Cackle & Hex

Crystelle loved baking ever since she was a child. The memories of her Abuelita singing, dancing, and making fresh bread, pastries, pies, cookies, biscuits, tortillas, cakes, croissants, breadsticks, and dozens of equally amazing baked goods filled her mind. Early in the morning, before anyone else was awake, Crystelle would get up and join her Abuelita in the kitchen. Abuelita passed down generations of recipes, stories, legends, anecdotes, and pure love to Crystelle, and Crystelle absorbed every moment of it.

As she grew up, Crystelle became determined to open her own bakery and naming it after her Abuelita, but her parents wished she focused on something more practical.

“Hija, you are one of the best bakers I know,” her mother said. “It’s just that I’d hate for it not to work out. I see how much joy it brings out of you, and you honor Abuelita each time you bake. I’d just hate that you would come to resent it.”

Tears formed in Crystelle’s eyes as she sat across from her parents, focusing on her still hands in her lap. When she raised her face, she was smiling. “I completely understand, Mami. I want to honor Abuelita in public, to the world, to show our culture and heritage, and how beautiful, inventive, and delicious our baking holds. Her murder was committed in the name of racism, bigotry, and hatred.” Crystelle took a moment to let a single teardrop fall. “I believe in bringing pride to my ancestors, my family, Abuelita, and to me, and believe I can do that with baking.”

In her mid-twenties, Crystelle stood in the kitchen of her first of many, planned bakeries in the tri-county area. She dusted the counter as she worked a dough for a customer’s order. A smile formed on her lips as she thought about her family.

While in high school, Crystelle’s mother died of a stroke from being overworked. She worked double-shifts, six days a week, for years to save up for Crystelle to go to culinary school, but her heart gave out from exhaustion. The tuition money Mami saved had to be used for bills once it became a one-parent household.

Papito fell into the bottle, having lost the love of his life, as well as being unable to afford the basic necessities for him and his daughter, as well as threatening her future to go to school. He internalized the pain until his depression took hold, and he ingested a bottle of sleeping pills.

Crystelle moved in with her Tía and two primas. Her cousins were twins, still in high school. All three of them had to share a room in the 2-bedroom apartment that Tía could afford on her salary. Papito couldn’t afford life insurance, and Crystelle had just graduated when he passed, so it was up to Tía to provide for another child.

To help, Crystelle got a job at a local bakery, while also attending culinary school. The death of her parents opened up a variety of scholarships and access to funds that wouldn’t have been capable before. It was the silver lining to the tragedy of losing both parents at such a young age.

After five years of working in professional bakeries and graduating from school, Crystelle opened a bakery, naming it Abuelita’s Panadería as promised. It was located in the same neighborhood she grew up in, a mixture of white, chicano, latin, hispanic, and black cultures and families.

Making incredible, delicious and affordable baked goods, business boomed for the tiny business. People came from all across the city to try out all of Abuelita’s recipes, and the panadería was mentioned in the city newspaper. A news van showed up one day to do a brief interview for the 9 o’clock news.

One year later, Crystelle had plans to open another two panaderías in a few months, bought a house for her and a house for her Tía and two primas, while also providing financial assistance for her primas’ college tuition, and a brand new, off-the-lot convertible car. She didn’t let it get to her head though, as she continued working in the kitchen making customer’s orders.

Bringing out the finished brioche loaf, Crystelle handed it to her customer, a man almost a decade older than her, wearing a suit and nice shiny shoes, and driving a fancy, sparkling sports car. He cleaned up nicely compared to when Crystelle saw him last: the night he and his friends killed Abuelita.

Crystelle remembered watching him scream in her face, calling her racial slurs, while he and his friends terrorized her, surrounded her, forced her to the ground, and beat her. She hid in nearby bushes watching the man and his friends take turns bashing in her head.

“Have a great day, Rick,” she said to the man as he took the bread.

He quirked his eyebrow at the mention of his name, unsure how she knew it, but he let it go and left with his order.

Crystelle stood at the counter, watching Rick leave in his car. She glanced at the clock, noting the time. She expected to read about a white man in his early thirties, coming from good stock, dying after becoming ill from mysterious circumstances.

With two murderers to go, Crystelle found their addresses and planned to open the next panaderías in their neighborhoods. Nobody could resist her baking.

Abuelita gave Crystelle all the recipes from generations past for all types of events, explaining when to use them, and Crystelle absorbed every moment of it.

