Novela de Mi Id
“In Fear and Trembling”
Chapter One
His first memory was of advanced age -- of large, white, wrinkled hands holding and kneading his body like a loaf of dough.
Then there were the faces -- large, pale, moonlike things that peered at him from out of the darkness.
Then came the tutors. Tall, thin, sexless things hidden in black robes who made funny gestures with their hands every time he grew frustrated with them.
For an embarrassingly long time, they gibbered at him in an unknown tongue, communicating all the while with their hands until he was able to echo the syllables which issued from their mouths. After that came reading and writing and sums.
Then came the next step. They took him out of his darkened chamber and took him into a room filled with light. They gave him clothes that were finely woven and helped him put them on.
Then they took him into another golden room where a girl awaited. At least, that is what he thought it was, judging from the pictures in the books they had shown him. The girl was tall and slim and no doubt they considered her beautiful. Having never seen such a being before, he really could not say.
She had long blonde hair and around the crown of her head was a wreath of white flowers. She was clad in a white linen dress and he could not help wondering what lay beneath it. Did she have two legs like him or was she solid from the waist down?
As he observed her, his guardians pushed him forward and he struggled to keep his balance. Then he walked toward her.
The girl's blue eyes opened wider as he approached her. Was she frightened of something? And if so, of what? He looked over his shoulder but saw nothing there that he thought to be especially frightening or even unusual. No doubt, it was one of those feminine mysteries the sexless ones had talked about.
He knelt down to talk to her. The girl drew away. His face contorted in surprise. Surely she was not frightened of him? Was she?
He came closer. She drew back more. She was frightened -- of that, there was no doubt.
He tried to echo the words his tutors had taught him. They came out in a low, guttural tone.
“I will not harm you.”
The girl still trembled but now she seemed more puzzled than scared. Hadn't she ever heard a man speak before?
She looked down at the floor in front of her.
“But you're so big.”
“Big things are not necessarily dangerous,” he said. He stuttered, wanting to say more but not knowing the proper words.
He decided to ask her the obvious question.
“Who are you?”
The girl looked at him again. "Did they not tell you?”
“No,” he said.
Her face had a strange expression. Not quite fright, not quite anger, but something... sad.
“I am your wife.”
Thursday, October 31, 2019
Friday, October 25, 2019
Fanfic Friday
“The Aftermath”
Ever since that all so memorable day at Camp Chippewa, little Amanda Buckman's hair has turned white. She still screams when she sees a lit match and she has grown very thin.
As of this writing, her parents are considering taking her to see the renowned therapist Dr. Sue Snell, since Dr. Snell has a reputation for being an expert on bad dreams.
“The Aftermath”
Ever since that all so memorable day at Camp Chippewa, little Amanda Buckman's hair has turned white. She still screams when she sees a lit match and she has grown very thin.
As of this writing, her parents are considering taking her to see the renowned therapist Dr. Sue Snell, since Dr. Snell has a reputation for being an expert on bad dreams.
Wednesday, October 23, 2019
Cuento de Mi Id
“The Sacrifice”
Oh great! The Huntsville Express.
Shut up. The most they can get you for at this point in time is hitchhiking. Just play it cool and everything will be all right.
All right? Half-ounce of sinsemilla in my knapsack and you say everything will be all right?
Of course, it will. Just don’t act suspicious.
But if the cops search my bag?
They won’t if you give them no reason to--and by the way, don’t call them cops--call them policemen.
Well, all right.
It hadn’t been a good day for Martin. The Texas sun had decided to celebrate the Fourth of July early, and that had meant blast furnace temperatures coupled with a nonexistent breeze along a highway where the nearest shade trees were on the other side of the acre-long cotton fields. Not that there was a lot of green stuff to impede his way -- all the plants Martin had seen so far were brown and wilted--but there was no way he could hope to flag down a ride from the shade and he had no intention of walking all day in this heat. Now his first ride of the day had proved to be a cop car and Martin was already envisioning himself behind bars when the driver pulled up besides him and lowered the passenger window.
“Hey there!” said a good-ol’-boy-type in the shotgun seat. “What brings you out this way on such a fine sunny day?”
“Oh, nothing, Officer,” said Martin. “I’m just waiting for a friend.”
“Your friend live around here?”
“Well, no. Not really.”
The white policeman grinned and opened the passenger door. “Why don’t you come on in and tell us all about it?”
“Uh, no, thank you,” Martin replied. “My ride will probably be coming by any second.”
“Suit yourself,” said the policeman. “I wouldn’t linger here too long if I were you. You might get picked up for hitchhiking.”
Martin thought a minute. “On second thought, maybe I can use a break from the sun right now.” He climbed into the back seat almost eagerly, and tried not to jump when he heard the door slam behind him.
Take it easy. You’re just among cops; you haven’t been charged. They still have to read you your rights so don’t worry until that happens.
“You headed down Brewster way?” the first policeman asked as he reentered the vehicle.
“No,” Martin replied. “Dallas.”
“Close enough,” said the policeman, and he signaled to his partner, a short dark Latin man.
The car took off silently and Martin thought it rather nice to be out of the sun for a change. Not only that, but the car had air conditioning too.
Then he remembered where he was and looked up at the cop riding shotgun.
The policeman smiled. “Don’t worry, son. I was young once too. I bet you thought me and Frank here were going to arrest you, didn’t you?”
“Well, the thought did cross my mind.”
“Forget it. Anyone hitchhiking nowadays has enough to worry about with all the weirdos on the road without getting hassled by the cops. Don’t you agree?”
“Well, I’m not exactly in a position to disagree with you.”
The policeman laughed. “That’s great. “ He extended his hand. “My name’s Bob Smith. This here’s my partner, Frank Gonzalez. What’s your name?”
“Martin Lucas.”
“No relation to Henry Lee, are you? No? I didn’t think so. You probably wouldn’t admit it even if you were.”
“No, I guess not.”
“So what brought you to our part of the country in the first place, Martin?”
“Well, my girlfriend and I were driving up from Austin and we had a spat. She took off with the car and left me behind at a rest stop. I’ve been on the road ever since.”
“That’s quite a shame. Don’t you have any kin here abouts that you could have called for a ride or something?”
“No, not really. Most of my folks live in Dallas and the rest live out of state.”
“That’s a real shame. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of your girlfriend coming back for you?”
“Well, if she hasn’t come back by now, I really doubt she’s going to be.”
“That’s a shame. Well, I guess you can always catch a bus from Brewster. Me and Frank are headed that way and we’d be glad to drop you off at the bus station.”
“Much obliged.”
“Oh, think nothing of it. If we can’t help each other out, who’s going to do it for us?” Bob turned and contemplated the view ahead. “Rotten weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” Martin said, “not if you like sun.”
“The folks around here don’t. There’s been too much of it lately--and not enough rain. This here’s farm country. A few more weeks of weather like this and half the folks around here will be ruined.”
“That’s a shame,” said Martin, trying to sound sincere.
“Yes it is. Most of these folks have their whole lives invested in these farms--but you don’t want to hear about that--do you?”
Martin shrugged.
Bob continued “Anyway, at least they’re a lot better off than the Anderson kid.”
“The Anderson kid?”
“Yeah. Virginia Anderson. Prettiest little thing you ever did see. Would have turned sixteen last May.”
“Last May? What happened to her?”
“Went out on a date with the local quarterback. Her first one, oddly enough. Both of them missed curfew so their parents started calling around. Turned out the boy had been killed. Strangled to death.”
“Jesus. What happened to the girl?”
“Well, she was killed, too, but the killer took his time with her. Used her in every orifice, if you know what I mean, and left a few new ones to remember him by. Her parents had to request a closed casket.”
“Jesus,” Martin said again. “What could have made somebody do something like that?”
“There’s no telling, son. There’s a lot of strange people in this world. Like that guy ‘Zodiac’ out there in L.A. He killed all those people back in the ‘60’s to supposedly prevent an earthquake. The cops out there never did catch him Might even have been a her for all they know.”
“Well, how about this guy? The one who killed Virginia and her boyfriend. Did you catch up with him yet?”
“No, not really,” said Bob. He turned to look at Martin. “What makes you so sure it’s a him?”
“I dunno,” said Martin. “I just got that impression from your story. After all, you did hint that the girl was raped.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Girls can rape too; they’re just more creative about it.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose you’re the expert on this kind of thing. Who do you think did it?”
“Well, presently the most popular theory around the stationhouse is that some sort of wandering vagrant did it.”
Martin’s chest tightened. “What makes you say that?” he forced himself to say.
“Well, it obviously wasn’t anyone in town. That girl was so popular that only someone passing through would dare to commit a deed like that and not risk getting caught.”
“Oh, I see,” said Martin. “So you figure some sort of hobo did it?”
“Or a hitchhiker,” said Bob.
“Oh.” Martin started to think fast. It was bad enough to be flirting with a possible drug charge but if the cops suspected him of murder, they’d put him away for sure.
Take it easy. No one’s accusing you of anything yet. We’re living in the post-Miranda era, remember? He can’t force you to admit to something you didn’t do and anyway you were at Padre last May. Take it easy.
Martin tried to tell himself that his conscience was correct. He had nothing to worry about. He had a lot of things to feel guilty about but not murder. Not murder.
He began to relax.
Then Bob asked him, “Do you come up this way often?” and his chest tightened again.
“What makes you say that?” he asked in what he hoped was a casual tone.
“I don’t know,” said Bob. “It’s just the way you spoke of your girlfriend made me think you must be a frequent visitor to these parts.”
“Not me. I can’t afford it.”
“You came down this time, didn’t you?”
“Uh, that was just an one-time-only thing. Actually I’ve never been out this way before.”
Bob’s eyes hardened. “Seems to me you and your girl must have a weird relationship if this is the first time you ever visited her.”
