The Writer's Intent

So, it’s been a while, but I finally finished the fifth story in my line-up! Enjoy!

Trigger Warnings: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence.

Word Count: 4, 511

Life was perfect for Theo Jendrock. His parents were attentive but gave him space; he lived in a nice house with fashionable clothes and the latest gadgets. His older brothers were attending two of the best universities. Theo himself had some of the best grades in his high school - he was on track to becoming the valedictorian - he had been part of the student council for three years and was both the star hitter on their baseball team and the quarterback in football. Everything about him and his life was perfect, enviable to everyone who knew him or knew of him. Everything except this stupid lump of clay.

Theo glared at the gray lump in front of him, soft and malleable in some parts while hardening in others. He ran his hand across it, hoping to smooth some of the cracks. The pile cracked further, a deep line zig zagging through and chipping off a chunk. He groaned for what felt like the millionth time today.

“It needs to be wetter.”

Theo looked up at his table mate. Mollie Kain turned red under his gaze and gestured at his lump. “Water. It’s too dry. You won’t make anything out of it.” She picked up her spray bottle and handed it over. Theo mumbled a thank you and sprayed the lump, silently groaning all the while.

It shouldn’t be as hard as it was. All he was doing was making a vase or a pot or some stupid little container. It wasn’t going to be fancy, nothing like his classmates were making - not an abstract mask, or a full tea set, or whatever the hell Derrick O’Reilly was making in the far corner (probably a pair of tits) - just a dish. And yet, he had spent the last three weeks of art sculpting and re-sculpting it. Theo pursed his lips and continued to spray the lump, hoping to someone the large crack would mend itself together. 

“I-I think you’ve got enough, Theo,” Mollie said, her face still red. She gently took the spray bottle back. “Just..ah...just smooth it together. Like making empanadas.” She ran her fingers over her own sculpture, a small lion, pressing and pinching the soft clay together. 

Theo mimicked her for a minute before breathing out through his nose. It still looked like shit. He clucked his tongue and looked around the room, finally spying Sorrell by the door. “I’m gonna take a break,” he mumbled. He pushed himself away from the table and walked over to Sorrell.

It was Sorrell’s free period, a time when most seniors went to the courtyard or just off school grounds to smoke. Instead, he was here, working on his project for his independent art class, a class Ms. Barbanell created for her star pupil. 

Theo watched him for a moment, a soft smile on his face. Sorrell had not noticed him. His dreadlocks were tied up as they always were when he painted. He somehow had gotten blues and greens all over his jeans and hoodie despite only painting with warm tones today; there were smudges of orange on his brown hands, dotting him and the paintbrush like dalmatians. His warm eyes were focused on the canvas, his tongue peeking out between his lips, and his brows furrowed in concentration.

“Keep looking at it like that, and it might catch on fire.”

The corner of Sorrell’s mouth twisted up, but he did not turn around. He ran the paintbrush across the painting, a streak of canary yellow following in its path. Theo shifted. There was something about the way he gripped the brush, his utter concentration...made him think of the concentration he had when they-

“Isn’t pottery over on the other side?”

Theo blinked before falling back into an easy smile. He walked up to Sorrell, placing his head on his shoulder. His boyfriend gave him an irritated look before dipping his brush into an orange-yellow and swirling it. 

“I wanted to see what you were doing.”

“Really?” He lifted the brush, now a sunset orange and dashed it across the painting, quick and efficient. “It looks to me like you are trying to find a distraction.” 

Theo grimaced. 

“I can’t visit my boyfriend in class?” He over-encunciated the word, drawing out the “o” in boyfriend. The corner of Sorrell’s mouth twisted up, just as Theo knew it would. He loved the word, loved that using it angered people, infuriated them. He loved it even more that no one said anything once they realized the boyfriend in question was the Theo Jendrock, not only a star athlete, but the largest boy in school, far larger than most of the adults in town. It was like poking a dragon then running for cover, though Sorrell liked to see the word as a cocoon. 

“Not...not if you’re going to distract him from his work.”

Theo frowned and buried his face into the crook of his neck. “It won’t work.”

“What won’t?” Sorrell’s tone was soft, gentle. 

“The clay.”

Sorrell said nothing for a while, dipping his brush into a dark orange and swirling it on his palate.  They listened to the class chatter behind them, Ms. Barnabell quietly talking to one of the more intense art students in the farthest corner. Sorrell lifted the brush, hesitated, then raised it again, flattening it as he pulled the paint from one side of the canvas to the other. It was effortless, like the paints - their color, their configuration - flowed from Sorrell, like they were a part of him. 

“I’m sure whatever you’re making is beautiful -”

“It’s shit.”

Sorrell pursed his lips. He took a deep breath through his nose and swallowed. Theo groaned. He pulled back, turning to go back to his table. He could feel Sorrell turn around, his stiff jeans crinkling as he twisted around to - to what? Convince Theo the hideous lump was actually worth something? That it wouldn’t result in a failure? 

Theo flung himself into his seat, glaring at the pile before picking up Mollie’s spray bottle and furiously dousing it.

***

Two days later and Theo watched his class carefully put their creations into the kiln. His jaw set, and fingers clenching his….bowl, as beautiful sculpture after beautiful sculpture was placed in the kiln, Ms. Barnabell smiling fondly at them, praising a little part of their work.

“That’ll look wonderful when fired.”

“The divets are a great addition!”

“If you add the blue ombre liked we talked about, these little swirls will shine.”

“Derrick, did you spend these last few weeks making a pair of… breasts?”

While they argued about the artistic value of a woman’s tits, Mollie wiggled around them and placed her miniature lion in the kiln. She smiled down at it and slipped back into the classroom, tucking her hair behind her ear. Theo tightened his grip on his bowl. The clay folded, creasing with his fingertips. A part of him was horrified, burning up through him and causing his stomach to clench. He wanted to run back to his table and smooth over the creases, as though it would fix all the other creases and cracks and bumps; as though that one action would result in a flawless sculpture that would lead to Mrs. Barnabell falling to her knees in awe and Derrick O’Reilly to drop his fleshy breasts, flattening them. 

A much larger part of him wanted to chuck the damn thing in the kiln or better yet at the wall, splattering everything in sight with clay.

“Theo.”

Derrick had lost the argument. He stood to the side, gently jiggling the stiff clay with a crooked grin on his face, as though they would bounce like actual tits. Mrs. Barnabell smiled at Theo expectedly, and he came forward, every part of him feeling like it was on fire. 

He clenched his jaw, hearing his teeth grind, and placed it in the kiln as quickly as possible. Theo started to turn around when Mrs. Barnabell peered down and commented, “interesting approach. I’m excited to see how it will turn out.”

The fire slowly engulfing his body roared to life, flicking at his ears and neck. Theo nodded, his stomach clenching violently as he walked back to his table. Derrick opened his mouth to say something, but one jerk of Theo’s head shut him up. 

He breathed through his nose and flung himself back into his seat. His eyes hurt. His nose twitched. His stomach would not stop cramping and the fire would not stop raging, burning him and sending the hairs on his arms standing up. Theo rubbed his arms, hoping to cool it, but the motion did little.

After what seemed like forever, the last student put their sculpture in the kiln. With his chest tightening, Theo watched Ms. Barnabell sternly speak to Derrick and shut the lid.

***

Theo stood outside the school, bouncing on his toes and blowing into his cupped hands. The sun was still hiding behind the building, slowly peeking out; the start of its rays turning the sky pink as it crested the horizon. A cool fog settled across the campus, dampening the tops of Theo’s high-tops and the grass he was standing on. He clenched his jaw to prevent his teeth from chattering.

He shouldn’t be here. If the locked doors weren’t enough of a clue that he should be sleeping, the still dark sky was. And yet, here he was, tightly wrapped in his jacket, arms crossed to preserve heat. The janitors would be here soon, and they would open the doors for him. He smiled a little at that. It was easy to get what you wanted when you scored a few home runs, got a couple touchdowns, and were just liked by everyone. It didn’t hurt that his GPA was killer.

His smile disappeared as quickly as it appeared. He clenched his jaw tighter, his teeth painfully grinding together. His stomach clenched and unclenched; Theo felt like he was going to throw-up. He swallowed, trying to push those feelings down, but they remained, bubbling below the surface, like lava in a volcano.

A car pulled into the school parking lot, and Theo straightened, breaking out a toothy grin. An older man got it - Esteban he thought from the slicked-back hair and the slight limp when he walked.  His grin widened as he came closer, lugging his backpack over his shoulder.

Esteban looked at Theo then up at the sky. Theo let out a puff of laughter. “What are you doing here, man? You should be sleeping.”

“Just had some things I had to finish.”

Esteban’s eyes comically widened. “Some things to do? At four in the morning?”

Theo shrugged, his heart beating a little faster. “It was the only time I could come in.”

He nodded, then shrugged, shifting his backpack to pull out a set of keys. “You take on too much, man.” Esteban unlocked the doors and held them open for Theo. He passed him and waited for Esteban to turn off the alarm.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

***

He threw his jacket off in the corner and swiftly walked over to the supply closet. It was unlocked. Theo jerked it open, heaving the unopened hunk of clay onto his table. It thunked down, and for a moment, he thought the table would crumble. It wobbled slightly, but stayed standing. Good. He nodded at the table, then dashed around for a spray bottle, clay knife, and whatever else he could think of. A quick glance at the clock, and his heart rate increased, thudding as loudly as the clay hitting the table; his body felt like it might collapse.

Theo ripped open the bag and immediately sprayed it with lukewarm water. As soon as the clay looked soft enough, he cut off a slab, tossing it onto the table before him. He hooked a leg around the chair leg behind him and pulled it up to him. Theo sat down and rolled up his sleeves, breathing out through his mouth, and trying not to puke.

***

It still looked like shit. Theo stared at the lump in utter disbelief, his whole body feeling sore and uneasy. The sculpture was closer to that of a bowl, but it was still uneven, the rim rolling and varying in thickness. He ran a hand through his hair, smearing damp clay in it. Theo couldn’t bring himself to care. He turned the bowl slowly, looking for any redeeming quality for the hideous thing before him. The base was fine, sturdier, and the sides seemed okay. So what the hell was going on with the top?

He pressed the sides of the bowl in, folding it in on itself, before deciding against it and pulling them out, the sides falling like a blooming flower. Theo sprayed them with more water - the clay becoming slick - and started to push them back up, slowly turning the bowl and running his hands across it. By the time he had twisted the bowl around, it was back to resembling a bowl. A bowl made and designed by toddlers in a muddy patch. 

Theo stared down at it, a low rumbling in his ears. It was like being underwater, waves crashing in his eardrums. He took a deep breath and exhaled. In, out. In, out. He repeated it several times, closing his eyes. But the roaring grew louder, and his hands started to tremble. His chest tightened; every nerve felt like it was on fire, aching to be touched - no, torn apart to release the quickly building tension in his body. Theo opened his eyes and stared at the lump before him. 

“Stop it,” he murmured, clenching his hands. “Stop it. Stupid, stop. This isn’t - stop it. There’s no reason to be like this. Just stop.”

His body paid him no mind, his shaking hands reaching for the bowl - almost on autopilot - and picked it up. It had firmed up, though some patches remained slimy and wet. He held it in his hands for a moment, weighing it, his eyes critically roaming over the ugly thing. Splack!

The bowl hit the wall, flattening one side, and splattering the wall with bits of loose clay. A poster of the color wheel slid down the wall, crumbling, folding over the clay like a covered body at a crime scene. 

Theo put his shaking hands in his hair and dug his nails in. It felt good, painful. “Stop, stop, stop.” The word fell from his lips like air, but nothing changed. His chest continued to tighten, his hands shook, the roaring in his ears increased until tears pooled in his eyes and started falling down his cheeks. He inhaled and exhaled, his breathing shakier now, inhales too deep and exhales too short. Theo dug his nails into his scalp, twisting them in his hair and pulled, his nerves singing praises and crying out simultaneously -

“Theo?”

His heart thudded loudly in his chest. He imagined turning around, openingly letting his tears fall and collapsing into Sorrell’s embrace. Sorrell quietly calming him down and helping him remake his shitty bowl. Them placing it in the kiln and the instructor marveling at it.

He didn’t move.

“Babe, what are you doing here?” His jacket shuffled as he took it off - probably draped it over a chair - and came closer, his sneakers squeaking softly on the concrete floor. Theo’s back felt hot as he drew closer; his nerves were electrified and vibrating with fear. 

Sorrell stopped behind him, taking in the smashed bowl and his hunched-over boyfriend. He swallowed, opened his mouth, then closed it and swallowed again. He felt hot, his stomach twisting as he fought to get the words out.

“What...what happened?”

Theo took a deep breath and clenched his hair tighter. It was like a blanket; he needed to hold on, even if he knew it was ridiculous, he needed to. “It’s bad,” he finally said.

“What’s bad?”

He gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes. It wasn’t Sorrell’s fault. He was doing what a good boyfriend did - what he always did; he was calm, patient. He was trying to understand. And yet, his soft voice was like needles to Theo’s dark skin, igniting his nerves and putting everything on edge, coiled and ready to spring. Keeping his eyes closed, he said, “The bowl. It’s...it’s not coming out right.” His chest tightened as he said it, and he gripped his hair, digging his nails into his scalp. It calmed him somewhat.

“That’s why you’re here? To make a new one?” He wasn’t asking, but Theo nodded anyway. It was quiet for a moment. Sorrell slowly walked around Theo, squatting down in front of him. His chest ached. He knew Theo had these...moments, but he had never seen one happen. To see his strong, devil-may-care boyfriend, his defender, on his knees and almost paralyzed with fear was…there was no word for it. He swallowed and raised his hand, hesitating before placing it on Theo’s arm. Theo jerked, but didn’t open his eyes. Carefully, Sorrell laced both his hands in Theo’s and pulled his fingers from his scalp. He went quietly, smoothly, as though he had been waiting for someone to velcro his hands away from his hair. Sorrell held his hands in his, running his thumbs across his knuckles.

“Theo…” he started. He stopped, hesitant, then continued. “Babe...it’s one sculpture…”

Theo was already shaking his head. He hadn’t opened his eyes. “It’s gotta be good.”

“Why?” Theo opened his eyes and stared at the ground. He said nothing. “Is this about...what is this...you’ve already got a scholarship. You’re already salutatorian -.” He stopped. Theo’s Adam’s apple had jumped at that, a half-swallow. Sorrell’s heart broke a little more. “Babe....salutatorian...you’re the only one in the school with that recognition. That’s amazing. And with everything else you’re doing -.”

Theo shook his head. He took a deep breath, and on the exhale said, “not good enough.” Sorrell rubbed his hands firmer, staring at him. “Salutatorian….they’re the first losers...they -.”

“Who the fuck told you that?” He didn’t mean to raise his voice. Theo flinched, his eyes going wide, and Sorrell let out a breath. “Sorry, sorry. That’s just...that’s wrong, Theo. It’s amazing. You’re not...no one is like Madison Deberough or - or -.”

“Tommy Ryanger.”

“Tommy Ryanger. They don’t have sports or clubs. They just do homework, and that’s fine. What you are -.”

But Theo was shaking his head again, swallowing. His hands twitched in Sorrell’s, and he tightened his hands, fearful he would pull from him and start scratching at his scalp. “I...would be with...it’s just...this.need to be perfect…”

Sorrell’s eyes widened. Oh. “Babe...sweetheart...Barnabell wouldn’t fail you ‘cause your sculpture was - ah - it’s avant garde. This is Intro to Pottery. You tried, you did the homework, you listened. You came to class every day. You will get an A, and -.” Theo was already starting to shake his head “- it’s not a pity A. Derrick made a fine pair of tits and he’s gonna get a C at best.” The corner of Theo’s mouth lifted for a second. Sorrell’s heart jumped, and he grinned. “Maybe if he sculpted a cock and balls, he’d’ve gotten a -”

The world exploded. Fragments of wood, pottery, and linoleum blasted through the room. Smoke filled the air. Sorrell screamed. He couldn’t hear. He couldn’t breathe. Theo crushed him, curling in on him, pressing his nose to his chest. His eyes burned. It was hot. Hot. Too much. And then...quiet.