This prompt almost threw me for a loop.

Fluorescent is incredibly specific. Obviously, I could have gone for a story that was "under fluorescent lighting," but I am always wanting to push myself a little bit.

The scene is inspired by AHS: Hotel, Se7en, and Gone in 60 Seconds. Probably not the greatest or most exhilarating scene, but eh. I had fun writing it, and I thought it was clever enough use of the prompt.

Please let me know what you think! Enjoy!

The terracotta statue was a portrayal of a young, beautiful woman wearing flowy fabric that hugged, and showed off, parts of her body. Her long hair framed her face, which had a sad expression.

“I feel sorry for her,” Annie said. She stood next to her best friend, Emily, in front of the statue.

Their sophomore class was touring the museum as a field trip. The two of them splintered from the main group to avoid the immaturity of the boys and the gossiping among the popular girls.

Annie loved the museum, as her parents often brought her to special exhibits and events.

Emily, however, was bored. “What do you think would happen if I touched it?”

“What?” Annie said, looking at Emily.

“Do you think an alarm would go off?” Emily became excited at the thought.

“Don’t, Em,” Annie protested. “We don’t want to get in trouble. I don’t want to get kicked out, or banished!”

Emily laughed. “Banished? Don’t you mean banned? This isn’t medieval times.”

Annie rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. Please don’t get me in trouble.”

The young teen held her hands up, as if swearing. “Okay. I won’t touch it. Where’s the bathroom?”

“Over there,” Annie said, pointing to a door on the opposite side of the room. “Do you need me to come?”

Emily shook her head. “All good. I’ll catch up.”

Annie nodded her head and turned to meet up with the class.

When Emily couldn’t see Annie, she moved close to the statue and placed a finger on it in defiance.

A few minutes went by as the class moved to a different room. Annie checked her watch before searching the area for Emily. Realizing that Emily had tricked her, Annie excused herself to use the restroom, a lie but one that would allow her to leave the group and return to the previous room, and headed back to the terracotta statue.

Annie stopped in her tracks as she saw the figure. The woman’s body looked the same, the same posture, the same clothing, but the face was different.

“Clouds coming in,” Marvin said nonchalantly as he rocked back and forth in his oak rocking chair. He and his partner, Andy, sat on the front porch of their ranch home, surrounded by hundreds of acres. Watching the blue sky was their favorite pastime.

It didn’t matter what time of day. Marvin enjoyed a j*int every now and then, but he also enjoyed the fresh air. Andy liked spending time with Marvin, reading books, newspapers, magazines, or social media on his tablet.

Today, it was mid-afternoon. The sun began to descend toward the horizon, one side of the sky turned a deep blue, the moon barely visible while waiting for night, a streak of a jet crossed into the lighter blue. It was a clear, baby-blue sky except for the gray clouds forming directly above them.

Marvin watched the gloom brew into a storm, lightning and thunder warning the gentlemen of its approach.

Andy looked up from his tablet, his golden-brown eyes twisted into confusion. “Weather didn’t call for storms.” He returned his focus to his electronic tablet, pulling up the weather app. “Clear skies all day, it says. High 70s. It’s 78 right now.”

A cool breeze rushed in, causing Marvin’s chair to rock back on its own, almost teetering. Marvin forced himself forward, getting out of the chair. “Let’s get inside.” He didn’t seem to care what the Weather app said, he wanted out of the chaos.

Doing as told, Andy got up and went in with Marvin. It took both of them to close the door as the wind became a continuous onslaught of powerful gusts.

It turned dark. Thunder rattled the cabin’s supports.

“What’s happening, Marv?” Andy asked with a shaky breath.

Marvin shook his head. “I’m not sure, Baby.”

Then, rain pattered on the roof, starting slowly before coming down in sheets, and suddenly hail knocked against the roof’s shingles. Tiny pebbles turned into golf-ball sized turned into baseball-sized.

Marvin and Andy jumped when they heard the hail penetrate the roof. One hole, two holes, four holes. It went on as the attic floor, filled with the weight of the hail, struggled to stay up.

Andy cried out when one of the supports snapped, and Marvin grabbed Andy close as he felt the ceiling give in. If he was going to die, Marvin wanted to be in Andy’s arms.

The storm grew, as if destroying Andy and Marvin fed it, and it moved towards town, only 6 miles away.

