressed to Santa Claus. All these kids writing letters telling how good they've been and what the elves can make for them."

"It makes people feel good. What's wrong with that?"

"Those letters are nothing but a pain in the rump to the postal service. Because of junk like that, sometimes the real important messages get lost."

She crossed her arms. "You're getting strange on me, Charlie. That's just one little letter. Just think about the good news you deliver every single day."

"Yeah, I wonder. Sometimes I wonder if any news is good."

"Well, don't let that bad stuff rub off on you. Now get the grass mowed, and I'll fix us up some pork chops."

After dinner, Charlie spent the rest of the evening parked in front of the television set, sipping beer while the Lions ripped the Vikings on Monday Night Football. He forgot all about the letter.

But in his dreams, he was in a prison camp and words circled overhead like black buzzards and he was digging, digging, digging, trying to escape the oppressive unseen eyes of Jason, who was on guard duty in the barbwire tower above and Charlie was burrowing in the dirt when the searchlights found him and the dirt turned into mounds of rotting mail and a gate lifted and a lion came out to eat him and...he woke up tired and sweaty.

He made his rounds that day in a haze, as if he were underwater. The letters seemed to burn in his hands. He noticed that it wasn't the electric bills that bothered him, it was the personal letters. He found himself wondering what heartaches he was bringing to people's doors.

He cursed his imagination and ground the gears of the jeep. He pulled into Poplar Hills and didn't even stop to razz the punters. As he was bringing mail to 106, he almost fell over when a surge of heat flashed through him. He dropped the bundle he was carrying and gripped his knees until the spasm passed. He stooped to collect the mail- a coupon book, a catalog, a telephone bill, and a letter- but he jerked his hand back when he touched the last item.

Charlie knew what the letter said, as plainly as if he could read it. "I'm coming for the kids," came the words, in an unfamiliar voice. "The courts can't keep me away from my own kids. And in case you're thinking about a restraining order, you go to the cops and I'll make you sorry you ever met me. Even sorrier than you already are. Only this time, there won't be any lawyers, just you and me. Just like the good old days."

Charlie shoved the mail in the slot and backed away. He shook his head and went to 107. He didn't believe in ESP crap. Must be his blood sugar. He'd take off tomorrow and go to the doctor.

He opened the box at 107 and was about to shovel in the mail when the odd feeling struck him again.

"Howdy, Hank," came a sultry female voice. "I know you told me not to write you at home, but your wife doesn't open your mail, does she? Anyway, lover, that money you said you'd send hasn't gotten here yet. I like the little games we play, but the rent has to be paid. I'd hate to start sending letters to your wife, with a few photographs dropped in the envelope. What I'm asking for is cheaper than a divorce..."

Charlie slid the mail in and closed the box. He wiped his hand on his shorts, trying to get rid of the slimy feeling. The letters were talking to him. What was it his wife had said? Something about bad stuff rubbing off?

He picked up Mauretta Whiting's mail A single letter was among the sweepstakes bundles, and it spoke in a tear-soaked young woman's voice. "Aunt Retta, I'm sorry to hear about your cancer..."

Charlie jerked his hand back as if he had touched live snakes. If he was going nuts, madness wasn't slowly shadowing him like a moon eclipsing the sun, the way he always figured things like that happened. It was more like flipping off a light switch. Blood sugar, hell. It was the letters.

He hurried back to the jeep. The out basket sat in the passenger's seat, and voices rose from it, old and thin, raspy and squeaky, bass and tenor, speaking in snatches:

"...and when Robbie overdosed..."

"...going to have to apply for food stamps..."

"...I'm afraid I have some bad news..."

"...died in that car wreck..."

"...don't blame you for running away..."

"...real lonely in here..."

The voices crowded each other, babbling in Charlie's mind, murmured lullabies of pain that carried him special delivery into a secret land where words bled and paper wept and postmen only rang once. He drove back to the office, making a stop along the way.

Charlie nodded to Susan at the back door of the post office. The Virginia Slim in her right hand had cherry lipstick stains on the butt. Her other hand was on her round hip.

"Hey, Mr. Sunshine," she said. "Why don't you come back and join me at break time?"

"Maybe later. Can I borrow your lighter?" Charlie wasn't sure if he had thought the words, or spoken out loud.

"You don't smoke," she said, handing him the lighter.

He entered the storage area. Bob stood just inside the door, grinning and fanning himself with an L.L. Bean catalog. Bob asked about the five bucks he had lent Charlie the Thursday before.

"Check's in the mail, pal," Charlie said, making his way to the sorting area. The mountain of mail called to him, a cast of thousands clamoring for attention. Scraps of sorrow, broken phrases, and poisoned lines swirled in his mind like a siren song.

"...sorry to have to tell you..."

"...death of..."

"...never did love you..."

"...a question about your tax return...."

"...kill you, you bastard..."

"...what about the kids..."

"...just couldn't face..."

"...thank you for submitting your manuscript, but..."

"...come to the funeral..."

Charlie bent to the pile and thumbed the lighter, holding the flame to one corner of a drug store flyer. The flame flickered for a second, sending a thread of greasy black smoke to the ceiling, then burst brightly to life. Red stepped around the corner and dropped his coffee mug in amazement. A brown puddle spread around his spotlessly buffed boots.

"What's going on, soldier?" Red bellowed.

Charlie pulled the .38 from under his jacket. Red's military training failed him when it mattered most, because all he could do was stand there with his jaw hanging down. Charlie fired twice, hitting Red in the stomach and knocking him backward. Red tumbled into a letter cart, his life leaking out to stain the snowy whiteness of the mail.

The fire kicked up into a roaring blaze. Bob ran up, having heard the shots but unable to reconcile those sounds with the everyday hum of postal business. He looked into the eyes of Charlie, but his friend had been replaced by a scowling specter whose eyes shone like sun-bleached skulls.

"Can't you hear them?" Charlie yelled. "The hurt...people and words...it's all our fault. We have to stop the hurt."

Bob backed away, sweat popping up on his beefy face. "Uh, sure, buddy, whatever you say." After a hot, heavy pause, as if waiting for the cavalry to arrive, Bob added, "And you can just forget about the five bucks."

"But the voices...we're to blame...letters and lies."

Bob's eyes flitted to the now-raging fire and then settled on the gun pointed toward his face. He licked his lips. "Easy, now, Charlie...yeah, I can hear them."

He tried to turn and run, but damned if Charlie wasn't another corn-fed country boy gone crazy and Bob's feet may as well have been freight scales. The bullet whistled into his throat. He fell like a sack of junk mail, without bouncing.

Charlie grinned into the bonfire, adding a few armfuls of mail to the immolation, a burnt offering to some great Postmaster in the Sky. The voices in the letters screamed in pain and supplication. Out of the corner of his sepulchral eyes, Charlie saw Susan trying to crawl away from the loading dock. If he didn't stop her, she might rescue the letters in the drop box out front.

Susan fell face-first as two bullets slammed into her back. Her half-finished cigarette rolled away from her slack hand and down the ramp, coming to a stop in the shadow of Charlie's jeep.

He wheeled the remaining carts of letters to the fire and tipped them in, including the cart that contained the late Red, who stoically rode shotgun on his final mission. Charlie saluted him and crouched to avoid the black layer of smoke that clouded the office. He reloaded his gun.

The voices in his head faded, leaving an echo as bitter as ash. Charlie could think his own thoughts again, but they made no more sense than the voices he had stilled, because he could only think in words, and words told lies.

He went out the back door, the heat from the fire curling his hair. Sirens wailed in the distance, reaching Charlie as if from across a void, from another zip code. He ignored them as if they were fourth-class letters.

Charlie climbed into the jeep. It was time to make the rounds.

###

THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE

By Scott Nicholson

Silence wasn't golden, Katie thought. If silence were any metal, it would be lead: gray, heavy, toxic after prolonged exposure.

Silence weighed upon her in the house, even with the television in the living room blasting a Dakota-Madison-Dirk love triangle, even with the radio upstairs tuned to New York's big-block classic rock, even with the windows open to invite the hum and roar from the street outside. Even with all that noise, Katie heard only the silence. Especially in the one room.

The room she had painted sky blue and world green. The one where tiny clothes, blankets, and oversized books lined the shelves. Wooden blocks had stood stacked in the corner, bought because Katie herself had wooden blocks as a child. She'd placed a special order for them. Most of the toys were plastic these days. Cheaper, more disposable.

Safer.

For the third time that morning, she switched on the monitor system that Peter had installed. A little bit of static leaked from the speaker. She turned her head so that her ear would be closer. Too much silence.

Stop it, Katie. You know you shouldn't be doing this to yourself.

Of course she should know it. That's all she heard lately. The only voices that broke through the silence were those saying, "You shouldn't be doing this to yourself." Or else the flip side of that particular little greatest hit, a remake of an old standard, "Just put it behind you and move on."

Peter said those things. Katie's mom chimed in as well. So did the doctors, the first one with a droopy mustache who looked as if he were into self-medication, the next an anorexic analyst who was much too desperate to find a crack in Katie's armor.

But the loudest voice of all was her own. That unspoken voice that led the Shouldn't-Be chorus. The voice that could never scream away the silence. The voice that bled and cried and sang sad, tuneless songs.

She clicked the monitor off. She hadn't really expected to hear anything. She knew better. She was only testing herself, making sure that it was true, that she was utterly and forever destroyed.

