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Window Seats by Richard Shifman

The phone rang once before a man unexpectedly answered, offering a brusque, “Hello,” followed by a pause, and then, “Sunset House Seafood, California’s finest dining. How may I help you?” 

He replied in a low voice, even though it was eight in the morning and Bonnie, her snoring a cat’s purr from across the room, was usually up by this time. “Oh, hi. I didn’t expect to reach anyone this early. I was going to leave a message. So, uh, I made this dinner reservation online, and I filled out a special request, but I wanted to confirm the request.”

“Which was?”

“It’s my father-in-law’s eightieth birthday.” He wasn’t sure if this was true. “And we’d like to get window seats, a table by the windows. So, we can watch the sunset.”

“I believe we can accommodate that request. For such a special day,” the man acceded, his voice oily smooth. “I see your reservation here. Defoe. Party of four at seven thirty tonight. Correct?”

“Right.”

“Consider it done. Where are you coming from?”

“We flew in two days ago from Philadelphia.”

“I meant from what town are you driving?”

“Oh. We’re staying up in Carlsberry.”

“Might I suggest bypassing Route 5 and driving down to Cardiff using Route 101 along the ocean. It’s a beautiful view of the Pacific, and it only takes ten extra minutes.”

“Sounds good, thank you. So, uh, why are you working so early?”

“Inventory.” The man paused, his next words deadpan. “We wouldn’t want to lose any customers.”

The way the man said it.

He wasn’t sure how counting inventory would keep a restaurant from losing its customers. Instead of asking about that, though, he replied, “Thank you for helping me.”

“Certainly. You are all accounted for. I’m checking the boxes now. Bonnie Defoe, August Stevenson, Layla Stevenson, and…” the man said, before lowering his voice to a murmur, “…Defoe. It’s all set.”

“How do you know our names?”

“You have a good day as well. See you this evening. Goodbye.” The man disconnected.

He stared at his phone. So odd. Did I type in our names? Maybe I did?

Across the dim hotel room, Bonnie stirred. She shrugged down the covers, stretched her arms, and shimmied her body, the sheets peeling from her slim torso as if she were a caterpillar wriggling from its cocoon, flaxen hair waterfalling around high cheekbones, arms weathered from years in the sun. “Who were you talking to on the phone so early?”

“I got us window seats at Sunset House tonight for August’s eightieth birthday. I called to leave a message and the guy was there doing inventory.”

“My dad just turned eighty-one. What guy?”

“I guess it was a manager. Anyway…” He slid stomach first onto the bed, striking an Upward Dog pose and pecking Bonnie’s lips. “I think we’re alone now,” he said playfully.

“Oh, you’re alone, alright.” She chuckled. “Let’s go eat. It’s a quarter to eight. The breakfast buffet should be open.”

***

Bonnie stood over him, a bowl of oatmeal in one hand, coffee in the other, gray Penn State sweatshirt hanging mid-thigh over gray tights. She jutted her chin at the floor-to-ceiling window beside their table. “We should sit outside. It’s nice out there, but overcast so the sun won’t get you, and there are lots of tables in the courtyard.”

She was right. Only a young couple and their baby sat outside, far away near the fire pit. Up and down the narrow aisle, the other outside tables were empty.

“There’s a two-seater by the pool-area enclosure right over there.” She nodded at a table beside the chest-high glass wall ringing the small pool.

“I saw a yellowjacket by the trash can outside. It’s safer in here.”

“You and bees.” She rolled her eyes and sat. “Wouldn’t want to get stung.” She sipped her coffee.

“So, what’s on the docket for today? Before we go to dinner.”

“Bobby and Carli want to go to the grown ups’ pool at the time share. The Palisades.”

He held his arms straight in front of himself, lobster skin poking from his light gray T-shirt. “I can’t go outside. I’m burned from the beach yesterday.”

She sighed, swallowing a bite of oatmeal. “So, find a cabana by the pool or wear long sleeves. Or sit inside at the back of the lobby and watch us through the windows.”

