"I'm a good boy. I promise." He held up three fingers in the classic Boy Scout pledge. "Besides, you work with my sister. And you know Samantha. One bad word from her and I'd be permanently banned from all future family events."

Still, she wavered. "I don't know. I don't want things to be awkward. I'd rather Samantha didn't know, to tell you the truth. I have a policy of not getting involved with co-workers' relatives."

He laughed. "I wouldn't say we're 'involved'. We're just two horror geeks comparing collections. Come on, you know you're dying to see my first edition Dracula."

"Well…" she hesitated, clearly torn.

"What if I promise Samantha won't find out?" he asked. "We'll wait until the lights drop for the annual Monster Mash Costume Parade and then we'll sneak out through the kitchen. Nobody will ever know."

"You just don't take 'no' for an answer, do you?" The smile on her face offset the harsh words.

"There's a reason why I'm the successful one in the family," he replied modestly.

This time she did laugh out loud. "I wouldn't let Samantha hear you say that."

As if on cue, the lights dimmed and the classic Monster Mash blared through the house.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the kitchen. She tried to watch out for Samantha, but he was right; nobody was paying attention. They were too busy lining up for the costume parade.

Seconds later, they were out of the house and safely ensconced in his car.

"Told you, no problem at all. They'll never even miss us." He paused as a thought occurred to him. "Unless they notice they have more cars than guests."

"They won't. I caught the bus over from my apartment."

"Perfect! Fate is obviously smiling on a pair of horror lovers."

She laughed at his enthusiasm. "How could it not? After all, it's Halloween, our equivalent of Valentine's Day."

"On that note, are you a voyeur or an exhibitionist?"

She froze, then reached for the door handle.

"Wait. I was talking about the collections. You know, tying it into the Valentine's Day conversation. Do you want to see my collection or show off yours?"

Relaxing, she pulled her hand back. "In that case, I'm definitely a voyeur. I've been practically drooling over the thought of seeing your books, not to mention the life-sized coffin."

He clutched at his chest. "Ah, music to my heart. A woman who can appreciate a well-made coffin. I may be in love."

It only took a few minutes to get to his house. She looked anxious as they pulled into the garage and the door closed behind them.

"Nothing to worry about. I like vampires, I don't emulate them."

She laughed nervously. "It's just that this is out of character for me. I don't usually go home with men I just met."

"You obviously just don't hang out in the right places," he said with a boyish grin. "Come on, I can't wait to see your face when you check out the interior of that coffin."

An hour later, she flopped onto his sofa with a contented sigh. "You're right. I need to get out more. You have the most amazing stuff!"

He sat down next to her and threw his feet up on the coffee table. "I like to think so. Samantha thinks I'm crazy to spend so much money on it, but I tell her she shouldn't complain. It's my only vice. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I exercise every day. I could do worse things than collect vampire ephemera."

"Ephemera. I like that. Makes it sound classy instead of cheesy."

He stood up with feigned offense. "Cheesy? You dare suggest it might be called cheesy?"

She grabbed his hand and pulled him down beside her.

"I would never do that. In fact, I have nothing but total admiration for the mind that could assemble such an impressive collection." She leaned closer. "It makes me wonder what else that mind could do, if it tried."

He looked deep into her eyes. "I really am a good guy, you know." She moved a little closer.

Reigning in his impulses, he leaned back and closed his eyes.

"So, tell me about your passion. You mentioned all things horror. Do you have a favorite area?"

"I love it all, but my favorite has to be zombies."

His eyes flew open. "Wow. I wouldn't have guessed that one. Most women hate zombies. I always figured it was because of their looks."

"That's an unfair stereotype," she whispered in his ear.

"Of women or of zombies?" he asked.

"Of zombies, of course. Women are always shallow. Zombies, on the other hand, are misunderstood." He shuddered as she traced his jawline with her finger.

"And you know the truth, is that what you're saying?"

"I've made it my mission to learn all about zombies." One of her hands drifted into his hair, gently caressing. He tried to focus on the conversation.

"What are some zombie myths that need busted?" he asked.

"First, they don't have body parts falling off them. It's really ridiculous, if you think about it." She pressed her body closer to his. "What good would a zombie be if they fell apart with every step? You might as well throw a scarecrow at somebody."

He laughed softly. "Good point. What else has your research uncovered?"

"Next, I'd bust the myth that they are brainless. Zombies are, by definition, the walking dead. Their bodies are dead, not their brains. Otherwise they'd never be able to walk or obey commands. An undead can be just as intelligent as a living person. Maybe more so, since their undying minds have had decades and sometimes centuries longer to accumulate knowledge."

"Interesting theory. Anything else?" he asked.

Her hands moved again, caressing him in ways that almost made him forget his Boy Scout pledge. He thought of Samantha and her reaction if he let his body carry out what his mind was thinking.

"Well, there's the stereotype that zombies can't be sexy. If you assume that my first two points are true, then by default you have to acknowledge that an undead person with a perfectly preserved body and keen mind could be attractive. They could definitely have hidden talents that would blow the minds of the average warm-blooded person. It has the potential to be one of the greatest weapons in their arsenal."

She nibbled gently on his ear. He gave the Boy Scout thing one last try.

"Are there any of the zombie myths that you do believe?" he asked.

"Only one," she replied.

"Which is?"

"That zombies can only feed on warm human flesh."

"If zombies are as clever and resourceful as you say, couldn't they find a substitute?"

He wasn't sure how she did it, but suddenly she was straddling him, pressing her body to his. Wrapping her hands in his hair, she leaned forward and teased his lips. His body responded automatically. Samantha would just have to deal with the consequences.

She pulled back a little and looked into his eyes.

"They could find a substitute. But nothing tastes as good as hot, juicy human flesh. It's one of the most erotic things you can ever imagine."

Pain tore across his senses as her teeth sunk into his neck.

Lola stared at herself in the mirror and ran her fingers through her long auburn hair. “This is great,” she said. “I mean really great!”

“I know,” Marisse said, coming into view behind her. She spun Lola around and stooped to look into her sister’s eyes. “Nice,” she said. “Green is good on you.” She stood up straight and turned around to show off the short black dress she was in. “How’s this look?” she asked.

“You look fantastic,” Lola said, and she meant it. Marisse was gorgeous. She stood like a supermodel, a hand on her hip and made a pouty face like the ones they’d seen in so many magazines. “Seriously,” Lola said. “That is amazing.”

“And thank you,” Marisse said. She ran a finger down the lapel of Lola’s jacket. “You don’t look too bad yourself, my dear.” Marisse turned them around to look in the mirror. “We both look amazing. And you know what?” She put her arm around Lola, and Lola could practically feel the confidence welling over from her. “We are going to have an amazing Halloween this year.” Marisse hugged her close. “Mark my words.”