Ed went to the Arkansas River to do some fishing, get out of the house for a bit. From his house, he walked through a few acres of woods, land owned by his grandparents. He sat on a patch of sand near the river, threw the line into the water, leaned back and relaxed.

Around the time the Sun was highest in the air, Ed felt hot and chose to go for a quick dip. Ditching his shirt, shoes, and socks, Ed carefully stepped into the rushing river, swearing when he felt the cold water touch his big toe. At waist level, Ed dunked his head under water and popped back up.

That’s when he saw her. To Ed, she first looked like a dog, but it was a little girl.

He noticed the frenzied look in her eyes, fear and anger rolled into one. She was covered in mud from head to toe, even her hair had been matted down the back. Her finger and toenails were jagged and sharp, years of dirt underneath.

When Ed realized she wasn’t a dog, his face became serious and concerned. “Hello?” He tried to keep his voice calm, welcoming.

Her nose went up into the air.

She’s trying to catch my scent, he thought. He was amazed at this feral child.

Ed held his hands up, open, showing he wasn’t a threat. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

She was naked, he realized, and she dipped into the river, paddling to swim like a canine, but she reached him quickly. For her height, the water came up to her shoulders. Her curious eyes stared up at Ed. It seemed like she was going to say something.

“What is it?” Ed said excitedly. He bent down to get closer to hear. “I won’t hurt you.”

The girl opened her mouth, baring her sharp teeth, and clamped down on Ed’s neck. He tried to yell, but his esophagus filled with blood. After his body went limp, the child dragged him up onto the sand by the neck.

The Slugger.

That’s what they called him. He wore a catcher's mask, a baseball uniform of a long-dead high school team from the 60s, cleats, and he carried a wooden baseball bat.

He was eighteen-years-old when a baseball hit him in the head, killing him from the impact. His parents claimed he was going to college on a full scholarship for baseball. He and his girlfriend had been crowned Homecoming King and Queen the night before. He had his entire life ahead of him.

The tragedy was felt all around town for decades.

Every year, on Homecoming, the Slugger returned to town to haunt the residents and slug a few to death with his baseball bat. People claimed it’s someone using the tragedy to hide their identity and get away with murder. Through all the years, the police were never able to capture the culprit, and he’s never stopped.

The Slugger stood outside a home of a high school party. He placed the bat on his shoulders, his wrists laying on the wood and his hands casually limp, and walked through the front door. Music played loudly over a home theater system, while teens gossiped, joked, danced, and made out. Behind his mask, he glared at each of them, taking inventory.

After he walked through the first floor, he went upstairs to repeat his process, even interrupting those that were getting hot and heavy in guest bedrooms. He wouldn’t say anything, just close the door after seeing their faces.

In the backyard, there was a pool. Many were swimming, laying about the poolside, making and consuming alcoholic drinks.

When he was ready to start, the Slugger found the door to the basement. He figured he should check it out in case he missed anyone. Opening the door, he saw the stairwell was dark, but at the bottom there seemed to be a faint light glowing. He took each step slowly as he heard a strange sound.

Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, he noticed a group of teens, five to be exact, standing in a circle. The glow came from candles at their feet, and each stood at each point of a pentagram drawn on the floor made of black salt. All of them had their eyes closed while they held hands and chanted.

The Slugger felt compelled to enter the circle, like a line pulling at his gut. He felt sick fighting it, and he couldn’t understand. Finally, he walked into the circle.

“Welcome,” the girl at the head of the pentagram said. She had short blond hair, wearing a black dress with a frilly skirt.

The Slugger raised his bat, but he couldn’t bring it down.

“I am a witch and this is my coven,” the girl continued. “We called you here, Slugger.”

The other four opened their eyes to stare at him, but they continued chanting.

He realized he couldn’t move his feet.

“Your real name is Ben Davidson,” the witch said, releasing her hands from the others. She walked into the circle with the revenant. “You were the golden boy of town, but a fatal accident at a baseball game ruined everything. Empowered by young anger alone, you’ve come back every year to take at least one victim by beating them to death with your old baseball bat.”

The Slugger stared down at the girl through his mask as she moved in close. He couldn’t move his feet, his arms, or his hands. He wanted to shut her trap, whack her across the face with the oak bat in his arms, but he couldn’t. The bat fell at his side.

“Well, we’re tired of you crashing our parties,” the witch said as she reached up to remove the catcher’s mask off his head.