“Speaking of watching through windows, whose kids are running around out there?”

“What?”

He leaned over the table, lowering his voice. “See those two little kids running up and down the aisle outside?” He glanced at the windows.

“Oh. I see.” She gazed through the window at the boy and the girl racing shoeless up and down the aisle between the tables. Both skinny, bird chested, and wearing dark gray bathing suits, the girl in a bikini and the boy wearing trunks, no top. The youngsters’ open mouths suggested they were screeching (or something), although no sound made its way through the windows. “Should we tell somebod— Oh, there’s Mom.” A pretty, youngish woman in gray sweats, her blonde-hair hair in a messy bun, had marched up and clamped a hand on each of the children’s shoulders. She steered them through the door, into the dining area, and toward the food.

A lanky man in gray sweats, high cheekbones and dark hair poking every which way, ambled through the door. The man’s fingers grazed Mom’s lower back for an affectionate instant, and he patted his son’s head as the shirtless little boy rushed by with a full bowl of rainbow-colored cereal, sloshing milk.

“There’s Dad,” he whispered. “I remember those days when our kids were young and full of excitement.” He turned back to his wife. “So, Kayla’s kids want to go to the resort pool?” Kayla, their niece, was the daughter of Bonnie’s older brother, Kevin. Bobby and Carli, Kayla’s twins, were six.

“Yes.”

“Sounds good.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes.

“Look, there are two more kids running around out there. Inside the glass enclosure to the pool area.” He pointed. “I don’t see a parent in there. That doesn’t seem safe, them racing around the edge of the pool without a parent watching.”

Bonnie squinted at the two children scampering around the rectangular pool. “What is it with kids wearing bathing suits this morning? And their skin looks…gray.”

He narrowed his eyes. Like actors in a silent movie, the two skinny children silently whooped as they circled the edge of the pool. The little ones’ skin did seem an odd shade of gray, and their edges were blurry. He had trouble determining where their bodies ended and where the air began or even what kind of hair they had—straight or curly, or short or long? Their large, blue eyes…glowed? Yes, glowed. Soft, luminescent blue, like the floats of radiant Portuguese men o’ war bobbing in the ocean. “Their eyes. Look at their eyes.”

“What about their eyes?” Did she not see it? “They must be brother and sister, little gray things. Where are their parents?”

Are they a boy and girl? he wondered. The children’s suits, if they wore any, blended with their shadowy, gray skin, making them seem naked—skinny, nude, alien children whipping around the white concrete lip of the pool. “We should tell the front desk.” He peered through the breakfast area at the reception desk in the adjoining lobby.

“Wait, there’s a woman going into the pool area.” Bonnie pointed discreetly. “It’s Mom from before. They can’t be her kids, too, can they?”

Mom and Dad, the good-looking couple with the bathing-suit-clad children, had sat at a table beside the pool area’s glass enclosure. Their two kids munched cereal, ignoring the blurred youths scurrying around the pool. Dad, though, stopped eating and eyed his partner as she entered the pool area and approached the gray children, who now stood ankle deep on the pool steps.

“Good for Mom, taking charge,” Bonnie breathed. “See, she’s grabbing their hands. She’ll get them out of there.”

“I think it’s the other way around.” Indeed, the mysterious children had bracketed Mom, and each of them had clasped one of her hands. “What the hell?” he muttered as the gray tikes walked Mom down the steps of the pool and into the still water. The children’s heads disappeared first; the pool was dark beneath the overcast sky, and their eyes shone beneath the surface, the water around them glowing bright blue. Mom vanished next, her body and then her face and messy bun slipping under.

He rocketed to his feet the same time Dad leaped from his table, the man’s loud, horrific cry vibrating its way through the building’s windows. Dad raced through the pool gate and jumped into the water feet first, sinking with barely a splash. Dad’s children continued to munch their fruity cereal as if nothing odd had occurred.

Eyes wide, he watched from his window seat. “He’ll get her out of the pool.”

“Get who out?” Bonnie sipped her coffee. “Why is that man swimming?”