The bus ride into Sylvania City took about half an hour. They stepped down from the bus into Bemrich Circle, the most touristy district of Sylvania City, and squinted in the bright sunlight. “Okay,” Marisse said. “What time’s sunset again?”

“5:05,” Lola said. She’d had it up on notes around the house for a week, and made sure she remembered. “We have just a little over eight hours.”

“Well, then, let’s get to it!” Marisse gestured widely and grinned. “Where do you want to start?”

The choices were endless. Sylvania wasn’t the largest of cities – nothing like New York or Boston or Corsair – but it had an eclectic spirit all its own. The downtown was full of people and buses and cars, little bookstores and restaurants and huge national department stores. There were museums along the Hortus and a new walking park that had been built along the Edles River last year. They could spend days here, if they wanted.

But they didn’t have days.

They started off in a café. When they finally got to the counter, an exhausted barista greeted them with, “Welcome to Javaville, what’ll you have?”

Lola and Marisse exchanged glances, and Marisse struggled to keep a straight face as she turned to the young man. “I would like,” she said, over-enunciating each word, “two soy milk lattes.” Lola started to giggle and Marisse gave her a slight shove. She smiled, showing as many teeth as she could, and the barista had to blink a few times before he rang them up.

They sat in the cafe for a while and planned their day, occasionally glancing around at the crowd and watching the other customers as they came in. They made a long list of museums and shops, all “must-see.”

After a late lunch they went to the Hortus, the great park that defined the heart of Sylvania City. The sun was on its descent by now, and they only had a few more hours left to them. Their spirits were more subdued now, but they still looked at the world around them with glee and astonishment from time to time.

“I think I need to sit down,” Lola said after a while. She sat, took off a shoe and started to rub her foot. “You go ahead. I’ll meet you by the fountain?”

“You sure?” Marisse asked. She glanced across the pond to the fountain and back again. “I can stay here.”

Lola shook her head and shaded her eyes. “Don’t worry.” Marisse nodded, but still looked uneasy, glancing back a few more times as she walked away.

Alone, Lola closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out. She liked Marisse – loved her, even. They’d been together for ages and doing their Halloween excursions for as long as she could remember. But Marisse could be a little much sometimes.

Lola’s thoughts were sharply interrupted by a dog. She opened her eyes to see a golden retriever straining at the end of a leash, growling and barking at her, its hackles up. The young man holding the leash pulled and yelled at his dog. “Rocky! Rocky, knock it off!” He gave the leash a sharp tug, and the dog stopped barking. He bent down to hold it and looked up at Lola. “Sorry,” he said. “He’s usually not like this.” Rocky had gone quiet, but he was still staring at Lola with fear in his eyes.

“That’s all right,” she said. “Dogs usually don’t like me very much.”

The young man scratched Rocky’s ears and smiled. “I can’t imagine that,” he said. He turned to Rocky. “You gonna be good?” he asked. He stood up and Rocky growled quietly as he lay down. The young man nodded at Lola. “He’ll be good.” He stepped over to her and offered his hand. “I’m Shane,” he said. He commanded Rocky to stay, and took a seat next to Lola.

“You’re from around here?” he asked, turning to her. She liked him. He was kind of short, but cute in a really beta-male sort of way. Definitely not the kind of guy she usually ran into.

Lola shook her head. “I live outside the city with a friend of mine. We… we don’t get out a whole lot.”

He nodded and they talked, and she found herself in a conversation unlike any she’d had in a long time. With Marisse, there was nothing new to talk about. They knew everything about each other, but here she was finally in new territory.

And he was good-looking, too. That certainly didn’t hurt.

They talked for a long while, and only stopped when Lola finally heard Marisse calling to her as she ran towards her along the path.

“Lola!” she yelled. Marisse looked panicked. “Lola, the sun!” she flung out a hand across the pond. Lola looked, and to her horror realized that she’d let the sunset slip her mind. It was already dropping behind buildings, and she felt her insides go cold with panic.

“Oh, god,” she said, and stood up quickly. Rocky jumped to his feet and started barking again, and Shane tried to calm him down. “Oh, god,” she said again, “I’m so sorry…” She backed away from Shane and took Marisse’s hand. “I really... I really have to go.”

Shane glanced at Marisse. “Is everything okay?” he asked them. He looked from one to the other, confusion painted on his face. He stood up. “I don’t understand,” he said. “What’s -”

Lola’s keening scream cut him off, and she doubled over and dropped to the ground, followed quickly by Marisse. Shane tried to go to her, but Rocky positioned himself between them, growling and barking furiously.

Before his eyes, Marisse shrank and withered, becoming a skeletal version of herself, the cute black dress erupting into an ashen grey shroud. Her eyes burst into flame and sat in her desiccated face like two hot coals. Her mouth opened, a black and toothless maw, and a howl that chilled Shane’s blood filled the air.

Lola’s back arched and lurched, and two great wings burst forth. They were long and spindly, and webbed with skin nearly thin enough to see through. Her blue suit turned the dull gray of unpolished granite and became her skin, which cracked at the joints. A dull red glow came through the cracks, like molten stone, and when she moved there was a grating and crumbling sound. She stood tall on thin, insectile legs and turned to Shane, who was on the ground covering his eyes with his arm.

She looked at him, wishing her true face were capable of expressing something other than unholy rage. She wanted to explain, to say that she was sorry, but her mouth couldn’t do that anymore. Her day as a human was done. From tonight, it would be another year of being the monster she’d always been.

Shane was terrified, and Lola felt that strange ache in what used to be her heart. Other years had been fun. Little breaks from reality. But this was the first time she felt like there could have been more days, more time.

She turned to pick up Marisse. Her friend was still groaning, and her groans lingered long. She held Marisse close to her and sprung into the air, her tattered wings somehow holding her aloft and giving her the lift to fly back to their house outside the city. It would be another year before she and her sister could venture out in daylight again, and she wasn’t at all sure that was what she wanted anymore.

For the first time in a thousand years, there were tears in her eyes as she flew.

It was still in the forenoon on the day of the Goddess, and I was headed home along the path skirting the cemetery when I heard a trio walking towards me, cussing and spitting: two boys who were up to no good, and a girl who was tagging along. I retreated into the bushes and waited for them to pass, but instead the boys stopped to enjoy some stolen cigarettes.

"We need to find a cat. A black cat," the taller boy said. He was a skinny red-headed kid in a hoodie. He couldn't have been more than 16 years old, which in my experience meant that he was at a very dangerous age. I hunkered down farther into the underbrush.