Under the mask, the Slugger looked as he did the day he died, along with a crater on the left side of his head. His left eye was swollen.

“No more victims, Ben. It’s time you accept that your time on this Earth has passed, sadly and unfairly, but it happened. It’s no more fair for your victims as it was for you.” The witch returned to her position at the head of the pentagram. “We’re going to take the pain you carry with you away.”

Taking her friends’ hands again, the girl closed her eyes and continued chanting. The other four followed suit as their chanting began to grow.

Ben could feel something stir inside him. The line in his gut was released, and he felt lighter. His left eye opened, the swelling having gone away, and his sight returned. A smile formed on his face as tears fell down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said, realizing he wasn’t able to speak all those years. “I’m sorry for everything. Thank you for helping me.”

“You killed a lot of people, Ben,” the witch said to him. “You’re able to move on, but there are consequences to your actions, even if those actions were committed after your death.”

Martin entered the public restroom at the back of the park as instructed. He had difficulty keeping his hands from being sweaty, and he kept wiping them on his jeans. As he passed each empty stall, Martin glanced in to make sure he was alone. Martin entered the last stall, a handicapped toilet, closed the door and locked it, and pulled out his phone.

I’m here.

So am I.

Footsteps pulled Martin from his phone. He started breathing harder as he heard the thuds approach. He placed his hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat race.

The anonymous man entered the stall next to Martin, closed the door and locked it.

“Did you bring it?” the man asked.

Martin hesitated, but he gave in. “It’s in the trunk of my car.”

“Perfect,” the man said. “I want you to take it out and place it next to the jungle gym in the park.”

“What?” Martin’s eyes grew wide from disbelief. “Why? I-I…”

“Remember what I have, Martin,” the man said. “The proof that it was you all along. You hit the girl with your car, gathered up her corpse, and you hid her in your basement, hoping it would all go away. You didn’t expect me to find your little secret though.”

“How did you find me?” Martin asked.

The man scoffed but said nothing.

Martin began to sob as his mind went back to that night. He pulled his hair as tears fell down his reddened face.

“Calm down,” the man in the stall said. “Do as I say and it will all be fine.”

“Why? Why are you doing this?” Martin asked.

The man got up and exited his stall.

Martin tried to do the same, but the door shut back against him with force.

“I told you not to do anything funny,” the man warned. “I just want the young girl’s family to find the body. She should be put to rest. Understood?”

Taking a large gulp, Martin nodded. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“I’ll be watching, Martin,” the man said before walking out of the bathroom.

Martin tried to run after him, but he tripped on some wire set up as a trap. “D-mnit.” He pulled himself from the tiled floor, feeling a slight twinge in his back. “I’m getting too old for this sh-t.”

Doing as he was told, Martin drove to the jungle gym located in the middle of the park. He kept his headlights off in case any officers were driving by, doing rounds. Pulling up, Martin exited the vehicle and opened the trunk. Inside contained a black body bag, which he brought out and carried to the children’s play area. He chose an area next to the fireman’s pole to place the body bag. As he began to unzip it, he heard a noise behind him.

Martin turned to find a young girl, no older than the girl in the bag, standing before him. She wore a sweater with the hoodie up, shadowing her face. In her hand, she held a voice modulator, placing it in front of her mouth. “Hi Martin.”

It sounded like the anonymous man that blackmailed him.

“Did you know her name was Jenny?” the girl asked, removing the modulator from her face.

Martin stared at the girl as she told her story, his mind trying to put the puzzle pieces together.

“You have a serious problem, Martin,” the girl continued. “Your real name is Harrison.”

Martin’s eyes grew wide at the mention of his birth name.

“Yeah, you changed it after Seattle,” she explained. “A ‘hit and run’ they said. It was a girl the same age as Jenny. Her name was Rebecca. From there, you went to San Diego, decided to stay on the West Coast, and enjoy the beach. Your name there was Darren. Cute. Kylie was the next victim. You couldn’t understand what came over you, but after Rebecca, you got a taste for mowing down little girls.”

Martin stood, his hands gripped into fists. He shook from the surprise and rage at all the secrets the little girl knew.

“You moved to Vegas, thought you could just gamble away all your problems,” she went on. “But you kept seeing her face everywhere, Rebecca. She was the first victim. That’s why you drove over Kylie. You couldn’t help yourself. If you drove through her again, Rebecca would go away. Next was Regan.”