“Jesus, Bonnie, his wife disappeared! Mom. Those little gray ones took her into the pool. You saw her go under, right?”

“What?” Bonnie, eyes glazed, slurped a spoonful of oatmeal. “Gray ones?”

Dad, dripping, burst through the door to the dining area and bounded into the adjacent lobby in several great strides. He shouted at the receptionist, his words echoing through the lobby and dining area. “My wife! The gray kids took her! She’s gone! She’s gone!”

Outside the windows, his children crunched their cereal.

“Sir, you need to calm down, or we’ll be forced to call the police.”

“I’ve got to help him,” he said. Although Bonnie hissed at him to stay out of it, he rose, crossed into the lobby, and spoke to the receptionist. “I saw it all happen. The kids took his wife into the pool, and now she’s gone.”

Dad pointed at him. “See? I’m not crazy. He saw it, too. The two mummy kids with the blue eyes took her!”

The receptionist held out her palm like a granite stop sign. “Sir, I need you to go back and sit with your wife. The police are here.”

“What?”

Two large men in dress blues marched into the area. One blocked his way while the other, without warning, tackled Dad, who grunted and moaned.

“Sir, go back to the window,” commanded the officer blocking his way as the other cop led away Dad, weeping and muttering, hands cuffed behind his back.

“But his kids. They’re alone now.” He swung his head toward the window. The cereal-munching children were gone. The table where Mom, Dad, and children had been sitting was spotless as if nobody had been sitting there.

“Sir, go back to your wife at the window seat. Nothing to see here.”

He blinked. “Nothing to see here?”

“Nothing to see here. Please return to your seat.” The officer’s heavy hand found his shoulder, steering him back to his window seat, to Bonnie, her face sour.

“Thank you for bringing him back, officer. Are you done?” she spat.

“But the woman, Mom, she got taken by those kids. Drowned.”

The officer turned his back on them and marched through the lobby and out of the front doors of the hotel. Bonnie shook her head. “Why are you causing trouble? That man was obviously disturbed, jumping into the pool and running in here screaming like that.”

He blinked again. Had he seen what he saw? His mouth grew dry, his skin shivery. “I–I guess he was…troubled.”

Bonnie rose. “Let’s go. It’s time to shower and get ready to go to the time-share pool. We’re meeting Kayla there at ten thirty.”

***

From his floor-to-ceiling window seat in the back of the cavernous lobby of the Grand California Palisades, he watched his grandnephew, Bobby, and grandniece, Carli, skitter around the edge of the Olympic-sized adult pool.

He blinked. The morning’s events seemed like a dream. Maybe the things he thought he’d seen hadn’t happened at all. He alternately glanced from Kayla’s children to the cabanas, which were all occupied, forcing him to sit inside the building.

Bonnie’s brother, Kevin, sat on a chaise lounge between his sister and his daughter, Kayla. Kevin was a part-owner of the Palisades corporation and the hilltop resort, the reason why Kayla’s children were able to cavort around the adult pool.

And now Kevin was striding into the lobby.

“Hey.” Kevin sat across from him in a beige chair with a muted orange and green tropical pattern.

“Hey.”

“Bonnie told me you almost got into some trouble this morning.”

“I–I don’t know.”

“There was a crazy guy at your hotel. You interfered with the police making an arrest.” Kevin was friends with many of the town’s officers.

“Maybe you could ask them about the…missing woman.” He whispered these last two words. “She was taken into the pool. By two gray children.”

Kevin shook his head. “There’s no missing woman. No missing children.”

He stared out of the plate-glass windows. A full-bodied man in Speedos stood on the top step of the pool, his belly distended over spindly legs that disappeared into the water. Bobby and Carli were racing toward the man.

No, not Bobby and Carli. The two gray children. Rushing around the large pool’s edge. The gray ones zipped around the corner and halted beside the man. Their eyes pulsed neon blue, like the glowing lures of anglerfish lurking deep, deep in the ocean. They each took one of the man’s hands and walked him down the pool steps. The children’s heads slid beneath the water, followed by the man’s head, the crown of his bald dome dipping beneath the surface like a shiny puffer fish.

