From behind a bush, the girls and I spied on her, sitting in the front seat of her old Dodge van reading a magazine. Lane pushed on my back. “Go on,” she said. “You made a promise. Don’t chicken out now.”

My promise was to carry out the seemingly trivial act of asking a woman for a newspaper. But it wasn’t trivial at all. The woman was “Crazy” Beatrice from downstairs. This was no ordinary task; this was crawling into the mouth of a sleeping dragon.

She owned an apartment below my father’s, though she didn’t live there at all. She was what my father called a “pack rat.” Rumor had it her apartment was so full of newspapers and assorted artifacts that she slept, ate, and basically lived her life in her van, which remained forever parked in the complex parking lot. “Stay away from Beatrice,” my father said to me. When I asked why, he got irritated and said, “She’s not right. That’s all you need to know.”

To my friends and I, she was an anomaly. We made up wild theories about her while watching her from my window. Mara said she kept runaway prisoners in her apartment. I told them she was a vampire and stored her victims there after her midnight escapades. Lane joked she spent time in the van because she had a massage pad built into the front seat.

The jokes and theories had culminated in this moment. I would say my line, and then we would watch. None of us had any idea what she would do; eat me, bite me, hug me, anything but respond. Nobody, not even my father, had spoken a word to her.

I inched up to the van and knocked on the window. When she turned to me, I jumped. Her wild, bulging eyes started what felt like a fire in my gut; I immediately thought of the school field trip to the zoo when my teacher told me lions could smell fear. She didn’t look human, buried under layers of parka jackets. Shadowy wisps of hair obscured her pale face.

I said my line. The words stumbled out and picked up speed as they went like some one falling down a staircase. “Can I borrow yesterday’s paper?” I said it, then waited.

She shook her head. I kept standing there and she shouted, “Leave me alone!” I did as I was told and ran.

The girls were disappointed. “That’s it?” Mara said, annoyed. I wondered what Beatrice could have done to amuse them. I couldn’t think of anything. The mystery was over, after all. She was not a vigilante or a vampire but a woman who wanted to be left alone, and that was that.

* * *

The next morning Lane knocked on my apartment door on her way to school. When I opened the door, she looked stunned.

“Beatrice is missing,” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s not in the van. Come on, let’s check it out.” And just like that, the mystery was back.

Lane stood out of sight from Beatrice’s door. She made me knock. I did, and when nothing happened, I held my ear against the door.

“Hear anything?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “I don’t think she’s here.”

“Go in and find out!” Lane whispered so loud that she might as well have shouted. She waved her hand forward in encouragement.

It was a maze inside. Newspapers and magazines piled into eight-foot walls filled in with the occasional book or VHS or CD. I saw candlesticks, water bottles, pots of all sizes, clothes, envelopes, tapes, cups, placemats, Tupperware, jewelry, bed sheets, and cigarette cartons before I turned the first corner. I wondered how many walls stood between me and her window, that tiny hole that opened up into the real world.

“She’s as crazy as I thought,” Lane said, appearing behind me. “I can’t wait to tell Mara about this!”

“Look at these clothes,” I said, picking up a colorful wool sweater. Lane told me to put it on and I did. I found some other clothing and accessories and danced wildly in them, making ugly faces. Lane howled and said looked just like her.

“Check this out,” I said. I buried my face in a magazine, threw it into the air, and shouted, “Leave me alone!”

On the word “alone,” my throat closed as I watched a shadow fall over Lane, and I realized that our fun was over. It was Beatrice.

Lane’s face turned white. She turned and faced the shadow as if to say something, but she merely frowned and looked up like an ant waiting to be killed. Nobody said anything for a long time. Sweat slithered down Beatrice’s pale, shiny face. Her chest moved up and down from behind the parkas; she seemed to huff instead of breathe. At that moment I was certain she could smell my fear.

The word “alone” echoed in my brain and I was suddenly running for the door, breaking through a wall of magazines with strength I didn’t think I had. With Lane in tow I ran up to my apartment, locked my door, and collapsed on the rug with my arms outstretched like a snow angel.

* * *

I told my father everything a week later. After I was finished I asked if he was mad at me.

He sighed and folded his arms. We were sitting at the kitchen table eating scrambled eggs and toast.

“No,” he said finally. “I’m not mad.”

“What should I do now?”

“What do you mean? Are you thinking of apologizing?”

I nodded. It was the truth.

My father thought this over with a mouthful of eggs. “I think the solution is a wave,” he said finally.

“A wave? You want me to wave?”

“Either that or say a quick hello on your way by the van. Because I think if you confront her to apologize she’ll get scared, or she might hurt you.” I thought he noticed my look of concern, but instead he leaned over and said, “Remember, she’s not like us.”

Those words echoed in my brain for a while. She’s not like us. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be all alone.

“Do you think anyone is ever going to reach out to her?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you think anybody will try to be her friend?”