“Stop it,” Martin said, gritting his teeth.

“In Denver, you were Jared,” the girl said, her lips widening into a smile. “Your victim was Lily.”

“Shut up!” Martin yelled, trying to cover his ears, but her voice invaded his mind.

“Cara. Lincoln. Tiffany. Tulsa. Willa. Houston. Maggie. New Orleans.”

“No, no, no,” Martin said as he shook his head back and forth, hoping to drown her voice out.

“Stella. Miami. Natalie. Charlotte. Larissa. D.C. Dawn. New York.”

“Stop it!” His anger boiled as the names and their respective cities repeated in a flurry of voices, as if there were more than the young girl. When his vision became focused, he set his eyes on her and charged.

He lunged at her, but she disappeared. Martin stumbled as he passed through the air she once stood. In her place, there was a pit six feet deep. Falling over the edge, Martin landed with a thud, his back fully giving out. The pain kept him from moving or standing. He also had difficulty trying to yell out for help.

One by one, little girl’s faces appeared above him, looking down into his grave.

Dawn. Larissa. Natalie. Stella. Maggie. Willa. Cara. Tiffany. Lily. Regan. Kylie.

The girl in the hoodie stood at the foot of the grave, removing the hood to show her face.

“Rebecca,” he said with a groan. “You’re not dead?”

“Oh, I’m dead,” Rebecca said, her green eyes full of anger and vengeance. “As are all the girls here. Including Jenny. Ontario.”

Jenny appeared next to Rebecca. She looked down at Martin with malice.

“This has gone on for far too long, Martin,” Rebecca declared. “The system has failed us, so I called upon each soul you claimed. Together, we made this happen. Tonight, we end your reign of terror.”

Dirt fell in piles as the girls’ spirits disappeared one by one. Jenny was the second to last, leaving Rebecca alone. She watched quietly until the grave was filled in and she could no longer hear the man’s screams.

Then, she moved on.

All it took was a needle, thread, patience, a prayer, and a lot of trimming for Anna to finish her new flesh suit made from all the women she hunted and killed over the years.

They were calling it Dread, the newest in injectable drugs.

First, they tried smoking it, but it fried their minds. Literally.

Bodies piled up by the thousands before a campaign was pushed by the dealers: “You gotta inject it.”

Doing as they were told, the addicts experienced a high never felt before. A drug trip through their fears, shooting adrenaline into their veins.

“It’s like experiencing all of the worst nightmares in your life all at once,” a user said during an interview.

Dread became a cultural phenomenon. Adults, teens, parents, friends, families, all of them tried it at least once. Over 80% of those first-time users would try it again. 93% of those would become addicts.

Public outcry spurred attempts in the Government to find the drug’s producer. If they ever did find the maker, no one said a word. Soon, it became an accepted fact that everyone was continuously using Dread, and those that weren’t should mind their business.

As children grew with Dread in their lives, they became emotionless, incapable of feeling anything without taking the drug, which was now law in order to be a functioning member of society. Weekly tests were administered to make sure a citizen was taking their medication.

However, there were rebels, those who believed the governments of the world only wanted their people to take Dread to make them docile. Without their medication, the rebels became hardened, incapable of experiencing empathy for others. They became violent in their actions, transforming from passionate protestors to aggressive militant soldiers.

Crime and murder rates increased.

The governments sent their military in response, to fight against the anarchist agenda. The war went on for years, and millions died on the battlefield.

As a part of their plan, the rebels infiltrated the world’s governments, learning the whereabouts of their Dread stocks. In a coordinated attack, the rebellion invaded and destroyed the Dread reserves, forcing nations and their people to go through withdrawal.

It didn’t take long before they launched the nukes at one another.

Janet had difficulty sitting still on the bus ride. She kept taking inventory, making sure she had everything on her for the job, and repeating the list of questions she wrote down on the pad of paper she held in her hands. Her nervousness felt warranted, considering she was going to be writing the memoir of former actress, Deonna Holtz.

Miss Holtz won several awards for appearing in murder mystery thrillers and supernatural dramas. Her movies were the reason Janet wanted to get into writing.

Mr. Morris, Janet’s agent, called her up and said she’d been offered a ghostwriting position to help Deonna Holtz write an autobiography. Janet didn’t hesitate to say yes, no matter how little money they proposed. “No, it’s a real offer, kid,” he said to her. “Enough that we both make a good buck. I’ll send you the details.”