"I know where we can get a black cat," said the shorter boy. He was younger, subservient, fawning. "What are you going to do with it, Will?"

"Tonight's Halloween. We need it for the ceremony," said Will. "Can't do magic on Halloween without killing a black cat."

The girl spoke up. "William Israel Stoughton, you will do no such thing!" She was certainly the youngest, and a slight little wisp of a child, but she spoke with authority, and her voice had a quality to it that I hadn't heard in a long, long time. That quality, and the name she spoke, made my hair stand on end.

"Aw, shut up, Bridget. I was just kidding, anyway," said Will.

Bridget. Another familiar name.

A sign, perhaps. Could it really be true?

"Yeah, shut up, Bridget," said the younger boy.

"Stay out of this, Sam," said Bridget, evenly. "Will, I mean it. I'll be watching you." And with that, she stalked off.

But her presence lingered, wraithlike, and triggered memories in me that I have long struggled to suppress, even while yearning for their eventual fulfillment. William Stoughton. Bridget. Samuel. More than three centuries ago, those names were known far and wide across the land. Now, most have forgotten, even those who now live where it all began, in the town of Salem. But I and my kind have not forgotten. Nay, we have remembered, and have patiently waited through the years for the sign that would announce the resumption of the fulfillment of our destiny.

"Good riddance," said Sam, but Will ignored the catcall.

"Sam, where can we get a black cat?" he asked. "Does your family have one?"

"Nah, Snuggles is gray and Lucky is yellow. But there is a whole family of feral cats in the woods on the other side of the cemetery," said Sam. "And all of them are black. I've seen them myself."

"OK, good. You go home and get a can of cat food. Meet me at the cemetary, by the back gate, in half an hour. Once we have a cat, we can do the ceremony tonight, after dark."

"Aw, Will, tonight is Halloween. I was going trick or treating."

"Sam, it's time to grow up. You have to decide between candy...and magic," Will said, with a mysterious air.

Sam pouted, but his curiosity could not be resisted. "I'll be there," he said.

I crept away, slowly and stealthily at first, until I was sure I was well clear of that stupid boy. Then I set out for the woods on the far side of the cemetery.

Most feral cats are abandoned domestic cats. They usually live short and brutal lives, falling prey to starvation, dogs, automobiles, and other worldly hazards. We cats in the woods in the back of the cemetery, however, are different. We are the remnants of a clowder of familiar spirits that has inhabited this region since the ancestors of the native Massachusett people first reached the Atlantic Ocean. We are creatures of two worlds, with a physical presence here and a spiritual presence in the other world, and we shun contact with humans, except for those few who, by accident of birth and the rejection of empiricism, are also able to cross the same divide. The rise of scientific thinking has reduced their numbers, which were not high to begin with; we often go years between encounters, and usually then it is with mere children who soon are lost to us because of their schooling. But the goddess has been generous with her signs this time; this child Bridget must be one of Them.

I reached the edge of the woods, followed the nearly invisible path through the dense briar patch, and went through the hole in base of the ancient horgr that has been our home since the Banishment from Salem. Ceridwen was waiting.

"Bright blessings unto you, Ceridwen," I greeted her.

"Her peace unto you, Aiden," she replied. But she was discerning, as always. "What is it, dear? I can see the brightness in your eyes."

"Indeed, I have news, Ceridwen. I believe the Goddess has blessed us this Halloween. She is sending us a mistress."

Ceridwen was naturally cautious. "I pray that you are not mocking me?" she said.

"Nay," I said, and told her of the events of the afternoon. "Gather the children," I said when I was done. "They will be safe here. I will deal with this boy William and his sycophantic lackey, and then we will discuss how best to conjoin with Bridget."

"May the Goddess be with you, Aiden," she said, but I was already away.

I made my way to the cemetery gate, found a bit of dense cover, and crouched down to wait. I did not have to wait long before I heard noises in the distance.

"Ow! Let go of my ear!"

It was Sam, and he was apparently in some pain.

"Show me!" said Bridget. "Where, exactly?"

Bridget and Sam came into view. She was striding quickly, carrying a basket in one hand, with the other firmly grasping Sam's ear. He was walking as quickly as he could while bent over, trying to save his ear from further pain. I couldn't help but purr at the sight, even as I quickly amended my plans for the encounter.

"Here," said Sam. "In the bushes somewhere."

"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," called Bridget, without letting go of Sam's ear. "Please come out." Her voice still had a magical quality to it. It was...irresistible. I stepped out from under the bush.

"Nice kitty!" said Bridget. "Sam, go home, and don't let me catch you back here or I'll twist your ear completely off your head!" She swatted him on the butt and sent him running. Then she scooped me up and looked into my eyes. In her eyes was a light the likes of which I haven't seen since I last saw her namesake, Bridget Bishop, in Salem in 1692. This was no child needing to be encouraged to conjoin; this was a willing future servant of the Goddess.

"I am most pleased to meet you," she said.

I could only purr in response.

Just then, Sam came back into view, along with Will. Will was yanking on Sam's other ear.

"Ah, there you are," said Will. "Sam said you were here, and that you had my cat." He pushed Sam away, and Sam took advantage of the opportunity to run. Will picked up a broken branch and advanced on Bridget. "Give the cat to me." He was easily twice her size, and she would normally have had no chance to fend him off.

But she stood her ground and hissed--hissed--at him. He hesitated momentarily, but resumed his advance. I knew then it was the will of the Goddess that Bridget be protected, and, still in Bridget's penumbra, I invoked powers that had been dormant in me for centuries.

It goes without saying that young William Stoughton had never seen a werecat before. It was the last thing he ever saw. His death was attributed to an attack by a wild cougar, which wasn't far from the truth.

Afterwards, I led Bridget to the horgr, and she met the rest of my family.

"All of you are so cute!" she exclaimed. She is still a child, after all.

But, child or not, I sense that together we will find greatness.

"I've been looking for the perfect Marc Antony all night…and you look perfect to me."

I winced as the vodka-tinged words drifted past my ear. I silently planned my revenge on Smithson for tonight's costume. The plastic breastplate was tacky, the flimsy sword was useless, and I definitely didn't appreciate the chilly breeze drifting up under my man-skirt.

I spun around to confront my Cleopatra admirer.

"Sorry, I have my own Cleopatra here someplace," I lied.

Her artificially plumped lips smiled. "I don't mind sharing…"

"Oh, there she is. Gotta run." I evaded her groping hands and was soon lost in the crowd of partiers.

Smithson's laughter crackled in my ear.