My father shrugged and shuffled his eggs back and forth. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. But it sure isn’t going to be me.” Then, looking up at me, he said, “And it sure isn’t going to be you, either. I don’t want you risking your life for some whack job.” He pointed at me, fork in hand. “Do we have an understanding?”

I shrugged and shuffled my eggs back and forth. Understanding wasn’t the right word, but yes, I told him, we had an understanding.

Marie sighed as she walked down the hallway to the top of the stairs. "Claire," she called, "I need you upstairs. Now! And bring a big, black trash bag."

Without waiting for a reply, she made her way into her daughter's room. She looked around dejectedly. Just last week, they had spent an entire day cleaning, sorting, and rearranging and now it was a total disaster. She didn't even know where to begin.

Her eyes scanned the area as she rubbed the back of her wrist across her brow, pushing her hair out of her eyes. First she looked at the huge pile of bedraggled stuffed animals in the corner. How many stuffed animals could one child possibly have?

"How many times," she wondered aloud, "have I asked Helen not to give her anymore stuffed animals?" Ever since she had retired, her mother-in-law had become obsessed with playing those stupid machines where you tried to use the claw to win a prize. And every time she won, it was some cheap plush toy that she presented to her excited granddaughter.

Of course, Claire only remained excited for about fifteen minutes, then the toy would be tossed aside without a backward glance. Marie kicked at a deformed blue duck with one eye hanging on by a thread. "Piece of junk!"

Leaving them for the moment, she made her way over to a jumbled tangle of half-clothed Barbie dolls lying in a heap. She picked one up and made a half-hearted attempt to smooth the matted mass of hair that was sticking up in a hundred different directions.

"How much money have we spent on these dolls?" she muttered. She examined a small, bright pink plastic Volkswagen with a cracked windshield and a single, miniature white boot. "Stupid doll has better accessories than I do."

"Claire!" she started to yell again, but the scream died on her lips as she turned and nearly slammed into the small form standing directly behind her dangling a trash bag limply from her hand. The child had short dark hair, large dark eyes, and a face that was mostly dirty with meandering clean tracks showing that she had been recently crying.

"Yikes, you about scared me half to death sneaking up on me like that," Marie said in a quieter voice. Come on, let's get started." She pointed to a pile in the middle of the floor. "Why don't you start over there on the books, and I'll work on the puzzles."

Claire nodded mutely and walked slowly over to the heap of soggy books. She began woodenly picking them up one at a time and depositing them into the bag while Marie did the same thing with the waterlogged puzzle boxes.

They worked in silence. Marie opened her mouth several times trying to find something comforting to say, but no words would come. Instead, they just sloshed on doggedly heaving the dripping belongings that represented the entirety of her seven-year-old's possessions.

They had just turned their attention to the stuffed animals when they were distracted by a third person joining them. "Looks like you girls are making some headway."

"Oh, Daddy." Claire jumped to her feet and ran to her father almost knocking him over as she wrapped him in a bear hug. Her stoic veneer dissolved into tears. Marie felt her own eyes stinging, but determinedly shook her head and blinked them away.

"What'd you find out?" she asked.

"Nothing really," John shrugged. "Bits and pieces of our things are all over the neighborhood but I couldn't really find anything even remotely salvageable from the rest of the house. Maybe when the water goes down a bit more…"

Marie just shook her head. Most of the water had receded and she doubted that the two or three inches that were left would make much of a difference.

"Guess you're lucky that your room was in the attic, Sweetie."

"Lucky!" Claire scowled as she gestured around her room. "You call this lucky?!" She picked up her DSI and held it up in the air watching as muddy silt and water ran out of the game slot.

"The water did get up to here." John held his hand about four feet off the ground, "but some of the stuff on the high shelves might still be OK."

"Yeah, great," Claire replied sullenly, "my winter clothes and some craft supplies."

"Well, let's just see what we can salvage," John replied with more optimism than he felt. "Where did you leave off?"

"Stuffed animals," replied Marie, lifting up a sodden Dalmatian by one ear and tossing it toward the trash bag. The rest of the pile shifted and a worn, ragged bear tumbled onto the floor.

"Buzzy!" cried Claire, picking the dripping bear back up and hugging it close to her chest. She began to cry in earnest.

Marie looked at John helplessly. He simply shrugged in return.

"We can't throw away Buzzy!"

"Sweetie," began John. "I don't think…"

"Can we wash him?" asked Marie hopefully. "There's some church group that came in with a big truck with industrial strength washers and dryers…" Her voice trailed off.

"Yeah. Sure," answered John uncertainly. "There's nothing wrong with him that a little soap and water can't fix."

"You know," said Claire, smiling, "I bet we can wash and dry all of my stuffed animals."

Marie looked at her uncertainly.

"And," said Claire, "then we can give them out to kids who weren't as lucky as I am."

After defeating the undead army, they finally arrived at the last sealed room; Dio muttered a magical incantation, and a glowing door appeared.

"Ladies first," Dio said.

"Yeah, yeah, you have no idea what's behind that door, but you can bet it isn't pleasant," Flagon muttered.