***

Westmont High closed for two days after the accident. The entire east wing of the school had collapsed; the art room, the gym, shops - all destroyed when the old kiln exploded. Firefighters found one survivor - no one else was in that side of the building. He was a mess, Sorrell Howard, sobbing and screaming incoherently. He had been trapped under his boyfriend, Westmont’s dear Theodore Jendrock. When they pulled Sorrell out, he couldn’t contain himself. He threw his body at Theo, screaming, stroking his face. His entire right side was burned, some of it blistered, most of it charcoal black. He looked like he was two different people: a blackened corpse on one side, and a scorched sleeping man on the other. Paramedics quickly bagged his body before taking him out. Sorrell screamed as they loaded Theo into a separate ambulance and refused to calm down until he was allowed to ride with him. 

The contents of the kiln - or what was left of it - were looked over to find the cause of the explosion. The kiln’s age and the broken heat dial were large factors, no doubt adding to the force of the explosion. However, the trigger was much smaller, almost overlooked. A five inch statue of what was later identified as a lion had been the final component. The kiln, already old and on the edge of retirement, had been switched to a high temperature too quickly, aggravating the air bubbles and hollow head of the lion statue, causing it to erupt, shattering the other sculptures. The force was too much for the old kiln, exploding it and the surrounding area. 

News stations latched on to the story. It was too good for them to pass up. Faulty equipment in a school, an accidental time bomb in the form of an art student’s sculpture, the death of a beloved athlete, a gay romance - it was inevitable they would descend upon the traumatized school and students, focusing on the principal, art teacher, the student who created the lion - a Mollie Kain - and the athlete’s boyfriend, Sorrell Howard. 

***

Ten Years Later

Schools liked to think they had state-of-the-art security systems, that they knew how to protect their students. Their methods relied on observant security guards and people following protocol. Walk into a school in nice clothes and a confident air, and no one bothered you. If anyone wished to harm the students of Westmont High School, they could have done so easily. As it was, a tall man in a very tight black suit, who entered the front doors and beelined for the art room, had no issues with the current students. He smiled a little as he came to the double doors leading to the art department. He paused, then opened the door and stepped inside.

School was almost out for the day. Students were eagerly watching the clock, slowly packing away their notebooks and water bottles as the second and minute hands ticked closer and closer to freedom. You would not know that from the abandoned room the man now stood in. 

For most of the day, it was filled with students, some excited to take a break from their note-taking and monotonous classes, while others were bored, wanting nothing more than to pull out their homework or play on their phones until the next bell. For the final class, however, it was dead - the man smiled a bit at that as he wandered around, his hand grazing the tables and chairs - with the only sound being the leaky faucet. The school had claimed that the lack of a final period was out of respect for the life lost ten years ago, but the students had seen through that. Anyone could see through it. The death took place before school hours, and the student in question had the class for his third period, not his sixth. Students just didn’t want to be in a room where the tragedy took place, especially one deemed haunted by their artistic peers.

The man stood in the center of the room, staring at the artwork on the walls. All of it was terribly done. But who was he to critique? Someone’s mother probably wanted to hang the acrylic work on her walls and brag to her book club about her talented young child.

He suppressed a smile and cleared his throat. “Theodore,” he called, “may I speak with you?” Silence. He waited a couple minutes before continuing. “I heard you have, ah, a great reputation with the - what’s the word? - gay students of the school; they see you as their -.”

“It’s 2018. LGBTQ or queer are both acceptable terms.”

The man held back a smile as he turned toward the door. A young black man - a teenager - had entered. He was large - taller than the man - with broad shoulders and a square jaw. He was handsome. He would have been even more handsome, magazine-worthy had the right side of his face not been blackened and charred beyond recognition. The teenager cocked his head and stared at the man, waiting for him.

The man stepped forward, stretching out his hand. “Catullus Kettlewell,” he said. The teenager cocked an eyebrow. He grinned. “Theodore Jendrock, correct?”

The teenager nodded.. He stared at Catullus for a moment. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you! I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.”

Theo tried to hide it, but Catullus could see the way his eyes lit up, his back straightened. “Really?”

“Of course! The halls buzz with excitement - with rumors surrounding you, the beloved football player who met his fate here.” He stood up straight, grinning up at Theo, “Many of the - LGBTQ, you said? - see you as their hero, as the crusader who defends them from, ah, homophobic peers.”

Theo shrugged, his ears and neck warming. Catullus grinned. “I was thrilled to hear you were still such a charming - a good person in the afterlife. And the way Sorrell talks about you -.” Theo snapped up to look at him, his eyes wide, mouth opening slightly. 

He swallowed and blinked, trying to remain calm. “Sorrell?”

“Yes, Sorrell Howard. A local artist now. Started an organization in your name. The Theodore Jendrock Institute. They help underprivileged LGBTQ youth.”

Theo smiled, a full smile. The charred side of his face lifted, looking painful. “That sounds like something he would do.”

“Indeed.” They stood there for a moment. Catullus kept his hands in his pockets, stroking his fingers over a box. “From all the articles written about him, he hasn’t stopped thinking about you.”

Theo looked at Catullus, though his gaze was foggy. He was likely thinking back to the two of them in high school, planning their future. It didn’t look how they pictured it, but at least Sorrell was doing well. Catullus smiled in return. “It will destroy him once rumors reach him you are no longer defending the youth here.”

It took him a moment to register what Catullus had said, so caught up in his own memories. By the time he realized he wasn’t here to talk about his beloved boyfriend, it was too late. The box had been thrown and Theo was gone. Catullus smiled and picked it up, looking it over before putting it back in his pocket. He turned and left the art room, pausing only to look at a memorial plaque next to the door. He smiled and left, the final bell ringing. 

2001 13 GHOSTS VS. 2018 13 GHOSTS

Black Zodiac: A young man with a bright future who dies with injuries to the right side of his body.

2001 GHOST’S STORY

Royce Clayton was a high school star baseball player with an ego. He accepted a drag race challenge against his friend, Johnny, who cut the brake line to Royce’s car. The car crashed and Royce’s died from the ensuing fire, burning much of the right side of his body. 

2018/19 GHOST’S STORY

Theo Jendrock was a beloved high school athlete struggling with anxiety. His biggest/current hold-up was his art class, which he believed would prevent him from becoming valedictorian and achieving perfection. When he tried to fix his statue, he had an anxiety attack and was comforted by his boyfriend. As it seemed he might overcome his attack, a kiln exploded; he twisted himself to protect his boyfriend, burning most of the right side of his body. 

Leo, the Lion: The next sign is Leo, the lion. The statue that caused the explosion killing Theo was a lion. Theo’s act of selflessness could also be seen as him being “lion-hearted.”

I’m back!! The third installment in the 13 part Thirteen Ghosts rewrite. I’ll be on this more - updating the story monthly and posting book reviews. Promise!

Trigger Warnings: graphic depiction of violence.

Word Count: 6,110

October 18, 2004

It was cold, far colder than southern California had any right to be. Merle glanced out the window of Fallyn’s apartment, tightly wrapped in a thick blanket, and clutching a warm cup of matcha. She watched the sky - a pale, almost translucent blue - for a moment before turning her attention back to the television. The film was frozen, paused at some absurd time. Of course when it started to get interesting, Fallyn had to run to the bathroom. Merle shifted in her cocoon and gazed absentmindedly at the room - the overwhelming collection of movies,  medical books stacked haphazardly on a small, stuffed bookcase amongst fake plants and action figures, and a big blue armchair diagonally from her, plush with far too many pillows and blankets. She had been excited to come over, to watch the movie. Now she was tired, a sleepy sort of drunk from the high of watching the highly anticipated film.

The bathroom door opened, and Fallyn came out, drying her hands. She smiled at Merle and adjusted her sweatshirt. Merle rolled her eyes.

“Ready?”

Merle responded by staring at the television. Her sister laughed quietly.

“It’s not like I was in there a long time.”

“I know.” Merle rubbed her arms.

Fallyn raised an eyebrow. “Are you cold?”

Merle looked at her. Eyebrow still raised, Fallyn walked over to the armchair and grabbed a green blanket, putting it over her sister’s shoulders. “See,” she said, “if you were smart, you’d remember to dress warmer.”

“I am smart.”

“Not enough to remember you’re always cold.”

Merle grumbled and tightened the second blanket around herself. Fallyn laughed. She made her way into the small kitchen off to the side of the living room, and began rummaging around for popcorn. Merle watched her, eyes glazing over as she thought about her own movements, how she had made lunch while her sister started the first movie in their marathon. It was eery how similar they are; how they were almost identical in action as well as their face. Dark hair, thick eyebrows, high cheekbones, tan skin, and a prominent nose from their father’s side. She should have worn her hair different, worn something other than her sweatshirt and jeans. It’s not that she didn’t love or like Fallyn; more that she felt like a copy, a duplicate Fallyn. Most agreed, thinking if Fallyn liked sports, so did Merle; if her favorite color was pink, so was Merle’s; if Fallyn thought blondes were cute, so did Merle. They were not seen as compliments or even equals, but mirror images of one another.

“Okay, out of everything we’ve seen so far - what was your favorite?”

Merle blinked. Fallyn was leaning over the counter, head cocked. The popcorn slowly spun in the microwave, occasionally popping.

“What was yours?”

Fallyn snorted. “You don’t have one?”

Merle shrugged. She didn’t have favorites, Fallyn knew that. She had a top twenty that was never consistent and nothing was ordered; one and twenty held the same significance.

“I like the second movie - the Japanese one. ‘Jo-on.’ Something like that,” Fallyn answered.

“‘Ju-on’?”

“Yeah.” The microwaved let out two long beeps. Fallyn turned, pulled out the popcorn - cursing as she jerked her hand back - and flung it into a bowl. She carefully opened it, flinching as her hand touched the hot bag.

“What did you like about it?”

“It was...different.” Fallyn tossed the bag into the sink. “I don’t know a lot about Japanese stories, so it was kinda cool to see that. Their ghosts are different than ours.”

“I think they’re called ghouls.”

“That’s so cool.” Fallyn walked over, and flopped onto the couch, popcorn bouncing out of the bowl. “It’s terrifying though, isn’t it?”

“What is? The ghouls?”

“No - I mean, yeah, the ghouls, but the whole premise of it.” Merle glanced at her. Fallyn looked thoughtful as she shoved a handful of popcorn into her mouth. She offered the bowl to Merle; she took a couple pieces. Her mouth still full she continued, “one person’s cruelty leads to a cycle of vengeance that spreads out - it’s like...a virus or something. You know those, uh, graphics that show the spread of something?”

“Viruses spread?”

“Yeah, but I mean -?”

“Like disaster zones from ground zero?”

“Yes!”

Merle nodded, thinking. “It’s a bunch of bull, though.” Fallyn frowned. She turned fully and stared at Merle. “I mean, I have no doubt the ghouls are real -” Fallyn snorted “-not the ones in the movie! I mean the concept! Like Dracula isn’t real, but that doesn’t mean vampires aren’t. I was talking about the cycle of vengeance thing. It’s not real. It’s crap.”

“Like Dracula?”

“Yeah.” She knew her sister was laughing at her. It didn’t matter. “The saying is ‘an eye for an eye.’ That’s where it ends. Someone hurts you, then you hurt them back. Everything’s done. Over with. Finished.”

“The saying is ‘an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind,” Fallyn corrected. “And I think that’s a Western thing, not Japanese.”

“Still,” Merle argued, “I don’t think ghosts or ghouls or even living people go around sucking others into their misfortune. I think they take their revenge, and then -” she makes a gesture, like waving something off.

Fallyn shrugged, picking up the remote to play the film. “You think what you want, Mer,” she said. “It’s still scary as shit to me.”

***

January 27, 2006

This isn’t what she would have wanted. Too much black, too...what’s the word? Started with an M...mel...Maleficent? No, melancholy. Maleficent was - she wallowed. She had been her third favorite Disney villain, though she could have been her tenth or second. Merle was odd like that. Had been. Was. She would be pissed about all this.

A small smile crossed Fallyn’s face. It felt unnatural, as though she hadn’t spent the last twenty years of her life laughing and smiling and enjoying life. If anyone had torn their gaze away from the casket and saw her face - if they could have bared it - they would have thought she looked like a grotesque clown, a sick grin painted on her face. That would have made Merle laugh. She hated - had hated - these things. Funerals were boring. “Take me to New Orleans,” she had once proclaimed. They had been thirteen at the time. “I wanna be buried above ground, in one of those fancy coffins, with catnip surrounding my grave. People will remember me as Bast -”

“Sekhmet!” Fallyn had chimed in, cackling.

“Bast and Sekhmet! The cat queen!” Merle had looked at Fallyn, her eyes twinkling. “Promise me, Lyn. No sadness - fun music, lacy umbrellas, and cats. No black, only rainbows.”

Fallyn had continued laughing, though it had started to feel forced. “We - we shouldn’t be saying this!”

“Why not? I wanna look down and think - that’s a party!”

They had laughed, laughed so hard they clutched each other, gripping their stomachs. Fallyn’s hands started to shake and she held onto her bag. She swallowed, a dull roaring in her ears like being under water. No, she would not cry. Merle hadn’t wanted tears at thirteen; she most certainly would not have tears at twenty.

August 13, 2015

The car ride was quiet, only the sounds of AC/DC crackling through the radio filled the space as the car rolled into the parking lot. It looked more like it was on its way to a funeral rather than a birthday adventure. Fallyn scowled, then softened her expression. ‘Birthday adventure.’ What a weird phrase.

It hadn’t been her idea to come here. She enjoyed spelunking, cave diving, skydiving - really, anything to do with climbing and pulleys and harnesses, but today...today she didn’t want to do anything. She had voiced her plans to Ashley Harding, another nurse at the hospice facility she worked at. Stay-in, watch a movie or two, drink a few gallons of hot chocolate - she wasn’t a drinker in the alcoholic sense, never had been - then go to bed. Ashley had scoffed before announcing she would take her spelunking, her treat. “You can’t just sit around - you’re thirty! That’s a milestone!” What milestone, Fallyn wasn’t so sure. She was sure that getting a job with your friend from college was a stupid choice.

She should have said no, told Ash that she didn’t want to do anything. But she had relented. It had been eleven years. She could go out for one birthday.

Ashley paid the parking fee from the driver’s seat, then drove onward, slowly through the parking lot. She eventually found a spot and proudly announced they were here. The radio turned off with the car engine. The sudden silence woke Lauren Willard - a mutual friend from college and Ashley’s current roommate - with a loud snort.

“We’re here?” she slurred.

“Yup!” Ash punctuated the ‘P’ with a definitive pop. She unlocked the doors, hopped out and stretched. Everyone else followed suit. Fallyn looked around.

The parking lot was nothing interesting. It was relatively small, gravelly and gray, but it was secured. A tiny ticket booth at the entrance with a sign displaying the prices for admission. Another much larger sign stood opposite from the booth, across the lot, marking the entrance to the forest, the park they would soon go into. Fallyn couldn’t make it out, but she imagined it boasted about the park’s history and stated a few rules, like no dogs and to keep to the trails.

Outside the little lot, it was lovely. She took a deep breath. Fresh and clean, the way cold water tastes on a hot, dry day. The surrounding trees were brightly green in the last stages of summer. Everything seemed patient, as though waiting for something - for them? It was eerie, though whether that was the early morning mist coasting along the ground of the park itself, Fallyn wasn’t so sure.

Ash popped open the trunk and they grabbed their gear.

“Beautiful, right?” Elysiah baker asked. She had slept the entire ride over - like Lauren - and the sleep seemed to have done her good. Here eyes were sparkling, and the bags under them - dark and heavy when they picked her up - had faded into something a little worn, but not torn, like an over-washed shirt compared to a ripped up, paint-splattered one.

Fallyn smiled and picked up her bag. It felt a little forced, but no one commented on it. Elysiah nudged her. “Let’s go celebrate your big day, huh?”

“Yeah,” Fallyn said, as Ash locked the car. The four of them made their way to the park entrance, Lauren stretching and yawning all the while. “Let’s.”

November 2, 2004

He had no name until he met Merle. Until Merle was found. Up until then, he could have been anyone. He was no one. From a spec, barely noticeable in the history of humankind to the boogeyman people warned their children about. From a little nobody to Michael Myers. A dream come true.