I feel FAIRLY destroyed. Perhaps I'm as far as QUITE. But UTTERLY, hmm, I think I have miles to go before I reach an adverb of such extremity and finality.

No. “Utterly” wasn't an adverb. It was a noun, a state of existence, a land of bleak cliffs and dark waters. And she knew how to enter that land.

She headed for the stairs. One step up at a time. Slowly. Her legs knew the routine. How many trips over the past three weeks? A hundred? More?

She reached the hall, then the first door on the left. Peter had closed it tightly this morning on his way to work. Peter kept telling her to stop leaving the door open at night. But Katie had never left the door open, not since—

Leaving the door open would fall under the category of utterly. And Katie wasn't utterly. At least not yet. She touched the door handle.

It was cold. Ice cold, grave cold, as cold as a cheek when—

You shouldn't be doing this to yourself.

But she already was. She turned the knob, the sound of the latch like an avalanche in the hush of a snowstorm. The door swung inward. Peter had oiled the hinges, because he said nothing woke a sleeping baby faster than squeaky hinges.

The room was still too blue, still far too verdant. Maybe she should slap on another coat, something suitably dismal and drab. This wasn't a room of air and life. This was a room of silence.

Because silence crowded this room like death crowded a coffin. Even though Led Zeppelin's "Stairway To Heaven" jittered forth from the bedroom radio across the hall, even though the soap opera's music director was sustaining a tense organ chord, even though Katie's heart was rivaling John Bonham's bass beat, this room was owned by silence. The absence of sound hit Katie like a tidal wave, slapped her about the face, crushed the wind from her lungs. It smothered her.

It accused her.

She could still see the impressions that the four crib legs had made in the carpet. Peter had taken apart the crib while she was still in the hospital, trundled it off to some charity. He'd wanted to remove as many reminders as possible, so she could more quickly forget. But the one thing he couldn't remove was the memory that was burned into her eyes.

And any time, like now, that she cared to try for utterly, all she had to do was pull the vision from somewhere behind her eyelids, rummage in that dark mental closet with its too-flimsy lock. All those nights of coming in this room, bending over, smiling in anticipation of that sinless face with its red cheeks, sniffing to see if the diaper were a one or a two, reaching to feel the small warmth.

And then the rest of it.

Amanda pale. Amanda's skin far too cool. Amanda not waking, ever.

Katie blinked away the memory and left the room, so blinded by tears that she nearly ran into the doorjamb. She closed the door behind her, softly, because silence was golden and sleeping babies didn't cry. Her tears hadn't dried by the time Peter came home.

He took one look at her, then set his briefcase by the door as if it were fireman's gear and he might have to douse the flames of a stock run. "You were in there again, weren't you?"

She stared ahead, thanking God for television. The greatest invention ever for avoiding people's eyes. Now if only the couch would swallow her.

"I'm going to buy a damned deadbolt for that room," he said, going straight to the kitchen for the martini waiting in the freezer. Mixed in the morning to brace himself for the effort of balancing vermouth and gin all evening. He made his usual trek from the refrigerator to the computer, sat down, and was booted up before he spoke again.

"You shouldn't be doing this to yourself," he said.

Julia debated thumbing up the volume on the television remote. No. That would only make him yell louder. Let him lose himself in his online trading.

"How was your day?" she asked.

"Somewhere between suicide and murder," he said. "The tech stocks fell off this afternoon. Had clients reaming out my ear over the phone."

"They can't blame you for things that are out of your control," she said. She didn't understand how the whole system worked, people trading bits of paper and hope, all of it seeming remote from the real world and money.

"Yeah, but they pay me to know," Peter said, the martini already two-thirds vanished, his fingers going from keyboard to mouse and back again. "Any idiot can guess or play a hunch. But I'm supposed to outperform the market."

"I'm going to paint the nursery."

"Damn. SofTech dropped another three points."

Peter used to bring Amanda down in the mornings, have her at his feet while he caught up on the overnight trading in Japan. He would let Katie have an extra half-hour's sleep. But the moment Amanda started crying, Peter would hustle her up the stairs, drop her between Katie's breasts, and head back to the computer. "Can't concentrate with her making that racket," was one of his favorite sayings.

Katie suddenly pictured one of those "dial-and-say" toys, where you pulled the string and the little arrow spun around. If Peter had made the toy, it would stop on a square and give one of his half-dozen patented lines: "You shouldn't be doing this to yourself" or "Just put it behind you and move on" or "We can always try again later, when you're over it."

"I was reading an article today," she said. "It said SIDS could be caused by—"

"I told you to stop with those damned parenting magazines."

SIDS could be caused by several things. Linked to smoking, bottle feeding, stomach-sleeping, overheating. Or nothing at all. There were reports of mothers whose babies had simply stopped breathing while being held.

Sometimes babies died for no apparent reason, through nobody's fault. The doctors had told her so a dozen times.

Then why couldn't she put it behind her?

Because Amanda had Katie's eyes. Even dead, even swaddled under six feet of dirt, even with eyelids butterfly-stitched in eternal slumber, those eyes stared through the earth and sky and walls to pierce Katie. They peeked in dreams and they blinked in those long black stretches of insomnia and they peered in from the windows of the house.

Those begging, silent eyes.

The eyes that, on dark nights when Peter was sound asleep, watched from the nursery.

No, Katie, that's no way to think. Babies don't come back, not when they're gone. Just think of her as SLEEPING.

Katie changed channels. Wheel of Fortune. Suitably vapid. Peter's fingers clicked over some keys, another fast-breaking deal.

She glanced at him, his face bright from the glow of the computer screen. He didn't look like a millionaire. Neither did she. But they were, or soon would be. As soon as the insurance money came in.

She almost hated Peter for that. Always insuring everything to the max. House, cars, people. They each had million-dollar life policies, and he'd insisted on taking one out for Amanda.

"It's not morbid," he'd said. "Think of it as life's little lottery tickets."

And even with the million due any day now, since the medical examiner had determined that the death was natural, Peter still had to toy with those stocks. As addicted as any slot-machine junkie. He'd scarcely had time for sorrow. He hadn't even cried since the funeral.

But then, Peter knew how to get over it, how to put it behind him.

"I'm going up," she said. "I'm tired."

"Good, honey. You should get some rest." Not looking away from the screen.

Katie went past him, not stooping for a kiss. He'd hardly even mentioned the million.

She went up the stairs, looked at the door to the nursery. She shuddered, went into the bedroom, and turned off the radio. A faint hissing filled the sonic void, like air leaking from a tire. The monitor.

She could have sworn she'd turned it off. Peter would be angry if he knew she'd been listening in on the nursery again. But Peter was downstairs. The silence from the empty room couldn't bother him.

Only her. She sat on the bed and listened for the cries that didn't come, for the tiny coos that melted a mother's heart, for the squeals that could mean either delight or hunger. Amanda. A month old. So innocent.

And Katie, so guilty. The doctors said it wasn't her fault, but what did they know? All they saw were blood tests, autopsy reports, charts, the evidence after the fact. They'd never held the living, breathing Amanda in their arms.

The medical examiner had admitted that crib death was a "diagnosis of exclusion." A label they stuck on the corpse of a baby when no other cause was found. She tried not to think of the ME in the autopsy room, running his scalpel down the line of Amanda's tiny chest.

Katie stood, her heart pounding. Had that been a cry? She strained to hear, but the monitor only vomited its soft static. Its accusing silence.

She switched off the monitor, fingers trembling.

If she started hearing sounds now, little baby squeaks, the rustle of small blankets, then she might start screaming and never stop. She might go utterly, beyond the reach of those brightly colored pills the doctors had prescribed. She got under the blankets and buried her head beneath the pillows.

Peter came up after an hour or so. He undressed without speaking, slid in next to her, his body cold. He put an arm around her.

"Honey?" he whispered. "You awake?"

She nodded in the darkness.

"SofTech closed with a gain." His breath reeked of alcohol, though his speech wasn't slurred.

"Good for you, honey," she whispered.

"I know you've been putting off talking about it, but we really need to."

Could she? Could she finally describe the dead hollow in her heart, the horror of a blue-skinned baby, the monstrous memory of watching emergency responders trying to resuscitate Amanda?

"Do we have to?" she asked. She choked on tears that wouldn't seep from her eyes.

"Nothing will bring her back." He paused, the wait made larger by the silence. "But we still need to do something about the money."

Money. A million dollars against the life of her child.

He hurried on before she could get mad or break down. "We really should invest it, you know. Tech stocks are a little uneven right now, but I think they're going to skyrocket in the next six months. We might be able to afford to move out of the city."

She stiffened and turned away from him.

"Christ, Katie. You really should put it behind you."

"That article on SIDS," she said. "There's a link between smog levels and sudden infant death."

"You're going to make yourself crazy if you keep reading that stuff," he said. "Sometimes, things just happen." He caressed her shoulder. "We can always try again later, you know."

She responded with silence, a ten-ton nothingness that could crush even the strongest flutters of hope. Peter eventually gave up, his hand sliding from her shoulder, and was soon snoring.

Katie awoke at three, in the dead stillness of night. A mother couldn't sleep through the crying of her baby. As she had so many nights after the birth, she dragged herself out of bed and went to the nursery. They should have put the crib in their bedroom, but Peter said they'd be okay with the monitor on.

Katie's breasts had quit leaking over a week ago, but now they ached with longing. She closed her robe over them and went into the hall, quietly so that Peter could get his sleep. She opened the door and saw the eyes. The small eyes burned bright with hunger, need, love, loss. Questions.