“Well...” Nice going! “Actually she just transferred to UT this fall. Before that, she lived in Dallas.”
“Oh, I see.” The expression on Bob’s face told him he was not entirely convinced but he remained silent.
Martin turned to look at the scenery. They were coming into a different area now. There were more trees now and they came up to within a few feet of the highway. Bob suddenly pointed to something up ahead.
“There’s the spot where we found the Anderson girl,” he said. He turned toward Martin. “Would you like to see it?”
Now what? Martin wasn’t in a position to refuse.
“Okay,” he said without enthusiasm.
Frank pulled over and Bob and Martin got out. Bob let Martin go into the woods ahead of him.
Oh, great! Now Frank’s going to have the perfect opportunity to search my knapsack.
Shut up and act casual! You’ve got more important things to worry about, remember?
“It’s just a few feet ahead,” Bob said. “You can’t miss it.”
Up ahead Martin saw a clearing which looked like the spot Bob might have been talking about. He started to turn to ask Bob if that was it when he stumbled over something hidden in the leaves. A dead log, he thought--and he cursed. He started to get up, gazed at the object he had tripped over…
“What’s the matter, son?” asked Bob, coming up behind him. “Haven’t you ever seen a gen-u-wine murder site befo--Jesus!”
The object Martin had tripped over was a body--a woman’s body. The woman was blonde, apparently in her late teens or early twenties, and the stab wounds on her chest and belly were still oozing fresh blood. From her shorts and halter top, it appeared that she had been dressed for hitchhiking. If so, she apparently did not get too far.
“We better call the police,” said Martin.
Bob behind him nodded.
“Her wounds look recent. There’s probably a good chance we can catch whoever did this while he’s still in the area.”
“What makes you think we didn’t catch him already?” asked Bob.
Martin turned. “This is no time to joke. A girl has been kil--” His voice froze. Officer Bob had drawn his gun and was aiming it straight at him.
“What is this?” he said.
“Looks to me like we caught us a killer.” Bob grinned.
“You’re crazy. I’ve been with you guys all this time.”
Bob chuckled. “Oh, come now. The wounds aren’t that recent. How do I know you didn’t do this before we picked you up?”
“Are you kidding? You picked me up miles away from here.”
Bob shrugged. “You could have walked.”
“Through miles of open country? Why would I establish a stupid alibi like that? Anyone could have seen me. Even you guys--” Martin broke off. A horrifying thought just came to him.
Bob kept grinning, his gun still on Martin. “Come to think of it, you were nervous about something when we picked you up.”
Martin panicked. “That’s because I was carrying drugs in my bag. Would I admit something like that to you if I was really a murderer?”
“You might,” said Bob, and then Martin knew it was hopeless.
“All right,” he said, raising his hands. “I give up.”
Bob smiled. With his gun still on Martin, he took something from beneath his jacket and dropped it on the ground. “Pick it up!”
Martin’s blood turned cold. “You gotta be kidding!"
“Pick it up,” said Bob, and he fingered the trigger. “Don’t make me do this.”
Martin looked down at the object Officer Bob had thrown at his feet -- a butcher knife sealed in a plastic bag, its blade covered with blood. He looked at Officer Bob again and then ran.
If I make it to the woods, he thought, I can beat him. I don’t care if these woods go all the way to Texarkana, I can still outrun him. He can’t stop me. I haven’t touched the knife. There’s no way he can get away with this. No way in Hell--
Just a few feet behind him, Officer Bob cocked his gun and fired….
************************************************************
Frank was still waiting in the driver‘s seat when Bob returned from the woods. “How did it go?” he asked.
Bob smiled. “Better than I thought it would. Not only did he confess to the murders, but he admitted to being a dope fiend, too.”
He got in and Frank started the engine. “Any problems?” Frank asked.
“No, not really.” Bob turned to look at Frank. “You don’t sound too happy.”
Frank shrugged as he pulled onto the highway. “I just can’t help thinking about what’s going to happen if there’s an investigation.”
“Fuck the investigation. We had one last time and they never found out anything. Why should they find out anything this time?”
“Well, suppose they did?” asked Frank.
“Why should they? We’ll probably be public heroes . Who’s going to want to mess with a rep like that?”
Frank frowned. “I just can’t help thinking nothing good’s going to come of all this.”
Bob chuckled and looked up at the sky. “Well,” he said, pointing upwards, “something good’s already happening.”
As the patrol car disappeared down the highway, a parade of clouds began to appear in the sunny sky. Soon they began to darken. As the first raindrops fell, a clap of thunder could be heard echoing across the landscape like celestial applause. There was no lightning to accompany it.
“The Sacrifice”
Oh great! The Huntsville Express.
Shut up. The most they can get you for at this point in time is hitchhiking. Just play it cool and everything will be all right.
All right? Half-ounce of sinsemilla in my knapsack and you say everything will be all right?
Of course, it will. Just don’t act suspicious.
But if the cops search my bag?
They won’t if you give them no reason to--and by the way, don’t call them cops--call them policemen.
Well, all right.
It hadn’t been a good day for Martin. The Texas sun had decided to celebrate the Fourth of July early, and that had meant blast furnace temperatures coupled with a nonexistent breeze along a highway where the nearest shade trees were on the other side of the acre-long cotton fields. Not that there was a lot of green stuff to impede his way -- all the plants Martin had seen so far were brown and wilted--but there was no way he could hope to flag down a ride from the shade and he had no intention of walking all day in this heat. Now his first ride of the day had proved to be a cop car and Martin was already envisioning himself behind bars when the driver pulled up besides him and lowered the passenger window.
“Hey there!” said a good-ol’-boy-type in the shotgun seat. “What brings you out this way on such a fine sunny day?”
“Oh, nothing, Officer,” said Martin. “I’m just waiting for a friend.”
“Your friend live around here?”
“Well, no. Not really.”
The white policeman grinned and opened the passenger door. “Why don’t you come on in and tell us all about it?”
“Uh, no, thank you,” Martin replied. “My ride will probably be coming by any second.”
“Suit yourself,” said the policeman. “I wouldn’t linger here too long if I were you. You might get picked up for hitchhiking.”
Martin thought a minute. “On second thought, maybe I can use a break from the sun right now.” He climbed into the back seat almost eagerly, and tried not to jump when he heard the door slam behind him.
Take it easy. You’re just among cops; you haven’t been charged. They still have to read you your rights so don’t worry until that happens.
“You headed down Brewster way?” the first policeman asked as he reentered the vehicle.
“No,” Martin replied. “Dallas.”
“Close enough,” said the policeman, and he signaled to his partner, a short dark Latin man.
The car took off silently and Martin thought it rather nice to be out of the sun for a change. Not only that, but the car had air conditioning too.
Then he remembered where he was and looked up at the cop riding shotgun.
The policeman smiled. “Don’t worry, son. I was young once too. I bet you thought me and Frank here were going to arrest you, didn’t you?”
“Well, the thought did cross my mind.”
“Forget it. Anyone hitchhiking nowadays has enough to worry about with all the weirdos on the road without getting hassled by the cops. Don’t you agree?”
“Well, I’m not exactly in a position to disagree with you.”
The policeman laughed. “That’s great. “ He extended his hand. “My name’s Bob Smith. This here’s my partner, Frank Gonzalez. What’s your name?”
“Martin Lucas.”
“No relation to Henry Lee, are you? No? I didn’t think so. You probably wouldn’t admit it even if you were.”
“No, I guess not.”
“So what brought you to our part of the country in the first place, Martin?”
“Well, my girlfriend and I were driving up from Austin and we had a spat. She took off with the car and left me behind at a rest stop. I’ve been on the road ever since.”
“That’s quite a shame. Don’t you have any kin here abouts that you could have called for a ride or something?”
“No, not really. Most of my folks live in Dallas and the rest live out of state.”
“That’s a real shame. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of your girlfriend coming back for you?”
“Well, if she hasn’t come back by now, I really doubt she’s going to be.”
“That’s a shame. Well, I guess you can always catch a bus from Brewster. Me and Frank are headed that way and we’d be glad to drop you off at the bus station.”
“Much obliged.”
“Oh, think nothing of it. If we can’t help each other out, who’s going to do it for us?” Bob turned and contemplated the view ahead. “Rotten weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” Martin said, “not if you like sun.”
“The folks around here don’t. There’s been too much of it lately--and not enough rain. This here’s farm country. A few more weeks of weather like this and half the folks around here will be ruined.”
“That’s a shame,” said Martin, trying to sound sincere.
“Yes it is. Most of these folks have their whole lives invested in these farms--but you don’t want to hear about that--do you?”
Martin shrugged.
Bob continued “Anyway, at least they’re a lot better off than the Anderson kid.”
“The Anderson kid?”
“Yeah. Virginia Anderson. Prettiest little thing you ever did see. Would have turned sixteen last May.”
“Last May? What happened to her?”
“Went out on a date with the local quarterback. Her first one, oddly enough. Both of them missed curfew so their parents started calling around. Turned out the boy had been killed. Strangled to death.”
“Jesus. What happened to the girl?”
“Well, she was killed, too, but the killer took his time with her. Used her in every orifice, if you know what I mean, and left a few new ones to remember him by. Her parents had to request a closed casket.”
“Jesus,” Martin said again. “What could have made somebody do something like that?”
“There’s no telling, son. There’s a lot of strange people in this world. Like that guy ‘Zodiac’ out there in L.A. He killed all those people back in the ‘60’s to supposedly prevent an earthquake. The cops out there never did catch him Might even have been a her for all they know.”
“Well, how about this guy? The one who killed Virginia and her boyfriend. Did you catch up with him yet?”
“No, not really,” said Bob. He turned to look at Martin. “What makes you so sure it’s a him?”