His face was unremarkable, hair unexciting, clothes simple. The perfect monster. Fallyn stared at his image on her parent’s TV, transfixed. Her mother had gone upstairs, unable to watch the news. She didn’t want to see his face, didn’t want to know his name. She just wanted him gone, punished. Her father stayed, sitting in his armchair, jaw clenched. Fallyn probably looked like him: thick eyebrows furrowed, thin lips twisted in anger and disgust, dark eyes piercing those blues as though they could see each other through the screen.

The newscaster was speaking. “Rhett Woodward Hewitt was arrested today for the murder of Merle Allison Crane. Crane, the daughter of first generation Dutch-French immigrants, was nineteen years old when she had been approached by Hewitt at the clothing store she worked at.” They played the surveillance tape as they had for the last week. Out of the corner of her eye, Fallyn say her father turn his face, pushing his fist up towards his mouth. His dark eyes glistened. She didn’t look away - she wouldn’t. She watched as a black and white image of Merle waved Rhett Woodward Hewitt off. The footage was blurry, but there was no mistaking her, from her new bob to her favorite bag with the Disney villain keychains. Fallyn focused in on Rhett Woodward Hewitt - unextraordinary then as he was now.

“Police believe Hewitt followed Crane’s car, ramming his vehicle into hers until she swerved off the road.” Highway cameras - dull and blurry - showed the black truck following the little gray Honda. The newscaster cut between several cameras showing their commute - Merle must have been terrified - before returning to Rhett Woodward Hewitt’s image. They had no video of the accident. He had been clever - ramming her car off the road when they were off the highway and onto the dirt road that led towards the house. A pang hit Fallyn. A dull roaring sounded in her ears and she swallowed, closed her eyes, and then forced herself to look. “Hewitt killed Merle and attempted to hide her body by burying her vertical in the ground. Her family - father, fifty-one year old Robert Crane, mother, fifty-seven year old Febe, and Merle’s twin sister Fallyn - reported her missing that night. Police found her body three days later, two miles outside her family home.” Another pang, sharper this time. She had been so close, so close to home. Just a minute or two longer and she…

Fallyn swallowed again. Her father had turned back towards the TV, his hand still covering his mouth. The screen changed back to a video of Rhett Woodward Hewitt being led inside the jail. The newscaster continued for a minute more, mentioning his age - thirty-five - his employment - self-employed - and how long he had lived in California - since he was nineteen. Fallyn watched him, unassuming in everything. He glanced at the cameras around him, a small smile playing at his lips. Her lips curled in disgust. The roaring grew louder, thundering in her ears, as the newscaster announced the date of the trial.

AUGUST 13, 2015

They reached the entrance of the cave. It had taken ten minutes of walking - not that she had minded. There was something soothing, relieving about the forest. The smell, the sound of dirt and rocks crunching under her boots - it was calming. Fallyn’s shoulders softened, her strides quickening, and her frown slowly falling before twisting up into some dreamlike smile.

The cave was large and supposedly very deep. The dark reds and browns of the cave seemed to invite her in, asking her to see them, explore them. It opened itself to her and the others. She ran her hand along the mossy rocks outside of the cave. Beautiful.

“Holy shit, this is nice,” Elysiah exclaimed. She stood near Fallyn, hands on her hips, grinning. Lauren, a few feet behind them, looked the cave entrance up and down before turning to a sweaty Ashley.

“You’ve done this one, right?”

“Would I take you somewhere I haven’t gone?”

There was silence, only interrupted by the crunching of their boots and birds chirping. Ashley grinned wider. “Okay - maybe I would, but not today! Today is about Lyn - and not scaring Lauren.”

“I’m not scared,” she said quietly. She didn’t seem to be talking to anyone in particular. Elysiah put her arm around her shoulders.

“It’ll be fun,” she said. She looked at the other two and gestured. “Well...lead the way.”

JANUARY 5, 2005

There was no way, no way this could be their defense. Fallyn sat between her mother and father, staring at Rhett Woodward Hewitt’s lawyer - James Scott, a man who smirked whenever the press referred to him as the Devil’s Advocate. The room was in a strained silence, hanging onto Scott’s words, thinking about what he had just claimed. It was ridiculous.

Scott fought back a smirk, and continued. “What is your relationship with Roswell?”

Rhett Woodward Hewitt shrugged. It was offensive how plain he was. Fallyn would

never have noticed him - no one would have had he not...Even his suit was unremarkable; black and baggy, it left everything to the imagination. He was a stark contrast to the brilliantly and rather obnoxiously dressed James Scott in his dark green bespoke suit and bright tie. That shouldn’t be allowed - in court or anywhere; most lawyers wore something basic, black or navy, to keep the case on their clients and their arguments. Not James Scott. Not the Devil’s Advocate.

“We don’t talk much,” Rhett Woodward Hewitt continued. Scott nodded solemnly.

“And why is that?”

“He’s...to tell you the truth, he’s a little odd.”

“In what way?”

“Ros...he’s always been attracted to the violence of things. Like breaking animals.

Hurting them, making them cry. Liked horror movies too - always got a little giddy at the gross bits.”

“And you didn’t?”

Rhett Woodward Hewitt swallowed and looked down at his lap. What a wonderful actor. “No,” he said quietly. “I...it scared me. I liked the...the frights...but never...never the gore.”

James Scott turned to the jury, eyebrows upturned into some mockery of sympathy.

“The prosecution claims that my client, Mr. Rhett Woodward Hewitt, killed Merle

Crane. The only evidence they had been able to procure has been a murky video at the store and on the highway. There were no prints at the scene - no DNA on Miss Crane’s person. The knife, as you know,” he gave a small smile to the jury, as though sharing a joke with them, “was discovered five miles from the body, blood matching that of Miss Crane, and fingerprints alleging my client as the killer. I propose that it was not in fact Mr. Rhett Woodward Hewitt who killed her, but his twin brother, Roswell Winthrop Hewitt.”

There was a murmur in the courtroom. Fallyn snorted and glared. There was no way anyone would believe this. Maybe the video evidence, but the physical? It was Rhett Woodward Hewitt’s fingerprints on the knife, his truck that followed her. The lawyer said Roswell had an alibi; Rhett did not. This little twist belongs on a TV show, not in real life. She glared at Rhett Woodward Hewitt His eyes remained fixed in his lap, brows furrowed sadly. The corner of his mouth turned upward, just slightly.

AUGUST 13, 2018

The climb was quiet. Not oppressive or dense, just...quiet. Water dripped off rocks and splashed onto the small pools they walked through. It was musky, like old, wet dirt and bat guano. The walls were slimy and rough; Lauren had been convinced she had run her hand through guano and had begged Elysiah for her gloves. Their boots splashed and crunched and skid through the water and across the rocks.

Ashley led the group, pausing every few minutes to double check her map. Elysiah was

behind her, followed by Fallyn, and lastly, Lauren. Fallyn had suggested Lauren go in the middle, but she had refused, finding comfort in being behind the others; the way she said it was like she was conquering her own fear, as though she was afraid of something grabbing her and could only be safe from the back of the line.

A couple of tight squeezes, and Ash announced they would soon need to break out their rope gear. “It’s not too far,” she explained calmly. Lauren looked petrified, like she didn’t realize what the rope they brought would be used for. “The rope just gives us a little extra...stability to get down.”

Lauren looked uncertain. Fallyn put her hand on her shoulder, careful of a patch of gunk

on her jacket. “I’ll go first,” she said quietly. “It’ll be better once you see me - see us doing it.”

She nodded though she did not look convinced. Fallyn gave her a smile and followed after Ashley and Elysiah, hearing the splash of Lauren behind her.

To be honest, she wasn’t entirely sure why Lauren had come. She was scared of almost everything - no, that wasn’t true. She was scared of anything that could be dangerous, labeled adventurous. To Lauren, ‘adventurous’ was a code word for ‘stupid actions that lead to one’s death.’ Merle thought like that.

Fallyn blinked, scrunching up her nose. No. She would not think about her. Not right now. She tried to focus on the walls - swirling mixture of burnt orange, red, brown, and yellow. Like a sunset trapped underground. Fallyn ran her hand along the wall, cataloging its texture under her glove. She stared for a moment, the contrast between her black glove and the wall, illuminated by her headlamp, drawing her back into her own mind, before she glanced back at Lauren, and pressed onward.

FEBRUARY 2, 2005

“Rhett Woodward Hewitt has been released from prison. Hewitt was arrested in January for the murder of nineteen year old Merle Crane of Los Angeles, California. His lawyer, James Scott, stunned the court on January fifth, claiming that the police had apprehended the wrong man. In a twist fit for TV, police took DNA samples from both Hewitt and his twin brother, Roswell Winthrop Hewitt, and confirmed they had indeed put the wrong man on trial. While Roswell Hewitt is now facing charges, Rhett Hewitt is suing the state for damages, with James Scott once again as his lawyer.”

OCTOBER 25, 2005

She shouldn’t be here. Fallyn sat in the park, facing the playground. Her eyes were glazed over, vacant, not really seeing the children running around while their parents watched. A book was opened in her lap, but she hadn’t turned the page in over ten minutes. She had the distant feeling that parents were looking at her oddly, but she didn’t pay attention. She shouldn’t be here.

His house was almost a mile away from the park. That’s why she had stopped here. One last stop before - before what? What exactly was she going to do?

Her chest felt tight and she swallowed. It had seemed simple. It was simple. So why was she still here?

Fallyn tapped her hand against her knee for a moment. She bit her lip. Her eyes seemed to harden as she sat up a little straighter before picking up her bag and book, and leaving the park.

AUGUST 13, 2015

Ashley attached the rope around her waist. With a smile to the other three women, she carefully scaled down the side of the cave. It wasn’t too far down - maybe twenty-five feet at the most. However, it was better for them to be cautious than...well, than dead.

She reached the next level of the cave floor, her boots skidding on the damp rocks. She quickly regained her balance and grinned up at them.

“See,” she said, “it’s not hard.”

Ash unhooked herself from the ropes. Elysiah pulled them up and set about hooking herself into them. They had agreed to climb down in the order they had been walking: Ashley, Elysiah, Fallyn, then Lauren. The other three were used to this; the order was more for Lauren’s benefit.

Elysiah tugged on the ropes, double checking their tightness, and prepared to climb down. Lauren watched her, eyes wide.

Fallyn looked at the ropes secured into the rock at her feet. It was strong. And yet...an eerie feeling started to seep into her bones. She felt like someone was watching them.

She looked around, careful to seem interested in the damp walls so not to frighten Lauren. Fallyn peered back the way they came, but could see nothing. No one was there besides them, or rather, no one was this far into the cave as they were.

She frowned. They hadn’t strayed off the path. She squinted, turning up the brightness on her headlamp. It cast the rocks into shadow, sharp and dark. It looked more menacing this way, all sharp angels and dramatic lighting. She stared. Nothing came out of the shadows, from behind the rocks. There was the faint sound of water dripping.

Fallyn rubbed her hand along the rock - a sort of stabilizer - and took a breath. Bat guano and damp earth melted on her tongue. She grimaced, but took another breath. She had just started calming down when this unease hit, like the universe was reminding her that she was once again spending her birthday without Merle. Like it was punishing her for daring to move on.

There was a thump, and she turned back around, dimming her headlamp. Elysiah had reached the bottom. She unhooked herself and allowed Lauren to pull the ropes up with shaking fingers. The two women on the next level pulled out their water bottles and took a drag.

Fallyn gently took the rope from Lauren, and slipped it into the hook around her waist.

“You’ll be fine,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure who she was telling this to. Lauren nodded, her eyes transfixed on to Fallyn’s belt. Fallyn turned the headlamp back onto full blast, keeping her head tilted down as she adjusted her belt.. She was slow, methodical, aware of how her fingers blocked the lights and Lauren’s sight.

With one last knot, she finished. She gave a small smile to Lauren and turned to scale down the cave. Her stomach flipped. She glanced over her shoulder. Nothing. Lauren made a sound, and Fallyn quickly turned back to her.

“It’s fine. Watch.”

She turned fully and - a shadow flashed across the cave. Fallyn’s eyes widened, but she was already partially off the edge, the toes of her boots the only thing still on the cliff. She fell back, her mouth open, no sound coming forth.

With a gasp, Fallyn grabbed onto the rope, suspending herself. She looked up. Lauren stared down at her, eyes frantic. Below her, Elysiah and Ashley were on their feet, staring up at her.

“I’m fine,” she called out. Fallyn swallowed and looked back up at Lauren. She gave what she hoped was an assuring smile and, adjusting her grip on the rope, begin the descend.

Something flashed in her peripheral vision. She would not look. It was a bat. They were all over.

Fallyn sniffed. Her eyebrows furrowed. She sniffed again. There was something musky - not like dirt or animal droppings, but man-made. The kind of smell that companies packages and sold to men as desirable. She inhaled and looked to her right, then left. She looked up at a Lauren, and then back down.

The smell got stronger. Her hands started to slip.

“Fallyn?” Lauren. Fallyn blinked, her friend’s voice doing little to ease her.

She looked up and there he was. Unassuming, unremarkable. A face in the crowd. Fallyn’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth. He said nothing. He didn’t move. He just stared. Her hands slipped.

Falling, falling, falling. A sharp tug at her waist. She was screaming - there was screaming. Hysterical, vibrating off the walls. She skid - but she wasn’t on the ground. Her feet dangled, kicking. He was there - how was he there? No ropes around his waist, nothing to keep him at Fallyn’s height. He wrapped the rope around her neck and pulled taut, up towards Lauren.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe.

He said nothing. His mouth curled and he leaned in. She could smell him: it was in his clothes, on his skin, cloying against the scent of fresh blood, bright and copper.

“An eye for an eye,” he whispered, his voice dull, oddly feminine.

She gasped and pulled at her neck. The others were frantic, she could feel it. He was stronger. She looked at him, her eyes wet and bloodshot. He smiled.

“An eye for an eye. An eye for an eye.”

The world faded. Fallyn fell limp.

“An eye for an eye.”

AUGUST 13, 2015

It had taken for too long for her body to be retrieved. Police and firefighters and paramedics spent a full forty-five minutes trying to figure out how they were going to take her body out of the cave. They finally decided the other two - Lauren, with the forceful encouragement of her friends, had left to call 911 and was outside the cave, wringing her hands and hyperventilating - would have to drag her back. Several were concerned about the mental wellbeing of the other two women, but could not offer a better solution.

Two hours later, all four women were out of the cave.

Elysiah Baker, Ashley Harding, and Lauren Willard were taken to their car. Each was wrapped in a shock blanket. Ashley was numb, her eyes staring at nothing, almost resigned to what she had witnessed.

Fallyn was quickly assessed by paramedics before being placed in a black bag. The sight of her being zipped up was too much for Elysiah, and she screamed, wailing as fresh tears fell down her cheeks.

AUGUST 13, 2018

She watched them from some distance, not quite hiding, but not out in the open either. She stood between the trees, watching as their car pulled into the gravel parking lot. They have done this for the last three years. Same time. Same place. She had been shocked the first time, but now it was simply customary. She felt no emotion, nothing at all, as the doors opened.

They had changed in the last few years. The first year, they had been easily recognizable. Now...there was something off. It was like meeting someone you hadn’t seen in a long time: they may have the same smile or laugh, but their hair was different, their eyes a little sadder. Ashley’s blonde hair was longer, twisted in a low braid; she hadn’t worn her hair in a high ponytail since that day, almost as though she blamed the hair. More likely, she associated the look with Fallyn and couldn’t handle it. Elysiah looked tired, her hair haphazardly tied in a headscarf, shadows under her eyes prominent, her face heavily lined. Both her and Lauren’s stomach’s were rounded; Lauren’s was much more pronounced. She was the only one who looked the same, as though they had never left the park.

They walked almost arm in arm to a small white cross next to a large tree. It had been placed there just a few days after her death. They stood in silence. Lauren bent down with some help from the other two and placed a small bouquet at the cross’s base. They did this every year.

“Beautiful.”

She didn’t turn around. Lauren carefully sunk to her knees, rubbing her stomach. She was saying something, her eyes down, lips turned up slightly.

“They care about you.”

Fallyn glanced to her side. A tall man in a black suit leaned against an oak. His eyes were dark like skull sockets, his hair completely gray. His mustache mouth was quirked slightly. Her gaze lingered on his suit before she turned back to the others. All three were kneeling now.

There was a shuffle. She didn’t move as he came closer, his hands in his pockets. He stood next to her, side-by-side, gazing at the scene before them.

“You’re rather odd,” he said after a moment.