"The great Chase Jackson, scared of an aging Cleopatra. Wait 'til the guys hear."

"I know 27 ways to extract information from an enemy without leaving a mark. Breathe a word of this and I'll happily practice a few of them on you." I smiled brightly as a Marie Antoinette drifted by.

Gratifying silence filled my ear bud.

I scanned the room, looking for my target. "Do you have any more details on the package?" I demanded.

Quick taps on a keyboard whispered in my ear. "Sources say there are four vials of toxin."

I eyed Marie's wig. Easily enough room.

"But it needs to be kept cool to stay effective," Smithson continued. "So you're looking for something large enough to hold an ice pack or small cooler."

Drifting through the room, I eyed the costumes and accessories. The butt of Rambo's machine gun was an option, as was the impressive cleavage of the male Dolly Parton impersonator. I could imagine what I'd hear from the guys at the Agency if I had to take down Dolly for her assets.

I realized that my eyes kept coming back to the nerdy scientist. A plain, white lab coat covered Wal-Mart-quality khaki's and a cheap polo shirt. Colored pens and yellow pencils stuck out from the coat pockets. A $30 briefcase completed the look.

Something wasn't quite right.

A waiter drifted by and I grabbed a fizzy orange drink concoction in a plastic skull. I glimpsed Cleopatra standing near the scientist, raised my glass to her and worked my way across the room.

"Smithson, how much do you know about shoes?" I asked.

"Not as much as my wife. Why?"

"Last time I checked, John Lobb loafers cost around $1,300."

"Sounds about right," he replied.

"What are the chances you'd pair John Lobbs with value store pants?"

Cleopatra chose that moment to close the gap and throw herself into my arms.

"Darling, I knew you'd come to your senses!" she slurred.

I pushed her aside, struggling to watch the scientist. Unfortunately, Cleopatra's leap of love had drawn his attention.

He moved quickly, sliding through the crowd with a grace that belied his nerdy look. I took off after him.

"Come back! Rule with me!" Cleopatra cried.

She grabbed at my cape as I struggled through the crowd.

"Don't be afraid, my dear. I'll be gentle," she promised.

Gentleness was the last thing on my mind as I pushed through the costumed crowd. I had to reach the scientist before he could hand off his package. If not…well, Cleopatra and the rest of us would soon join the original Marc Antony.

A flash of white slipped through the French doors at the far end of the room. I put on a burst of speed, cutting and weaving around a hobo, two vampires and a paunchy Captain America before reaching the exit.

I dashed through the doors and found myself in a Halloween garden. Hanging skulls and jack-o-lantern garden lights cast an eerie glow on sculpted bushes and trees. The chill air and a light mist had kept the party goers inside.

I glided off the veranda and into the shadow of the nearest bush.

Mentally, I made a note to thank Smithson for his choice of costume. The muted reds and tans blended into the moonless night.

Unlike a bright white lab coat.

On silent, sandal-clad feet I closed the distance between us. At the last minute, a twig snapped under my foot, alerting him to my presence.

He spun towards me and I caught a flash of yellow as lethal pencils flew through the night. I flicked my cape around, deflecting the deadly darts.

Slow clapping broke the silence.

"Nicely done, Jackson. I should have realized that your ridiculous outfit was more than mere show. Tell me, do you have any real weapons tucked inside that cute little skirt?"

"Have we met? I'm afraid I don't remember meeting a skilled pencil assassin."

"Such arrogance! I wish I could say that you'd remember me the next time we meet. Unfortunately, you won't have a next time."

I barely had time to react as he sent a barrage of steel-tipped pens at me. The cape shredded beneath their sharp teeth and fell in tatters.

I lunged at him before he could pull out any more deadly office supplies. He gave a satisfying grunt as we fell to the ground together. Before he could recover, I grabbed for the briefcase.

But the nerdy scientist was quick. The briefcase swung around and I was forced to jump back, giving him some precious room. He scrambled to his feet and charged me, using the briefcase as both a shield and a weapon.

I looked around for something, anything, that I could use against him. In desperation, I pulled the plastic sword from my sheath.

Laughter filled the air.

"Now I've seen it all," he gasped. "The legendary Chase Jackson, dressed like a dead Roman soldier, valiantly wielding a fake sword."

I didn’t dignify his statement with a response. Instead, I gave a blood-curdling battle cry and charged him, sword outstretched.

He stood firm under my onslaught, supremely confident that his briefcase could withstand the test of my sword. At the last instant, I lowered my blade.

The cheap plastic slid easily between his ankles. My momentum carried me past him and the sword, tangled in his legs, acted as lever. He took a step forward in an effort to maintain his balance. Instead, he toppled to the ground with all of the grace of a dead tree.

The briefcase skittered from his hands. I snatched it up before the scientist could recover.

"You're right," I said. "Looks like we won't meet again." Using the tattered remains of my cape, I started to tie him up for the authorities.

"There you are! I knew I'd find you! True soul mates can never be separated."

I turned to see Cleopatra stumbling across the yard towards me. Her gold spandex dress reflected the orange garden lights, turning her into an overly-curvaceous, life-sized candle.

I heard a whisper of movement behind me. I spun around, but was too late. Only a white lab coat remained on the wet grass.

I clutched the briefcase as Cleopatra wrapped her arms around me. The scientist may have escaped, but at least the world was safe for another day.

But I knew we would meet again…

"Oh my goodness! What scary little aliens you are! Have some candy and don't forget to brush your teeth."

The grey-haired lady slowly bent over and dropped a single Werther's Original Butterscotch candy into Agzin and Blulak's bags.

After the lady had closed the door, and as they were walking down the steps, Agzin said to Blulak, "See? This is the one time each year in this area that we can pass for one of them. How many other times have you ever been able to interact with a native species without having to put on a holosuit?"

"What did she put in our bags?" asked Blulak.

"Some kind of carbohydrate. It's safe for us to consume." Agzin put the still-wrapped candy into his digestion port, emitting a low-frequency whirring noise as the candy combusted inside of him. "See how generous the dominant species is here?"

"I guess so. I'll pass on the consumable, thanks."

The two aliens walked through the residential development just outside of Scottsdale as dusk became darkness. The curved sidewalks followed the roads that twisted into cul-de-sacs. Children escorted by parents passed them by, their eyes giving Agzin and Blulak unimpressed once-overs.

"What are they?" one child dressed as a construction worker asked his dad.

"Old-fashioned aliens, I think. From that film, The Day the Earth Stood Still."

Agzin pressed a disinterested Blulak with small talk. "Such great care they have for their young here. See how both of their genders are involved with the rearing of their offspring? And look at how intricate their decorations are!"