“What in Hell?” He leaped up and raced out the back doors of the resort. He stopped at the pool’s edge, staring into the water. The pool was empty, except for a few people huddled in the water on the far side. The man was gone, no sign of him or the gray children.

This can’t be.

Kevin jogged up behind him. “You okay, guy?”

Bonnie called out from the other side of the pool. “What’s up, hon?”

He swallowed hard, a chill shuddering through him. “Nothing. Thought I saw something. I’m fine.”

“We’re ordering lunch. Come on over,” Bonnie called. Beside her, Kayla swaddled her twins in white, terrycloth pool robes.

“Uh…” He stared at the calm, turquoise pool. Was he hallucinating? Maybe? “Okay, coming.”

***

The waiter looked like a movie star, with dark bushy eyebrows and slicked-back dark hair, his apron crisp and white. He stood soldierlike, his hands clasped dutifully behind his back. “The sunset is beautiful, isn’t it?” the waiter asked rhetorically.

“Sure is,” August and Layla, Bonnie’s parents, replied together.

“Yes. Breathtaking,” Bonnie answered, gazing out the restaurant’s plate-glass windows. Her eyes traveled past the white boulders ringing the back of the restaurant, across the water lapping the sand, all the way to the setting sun, a glowing fireball hovering above the spectral ocean. His wife elbowed his ribs. “Don’t you think it’s gorgeous, hon?”

He had been thinking about Mom—the blonde-haired woman from breakfast. Had she truly disappeared into their hotel pool, same as the large man in the Speedos at the Grand California Palisades resort? Or had neither of those people ever existed? Was he losing his mind?

The waiter, brimming with assurance, was speaking. “Might I suggest some champagne to start the evening, to celebrate such a momentous birthday. Perhaps the 2008 Louis Roederer Cristal. It’s only fifteen thousand dollars, and it’s well worth it.”

He couldn’t even afford to stay at the Palisades. “I don’t think—”

“And it comes with a free appetizer. A side of elucidation.”

“That sounds good,” August mumbled.

“Oh, I like that.” Bonnie nodded, her eyes on the wine menu. “Revelation,” she murmured.

The waiter was speaking to the table now but looking at him. “You see, Rob, as the meal goes on, you’ll remember things. Things you think you know.” The server’s upper lip twitched.

“My name isn’t Rob.”

“Exactly, Jason.” The server continued. “Memories will flash in your mind, and you’ll think you understand what’s happening.”

I’m not Jason either.

The man’s hand swung from behind his back, producing a large white plate with a charred petite filet in its center. Wisps of smoke rose from the overcooked dish. The smell of badly seared meat, the stench of sizzled flesh, assaulted his nostrils. “You’ll smell this burnt steak and think of the large, Speedos-wearing man at the resort, his red and green plaid shirt on fire as he screams and stumbles down the aisle of the plane.”

This memory, exactly as the waiter described it, flashed in his mind. Could it be?

“Mmm, burnt meat,” Bonnie murmured.

“What?” he mumbled, swallowing hard, his lower lip quivering.

The waiter laid the plate with the black lump of beef in the center of the table. He produced another large, white plate from behind his back, this one cluttered with six large oysters on half shells. The odor of sea water tinged with something rotten wrinkled his nose.

“See these?” The waiter’s voice was oily smooth.

Is this the man who confirmed my reservation earlier?

“You’ll smell these tainted oysters, Mat, and you’ll think of the ocean rushing into your airliner, half submerged. You’ll recall the salty water pouring in through the gap in the hull and crashing over your head. Filling your burning lungs.”

The waiter placed the rank oysters in the center of the table beside the overdone filet.

The man’s hand swung out again, now holding a thin, rectangular plate of seaweed-wrapped sashimi. The waiter waved the plate under his nose. The disgusting odor of decaying flesh, like a whale rotting on a beach, filled his nasal cavity.