Her mouth turned up. “How so?”

“I have met hundreds of ghosts.” Lauren had started crying. Tears dripped down her cheeks, smearing her makeup. The others did not look far behind her. “All of them have different ways they...they met their end. You...you are the first to have been killed by a ghost.”

Fallyn’s smile widened. “I was killed by a ghost?”

“You don’t believe so?”

“Why would I?”

The man was silent. Elysiah had leaned forward and rested her head on the tree above the cross. Her mouth was moving, but Fallyn wasn’t sure any sound was coming out.

“There...was a mention - a statement later retracted by Mrs. Endling - Lauren Ending. She, ah, claimed when you died....you were saying something over and over. A man’s name.”

Fallyn laughed. There was no humor in it. “I was strangled. How could she hear me?”

He shrugged. “Maybe that’s was retracted.” There was more silence. Fallyn wished he would go away. She didn’t have time for him. A humorless smile crossed her face. She had time for everything; she just didn’t care about him. “Rhett Woodward Hewitt...do you remember him?”

She said nothing. Her smile was gone. They had started to stand up, a little wobbly, and Lauren gripped Ashley and Elysiah’s arms. She rightened herself, and they began to make their way back to the car.

“He remembered you.”

“He didn’t kill me.”

“No,” the man agreed, surprising Fallyn. “But he killed your sister.”

Fallyn swallowed. She had thought it would go away, the pain she felt whenever Merle was brought up. It was stronger. She had the suspicion that’s what kept her here: the utter devastation of losing her twin sister. Maybe her father and mother would also remain.

The man shifted back onto the balls of his feet then onto his tiptoes. His left hand moved to his jacket pocket. “And you killed him.”

If she were alive, her skin would have paled and she would have gone cold. Dead, her eyes widened slightly, lips parted, and she stiffened.

The man coughed. “Rhett Woodward Hewitt was found dead in his home at the age of thirty-six. His front door was unlocked and there was nothing taken.” He sounded like he was reading from an article. Fallyn turned to look at him. He smiled, his eyes gleaming. “He was discovered by police after neighbors complained of a smell. It is believed he died on October 25, 2005…” The man tilted his head. “Hewitt had a history of heart problems...coroners believe his cause of death was a heart attack. He is survived by his identical twin brother, Roswell Winthrop Hewitt, who is currently serving time for the murder of Merle Crane.”

Fallyn stared at him. He continued to smile. She swallowed. “Who are you?”

His grin widened. “Carver Egleton...I am a journalist -”

“A journalist who talks to ghosts?”

“We all have hobbies. And...maybe if more journalists spoke to ghosts we would get, ah, answers.” Fallyn pursed her lips. “Mr. Woodward Hewitt killed your sister and then you killed him...and he came back -”

“He didn’t.”

“You want to believe that,” Carver said. “You want to believe it, because that’s what Merle believed, isn’t it? An eye for an eye and then it’s finished. One person takes revenge on another, and the cycle is over, complete.” Fallyn clenched her fists. She was shaking. “But...that’s not how it works. You know it. ‘An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.’”

“I fell. It was an accident.”

“You made it look like an accident...He returned the favor.”

The shaking intensified. She ran her hands up and down her arms, looking around her. The warm sunlight through the trees felt wrong, like she was being mocked. Fallyn looked back at Carver.

“What do you want?”

He said nothing. She could feel herself getting frantic. Images kept flashing. The cave. Cold and damp. Hanging - choking. Crawling through a small window into a dark basement. Climbing the stairs. Climbing through the cave. A boring man sleeping. Tightening the rope around her waist. A careful shot under his fingernail. Eyes wide, mouth open. Eyes bulging. Deep and dark eyes - then his, blue and vibrant. Gasping, clutching at his chest.

Fallyn stumbled back, her hand clutching her head. She was breathing heavily. Carver stepped towards her.

“You were careful,” he said. His eyes seemed to bore into hers. “You took minute amounts from the hospital over the course of several months. You replayed his testimony, listening for his schedule. You wore gloves and used a needle from your mother - she’s diabetic, correct? One perfect strike under his nail and his heart...it just couldn’t take it.”

“What do you want?” she repeated. Her hand clawed at her chest. She couldn’t breathe.

Carver tilted her head.

“I often wondered…” he began, and Fallyn let out a sob of frustration. She buried her face in her hands and something smacked her on the side of the head. She barely had a chance to look at it - a small black box - before she was gone.

Carver slowly walked over and picked it up. He looked at the box for a moment, then placed it in his pocket. He left, pausing at her cross before making his way across the gravel parking lot and into his car.

He finished his thought aloud, as though she could still hear him, “I often wondered whether or not revenge does end...I guess it doesn’t matter, though. Not when anyone who can do anything is dead.”

2001 13 GHOSTS VS 2018 13 GHOSTS

The Bound Woman: a woman who was tied up upon death (either as a cause or post-mortem) OR a woman who sealed her own fate.

Susan LeGrow was a high school student who liked to play with boy’s emotions. Her games ended up costing her life (as some would put it). Her boyfriend, enraged by her flirting with another, killed the other boy and then strangled her.

Fallyn Crane watched as her sister’s murderer was allowed to walk, and so took justice into her own hands. She died on her birthday in either a spelunking incident gone wrong or the vengeful ghost of her sister’s murderer tying the ropes around her neck.

Both Susan and Fallyn died of strangulation; both sealed their fates. Susan’s story is more of victim blaming - by flirting, she caused her death/provided her boyfriend with a motive - while Fallyn’s is more ambiguous; we are not sure if she actually saw the ghost, it was an accident, or if it was something akin to “Final Destination.”

WARNING: SPOILERS GALORE!!

Trigger Warnings for Book: menstruation, child abuse, using religion as an excuse for said abuse, slurs towards women, racial slurs, spousal rape (both explicit and implied), dubious consent (see spousal rape), graphic animal violence, graphic human violence, mild slut-shaming (in the form of religious childhood abuse), bullying, death, and murder. 

Rating: 3/5

Where to be careful: 

    - Menstruation is explicit in the first couple chapters, then trails off throughout the book; it comes back at the end but nothing is explicit.

    - Child abuse is clearly seen whenever Carrie is at home and in a few of the book excerpts. There is a few flashback scenes - the more explicit being told from Margaret White’s perspective is towards the end during the fire. Religion as an excuse for this abuse is also throughout the novel.

    - Slurs are sprinkled throughout. Ones against women are said in chapters focused on Margaret White. She is the main person who uses slut-shaming. Racial slurs are more often said in chapters with Billy as the lead. There is one phrase mentioned in the description of one of the people at the Prom in the section about the prom.

    - The first instance of spousal rape occurs at the end, when Margaret is recounting her experience to Carrie. It is not explicit. There is mention of this in earlier chapters, through a book excerpt that focuses on Margaret and her relationship with her mother.  It is also not explicit, and is implied.

    - The second instance of spousal rape is much more explicit. It could be considered dubious consent. It is also towards the end between Chris and Billy at or near the barn. This is after Carrie has killed her mother.

    - The pig is killed in the chapter focused on the angry farmer; Billy and his gang are the central characters to this chapter.

    - The most explicit example of bullying is in the beginning in the showers. After, there is an echo of it, but it is not explicit.

My Review: I enjoy Stephen King - let me make that clear. I like his strange idioms only he can come up with, the premises, and the character examination. Truthfully, I think he is at his best when he writes short stories, novellas, or shorter novels. Compared to It, this was fantastic. Not as good as The Shining, but pretty good. I liked how the book was interspersed with book excerpts, trial notes, and newspaper clippings - I especially like how some of these contradict. What I took an issue with is the...I’m gonna call it rape scene. Some may call it dubious consent, but what it boiled down to was one character would not take no for an answer. And I think this little scene is emblematic with a problem I have with King: his depiction of women. Now, I don’t want this to be misunderstood: I do not think King is inherently a bad man, merely that he is coming from a place where he cannot really understand. The story focusing on menstruation is not a problem; it is the use of assault and rape as an afterthought. The story is not focused on their recovery - in the three books I have read, the rape victims have been relatively minor characters (Chris Hargensen) and major characters (Beverly Marsh) - but on something else. In this case, the story focused on Carrie and her relationships. There were detours, but nothing really deep into the other characters. With It, Beverly’s recovery seemed to start and end with her leaving her husband. I will admit Chris died soon after the event, and thus had no chance to really recover. But it still left me uncomfortable; not in the spooky way, or in a way that has me questioning our world. I think it boils down to the use of something real, something horrifying that happens in the lives of so many, and not going further into it; Chris did not need to be assaulted - it doesn’t further the story or add to her character. (It also doesn’t detract from her character, either). I am not sure why the scene was added anyway, as we the reader know that Billy and Chris are in an abusive relationship - that they are using each other, and that Billy has sexual power over the independent Chris. 

I think, overall, this is a good book. I like the way it was told, although it took me a while to get into it; I wish the telepathy/telekinesis and Black Prom wasn’t so scattered throughout the text, and that there was a little anticipation; I’m not sure it would have made it better if the bit about Tommy dying was not revealed until his actual death, but it might have. 

Trigger Warnings: depiction of mental illness (schizophrenia), racism, swearing, graphic depiction of death & dead body/graphic depiction of violence, attempted suicide (not carried out), & slurs.

Word Count: 8,676

Quick Note: I am not a black man no am I schizophrenic. This story has not been read by a sensitivity reader, and therefor may contain inaccuracies. If I offended - if anything is off, please let me know. I want to learn. I am trying to figure out how to use - how to find sensitivity readers. 

There are a few rules city pedestrians can agree upon. Do not look like a tourist; avoid taking out maps, looking lost, and taking pictures of famous locations. Be vigilant: keep your bag in front of you or your hand on your bag, watch where you’re going and who you are with. Don’t make eye contact with the homeless.

“How you doin’, man? Need help or somethin’?”

The last one was a bit harder to follow when one ran into the large, gap-tooth grinned Bernard Torrance - Torry to his friends - Wright.

A young man looked up from where he had been fidgeting with the parking meter. He had to crane his neck up to look Torry in the eye. He blinked, more than a little thrown off by the man’s cheerful demeanor. “N-no,” he mumbled, looking back down again. He hit the parking meter with a closed fist, hoping it would finally just take his quarter and let him go.

“Hate to bother you, man, but, uh, that’s a bitch right there.” Torry took a step forward and raised his fist. The smaller man violently flinched. He didn’t look at him as he brought his fist down with a loud thunk! onto the side of the old green parking meter. It made a strange noise like it was starting up, and then spit out his ticket. Torry ripped the ticket off and handed it to the man, who gazed at it in shock and awe, like he was handed Willy Wonka’s golden ticket.

“Th-thank you,” he stuttered.

Torry shrugged. “No problem. Dis meter not always workin’, but nobody come out to fix it. I try to tell ‘em, but most just tell me to fuck off, ya know? Ain’t nobody want to listen to some homeless dude.” He patted the man on the back, seeming to snap him out of whatever awe-inspired state he was in. He quickly smiled and ran off to his car. Torry grinned after him, nodded to something off to the side, before turning and heading down the street to the library.

***

Torry stood outside the library, grinning up at it. He loved it here, loved it since he was a kid. He made a point of coming here once a day, every day, just to look around at everything. Maybe check out a book or two. It was a lot harder when he had a job. Guess that’s one of the benefits of not having a place to work - you can do what you want, when you want. Usually. He still made a point to go home every night - a homeless man with a home, heh, funny - go to his sister’s house, have a meal, take his meds, a shower, and sleep. He was lucky to have her. Hated relying on her and her husband, but lucky all the same. Torry fixed his green beanie more tightly onto his head. Now if only he had enough sense, some focus, to apply - fill out job applications. His grin widened a little. It wasn’t focus he needed; he needed someone just to hire him, warts and all. Torry laughed a little, startling a small woman walking into the library. He flashed her his toothy grin, which she shakily returned. He put his hands into his baggy jean pockets, sighed - an action which pushed his large chest out, raised his shoulders, lifted him onto the balls of his feet before settling back down, relaxed. He continued to stare, a little dreamily at the building, just as he did every day.

The library was a beautiful building. It might not have been the most glamourous, but there was no denying that the architect put a lot of thought into the design. It’s basic shape was a cube - no point in fixing what ain’t broke, that’s what his mama always said - held together with brick, mortar, and a little granite. There were thirteen steps to the top, thirteen regular sized, smaller steps, and one large one, a landing. Can’t have thirteen of anything, that’s bad luck. Very bad luck, mama. The architect was smart enough to add that landing, but not smart enough to add a ramp - that had to come later, some fifty or so years after the building had first been constructed. They had tried to match the aesthetic of the stairs, but it looked too new. They should have roughed it up a bit before opening it up to everyone.

The building had two levels available to the public and one that was strictly offices. Windows - big and clear despite that number of hands that touched them - looked out onto the streets below. The doors were large - big enough for giants to walk through, small giants, though. Torry liked to think giants were over ten feet. Twenty feet was scarier than ten. Imagine Jack looking up at a twenty foot tall giant versus a ten footer. Scared shitless no matter what, but the hand on the twenty footer would be way more intimidating, all encompassing, deadly. Fee fi fo fum.

The only unique thing about this building were the statues, the little busts, that lined the steps. The architect had decided to add a bust on either side of the staircase, each representing a famous author and their corresponding genre. Thirteen steps plus a landing made for twenty-eight busts plus one large one in the entryway of the architect himself, some old white guy named Bartholomew Winterhouse. Well, his bust wasn’t white - it was copper or some other red material. He just looked white. And that name, pretty damn white sounding. Torry thought he once read a book about Mr. Winterhouse, but he couldn’t remember. If he had it was before the accident, and he couldn’t remember much before the accident.

Torry climbed the steps to the library, slowly, methodically. He greeted each bust with a “Hey, how you doin’, man, good to see you. No bird shit on ya, I see!” and “Ma’am, you look lovely today, yes, lookin’ good. Fine little golden statue you are.” The busts made no reply. In the back of his mind, he knew it was strange, greeting inanimate objects, just as he knew whenever he did so, he received odd looks from passerbys. He didn’t care. God would judge him. No one here had the ability to do so.

He reached the top of the steps and pushed passed the doors. They were open, wide open, like the arms of a friend. He smiled at the female security officer - Dana Blechman, nice lady - who returned his smile. Still good with the ladies. Always good.  Torry walked up to the information booth, just inside the doors. He didn’t need anything; he practically lived at this library - hell, they should hire him he was here so often, knew so much about the place. That would help him. He once asked about it, if there were any openings. The woman behind the counter - she had been a cute thing, reminded him of his niece, Sharkeisha - no, that was his cousin - niece’s name started with an A...Alayah? No. Allyson? Shit, he’d remember it eventually. Yeah, the cute woman behind the counter, she had told him unfortunately the library only hires those with a MA in library sciences. He had laughed and asked her what kind of a degree that was. He had started talking about book nerds in lab coats, reading Shakespeare and pouring chemicals into vials, someone shouting that this concoction would prove that Poe was writing some racist shit in that orangutan story. The lady librarian had laughed at that. He liked her. Kara, her name was. Why did that name come easier to him than his own goddamn niece? Ariel? Alexis? Fuck, what white girl name did his sister give that girl?

He liked Kara and all of them at the library because they were cool. That’s how he would say it. An academic or one of those Freud doctors - psychologists? Psychiatrists? - would probably have phrased it as “Mr. Wright was ostracized as a semi-homeless man, stereotyped to be unclean, insane, and grossly uneducated. The library offered him a safe space off the streets, a place where his idle brain and hands could find some use,  while the librarians looked passed his old clothes and slight smell and saw the intellectual that he was, a well-read man in an unfortunate circumstance.” Maybe a little duller; scientists had a tendency to not use language to their advantage, choosing form over function in their writings.

Torry approached the booth and quickly scanned the line of people behind the desk. Kara was here today, all right. So was...Jimmy Gambino, Gracelle, and...he squinted at the end of the line. Someone new. He didn’t recognize that shock of blue - turquoise - hair or those ugly-ass white framed glasses. He needed to introduce himself. Proper.

He waited in line. There weren’t too many people there. Most who came to the library knew what they wanted and didn’t bother with the information booth. Torry smiled at those walking by; they often returned the smiles or stopped to say hi before going left - science fiction and fantasy - right - children and young adult - or upstairs - everything under the sun. A couple small kids - looked to be about three and five - ran up to him. Their mama followed a couple feet behind, bags under her eyes, and hair up in a haphazard bun. Her stomach and chest were swollen.