Blulak was bored. While Agzin's natural curiosity made him well-suited for a job in The Corporation's xenoanthropology department, Blulak was strictly a numbers guy. The Corporation valued Blulak's ability more than Agzin's, and though they were hired at the same time, Blulak had been promoted to vice president of acquisitions while Agzin still lingered as a low-level researcher.

Their peers often wondered why they'd become such fast friends. Despite his fastidious dedication to spreadsheets and resource reports, Blulak considered himself an amateur poet and novelist. He hoped to eventually quit The Corporation and become a universe-famous writer.

In their desire for self-affirmation, many new writers make a common mistake by insisting that their friends and family members not only read their work but also praise it and encourage them further. Blulak was a victim of this error and could not escape its near-universal outcome: near-universal avoidance by others.

Agzin was the one exception, however. He had spotted Blulak, seated alone during Third Meal in The Corporation's cafeteria, composing something. Agzin's inquisitiveness led him to ask what Blulak was working on. Blulak was elated that anyone would express interest in his compositions and immediately linked Agzin to his entire portfolio.

Blulak was further thrilled when Agzin responded with notes on each of Blulak's writings. Thus began a blossoming relationship.

As they went from door to door, Agzin continued his theme of praise for the native species. "Did you know they have reached this planet's satellite?" asked Agzin, enthusiastically pointing at the moon.

"Did they sacrifice the individuals they sent there, or did they bring them back?"

"They brought them back! Though there are a few exceptions, they do have compassion. While it would have been technologically more feasible to just send a few of their kind and let them expire there, they instead made sure their primitive interplanetary vehicle could make the trip both ways. In this way, they're more ethically advanced than we were."

"Oh? I suppose that's interesting, but it won't matter once this planet has been wiped. You were right, these carbohydrates are sustaining!" Blulak's internal combustion chamber hummed.

Air rushed audibly from Agzin's ventilation port. "Listen, I want to talk to you about that. The reason I brought you down here was because I hoped you would see that the dominant species here is on the cusp of true sentience. They're a lot like us. Some of them even have the same intelligence of our nextgens. I think we should scratch this wipe. I'm not asking you to take it off the table entirely, but just give it another thousand solar cycles and see what this species amounts to."

Blulak's body vibrated with frustration at his friend's request. "I feared you had brought me down here for that reason. I'm no xenobiologist, but I know damn well what a primitive looks like, and that's all this species is. They still expire, they compose their media on dead floral matter, they even wear clothes! And you know the actuarial table predicts with over 99 percent certainty that they're going to kill themselves off and everything else on this planet within the next thousand cycles. We're just saving them some needless suffering."

"Yeah, I know all that, but come on. There's an equally resourceful planet just a few jumps away with no life forms on it. The actuary tables never say 100 percent. I really have a feeling that this species will reach trade status. "

"I already filed the paperwork for this planet. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get clearance from the Governing Body? I've been working on this for three home cycles. You know what your problem is? You get spend so much time absorbing their media that you become attached to these primitives. Your job is to catalog them, not mate with them."

"Are you accusing me of bestiality? That's disgusting."

"All I'm saying is, I read reports out of your department about some unnamed researcher being a little too aggressive during the probes."

"I was only trying to commune more closely with them. Oh, whatever. Fine, I'll do it the hard way."

"Excuse me?"

"I will notify the authorities of this species of The Corporation's plans to wipe the planet and tell them to request trade status."

"You know what's happened on other planets when a holosuit failed and the primatives discovered us! You wouldn't dare risk such an outcome." Bluvak's vibrations were now lifting him off the ground.

"Watch me. There's a government official right over there." Agzin flagged down a passing police car, which stopped as the officer rolled down his window.

"Something I can help you with, Mr. Alien?" the officer asked.

Agzin engaged his embedded translator. "Hello, species authority. I am Agzin, a representative of The Tilorock Intestellar Mining Corporation and a citizen of the Galactic Sentience Species Union. My corporation is planning to use enhanced microwaves to wipe all biology from your planet so that they may more easily harvest rare elements. However, if you direct a formal request for trade partner status to the Governing Body of the GSSU, the wipe of your planet will be delayed at least long enough for a committee to determine your sentience... "

Agzin was interrupted by a voice bursting from the police officer's radio. "Johnson, we've got some kids spray-painting genitalia on the water tower, over."

Officer Johnson pressed the microphone button and asked, "Kids are applying spray-paint to their own genitals while they're on the water tower, or are they spray-painting pictures of genitals on the water tower? Over."

There was a thoughtful pause. "The latter. I think."

"Dammit. Hey kid, great costume. Be safe out there, and keep your junk away from my water towers." The officer rolled his window up and sped away.

"See? Too stupid to accept your offer to save them. Definitely not sentient," gloated Blulak. "Can we go back to the ship now? I have a poem I'd like you to take a look at."

"No. I'm not leaving. I'm staying here."

"You're joking."

"I'm going to invoke the GSSU Homestead Act. Any sentient can claim an uninhabited planet as their own, and that trumps the resourcing permit that was issued to The Corporation."

"You can't be serious. What are you going to do here until their sun goes super nova?"

"I don't know, but I'm not going to let The Corporation murder this species."

"Murder? Only a sentient can be murdered. Just listen to yourself!"

"It was nice knowing you, Blulak. Please come visit when you get vacation time."

Blulak looked down at his metallic feet. "If you stay here, who's going to give me feedback on my short stories and poems? You're the only person who-" Blulak saw his dreams of becoming a writer fade.

"Listen," Blulak continued. "If you stay here, we don't get to see each other anymore, and The Corporation doesn't get to wipe the planet. But if I agree to forestall the wipe for some made-up technical reason, the planet still doesn't get harvested, but at least you will return with me. That's the logical choice. Do we have a deal?"

"Deal!"

I am not what I appear to be.

You may see a 17-year-old kid, but I am much more, I assure you. I am, in point of fact, a shaman. I have an ancient soul within me who carries forth the knowledge of the hidden. My soul manifests a connection to the Great Spirit.

The tribes ruled here hundreds of years ago, before the white man came to North Carolina. And among the tribes, special men have possessed the power to channel the voices of the spirit world. That power is incarnate in me. My mother tells me my father's father was one sixteenth Cherokee. And while that may not seem like a lot to you, I can hear my Indian ancestors speaking through me.

I am an expert in all matters occult. Ouija boards. Tarrot cards. Seances. I also commune with the life forces of famous men. George Washington. Genghis Kahn. John Belushi.

This gift, bestowed on me by the ancients, led to me driving west of town on Halloween towards South Mountains State Park with two freshmen, one in the front passenger seat and the other tied up, lying on the back seat of my 77' Ford Maverick with a pillowcase over his head.