“Do you like that dish, Mat? That’s seaweed wrapped around your dead, bloated body, with crabs and little fish nibbling at your soggy, rubbery skin.”

A fist squeezed at his stomach, and he bit his bottom lip. “My name isn’t Mat. Was I–were we in a plane crash?”

“What a silly question,” Bonnie snapped. “We’ll order that bottle of Cristal. Right, Daddy?”

“Sure,” August muttered. “These are great window seats. Such a view.”

The swollen crimson sun had dipped below the water, painting the sky with bright pink brushstrokes, magenta strands like the inside of the bell of a luminescent jellyfish.

“Was I in a plane crash?” he asked the waiter again.

The man shook his head. “In truth, Rob, no. Your plane landed just fine. Otherwise, your name would be Rob. Or whatever. But it’s fun to think maybe there was a plane crash. Devilishly pleasurable to pretend all of this”—the waiter waved his hand toward the boulders and the beach outside the plate-glass windows—“is, perhaps, explainable. However, there was no plane crash. There is only deep, deep water. Oh, look, there they are again. The gray ones are outside, all by themselves.” The waiter clucked once, pointing at the great stones between the windows and the beach. Outside the glass, the two enigmatic children, their bodies turned even darker, storm-cloud gray, danced and skipped among the large, white rocks, which were spotlit by halogen lamps fixed along the roof’s edge. “That doesn’t seem safe for them to be out there alone, does it? Why don’t you go and retrieve those children, Rob? Bring them inside to safety. In the meantime, I’ll pour that Cristal for the rest of your party while they watch your efforts.”

The colorless urchins darted behind the stones, their dark gray faces peeking out, large glowing blue eyes fixed on him. The two alien babies cautiously emerged from their hiding places, after which they clasped hands and scuttled sideways like bugs toward the dark water.

An urge rose from his belly into his chest, filtering through his brain, emerging as two words: Save them. He leaped from his seat, chair legs scraping the hard wood floor as he sprinted for the door at the far end of the dining room, rushing through the portal that led to the beach.

“Where are you going, hon? The Cristal’s not even here yet,” Bonnie shouted after him.

But he was completely out of the door.

Running toward the lapping water, toward the gray children.

The two obscure, silhouetted figures held hands at the shoreline beneath a pale moon. Breathing heavily, he reached them, extended his hands, and grasped their slender fingers. A calm flowed through him as their tiny icicle hands gripped his. “Safe. You’re safe. You were on the plane, running up and down the aisle. But I saved you. I got you out. I got you. You’re safe now.”

The three of them were ankle deep, all of them heading into the deep, dark sea.

He was leading them to safety. He was the hero.

Waist deep.

Good, the children breathed into his mind.

Chest deep.

Beneath the surface, the children’s hands turned slimy, fingers disappearing, falling away from his hands. Slick snakes coiled around his wrists and forearms, and he gazed down. The tentacles winding around his arms glowed bright blue. Prickles of pain bled into his skin where miniscule teeth, hidden inside tiny suckers, bit down on his flesh, the agony intensifying like hundreds of stinging yellowjackets. But no matter, he thought, biting down on his tongue to distract from the pain. The children were leading him to safety now. He was sure of it. They were saving him, weren’t they? From the plane crash. Yes. He was Rob, and his plane had crashed. This had to have meaning. Somebody was saving somebody. The water, luminescent blue all around him, tickled his chin, and he swallowed something soft and wet. An oyster? No, his own tongue, his mouth filled with the coppery taste of his blood. It hurt so.

No matter.

His head dipped beneath the surf.

The youngster’s appendages tightened around his arms like blood pressure cuffs as they tugged him down, down, down to a place with no light. Something enormous, a leviathan shadow, loomed on the bottom, and he understood: There was no plane crash. There is only the father. A white-hot flash of terror filled his mind before he opened his mouth, and the pitch-black ocean water rushed into his lungs.