Torry crouched down and grinned. “How you doin’, there?” he asked the three year old.

The kid didn’t answer, instead yammering about their morning, getting dressed, eating breakfast, coming here. A whole lot of nothing. Torry kept grinning, nodding along with the kid. A couple of “ah yeah,” and “I know that,” and the kid was grinning along with him. Kids liked that. It didn’t matter if you had any clue what they were saying, as long as you pretended, they were on cloud freaking nine. His niece and nephew were a lot like that. Especially his nephew, always talking up a storm. Mitchell? No, no? What was his daddy’s name? Mishawn? No - that’s way off. Michael! Yeah, Michael. Sweet kid, like this little guy here.

He looked at the older kid - two boys, mama must have her hands full - and said, “What are you here for, man? Spider-man or somethin’?”

The bigger boy kept his eyes down, shaking his head. Shy little guy, huh. Torry kept his distance - shy people liked their space - and tried again. “Nah, you wouldn’t like him. You don’t look like the Spidey type, though - ya know, Spidey’s black now!” The kid glanced up, eyes wide. “Yeah, Miles Something. Some M sounded name. Not good with names, here. But yeah, he’s a black kid. Might wanna check him out. My nephew - his name’s Michael. Michael Alexander Templeton Junior - MJ - he likes the spider-kid. But you -” Torry looked the kid up and down, pursing his lips for a second before breaking into a megawatt smile - “you like that magic shit - shoot, crap, right?” The kid finally looked up, into Torry’s face. Jackpot. “Harry Potter, that kid’s more your style, yeah?” He nodded, cautious and unsure. “Now I never read no Harry Potter, but my sister’s kids love him. And I seem them movies, great stuff, great stuff. Books probably better.” He nodded again, a little more sure. “You know, my shit - crap, don’t you start swearing, no copying me - my favorite was uh...Tol...Tolkien. That guy with the hobbits and shi - stuff. I liked that. Tolkien and Beagle and, uh, Christ what was his name...Pullman and Pratchett. Ya read their stuff?” The kid shook his head. His eyes were wide, absorbing everything Torry said. Their mom stood behind him, a hand on her enormous belly, rubbing gently. She looked cautious but had a strained sense of calm around her, like she was trying to appear relaxed around this big guy talking to her young boys. Torry couldn’t blame her. “You should, you should. Hobbit, and uh, Last Unicorn by Beagle, and...Discworld by Pratchett. They the best. Go and check them out and let me know what you think.” The boy nodded, his little brother nodding along with him, and they took off.

Torry laughed. He smiled at the mom and stood up. The line had all but disappeared. He watched the mom follow after her boys in the children’s section. They should find all those books there, if not...he might have to talk. Actually…

He approached the last person at the information booth. Blue hair. It was pretty. They were pretty. Pale skin, no zits or anything, a little soft looking, like a chubby Bambi, cute little deer with round cheeks and bright eyes. Torry grinned and leaned on the counter.

“Are you here?” he asked.

Blue Hair looked a little confused. Torry leaned in - not too close, don’t wanna appear like a creep - and read the name tag. Charlotte. Pretty name.

“Miss Bronte - that what your mama and daddy have in mind? Or was they thinking about E.B. White?”

Charlotte blinked, stunned. “Uh, no, no. It’s my grandmother’s name.” Her voice was soft, light. “She passed shortly before I was born. I uh, never really thought about it, but yeah, Charlotte Bronte and, uh Charlotte’s Web. Usually I, uh, get one or the other. Can I help you with anything today, sir?”

‘Sir.’ He liked that. Not in a weird way. He had been calling people sir and ma’am his entire life; felt nice to have it turned on him. Being treated with respect. “Well, I got a couple things. First, is you really here?”

“Yes?”

“Gonna sound rude here, Miss Bronte, but the question makes me suspicious.”

“I don’t know, uh, what you mean by that question.”

Torry laughed a little. Course she wouldn’t understand. Well, he shouldn’t judge. Man don’t judge - that’s God’s job. His sister understood to an extent, but she didn’t really understand. Sympathy versus empathy. Something like that. “Sometimes I see people that I saw passing by on the street,” he explained. “I see some guy with a pretty red bird and suddenly I’m seeing him all over - the diner, this here library, the train tracks. And he ain’t really there. Everybody around me say so.”

“Oh. Oh, no I’m, uh, I’m here. Just started today.”

“Well, alright, good.” He turned behind him. No one was in line behind him. And Eamon wasn’t there either. Good. Just once today, after he helped that nervous kid at the meter. Once is good. More than that...not so good. And he was having a good day. “Gonna be a good day,” he mumbled, more to himself.

“Is there anything else I can help you with…?”

He turned his famous gap-toothed grin on her. “Bernard Torrance Wright Junior. Everyone calls me Torry.”

“Torry,” she said, lips quirking a little. “Parents name you after, uh, Jack and Danny Torrance from The Shining?”

He laughed, loud and deep. Man, she was funny. Like his sister and niece - they were quick. “Nah, but you’d think that, wouldn’t you? No offence. That was smart. Nah, it’s my daddy’s name - don’t know where Torrance came from except his mama. Funny thing is my sister’s name, her name’s Susannah.”

“Like Susannah Dean?”

“Yes and no. Coincidence. Funny, though, right?”

“Very funny.” She was smiling. Torry looked again behind him. Still no one.

“Her middle name...my mama’s name was Cairo, like the city in Egypt.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and, uh, she liked to say - my mama liked to say that she was descended from the queens, the pharaohs you know? I think if my daddy woulda let her, she woulda named me Osiris or some shit. ‘Scuse me, crap. He let her do what she wanted with Susannah, though, so mama named her Seshat.”

“I can’t remember that one.”

“Iss okay. Seshat was uh, a librarian and scribe. Focused her talents mostly on accounting, math, history, and astronomy. Think that’s why my sister is a - a teacher.”

“Makes sense.”

“She got two kids, my sister. Her and her husband. He also a teacher, a math one, I think. Her kids...she got a boy named Michael Alexander Templeton Junior - common to name your boys after their daddy - and a girl...shoot, can’t remember her name.”

“That’s all right. Is there anything book-related I can help you with?”

He jerked his head. Shit, maybe he wasn’t gonna have such a good day. Jerking was never a good sign. Did he take his meds?  Torry looked down at his hands. They were shaking. No, no, he took them. Susannah always made sure he did - she was good to him. Why was he shaking, jerking? He clenched them into fists and put them in his pockets. He looked around. More people were in the library, but there was no line behind him. Jimmy was helping a kind-looking old lady, but that was about it. Torry held down another jerk, and looked back at Charlotte.

“Yeah, sorry. Get distracted easily. Uh, just wanted to make sure you got some books in the children’s section and not the fantasy.”

“Which ones?” She sat up a little straighter, looking eager to please, and typed something into her computer.

“I shoulda checked, but I don’t go into the children’s section that much.”

“That’s okay.”

“Uh, The Hobbit, Last Unicorn by uh, Peter S. Beagle -” she was typing into her computer, eyes focused completely on the screen - “Discworld by Pratchett - can’t remember his first name - and uh, Golden Compass by Mr. Philip Pullman.” He waited a second. “Last one might also be under Northern Lights - they changed the name in America for some reason. Maybe they think we don’t know about the lights.”

“They do that a lot,” Charlotte said. “At least often enough. Harry Potter is The Sorcerer’s Stone here but The Philosopher’s Stone everywhere else. Publishers were afraid Americans wouldn’t understand the book was about magic, so they changed the title.”

“Thinkin’ we idiots when we beat their butts in the war.”

Charlotte grinned at him. “Right? Looks like we have all of those in -”

“Excuse me.”

A man appeared next to Torry. He squinted at the man - no, he was a white dude. Nothing like Eamon. Shorter than Torry - most men were, mama used to say Torry was built like a damn bull, he was so huge - with a crop of gelled over dark blonde hair. He looked professional, in a nice pair of navy trousers, white collared shirt, and a beige cardigan. Looked like he was a librarian, though Torry couldn’t recognize him. He squinted harder. Shit, was this another faker?

Charlotte looked between the man and Torry. “I’m sorry, sir. I was helping him -”

“I need your help.”

Charlotte looked down the information booth, slowly. Torry followed her gaze. Kara, Jimmy, and Gracelle were all at their spots, smiling at the incommers. No one was in front of them. “I’m sure one of my colleagues would be able to help you, Mr.”

Torry snorted. He shouldn’t have, but it was funny. The man gave him a dirty look, before turning back to Charlotte.

She ignored him and turned her body a little more firmly towards Torry. “Sorry, uh. All those books are in the children’s section, except for, well, most of Discworld. We have a few copies of The Shepherd's Crown checked out -”

“I have a meeting in Room 192,” the man looked pissed. Not as pissed as Charlotte, who quickly tired to school her face into a kind expression, but still pretty pissed. Middle aged, white woman about to ask for the manager pissed. “I need to know where Room 192 is.”

“Sir, we have maps right over there by my colleague, Jimmy. Jim - can you -”

“I don’t want a map. I want you to tell me.”

Torry scowled down at him. He knew he was no faker - even in his fucked-up mind Torry couldn’t come up with a dickhead like this guy. He shook his head. Susannah told him he shouldn’t say that. He wasn’t fucked-up. He had a condition. Million had it, she had told him.  When mama died, Susannah took over everything - including Torry. She insisted - hell, begged him to get help, and he accepted it. Anything for her. He felt better too. The fakers disappeared - mostly, Eamon still popped up, but the doctors - she even got him doctors, Susannah, she really was good to him - said it might be something else. Maybe he had PTSD or something. He had laughed because that’s what he needed, two things wrong with him. Everything had gone well until he forgot to take his meds, and then it was like a snowball. An avalanche. Susannah and Michael Senior opened their home - he was lucky, so lucky. Michael offered to help get him a job, but Torry declined. He was stubborn, too much like their mama and daddy to accept that. He could take help from his little sister, but...not when it came to a job. That he had to get on his own. He just had to.

He snorted and the man glared at him. “What?” he asked angrily.

Torry shouldn’t have said anything. He should have shaken his head and let Charlotte deal with the dickhead. But he was his parent’s child, silly as that sounded. And just like Bernard Torrance Wright Senior and Ciaro Norman Wright, he did not have a filter when it came to assholes.

“You’re just being a dick, man. You need to wait your turn. Plenty a people will help ya. Kara, Jimmy, and, uh, Gracie. They’re just sittin’ there. You wanna pick a fight, kick the black guy outta line.”

“Are you calling me a racist?” The man looked like he was gonna start foaming at the mouth. Jesus. Torry looked around at the library. People stopped and were staring. Some had taken out their phones and were recording this. Everybody gets interested when a white person looks to be fighting with a black one, especially when that “R” word gets thrown about.

“I didn’t say nothing about that.” Torry said. “I just said you wanna pick a fight, otherwise you woulda gone to someone else, not Miss Bronte over here.”

“Why did you bring race into it? I’m not racist!”

Torry snorted. The man’s eyes started bugging out of his head. A faint snicker coursed through their growing audience. Dana Blechman slowly made her way into the room, hand going towards her walkie-talkie. He laughed a little. Shit.

“Sure you ain’t, man. Sorry I offended. Look, I’ll just step aside -”

“Do you know who I am?”

Ah fuck. Why couldn’t this white dude drop shit? Torry raised his eyebrows. The man pushed up on his tiptoes - any other time that would have been funny, had he not been on the receiving end - and got into Torry’s face. He looked deranged, eyes wide, a sneer curling his mouth.

“I am Ryan Pollick, the youngest lawyer to ever make it to Richmond and Kaymuk’s Law Firm - the youngest lawyer in the city, hell, the state! I have friends in high places, pal, black friends too. You need to show some respect!”

Torry looked down at him. Pollick was breathing heavily. Torry nodded once, then turned to Charlotte. “The Wee Free Men is in stock? Color of Magic,too?”

Charlotte’s mouth opened. She shut it quickly then looked at her screen. “N-no,” she said. “Wee Free Men is in stock in the children’s section - we have about two copies, but The Color of Magic is - well, it’s in stock, but it’s in the fantasy section. We only have -”

“Tiffany Aching in the children’s section,” Torry finished. Charlotte nodded. Torry smiled at her. “Thank you, Miss Bronte.” He turned back to Pollick. The man had sunk back to his feet, but looked no less ferocious. Like a chihuahua in a purse. Torry pointed up the stairs. “Room 192 is up the stairs. Landing you can see splits off into two sections - you’ll wanna take the one on the left and stay left. Those take you to conferences and offices. Even numbers on left, odd on right. There a couple breaks, but keep goin;’ those are just bathrooms and closets. Have a nice day, Bollock.”

Torry waved goodbye to the information booth and started to walk out. The room rumbled quietly as people started to discuss what they just witnessed. Torry raised his hand to Blechman, who nodded, looking relieved.

He hopped down the steps, now going down the right side, quietly saying hi to each of the statues before turning down the street.

***

Torrance ended up spending most of the day in the park, reading an old copy of Wyrd Sisters. He had read it before - hell, he had read all of Pratchett’s books at least a dozen times - and the pages were falling out. Might have to ask Susannah to a new copy. All his books were starting to look like they belonged in the trash.

He held the book in his hand, tracing over the cartoonish depictions of Pratchett’s characters. He hoped that boy checked him out. It was a good series. Good themes and shit.

Torry cracked his neck, and tossed his bag over his shoulder. He began making his way to the train tracks.

***

The sun had gone down when he had finished Wyrd Sisters. He smiled to himself and put the book back into his backpack. He didn’t usually finish things. TV shows, food, books; getting ready was like revving up an old car - a lot of stop and go. It was part of his condition. Least that’s what Susannah said.

He sat back on the grassy space next to the tracks. It was his favorite spot next to the library. Besides the library. The tracks were nowhere near the library. He had always liked trains, more so as a kid. They felt like the start of something. What? Anything. They could - would if you had paid the price - take you anywhere, take you away from everything. After Eamon...Torry shook his head. Before Eamon. Before.

He never was good with time. Past time. Backwards clocks. They were difficult to remember. Moving forwards - when the library opened, when his sister and brother-in-law went to work, when the kids went to school - those times were clear as day. A good day with lots of sun and shine.

It had to be before the accident, though. He was always like this, always a little off. He saw things that weren’t there, heard things no one else could. They were never malignant - no, that’s a tumor. What’s the word? Malicious. That’s it, malicious - they were never malicious, so he had never thought they were a problem. Until mama and daddy found out. Then it was a problem. He was too old for them to pass it off as imaginary friends - since when is too old too old for imaginary friends? Who decides this shit? - and that’s when it became an issue. That’s when he knew he was fu - messed up. He had a condition.

It wasn’t given a name until after - was it after? Yeah, it was after. Ambulance had taken him to the hospital to check and see if he had a concussion. No concussion. A few broken ribs, a broken nose, and a mind that had been broken forever. Didn’t know why. Well, knew why his body was broken, but not his mind. Nobody knows that.

He remembered the doctors - not the ones that fixed his body, other ones. Ones that asked him lots of questions about things he’s seen and heard. The doctors told his parents and Susannah. Why had she been there? Cause of Eamon. Eamon was gone. And then, shit, then he said those bad things. “E didn’t fit so God took him out. Shoulda named him John Coffrey or Ben Hanscom. Christian names. Names that fit us. He wouldn’t have died if he had the right name.” Mama broke down and cried. Daddy didn’t know what to say, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. Susannah just looked sad. When the doctors told them - “we think your son had schizophrenia” - they hadn’t said a thing. They had looked relieved. There was a word for it.

And what a word. Torry shifted in the grass and stared over the tracks. Schizophrenia. Starts with a snake noise. Hisss. Then a sharp C, like cookie. Piercing like thoughts and images, like Eamon broken and bloody, flying out the car windshield.. A soft I, sounding kinda like when you don’t know how to reply. “Eh.” But with an I. “Phren” like saying “friends,” which is funny ‘cause when you have the diagnosis of schizophrenia, ain’t no one wanna be your friend; you just have your sister, if that. Susannah’s a good friend, good sister. She don’t think so but she is; she just got a stubborn older brother, that’s it. Then - where was he? - ah. A soft sound to round the whole thing out. It was pretty. A pretty word for something he couldn’t explain.