"That's what I brought a dragon along for. Do you mind? Time's a wasting."

Flagon snorted, heated up just in case, and opened the door. She was immediately greeted by hordes of ravenous hell-bats, which she wasted no time flaming until well done. She peeked into the room, and seeing nothing of particular interest, started munching on braised bat. Dio pushed past her into the room.

"Want some of this? They're pretty good," she said, munching on another dozen.

"No thanks," Dio replied, intent on searching the room. There, on a table, was the object they had come to retrieve.

"What is it?" Flagon said between munching.

"A wafer-thin after-dinner mint," Dio replied.

Flagon shrugged. They had defeated greater enemies to retrieve even less likely objects before. "There wouldn't happen to be a second one?" the dragon said, belching a tongue of flame.

"No, and we will need this one," Dio said.

"I know better than to ask for what, where, and when," Flagon said from vast experience. "But you know, as often as you use these items, you seem to be collecting a whole lot more than you use. Saving up for a yard sale?"

"Time is long, and we have just started down the path," Dio said, then got the strangest look on his face as he tried to stuff the mint into his hyper-pocket.

"Problems boss?" Flagon said, as she picked up a discarded lance for use as a tooth pick.

"I can't fit the mint into my pocket."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand. It's a wafer-thin mint. What do you mean it doesn't fit?"

"My pocket is full."

"Wait a second, isn't that pocket an opening to null space?"

"Yeah."

"Are you telling me you managed to fill null space?"

"It appears that way."

"I thought null space didn't have any dimensions..."

"It doesn't that I know about."

"That's a heck of a lot of stuff then," Flagon concluded, impressed. "So what do you plan to do about it?"

"I think it's time we did some spring cleaning."

"I agree with all you just said aside from the 'we' part," Flagon said, buffing her talons.

"Right. Change into human form would you. It saves on space."

"I hardly see where that would make a difference. You can't even fit that mint in there."

"Yeah, but I set it so it would register full when where was only enough space for the two of us."

"Then it should hold you and the mint nicely," Flagon said, just before she was sucked into null space behind Dio.

"Great, just great," Flagon remarked, as she moved a kitchen sink away from her face. "At least we got that old line out of the way early. Just look at all this stuff!"

"True," Dio admitted. "I hardly know where to begin."

"I would say this pair of old gym socks would be a start, unless you are saving them for the Laundromat at the end of the Universe."

"The problem is I still don't know if there is anything here I can throw out."

"Dio, there is a technical manual for DOS 3.3 here. Whatever are you going to need that for?"

"It's the native operating system for the Infinite Improbability Engine."

"Are you sure? I mean what are the chances of that... Oh, never mind. Ah here's something. A copy of 'Proofreading for Dummies'. Hmmm... it doesn't look like it has ever been opened."

"Do you mind?" Dio said, quickly grabbing it from her. "Now let's get serious here."

"That would be a change," observed Flagon. "OK, let me see if I understand the problem. Since you don't know which alternate probability path time is going to take at any point in the future, you don't know what items might prove to be vital to solving a situation. Is that about right?"

"Pretty much."

"OK, so what about choices the universe has already made. Aren't those probability paths dead ends now?"

Dio stopped what he was doing, which was sorting aimlessly through a stack of 45 RPM records, and got a deer-in-the-headlights look. "Of course! That's it!"

"What, the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything," Flagon asked, looking at the record Dio was currently holding. "I hardly believe the Monkey's 'I'm a Believer' is that important."

"What, er, no," Dio said, dropping the record, "what you said about probability paths in the past being dead ends. Of course that's the answer. And it let's me get rid of one very big item at least."

"And that would be?" Flagon asked, curious.

"A galaxy I stowed away."

"That wouldn't be a Ford Galaxy would it? That would be just Perfect."

Dio winced. He probably wasn't the only one. "Flagon, can we stick to one bad pun at a time?"

"I suppose we could, but there is always word count to consider."

Dio ignored her, and started separating out a massive pile of stuff.

Flagon looked over his shoulder. "A lime-green leisure suit? Let's not get rash here."

"Believe me, we are well past that dead-end path. Much to my relief I might add"

"Probably everybody's. So what now?"

"Now I poof it all out of here," Dio said, striking a wizardly pose. There was a flash of light, a peal of thunder, and... nothing. Dio scratched his head. "It was supposed to have all gone away," he said.

"Perhaps we need dramatic lighting."

"Perhaps we need more space," Dio said, thinking. "I think we have one item too many in here."

"Only one?" Flagon said. "Seems to me we have a whole null space full of that." Just then she noticed a small object floating by. "Hey, it's the after-dinner mint," she said grabbing it, and popping it in her mouth.

"FLAGON WAIT!", Dio shouted, and there was a mighty whoosh as objects started exiting null space.

They soon found themselves back in the sealed room amid a pile of rubble, There was now a hole in the top of the mountain containing the room roughly the size an escaping galaxy would make, which is to say quite large.

Flagon stood up and brushed herself off. "Well that's something you don't see everyday."