The next day Janet was on a Greyhound to see Miss Holtz.

After arriving in the closest town to the Holtz estate, Janet found a cab at the station to take her the rest of the way. The road leading to Miss Holtz’s home led out of town, through some rural country, and into deep woods. Janet watched the scenery fly by, noticing that the sun’s rays had difficulty penetrating the treeline.

The cab slowed down outside an iron gate. On the gate’s arch was the name HOLTZ.

Janet paid the cabbie, asking if he’d mind coming back in a few hours. He agreed, saying he’d return later that night.

Behind the large gate stood a mansion, a palatial abode which sprawled across a massive amount of land. Janet entered through the gate, seeing there were no intercoms or guards, and walked to the front door. Using the large brass door knocker, Janet waited patiently for an answer.

A minute passed before Janet used her hand to knock.

The door opened, surprising the young woman.

“You must be Janet.” Deonna Holtz stood at the door, staring down at Janet. She wore a feather robe with tulle, the fabric hugging her hips, thighs, and breasts. Janet realized she wore little underneath. “I am so happy to meet you.”

Janet smiled and blushed. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Miss Holtz.”

“No, no, no,” Deonna said. “Call me Dee. All my friends do, and we’re going to be the best of friends.”

The two set up in a comfy living area, Deonna on a Victorian-styled chaise lounge chair and Janet at a table. On the small table was a brand new typewriter with ink and paper to spare. After a bit of chat, they decided to start with Deonna’s childhood growing up. Janet typed away at the new keys, trying to keep up with the exhilarating tale Deonna was weaving. Before Janet knew it, it was nightfall.

“Your cab is waiting for you out front, my dear,” Deonna said, pulling Janet out of her writing flurry.

“Excuse me,” Janet said, feeling embarrassed. “I don’t know where the time has gone.”

“No worries, dear,” Deonna said. “Are you staying in town?”

Janet nodded. “At the inn.”

The two said their goodbyes before Janet exited the house and headed to her cab.

“Good evening,” the cabbie greeted, standing outside to hold the door open. He got in and began to drive away while Janet pretended to be back in Deonna’s lounge listening to more of her stories. A few minutes into driving, the cabbie said, “I’m surprised you came out.”

Janet stared at the driver through the rearview mirror, their eyes meeting. “Why is that?”

“Nobody who has asked me to come back and pick them up has ever come out once they’ve entered that house,” he explained.

“Then why come all the way out here if you thought you weren’t going to see me again?” Janet asked in a huff, not appreciating the trick she thought the cabbie was trying to pull on her.

The man shrugged. “I guess I’d feel terrible if I chose not to return when they asked, but in the end they needed a ride.”

Janet chose to remain quiet the rest of the way.

After checking in, Janet went straight to her room to take a hot bath before bed. While soaking, her mind returned to the cabbie’s words. The warm water cradled Janet in a warm cocoon as the heat wafted up in her face. Within seconds, she passed out.

In her dreams, Janet imagined Miss Holtz standing over her at the head of the bathtub, a dark expression across her face. Deonna used her long arms to push Janet down, deep into the darkest ocean. Janet tried to fight back, but Deonna’s claws tore into her shoulders.

Janet awoke choking on bathwater. She felt like such a fool allowing herself to fall asleep while taking a bath. By the time she crawled into bed, Janet forgot all about the dream she had of Dee.

***

A cold wind woke Janet from her sleep. Atop of her, Deonna suckled on Janet’s neck, sharp teeth bared and a wicked tongue lapping at the blood. Janet screamed and brought her fist down on Dee’s face. The vampire hissed at Janet, falling back into the shadows and escaping through the open window she used to originally enter.

The next day, with a bandage around her neck, Janet went looking for the cabbie, finding him at home. She knocked on his door frantically, her eyes darting back and forth, searching for a sign of Miss Holtz watching her from the shadows. When the man answered the door, Janet didn’t wait to be invited in.

“I was attacked last night,” she told him.

“What? What are you talking about?” he asked.

“It was Deonna Holtz,” Janet continued, unwrapping the bandage. “She bit my neck and drank my blood. She’s a vampire.”

The cabbie stood dumbfounded as his eyes rested on the two puncture wounds in Janet’s neck. He rubbed his face as confusion, fear, and worry settled in. Before he answered, he went to the kitchen.