“I dunno,” said Martin. “I just got that impression from your story. After all, you did hint that the girl was raped.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Girls can rape too; they’re just more creative about it.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose you’re the expert on this kind of thing. Who do you think did it?”
“Well, presently the most popular theory around the stationhouse is that some sort of wandering vagrant did it.”
Martin’s chest tightened. “What makes you say that?” he forced himself to say.
“Well, it obviously wasn’t anyone in town. That girl was so popular that only someone passing through would dare to commit a deed like that and not risk getting caught.”
“Oh, I see,” said Martin. “So you figure some sort of hobo did it?”
“Or a hitchhiker,” said Bob.
“Oh.” Martin started to think fast. It was bad enough to be flirting with a possible drug charge but if the cops suspected him of murder, they’d put him away for sure.
Take it easy. No one’s accusing you of anything yet. We’re living in the post-Miranda era, remember? He can’t force you to admit to something you didn’t do and anyway you were at Padre last May. Take it easy.
Martin tried to tell himself that his conscience was correct. He had nothing to worry about. He had a lot of things to feel guilty about but not murder. Not murder.
He began to relax.
Then Bob asked him, “Do you come up this way often?” and his chest tightened again.
“What makes you say that?” he asked in what he hoped was a casual tone.
“I don’t know,” said Bob. “It’s just the way you spoke of your girlfriend made me think you must be a frequent visitor to these parts.”
“Not me. I can’t afford it.”
“You came down this time, didn’t you?”
“Uh, that was just an one-time-only thing. Actually I’ve never been out this way before.”
Bob’s eyes hardened. “Seems to me you and your girl must have a weird relationship if this is the first time you ever visited her.”
“Well...” Nice going! “Actually she just transferred to UT this fall. Before that, she lived in Dallas.”
“Oh, I see.” The expression on Bob’s face told him he was not entirely convinced but he remained silent.
Martin turned to look at the scenery. They were coming into a different area now. There were more trees now and they came up to within a few feet of the highway. Bob suddenly pointed to something up ahead.
“There’s the spot where we found the Anderson girl,” he said. He turned toward Martin. “Would you like to see it?”
Now what? Martin wasn’t in a position to refuse.
“Okay,” he said without enthusiasm.
Frank pulled over and Bob and Martin got out. Bob let Martin go into the woods ahead of him.
Oh, great! Now Frank’s going to have the perfect opportunity to search my knapsack.
Shut up and act casual! You’ve got more important things to worry about, remember?
“It’s just a few feet ahead,” Bob said. “You can’t miss it.”
Up ahead Martin saw a clearing which looked like the spot Bob might have been talking about. He started to turn to ask Bob if that was it when he stumbled over something hidden in the leaves. A dead log, he thought--and he cursed. He started to get up, gazed at the object he had tripped over…
“What’s the matter, son?” asked Bob, coming up behind him. “Haven’t you ever seen a gen-u-wine murder site befo--Jesus!”
The object Martin had tripped over was a body--a woman’s body. The woman was blonde, apparently in her late teens or early twenties, and the stab wounds on her chest and belly were still oozing fresh blood. From her shorts and halter top, it appeared that she had been dressed for hitchhiking. If so, she apparently did not get too far.
“We better call the police,” said Martin.
Bob behind him nodded.
“Her wounds look recent. There’s probably a good chance we can catch whoever did this while he’s still in the area.”
“What makes you think we didn’t catch him already?” asked Bob.
Martin turned. “This is no time to joke. A girl has been kil--” His voice froze. Officer Bob had drawn his gun and was aiming it straight at him.
“What is this?” he said.
“Looks to me like we caught us a killer.” Bob grinned.
“You’re crazy. I’ve been with you guys all this time.”
Bob chuckled. “Oh, come now. The wounds aren’t that recent. How do I know you didn’t do this before we picked you up?”
“Are you kidding? You picked me up miles away from here.”
Bob shrugged. “You could have walked.”
“Through miles of open country? Why would I establish a stupid alibi like that? Anyone could have seen me. Even you guys--” Martin broke off. A horrifying thought just came to him.
Bob kept grinning, his gun still on Martin. “Come to think of it, you were nervous about something when we picked you up.”
Martin panicked. “That’s because I was carrying drugs in my bag. Would I admit something like that to you if I was really a murderer?”
“You might,” said Bob, and then Martin knew it was hopeless.
“All right,” he said, raising his hands. “I give up.”
Bob smiled. With his gun still on Martin, he took something from beneath his jacket and dropped it on the ground. “Pick it up!”
Martin’s blood turned cold. “You gotta be kidding!"
“Pick it up,” said Bob, and he fingered the trigger. “Don’t make me do this.”
Martin looked down at the object Officer Bob had thrown at his feet -- a butcher knife sealed in a plastic bag, its blade covered with blood. He looked at Officer Bob again and then ran.
If I make it to the woods, he thought, I can beat him. I don’t care if these woods go all the way to Texarkana, I can still outrun him. He can’t stop me. I haven’t touched the knife. There’s no way he can get away with this. No way in Hell--
Just a few feet behind him, Officer Bob cocked his gun and fired….
************************************************************
Frank was still waiting in the driver‘s seat when Bob returned from the woods. “How did it go?” he asked.
Bob smiled. “Better than I thought it would. Not only did he confess to the murders, but he admitted to being a dope fiend, too.”
He got in and Frank started the engine. “Any problems?” Frank asked.
“No, not really.” Bob turned to look at Frank. “You don’t sound too happy.”
Frank shrugged as he pulled onto the highway. “I just can’t help thinking about what’s going to happen if there’s an investigation.”
“Fuck the investigation. We had one last time and they never found out anything. Why should they find out anything this time?”
“Well, suppose they did?” asked Frank.
“Why should they? We’ll probably be public heroes . Who’s going to want to mess with a rep like that?”
Frank frowned. “I just can’t help thinking nothing good’s going to come of all this.”
Bob chuckled and looked up at the sky. “Well,” he said, pointing upwards, “something good’s already happening.”
As the patrol car disappeared down the highway, a parade of clouds began to appear in the sunny sky. Soon they began to darken. As the first raindrops fell, a clap of thunder could be heard echoing across the landscape like celestial applause. There was no lightning to accompany it.
Friday, October 18, 2019
Wednesday, October 16, 2019
Cuento de Mi Id
“Final Vengeance”
(This was my first attempt at writing a short story for publication. I would like to think that I have improved a bit since I first wrote this but I guess that's up to you all, the readers, to judge. Anyway, I hope you all like it.)
The moment Joe Mesey reentered the old neighborhood, he knew that his coming back was a mistake. Not for any foolish, sentimental reasons -- it’s hard to be nostalgic about growing up in a slum -- but because his return was all too easy. He had expected an all-out attack the minute he entered his old stomping grounds; instead, he was simply ignored.
As a member of mankind’s true oldest profession, a self-styled professional assassin who euphemistically referred to his calling as the “retirement business” and who commanded top dollar for a kill, this was a bit of an insult. He had expected a neighborhood crawling with cops -- or worse; instead, he found an area of deserted streets and neglected tenements -- a place seemingly as devoid of life as the dark side of the moon.
It was an eerie feeling. Had Joe been a lesser man, he might have turned the car around and searched for more populous surroundings. But he was on a mission here -- a personal mission. He had returned to this neighborhood to kill a man. A man whom he had killed a long time ago...
**************************************************************************************************************
The room was filled with more candles than a religious shrine and their acrid scent and flickering light made Joe uneasy. He kept peering into the shadows of the old man’s living room as if expecting to see something lurking there. Nothing was there, of course, but the way the old man kept bowing his head and peering into his little grey book made Joe uneasy. And he hated being made uneasy. Especially by a little old man who was destined within a matter of minutes to meet the Maker about which he endless prattled.
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the realization that the old man had said something. He looked up at the white-haired figure and smiled inwardly at the idea of this little man in the black suit and skullcap doing him bodily harm. As powerful as he may have once been, now he could not harm a flea.
“Pardon me, he said. “I didn’t hear that last question.”
“I was asking whether you had considered the consequences of your actions, Mr. Mesey,” the old man said in a voice that was stern yet moderate.
“Of course, I have. I simply waste you and then my boss gives me a lot of money. What’s to consider?”
“Hasn’t the thought of punishment ever entered your mind?”
“Not really. The cops won’t be able to prove a thing, and nothing you can do can change that.”
“I wasn’t talking about earthly justice.”
“Oh, really?”
“Doesn’t it ever bother you, Mr. Mesey -- the number of men you’ve killed?”
“Of course not. Why should it?”
“Fear of the dead is a centuries-old tradition,” said the old man. “Some say it dates back to Neanderthal man.”
“Well, that may be the case with some people, but I’m more like a surgeon. I live with death every day. It doesn’t scare me a bit.”
“If I were you, I would be scared. Murder is the supreme taboo; you have committed it not once, not twice, but times beyond counting.”
“You’re one to talk,” said Joe. “Before you retired, you were in the rackets, too. You know how it is.”
“Yes, I know how it is,” said the old man, gazing at his folded hands. “But I never killed anyone directly. And when the ghosts of those I did kill indirectly began to prey upon my conscience, I knew it was time to leave.”
The old man looked Joe in the eye. “But it’s still not too late for you. The powers that be love a repentant sinner as long as he’s sincere.”
Joe smiled. “That’s nice talk for a dying man but I intend to live a long time.”
“Maybe not as long as you think.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I have taken the liberty of making certain arrangements in case my little talk with you should fail.”
“Oh, I see. Like a sealed letter to the D.A. left in the hands of your attorney?”
“Nothing so crude, I assure you,” said the old man. “Besides, I’m sure a man in your profession has sufficient connections to get such a letter swiftly discredited. No, my arrangements are of a more final and irrevocable nature.”
Joe laughed. “If that’s meant to scare me, it didn’t work.”