Like my Indian ancestors at the first Thanksgiving, I, too, am generous with my gifts. And when Billy, the kid sitting in the front seat, came to me with his problem, I was happy to help. And we both knew Michael wouldn't go along willingly, so we lured him out of his house and grabbed him, hog-tied him, and tossed him in the back. It was for his own good.

I think we're here, I said to Billy, and slowly pulled my car onto the grass alongside the highway.

A week ago, Billy approached my palm reading table at the cafeteria during lunch period. Principle Huff told me I can't sell services, but I'll usually give you a better reading if you slip me something. A few smokes, maybe a Nolan Ryan baseball card. No charge for pretty girls with soft hands, though. Funny how even the football players are cool with you holding their girl's hand if they think you're doing something mystic.

Billy didn't know who else to turn to, and that's a good sign that I'm the man you need. That's how fate works. He told me his friend, Michael, hadn't been himself over the last year. Well, duh, I said. See, Michael's older brother, Frank, died in a single-car accident last Halloween.

Frank was one year ahead of me, Lincolnton High Class of 87'. I wouldn't call him a friend. Few others can understand us shamans, so we keep to ourselves. And because I haven't encountered any fellow shamans yet, I'm mostly alone. But Frank was a good guy.

Billy is a chubby, red-headed kid. It was as if evolution has developed the perfect bully magnet. Everyone picked on him, but he had a good attitude about it. Kind of like he knew his place in the world was to make others feel better about themselves by calling him names and taping "kick me" signs on his back.

But one kid who'd never picked on Billy was Michael. Michael always got invited along to hang out at the skate park or sit at the popular table at lunch, and he always made sure Billy was included. Maybe they were brothers in a previous life.

Billy told me that things had been pretty bad with Michael. He wouldn't come out of his house. He'd skip lunch and spend it in the library. Billy said that things had gotten even worse with the anniversary of Frank's death approaching.

Billy had heard that right before Frank died, he got into some kind of fight with Michael. The kind of fight brothers always get into with each other and then get over later in a silent way by playing catch or watching television together. Except this time, Michael and Frank didn't get that chance, and that lingered over Michael like a black storm cloud.

Billy got word that I could speak with the dead and theorized that if somehow I could help Michael communicate with his dead brother's spirit, then Michael could get away from that storm cloud. And when Billy offered me three mint copies of his father's Penthouse Magazine, I told him we were in business.

Now contrary to what you may have seen on television and movies, communicating with the dead isn't always a fancy affair with candles at a nice table in a dining room. Sometimes, the spirits won't come to you. Sometimes, you have to go where the spirits are. And that's right where I pulled off the road - right where Frank's car hit that telephone pole.

As I had explained to Billy, we needed a strong signal to be sure to reach Frank's spirit, strong enough so that Michael could speak to Frank directly rather than through me as a medium. And I knew that trying to summon Frank at the place of his death on the exact anniversary of his death might not be enough, even on Halloween. We would need something special to create the psychic connection.

So as Billy pulled his friend's bound body out of the back seat, I opened the trunk and removed my most prized possession: a Panasonic RX-5050 boom box, complete with ambience control and five-band equalizer.

One of the newspaper stories about Frank's death had a detail that had stuck in my head. When the insurance inspectors examined the wreckage, they discovered that the car's cassette deck had been playing at the time of the accident. When the impact happened, the cassette deck lost power and the tape stopped. They took the tape out and played it from where it had left off. Turns out, the song Frank was listening to the moment he died was "Livin' on a Prayer" by Jon Bon Jovi.

I had the song cued up in my Panasonic, ready to go.

When we were driving, Michael had stopped struggling and screaming when he realized it wouldn't do him any good. Billy and I sat him down on an old log. As I hit the play button and began my incantations over that throaty bass that opens the song, Billy pulled the pillowcase off of Michael's head.

Ordinarily, when I commune with the spirit world, I require silence so I can clear my mind and concentrate. This was nearly impossible when Michael realized where he was and what was going on. He started cussing with words I myself, a master of the dark arts, had rarely heard spoken by the spirits of hardened criminals. I began to wonder if Michael's real problem was that he was possessed and in need of an exorcism. I can do those, too.

Michael raged at Billy. He said they weren't friends anymore, that he'd never talk to him again. He even called me a "crazy psycho." I gave him a look that let him know that shamans are not to be disrespected, and, sensing what was good for him, he again directed his wrath at Billy.

Then Billy started to cry. It started with a few tears and sniffles but quickly became bubbling sobs. And he began to speak back to Michael, telling him that Frank was like his older brother, too. How Frank would take them both fishing. How Frank let them both drive his car in the Food Lion parking lot on those late summer nights. Billy told Michael that it was like he'd lost both of his best friends, Frank to the car accident and Michael to his own grief and depression. Billy said that he just wanted things to go back to the way they were before with them when they did stuff together.

When Billy had said his piece, a moment of silence fell between us. I don't know if it was Billy's words or Bon Jovi's guitars, but I was touched. It's rare for something of this realm to reach me emotionally. And I wasn't alone. Looking at his old friend, Michael apologized for abandoning him. Then Billy apologized for orchestrating the kidnapping. We untied Michael, got in the car, and headed back towards town.

In the weeks and months that followed, I saw Michael and Billy together more frequently. They sat at the same table at lunch in the cafeteria, and I spotted them heading past my house towards the fishing hole, poles in hand.

As I've reflected on the events of that evening, I've come to understand that I have an even greater calling from the Great Spirit of my ancestors. My charge is not only to speak to the spirits of the dead but also to mend the spirits of those still living. I am not just a shaman. I am also a healer.

It was a normal Halloween's Eve. Fall weather, cold, damp precursor to Winter's bite made worse by the fog and drizzle that struck naked skin like needles. A darkness that was all-consuming made so by the sharpness of definition of shadow and light as they withstood each others onslaught into their respective territories. Pushing against invisible barriers to gain more ground from each other. The steady push and pull of terrible forces pitted against each other to the death. In this night, at this time of year, on this day things happened that had waited a full-year to come to pass. It was, by all measures, a normal night...except....

The sound of footsteps started upstairs, coming from the children's bedroom. Not loud, harsh sounds but a softer scuffing and shuffling you had to strain to hear while being afraid that they would continue. These were followed by the whispering sounds of voices of sorts. Not easily discernible but clearly communicating between them in a rasping, gasping sound. These were interspersed with odd clicking, snapping sounds of metal-to-metal, breath-to-breath, flesh-to-flesh contacts that were not by accident as they continued without increased response from either being. Then came the shadows in the hallway.