Katie went to them in the dark, and leaned over the crib. The small mouth opened, wanting air. The light flared on, stealing her own breath.

"What are you doing in here?" Peter said.

"I . . . couldn't sleep." She looked down at the empty carpet, at the small marks where the crib legs had rested.

Maybe if she cried.

"We should paint this room," Peter said.

She went to him, sagged against his chest as he hugged her. After she was through sobbing, he led her to the bedroom. He fell asleep again, but she couldn't. Behind her eyelids lived that small, gasping mouth and those two silent, begging eyes.

As she listened to the rhythm of Peter's breathing, she recalled the line from that movie, the cop thriller that they'd gone to see when she was seven months' pregnant. The tough plainclothes detective, who looked like a budget Gene Hackman, had said, "There's only two ways to get away with murder: kill yourself, or put a plastic bag over a baby's head."

What a horrible thing to say, she'd thought at the time. Only a jerk Hollywood writer would come up with something like that, so callous and thoughtless. Peter had later apologized for suggesting the movie.

"Is it really true?" she'd asked. "About the plastic bag?"

"Who knows?" he'd said. "I guess they do research when they write those things. Just forget about it."

Sure. She'd put that behind her, too. She wondered if Peter had been able to forget it.

He had taken out the insurance policy for Amanda a week after her birth. Peter had always wanted to be a millionaire. That's why he played the market. He wanted to hit one jackpot in his life.

She turned on the lamp and studied Peter's face.

Amanda had some of his features. The arch of the eyebrows, the fleshy earlobes, the small chin. But Amanda's eyes had been all Katie. When those silent eyes looked imploringly out from Katie's memory, it was like looking into a mirror.

Katie shuddered and blinked away the vision of that small stare. She pressed her face against the pillow, mimicking a suffocation. No. She wouldn't be able to smother herself.

She wrestled with the sheets. Peter was sweating, even though he wore only pajama bottoms. She pulled the blanket from him. He sleepily tugged back, oblivious.

She must have fallen asleep, dreamed. Amanda at the window, brushing softly against the screen. Katie rising from the bed, pressing her face against the cold glass. Amanda floating in the night, eyes wide, flesh blue, lips moving in senseless baby talk. The sounds muffled by the plastic bag over her head.

When Katie awoke, Peter was in the bathroom, getting ready for work. He was humming. He was an ace at putting things behind him. You'd scarcely have known that he'd lost a daughter.

Why couldn't she show an equally brave face?

She made her morning trek into the nursery. No crib, no Amanda. The books were dead on the shelves, words for nobody. The toys were dusty.

"I'm going to stop by on my way home and pick up a couple of gallons of paint," Peter said from the doorway. He put his toothbrush back in his mouth.

"Was she ever real?" Katie asked.

"Shhh," Peter mumbled around the toothbrush. "It's okay, honey. It wasn't your fault."

Even Peter believed it. She looked at his hands. No. They would never have been able to slip a bag over a baby's head, hold it loosely until the squirming stopped.

She was surprised she still had tears left to cry. Maybe she would run out of them in a week or two, when she was beyond utterly. When she had put it behind her.

"Peach," she said. "I think peach walls would look good."

"It's only for a little while. Until we have enough money to move. The sooner we get you away from this house, the better."

The million wouldn't buy Amanda back. But at least it would help bury her, confine her to a distant place in Katie's memory. Maybe one day, Katie really would be able to forget. One morning, she would awaken without guilt.

She made coffee, some eggs for Peter. He rushed through breakfast, checking over the NASDAQ in the newspaper. She kissed him at the door.

"I promise to try harder," she said to him.

He put a hand to the back of her neck, rubbed her cheek with his thumb. "She had eyes just like yours," he said, then he looked away. "Sorry. I'm not supposed to talk about it."

"We'll be away from here soon."

"It wasn't your fault."

She couldn't answer. She had a lump in her throat. So she nodded, watched him walk to his car, then closed the door. After he'd driven away, headed for the Battery in Manhattan, she went up the stairs.

She reached under the bed and pulled out the keepsake box. She untied the pink ribbon and opened it. Amanda Lee Forrester, born 7-12-00. Seven pounds, nine ounces. Tiny footprints on the birth certificate.

Katie shuffled through the photographs, the birth announcement clipped from the newspaper, the hospital bracelet, the two white booties, the small silver spoon Peter's mom had given them. Soon Katie would be able to put these things behind her and move on. But not too soon.

She could cry at will. She could pretend to be utterly if she needed to, if Peter ever suspected. She could hide her guilt in that perfect hiding place, her disguise of perpetual self-blame.

Katie put all the items of Amanda's life into the plastic bag, then tied the box closed with the ribbon. She returned the box to its place under the bed. Peter would never understand, not a trade such as the one she'd made.

A million dollars to forever carry the weight of silence.

She clicked on the nursery monitor, sat on the bed, and listened.

###

WEE ROBBIE

By William Meikle

We knew it was a bad idea to isolate ourselves so much when it was so near her time but it had been years since our last holiday and besides, her doctors assured us that we were at least three weeks away from the birth.

It wasn't planned—not at all. We'd settled for a couple of weeks' rest and I'd booked a three-month sabbatical from the office, hoping to get some work done on the house. Then we won the competition. One week anywhere in Britain of our choosing as long as we took the holiday in the next month. One day we were in our flat in London, surrounded by half-finished building work, noise, dust, and general aggravation, the next we were all alone on the west coast of Scotland, in a cottage by the shore on Jura—just us, the seals, and the view over the sea to Argyll.

I wasn't sure at first. I wanted to be near a hospital, just in case of emergencies, but she insisted. It would be our last holiday alone for a while, she was fit and healthy, and she wanted to do it.

The nearest house was five miles south, the nearest doctor twice that distance. To the north and west there were only the rugged hills and the deer. We didn't even have a boat. At least there was a road, a single-track lane with passing places. It had recently been resurfaced and we had been provided with a new Range Rover for the duration. I was confident that we could reach the doctor's house in less than twenty minutes in event of an emergency. That was quicker than I could have managed it in London. And we had warned the doctor we were coming. I had talked myself round to the idea and I wasn't worried. I should have been.

We arrived late. Jura is not the easiest place to get to. It involved a flight to Glasgow and a short hop over to Islay. The Range Rover was waiting at Islay airport, which is more a glorified field than an airstrip. After that, it is a fifteen-mile trip to the Port Askaig ferry, a small ramshackle affair that can take four cars on a calm day across the half mile of treacherous waters towards the stunning mountains of Jura.

Once on the island, it was a single track road all the way. There is only one road twenty miles of it—with Craighouse, the only town, halfway along, but we were going right to the far end.

We stopped in the one and only hotel for a meal but we were too late to pick up any other provisions. That would have to wait till the morning.

It was dark when we arrived and Sandra was too tired to do anything other than fall into bed and sleep. As for me, I was restless. I never believed that I would miss the bustle of London's streets, but the lack of noise here had me on edge.

The only sound was the gentle lapping of the sea on the rocks only ten yards from the cottage's front door. Occasionally there would be the forlorn cry of a gull or the croaking of a crow, but apart from that, it was silent and dark and strangely disquieting.

I paced the floors, studying the titles of the books on the long shelves round the walls, listening to the radio, drinking whiskey and trying to pretend that I didn't miss the television.

It was very late by the time I snuggled into bed, taking advantage of the radiating heat from my pregnant wife beside me. I believe I slept soundly, I don't remember any dreams, and nothing disturbed me during the night.

She woke me the next morning with a whisper.

'Get up. Hurry. You've got to see this.'

I was still groggy when I raised my head to see her leaving the room. I got out of bed, wincing at the cold seeping through the floorboards, and joined her at the window in the front room.

'Look', she said, 'Isn't it wonderful?'

It was very early morning—the sun was just coming up over the hills of Argyll, spreading a pink glow across the wispy clouds.

The sea was being slightly ruffled by a small breeze and, there in the foreground, just at the edge of the small lawn in front of the house, sat three otters obviously a mother and two smaller young. As we watched they trotted along the shore then slipped into the water.

We crept out, still naked, and watched them cavorting among the huge fronds of seaweed until I slipped on the wet grass and the sudden movement caused them to dive, resurfacing again much farther out. Sandra came over and squeezed me, her full belly pressing its heat against my flesh.

'Thanks for bringing us here John. I love it.' We kissed and I marveled again at how hot and alive and heavy with life she had become. It was only as we turned back to the house that I noticed the mound.

It had been too dark the night before to see any details of the surrounding area but now I could see that the cottage was built on a small raised piece of land between two arms of a river. We had come across a small bridge last night but in the dark I had failed to notice it.

Behind the cottage, just where the rivers split, there was a huge stone cairn, standing eight to ten feet high and topped off with a cross which looked to be the same height again as the cairn and made of solid iron. Around the cairn there was a wrought iron fence with spiked railings jutting up towards the sky.

'Why would they put something like that out here?' she asked me 'I thought that cairns were usually built on top of hills?'

'I'm not sure. Maybe it's for someone who died either here or at sea near here. We can ask in town if you like?' I turned towards her, noticing the goose pimples which had been raised on her arms.

'Get yourself inside and put some clothes on. We don't want you to catch a chill. Anyway, by the time we get going and get to the town the shop will be open.'

When we eventually got to the shop it was ten o'clock. There had just been too many things to see on the drive down.