“It wasn’t meant to scare you -- now.”
“Listen, old man,” said Joe, pulling out his gun. “I’ve had about enough of this Jewish superstition nonsense you’ve been giving me.”
“Jewish? Who said it was Jewish?” The old man’s voice took on a sepulchral tone. “The faith I follow is older than Judaism.”
That’s when Joe’s gun went off. The first bullet hit the old man in the chest; the two followup shots hit him in the belly and the groin. Joe never knew whether his shots were the result of anger or blind panic, but the results were the same. One dead Jew (or so-called Jew, if his last words were correct) who had time to do little more than glare and mumble an inaudible curse before succumbing to the permanent paralysis of death. Hardly the formidable adversary he had anticipated.
“I hoe you prepared well for the afterlife, old man,” Joe said as he stood up. “Because you’re going to have all eternity to enjoy it.”
He left the house quietly, but not before giving some thought to the arrangements the old man had mentioned. However, search as he did, he could find no trace of any hidden cameras or tape recorders in the old man’s residence...
**************************************************************************************************************
The old apartment house where he used to live was boarded up now -- a victim of urban renewal. Gazing at the crumbling exterior brought back many memories for Joe. Memories of living with his old man -- an embittered widower with five children to raise. A man who had sought refuge in a whiskey bottle and who used his youngest child -- Joe -- as a punching bag until the day Joe fought back and caved in his father’s skull with a tire iron. Yes, the place did bring back a lot of old memories -- none of them good.
He smiled grimly and attacked the boards on the front door with a tire iron. As the ancient nails reluctantly began to yield, he once more looked around the neighborhood, expecting any minute to see a cop -- or something -- appear around the corner to question him about his activity. But none appeared. Joe seemed to be the only person around in what should have been a crowded slum neighborhood. It was as if he was in the land of the dead.
Joe shuddered. He was normally not an imaginative person -- in his line of business, you couldn’t afford to be -- yet something about that last phrase -- and the way it popped into his mind, unsummoned -- made him uneasy. Especially when he looked back upon certain recent events...
**************************************************************************************************************
The first clue Joe had that the old man‘s arrangements were not just talk occurred in Chicago. He had heard the old line about being able to meet almost anyone in the world by standing on State Street, but he never expected to see Vinny McCloskey there. And for a very good reason -- Vinny had died six months ago.
When he first confronted Vinny with this information, Vinny seemed as shocked as Joe. His eyes went blank; he appeared to be remembering something.
Then he remembered.
“You!” he screamed. “You’re the one who killed me.”
Within an instant, Vinny’s hands were around Joe’s neck, choking him with the strength of the violently insane and the insanely violent. Vinny was a big man; his hands were the size of steam irons. Killing Joe should have been as easy a task for him as cleaning fish. But it did not work out that way. Joe had been around too long not to be prepared for the unexpected; he freed himself with a blow to the groin -- then pulled his newly-purchased revolver and fired a bullet meant for a prominent state witness into Vinny’s chest.
At this point, Vinny smiled -- the vacant smile customarily associated with the hopelessly insane -- and then he collapsed. For a moment, Joe was aghast. After all, even the most blasé hitman does not meet dead people on the street every day. Then he took Vinny’s pulse. The bullet wound Vinny had just received was not necessarily a mortal one, yet he was already dead.
Needless to say, the witness job was blown. No one had witnessed the confrontation between Joe and Vinny, but that didn’t mean the cops would not be interested if they ever caught wind of it.
And what of the body? Although Joe managed to safely dispose of it without being seen, that still did not account for its presence. Surely he had not just killed the real Vinny; after all, the real Vinny was supposed to be feeding the worms in a South Side cemetery. That meant the man he had killed was an imposter, no doubt made up to look like Vinny with the help of a clever plastic surgeon. But an imposter with Vinny’s height and build? Possible, Joe thought, but not probable. Which meant...
**************************************************************************************************************
The last board came off with an angry screech. Now the door was open and he could seek shelter from the open street. Yet Joe was not satisfied.
If he was right, the man he came to kill would be lurking inside, safe from the summer heat. It unnerved him to realize how matter-of-fact he was handling the whole situation. Had his own boss told him a similar story, he would not have believed him -- even if his life depended upon it. Yet here he was, standing outside his old apartment house, treating his long-dead father as a potential adversary…
He pushed the door open with his foot, holding the tire iron ready in case of attack. None came. Inside the entrance hall was nothing but dust and silence.
As Joe stepped inside, he again held the tire iron ready to ward off a sudden attack. But -- again -- none came.
Perhaps I only dreamed the first incident, he thought. Perhaps I was wrong and the old man’s curse was only a figment of my imagination.
Then Joe thought again and shook his head. For he remembered Frank Lupesco...
**************************************************************************************************************
It had happened at a men’s room in the Miami Airport. Joe was combing his hair before boarding a flight to San Juan when he felt himself being seized from behind. Without warning, he was whirled around and thrown against the opposite wall. Before he could recover, a knife was at his throat, and on the nape of his neck, he could feel the hot breath of the man standing directly behind him.
That’s when Joe moved. Stomping down hard where he guessed his assailant’s left foot to be, he reached up at the same time and grabbed the knife-bearing hand. Its skin felt cold and clammy -- like a dead frog -- but he did not let that prevent him from bending the hand back against the waist until the knife dropped. And the bones broke.
Joe’s assailant was curiously silent for a man who should have screaming in agony.
Instead, the only thing Joe heard was “It’s not that easy, kid.”
The voice was familiar, but not the face. When Joe turned around, he found himself staring into a bleached parody of a human face, the type of scarred and tattered face you’d expect to see on a man who had spent the last seven months on the bottom of the Hudson River, not on a living person.
Then the man smiled -- if you could call what he did smiling -- and Joe recognized the familiar lop-sided grin of his former mentor, Frank Lupesco. It had been Lupesco who had gotten Joe his first job in the “retirement business.” Frank had taught Joe everything he knew. Taught him so well that when Frank retired and decided to turn state’s evidence, Joe was the one chosen to bring him down. And he did. Seven months ago.
And here Frank was, standing before him, smiling as if his broken wrist was a mere scratch.
“This one’s for you, kid.”
With frightening suddenness, Frank lunged forward and grabbed Joe by the throat with his other hand. Pressing his other forearm against Joe’s throat as well, he pinned Joe against the wall and started to squeeze. Joe’s face began to turn blue; he was running out of time. In desperation, he punched his opponent in the stomach. His fist went all the way through.
As Frank let go, Joe was too relieved to do anything but stand and watch Frank’s body collapse in upon itself like a punctured balloon. Too late he thought of questioning him; by then, his body was merely a pile of decaying flesh awaiting disposal.
That’s when Joe realized that the plot against him was more than simply an elaborate scheme of vengeance. Even the best plastic surgeon could not have instilled such qualities into a Frank Lupesco lookalike. The man who did had to be a person who had experience dealing with the supernatural. A man who not only had such experience but who also possessed a grudge against him. Somebody like -- like -- the old man!
By then, the old man’s name had faded away from Joe’s memory, but he still remembered that scene in the room full of candles, and he also remembered the old man’s ominous last words.
At first, it seemed ridiculous -- an old-fashioned curse at work in the twentieth century. And yet it was the only explanation which made sense. If only there was some way to break the curse...
Then it came to him. The curse was operating in a pattern: confront Joe with all his previous victims, in the order of their deaths, and have the attacks increase in intensity. Considering the number of people Joe had killed in his lifetime, such a pattern could easily wear him down before it ended. And sooner or later one of the victims was bound to get lucky and kill him.
But suppose he short-circuited the curse. Instead of waiting for the victims to go after him, he would go after the victims. And the most obvious one to pursue would be the first one -- his father. The only one he had killed for free...
**************************************************************************************************************
The sun was going down now, and there was still no sign of his old man. He smiled at the irony -- the old man had intended to avenge his own death by using Joe’s own old man to kill him. Perhaps he had been counting on the power of nostalgia to prevent Joe from delivering the fatal blow. Well, it won’t work, Joe thought. There was no love lost between him and his father. He killed him before and he could kill him again.
Then it occurred to him -- what if this was exactly what the old man had wanted? For Joe to come up here to New York and face the ultimate challenge? Joe had not been attacked since that day in Miami. The trip up here had been way too easy -- almost as if he was being set up.
He scoffed at this thought. There was nothing to fear. He had a loaded revolver in the highest caliber and absolutely no reason not to use it. Everything he had experienced so far told him that the old man’s walking cadavers were still vulnerable to gunshots. There was nothing to fear.
And then he heard it. A quiet, scraping sound like dead leaves rustling across the sidewalk. No footsteps -- just a quiet, rustling sound. Then the doorknob turned. Joe slowly drew out his revolver and aimed it at the front door. This is going to be easier than I had anticipated, he thought. Then the door opened...
Joe’s first thought was that it was all a trick. That the old man had anticipated his actions and sent a stranger to take him by surprise. After all, Joe might not remember every single man he killed, but he certainly would have remembering icing a woman. Then he looked beyond the woman’s black dress and veil -- recognized a face which he had seen only once before, in a wedding portrait kept by his father because it was the last picture taken of her before she died in childbirth. And suddenly he knew why the old man was so certain that Joe would not be able to kill her.
He had time to say only one word before the first of many blows fell: “Mother.”
“Final Vengeance”
(This was my first attempt at writing a short story for publication. I would like to think that I have improved a bit since I first wrote this but I guess that's up to you all, the readers, to judge. Anyway, I hope you all like it.)
The moment Joe Mesey reentered the old neighborhood, he knew that his coming back was a mistake. Not for any foolish, sentimental reasons -- it’s hard to be nostalgic about growing up in a slum -- but because his return was all too easy. He had expected an all-out attack the minute he entered his old stomping grounds; instead, he was simply ignored.