Janet followed him, watching him grab a bottle from the cupboard. He popped the top off and took a swig. “May I have a drink?”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, he smirked, surprised by her request, and went to a different cabinet to grab a glass. He poured it a quarter of the way and handed it to Janet. “I’m Kurt by the way.” He took another drink.

She took a sip first. “I’m Janet.”

“What do we do?” he said looking into Janet’s eyes.

“I have an idea.” Janet gulped the rest of her drink before holding the glass out for more.

***

“Welcome back, Janet,” Deonna said, a wicked grin spread across her face. “I wasn’t sure to expect you. It’s a bit late.”

“I apologize, Dee,” Janet said, standing at the mansion’s front door. “I wasn’t feeling well, so I slept in.”

“What happened to your neck?” Deonna asked, feigning concern.

Janet saw through it. “A spider bite, I think.”

“Poor thing,” Deonna said as she stepped aside to let Janet in.

Deonna walked Janet into the lounge, the typewriter set up at the small table the same as the night before. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“I wouldn’t mind some bourbon,” Janet said with a smile.

“Coming at once,” Deonna said, heading to the liquor cabinet. “I’m so glad you came back. I was getting worried, but I wasn’t sure how to get a hold of you. My landline went down last night.”

As Deonna turned around with Janet’s drink, she saw Kurt standing in front of her, a wooden stake in his hand. He plunged it deep into Deonna’s chest, hoping he hit the heart. The woman transformed into a winged demon with sharp fangs, hardened scales, and deadly claws, knocking Kurt back. She attempted to fly away, but she was stopped by a blast of fire.

Janet held a hairspray bottle in one hand and a lighter in the other, lighting the hairspray to create a makeshift flamethrower. She stepped in close to Deonna, focusing the flames on the vampire’s wings.

Deonna landed on the ground with a thud, smoke wafting off her burnt skin. Janet bent down to check her vitals when a charred hand grabbed Janet’s wrist. Deonna’s skeleton stood in front of Janet, her muscles, her skin, hair, nails, and eyes all reforming onto Deonna’s blackened bones.

“Do you think I am that easy to kill?” Deonna said as she brought her lips to Janet’s neck. She drank from the woman, but she stopped when she felt a burning sensation start from her mouth down her esophagus into her stomach. Her strength weakened and she let Janet go.

Kurt came up from behind to hold Janet up from the blood loss. Both of them watched Deonna struggle.

“I guess holy water is deadly to vampires,” Janet spat. “I drank an entire bottle after I finished off Kurt’s whiskey.”

Smoke filled the air above Deonna. When she coughed, ashes came out in clouds. The flames started at her feet before rising up her body. Deonna let out a hellish scream as her body crumbled to dust.

Something felt off to Ryan.

He couldn’t place what it was, but he could feel it in the air.

Shaking the weird feeling, Ryan returned his focus to the magazine in his hands, but he had a hard time paying attention. The sound machine was too loud, mimicking soft shores and birds cawing, while Ryan sat waiting for his appointment with his therapist, Dr. Moira Lance.

The door to Dr. Lance’s office opened. Ryan tried not to stare as the patient left, but it was always awkward in these situations. He waited until they said their goodbyes and then he gave Dr. Lance a smile.

“Ryan, lovely to see you,” Dr. Lance said, almost as if forced. “Come on in.” The two entered the office, Dr. Lance stood by the door to close it as Ryan walked in. “Please have a seat.” She sat in a high-backed chair next to Ryan as he sat on the loveseat. On a pedestal next to her, Dr. Lance grabbed her notebook and pen before sitting back and getting comfortable. “So, how has it been going?”

Ryan started to detail the events of his past week, but he had the strongest sense of deja vu about the things he was saying. It were as though he’d already said them before, almost like he’d been in this session with Dr. Lance more than once. “I feel so confused.”

“What are you confused about?” she asked. Her eyes flashed an intense white light, as if there were a circuit malfunction.

Ryan stood from the loveseat. “What’s going on here?”

Dr. Lance became limp. The lights brightened and the walls vanished.

People in white jackets stood behind windows holding clipboards. They wrote things down and spoke to each other in whispers.

“What’s happening?” Ryan said with a shaky voice. He felt a cold sweat break out on his neck. Fear made his knees wobbly. “Where am I?”

A voice came over an intercom. “Alright. We’ll try double the dosage. Reset.”