The shop held only basic foods—eggs, bacon, cheese, nothing too fancy—but Sandra had got over her cravings for exotica and we would be able to stock up with most of our needs for the week.

Sandra was the focus of much of the talk and was in danger of excessive mothering from some of the women we met. We turned down several offers of a warmer room closer to town and the shop owner took our list from us, promising that she would make it up and we could collect it later.

Luckily the hotel served late breakfast. The pace of life on the island moved slowly and you could run breakfast into lunch into evening meal into supper without leaving the hotel grounds. We managed to escape at one in the afternoon, weighed down by bacon and sausages and swilling with coffee.

It was only when we stopped by the shop to pick up our supplies that I remembered the cairn.

The shop keeper tried to hide her movement but I caught it—the sign against the evil eye, two pronged fingers stabbing at me as she spoke. 'You don't have to worry about that sir. It's only an old memorial. Some say there used to be a plaque fixed to it, but no one can remember what it's there for.'

I noticed that the rest of the customers in the shop had fallen silent. I supposed that the cairn was the focus for some old superstition. That didn't bother me, but I wasn't about to tell Sandra. Unlike me, she held a fascination for the supernatural. Anything that went bump in the night or was out of the ordinary, she fell for it.

I could never understand the fascination with scaring yourself half to death, but I knew that if she found out that there was something weird about the cairn, she would not stop until she had winkled out the story. In the car on the way to the cottage, I told her it was a war memorial and then let the subject drop. She didn't ask any questions.

We finally got back in late afternoon, having made numerous stops to marvel at the stunning variety of life around us. Sandra made a big show of hand-washing our traveling clothes and hanging them from a clothesline at the back of the house.

The rest of the day passed lazily as we sat on the lawn, drinking long drinks, watching the scenery, and making happy plans for our future. We took our food out onto the grassy area, sitting on an old rug and throwing occasional morsels to an inquisitive squirrel. I think that evening was the closest to heaven I have ever been.

Doctor Reid arrived around six o'clock and spent ten minutes reassuring himself that Sandra was not about to go into labour in the near future. He was gracious and gentlemanly and I could see that Sandra was charmed. Something in my chest loosened as a knot of worry melted away.

I walked him back to his car while Sandra cleared up the remains of our picnic. We made small talk about the weather and our prospects for the coming week, and he had got into his car before I said what was really on my mind. I don't know what made me do it, what made me think that he was the man to ask, but before I knew it the sentence was out.

'Do you know anything about the monument out the back?'

He gave me a little sideways look over the top of his glasses and it was several seconds before he replied.

'And why should you let that thing bother you Mr Wilson?'

Before I could reply, he continued. 'If you really want to know the story, you'll find a version in a book on your shelves. A Tourist's History of Jura. I believe you'll find it educational. But make sure you don't tell your wife—it's not a tale for the faint-hearted.'

At that, he wound up the window and drove off, leaving me with an unexplained chill in my spine. I shook it off and went back to help my wife.

We were finally forced indoors by a chill wind which brought the clouds down the hills as the sun disappeared and a fine grey mist spread over the sea.

Sandra busied herself with some knitting—baby clothes, naturally, and I managed to locate the book which the doctor had mentioned.

It didn't take me long to find the appropriate section and I was amused to see that the chapter had been written by a certain Doctor Reid of Craighouse, Jura.

There was a block of description of the cottage and the surrounding area before it got to the interesting bit.

The mound behind the house is of some antiquity. A local legend associates it with the little people who seem to be all prevalent in this area, and one of the race in particular. In 1598, the battle of Trai-Guinard took place on Islay, the neighbouring island. The battle was going badly for Sir James MacDonald when he was approached by a dwarfish creature who proclaimed himself capable of swinging the battle in return for certain favours.

To cut a long story short (and in these parts stories can grow exceedingly long), Sir James, despite some qualms, agreed. An hour later the battle was his and his enemy, Sir Lachlan, lay dead of no apparent injury. Sir James retired to his house near Craighouse and that night, Wee Robbie was made a freeman of the estate.

And now we come to the meat of the story. The townspeople did not take kindly to the creature in their midst, but he was under the protection of the Laird and they were powerless. Until, that is, the children started to disappear.

Tales are still whispered around the fires of the scene that met the eyes of the men who had the courage to enter the dwelling of the dwarf. Hideous dismembered corpses lay strewn in all corners and a cauldron was bubbling in the grate, a foul brew of body parts which could be seen rising in the stew before falling back once more into the stinking mess.

And yet none had the courage to end the creature's life. They interred him in the tomb, a chambered cairn for long-dead kings, and they fixed him there with the cross and the iron.

It is said that sometimes, in the dead of night, the tortured screams of the Dubh-sith, the black elf, can be heard ringing from his prison, and that at such times it is wise to lock the doors and huddle around the warm hearths of home.

I could see why the doctor didn't want me to pass the tale on to Sandra. One thing she didn't need was lurid fantasies of a child molester in the back yard. When she asked me what I was reading I passed it off as some local colour and changed the subject.

For the rest of the evening, I tried to read about the wildlife of the island, but I couldn't get the vision out of my head of the seething pot of offal and the things which floated in it.

The next time I looked up, Sandra was smiling at me and it wasn't long before we adjourned to the bedroom and made tender, careful love as the darkness closed in around us.

Later, just as I fell asleep, I could hear the wind was rising, whistling through the chimney breasts and causing the trees to rustle and crack.

I woke early and squeezed myself away from Sandra, taking care not to wake her. After boiling some water in the kettle, I ventured out to see what the weather was like, but the first thing I noticed was the effect of the wind. The washing was gone from the line, torn off the rope during the night. I found a shirt in the left-hand stream, a pair of underpants halfway up a tree, and I could see Sandra's blouse hanging from one arm of the cross on the cairn.

I retrieved everything else I could see before moving to the mound of stones. I stepped over the railing, just missing doing myself an injury on the spikes, and clambered up the rocks, dislodging a few in the process and giving myself several bruises on my knees.

The blouse was wrapped around the rusted spar and, by straining and stretching, I could just about reach it. Catching hold of the blouse, I pulled, just as my footing gave way. I fell, pulling the blouse with me, and felt the material tear before something solid and heavy hit me on the head forcing me down onto the rocks, rolling dislodged stones until I was brought up against the railings.

I heard a loud creaking and looked up to see the cross, now with a spar missing, swaying from side to side in the breeze. When I looked down I found the missing piece, lying by my side with Sandra's blouse still wrapped around it. I left it there as I hauled myself over the railings and hobbled back to the house.

That was it for the rest of the day. I was dazed, bleeding from a head wound and bruised over much of my body. Sandra wanted to fetch the doctor but I talked her out of it. I didn't want anybody to know that I had defaced the cross, not yet anyway, not until I had the chance to try to repair some of the damage.

I spent the day in bed, most of the time with Sandra beside me, nursing my wounds and wondering what the islanders' reaction would be.

As darkness filled the room, Sandra fell asleep, but I lay awake, listening to the creaking of the cross, the rasping of iron against stone as it swayed back and forth in the wind.

At some point I must have fallen asleep. I was awakened by a cold draft hitting me just on the back of the neck. I rolled over, hoping to snuggle against my wife's warm body, but I met only more empty space. It took several seconds for me to realise that she wasn't in the bed.

Moonlight was streaming in through the window, enough for me to make out her pale figure and the cross which bobbed and swayed hypnotically in front of her. I was out of the room and through onto the grass before I realised that we were both still naked.

I went back to fetch some clothes, pulling on a long jumper for myself and picking up an overcoat for her. When I got back to the door, she was gone.

In the moonlight I could just make out the footprints in the grass and I followed them up to the cairn. I called out her name, twice, but there was no response.

As I got closer I could see that the cairn had collapsed in on itself on the left-hand side. A dark passage led downwards, down into the earth, and there was a dank salty smell wafting up into the night.

I looked around again but there was no sign of her anywhere. The only assumption I could make was that she was down there somewhere—down there in the earth. She had gone walkabout at night before, sometimes getting as far as the front door in our flat in London, but this was the first time that she had actually left the house.

I was worried, of course I was, but I wasn't thinking in terms of anything other than the personal danger to her should she stumble in the dark. I wasn't thinking in terms of monsters or dwarves. Not yet, anyway.

I called her name again, louder this time, but all I heard was the echo of my voice coming back to me. I entered the passage but after only two or three yards it became as black as a pit of hell. It was no good. I needed some source of light.

Precious minutes were wasted before I located a flashlight, and clouds had covered the moon when I finally went back outside. I called out, not really expecting a response, and none came. I put the overcoat on over the top of the jumper, and with some trepidation I went down into the dark.

The walls were built of large blocks of sandstone. I had visited several Neolithic tombs, in Carnac, in Orkney, and on Salisbury Plain. This gave the same sense of age, of a time long past. What I hadn't expected, what was completely different, was the overwhelming feeling that this place was in use. The walls ran damp and there was a salt tang in the air, but there was no sign of moss or lichen on the walls, only the damp, glistening stone.

I pressed on. By shining the light downwards, I could see the barefoot prints which Sandra had made on her descent. I had no choice but to follow.

The path kept going down, deeper and deeper, and the air was getting colder and damper. I judged that I must be under the sea by now and the thought of all that water above added an extra worry line to my already furrowed brow. At least the passage hadn't diverged.

I was so busy concentrating on the way ahead that I stumbled when my foot didn't meet the expected step and the path leveled out.