As a member of mankind’s true oldest profession, a self-styled professional assassin who euphemistically referred to his calling as the “retirement business” and who commanded top dollar for a kill, this was a bit of an insult. He had expected a neighborhood crawling with cops -- or worse; instead, he found an area of deserted streets and neglected tenements -- a place seemingly as devoid of life as the dark side of the moon.
It was an eerie feeling. Had Joe been a lesser man, he might have turned the car around and searched for more populous surroundings. But he was on a mission here -- a personal mission. He had returned to this neighborhood to kill a man. A man whom he had killed a long time ago...
**************************************************************************************************************
The room was filled with more candles than a religious shrine and their acrid scent and flickering light made Joe uneasy. He kept peering into the shadows of the old man’s living room as if expecting to see something lurking there. Nothing was there, of course, but the way the old man kept bowing his head and peering into his little grey book made Joe uneasy. And he hated being made uneasy. Especially by a little old man who was destined within a matter of minutes to meet the Maker about which he endless prattled.
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the realization that the old man had said something. He looked up at the white-haired figure and smiled inwardly at the idea of this little man in the black suit and skullcap doing him bodily harm. As powerful as he may have once been, now he could not harm a flea.
“Pardon me, he said. “I didn’t hear that last question.”
“I was asking whether you had considered the consequences of your actions, Mr. Mesey,” the old man said in a voice that was stern yet moderate.
“Of course, I have. I simply waste you and then my boss gives me a lot of money. What’s to consider?”
“Hasn’t the thought of punishment ever entered your mind?”
“Not really. The cops won’t be able to prove a thing, and nothing you can do can change that.”
“I wasn’t talking about earthly justice.”
“Oh, really?”
“Doesn’t it ever bother you, Mr. Mesey -- the number of men you’ve killed?”
“Of course not. Why should it?”
“Fear of the dead is a centuries-old tradition,” said the old man. “Some say it dates back to Neanderthal man.”
“Well, that may be the case with some people, but I’m more like a surgeon. I live with death every day. It doesn’t scare me a bit.”
“If I were you, I would be scared. Murder is the supreme taboo; you have committed it not once, not twice, but times beyond counting.”
“You’re one to talk,” said Joe. “Before you retired, you were in the rackets, too. You know how it is.”
“Yes, I know how it is,” said the old man, gazing at his folded hands. “But I never killed anyone directly. And when the ghosts of those I did kill indirectly began to prey upon my conscience, I knew it was time to leave.”
The old man looked Joe in the eye. “But it’s still not too late for you. The powers that be love a repentant sinner as long as he’s sincere.”
Joe smiled. “That’s nice talk for a dying man but I intend to live a long time.”
“Maybe not as long as you think.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I have taken the liberty of making certain arrangements in case my little talk with you should fail.”
“Oh, I see. Like a sealed letter to the D.A. left in the hands of your attorney?”
“Nothing so crude, I assure you,” said the old man. “Besides, I’m sure a man in your profession has sufficient connections to get such a letter swiftly discredited. No, my arrangements are of a more final and irrevocable nature.”
Joe laughed. “If that’s meant to scare me, it didn’t work.”
“It wasn’t meant to scare you -- now.”
“Listen, old man,” said Joe, pulling out his gun. “I’ve had about enough of this Jewish superstition nonsense you’ve been giving me.”
“Jewish? Who said it was Jewish?” The old man’s voice took on a sepulchral tone. “The faith I follow is older than Judaism.”
That’s when Joe’s gun went off. The first bullet hit the old man in the chest; the two followup shots hit him in the belly and the groin. Joe never knew whether his shots were the result of anger or blind panic, but the results were the same. One dead Jew (or so-called Jew, if his last words were correct) who had time to do little more than glare and mumble an inaudible curse before succumbing to the permanent paralysis of death. Hardly the formidable adversary he had anticipated.
“I hoe you prepared well for the afterlife, old man,” Joe said as he stood up. “Because you’re going to have all eternity to enjoy it.”
He left the house quietly, but not before giving some thought to the arrangements the old man had mentioned. However, search as he did, he could find no trace of any hidden cameras or tape recorders in the old man’s residence...
**************************************************************************************************************
The old apartment house where he used to live was boarded up now -- a victim of urban renewal. Gazing at the crumbling exterior brought back many memories for Joe. Memories of living with his old man -- an embittered widower with five children to raise. A man who had sought refuge in a whiskey bottle and who used his youngest child -- Joe -- as a punching bag until the day Joe fought back and caved in his father’s skull with a tire iron. Yes, the place did bring back a lot of old memories -- none of them good.
He smiled grimly and attacked the boards on the front door with a tire iron. As the ancient nails reluctantly began to yield, he once more looked around the neighborhood, expecting any minute to see a cop -- or something -- appear around the corner to question him about his activity. But none appeared. Joe seemed to be the only person around in what should have been a crowded slum neighborhood. It was as if he was in the land of the dead.
Joe shuddered. He was normally not an imaginative person -- in his line of business, you couldn’t afford to be -- yet something about that last phrase -- and the way it popped into his mind, unsummoned -- made him uneasy. Especially when he looked back upon certain recent events...
**************************************************************************************************************
The first clue Joe had that the old man‘s arrangements were not just talk occurred in Chicago. He had heard the old line about being able to meet almost anyone in the world by standing on State Street, but he never expected to see Vinny McCloskey there. And for a very good reason -- Vinny had died six months ago.
When he first confronted Vinny with this information, Vinny seemed as shocked as Joe. His eyes went blank; he appeared to be remembering something.
Then he remembered.
“You!” he screamed. “You’re the one who killed me.”
Within an instant, Vinny’s hands were around Joe’s neck, choking him with the strength of the violently insane and the insanely violent. Vinny was a big man; his hands were the size of steam irons. Killing Joe should have been as easy a task for him as cleaning fish. But it did not work out that way. Joe had been around too long not to be prepared for the unexpected; he freed himself with a blow to the groin -- then pulled his newly-purchased revolver and fired a bullet meant for a prominent state witness into Vinny’s chest.
At this point, Vinny smiled -- the vacant smile customarily associated with the hopelessly insane -- and then he collapsed. For a moment, Joe was aghast. After all, even the most blasé hitman does not meet dead people on the street every day. Then he took Vinny’s pulse. The bullet wound Vinny had just received was not necessarily a mortal one, yet he was already dead.
Needless to say, the witness job was blown. No one had witnessed the confrontation between Joe and Vinny, but that didn’t mean the cops would not be interested if they ever caught wind of it.
And what of the body? Although Joe managed to safely dispose of it without being seen, that still did not account for its presence. Surely he had not just killed the real Vinny; after all, the real Vinny was supposed to be feeding the worms in a South Side cemetery. That meant the man he had killed was an imposter, no doubt made up to look like Vinny with the help of a clever plastic surgeon. But an imposter with Vinny’s height and build? Possible, Joe thought, but not probable. Which meant...
**************************************************************************************************************
The last board came off with an angry screech. Now the door was open and he could seek shelter from the open street. Yet Joe was not satisfied.
If he was right, the man he came to kill would be lurking inside, safe from the summer heat. It unnerved him to realize how matter-of-fact he was handling the whole situation. Had his own boss told him a similar story, he would not have believed him -- even if his life depended upon it. Yet here he was, standing outside his old apartment house, treating his long-dead father as a potential adversary…
He pushed the door open with his foot, holding the tire iron ready in case of attack. None came. Inside the entrance hall was nothing but dust and silence.
As Joe stepped inside, he again held the tire iron ready to ward off a sudden attack. But -- again -- none came.
Perhaps I only dreamed the first incident, he thought. Perhaps I was wrong and the old man’s curse was only a figment of my imagination.
Then Joe thought again and shook his head. For he remembered Frank Lupesco...
**************************************************************************************************************
It had happened at a men’s room in the Miami Airport. Joe was combing his hair before boarding a flight to San Juan when he felt himself being seized from behind. Without warning, he was whirled around and thrown against the opposite wall. Before he could recover, a knife was at his throat, and on the nape of his neck, he could feel the hot breath of the man standing directly behind him.
That’s when Joe moved. Stomping down hard where he guessed his assailant’s left foot to be, he reached up at the same time and grabbed the knife-bearing hand. Its skin felt cold and clammy -- like a dead frog -- but he did not let that prevent him from bending the hand back against the waist until the knife dropped. And the bones broke.
Joe’s assailant was curiously silent for a man who should have screaming in agony.
Instead, the only thing Joe heard was “It’s not that easy, kid.”
The voice was familiar, but not the face. When Joe turned around, he found himself staring into a bleached parody of a human face, the type of scarred and tattered face you’d expect to see on a man who had spent the last seven months on the bottom of the Hudson River, not on a living person.
Then the man smiled -- if you could call what he did smiling -- and Joe recognized the familiar lop-sided grin of his former mentor, Frank Lupesco. It had been Lupesco who had gotten Joe his first job in the “retirement business.” Frank had taught Joe everything he knew. Taught him so well that when Frank retired and decided to turn state’s evidence, Joe was the one chosen to bring him down. And he did. Seven months ago.
And here Frank was, standing before him, smiling as if his broken wrist was a mere scratch.
“This one’s for you, kid.”
With frightening suddenness, Frank lunged forward and grabbed Joe by the throat with his other hand. Pressing his other forearm against Joe’s throat as well, he pinned Joe against the wall and started to squeeze. Joe’s face began to turn blue; he was running out of time. In desperation, he punched his opponent in the stomach. His fist went all the way through.
As Frank let go, Joe was too relieved to do anything but stand and watch Frank’s body collapse in upon itself like a punctured balloon. Too late he thought of questioning him; by then, his body was merely a pile of decaying flesh awaiting disposal.