Dio stood unsteadily. "Flagon, I don't suppose you would mind warning me next time you do something like that."

"Not at all, what did I do?"

"You... oh never mind. Let's go."

"Oh, here is something else I found," Flagon said, offering Dio an item. "It's a towel. I understand you should never go anywhere without one."

The sun spread her fingers over the eastern horizon claiming victory over the last vestiges of night. Where the rest of the world was just waking and preparing for a new day, the man in the shadows was putting his to rest. Standing in the root cellar of an abandoned farm house he turned his cracked and dirty palms upward and raised them above his head as if in surrender. The act was as much one of repentance as it was tradition.

The floor of the cellar was littered with a century of junk. Stacks of yellowed and decayed newspapers, broken appliances and old tools surrounded the man who kept to the shadows. A heavily clichéd saying came to mind, “one man's junk is another man's treasure”. Yes, it was a mess; a repulsively chaotic mess, but it was his. More so, the physical clutter that surrounded him was symbolic of the spiritual clutter that consumed him on the inside.

The Shadow Man stood with arms upraised and eyes closed for several long, meditative minutes before turning to the door on his right.

His door.

It was his door because the cellar had two less significant doors. One rested against a dirty brick wall, unattached and removed from its frame; a piece of blistered and weathered lumber that led nowhere. Doors were like that ”“ they could open up brave new worlds and they could shut you out. This door did neither. Another door lay on its face at the top of the steps separating the main floor from the cellar. Torn from its hinges, this door was doomed to eternity as a pile of jagged splinters.
The man who kept to the shadows had also been ripped apart at the hinges, albeit spiritual hinges.

Religion, he fumed, was more like a revolving door, it simply went in circles leading nowhere. Any idiot could find his way through a revolving door. No, that wasn't entirely true; most idiots would avoid the revolving door altogether. He quickly dismissed the thought and reminded himself why he was here. The door he now stood in front of, his door, was the passageway between life and death. A slab of wood caught between good and evil. It was a door that separated the light from the dark.
From the other side of the door a raw and bloody finger scratched desperately.

Her finger.

He listened to each and every scratch from the other side. It was a finely tuned symphony written and composed just for him. He willed the scratching to continue although they were less frequent now than before; before he had left her alone two days earlier. In a matter of minutes, however, this symphony would be over. He held his breath savoring every lovely, last note. Soon the curtain would close and there would be no encore. On rare occasions there might be an encore, a hopeless whimper from the other side, a desperate and final call for help and then like all good performances it would be over.

The fat lady would sing.

He pressed his ear to the door, closed his eyes and listened. This was his favorite part ”“ the part where she would betray herself. Out of darkness and shame she would beg for his forgiveness. Her muffled sobs would leak through the door and bleed into his soul and only then would he cleanse her.

No matter how many times he witnessed this morbid sonata of pain and despair, he heard it as if it were his first. The sobs, the screams, the whimpers of fatal realization that haunted the room opposite of his; they were all beautifully orchestrated and composed. He reasoned that such divine melodies could only be ordained by God himself. True, his was a mission from God ”“ but for the first time he wondered if maybe he was God. It wasn't so far out of the question; his mind was a cacophony of thoughts, riddles and voices. It was evident that no mortal man could ever remain sane with a mind so cluttered and complex…yet he had. Sanity was the truth that bound him, it was his only truth.

He continued to listen to the desperate pleas from the other side. Soon she would grow tired, and like all good girls, she would give up. He would open the door (as he had a hundred times before) and find her tucked deep into the corner ”“ the same corner they all retreated to in the end.

On his side of the door he would also retreat. His, however, was one of choice. For just a few minutes he would put away the voices; those demonic choruses that swirled and chased him in his own mind. In those moments of retreat, with the voices subdued, the clutter of thoughts and images and colors that consumed him would grow silent and dark. He was insecure without the voices. The scores of others who shared his mind were as much his friends as his enemies. Putting them away, if even in the span of a few deep breaths, brought him strength and resurgence. They would meet again soon enough.

Slowly he reached for the latch on the door, unhinged it and pushed the door open. Instead of light spilling into the darkness of the make-shift cell, darkness flooded the light. His world became black. This was his sanctuary; his church. He was both high priest and participant. He was sinner and he was god. From his waist band he pulled a long, hand-sharpened knife. He didn't have to see the nine year old girl to know she was there. He felt her presence; he could smell her tears, he tasted her sin as it hung in the dank, still air. He brought the blade to his lips, kissed it, and in two swift strokes he crossed the floor to her corner.

“This is hopeless!”

“No, babe. Nothing's hopeless. We'll find a way to make it.”

Eve falls into Alan's arms, tears starting to spill from her large, almond-shaped eyes. From the outside it looks as if she has the perfect life. The head of a rapidly growing record label, one of the brightest artists on that label, a burgeoning career as an actress, and being courted by the most eligible bachelor in Hollywood... all by age twenty-seven. The world appears to be Eve Riley's oyster. The problem is that appearances have a way of being terribly deceiving.