I was in some sort of chamber. It was hexagonal in shape, about ten yards across, and there was an entrance in every wall. My feet were wet. That was what I was thinking. It's funny how your mind gives you something else to think about at times of stress.

The thing I was trying to ignore was lying on a slab in the centre of the room. The slab was a pale green marble of a kind I had never seen and she was lying on it with her knees raised in the air as if on an operating table.

Between her legs something moved—something grey and green and warty and hideous. It slithered and crawled, and I could see that it was inside her, was copulating with her.

I think I went slightly mad then. I remember grasping the slimy body, almost dropping it as its small wizened face turned towards me, a face lined with age and infinitely deep in its evil. Even as I looked, the life went out of the eyes and the puny head bent in death, one last smile playing on its lips.

I remember dashing the body again and again against the wall but I don't remember tearing it and mashing it. I must have done it, though, for when I moved towards my wife I had the slimy remains of it all over my free hand and its juices coated my feet and ankles.

She was alive. I thanked God for that as I cradled her in my arms. She seemed to be in a stupor, but when I stood her upright, I found that she was able to walk.

I dragged her unyielding body along, grateful that she seemed to be capable of walking. I had one last look around the chamber before we headed for the stairs. The pieces of the creature I had dismembered were bubbling and frothing in a puddle of bloody ooze.

I fled.

After only twenty or so steps, I felt her stiffen beside me and then she began to pull me back as she tried to go down once more.

I am not proud of my next action. I hit her hard across the chin and she fell into my arms. I carried her up the stairs. Quite how I managed it without dropping the torch I am not too sure, and how long it took us I will never know.

Finally we emerged into the cold night air. I laid her on the grass beyond the railings and tried to tumble the rocks over the passage. I had just covered the entrance when the screaming began.

'The baby. Oh God. It's coming. It's coming.'

I don't remember much of the next half hour, only fragments—driving like a maniac as she sobbed quietly behind me, the sudden light in the deer's eyes just before the car hit it dead on, smashing the car's headlights into a million tinkling fragments.

I remember the small twinkling lights in the black distance as I just managed to avoid the cliff edge and, finally, the iron gate on the path which I almost fell over as the doctor came towards me and I collapsed into a faint.

I have a vague memory of being put in an armchair and practically force-fed whiskey as my wife was carried upstairs and the doctor called for some help, but my legs wouldn't move and my arms were heavy and sleep called me back again.

I dreamed hot lurid fantasies of violence and fire, of rape and bloodletting, and of a cold black fury which carried all before it. I woke from screams into screams.

My legs pushed me out of the chair and towards the door long before my brain was fully awake and I was halfway up the stairs before I recognised the voice behind the screaming. I reached the door just as the screams stopped.

Early morning sunlight was streaming into the room, lighting a scene which will be forever etched into my memory.

The doctor is standing off to one side, his left hand covering his mouth, his right clutching his chest as if to keep his heart in.

An old woman is lying across the bed in a dead faint, her grey wisps of hair mingled with the blood from my wife's legs.

My wife is lying there, throat muscles straining, mouth open in a long soundless scream which refuses to come, her gaze fixed on the shape writhing on the carpet, ignoring the blood flowing from her, ignoring the woman across her legs, all else immaterial to her pain at the sight of our child. And there on the floor lies our future, burning golden in the first rays of the sun, being cleansed in the purifying light of the new day, my son.

The last thing I see before darkness takes me away for a long time is the face, the small wizened features and the age-old eyes, the red mouth which squeals at me as I bring my foot down, hard, and all the members of my family scream in unison.

DO YOU KNOW ME YET?

By Scott Nicholson

It all started with a story. You know the one I mean, don't you, Doctor?

Of course you do. You know everything. You smile and nod and write down little words on your paper and then go home at the end of the day, safe in the knowledge that I'm the crazy one and you're normal.

But let me tell you something. These walls work both ways. They not only keep people in, they keep you "normal" people out. Except you have a key, don't you? You can come and go anytime you want. Just like my ideas. They come and go anytime I want.

I know what you just wrote. "Episodic paranoia?" With a question mark. Where's your smile now, doctor? Try to hide it under that bald head of yours, it won't do any good. I can read thoughts. That's why I'm here. That's why they put me here.

Except they're the crazy ones. See, they can read thoughts, too. Only they do it better than me. And the world calls them "leading lights" and "visionaries," the critics rave about how they "stare unflinchingly into the darkness." The editors fight over them, make fools of themselves in their rush to outbid each other. Agents snap like sharks in a bloody sea, hoping to get a piece.

Sorry. I'm getting angry, and my last doctor told me that getting angry is not the path to healing. And I want to be cured. I really do. I want to get outside again. They won't let me have any pencils or pens or other sharp objects, and it's really hard to write novels with crayons. Plus editors won't look at handwritten manuscripts.

Tell about how it started? Again? How many years did you go to school to earn a piece of paper that empowers you to judge me? Ten years of college, just like I thought. Seems like you'd need a good memory to get through all those classes.

But I'll do it. Because I'm a storyteller, and you're the audience. Even if I can read your thoughts and know that you don't believe a word of what I say. At least you're honest, and by that, I mean you don't lie to my face. Not like them.

It started way back then, with my story about the girl with psychokinesis. You don't believe in psychokinesis. But that's okay. It's not what you believe that matters. It's what I believe, and what I know.

I wrote that story in the early 1970's. Well, actually, I didn't get to write it. But I thought about it almost every day for two years. This girl is in high school, see, and all her classmates pick on her because she's so weird. Her mom's a religious zealot, and the girl doesn't have anybody to turn to when her mental powers start developing. PK always comes on with adolescence, see?

I never figured out how it was going to end, but I really was going to start writing. I bought a Royal typewriter and a bunch of paper. You can look it up, it's all in that civil suit I brought against that creep who stole my story. I can't mention his name, because of legal reasons, but one day the truth will come out.

So anyway, imagine my anger when that story came out as a bestseller in paperback, movie rights sold, and that low-down dirty thief quit his day job and became an overnight success. Sure, his agent put this spin on later, about how the guy wrote six hours a day for fifteen years, about how he'd been submitting stories since he was twelve or so, and that he'd been publishing short stories in naughty magazines. But you know the lengths they go to when they have to cover their tracks. And everybody knows they got the millions. Millions that should be mine.

Ah, you just crossed out the question mark, didn't you? "Episodic paranoia." No doubt about it, in your mind. You're smug, Doctor. As smug as they are. Everybody's right, and I'm wrong.

Go on? Sure, I'll go on. See, I'm controlling my temper. Just like the last doctor told me to do. And you're thinking that if you let me talk, I'll calm down and you can be done with me in time for your five o'clock martini. See me smile.

Back before I was a writer, when I was just a kid, I had this other idea. About a woman who has the Devil's baby. When the book came out about that one, I just figured it was a coincidence. But then when that guy stole my idea about the little girl who gets possessed by Satan and a Catholic priest tries to save her, I decided I'd better become a writer, too. I figured that if my ideas were so good that other people wanted to steal them, I'd better write them myself. That's when I came up with the psychokinesis idea.

Have I ever written anything? Sure, I have. I get a good sentence or two down, and then I stare at the paper. It's called "writer's block," and only creative people get it. That's why you breeze right through those papers you submit to the trade journals. That's the reason all these other writers are so prolific. It's easy when somebody else is doing your thinking for you.

Well, I decided I'd hurry through my next couple of books before somebody could steal my ideas. Except that one guy types faster than I do. So he beat me to the one about the virus that wipes out most of the world so God and the Devil can fight over the survivors, and he beat me to the one about the haunted hotel. And get this...

Whenever I got writer's block, do you know what I used to type? "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." And you-know-who steals it and everybody thinks it's the most clever thing to ever grace a page. And they call me crazy.

His best trick was when he "released" all these books that he'd supposedly written before he got famous. I had all of those ideas in one night, right after the PK book came out. You know, the walking race where only the winner survives, the same idea again except this time it's set in the future and the competitors are paid to run for their lives, one where a man blows up stuff because he doesn't like progress, and one where a kid shoots up his high school. That last one was so dumb I didn't think anybody would steal it. But you-know-who types a lot faster than he thinks, so he'd probably mailed it to his publisher before he realized what it was about.

And he was clever, because he knew I was on to him. He even came up with a pen name for those books so that I would have to sue him twice. I guess he figured I couldn't afford lawyers' fees. I was just a poor writer, see? Never mind that I'd never actually published anything.

It was bad enough when only a few people were picking my brain. Once in a while, I could feel them, up there in my skull, tiptoeing around and fighting each other for the best ideas. But then people across the ocean got into the act. People in England and some people who couldn't even speak English. That's what I call power, when your ideas are so universal that they cross lingual and cultural barriers. But my head was getting crowded.

Ah, you just crossed out a word. Now it's just "paranoia." And you're about to write "delusions of grandeur."  Why do they let you have a pencil and not me?

We both know why, don't we? Because then I would write down my ideas before they could steal them. The hospital's in on it, too. Yes, you can smile about it, like you've got a secret. But we both know better.

Let's see, where were we? Because you are my audience and I don't want to lose you.

Oh, yes. My idea about a bunch of old men who had fallen in love with a ghost a long time ago. A different writer got that one. But instead of getting mad, I became more determined than ever. I quit my job and did nothing but think all the time, getting wonderful ideas one after another. Psychic vampires, sympathetic vampires who are more romantic than scary, a killer clown that's really a UFO buried under the ground, a puzzle box that opens another dimension, giant rats that live in the sewer system, paranormal investigators who discover a haunted town, a child that's really the Antichrist, so many ideas I could hardly keep track.