That’s when Joe realized that the plot against him was more than simply an elaborate scheme of vengeance. Even the best plastic surgeon could not have instilled such qualities into a Frank Lupesco lookalike. The man who did had to be a person who had experience dealing with the supernatural. A man who not only had such experience but who also possessed a grudge against him. Somebody like -- like -- the old man!
By then, the old man’s name had faded away from Joe’s memory, but he still remembered that scene in the room full of candles, and he also remembered the old man’s ominous last words.
At first, it seemed ridiculous -- an old-fashioned curse at work in the twentieth century. And yet it was the only explanation which made sense. If only there was some way to break the curse...
Then it came to him. The curse was operating in a pattern: confront Joe with all his previous victims, in the order of their deaths, and have the attacks increase in intensity. Considering the number of people Joe had killed in his lifetime, such a pattern could easily wear him down before it ended. And sooner or later one of the victims was bound to get lucky and kill him.
But suppose he short-circuited the curse. Instead of waiting for the victims to go after him, he would go after the victims. And the most obvious one to pursue would be the first one -- his father. The only one he had killed for free...
**************************************************************************************************************
The sun was going down now, and there was still no sign of his old man. He smiled at the irony -- the old man had intended to avenge his own death by using Joe’s own old man to kill him. Perhaps he had been counting on the power of nostalgia to prevent Joe from delivering the fatal blow. Well, it won’t work, Joe thought. There was no love lost between him and his father. He killed him before and he could kill him again.
Then it occurred to him -- what if this was exactly what the old man had wanted? For Joe to come up here to New York and face the ultimate challenge? Joe had not been attacked since that day in Miami. The trip up here had been way too easy -- almost as if he was being set up.
He scoffed at this thought. There was nothing to fear. He had a loaded revolver in the highest caliber and absolutely no reason not to use it. Everything he had experienced so far told him that the old man’s walking cadavers were still vulnerable to gunshots. There was nothing to fear.
And then he heard it. A quiet, scraping sound like dead leaves rustling across the sidewalk. No footsteps -- just a quiet, rustling sound. Then the doorknob turned. Joe slowly drew out his revolver and aimed it at the front door. This is going to be easier than I had anticipated, he thought. Then the door opened...
Joe’s first thought was that it was all a trick. That the old man had anticipated his actions and sent a stranger to take him by surprise. After all, Joe might not remember every single man he killed, but he certainly would have remembering icing a woman. Then he looked beyond the woman’s black dress and veil -- recognized a face which he had seen only once before, in a wedding portrait kept by his father because it was the last picture taken of her before she died in childbirth. And suddenly he knew why the old man was so certain that Joe would not be able to kill her.
He had time to say only one word before the first of many blows fell: “Mother.”
Friday, October 11, 2019
Fanfic Friday
"Dawn at Dusk"
Dawn was still standing by the kitchen sink as she cleaned the gasoline off of her hands when Kennedy came into the house from the back yard.
"Dawn," she asked, "have you seen Spike today? It's almost time for our nightly training exercises and I don't see him anywhere."
"I don't think Spike is going to participate in any more training exercises," said Dawn. "He and my sister had a big fight yesterday and I believe that he's decided to move on."
"A fight?" asked Kennedy. "Was that what all the shouting was about yesterday?"
"Probably," said Dawn with a shrug.
"So that explains all the bruises on her arm," said Kennedy. "He didn't try to -- "
"Well, he tried, but he didn't succeed," said Dawn. "Once again my sister was too strong for him, which is just as well since he'll never be doing that again."
"What do you mean, 'again'?" asked Kennedy. "And how do you know that he'll never be doing it again?"
"Oh, just a hunch," said Dawn. "Buffy is not the only one in this household who has visions. By the way, there's a notebook on the table full of phrases in Cantonese that I found on the Internet. I figured that as long as Chao-Ahn is staying with us, we might as well find some way to communicate with her."
"Why, thank you, Dawn," said Kennedy. "That's so thoughtful of you. But why didn't you let Giles or Willow do that?"
"Because there are some certain things that need to be done that Giles or Willow -- or even Buffy -- can't -- or won't -- be bothered to do," said Dawn. "And apparently that is my job now -- to do the things that need to be done that others seem unwilling to do. Now if you'll excuse me, Kennedy, I need to go clean up the basement."
"Yes, I suppose you'd better," said Kennedy. "It smells like somebody's been burning trash down there."
"Yes, that's one way to put it," said Dawn with an enigmatic expression on her face.
"Dawn at Dusk"
Dawn was still standing by the kitchen sink as she cleaned the gasoline off of her hands when Kennedy came into the house from the back yard.
"Dawn," she asked, "have you seen Spike today? It's almost time for our nightly training exercises and I don't see him anywhere."
"I don't think Spike is going to participate in any more training exercises," said Dawn. "He and my sister had a big fight yesterday and I believe that he's decided to move on."
"A fight?" asked Kennedy. "Was that what all the shouting was about yesterday?"
"Probably," said Dawn with a shrug.
"So that explains all the bruises on her arm," said Kennedy. "He didn't try to -- "
"Well, he tried, but he didn't succeed," said Dawn. "Once again my sister was too strong for him, which is just as well since he'll never be doing that again."
"What do you mean, 'again'?" asked Kennedy. "And how do you know that he'll never be doing it again?"
"Oh, just a hunch," said Dawn. "Buffy is not the only one in this household who has visions. By the way, there's a notebook on the table full of phrases in Cantonese that I found on the Internet. I figured that as long as Chao-Ahn is staying with us, we might as well find some way to communicate with her."
"Why, thank you, Dawn," said Kennedy. "That's so thoughtful of you. But why didn't you let Giles or Willow do that?"
"Because there are some certain things that need to be done that Giles or Willow -- or even Buffy -- can't -- or won't -- be bothered to do," said Dawn. "And apparently that is my job now -- to do the things that need to be done that others seem unwilling to do. Now if you'll excuse me, Kennedy, I need to go clean up the basement."
"Yes, I suppose you'd better," said Kennedy. "It smells like somebody's been burning trash down there."
"Yes, that's one way to put it," said Dawn with an enigmatic expression on her face.
Tuesday, October 8, 2019
Cuento de Mi Id
“Love Among the Runes”
(This was one of my many early attempts to write a proper horror story. It is surprising how dated many of the pop culture references are, which is something I consider weird since I did not originally intend this story to be a period piece. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it.)
“But I love you,” Kenneth said, tugging at her coat.
“But I don’t love you,” said Katherine. “That’s just the point.” She pulled her coat out of Kenneth’s grasp and continued on her way.
“Why?” asked Kenneth. “Why don’t you love me?”
“I don’t know ‘why’ I don’t love you,” said Katherine. “I just don’t. It’s not something you can make happen just like that.” She snapped her fingers for effect.
Kenneth just shook his head. “I don’t get it. I love you. Why don’t you love me?”
Because true love is not like exchanging gifts at the office Christmas party, she wanted to say. But she didn’t say it. Somehow she couldn’t bear to hurt him by being that harsh with him, even though he deserved it. Perhaps she really did love him, after all.
Don’t be ridiculous, she thought. Just because I don’t want to hurt his feelings doesn’t mean I love him, and even if it did, I certainly don’t love him in the sense that he means. In any event, love isn’t something you receive upon demand. How did that song go? “Lose your love when you say the word ‘mine’”? Or was that “you can’t hurry love”? It didn’t matter. The fact still remained that you can’t force someone to love you. Yet Kenneth was determined to violate that basic law of nature.
He clutched at her coat one more time. “Won’t you please reconsider?”
Katherine forcibly pulled the coat fabric out of his hands. “I have reconsidered,” she said. “And the answer’s still no.”
Kenneth started to step toward her again, then reconsidered and stepped back. Good, thought Katherine. He’s learning.
Kenneth’s mouth opened as if he was starting to say something but he apparently thought better of that, too, and closed it. “I hope you never fall in love with someone who doesn’t love you back, Katherine,” he finally said.
“I’m sure I won’t,” she replied.
Kenneth couldn’t resist trying one last time. “I really do love you, you know.”
“Oh, please,” Katherine muttered under her breath. She turned on her heel and stalked off toward the parking lot. If Kenneth wanted to play the role of the tragic lover, that was his business. But Katherine had no interest in sticking around to play the cold-hearted love interest. She had her own life to lead.
Halfway to her way, a cold November breeze induced her to put her hands in her pockets. As she did so, she discovered a small piece of paper in her left coat pocket. Kenneth’s handiwork, obviously. He must have slipped it into her pocket while she was taking to him. No wonder he had been tugging at her coat so much.
She pulled out the piece of paper and unfolded it. She might as well have left it in her pocket for all the good it did her; the note itself was obviously written in a foreign tongue, in letters so strange Katherine could not even recognize what language it was written in. Nice going, Kenneth, she thought. You go to all this trouble to slip your favorite lady a love letter, and you don’t even bother to write it in English. Very impressive.
She crumbled up the note and tossed it away. Within seconds, the wind had caught it, and the note was blown halfway across the parking lot. Perfect ending to a perfect day, she thought. Then she reached into her purse for her car keys…
By the time she got home, there was a blinking red light on her answering machine. No way I’m answering that, she thought. You don’t have to be the Amazing Kreskin to guess who that was.
She hurriedly undressed and took a quick shower. While she was in the shower, she heard the phone ring yet again, but she ignored it. The phone rang yet a third time after she got out of the shower.
She let the machine get it again.
“Katherine,” said the voice on the machine. ”You must call me back as soon as possible. My number’s 972-435-9075. It’s a matter of great importance. Please call me back.”