“I... I'm just not sure how much more I can take, Alan.” Eve fights her tears back long enough to confide in her lover. “I feel like I never have a minute for myself.”

“Get your coat,” the action hero says softly. “I know the perfect place. I've been planning to take you there, and now's the time.”

“Alan, I don't have time to go. We have rehearsal and Ruby wants me to listen to a demo from a group she heard in Atlanta last weekend, and we have to plan out the tours for three different bands and...”

“And nothing. We're going. Ruby and your staff can start without you. Now get your coat.”

Alan gently dries Eve's tears and plants a kiss on her forehead before sending her across the room for her coat. The beauty barely manages to slide her arm into the sleeve before her cell phone starts ringing.

“No, Ruby, I won't be here... something's come up, babes. Can you handle things for the rest of today?” Ruby barely has time to get the word yes out before Eve ends the call and continues putting on her coat. Alan smiles and slides his arm around her thin waist, guiding her out the door.

“See? That wasn't so hard, was it?”

“No, I suppose n...”

The sound of her cell phone chirping cuts her off, and the beauty lets out a small growl as she pulls the phone from her pocket. As quickly as she can, she ends the call with her agent as Alan watches on, trying to be supportive and patient. The small, square bulge in his own pocket reminds him just how special this night is going to be... if he ever gets her out of her home and to the restaurant. He's been planning this for two weeks, but Eve's hectic schedule has kept him from being able to actually pop the question.

Tonight, however, he's determined to get it done. No excuses. When Eve pockets her phone and pulls her key out to lock the front door, Alan releases a small, pent-up sigh of relief. And then her phone rings yet again. Eve nearly throws it to the sidewalk and steps on it, but finally answers it instead.

“Hello, Paul... Yes, I know that your clients must be anxious to get their new contract finalized, and so am I... Believe me, I don't want them bolting to another label... That would be close to the right ballpark... I was thinking more along the four album line, but if they want to go for five that's fine with me... Paul, can you fax what you have to Ruby? I'll have our people look it over and get back with you on Monday... Awesome... You too... Good night, Paul.”

When Eve ends this call, Alan pulls the device from her hand and presses the power button with a determined smile. “There. Now this stupid machine won't interrupt us again.”

“But Alan, I have to be able to stay in touch. I don't always like it either, darling, but that's the way it is. I have responsibilities.”

“I understand that, baby girl, but your life is so crowded I feel like I'm getting lost in the clutter. Can we please just have one uninterrupted date?”

“I... yes, Alan. No interruptions. I...”

“Hello, babe.”

The sound causes both of them to turn towards its source. Eve can't help but smile when she sees the face attached to the voice. Alan on the other hand is much less happy to see the intruder. Chance walks up and wraps her arms around the other woman, giving her a big hug and a peck on the cheek. Eve returns the gesture before pulling back just enough to set a comfortable distance for conversation. The two had been best friends for what seemed forever before having a brief but intense love affair. It had ended poorly, and the two haven't seen each other since the day Chance stormed out.

“Chance, it is so good to see you. Where have you been?”

“Here and there, licking my wounds. Eve... I miss you. I... I was wrong, and I'm sorry.”

“Oh, Chance. You were forgiven the day you left. It was a silly fight, and I'm just as sorry as you.”

“You don't have anything to apologize for, babes. I just hope we can start working things out.”

“Well, Alan and I were just about to go to dinner, but maybe you and I can do lunch tomorrow, okay?”

“Ummm...”

The hesitation in Chance's voice tells Eve that something's not going as it should. She turns around just in time to see Alan walking to the parking lot alone. As he passes a large trash can he reaches into his pocket and tosses a small black box into it. Without turning to look back at the girl of his dreams, Alan unlocks his car and hops in. Sometimes, when a room gets too cluttered, valuables accidentally get tossed with the trash. Hearts, it turns out, can fall into the same trap.

Johnny ran his fingers through his thick and tangled beard and let out a sad laugh at a distant memory. He was sitting on his worn couch in his cluttered little apartment in the city, staring at a crack that ran down the wall. A slow drip came down from the ceiling from the rain outside. It seemed it was always raining.

For most of his life Johnny Allen had lived in poverty. He grew up in run down houses with an alcoholic mother and an ill tempered father. They fought almost always. His brothers and sisters were given away to other families and grew up without ever knowing each other. Sometimes he still felt guilty that his parents had decided to keep him. Most times he decided that they got the better end of the deal.

His eyes fell on a worn broom that he hadn’t used in years. He remembered playing in his youth, strumming at brooms as though they were guitars. He remembered one of the rare moments of joy in his childhood as well, the day that his father gave him an old ukulele he’d found while cleaning out a garage. Johnny had strummed at the warped and out of tune little instrument non stop for the rest of the week. He laughed at how awful it had all sounded, and how his mother would make him go outside with it. The noise bothered her headaches.