Someone appeared next to Ryan in a flash, injecting him with an unknown substance.

Ryan didn’t have time to process the pain before everything changed, reverting back to the waiting room outside Dr. Lance’s office.

Day 10 Prompt: Recipe

The recipe book was in the kitchen, in the cupboard, on the 4th shelf next to the seasonings.

Gloria remembered watching her mother put various ingredients into a big boiling pot, reading from an old, worn book filled with family recipes passed down through the generations. Her mother would pull up the step stool for Gloria to stand and watch until she grew into a teenager. She would lean down in Gloria’s ear, whispering secrets and anecdotes of what makes the food taste so good.

“Davey?” a familiar voice called.

Pulled from her memories, Gloria turned to find her sister, Lily, standing in the kitchen doorway. The two women couldn’t look more the same, except Gloria was an inch taller and Lily had more curves. It was in their eyes, smile, tiny nose, color of hair, all of it was from their mother.

Today was Mama’s funeral.

Lily stepped further into the kitchen to let the swinging door close behind her. “What are you doing here?”

Gloria wished she hadn’t hesitated, but she bit back the jab she conjured to respond. Instead, after taking a deep breath, Gloria stood tall and proud. “I came to pay my respects and collect Mama’s cookbook.”

Then, Lily snatched the frayed, torn book from Gloria’s hands, ripping the spine in the process. “What makes you think you can come in here and take any of Mama’s things? You embarrassed her. Your sinful lifestyle made her look like a bad mother to our family and her friends. She couldn’t stand talking about you. In fact, she burned all the pictures she had of you, her beautiful baby boy.”

None of it was true, Gloria knew. It was true that she didn’t keep in close contact with Mama after her transition, but they spoke at least once a year on the phone. Mama would sneak the calls around Lily’s back because Lily would never forgive Gloria. Before she passed, Mama started referring to Gloria as her daughter, and she refused to use Gloria’s dead-name, Davis. Gloria hadn’t talked with Mama about inheritance before she passed, but all Gloria wanted was the recipe book.

“Lily, I don’t want to argue,” Gloria said. “I have more connection to Mama’s recipes than you do. You hate to cook. Mama would literally have to drag you into the kitchen to get you to participate.”

Lily scoffed as she placed her arms on her hips. “Why did she need me to help her? She had you.”

“Look, I will leave as soon as you give me the cookbook,” Gloria said, holding her hand out.

“No, I’m not giving it to you,” Lily declared, pulling back from Gloria’s hand. She raised the book high in the air away from Gloria.

“Lily, stop being such a brat,” Gloria said. She continued towards her sister, trying to grab at the book. “I have never asked for anything. This is all I want. The rest is all yours. You’ll never have to see me again.”

The two of them stepped through the swinging door of the kitchen into the dining area where Lily set up the wake. Food littered the table: potatoes in various styles, salads, meat and cheese platters, desserts, and everything in between. Plates sat at one end of the table with all the cutlery and napkins.

“That’s the thing, Davis,” Lily said, stopping and standing in Gloria’s face. Her face turned into a snarl. “I don’t have to give this to you and I’ll still take everything of Mama’s. Then you’ll never see me again.”

A hatred boiled in Gloria’s blood. Her vision tunneled and Lily was the focus.

“My name is Gloria!” she shouted as she reached her arm forward and reclaimed the cookbook. “And I’m taking the godd-mn book!”

Lily struck at Gloria with a fist to her face.

Gloria took the punch, feeling her lip split and blood spilling on her new dress. Turning back to Lily, Gloria swung her arm behind her and brought it back full force, slapping Lily backhanded. She watched Lily fly back with a scream onto the table, her weight and the force of her landing caused the table to collapse. It looked as though she was knocked unconscious.

Voices began to whisper. The funeral party stood watching the fight from the living room.

After turning several shades of red, Gloria realized blood was pooling under Lily. “Oh my God!” Gloria bent down to help her sister, and she saw a large butcher’s knife impaled in Lily’s back.

One of the women screamed when she noticed the blood. The men entered the dining room and grabbed Gloria away from Lily. A man claimed to be a doctor and he checked her vitals, confirming she was dead. Someone was calling 911. Two men held Gloria by her arms, gripping her so tight that she felt the blood circulation cutting off.

Gloria saw the recipe book soaked in her sister’s blood, which slowly covered the dining room floor.