Katherine sighed. Everything was a matter of great importance to Kenneth. Didn’t he have a life of his own? He probably did, she realized upon reflection. The problem was that at least half of it revolved around dreams of her. As if she was supposed to be flattered that Kenneth picked her to be his dream girl. Face it, Kenneth. You’re no Brad Pitt. And anyway, I don’t want a man who loves only me. I’m not sure what I want, but it’s definitely not you.
She thought about the party she would be attending tomorrow night. The odds were that the men she met there would be no improvement over Kenneth, but there was always a chance. And besides, where is it written that you had to “settle” for second-best? Katherine was always having to “settle” for things. Well, no more. This time she would take control of her life.
The phone rang again. This time she picked it up.
It was Kenneth. “Thank God you’re home. They’ve been watching us, you see, and they must have slipped something in your coat pocket--”
“What’s with this ‘they’, Kenneth?” she interrupted. “Is this another scheme of yours to get me to go out with you? Because if it is--”
“No, it isn’t,” Kenneth replied. “I swear. It’s just that they’ve been following me for the last two days, and just tonight, I noticed that they’re starting to follow you, and--”
“Who’s ‘they,’ Kenneth? Some schoolboy chum of yours?”
“No, they’re this -- Well, you won’t believe me when I tell you this, but I used to belong to this group, see, and they were really into mythology, see--”
“Is this going to take long?” Katherine asked.
“No, it’s not. You see, they’re after you now because they’ve seen us together, and they must think we’re boyfriend and girlfriend. Anyway, I saw one of them hanging around the coatroom today and --”
“And then you conveniently remembered that in time to give you an excuse to come over to my house,” said Katherine. “Thanks, Kenneth, but no thanks. I’m not going out with you no matter what silly story you conjure up. And stop flattering yourself. Your friends must be the least observant people on Earth if they think we’re boyfriend and girlfriend because at no time did I ever give you or any third party any reason to think that we were. Now leave me alone before I call the police.”
“But what about the not--?” Katherine hung up on him.
Great, she thought. Now Kenneth was inventing conspiracy theories to get close to her. If this kept up, she might have to seriously consider changing jobs. Surely her current paycheck wasn’t worth this hassle.
The doorbell rang. Katherine checked the peephole. No one on the front porch. Probably high school kids pulling another prank. If she ever got her hands on that Kenneth…
The phone rang again. It was Kenneth, of course, mumbling something about a note in her pocket. If he was so sure someone else had slipped a note into her pocket, why didn’t he tell her about it earlier? He must have seen her throw it away. That’s why he was so upset. Well, he should start getting used to rejection, thought Katherine. She certainly had.
She turned the TV on and sorted her mail by the light of a Cheers rerun. Just bills and junk mail again. She sighed.
At least the sound of canned laughter drowned out Kenneth’s voice. Maybe she’ll get lucky, and he’ll run out of quarters.
The doorbell rang again. Those darn kids again. Or maybe it was Kenneth. Maybe she should get her mace... No, she could handle him.
She peered out the peephole again. The porch was empty. It was kids, she thought. Or was it? Maybe she should start taking Kenneth’s bizarre story seriously. No, that’s exactly what he was expecting her to do. Perhaps he had set this whole thing up as part of some sadistic prank. You never could tell. Sure, Kenneth looked like a nice guy on the surface, but underneath? Who could tell? Remember Jodie Foster? Forget it. If Kenneth thought sadistic pranks were going to drive her into his arms, he had a long wait coming. If he kept it up, she‘d just call the cops on him. She wasn‘t born yesterday, you know.
The phone rang again. She turned the sound up on the TV. There. That showed him.
Then the doorbell rang again. Katherine got her mace. Next time it rings, she thought, I‘ll be ready.
She glanced out the front window. She thought she saw a white-faced figure dressed in black, but it turned out to be a piece of paper stuck on a bush. Then the wind blew, and the paper vanished.
The phone rang. This time she picked it up.
“If you don‘t stop harassing me--” she started.
“Katherine,” Kenneth interrupted, “you must get out of that house. They know where you live.”
“I‘m warning you, Kenneth--”
“No, I‘m warning you. There‘s still a chance if you still have that note. Just give it to me and I can--”
“I threw it away.”
“What?”” Kenneth sounded stunned.
“I threw it away. And I must say that I‘m getting sick and tired of all these pranks you keep pulling, Kenneth. I know you feel rejected, but I thought that you would be a better man than that.”
“But I‘m not -- Oh, I see. They‘re doing it.”
“Who‘s ‘they,’ Kenneth?”
”The guys I told you about. The ones who are into black mag--”
Katherine hung up on him.
The doorbell rang again. This time Katherine strode right up to the door and pulled it open in time to catch a miniature figure kneeling on the doormat.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
The kid looked up. “That man down the street told me to do this.” The kid pointed down the block.
Katherine walked out onto the porch and caught a glimpse of a solitary figure standing beneath a distant streetlamp. Kenneth, no doubt.
“Go away,” she said to the kid.
She locked the door behind her and ran to the phone. That was it for Kenneth, she thought. Now she was going to sic the police on him.
The doorbell rang.
She ignored it.
Someone tapped on her window. She ignored that, too.
An operator answered and put her on hold. Just like a Tonight Show joke, she thought.
The tapping grew louder.
She turned and saw Kenneth at the front window.
The operator came back on the line.
“Come quick,” she said. “There’s a man outside and he’s trying to break into the house.”
She hurriedly gave the operator her name and address and then hung up. Kenneth was gone from the front window. But he could still be outside, she thought.
The doorbell rang again.
“Go away!” she shouted.
Something thin and white emerged from beneath the front door. It was a note. “Get out of the house,” it said.
She crumbled it up and threw it away.
Then the phone rang. She ignored it. She thought about the back door. She rushed back to check on it.
When she got back to the living room, the doorbell was ringing again. She peered through the peephole. There was a cop on the front porch, peering into the bushes.
“Thank God,” she muttered.
She hurriedly unlocked the door. “You wouldn’t believe what has been going on here tonig--” she started to say.
Then the cop turned toward her. The first thing she saw was a face that looked like a crumbled sheet of paper.
“Love Among the Runes”
(This was one of my many early attempts to write a proper horror story. It is surprising how dated many of the pop culture references are, which is something I consider weird since I did not originally intend this story to be a period piece. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it.)
“But I love you,” Kenneth said, tugging at her coat.
“But I don’t love you,” said Katherine. “That’s just the point.” She pulled her coat out of Kenneth’s grasp and continued on her way.
“Why?” asked Kenneth. “Why don’t you love me?”
“I don’t know ‘why’ I don’t love you,” said Katherine. “I just don’t. It’s not something you can make happen just like that.” She snapped her fingers for effect.
Kenneth just shook his head. “I don’t get it. I love you. Why don’t you love me?”
Because true love is not like exchanging gifts at the office Christmas party, she wanted to say. But she didn’t say it. Somehow she couldn’t bear to hurt him by being that harsh with him, even though he deserved it. Perhaps she really did love him, after all.
Don’t be ridiculous, she thought. Just because I don’t want to hurt his feelings doesn’t mean I love him, and even if it did, I certainly don’t love him in the sense that he means. In any event, love isn’t something you receive upon demand. How did that song go? “Lose your love when you say the word ‘mine’”? Or was that “you can’t hurry love”? It didn’t matter. The fact still remained that you can’t force someone to love you. Yet Kenneth was determined to violate that basic law of nature.
He clutched at her coat one more time. “Won’t you please reconsider?”
Katherine forcibly pulled the coat fabric out of his hands. “I have reconsidered,” she said. “And the answer’s still no.”
Kenneth started to step toward her again, then reconsidered and stepped back. Good, thought Katherine. He’s learning.
Kenneth’s mouth opened as if he was starting to say something but he apparently thought better of that, too, and closed it. “I hope you never fall in love with someone who doesn’t love you back, Katherine,” he finally said.
“I’m sure I won’t,” she replied.
Kenneth couldn’t resist trying one last time. “I really do love you, you know.”
“Oh, please,” Katherine muttered under her breath. She turned on her heel and stalked off toward the parking lot. If Kenneth wanted to play the role of the tragic lover, that was his business. But Katherine had no interest in sticking around to play the cold-hearted love interest. She had her own life to lead.
Halfway to her way, a cold November breeze induced her to put her hands in her pockets. As she did so, she discovered a small piece of paper in her left coat pocket. Kenneth’s handiwork, obviously. He must have slipped it into her pocket while she was taking to him. No wonder he had been tugging at her coat so much.
She pulled out the piece of paper and unfolded it. She might as well have left it in her pocket for all the good it did her; the note itself was obviously written in a foreign tongue, in letters so strange Katherine could not even recognize what language it was written in. Nice going, Kenneth, she thought. You go to all this trouble to slip your favorite lady a love letter, and you don’t even bother to write it in English. Very impressive.
She crumbled up the note and tossed it away. Within seconds, the wind had caught it, and the note was blown halfway across the parking lot. Perfect ending to a perfect day, she thought. Then she reached into her purse for her car keys…
By the time she got home, there was a blinking red light on her answering machine. No way I’m answering that, she thought. You don’t have to be the Amazing Kreskin to guess who that was.
She hurriedly undressed and took a quick shower. While she was in the shower, she heard the phone ring yet again, but she ignored it. The phone rang yet a third time after she got out of the shower.
She let the machine get it again.
“Katherine,” said the voice on the machine. ”You must call me back as soon as possible. My number’s 972-435-9075. It’s a matter of great importance. Please call me back.”
Katherine sighed. Everything was a matter of great importance to Kenneth. Didn’t he have a life of his own? He probably did, she realized upon reflection. The problem was that at least half of it revolved around dreams of her. As if she was supposed to be flattered that Kenneth picked her to be his dream girl. Face it, Kenneth. You’re no Brad Pitt. And anyway, I don’t want a man who loves only me. I’m not sure what I want, but it’s definitely not you.