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Richard Shifman

Richard Shifman is an author and market research contractor. He and his wife reside near Doylestown, Pennsylvania. His weird fiction short story, “Mayo Monday,” headlined CHM's October 2023 issue. His YA historical fiction novel, title forthcoming, was recently acquired by an indie publisher for release in the next year.
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Not the Dress! by Page Bard

My body jiggled as I sat cross-legged against the washing machine, watching the new Ford Model 6 drive past. My hands still ached from scrubbing the living day lights out of that thing. It would hopefully not take yet another nickel to wash my dress. I could not lose this dress! It was my favorite! It reminded me of the one Bette Davis wore in Of Human Bondage. Mother would also be furious if she knew I ruined such an expensive dress. I patted my pockets to make sure I had the funds in case I needed to wash it again, before staring back outside. I drummed my fingers against the cover of my book. My heart pounded as I watched the sun crawl down the sky.

The laundromat was empty, except for one man. He gave me a jump scare when he walked in with a sack of laundry thrown over his shoulder and a newspaper tucked under his other arm. I was able to shove my dress into the washer before he could see the mess I’d made.

He didn’t have the rough rancher look most guys in this part of Texas had, but he wasn’t a soft city boy either. His classic coveralls hung on his well-worked body, and he even had a pair of working gloves sticking out of a back pocket. His cowboy boots were scuffed but not beat up. And that shirt was white; too white. The sleeves were snug around his arms, so he was a working boy, but a recent working boy. He had to be some runaway trying to start a new life but had fell short of making it to the far west.

I sighed. I checked the timer. Fifteen minutes. I exhaled. My patience was running thinner with each not passing minute. I decided to turn back to my book. It would help me lose the reality I’d recently wrapped myself in.

I turned a few pages before a large presence appeared in my peripheral vision. My heart rate managed to go up even more. I dropped my book with the sudden invasion of my space. I cranked my neck to see the man.

“Oh! Sorry ma’am!” He tipped his head, making my cheeks turn pink.

He was good-looking, that’s for sure. He had a kind and sweet smile. His chestnut brown hair and dark honeycomb eyes weren’t every girl’s fancy, but I never minded them. Especially when he kindly picked up my book. I felt the heat travel to the tips of my ears. I placed a hand on the cool floor, trying to steady myself. I tried to keep it there as long as possible, but my raw fingers didn’t like the chilling feeling.

“Nancy Drew?” He scanned the title. “I prefer Hardy Boys, but it’s still a good book.” He handed it to me.

I pinched my fingers between the cover and my spot, before slipping a bookmark in, to keep it safe. “You don’t like a girl detective?”

The man raised his hands in defense. “We haven’t even exchanged names, and you’re already accusing me of inequality.” He smiled.

I covered my mouth in embarrassment. His closeness had me giddy, and my manners must have flown the coop. “I am so sorry. My name is Ingram Author.” I held my hand up as an offering of peace.

“John Wilks.” He shook it. “To answer your question. If a woman has a brain, she can be anything she wants. I connect with Hardy Boys better because they’re boys. The same reason why you prefer Nancy.”

“Okay. I see your point.” I rolled my eyes and slid my book into my purse next to my knife, which I kept for safekeeping.

An awkward silence followed suit. I tapped my hand against the cold tile. He shifted from one leg to the other, drawing my attention to the length of his long legs. I wondered if they were just as strong as his arms.

I lifted my eyes to trace his sharp jawline, following a prominent vein down his neck.  I mentally traced the curve of his broad shoulders and down his arm a little. His hand twitched, snapping my attention back to reality. I bit my lip and looked at the floor. It was impolite to stare and daydream.

He played with one of his suspenders. “What is a little lady like you doing out here by yourself? Didn’t you see the papers today? The Slasher struck again.”

I furrowed my eyebrows. “No. I thought they had someone in custody.” I tapped the tile. I bit my tongue when the pain in my finger was getting too much and moved it to my lap.

“That’s what the papers thought too.” He handed me the paper, pointing to the front page. “Right there. Suspect Ronald Smith released from prison after another body found.”

“Well, that’s terrible!” I covered my mouth.