He got up and began heading towards the kitchen for a bite to eat, running a soft hand across his bald head. Once his hands would have been rough and calloused, but now they were soft from disuse. He followed the path that he had for himself through the room, a room stacked with his past. Everywhere he looked there were memories, reminders of what he left behind. Sometimes he wondered why he kept it all.

He looked down as he walked, scanning over the top-most items of his stacks. He stopped at a picture of him and Billy from their army days. They were both smiling, but the brief time he spent in service was anything but smiles. He did what he could to get out, sleeping on duty and working slowly; after about a year they finally discharged him. To save pride he told some people that he’d broken his ankle, but the truth was he was never cut out to wear a uniform. He’d never been much for violence.

He set the frame down and took a shaky step forward, stepping awkwardly on the side of his foot and falling into an old box that crushed beneath his weight. His foot caught a stack of magazines with his face on it, his head landed in a pile of photographs, and his flailing arms took down the stacks of books on either side of him. It all came crashing down upon him like a ton of bricks, and what hit him initially was followed by the domino effect, piles and piles of oddments falling from above and pinning him down.

Fighting the urge to panic, Johnny tried to move his arms but found that he was trapped. His ankle hurt from the twist, his body hurt from the countless blunt objects that had hit him. He was being crushed beneath the weight of his past, much as he had been for most of his life.

He struggled to breath and squirmed and wiggled enough to free one arm and roll onto his side. His arm reached for a few items that pinned him down, but he didn’t have the strength to move anything. He felt the neck of an electric guitar, the strings worn and mostly missing. That would make it twice that music killed him, he supposed.

Johnny’s eyes fell upon an old black and white photo of an old girlfriend. Monika had been beautiful and he loved her more than any woman before. He both laughed and cried at how much she botched the story. She just couldn’t keep it straight. He’d died, she remembered that much. But the details around it kept getting confused in her head. Probably all the valium. Monika had a thing for pills.

Poor woman. She wanted out of the spotlight but the public would not let her rest. They questioned her over and over, confusing her, blaming her, some even calling her a murderer. It was supposed to just be an overdose. They had the pictures done, the coroner and the police paid. It was all so simple, but she kept changing the details instead of saying she didn’t want to talk about.

The night before he died, he kissed her goodbye and thanked her. Johnny didn’t think he could thank her enough to make up for the stress his death had brought to her. She was disgraced. But she kept the secret. She was a woman of her word.

A tear rolled down his face. He’d seen her once more some twenty-six years later, with no idea how she’d found him. One day she just showed up at his door and they stared at each other in silence for so long that it became unbearable. She told him that she still loved him, that she would always love him; and then she left. A few days later she was found dead in her Mercedes. She’d filled it with fumes and went to sleep forever. She killed herself rather than give up the secret.

He was sobbing at this point. She died to keep his secret. Died to protect him. And what had he ever given her in return? The money was nothing compared to what she went through for him. Sometimes he wondered why he didn’t just die back then. Die for real instead of putting on a show for the papers. Maybe there was another route he could have taken. God, he had been so young and foolish!

It was becoming harder and harder to breathe, his vision was beginning to grow dim. He thought about hanging on longer, waiting for rescue; but he didn’t see the point of it. He was already dead, really. Died forty years ago to the public, and today he would leave the world behind. He wondered if there was an afterlife after all. He wondered if the papers would realize who he was. He wondered if his secret would finally be revealed with this and imagined the documentaries it would inspire.

He laughed at the notion and closed his eyes forever.

He rose to his feet slowly, the joints in his body creaking with age. There was work to be done, and there was no one to help him complete it.

He looked about him in the dimly lit sanctuary, all too aware that try as he might he would never be able to complete this one simple task. Strewn haphazardly as far as the eye could see were treasures and trinkets. Amongst the crates and boxes were stashed folders and files; between statues and figurines were audio and video recordings. Although a lot of the clutter was covered in a layer of dust thicker than his finger, some items within the chaos showed signs of being moved frequently.

He used one stubby finger to push his wire-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose. Peering intently into the mass before him he took in a deep breath and started shuffling down an aisle. Huffing and puffing he ambled around some of the larger pieces in search of a specific one. He did not exactly know which piece it was he was looking for, just that he had to find it, and that he would know what he was looking for as soon as he found it.

Aisle after aisle, shelf after shelf he wandered forth amongst the massive collection. With each item he passed, he muttered the name on the placard between breaths. “Telescoping spoon… AMH101: American History… Konami Code… Mom’s Pineapple Upside-down Cake Recipe”, each escaped his lips in a slight hiss. With some of the more interesting pieces, he would reach out with his stumpy hands, and run his finger, almost fondly, along the shelf underneath the items.

Deeper and deeper he delved into the collection, until he came upon the section dedicated to the larger pieces. Because of the sheer size of some of the pieces in this collection, a cart and track had been installed. Hefting his gnarled body into the cart was a task unto itself, however once he had settled himself safely into the cart; he was ready to resume his search. Slowly easing off the brakes, the cart gained speed, plunging him deeper into the collection.