Everyone was stealing from me. Even writers who could barely make out a shopping list. Only the critics called it the "horror boom," and you couldn't pass the paperback rack in the supermarket without an army of foil-covered monsters grinning out at you. My monsters. Some I wasn't too proud of, but they're like children. You still have to love them, even the dumb and ugly ones.

I just kept getting ideas, and they kept stealing them. They got richer while I got madder. And I mean "mad" in the real way, not in the crazy way. But the maddest I ever got was when that British writer pulled a satire on me.

See, he wrote this story you may have read. Called it "Next Time You'll Know Me. " I know the story, and I've never even read it. Because I met him at a convention, and as I was shaking his hand, I was thinking that I hoped he didn't steal any of my ideas, because then I'd have to get him, and he seemed like such a nice man.

Of course, I'd never get him in real life, because only crazy people do things like that. But he looked at me, and he had a twinkle in his eye, and he started writing the story right there in his head. My story! About how a psycho thinks writers are stealing his ideas. I was going to say something, to claim copyright infringement, but the next woman in line pushed me away so she could shake the famous writer's hand.

Ever wonder where ideas come from? No, I suppose not. You don't have very much imagination. I guess you can't afford to, in your line of work.

Well, see, I wondered about where ideas came from, after that British writer made me so mad. And it took me years of thinking about it before I realized that ideas came from me. So I made myself stop getting them, so the other writers couldn't steal them.

Of course, some great ideas still slip out once in a while. I can't shut down such a wondrous force all the time. So you-know-who manages to steal two or three per year, and a few others are still getting their share. But the "horror boom" faded, and if you'll notice, publishers are avoiding horror books right now because I stopped letting my good ideas loose.

Shutting down wasn't easy for a writer like me, who loves ideas more than the actual writing. It was hard work, and gave me a headache. That, and the stress of all those lawsuits I filed against the thieves. That's why I did all those bad things that put me behind these walls. Or in front of them, depending on how you look at it.

Why is it I only had ideas for horror stories? Leave it to a shrink to ask something like that. Oh, you'll really going to have a field day with that, aren't you? Well, ideas just come, and you can't do anything about them. Unless you're me.

I know you're going to look in your diagnostic manual tonight and come up with some long explanation of why you think I'm crazy. Except you don't call it "crazy," do you? These are kinder, gentler times. You have to call it a "behavioral disorder."

I don't care what label you attach to me. I don't believe in psychology. I don't believe in insanity. I don't believe in shrinks.

Oh, you're offended? Well, let me fill you in on a little secret, because you're not as good at reading minds as your predecessor. Did the hospital tell you why he resigned? Of course not. All you shrinks keep your secrets, even from each other.

Well, I'll tell you why he left. We were sitting here, just like you and I are doing, and I was telling him my story. And all of a sudden I got this great idea for a novel. It just slipped out before I even realized what I was thinking about. And it's a doozy. I may as well tell you about it, because it's too late for you to steal it. Plus, no offense, but I don't think you have what it takes to be a real writer like me.

Okay, the idea. This guy is in the psychiatric ward because he thinks people are stealing his ideas. Only nobody believes him, and they all think he's crazy. So he escapes, and goes out to get revenge on all the writers who have made millions off of his ideas. Only when he gets out in the real world, he finds out that he's really just an idea, that he doesn't even exist at all. So it's like he's a ghost, which makes it real easy to get to these famous writers.

But the hero is smart, he doesn't kill them or anything. That would be too easy. And they would be famous forever, and readers and critics would never know the lie behind the success stories. So the hero gives the writers bad ideas, sneaks in at night and alters their manuscripts, gives them a mild enough case of writer's block that they get desperate. I thought about calling the book "Desperation," but that one guy is so good he steals my titles before I even come up with them.

Pretty good idea, huh? Well, the doctor snatched it right out of my head, and if you pick up the latest "Publisher's Weekly," you'll see that he just got a six-figure advance on an outline and sample chapter. It can happen to anybody, if you get a good idea. If you steal them from me.

See how well I'm controlling my anger? I'll bet you wouldn't be so calm, if you were in my shoes. But I'm used to it by now. I'm the idea man. I could almost be happy with that, and accept my place in the literary landscape. But the thing that bugs me the most is that nobody else knows. I'm not getting any credit.

And there's one more thing. I'm a writer. And some day I'm going to get around to actually writing. One day soon, you're going to let me have a pencil and some paper, maybe even a typewriter after I prove I'm not a threat to myself or others.

And I will write down my ideas, all the ones I kept locked away all these years. I have a lot of them. I'm going to be rich. Nobody thinks you're crazy when you're rich, even if you're a horror writer.

And after I'm cured, when you think about what I've said and realize I'm right, you're going to rubber-stamp my papers and I will be on the outside again. I know, I said a while ago that walls work both ways, but that was crazy talk, and you can see that I'm no longer crazy. You are such a good doctor that you are curing me. I'm feeling much better.

No, if I get out, I certainly won't go after all those writers who got rich off of my ideas. That would be acting paranoid. Anyway, I'll be too busy writing down my new ideas, which will be much better than the old ones. In fact, the readers will forget about all those other writers.

So that will be my only revenge. I'll knock them off the bestseller lists. And I'll let them have only my worst ideas. I'll make millions, and the critics will eat those "ooh-la-lahs" alive.

Oh, I may do one more thing. After you let me out, I'm going to fly to the Merseyside. I'm going to hunt down that writer who satired me. I'm not going to stalk him or anything, and I won't be carrying any sharp objects, except maybe a writing pen.

Maybe I'll come up to him in a grocery store, or at a bus stop, or in a dark pub. I'll look him in the eye and see if it twinkles. I'll say, "Do you know me yet?"

And I'll wait for him to ask for my autograph.

See me smile.

###

About The Author

I have written 12 novels, including Disintegration, As I Die Lying, The Red Church, Speed Dating with the Dead, Forever Never Ends, and The Skull Ring.

Other electronic works include Burial to Follow and the story collections Ashes, The First, Murdermouth, Gateway Drug, Curtains: Mystery Stories, and Flowers. I live in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, where I write for a newspaper, play guitar, raise an organic garden, and work as a freelance fiction editor. I’ve also written the October Girls paranormal romance series and Cursed! with J.R. Rain.

Come to the Haunted Computer, become a Spooky Microchip, and help me build my next book. You’ll also find writing tips, free fiction, and survival tips.

Talk to me at hauntedcomputer@yahoo.com, “hauntedcomputer” on Twitter, or at hauntedcomputer.com. If you enjoyed this book, please tell your friends and give another Nicholson title a try. If you hated it, why not try another one anyway? What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, and what does kill you is probably lurking in my next book. Read on for more.

William Meikle is the bestselling author of Invasion, The Valley, and a number of other novels, novellas, and story collections. A native of Scotland, he currently lives in Canada. Learn about his other books.

John Everson is the bestselling author of Covenant, Sacrifice, The 13th, and The Siren, as well as numerous short stories. Learn more about his other books .

The Writing Life

By Scott Nicholson

http://www.hauntedcomputer.com/

If you read too many writing blogs, you might get the impression that writers sit around in coffee shops all day discussing “Bird By Bird” and the hermeneutic elements inherent in Wolfe’s Look Homeward Angel.

I don’t know how other writers do it, but I’m working by the seat of my pants. Butt in chair. Stealing moments that are probably better spent on family and community. But I reconcile it with the notion that I am sharing ideas that help us learn about the world—sometimes the message isn’t pretty, but we’re here to survive, not look good.

So as I sit here in my little in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, 12 miles from the nearest gas station, I can tell you what you support when you buy my books, and why I don’t “need” your money.

The two biggest purchases I’ve made in the past year are a beat-up 1985 pickup and a chainsaw. Sure, I’ve made a little extra money on books this year, but I paid down on the house and I gave a little away. I don’t really like money that much. The universe always delivers when an expense arises, almost in perfect concert with the need. In 1998 my son needed braces. At the same time, I won a big crash prize in the international Writers of the Future contest. My daughter will need braces next year. Disintegration became an e-book bestseller. Who can argue with the synchronicity of such things?

What do I do when I am not writing? I cut firewood. I tend my organic garden. I save seeds, which is more than just a blooming sideline business—I have a mission of preserving rarer strains, particularly a few Cherokee varieties indigenous to the area that moved West on the Trail of Tears during the forced displacement of the tribe. I take care of my chickens. I don’t kill them, though I eat their eggs, but I feel that’s a fair trade for protecting them for all those beasties out there who like things that taste like chicken.

I work as a newspaper reporter and have won press association awards. I have a reputation of being fair and accurate. I respect the people I write about, even when I disagree with their positions. I go to lots of different churches but I am a small-T taoist. I’m a small-L libertarian, but my political and moral philosophy falls under what I call “compassionate self-reliance”—take care of yourself but do just a little extra for the next guy who might not be so fortunate.

When you buy my books, you’re doing more than just trading me money for my time and ideas and talent. You are investing in this approach. If I were whoring and doping and investing in polluting industry, I’d be ashamed to ask for your support. I am not arrogant or smug about it, but I try to do good wherever I go, as best I can.