Flickers of fleeting shapes, disconnected, random movements of things hinting of something waiting, coiling to compress muscles before stealthily advancing to pounce. Dark forms against faint lights both flickering in a bizarre dance intertwining and quickly retreating as they devoured the forms of the other. There was no telling which was aggressor and which was victim as they moved about increasingly rapidly.

The sounds became louder as the dance reached wave-after-wave of frenzied motions towards a crescendo. And then it stopped. Not a normal cessation of sound and movement but a sudden stillness left as a void in the atmosphere. A thick, heavy coldness uncommon indoors that is almost tangible yet frustratingly ephemeral to the mind, heart and physical senses. Like a thought, an answer that is just beyond mind's grasp, hanging in the air but maddeningly unknowable. As if all the prayers and pleadings while the forms were dancing to make them stop came to be all at once. Be careful what you pray for....

Now eyes, ears, nerve endings, all of your body strains against nothingness trying to find what you've lost track of from before. Scenarios rush into your mind. "Where, what, how, why, when, who could it be? Should I move or should I wait? Should I run or try to sneak as quietly as possible out of the house? Should I call for help or would anyone believe me? What do I do now? Was any of it real?"

Then the sounds returned, a bit sharper, closer now, moving out of the upstairs hallway to the top of the landing and stopping. Still barely visible but definitely moving forms that seem to have resorted to crawling across the floor instead of traveling upright as before began to appear. Nails scraping on wood, grabbing onto carpet like the scratching of a large cat on a cat post. The exquisitely slight clicking of something grabbing ahold and letting go to move towards another hold just a bit farther toward their final destination reached my ears. It was definitely on the move.

They stopped at the top of the stairs. I tried to determine what that meant, good or bad, right or wrong, what comes next -- whatever possibilities there were raced through my mind as I tried to slow it down enough to pick something useful out of the blur. Nothing at all came at me from the silent darkness. No sound, no shadows, nothing but silence and stillness. I could feel my mind beginning to race again so I willed myself to stop and return to my search for an external clue to what was happening.

I could hear my own heart. I could feel it in my chest. My muscles ached from straining to deal with my situation. I was sweating. I could feel the beads on my forehead starting to lose traction as they slid towards my cheeks and nose. I tried to slow, and quiet, my breathing. I was mentally talking with, reasoning, negotiating, commenting and responding to every imaginable possibility. None of them paused long enough to consider before the next on appeared. I stopped my internal dialogue and returned my focus to what my senses told me about what was happening externally.

Time is an interesting concept. It isn’t finite to us. Oh, we believe that it is and act accordingly, but it is more elastic or fluid than we admit. From the time that I suspected and before I actually knew something was happening seemed much longer than it actually took in the external world. But by then it was too late.
I heard the screams first. They were high-pitched, piercing, deep-seated, primal screams that caused hairs to stand and nerves to fray. Then I sensed the movement in the darkness. It appeared to me in slow-motion though it was happening very fast. Something was headed towards me at full speed and full volume. Then it split into two distinct beings. Each made similar but different sounds. They were physically different too. One was larger, faster, and louder than the other. They came right at me. Then everything stopped at one instant. Again not sound, no movement, just stillness. I could see them standing before me staring at me, sizing me up, trying to fit me into some frame of reference they needed to make sense of their world.

Then they saw the knife. The knife that had the blood dripping from the blade from being used more recently than they could imagine made the connection in their minds complete. Then I stepped from the darkness.

It was a Halloween night when I met my first love. That was also the night I had my first disappointment with passion.

It was a typical Halloween night; many pumpkins, costumes and of course candies. I didn't have the best costume of the neighborhood, but for an eleven-year-old vampire loving boy like me, dressing as Dracula was the most fun.

Together with my best friend from school and my sister, I went down the street to ask for candy from door-to-door. Despite her age, my fifteen-year-old sister seemed to enjoy herself immensely. She was dressed as a witch and cackled every time a treat landed in her bag.

My classmates laughed at me because of my sister's mothering. She always defended me and stood by me, but I was never upset with that. On the contrary, I always liked the support that my sister gave me. In fact if it wasn't for this support, I wouldn't have had the opportunity to meet and get disenchanted with my first love.

While walking from house to house trick or treating, we talked happily about the new neighbors.

"They moved in this morning. Do you think they will have candy for us?" asked my fat friend.

"I hope they have caramels!" said my sister. Caramels were here favorite.

I, however, was more curious about the neighbors themselves rather than the candy they may be handing out. Do they have children? Are they nice? Would I make new friends?

"I hope the new neighbor is a nice person!"

When we arrived at their house, the three of us stood for a moment facing the house. It was apparent that the Halloween decorations had been done in haste; three misaligned plastic pumpkins on the doorstep, a skull of paper stuck in a tree and, on the door, a sign in orange and black letters that read "Happy Halloween".

The old house had low windows, like those where you sit to watch the street. One of these windows caught my attention. Illuminated by a light coming from another room, I could see the shadowy profile of what looked like a beautiful girl leaning in the corner.

That was the most beautiful shadow I had ever seen in my life! I fell in love instantly. I wondered who that beautiful young girl was. Because of her height, she seemed to be a little older than me. I was anxious to meet her. I was in love for the first time in my life.

I walked to the front door and rang the bell. A kind-faced woman answered the door. I guessed she was my new love's mother.

"Trick or treat?" we said in choir.

"Treat! I have great treats for you," said the woman.

The excited woman filled our bags with lollipops and, to the delight of my sister, caramels. I couldn't help myself; I asked about the one who would be my first love. "You're new here. Do you have children? Someone that could go trick or treating with us?"

"No, no. For now it's just me and my husband. But I'll let you know if any child comes," she said in jest.

"But ... but I've seen? I saw a girl in there!"

"There are no girls in there. Now go have fun, other kids want candy as well." she turned us around and pushed us out.

"Are you crazy? Why disturb the new neighbor that way?" asked my sister.

At that moment I couldn't explain myself to her. I was perplexed by the woman lying that way, after I had seen a girl's shadow with my own eyes.

At home, after my parents went to sleep, I got dressed and went to the door with the intention to go out and investigate this mystery. When I tried to leave the house, I saw that my parents had locked the door and that the keys were on a high shelf.

As I took a chair to reach for them, my sister surprised me from behind. "Young man, what are you trying to do?"

We sat in the kitchen. I told her that I had seen the love of my life standing in front of that window, dressed as a witch or wizard. I figured that out by the pointed hat revealed by the shadow. I told my sister that she was the most beautiful being I had ever seen on earth, and that my passion for her burned with the intensity of a thousand suns.