Rounding one of the first bends in the track, he heard the faint sound of hoof beats. As the track straightened, he was able to see the source of the clamor. In a large paddock was a herd of horses. Peering more intently into the herd, he spotted the lone zebra and solitary unicorn. Just as he was able to discern these discrepancies, the cart rounded another bend in the track, and he came upon a house that resembled a French chateau, made of red brick, that had steeply pitched roofs of green that could only be described as French Tudor in style. Standing firmly in front of this structure was a massive oak tree, one limb sporting a rope swing eerily swinging on its own.

Faster and faster, he plummeted farther into the depths of the collection. The larger sections started to blur together as he sped past them. He knew by the lighting that the track would be ending soon, so he started to generously apply the brakes. Almost imperceptibly at first, the cart started to slow, and the seconds passing between each overhead light started to increase. The cart clattered around a final corner, before being forcefully stopped by a barrier. The gnarled old man was thrown forward in the cart, his glasses being forcefully ripped from his face by the momentum.

Composing himself, he hefted his body out of the cart, and began scouring the floor for his spectacles. The glint of the circular frames hinted at their location. Scurrying across the floor, he snatched them carefully into his fat paws, and clutched them to his chest. After inspecting them to assure himself that they were not damaged, he repositioned them onto the bridge of his nose.

Looking about he spotted the junction he had to take and headed towards it. Following the maze like hallways, he ventured further into the catacomb like collections. Upon intersections, he did not stop to decide which way to head. He just instinctively took the appropriate paths, turning left, right, and right and left again.

He stopped with a start upon realizing he had reached his destination. Before him was a vast storeroom, designated “incomplete” by a plaque above the archway. With a deep sigh, he ventured into the mess, stepping over those pieces that obstructed his path. He had to shove an oven aside that at first glance looked to be broken, or at best able to function at half capacity. With the rest of his path somewhat clear, he managed to make his way to the gallery without any further difficulties.

Painting by painting, he searched for the one he was looking for. The hall of the gallery seemed to stretch on into infinity, and yet he continued. The ones on his left were not the right ones, and neither were the ones on the right. Steadily he continued, looking from left to right and back again. Just when he feared he would never find the appropriate painting, a figure caught his eye.

Standing squarely in front of the incomplete portrait, he considered it for a long moment. The hair was dark, straight and short cropped to the skull. The nose was large, but ill defined. The lips were thin and drawn, almost as if the subject was sneering while sucking on his teeth. The ears were missing, as was the chin, but there was a distinctly noticeable scar over the subjects left eye, making them look even colder and darker than they already were.

This was what he was looking for. He had finally found it.

“When I clap my hands you will awaken and remember everything.”

The withered old man looked around him in confusion.

Clapping

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Welcome back. Now that we have delved into your subconscious, do you remember what the assailant looked like?” asked the hypnotist.

Jim picked his way past the half dozen lawn tractors in the back yard. If there was anything that Old Joe liked more than collecting things, it was taking things apart. The light of the moon was enough for him to see, barely. He tripped and cursed. It was a good thing that Old Joe was already dead and laid out at funeral home.

It stood to reason that a man who had spent as many years collecting stuff as Old Joe would have at least one or two things that were worth something. He had no relatives to care if Jim slipped in and helped himself to something.

He reached the window and didn’t even need his prybar to force it open. It looked like it had been painted open before Jim was born. He pushed in what was left of the screen and crawled into the house. In spite of the open window the house reeked. Jim regretted the steak dinner and six pack of beer that he had used to fortify his courage. He clamped his jaw shut and breathed through the gap in his teeth.

The window had let him into the kitchen. Jim crawled across a pile of plates covered with prehistoric food. They crunched a little, but the mold had glued them together so well that Jim didn’t have a problem until an entire section of came loose like a calving glacier and dumped him on the floor.

The sound of Jim and the iceberg of dishes landing on the accumulation of aluminum beer cans was deafening. It was fortunate that Old Joe’s place was well away from the neighbours. It took several minutes of struggling in the pile of can for Jim to be able to get his feet under him. If he had a week and a big truck there were probably enough beer cans to pay off Jim’s truck. Jim was after bigger treasure.

He waded through the aluminum until he reached the hall where the sea of can gradually gave way to a narrow path between piles of newspapers and magazines. In the hall the moonlight was dimmed enough that he turned on his flashlight. It showed papers piled like the Grand Canyon. Jim could read the odd word here or there, but mostly the weight of paper and time had made them a single mass of gray.

Jim followed the winding space into the living room where he figured Old Joe had lived and died. The smell was strong enough to make his eyes water. He could see blood and worse on the carpet. The steak dinner had had enough and came roaring back up to join the miasma of sickness and death in the room. Jim crawled back and wiped his mouth on his shirt. He wasn’t touching anything in that room.

He actually felt better without the heavy meal in his stomach and pushed himself to his feet. Now he was determined to find something to make this humiliation worth the effort. He spat out the taste of acid and shifted his attention to the walls above the papers. He could see the stairs going to the second floor. It looked like the old man had just walled them off with paper.