Sure, sometimes I fall prey to ego or desire or fear. And when I do, it usually goes right into a story and flushes itself out. And I write the next sentence and turn the next page. I don’t know anything about the “writing life.” This is the only life I know.

###

Try these other thrillers by Scott Nicholson:

THE RED CHURCH

Book I in the Sheriff Littlefield Series

By Scott Nicholson

Stoker Award finalist and alternate selection of the Mystery Guild

For 13-year-old Ronnie Day, life is full of problems: Mom and Dad have separated, his brother Tim is a constant pest, Melanie Ward either loves him or hates him, and Jesus Christ won't stay in his heart. Plus he has to walk past the red church every day, where the Bell Monster hides with its wings and claws and livers for eyes. But the biggest problem is that Archer McFall is the new preacher at the church, and Mom wants Ronnie to attend midnight services with her.

Sheriff Frank Littlefield hates the red church for a different reason. His little brother died in a freak accident at the church twenty years ago, and now Frank is starting to see his brother's ghost. And the ghost keeps demanding, "Free me." People are dying in Whispering Pines, and the murders coincide with McFall's return.

The Days, the Littlefields, and the McFalls are descendants of the original families that settled the rural Appalachian community. Those old families share a secret of betrayal and guilt, and McFall wants his congregation to prove its faith. Because he believes he is the Second Son of God, and that the cleansing of sin must be done in blood.

"Sacrifice is the currency of God," McFall preaches, and unless Frank and Ronnie stop him, everybody pays.

Learn more about The Red Church and the real Appalachian church that inspired the novel

DRUMMER BOY

Book II in the Sheriff Littlefield Series

By Scott Nicholson

On an Appalachian Mountain ridge, three boys hear the rattling of a snare drum deep inside a cave known as “The Jangling Hole,” and the wind carries a whispered name.

An old man who grew up at the foot of the mountain believes something inside the Hole has been disturbed by a developer’s bulldozers. Sheriff Frank Littlefield, haunted by his own past failures, must stand against a public enemy that has no fear of bullets, bars, or mortal justice. A local reporter believes the supernatural mysteries are more than just mountain folk tales.

On the eve of a Civil War reenactment, the town of Titusville prepares to host a staged battle. The weekend warriors aren’t aware they will soon be fighting an elusive army. A troop of Civil War deserters, trapped in the Hole by a long-ago avalanche, is rising from a long slumber, and the war is far from over.

And one misfit kid is all that stands between the town and the cold mouth of hell…

Learn more about Drummer Boy and the Appalachian legend that inspired the novel and buy it at Amazon

THE SKULL RING

By Scott Nicholson

Julia Stone will remember, even if it kills her.

With the help of a therapist, Julia is piecing together childhood memories of the night her father vanished. When Julia finds a silver ring that bears the name "Judas Stone," the past comes creeping back. Someone is leaving strange messages inside her house, even though the door is locked. The local handyman offers help, but he has his own shadowy past. And the cop who investigated her father's disappearance has followed her to the small mountain town of Elkwood.

Now Julia has a head full of memories, but she doesn't know which are real. Julia's therapist is playing games. The handyman is trying to save her, in more ways than one. And a sinister cult is closing in, claiming ownership of Julia's body and soul . . . .

Learn more about The Skull Ring and False Recovered Memory Syndrome

SPEED DATING WITH THE DEAD

By Scott Nicholson

A paranormal conference at the most haunted hotel in the Southern Appalachian mountains . . . a man’s promise to his late wife that he’d summon her spirit . . . a daughter whose imagination goes to dark places . . . and demonic evil lurking in the remote hotel’s basement, just waiting to be awoken.

When Digger Wilson brings his paranormal team to the White Horse Inn, he is skeptical that his dead wife will keep her half of the bargain. He doesn’t believe in ghosts. But when one of the conference guests channels a mysterious presence and an Ouija board spells out a pet phrase known only to Digger and his wife, his convictions are challenged. And when people start to disappear, Digger and his daughter Kendra must face the circle of demons that view the hotel as their personal playground. Because soon the inn will be closing for good, angels, can’t be trusted, and demons don’t like to play alone . . .

Learn more about Speed Dating with the Dead and the 2008 paranormal conference and inn that inspired the novel

AS I DIE LYING

By Scott Nicholson

Richard Coldiron’s first and last novel follows his metafictional journey through a troubled childhood, where he meets his invisible friend, his other invisible friend...and then some who aren’t so friendly.

There’s Mister Milktoast, the protective punster; Little Hitler, who leers from the shadows; Loverboy, the lusty bastard; and Bookworm, who is thoughtful, introspective, and determined to solve the riddle of Richard’s disintegration into either madness or genius, and of course only makes things worse. They reside in the various rooms of his skull, a place known as the Bone House, and take turns rearranging the furniture. As Richard works on his autobiography, his minor characters struggle with their various redemptive arcs.

Richard keeps his cool despite the voices in his head, but he’s about to get a new tenant: the Insider, a malevolent soul-hopping spirit that may or may not be born from Richard’s nightmares and demands a co-writing credit and a little bit of foot-kissing dark worship.

Now Richard doesn’t know which voice to trust. The book’s been rejected 117 times. The people he loves keep turning up dead. And here comes the woman of his dreams.

Learn more about As I Die Lying and the six people in Richard Coldiron’s head

BURIAL TO FOLLOW

By Scott Nicholson

When Jacob Ridgehorn dies, it's up to Roby Snow to make sure his soul goes on to the eternal reward. The only way Roby can do that is convince the Ridgehorn family to eat a special pie, but a mysterious figure named Johnny Divine is guarding the crossroads. When peculiar Appalachian Mountain funeral customs get stirred into the mix, Roby has to perform miracles . . . or else.

Novella originally published in the Cemetery Dance anthology "Brimstone Turnpike.”

Learn more about Burial to Follow at the Haunted Computer

FLOWERS

By Scott Nicholson

Features the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Award grand-prize winner "The Vampire Shortstop" and other tales of fantasy for young adult readers, such as “When You Wear These Shoes” and “In the Heart of November.” Includes the Makers series where children control the elements, as well as more tales of magic, romance, and the paranormal.

Learn more about the young-adult collection Flowers and the award-winning “The Vampire Shortstop”

ASHES

By Scott Nicholson

A collection of supernatural and paranormal stories by award-winning author Scott Nicholson, including "Homecoming," "The Night is an Ally" and "Last Writes." From the author of THE RED CHURCH, THE SKULL RING, and the story collections FLOWERS and THE FIRST, these stories visit haunted islands, disturbed families, and a lighthouse occupied by Edgar Allan Poe. Exclusive introduction by Jonathan Maberry, author of THE DRAGON FACTORY and GHOST ROAD BLUES, as well as an afterword.

Learn more about the supernatural stories in Ashes

THE FIRST

By Scott Nicholson

A collection of dark fantasy and futuristic stories from award-winning author Scott Nicholson. Dystopia, cyberpunk, and science fiction flavor these stories that visit undiscovered countries and distant times. Includes two bonus essays and Nicholson's first-ever published story, in addition to the four-story Aeropagan cycle.

Learn more about the fantasy and science fiction stories in The First

MURDERMOUTH: ZOMBIE BITS

By Scott Nicholson

A collection of zombie stories, from the zombie point-of-view to the shoot-‘em-up survival brand of apocalyptic horror. Proof that even zombies have a heart . . .Based on the comic book currently in development by Scott Nicholson and Derlis Santacruz. With a bonus story by Jack Kilborn, a comic script, and Jonathan Maberry’s “Zombie Apocalypse Survival Scorecard.”

Learn more about Murdermouth: Zombie Bits

CURTAINS: MYSTERY STORIES

By Scott Nicholson

A collection of crime and mystery tales from the vaults of Scott Nicholson. Includes “How to Build Your Own Coffin” and Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror selection “Dog Person,” as well as the psychological thrillers “Letters and Lies,” “Sewing Circle,” and more stories that appeared in magazines such as Crimewave, Cemetery Dance, and Blue Murder. Includes and afterword and a bonus story from bestselling authors J.A. Konrath and Simon Wood.

Learn more about Curtains

DISINTEGRATION

A #1 bestseller in “Mystery” and “Romantic Suspense”

By Scott Nicholson

Careful what you wish for.

When a mysterious fire destroys his home and kills his young daughter, Jacob Wells is pulled into a downward spiral that draws him ever closer to the past he thought was dead and buried.

Now his twin brother Joshua is back in town, seeking to settle old scores and claim his half of the Wells birthright. Jacob’s wife Renee is struggling with her own guilt, because the couple had lost an infant daughter several years before.

As Jacob and Joshua return to the twisted roles they adopted at the hands of cruel, demanding parents, they wage a war of pride, wealth, and passion. They share the poisonous love of a woman who would gladly ruin them both: Carlita, a provocative and manipulative Hispanic whose immigrant family helped build the Wells fortune.

Joshua wants other things, too, but Jacob’s desires are divided between the forbidden love he can’t possess, the respectability he can never have, and the revenge he is dying to taste. And Renee has dark motives of her own.

If only Jacob can figure out which one to blame. But the lines of identity are blurred, because Joshua and Jacob share much more than blood.

And the childhood games have become deadly serious.

Learn more about the Disintegration

FOREVER NEVER ENDS

By Scott Nicholson

It falls from the heavens and crashes to earth in the remote southern Appalachian Mountains.