My sister found my story romantic, and decided to open the door for me. She told me with a smile that she would stay awake waiting for me, and that I shouldn't take too long declaring myself.

I ran to the neighbor's house. When I arrived, I walked with care, lest I make any noise. I approached the the window where, to my surprise, my beloved was waiting. I called softly, "Psst! Hey!"

She didn't answer. I knocked lightly on the window, and nothing happened. I looked around and saw a half-open window.

I went to the half open window, looked around, and as I saw no one, jumped carefully into the house. I walked slowly to allow my eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness.

The house had moving boxes all over the floor, making my sneaky locomotion difficult. Finally I got to my beloved's room. How beautiful was the moonlight coming through the window! Even with all my care I ended up knocking something over as I moved towards her. There was a loud noise and the light came on.

"What are you doing here boy?" I turned to the female voice that spoke to me.

"I came after my beloved!"

"Beloved? Are you talking about that?"

I turned my body to see where she was pointing. I couldn't believe what my eyes saw. My first love had just become my first heartbreak. A small statue of a witch, and worse, it wasn't even a beautiful witch but one with warts and all that she was entitled. Only one thing was different. Her nose, which should be pointed, was broken.

Seeing my surprise, the woman laughed out loud.

"This one broke when we moved. At least she found love once."

I went home, sad and helpless. When I told my sister, she broke down and almost died laughing at me.

Before I fell asleep, with my head on the pillow staring at the ceiling, I thought, "Know what? Her shadow was really beautiful, and the lack of a nose on the statue made its shadow even more beautiful. Even though it turned out to be an ugly witch statue, I'm glad I have loved for the first time!"

Ultio de lapsis (Revenge Of The Fallen)

The perspiration steadily poured from his forehead, running slowly down his cheek and dripping off his jaw, constant thoughts of the worst outcome. “What is wrong with me? Why am I so incapable of getting my head straight at such a crucial time?” Thomas Elliot was a “straight-laced” conservative gentleman, who found himself in a series of life changing events on Halloween eve.

At the hour of 7 P.M Thomas strolled down the Jack-O-Lantern lined pathway of his usually timid neighborhood, observing the local children bustling around the streets, but there was no time for cheers and smiles for Thomas, he was searching for someone, someone missing, his sister Crystal aged five, who had been missing since the 27th. The police investigation was ongoing but with no results. Crystal had started school that year and Thomas had always been suspicious of her school Principal Mr Callaghan, he was a large, middle-aged man with a receding, but he always seemed to be happy, for some reason however, Thomas didn’t trust him. Since Thomas was now Crystal’s caretaker as a result of their parents dying in a car crash only a few months earlier, he felt it necessary to protect his sister, whatever the cost, and to be wary of any person he suspected to be untrustworthy.

“I will do whatever is necessary to find Crystal and bring her back home.” He thought to himself while continuing to pace down the path, closer and closer toward Callaghan’s home. Thomas continually thought of what he would do when he finally confronted his sister’s suspected kidnapper, but if Callaghan had done what he suspected, there was only one course of action.

135 Toll St. this was the house. “Looks like no one’s home, I shouldn’t even be here, but I have to know for sure, this has to be done, for my own mind to be at ease and for Crystal.” Thomas approached the side gate and slowly opened it attempting to be as silent as possible. Once he had transferred into the backyard, he began to slowly creep across the yard like a spider on a windowsill. He could see through the corner of his eye that the door to Callaghan’s shed was slightly open, curiosity beckoned him closer and closer towards the shed, and as the shed door slid open, Thomas gazed upon the cold, deceased body of his young sister. He ran to her unable to believe what he was witnessing, he swept her up in his arms and clung to her weeping uncontrollably. Her clothes had been torn, as though an animal had attacked her, this statement was correct however, an animal had attacked her, her blood was covering the floor as well as her body, this animal Callaghan, had to be put down.

The previously still, quiet night sky had been replaced by the tears of clouds and the lightning bolts of the mighty and wrathful Zeus, crashing upon the distant ground and sending the pieces of Earth hurtling away from their resting places. Tears slowly streamed from Thomas’ face, as he clenched his fist and shook with rage and hatred. “There is only one option now, I will wait for Callaghan to come home, and when he does, he will know of the murderous fury of revenge.”

Thomas went through the back window of the house and sat in the dark waiting. The moon light shone through the window, illuminating Thomas’ tears like an ocean at midnight. At exactly 9:00 P.M Callaghan had arrived home, Thomas’ heart was pounding faster and faster in his chest, with every approaching step Callaghan took to the doorway, once again perspiring profusely. This time however, there was no doubt; there was only hatred and sadness in both his heart and mind. Callaghan entered the kitchen where Thomas had been waiting in silence and deep thought. Callaghan opened the refrigerator to get a drink, when suddenly Thomas sprang from his hiding place and began to beat Callaghan unmercifully until he was rendered unconscious.

Thomas then dragged him to the shed where Callaghan had slaughtered his sister only hours earlier. He also brought a chair, gag, rope and set of blades with him, an hour later Callaghan woke up disoriented. “Where am I, w-who are you?” Callaghan whimpered, attempting to find his captor in the darkness. Thomas stepped forth, his eyes blazed like the very fires of hell, he gestured towards the body of his sister. “My sister is the one who you butchered, I am going to show you the face of vengeance, and I am going to show you, in your last agonizing minutes of life, you will know what true excruciating pain is like.” He said this while approaching Callaghan, gagging him with a large balled up cloth.

Thomas grasped the closest knife and proceeded to slice Callaghan’s flesh, every cut drawing more and more blood, vein after vein, artery after artery, the walls were splattered with blood, making them resemble a piece of modern art. “I want you to know, before tonight I would never have harmed another human being, it took your animalistic act, to make me into a bloodthirsty psychopath.” After Thomas said this, he slit Callaghan’s throat.

Pacing slowly out of the shed, approaching the front door, Thomas both felt regret, and a deep serenity. Suddenly he heard the sound of sirens approaching him, panicking, he began to plot his escape, but it was too late, it seemed when Thomas had walked out covered in the blood of Callaghan and Crystal, prying eyes were observing him, Callaghan’s neighbor had called the police. When Thomas darted for the side gate and began to take off, he was met by the gunfire of six officers who were called to the scene, and told to kill him on sight, Thomas died instantly.

The next day’s news headlines read out “Brother slaughters sister and bystander.” The article read that Alex had taken his sister days earlier and kept her at Callaghan’s house, while at the same time holding Callaghan hostage, then slaughtering them both in the backyard shed. Thomas was the only person who would ever know the truth of what happened that night.