Torry looked at his backpack. Maybe...maybe he’ll go home tonight.  Go to Susannah and Michael’s home. Have dinner. Sleep. Take a shower. Oh, nice long shower. Nothing out of the ordinary. Take his meds. Ask Susannah if he took them this morning. Then...and yeah, maybe he’ll take Michael up on that offer. Get that janitorial job. Then...then move out and be a man again. Susannah would still insist on paying for his meds and doctor visits - making sure he took everything. That would be okay. So long as he was taking in his own, wasn’t crowding their space.

He looked up at the hill across the tracks and the bridge above. There was some graffiti up there. How did anyone get up there? They got stilts or something? Stand on top of the train and spray a design before it goes? Gotta be Flash to do that shit. God...God would be there. Maybe that’s what this morning was all about. God telling him to go ask Michael. That’s what mama would say. God is reaching out to you, boy. That’s what she’d say.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Torry turned. Some guy was stumbling towards him. Looked drunk, his shirt pulled out of his trousers, cardigan askew. Ass-cue. Funny. Torry took a deep breath. Smelled drunk too. Nasty beer. Nothing fancy, just...nasty. He looked familiar. Wrong, though. Like deja vu, but you know something’s wrong. Torry squinted. The man came closer. Ah, shit.

“You, fuck, you got me fired you, shit fuck!”

Torry started to stand up. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything to that white guy. What was his name? Bollocks? Weird name.

“Look, man, I didn’t do nothing. Sorry you looked bad -”

“I did nothing wrong! You can’t even - you don’t - I needed to know where to go, and you made a scene!” There was spittle coming out of Bollock’s mouth. A bit landed on Torry’s cheek. Nasty. Nasty beer leads to spit and nasty attitude. Torry didn’t wipe it off. Might piss off Bolly; anything can piss off a drunk, and a pissed off drunk is worse than an angry drunk.

He backed up. No one’s coming. He could cross the hill and start to Susannah’s house. He turned his back, and made his way down his hill. Jack and Jill.

“I’m fucking talking to you!”

He ignored him. Something shattered - beer bottle - next to him. He started walking faster.

“Hey! Hey, shit fuck, come back here!”

What kind of a name is shit fuck? Your name is Bollocks. You have no room to call anyone a shit fuck, whatever that was. Can’t even come up with good nicknames, why are you scared? Torry - he wasn’t scared of him hurting him. Being hurt. He didn’t want conflict. Not alone, not with a drunk.

Heavy footsteps behind him. Torry thought he should turn back and say something. What? No. No that wouldn’t do anything. Don’t need the cops called. Don’t need to be hurt. Does he have a gun? A weapon? Doesn’t matter. Drunks will do anything, use anything. There was another noise getting louder, rumbling. Rumble. Rumble. Like a lion. Purring. Lions don’t purr, though. Rocks, pebbles, really, chattered at his feet. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit -

“Fuck! I said -”

Torry turned around. What a sight! Two bugged-eyed men, mouths wide. One short, semi-polished white guy, looking like a vase someone knocked off a shelf. The other a big black dude in mixed-matched clothes, alternative style. Mirrors. Carnival mirrors.

“Man, we gotta go somewhere else. Train’s coming!”

“You think I give a fuck about the train?”

“You will when it kill you. Come on, let’s go!”

He shouldn’t have said that. Drunks don’t like to be told what to do. Not angry drunks. The man’s eyes got wide and he stomped over to Torry. He tried to side step him, but the guy got in his space. “Don’t. You. Fucking. Tell. Me. What. To. Do. You. Shit. Fucking. Ni -.” Each word punctuated with a shovel or a jab in the chest. Noises getting louder, so louder. Harder to hear the white guy, though he knew what he said. The word on so many white guy’s tongues, in the back of their throats. A word ready to spill over, be thrown out like a boomerang; but they don’t want that to come back. They want it to be like one of those shitty boomerangs on TV. They fly and hit something, and don’t ever come back. But they do. Maybe not a minute later, maybe only a little later, maybe years - but it comes back and strikes them on the back of the head. And they cry asking what happened. Cause they forgot. But he didn’t. Black folks don’t. You remember. You remember.

What Torry remembered suddenly, as he was pushed into the tracks, as the train sounded, loud and violent, no longer like a lion, but something man made, piercing and sudden, no preamble, was her name. Annaleise. A searing pain. Bright light. Loud. Annaleise was louder, though. Annaleise Anut Templeton. The warrior.

***

The police, ambulance, and fire arrived half an hour later. They had received a frantic call from the condoctor about a man falling in front of his train. “I couldn’t stop”, the conductor had said, his voice hoarse from crying. They had assured him it wasn’t his fault.

It was gross - there was no other word for it. The body lay in two pieces. A big man, maybe seven feet tall when pieced together. The conductor had said he fell into the tracks and stumbled backward, tried to get his footing to jump off. He didn’t make it. The man had turned enough to where his torso was off the tracks - and that’s where it hit him. His lower half still lay on the tracks, a bloody mess. The clothes mashed with the meat and bone. Blood was everywhere.

The torso wasn’t clean, just...cleaner. Blood and entrails fell around the torso. Some still connected it to the pile that had been his lower half. His backpack was open slightly, torn book pages flying around him and those at the scene. Some pages framed his head and upper back, like a warped halo.

The worst part was his face. Bulging eyes and mouth, opened wide at the horror. As though he knew the train was coming. As though he wasn’t supposed to be there.

***

2 Years Later.

Pete Sampson stood at the edge of the railroad tracks. He swallowed and checked his watch. Five minutes. He straightened his back and rocked on the balls of his feet. It would be quick. It was quick for that one guy - Benjamin or whatever his name was. Guy made the news for how graphic it was. Pete swallowed again. Best to focus on the quickness rather than...the aftermath.

“Whatcha doin’ here, man?”

Pete turned his head. A young black man stood just a few feet away from him. He hadn’t heard him come up. Pete looked him up and down, taking in his Stanford hoodie, army jacket, and ripped jeans. Dude didn’t look like he belonged here; clothes were too nice, too clean. He shrugged in response.

The man came closer. He kept his space, a couple feet to Pete’s left, and mirrored him - hands in his jean pockets, arms pressed to his sides, shoulders hunched, and facing the tracks. Pete watched him out of the corner of his eye before glancing at his watch. Four minutes.

“Always liked it here,” the man said. He was still looking at the tracks. Or maybe the little hill across from them. “It was away from everyone without being away, you know? And...I could think about leavin’.”

Pete said nothing. He swallowed again, his throat dry and eyes suddenly itchy. He rubbed at them, tears collecting and sliding down his worn cheeks. Damn cold weather.

“Your mama loves you.”

“What?”

Pete looked at the man. The guy’s eyes were on him, large eyebrows furrowed in concern. Why did he care? He didn’t know him.

“Your mama,” the man repeated, “she loves you. She’s tired, but she loves you. Mamas are like that. They get tired - workin’, cleanin’, takin’ care of their babies - but they don’t stop lovin’ their kids.”

“She’s got my brother. She’s fine.” Pete had no idea why he was telling him this. He let out a shaky breath and checked his watch. Three minutes and thirty seconds. The pebbles on the tracks started to shake. He took another breath and started forward. Then hesitated. He swayed for a moment.

“Yeah, she does.” The man hadn’t moved, hadn’t reached out to stop him. “She has - what’s his name? Chad? Thad? -”

“Tad.” He didn’t ask how he knew.

The man nodded. “She has Tad but she also has you. Her babies. Probably sees you as a set. Salt and pepper shakers. Corn and - and - shit, I dunno, what goes with corn? Peas?” He shook his head. “Whatever. Your her boys, her boy.” Pete looked up at him. The man reached out and gently, slowly, put his hand on Pete’s shoulder. There was a loud noise to their right. Neither moved. “Go home and talk to her. Give your mama a hug. Betcha she’s sittin’ there in her chair, cryin’ and wonderin’ where her boy is.”

Pete stared for a moment. The pebbles rattled violently below; a loud horn sounded. It vibrated in his bones. He shifted...and nodded. Pete turned away from the tacks and made his way up the hill.

He should have said something. Thank you? He glanced back, wondering what he could possibly say. The man was gone. A small smile curled his mouth and he kept walking up the hill.

***

A lot could happen in two years. Graduation, a new job, new relationship, the ending of a relationship - the possibilities were endless. For Ryan Pollick, the last two years felt endless.

He wasn’t sure what drove him to come back to the train tracks. If he had been smart, he would have stayed away. The cops didn’t trace anything to him. They probably could have if they wanted to. But no one cares about mentally ill guys, regardless of how friendly they seemed. Ryan scowled. Friendly. That was one word.

He pulled up to the hill next to the tracks. Nothing had changed. Little fence was still there, a sorry attempt to keep people away from the tracks. Lot of good that did. Teenagers and homeless fucks alike were hopping over that thing, the teenagers for the thrill, the homeless for...who the fuck cared? The only new thing - Ryan sneered - was a little white cross next to the fence. RIP Torry Wright.

Anger, red, burst in Ryan. Fucking Torry Wright. He shut off the engine and got out. For a moment, he just stared at the sign. Then, he kicked. The cross fell over - it wasn’t very deep in the ground - and he kicked again and again. It didn’t break, but now the pretty white thing was covered in dirt, gross, just like the man it honored.

Ryan snorted and looked down the hill. It was dark, and he couldn’t see much. He had thought about coming here in the day, but the dark feeling had swelled up inside and he decided to wait until night. It was difficult to explain the dark feeling. Many would have attributed it to guilt; he knew his wife, Emily, would have done so. But that wasn’t it. It was...fear. Cold and dark. It pierced his bones and mind, caused his teeth to rattle. The fear of being caught and losing what little he had gained in these last two years.

His sneer deepened, and he climbed over the fence. He walked down the hill, hands in his suit pockets, before stopping a few yards from the pebbles, the tracks.

He remembered everything. How video of him at the library, being talked to like some idiot by that fucker, went viral. How people saw him as some antagonistic racist - him, racist! - messing with some idiot homeless guy. People scouted him out, listened to that audio. If there was one regret he had, it was stating his name and place of work. Those viral videos should have taught him better. SJWs would hunt you down if you so much as looked at a black dude; didn’t need to give them a hand.

Ryan remembered coming into the office after the meeting.  James Richmond and Carrie Dean Kaymuck Richmond themselves had called him into their office. He had been elated, thinking about his Emily and their baby girl. He had been certain he was getting a promotion - he had done so well on the Himmolt case - hell, he had done fucking supreme on every case, every client given to him. Instead, he was met with fury. Cold and hot. Two sides of the same emotion, emitting from the husband and wife owners, as they showed his the viral video. How he had been nicknamed Line-cutting Larry. Carrie Dean’s eyes burned as she told him to pack his things. Ryan had turned to James, and that fucker just stared, eyes cold.

He had done what they asked. He grabbed his shit and went to another law firm. And another. And another. Each and everyone of them denied him, pointing at that goddamn video. He had graduated top of his class at Stanford, and he couldn’t get a job in the city. If it hadn’t been for Stephen Pollick giving his only son a job at his tech company...Ryan didn’t like to think about it. He glared at the tracks.

There was not an ounce of regret in him. Not when he shoved that nigger. Not now. And there would never be regret. He ran his hand through his hair. He had no idea why he came here. To show off? He smirked. Two years and he was finally back where he belonged. It may not have been Richmond and Kaymuck, but it was a firm, nonetheless. He had another girl; three beautiful girls - Emily, Cassia, and Violet. He was still in the backroom, but soon, soon he would be out in front, publically getting people off.

Ryan laughed a little. Raking in the money while that fuck who ruined his life was dead. Smushed. Mashed. He laughed harder.

“What’s so funny?”

Ryan grinned and looked. A tall black man stood off to the side of him. He hadn’t heard him approach. Ryan looked at the lights framing the tracks, then back at the man. He looked familiar; it felt like a senior looking through the freshmen section of the yearbook. Ryan pointed to the man’s hoodie. “What year?” he asked.

The man didn’t respond. He took a step closer, and Ryan’s smile fell. There was something off about him.

“Why you here?” the man asked.

Ryan stared before shrugging, his back straightening and jaw tightening. He shouldn’t have said anything. You don’t make conversation with some dude, let alone a black dude you meet at the tracks.

“Two years.”

It was wrong, off. Something changed. Ryan stiffened, not out of superiority but out of that dark feeling quickly seeping into his body like an oil slick.

The man stared at Ryan, eyes burning brightly. “Two years ago, Bernard Torrance Wright Junior decided to take his brother-in-law up on his offer, get a job. He never even made it home.”

“No, he didn’t.” That wasn’t incriminating. Ryan knew the law. It was just a fact. Wright didn’t make it home.

“He had a family. Sister, brother-in-law, two great nieces and nephews.” The man held up two fingers. “One of each.”

“It was sad.”

“Not to you, you shit fuck.”

The dark feeling started to gnaw at Ryan. Get away - get away. He started to leave, when the man pushed him in the chest. Ryan stumbled backwards. The pebbles were starting to shake. A horn blazed in the distance. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck -

The man stood in front of him.

“Listen,” Ryan started. “I - I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about -”

“Yes you do,” the man said quietly. It was getting harder to hear him. The man straightened. He shimmered. There was no other word for it. His body shimmered and gleamed like some gossamer fabric had been in front of him. His youthful face faded away into something older, worn. A gray and black beard framing deep laugh lines. A dusty green beanie on a graying hair. His legs - oh, Jesus - his legs vanished. At his pelvis was a mass of intestines, hanging out of his body, dripping something, like a leaky faucet.

Ryan looked up in horror. The man’s face was set.

“Oh fuck -”

“Fuck you, you shit fuck!”

The man shoved him and Ryan screamed. The train came, loud, not stopping. The pebbles bounced, jittered. He watched. Ryan was there, and then he wasn’t, caught under the wheels of the train. There was a thump, but nothing else. The horn’s screams continued on, man-made screams muffaling man-made screams. He closed his eyes. A weight lifted itself off his shoulders.

“What do you think happens now?”

Torry opened his eyes. There was a man in a nice black suit. Man in Black. It looked a little too tight on him, too modern. Torry’s body shimmered, but the man held up a hand.

“Don’t change on my account,” he said. Torry froze, his body remaining as it had been when he died.

“You ain’t scared.”

“Not really.” The man came closer. “I’ve been watching you. You’re a good man, Bernard.”

“I don’t know you.” It sounded childish coming from his mouth. The train was still going by.

The man smiled. “Carleton Ruscoe,” he said. “I’m a paranormal investigator.”

“Carlton Bank’s doin’ ‘Ghost Hunters’, now?”

His smile widened. “You know your pop culture references, don’t you?” Torry shrugged. Carleton’s face sombered. “You still didn’t answer my question. What happens now? You’ve fulfilled your purpose of staying here.” He gestured to the train. “Where do you go?”

Carleton wasn’t wearing any paranormal gear. Maybe things had changed. Two years is a long time. Surprisingly longer once you’re dead and don’t have a calendar. They should fix that. Calendars for ghosts. Maybe Steve Jobs can make a phone for ghosts. Dead obviously can’t read Living folks’ calendars or there’d be a lot few hauntings.

Torry watched the train for a moment. “Guess I go up now,” he finally said.

“Go up where?”

Was this man dumb? Torry pulled a face. “Up. Heaven. Chill with my bro Jesus over a cold one.”

“You think He’ll let you up?”

Torry’s eyes widened. He had to let him up, right? He stared at Carleton. “Everybody told me God lets good people into Heaven. Believers get a really special place, but all good people go to Heaven. Like dogs but only some people.”

Carleton nodded. “What makes you a good person?” He pointed to the tracks. The train finally passed by. There was a lump where Ryan had been standing, unidentifiable as anything remotely human. Maybe a microscope or some CSI detectives could see a person, but most would see...gunk. Did he look like that? Torry glanced down at his body. Just his legs. He didn’t remember his legs, but they must have looked like a squashed bug on a windshield.

“I been helpin’ people,” he said. He looked at the other man. The man stared back, his lips quirked. “I’ve been helping.”