The alien roots creep into the forest, drawn by the intoxicating cellular activity of the humus and loam. The creature feeds on the surrounding organisms, exploring, assimilating, and altering the life forms it encounters. Plants wilt from the contact, trees wither, animals become deformed monstrosities, and people become something both more and less than human.

A telepathic psychology professor, a moonshine-swilling dirt farmer, a wealthy developer, and a bitter recluse team up to take on the otherwordly force that is infecting their town. The author’s preferred edition of the 2003 paperback release The Harvest.

Learn more about the science fiction thriller Forever Never Ends

TROUBLED (UK)

By Scott Nicholson

When twelve-year-old Freeman Mills arrives at Wendover, a group home for troubled children, it’s a chance for a fresh start. But second chances aren’t easy for Freeman, the victim of painful childhood experiments that gave him the ability to read other people’s minds.

Little does Freeman know that his transfer was made at the request of Dr. Richard Kracowski, whose research into the brain’s electrical properties is revealing new powers of the human mind. Kracowski is working for a secret society called the Trust, but also has his own agenda in exploring the nature of the soul. His experiments have an unexpected side effect, though. The electromagnetic fields used in his experiments are summoning the ghosts of the patients who died at Wendover back when it was a psychiatric ward.

Freeman simply wants to survive, take his medicine for manic depression, and deceive his counselors into believing he is happy. When he meets the anorexic Vicky, who may also be telepathic, he’s afraid some of his darkest secrets will be uncovered. But when the other children develop their own clairvoyant abilities, and insane spirits begin haunting the halls of Wendover, he can’t safely hide inside his own head anymore.

Meanwhile, the Trust is installing sophisticated equipment in the home’s basement, aggressively probing the threshold between life and death. And they’ve brought in another scientist who doesn’t share Dr. Kracowski’s reluctance to push the limits.

This scientist is a pioneer in ESP induction, and he performed most of his work on a very special subject: his son, Freeman Mills. The author’s preferred edition of the 2005 U.S. paperback release The Home, in development as a feature film.

Learn more about the paranormal thriller Troubled

CREATIVE SPIRIT (UK)

By Scott Nicholson

After parapsychologist Anna Galloway is diagnosed with metastatic cancer, she has a recurring dream in which she sees her own ghost. The setting of her dream is the historic Korban Manor, which is now an artist’s retreat in the remote Appalachian Mountains. Drawn both by the ghost stories surrounding the manor and her own sense of destiny, Anna signs up for the retreat.

Sculptor Mason Jackson has come to Korban Manor to make a final, all-or-nothing attempt at success before giving up his dreams. When he becomes obsessed with carving Ephram Korban’s form out of wood, he questions his motivation but is swept up in a creative frenzy unlike any he has ever known.

Sylva Hartley is an old mountain witchwoman who is connected to Ephram Korban both before and after his death. Her knowledge of Appalachian folk spells and potions has bound her to the manor in a deeper and darker way. Sylva harbors a family secret that refuses to stay slumbering in its grave.

The manor itself has secrets, with fires that blaze constantly in the hearths, portraits of Korban in every room, and deceptive mirrors on the walls. The house’s brooding atmosphere affects the creative visions of the visiting artists. A mysterious woman in white calls to Anna from the forest, while Mason is driven by the whispers of an unseen critic. With an October blue moon looming, both the living and the dead learn the true power of their dreams.

It’s a power that Korban craves for himself, because he walks a shadowy land where passions burn cold and even the ghosts are haunted. The author’s preferred edition of the 2004 U.S. paperback release The Manor.

Learn more about the paranormal thriller Creative Spirit

SOLOM (UK)

By Scott Nicholson

Katy Logan wasn’t quite sure why she left her finance career in the big city to marry religion professor Gordon Smith and move to the tiny Appalachian community of Solom.

Maybe she just wanted to get her 12-year-old daughter Jett away from the drugs and bad influences. Maybe she wanted to escape from the memories of her first husband. Or perhaps she was enchanted by the promise of an idyllic life on the farm that has been in Gordon’s family for 150 years.

But the move has been anything but stress-free, because the man she married seems more interested in the region’s rural Baptist sects than in his new wife. The Smith family secrets run deep: Gordon teases Katy and Jett with a story about a wicked scarecrow that comes in from the fields at night to slake an unnatural thirst. Gordon’s great-grandfather was a horseback preacher who mysteriously disappeared while on a mission one wintry night, and some say a rival preacher did him in.

But the residents of Solom know all about the man in the black hat. They whisper the legends around the pot-bellied stove at the general store, they pray for protection from him in their little white churches, they think about him as they gather hay, harvest corn, and work their gardens. The brave ones talk about him, believing him dead and buried, but nobody dares to utter his name.

The Reverend Harmon Smith has come back more than century after his last missionary trip, and he has unfinished business. But first Katy and Jett must be brought into the family, and the farm must be prepared to welcome him home. Gordon has been denying his heritage, but now it’s time to choose sides. Does he protect the ones he loves, or surrender to the ancestral urge for revenge?

Learn more about the paranormal thriller Solom

THE GORGE (UK)

By Scott Nicholson

An experimental rafting expedition, an FBI manhunt for a delusional killer, and the worst storm in decades collide in the remote mountain wilderness...and then THEY come out.

Bowie Whitlock and a team of celebrity athletes is commissioned to test two experimental rafts in the rugged Unegama Wilderness Gorge in the remote Appalachian Mountains, considered the most dangerous whitewater rapids in the eastern United States.

FBI agent Jim Castle and his partner are in the gorge looking for Ace Goodall, a deranged abortion clinic bomber. Ace, accompanied by a fragile young woman, is having visions that guide his murderous behavior. A trip-wire around his camp detonates a rigged explosive, tearing apart part of a cliff wall and exposing a long-hidden species to the world.

The race is on as dark storm clouds gather, the river is swollen, and Ace hijacks the rafting expedition to make his escape. But the bloodthirsty creatures swooping down from the high cliffs have been too long without prey.

Ace has one more bomb.

God is talking to him.

It's raining again, and his young companion is pregnant.

And killing isn't what it used to be, because the dead no longer stay dead.

Learn more about The Gorge

CURSED!

By J.R. Rain and Scott Nicholson

Albert Shipway is an ordinary guy, an insurance negotiator who likes booze and women and never having to say he’s sorry.

And he thinks this is just another day, another lunch, another order of kung pao chicken. Little does he know that he’s about to meet a little old lady who knows his greatest fear. A little old lady who knows what’s hiding in his heart. A little old lady who dishes up a big stew of supernatural revenge, with ingredients as follows: First you take one psychotic ex from a family of serial killers. Next add a pinch or two of an irrational childhood fear. Now thoroughly mix in an angry sister, a life-stealing great-granddad, and a notorious mass murderer—who happens to be dead but doesn’t know it. Let it stew and froth and bubble thoroughly....

In just a matter of minutes, Albert’s life turns upside down and he enters a world where magic and evil lurk beneath the fabric of Southern California. And all his choices have brewed a perfect storm of broken hearts, broken promises, shattered families, and a couple of tiny problems. Namely, killer mice and a baby.

Albert Shipway is finally getting a chance to right some wrongs.

That is, if it's not too late.

Learn more about the urban fantasy Cursed! at www.hauntedcomputer.com/cursed!.htm

OCTOBER GIRLS

By Scott Nicholson (writing as L.C. Glazebrook)

Five days until Halloween and all hell is about to break loose.

And it’s all Crystal’s fault.

Momma warned her not to consort with the dead and tried to teach her the magic spells that would close the portal to the afterlife. But Crystal doesn’t want to be a trailer-trash witch like Momma. She has dreams of going to community college and escaping the Appalachian town of Parson’s Ford.

Her best friend Bone is only too happy to escape the afterlife and help Crystal break the rules. Bone died too young, and she’ll do whatever it takes to remain among the living.

Then a teen movie maker comes to Parson’s Ford, and he has a very special project in mind: a horror movie starring a real ghost. The kids who watch his movies turn into brainwashed zombies. And to totally complicate matters, Crystal thinks he’s kind of a hunk, and she’s afraid her boyfriend Pettigrew only loves her because of Momma’s magic spells.

Now it’s Halloween, the night when the portal to the afterlife is widest, and somebody’s been messing with Momma’s potions. The fate of the world is in Crystal’s hands, but she hasn’t been paying attention to her lessons. And a mysterious figure in the afterlife is urging Bone to stay loyal to her own kind instead of to Crystal.

The movie is rolling, the creatures are stirring, and the brainwashed teenagers are ready to welcome a new star from the other side of the grave.

Crystal and Bone must overcome drama queens, coffin cuties, and mangled magic if they want to remain best friends forever—but at this rate, forever may not last much longer.

Learn more about the YA paranormal romance series October Girls

Contact me at hauntedcomputer@yahoo.com because I’d love to know what you think—even if you want to cut my fingers off and feed them to a demon. Let me know about any misspellings and formatting issues, since books in the digital age are living documents.

Thanks to Ted Risk at Dellaster Design, Stephen James Price at Generation Next Publishing, and the Microchips: Neal Hock, Gail Lang, Pamela Haworth, and Andy Weeks.

This is a work of fiction. All people, incidents, and places are solely the products of the author’s imagination. The writer begins the journey, but you complete it.

Scott

hauntedcomputer@yahoo.com

http://www.hauntedcomputer.com

http://hauntedcomputer.blogspot.com

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Table of Contents

Book I in the Sheriff Littlefield Series

Book II in the Sheriff Littlefield Series