She thought about the party she would be attending tomorrow night. The odds were that the men she met there would be no improvement over Kenneth, but there was always a chance. And besides, where is it written that you had to “settle” for second-best? Katherine was always having to “settle” for things. Well, no more. This time she would take control of her life.
The phone rang again. This time she picked it up.
It was Kenneth. “Thank God you’re home. They’ve been watching us, you see, and they must have slipped something in your coat pocket--”
“What’s with this ‘they’, Kenneth?” she interrupted. “Is this another scheme of yours to get me to go out with you? Because if it is--”
“No, it isn’t,” Kenneth replied. “I swear. It’s just that they’ve been following me for the last two days, and just tonight, I noticed that they’re starting to follow you, and--”
“Who’s ‘they,’ Kenneth? Some schoolboy chum of yours?”
“No, they’re this -- Well, you won’t believe me when I tell you this, but I used to belong to this group, see, and they were really into mythology, see--”
“Is this going to take long?” Katherine asked.
“No, it’s not. You see, they’re after you now because they’ve seen us together, and they must think we’re boyfriend and girlfriend. Anyway, I saw one of them hanging around the coatroom today and --”
“And then you conveniently remembered that in time to give you an excuse to come over to my house,” said Katherine. “Thanks, Kenneth, but no thanks. I’m not going out with you no matter what silly story you conjure up. And stop flattering yourself. Your friends must be the least observant people on Earth if they think we’re boyfriend and girlfriend because at no time did I ever give you or any third party any reason to think that we were. Now leave me alone before I call the police.”
“But what about the not--?” Katherine hung up on him.
Great, she thought. Now Kenneth was inventing conspiracy theories to get close to her. If this kept up, she might have to seriously consider changing jobs. Surely her current paycheck wasn’t worth this hassle.
The doorbell rang. Katherine checked the peephole. No one on the front porch. Probably high school kids pulling another prank. If she ever got her hands on that Kenneth…
The phone rang again. It was Kenneth, of course, mumbling something about a note in her pocket. If he was so sure someone else had slipped a note into her pocket, why didn’t he tell her about it earlier? He must have seen her throw it away. That’s why he was so upset. Well, he should start getting used to rejection, thought Katherine. She certainly had.
She turned the TV on and sorted her mail by the light of a Cheers rerun. Just bills and junk mail again. She sighed.
At least the sound of canned laughter drowned out Kenneth’s voice. Maybe she’ll get lucky, and he’ll run out of quarters.
The doorbell rang again. Those darn kids again. Or maybe it was Kenneth. Maybe she should get her mace... No, she could handle him.
She peered out the peephole again. The porch was empty. It was kids, she thought. Or was it? Maybe she should start taking Kenneth’s bizarre story seriously. No, that’s exactly what he was expecting her to do. Perhaps he had set this whole thing up as part of some sadistic prank. You never could tell. Sure, Kenneth looked like a nice guy on the surface, but underneath? Who could tell? Remember Jodie Foster? Forget it. If Kenneth thought sadistic pranks were going to drive her into his arms, he had a long wait coming. If he kept it up, she‘d just call the cops on him. She wasn‘t born yesterday, you know.
The phone rang again. She turned the sound up on the TV. There. That showed him.
Then the doorbell rang again. Katherine got her mace. Next time it rings, she thought, I‘ll be ready.
She glanced out the front window. She thought she saw a white-faced figure dressed in black, but it turned out to be a piece of paper stuck on a bush. Then the wind blew, and the paper vanished.
The phone rang. This time she picked it up.
“If you don‘t stop harassing me--” she started.
“Katherine,” Kenneth interrupted, “you must get out of that house. They know where you live.”
“I‘m warning you, Kenneth--”
“No, I‘m warning you. There‘s still a chance if you still have that note. Just give it to me and I can--”
“I threw it away.”
“What?”” Kenneth sounded stunned.
“I threw it away. And I must say that I‘m getting sick and tired of all these pranks you keep pulling, Kenneth. I know you feel rejected, but I thought that you would be a better man than that.”
“But I‘m not -- Oh, I see. They‘re doing it.”
“Who‘s ‘they,’ Kenneth?”
”The guys I told you about. The ones who are into black mag--”
Katherine hung up on him.
The doorbell rang again. This time Katherine strode right up to the door and pulled it open in time to catch a miniature figure kneeling on the doormat.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
The kid looked up. “That man down the street told me to do this.” The kid pointed down the block.
Katherine walked out onto the porch and caught a glimpse of a solitary figure standing beneath a distant streetlamp. Kenneth, no doubt.
“Go away,” she said to the kid.
She locked the door behind her and ran to the phone. That was it for Kenneth, she thought. Now she was going to sic the police on him.
The doorbell rang.
She ignored it.
Someone tapped on her window. She ignored that, too.
An operator answered and put her on hold. Just like a Tonight Show joke, she thought.
The tapping grew louder.
She turned and saw Kenneth at the front window.
The operator came back on the line.
“Come quick,” she said. “There’s a man outside and he’s trying to break into the house.”
She hurriedly gave the operator her name and address and then hung up. Kenneth was gone from the front window. But he could still be outside, she thought.
The doorbell rang again.
“Go away!” she shouted.
Something thin and white emerged from beneath the front door. It was a note. “Get out of the house,” it said.
She crumbled it up and threw it away.
Then the phone rang. She ignored it. She thought about the back door. She rushed back to check on it.
When she got back to the living room, the doorbell was ringing again. She peered through the peephole. There was a cop on the front porch, peering into the bushes.
“Thank God,” she muttered.
She hurriedly unlocked the door. “You wouldn’t believe what has been going on here tonig--” she started to say.
Then the cop turned toward her. The first thing she saw was a face that looked like a crumbled sheet of paper.
Friday, October 4, 2019
Fanfic Friday
“The Funeral”
The four of them had rarely driven this far away from home before that day and since they were unfamiliar with the territory, it was no big surprise that they got lost. By the time they made it to the funeral home, it was after sunset and the service had already started so Ned and the others had to stand awkwardly outside the chapel until it was over.
Not that there was a large turnout. There were only a small handful of friends and relatives who turned out to wish a final farewell to the deceased, a young blonde women in her early twenties who had apparently fallen from a great height. Plus there was a British-looking gentleman in a tweed suit who looked like a high school librarian while in the corner, a white-haired man in a black leather coat stood against the wall while seeming to put a significant distance between him and the various containers of holy water near the chapel entrance.
Ned waited until the service was over and the crowd was leaving before he walked up to the coffin. After looking around to see if anyone was watching, he then gestured to his partner Emerson who got out his stop watch and waited for Ned to make his next move. Then Ned immediately touched his left forefinger to the corpse while his other two friends, Charlotte and Olive, stood and watched.
The young blonde woman in the coffin opened her eyes and looked around in panic.
"Where am I?" she asked. "How did I get here? What happened to Dawn?"
"I'm sorry, miss, but we only got a minute and we have some questions to ask you," said Ned.
"I don't understand," said the woman. "What did you do with my sister? Where are my friends? Who are you people?"
"Can't you see you're frightening the poor girl?" asked a voice from behind Ned.
Ned turned and saw that the white-haired man had not only stayed behind but was also walking toward him.
As he got closer, Ned just smiled and tried to look him in the eye. But the white-haired man just glared back at him.
"You don't understand," said Ned. "We suspect a case of foul play here and we have to ask the victim some questions before her time is up."
"Why would her time be up in a minute?" asked the man in a deceptively smooth tone.
"Because I have this ability," said Ned. "If I touch a dead person once, they come back to life. If I don't touch that person again within a minute and make him or her dead again, then something dies in his or her place."
"It's time," said Emerson.
"That's it," said Ned. "Time to touch her again."
At this point, the white-haired man smiled and said, "You try to do that and I'll break your bloody neck!"
“The Funeral”
The four of them had rarely driven this far away from home before that day and since they were unfamiliar with the territory, it was no big surprise that they got lost. By the time they made it to the funeral home, it was after sunset and the service had already started so Ned and the others had to stand awkwardly outside the chapel until it was over.
Not that there was a large turnout. There were only a small handful of friends and relatives who turned out to wish a final farewell to the deceased, a young blonde women in her early twenties who had apparently fallen from a great height. Plus there was a British-looking gentleman in a tweed suit who looked like a high school librarian while in the corner, a white-haired man in a black leather coat stood against the wall while seeming to put a significant distance between him and the various containers of holy water near the chapel entrance.
Ned waited until the service was over and the crowd was leaving before he walked up to the coffin. After looking around to see if anyone was watching, he then gestured to his partner Emerson who got out his stop watch and waited for Ned to make his next move. Then Ned immediately touched his left forefinger to the corpse while his other two friends, Charlotte and Olive, stood and watched.
The young blonde woman in the coffin opened her eyes and looked around in panic.
"Where am I?" she asked. "How did I get here? What happened to Dawn?"
"I'm sorry, miss, but we only got a minute and we have some questions to ask you," said Ned.
"I don't understand," said the woman. "What did you do with my sister? Where are my friends? Who are you people?"
"Can't you see you're frightening the poor girl?" asked a voice from behind Ned.
Ned turned and saw that the white-haired man had not only stayed behind but was also walking toward him.
As he got closer, Ned just smiled and tried to look him in the eye. But the white-haired man just glared back at him.
"You don't understand," said Ned. "We suspect a case of foul play here and we have to ask the victim some questions before her time is up."
"Why would her time be up in a minute?" asked the man in a deceptively smooth tone.
"Because I have this ability," said Ned. "If I touch a dead person once, they come back to life. If I don't touch that person again within a minute and make him or her dead again, then something dies in his or her place."
"It's time," said Emerson.
"That's it," said Ned. "Time to touch her again."
At this point, the white-haired man smiled and said, "You try to do that and I'll break your bloody neck!"
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