“One bad deed overwhelms them all. It’s true that you’ve saved fifty, maybe a hundred lives. But you have also taken a life. Not out of mercy, but out of vengeance.” He paused. Torry’s eyes widened impossibly. No. No. This man - he doesn’t know God. He doesn’t know the Bible. The Bible says - “The fifth commandment: Thou shalt not kill.”

Torry started to rock back and forth, his intestines swinging. His breathing was ragged. “No. No you wrong. Thou shalt not murder. That’s - that’s what it says. Killin’ is takin’ an innocent, but murder is takin’ - takin’ a not-innocent.”

“Do you really think that matters to God?” Carleton took a step closer. “We interpret His commands however we want them, but we don’t really know what He meant...what He means. The church says one thing - He could have very well meant something a little different.” Carleton looked at the tracks. Torry couldn’t look. He couldn’t. He was good. He had been good. Life and death. He had to go up. Why wasn’t he going up? “And, to be quite frank, Bernard...how do you know this man was not innocent? He pushed you, yes, and for that he will suffer. But he was also a devoted father and husband. A loyal son. Attended church every week. God...God would judge him. That’s His role. And you did it for Him.”

He couldn’t. No. No. That’s not what - God judges, He is the Judge. But Torry did the judging. He tried him - he had been the court, the jury, judge, and executer. No defence. God had a defence attorney - He looked at everything, the whole of someone’s life. He was Judge - and Torry...Torry...

Carleton reached into his pocket. “Why do you think you’re still here?”

Torry screamed. He grabbed onto his beanie and pulled. No. No. No. No.

“I’m sorry, Bernard.”

Torry bent over, still screaming. Carleton threw something at him, small and square. It hit him in the head. He couldn’t think. He...he was good. He was...There was a sucking noise and then nothing. Silence.

Carleton strode over to the box and picked it up. He put it in his pocket and, with one last look at Ryan’s remains, walked up the hill.

2001 13 GHOSTS VS 2018 13 GHOSTS

The Torso: a man missing his limbs; could be a result of how he died or a birth defect.

Jimmy “The Gambler” Gambino loved to make bets. He had been making them since he was a child. Unfortunately, his last bet would prove deadly. He gambled against the wrong man, and as a result, he was chopped up, wrapped in cellophane, and thrown into the ocean. He is still looking for his head.

Bernard Torrance “Torry” Wright was a homeless man with schizophrenia. He was loved by many, but not all. One of those men ended up taking his life, pushing Torry in front of a moving train, severing his body in half. Unlike Jimmy, Torry was a relatively benevolent ghost, a gentle giant in life and death.

TW: child death (fairly graphic) & swearing. 

Word Count: 5,955

 The large oak tree glowed in the early summer morning, an eerie yet familiar presence. The sun crawled over the horizon, gently bathing the suburban neighborhood in a golden-pink light, illuminating the tree and catching the morning dew on its bright green leaves. The leaves were brighter in the day; it appeared now like a curtain being lifted, the light on the stage slowly revealing something marvelous. Everything glittered and sung. It was quiet. All the more so for a day like today.

Two small faces watched the sun rise, watched as the light caught the tree and casted a magnificent dark gray shadow across their manicured lawn and the street before it. Their bright eyes, lidded with sleep but burning with bright curiosity watched a bird gently land on the tree, crow, and hop down the branch.

One of the children, eight year old Fern, leaned her forehead against the glass pane, cushioning it with her blonde bangs. She peered down the length of the tree, resting her eyes at its base where, for the past six years, a rabbit family called the twisted roots home. Her brother, Douglas, smushed his round nose against the glass, his breath turning it opaque. He couldn’t quite see over the window ledge, follow his sister’s line of sight, so he settled on gazing at the top of the tree.

He always wondered what it would be like to climb up that high. Douglas unfurled a chubby hand and rested it on the glass as if he could feel the bark under his soft skin. His mama told him he couldn’t climb yet - he was too small. But his sisters were small and they - they could climb to the top. They often did so, squealing with laughter as they climbed higher and higher, disappearing amongst the green leaves and labyrinth of branches. Douglas watched them, giggling along with their shouts of laughter and wondering when he too could climb amongst the birds and the squirrels, climb higher than all four of his sisters.

Douglas turned his face against the cool glass to look at Fern. Her eyes were still fixed on the rabbit hole.

“When do we go?” he quietly asked her.

Fern didn’t say anything. A fat crow landed next to the tree and hopped forward. It cocked its head before plunging headfirst into the soft grass. It jerked up, something slimy clutched in its damp beak. The bird turned and looked up at the children, it’s black eyes staring into their blue and hazel ones, the slimy thing squirming half-heartedly in its beak.

Fern pushed back from the window, disgusted. Douglas watched the bird for minute longer before it flew away, its prize still in its beak. His sister blinked and smoothed her hand down her pink pajamas. She seemed to register that he had said something and whispered, “when they go out.” She glanced around their room. “We need to get dressed. Come on, Dougie.”

She set about pulling clothes from the dresser, something their mama did every morning - at least for the two of them. She had done it for years, picking out her children’s clothing, and would have continued to do so until Lavender vehemently told her that she was well old enough to pick out her own outfits. It was true, so their mama resigned to helping her younger four; until Iris pitched a similar fit three days later. Now it seemed mama decided nine was the cut-off age; so long as Fern and Douglas remained under nine years old, she would choose their clothes for them. Today, however, they had important business that mama couldn’t be a part of.

Douglas rubbed his sleep-flushed face and allowed Fern to dress him in a t-shirt and shorts. She pushed her hair into a ponytail and slipped on a large sweatshirt and green shorts. Douglas yawned and turned towards the window. The tree stared back at him, glowing golden-green now that the sun had completely risen.

There was a soft, creaking throughout the house. Douglas looked back at his sister. Fern stopped and raised her eyes to the ceiling, then left and right. She leaned into her brother and whispered, “I think that’s them. Let’s go.”

She took Douglas’s hand and gently opened their bedroom door. No sound. She glanced down the hallway to their parents’ room before clutching Douglas’s hand tighter and tugging him down the hallway after her. The doors to their sisters’ rooms were ajar.

At the foot of the stairs, Fern stopped and helped Douglas put on his sneakers, before tying her own. Bright green to match her shorts; her favorite color as of late. Douglas looked out the small window on either side of the door. The glass was opaque, blurring the outdoors. He could see the tree though, a dark and welcoming site, looming solid against the golden light of the morning sun. Two smaller shapes ran around the tree, scampering like eager squirrels.

Fern finished tying her shoes and gripped Douglas’s hand before opening the front door as slowly as possible. It creaked open, gently, and the two slipped out.

Their older sisters were standing by the tree, waiting. Lavender dressed in a similar manner to Fern - though it was more like Fern was dressed in a similar manner to Lavender; Lavender had worn the same thing all summer: white shirt, jean shorts, brightly colored socks, white converse covered in sharpie squiggles, and a large hoodie she bought in Disneyland. Her hair was also in a ponytail, high and tight compared to Fern’s. She smiled as Fern and Douglas approached.

“We waited for you,” she announced, as though she deserved a medal for her rare bout of patience.

“Thank you,” Douglas whispered. His sisters ignored him.

“We wanted to make sure you came out first -” Fern began.

“Told you we’d come out when the sun came up.” Iris stood with her hands on her hips. She stared at Fern and Douglas, daring them to challenge her. Neither responded. Lavender and Iris had been clear on their plan; it was Fern’s nerves and cautious nature that led them to be late. While the oldest two girls were loud and rule breakers, Fern was always hesitant to break their parents’ trust, and remained caught in the pull between pleasing her older sisters and being “the good child” out of the five. It was easy to get lost when you were one of four girls.

That was nowhere as true than it was for Poppy, the middle Reiner child at nine years old. Even with her red curls - she was the only one of the children to inherit their mama’s hair - she faded into the mass. She was not the oldest nor the loudest; those titles went to twelve year old Lavender and ten year old Iris. She was not the youngest nor a boy - both things which set Douglas apart from the older four. Like Fern, she was there. Almost an afterthought, another girl, another failed attempt at a son.

Lavender looked up at the tree and grinned. Any patience she claimed to have had evaporated when the youngest two came out the door. She kneeled down and leaped up, like a frog, latching onto a low branch and hoisting herself up. She began climbing earnestly, grin not leaving her face. Iris climbed after her, and soon, Poppy was in the tree, although she moved much slower and cautiously than the others. Fern looked up then back down at Douglas.

“Here.” She grabbed him round the middle and stood on her tiptoes, stretching her arms and little brother out towards the nearest branch. He grabbed it and pulled himself up. Fern quickly followed suit. They continued like this for a while, trailing after the others, slowly, until the were at level with Poppy. Perhaps it was her desire to be set apart, or maybe she was tired of taking care of her brother, but Fern jumped up to the next branch without him.

Douglas looked to Poppy, sitting on the branch nearest him. She seemed to be out of it, staring down the street. Douglas scooted down his branch and followed her line of sight. There didn’t seem to be anything interesting or new. The sun was higher, the shadows from created in dawn almost all gone. Rows and rows of houses with slightly different exteriors on either side of the road; all neutral, all perfectly manicured lawns, all facing a new sidewalk. A modern take on the 1950’s wet dream.

A large black truck shattered the peaceful scape. It wasn’t so much noise as it was out of place; all the cars here were nicely tucked away in their garages. Poppy’s eyes widened and she turned to shout at the girls.

Douglas watched the truck drive closer until it was parallel with their house. The engine turned off, and he could see a silver marking on the side. He wasn’t familiar with cars, but Douglas recognized that one, a truck he had referred to as Toy Ram since he could talk. Their uncle Earl was here.

A burly blonde man jumped out of the driver’s side and slowly walked to the front door. He knocked.

“Shit, I didn’t think he’d be here this early.”

The other girls had climbed down to Douglas and Poppy’s level. Iris glared at their uncle at the door. Fern looked up at Lavender.

“Does this mean we have to get down?”

The front door opened and Rose Reiner appeared. She seemed to have expected him, as she was already dressed in a cotton blue dress and out of the overlarge Juilliard shirt she wore to bed. Mrs. Reiner grinned at Earl and gestured for him to come inside. He grinned back, scrapped his shoes on the welcome mat and followed her in. The door closed with a resounding click.

The five Reiner children looked at one another. “He’ll be in there for a while,” Lavender finally said. “We’re fine. We’ll get down when he comes back out.” She grabbed onto a branch and pulled herself up. The others quickly followed suit.

Douglas looked up. Amongst the branches, he could make out the bottoms of three sets of sneakers - Poppy’s pink vans were nowhere in sight. He looked back out at the street. A part of him wanted to sit and wait, knowing he couldn’t, shouldn’t climb without his sisters. But another part of him…

Douglas looked up again and shakily got to his feet. He held his hands out in front of him and gripped at the trunk. So rough and so big compared to his four year old hands. He ran his hand down it for a moment before shifting his feet and reaching for the nearest branch. Douglas pushed off from the trunk and jumped, hanging onto the branch before carefully pulling himself up. He sat on the branch, a grin overtaking his face. He made it. A giddy bubble rose up inside him. He climbed. Just like Poppy, and Fern, and Iris, and Lavender, he climbed. He looked up at the next branch and, with a bit more speed and assurance than before, climbed up.

It was maybe ten minutes before the front door opened again. Earl came out and made his way over to the Toy Ram. Douglas, now several feet above the ground, watched as he opened the door and pulled out a chainsaw. He leaned forward, gripping the branch to steady himself. He hadn’t seen one of those up close before, and though he was rather high in the air, it was still fascinating for the young child.

Earl walked over to the tree, pulling at a chord connected to the saw. He pulled and it roared - no, grumbled, like an irritated cat. He pulled again and again. Finally, it let out a consistent, low purr. The man adjusted his grip and began to saw through one of the low lying branches the Reiners had used to climb up.

The tree trembled and shook, leaves gently falling down, as though abandoning a sinking ship. Douglas held onto his branch tighter. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t shout out for his sisters; instead he watched, enraptured as the bright silver teeth cut into the bark over and over again, until it fell with a quiet thump. The oak suddenly felt lighter, lopsided, though whether the man really made an impact or Douglas was imagining it, he could not be sure. The man moved onto another branch. As each branch fell, Earl leaned over and picked it up before tossing it into a pile.

“Earl! Earl! Stop - stop now!”

His uncle turned around and Rose Reiner came flying out the front door, her husband not far behind her. Cormac, a blonde man well over six foot five, followed Rose at a much slower pace, like he was approaching a frightened animal.

Rose looked frantic, her red hair frazzled and blue eyes bulging. She pointed up at the tree. “The kids - the kids aren’t in their beds, they - fuck, they’re up there!”

Earl looked up, eyes wide. He pulled the chainsaw chord and the purring came to a halt. Cormac stood beside him and shouted, “What in God’s Hell are you doing up there?”

There was silence. Iris poked her head out of the mess of branches, several feet above Douglas and looked down at their parents. “We...we wanted to climb the tree before you -.”

“Get down.”

Cormac’s voice left no room for arguing. Grumbling, Iris popped back into the tree. Everything shook as she scampered back down. As she jumped from branch to branch, Fern, Poppy, and Lavender followed.

“Shit, Mac, I had no idea -.”

“Why would you?” he asked Earl. “Most kids are smart enough to stay the fuck away from the tree being cut down.”

Iris hopped down and dragged herself over to their parents and Earl.

“Who’s idea was this?” Rose asked. Her eyes were still wide, less wild and burning now with fury. Fern and Lavender landed on the ground. The younger two pursed their lips together, unsure of who they were more frightened of - their parents or their older sister.

Lavender bit her lip and rubbed her hand against her thigh. The action caught mama’s attention. “You?” she asked. “Lavender Mae, I -.”

“Where are the other two?”

The group turned back towards the tree. Douglas turned and followed their trajectory. Poppy had come closer to him, looking hesitant.

“Up here, dad,” she called out. Her eyes were firmly on Douglas; she didn’t seem to blink and Douglas found that he could not look away.

“Why are you still up there? Get down!”

“Dad...Dougie’s up here too.”

The adults had not been expecting that. Why would they assume the four year old was in the tree, let alone ten feet off the ground. They rushed to the oak, crowding around the base. Rose put her hand on her mouth, fear returning into her eyes and her face paling. Cormac and Earl looked lost for words.

Douglas waved, “Hi.” His voice was hoarse and quiet. He kicked his feet a little, unsure of how to take all the eyes on him.

“How…?”

“Did you…?”

“He wanted up!” Iris looked desperate. “He wanted to know what we were talking about, so we told him and then -.”

“-Then he said he wanted to come and climb too, and we thought he would tell -” Lavender explained.

“-I didn’t want to leave him alone, so I gave him a boost, but then Lav and Ris were getting really high, and I wanted to too, so then -.” Fern added, tugging at Rose’s dress.

Rose did not pay her daughter attention. “Get him down, Mac,” she whispered. Her eyes had not left her youngest child. “Get him down.”

Cormac stepped forward, his brother echoing his movement, stretching their large hands towards the tree. Poppy moved closer to her brother, her hand out.

“Dougie,” she whispered. He looked at her. “Dougie, let me help you down -.”

“No!” Cormac shouted over her. His eyes were large and round, scared. Douglas didn’t like that. “Dougie, just jump into daddy’s arms; I’ll catch you.”

Douglas looked at his dad and uncle, their arms out as though they were praying. He looked at his mama standing just to the side of them, hands shaking and eyes bulging. He looked at three of his sisters, who in turn looked back at him with a mixture of awe and fear, finally realizing that taking their baby brother up the tree was not the best idea. He turned to Poppy, her hand still out towards him, her expression oddly calm. Mama and daddy wanted him down, he understood that. What he didn’t understand is why he needed help. The others didn’t, and he didn’t either. He even climbed several branches himself.

Douglas rose onto shaky feet, one hand balancing against the tree truck. He fingered the bark for just a moment and jumped to the left.

Crunching. Warm. Screaming. High screams and frantic shouting. Warm. Warm down his nose and lips. Red. Red dripping.

Douglas reached a hand out and petted the branch in front of him. Oh. It was turning red too, red like…

Someone pulled him off while a door slammed. Screaming. Shouting from Earl. Crying. Something wet on his face - rain. Dropping onto his damp face. Yucky. It was gross.