It took some effort, but Jim pushed himself to the top of the paper canyon. The news up here was more recent, but still buried under dust. Jim sneezed again and again banging his head on ceiling and paper. Each time he stirred up more dust. It clung to his skin and coated the inside of his nose. He held his breath and scrambled toward the stairs. As he got up the stairs the dust grew thicker, but his face was further away. He was able to pull his shirt over his face and finally bring the sneezing to an end.

Eyes watering Jim walked carefully to stir up as little dust as possible. The flashlight illuminated plumes of grey, and showed him that there was very little left upstairs. The first room was empty except for dust and moonlight, so were the second and third. The last room had a bed, a chair and a tiny desk. When he inspected more closely Jim found a mummified squirrel in the center of the bed. He flipped the bed over, in case the old man put money under the mattress, but he only found dust bunnies the size of hippos. The chair was old and rickety. The desk was his only hope. He wrenched the door open and found nothing. The drawer was next but all it held was a pill bottle with the phone number of the apothecary. What kind of phone number was 27?

Jim’s disappointment erupted and he kicked the desk across the room. It smashed into the wall and disintegrated. Lying in the wreckage was a small shiny box. He could feel his heart pounding as he picked it up. He opened the box to reveal a smaller velvet case inside. Rumour was that Old Joe had been a rich bachelor who was spurned by the love of his life. Jim opened the velvet case with shaking fingers and saw a ring with the largest diamond he had ever seen glittering in the moonlight.

The case was closed and in his pocket in seconds. Jim stood and listened. His conscience was telling him that someone would be watching, but he heard nothing, saw no one. This treasure was his. He tore a piece from his shirt to wrap around his face then started down the stairs. The fire of excitement burned away his need to sneeze the dust out of his nostrils. When he dropped back down into the canyon he felt as triumphant as any Amazonian explorer.

He sidled along the canyon toward the kitchen and bumped up against a door. Jim stopped and looked at the door. He didn’t remember a door between the kitchen and hallway. He followed the path back out and came to the living room. As he retreated from that horrific room he tripped over some papers that were lying in the path. The walls of paper weren’t as stable as he thought. His paroxysm of sneezing must have knocked over some of the stacks of paper. He would have to leave through the living room or the door.

Whatever was behind that door couldn’t possibly be worse than that living room. Careful now of the walls, Jim walked back to the door. The knob was polished. It was obviously well used by Old Joe. He opened the door and took a half step before the smell hit him. It was a thousand times worse than the living room. He staggered back and hit the wall of papers. They leaned, then toppled on top of him.

Jim shouted for help through the night. Finally the faint light he could see turned golden. It was morning. Even better he heard a noise. Someone was coming, they would rescue him.

Then he recognized the sound.

It was the sound of a bulldozer.

It was a marvalouse day when raven decided to clean all the clutter from her home. She cleaned and cleaned till all that was left was the basement. Her husband davy lived in the clutter in the basement and did not like raven coming in. There was a storage area in the basement which davy had put a ice cooler. As raven walked into the cluttered basement walking past masks that looked human and many many piles of bones she got to the bottom of the steps. she nearly gaged when she smelled the stench that hung in there. It smelled of dead bodies, and rotton corpses. "just a coincadence." raven muttered. as she looked at all the clutter. Wax arms, leggs, heads, and torsos were everywhere. she decided to do this next. she first wanted to looke in the freezer. she slowly opened the freezer door to reveal her husband making even more clutter. he was slicing and dicing a wax figure who looked just like there daughter. then she saw the blood all over the floor and walls. she screamed a blood curtling scream and ran out of the basement. but not brfore her husband saw her. she ran from the house as fast as she could rushing to the car. her husband davy rushing out behind her still covered in there daughters blood. she slide in and looked the door and drove into the night.she didnt see the headlights folling her because of the clutter in the backseat. she drove all night and stopped at a motel. she got room one and slept all day unaware of the shadow in the window. when she left the motel a raged old blue pickup truck was following her the same from the night before. raven couldnt see the man because of all the clutter in his car all the wax figures. she started driving faster and faster knowing her husbgand was wathing and waiting for the time to strik. she was going well over a hundered when she heard sirens chasing her not her husband. she knew that he would lie to them tell them see made all the clutter in the basement. she drove on and on, faster and faster. she seen a train coming on the tracks she was about to cross. she knew the only way to escape was to die.but she wasnt the one who made the decession. her car gave out on the tracks. her door was stuck she couldnt get out. soudenly she looked at the police. they were all dead lieing on the ground. davy was standing over them licking there blood off his hands. the train was coming closer and closer so was davy. sudenly threw the clutter in her car appeared her ghost daughter. she weilded a knife and was laughing the laugh of a crazy man. her daughters ghost came closer as the train did. raven knew she had been betrayed by her husband he had trained there daughter to be a murderer. her daughter started slashing raven just as the train crashed into the car. ravens ghost cold still feel the pain as she went to clean the clutter from the basement.