***

The ambulance came six minutes later. By that point, there was not much they could do. Douglas Cormac Reiner stopped breathing a minute after he jumped and fell into the pile of tree limbs he uncle had taken down. Even if he had survived the jump, he had a broken leg, twisted ankle, and a couple broken ribs. That would have been preferable, no doubt, to the sight of the four year old child knelt over the pile, a branch piercing his skull, blood dripping steadily down his face and onto the debris, his bright hazel eyes quickly dulling. A broken child would have been a million times better than a dead one.

***

48 Years Later

The doorbell rang and Daisy answered. A tall man stood in the doorway. His clothes were dark, unusually so; the tailored suit, collared shirt, tie, and shoes were oddly the same shade of black, but looked like they belonged on a goth twenty-something year old in the early 2000s. He looked to be in his fifties at least, with a gray speckled beard, crow’s feet and laugh lines.

“Hello?” Daisy asked.

“Hello. I’m looking for a Mrs. Reiner-MacCready?”

“Which one?”

“Come again?”

Daisy sighed. She hated this question. It might have been entertaining when she was a child, but now it was just irritating. It was 2018 - why did people seem shocked when she asked them to clarify?

“Which Mrs. Reiner-MacCready? Poppy or Rachel?”

“Ah.” The man raised his eyebrows. His lips quirked. She didn’t like that look, smug. He had no right to look that way when he didn’t even know her mothers shared the same name. “Poppy.”

“She’s in the dining room.”

“May I see her?”

“Who are you?”

He laughed. It was unnerving, quiet, like a joke made at her expense. Daisy didn’t like him. She looked at the door, wondering how much of a dick she would look like if she just shut him out.

“My name...I’m Clyde Bartlett; I work with your mother, Poppy.”

Daisy looked at him. She remembered the name, but couldn’t place where she heard it. On a nametag at the pharmacy her mom worked at? Or over the loudspeaker at Charlie’s Hardware, where her mama ran the register? Hell, it could have been the name of one of the parents at her parent-teacher conferences - with nearly thirty excitable children to keep track of, each with their own complaints and grievances, she had difficulty matching the names of the parents to the child. Faces were easy - names not so much. However, Ryker hired all sorts of weird people at the hardware store, and like Daisy, her mama didn’t have a good memory - mostly. It wouldn’t have surprised Daisy if her mama had invited Clyde over and forgot.

“Okay,” she said finally. She opened the door a little wider, allowing the man - Clyde - to slide passed her. Daisy shut the door and led him down the hall into the dining room.

Poppy’s childhood home looked much the same as it did growing up. Wood floors scuffed with shoes of too many children; heavy, dated furniture lining the walls - everything lined up perfectly with the walls and baseboards. She and her wife had made several minor changes - taking off the garish wallpaper and painting the walls bright gray, exchanging the old oak furniture for vintage maple finds, replacing all the appliances - but it still felt like the home she grew up in. Modern but nostalgic.

The dining room was much the same, functioning as Poppy’s library then and now. White maple bookshelves stood against the walls, facing the arched doorway. A rainbow of books crowded the shelves, the only bright color in the room, save for Poppy’s dulling red hair. Rachel thought flags were tacky and juvenile, but a rainbow bookshelf was fairly subtle and pleasing to the eye.

Poppy sat at the head of the table, cradling a small green book. She preferred to read sitting up, back straight in a chair like her father; she blamed it on a bad back. Her hair was pulled up in a bun, looking strikingly like her mother, albeit in a hideous gray sweater with a cartoonish black cat on it. Rose Reiner had prefered simple dresses and blouses until the day she passed.

Daisy stood in the archway and knocked on the wall. “Mama?”

Poppy looked up. Her glasses were down her nose.

“Co-worker’s here.”

She stared, blinking at Daisy and the man.

“Clyde Bartlett?”

For a moment, she looked confused, then nodded. Daisy gestured for him to enter, while Poppy set her book aside and fixed her glasses. Clyde sat to Poppy’s left, and Daisy, after a moment’s hesitation, turned down the hall.

Poppy swallowed then said, “Clyde’s a ginger.”

Clyde laughed quietly. “I didn’t like the look. Dyed it.”

She stared, brows furrowing. Did Clyde dye his hair? She couldn’t remember. The man grinned, unnerving, eiery. He shifted in his seat to face her.

“I was on the internet - just looking around - and I came across a few posts about you, Mrs. Reiner-MacCready. Or, rather, I found a few posts about this house, claiming it’s haunted.”

Poppy sat back further in her chair, eyebrows steadily raising. Her shoulders remained stiff and straight. “What do you know about this house?”

“Not much,” he admitted. “The posts were not clear. They claimed there was a ghost stalking this home, but no more.”

“He doesn't ‘stalk’ the house. He lives here.”

Clyde’s lip twisted up. Poppy didn’t say anything.

“You know the ghost?”

“I live here. Of course I know the ghost.”

“You don’t seem frightened.”

“Ghosts aren’t scary - they’re sad. They want to move on but are trapped.” Poppy pushed her glasses impossibly higher on her nose. She hesitated before continuing, “and it’s hard to be scared of a child.”

The man’s grin widened. He leaned in slightly, his expression eager. Poppy looked back. That wasn’t the usual response she got when she talked about ghosts, let alone when she mentioned the ghost was a child. Usually she was written off as insane, an old lady stuck in the past - why else would she move back into her childhood home where tragedy had befallen her family? Clyde was a weird man.

“You...you sound kind,” Clyde said slowly as though he was thinking about his words, “like you know the ghost...intimately.”

“Yes.” Poppy felt she should leave it at that, but something was pulling her to keep talking. She hadn’t talked about him in years; her grandson loved the stories, but her daughter and wife...they thought she was crazy. She had learned to only confide her encounters with the ghost to her darling Clem. And while it was better than being left to her own thoughts, questioning whether or not she really had talked with a ghost, saying this to an adult, one who didn’t recoil or sigh at the mention of the entity, was refreshing, and she found herself eager to tell more.

She shifted in her seat, back remaining upright. “He...he was my brother, my baby, well, my only brother. He died when I was nine. We had an oak tree, and we - our sisters thought it would be fun to climb it before our uncle cut it down. He was brought up - I don’t remember which one of us thought it would be smart to do. We got caught, but not before Uncle Earl had sawed off a few branches. We all jumped and tried to help, but…” Those hazel eyes staring at her, large and earnest. Curious and driven. She could see it, even now, nearly fifty years later, the wheels turning in his mind, thinking about his sisters and how they jumped, and she saw how the temptation was just too great, and - Poppy closed her eyes. “He jumped into the branches and hurt himself.” Her throat tightened and she took a deep breath.

“How?”

Her eyes flew open. Pushing passed her clogged throat, she asked, “what do you mean ‘how?’ He fell into the fucking branches and got stabbed in the head. And there was nothing I could do. Dad grabbed him and tried to pull him off - mama ran inside - everyone was screaming - I...I tried to jump and get him, but Earl held me.” Tears gathered in her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but it broke the dam; she allowed tears to fall down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Clyde said. He did look apologetic. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. I was just...curious. Ghosts are fascinating to me, as you know, and the prospect of one being in my hometown...once you said he was your brother I should have dropped it.” He was silent for a moment. Then he continued, “it must have been hard for your family.”

Poppy wiped her eyes on her sleeve and let out a choked laugh. He really cared about her limits, didn’t he? She might have to bring this up with Ryker. Or not. Honestly, she might forget by this evening. And even if she did remember come tomorrow, she probably wouldn’t bring it up, not wanting to cause trouble. “Yes,” she said simply. She had no desire to talk about the rest of her family. Dougie was one thing; a constant presence in the house, a pressure on her mind, like a migrane, and talking to someone was taking medication and laying in a dark room - soothing. Her family was more the bright light and loud noises that irritated the migraine and caused your skin to crawl.

It hurt more to talk of the emotional pain then the look on Dougie’s face when he fell. How her mama became almost catatonic for years before seeking psychiatric help, and even then, the medicine and therapy only seemed to give her a mask, a plastic smile she would place over her set-frown and take off before bed. How her dad buried himself in work before he too broke down, gave up his position at the construction company, and started drinking. How Lavender, wracked with guilt throughout her childhood shut down and shut up, going through the motions of adolescence, but finding no joy until she left home and found a psychiatrist who reminded her every session that she was just a child when it happened, and she was finally able to move on. How Iris, the most like their father, signed up for every sports team, put her anger and sadness into each throw, push, shove in every sport, succeeding and earning scholarships, while looking empty and blank. How Fern cycled through people - friends, colleagues, boyfriends - thinking she was not good enough. How it took all four sisters three decades before they managed to come up with something useful to do with their grief, and started planting trees and bushes and flowers on grave sites and in parks. How their dad started to wean off drinking to help, when it finally caught up with him and he passed, their mother soon after.

How none of them allowed their children to climb trees or even play near them.

Poppy swallowed and looked at Clyde. She felt tired, full of emotion like a popcorn bag in the microwave. “Can I help you with anything else?”

The man shook his head. “No. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

Poppy felt as though she should have replied but she couldn’t think of what to say.

“May I use your restroom and then I’ll be on my way?”

She looked at him for a minute, then sniffed. She pointed through the arch. “Down the hall to your left. I’d show you myself, but…” Poppy looked down at her chair. A leg injury from several years ago left her using a cane, now propped against the side of the chair. The man nodded and stood. He walked out the room, while she grabbed a Kleenex and wiped her nose, tossing the used tissue in a nearby wastebasket.

•••

She should have followed him. Most people would have followed him. A strange man in their house, one that insists on talking about ghosts and a - pardon the pun - haunting past is not a man to be left alone. But the thing about dredging up the past is it puts a strain on the rememberer. It’s hard to be rational when you relive the trauma; it is why psychologist had such an easy time manipulating their patients to believe them to be correct. When you are emotionally vulnerable, you’ll believe anything, including the good intentions in others.

Clyde walked down the hall before veering right and climbing up the staircase, careful to avoid the squeaky tenth step. The internet had not mentioned the two Mrs. Reiner-MacCreadys, nor had any of their friends and coworkers he “accidentally” bumped into, though one of the grandson’s friends had mentioned the step when asked about playing at the house. Children were wonderfully useful.  

Daisy was downstairs in the kitchen, trying to clean and reconcile with her eavesdropping on their conversation. Rachel Reiner-MacCready was still at work. The only one upstairs would be the grandson, Clematis, and the ghost.

He heard giggling and peered into a bedroom, the door cracked slightly. A young brunette boy was reading a picture book to himself, tracing fat fingers over the bold lettering. His fingers stayed on the page too long and his eyes were focused on the pictures rather than the words; he was making up his own stories. A smile quirked his mouth. A funny story then. Or at least funny to a four year old. Clyde turned to continue down the hallway but stopped.

A little boy stared at him, his head cocked.

He looked remarkably like the boy in the bedroom. Dye his hair brown, give him a few freckles, and they could have been twins. His clothes were clean, and were it not for the hole in the middle of his forehead, Clyde would have thought his research had failed him and that Daisy did have another child running around.

Clyde pulled his trousers up around his knees and kneeled down. The boy didn’t come towards him, cocking his head to the other side.

“Hello,” Clyde said quietly. He reached his hand into his pocket and fingered the box gently. “Are you...are you Douglas Reiner?”

The boy’s eyebrows creased. “Who are you?”

“A friend of your sister’s...Clyde Bartlett.”

He nodded as though the name meant something. Clyde’s lips twisted up briefly. He was reminded of a 1990 TV show; the show was unremarkable except for the opening scene, where a young boy - just a couple years older than Douglas - refused to speak to the clown hiding in the sewer until he had learned his name, the clown remarking that it was very wise to not speak to strangers, but now that they were no longer strangers…

“How do you know my sister?”

“We work together, Douglas.” Clyde tilted his head. “Are you looking for something?”

“Not right now.”

“Really?” he asked gently. “Then why are you here?”

Douglas looked confused for a moment. He scrunched up his mouth and looked at his feet. “I don’t know,” he confessed. He scuffed his shoe along the wood floor. “Everyone was sad, and then I woke up.”

“Do you know why they were sad?”

He nodded solemnly. “The bad thing.”

“The bad thing?”

“Mama and daddy called it the bad thing. When...when I fell.”

“Ah.” Clyde shifted on his knees. “Do you miss your mama and daddy?”

Douglas nodded. “Yeah.” He bit his lip. “They were sad, they were all sad. Mama was the saddest. I think...daddy was next and then the girls were sad too.”

“Is that why you stayed?” Clyde asked. “You wanted to make mama happy again?”

“All of them. I wanted to make all of them happy.”

“And how did that turn out?” He looked confused. Clyde tried again, “Did you make them happy when you came back?” Silence. Douglas looked less confused, but now he looked distraught, his large hazel eyes turned on Clyde pitifully. “Is Poppy happy?”

“I tried to -” he insisted, “I tried to fix it, but only Pop and Fern could see, and then they told Fern that it was her mind playing jokes and then Pop still talked to me, and - and Clem talks and sees me and he’s happy!”

“But your sisters aren’t. And neither are your mama and daddy.”

Douglas sniffed. If he were alive, he would probably be crying. Clyde leaned in. “What if I told you...I could help you make everyone happy?”

He looked at him, hopeful. “How?”

“I’ll take you to your mama. She’ll be happy to see you free - away from here.” Most ghosts didn’t believe that; they were cynical and bitter towards anyone and everyone, and refused to believe that some living body had their best interests at heart. Child ghosts, especially ones as young as Douglas Reiner, were much more...pliable.

Douglas hesitated before nodding. “Okay.” He came forward and took Clyde’s hand. It wasn’t solid like flesh, but it wasn’t air either; it was something in between like a spider’s silk or cotton candy. Something gently existing in this plane.

Clyde held his hand and began leading him downstairs.

“Where are you taking him?”

He turned his head to the bedroom door. Clematis stood there, his eyebrows furrowed much like his mother and uncle.

Clyde nodded to Douglas. “Home.”

“To see Mama,” Douglas explained.

They continued downstairs, bypassing the archway to the dining room and leaving through the front door. Clyde could hear a shout - “Why is he taking Uncle Dougie? Gamma, why is he taking Dougie?”- and scrambling in the house. He gripped the box tightly in his pocket and tossed it at the child ghost. Douglas looked up at him in shock, trust shattering on his pale innocent face, and an ugly look coming across his eyes as he disappeared into the box. Clyde picked it up and quickly walked to his car.

By the time Poppy had come to the front door, clutching the frame and panting, he was gone. She collapsed to the ground, sobbing, her daughter and grandson confused and clutching her.

2001 13 GHOSTS VS. 2018 13 GHOSTS

Black Zodiac: First Born Son is the ghost of a young boy who died due to a head injury. 

Billy Michaels, a young boy around seven years old - maybe younger - died after a game of Cowboys and Indians gone wrong. He had been obsessed with the game and possibly a show by the same name. One of his friends found their dad’s steel-tipped arrows. He convinced Billy to play with him, and Billy, believing his guns would protect him, agreed. In life, Billy had been an angry child, determined to get his way. 

Douglas Reiner was only four years old when he fell off an oak tree and into a pile of tree branches. He had been a kind and curious child, but that didn’t stop the man - Clyde in this story - from taking him. 

So I recently discovered the movie “13 Ghosts,” and I am infatuated. It looks terrible, but the ghosts are incredibly designed - I guess the people who did the effects went on to work on “Thor: Ragnarok,” which is cool. The ghosts seem to be everyone’s favorite part of the movie, and I have to admit they are cool. I went a little deeper into the mythos surrounding the ghosts, and thought it would be really cool to rewrite the stories surrounding the ghosts. Think of this as a writer’s version of #inktober, except there are only thirteen short stories instead of thirty-one pictures because I could not in a million years write and edit thirty-one stories in the span of a month - especially since I’m starting a week late! SO - here are the rules I’ve set up for myself: 

1) Each story must be titled after the ghost.

2) Each ghost must correspond with the Black Zodiac as closely as possible, while staying far away from the original origin stories.

3) Thirteen stories within the month of October. There will be no particular schedule, though I will post 3-4 each week, starting this week, October 7th.

4) The 13 Ghosts wiki states the First Born Son corresponds with Aires in the traditional zodiac. Based on that, each story - with the exception of the thirteenth - will include the zodiac in some way, shape, or form. This may be subtle or obvious, but it will be there.

5) At the end of each story, I will compare both the ghost I wrote about and the corresponding ghost from the movie.