“What did you do to your hand?” John knelt to get a closer look at my finger.

“Oh, nothing.” I waved towards the washing machine. “I ruined my dress and broke my nail while trying to clean something up.”

“We can’t let you get hurt anymore, Ingram.” His words were like honey to my ears, “Would you allow me to walk you home?”

My pulse raced with anticipation. “Yes, please!”

The washer timer went off. I handed him back the paper and we both stood up. He flipped to the full article while I turned the timer off and reached in for my dress.

“Odd, it says here that the killer may be a woman—they found a painted nail at the scene. Who knew girls can solve and create mysteries.”

I laughed and pulled out my dress praying that it was clean.

“Wait is that blood?” John took a few steps back. His eyes were wide with surprise as all the pieces connected in his mind.

I sighed. “Mom is going to kill me.”

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Page Bard

Page Bard has enjoyed listening to the voices in her head and writing their stories ever since she was little. She enjoys reading and drawing to help build her creativity. She plays Dungeons and Dragons with her family and swaps between a Warlock and a Bard (naturally.) When she’s not creating or diving into a world she’s studying random trivia. She also loves sunflowers and her sweet and super soft bunny, Batman.
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Don’t Look Before You Leap by Viktor Caeneus

I’ve often been described as an edgy person. Not in the “Oh, he’s so edgy and hip,” manner, but more in the “Why is he always so on edge?” kind of way. Yeah it’s true. I’m highly strung, stretched thin, on the wire, whatever you wanna call it. So you can see why I’m not one to take risks.

I like order. Plans. Organization. I like everything to be just so, as it were. I’ve got anxiety; clinically proven. Signed and stamped. And a whole list of phobias to go along with it. Fear of fire, fear of flying, loud noises, dogs, water. You name it, I’ve probably been afflicted at some point.

Most often, folks with clinical anxiety have one phobia that tends to be worse than the others. The doctor calls mine anthropophobia. That’s a fancy way of saying I don’t like people. To be more accurate, I hate being around people. It doesn’t matter who. When the phone rings. I walk into the other room. Hold my breath. And wait until it stops. When I have a doctor’s appointment, I’ll stay up at night, weeks in advance, freaking out about being in public and—worse—talking to other humans.

I’ve got a lovely note on my apartment door that kindly informs anyone who wants to disturb me that they can leave the package by the door—but ring the bell, of course. When I’m quite certain they’ve left, I’ll pop my head out to see if any neighbors are lurking. If the hall is empty of well-wishers, I’ll allow one solitary arm to breech the threshold and, with haste, recover my goods.

I live alone, work from home, and enjoy being alone.

So, last Tuesday, when the banging on my door began, the natural thing to do was pretend I wasn’t in. I continued eating my ham and cheese sandwich. If they wanted to leave a note, they were more than welcome.

The knocking persisted.

What in the fuck do they want?

I calmly walked to my bedroom, past the deafening intrusion, and locked myself in. The beating fists grew louder. Perspiration leeched out of every available sweat gland on my body.

“Please help!” A woman’s voice begged from the other side of my apartment door.

It’s a woman. Women are even worse than normal people. They want things from you. There’s a good reason I moved three states away from my mother. Don’t even get me started on that.

I curled up in the corner of my room, tucking my head between my knees.

I’m not home. I’m not home.

That was my mantra for the phone. The delivery man. Everything. Now it was for a desperate woman begging for help.

“Please, you’re the only one home!” Her screams became more and more shrill.

What the hell?

I stomped to the door. Paused. Then poked my head out cautiously. On my doormat—not a welcome mat, because, no, you are not welcome—stood a twitchy blonde with glasses, and fear writhing across her face.

“How do you know I’m home?” I demanded, scratching the stubble on my chin.

She recoiled. Perhaps it was my breath. Perhaps it was because I hadn’t brushed my hair or shaved in donkey’s years.

“I think someone is being killed upstairs! Please, you have to call the police!” she begged.

Oh, God, no!

My heart flopped to one side. The blood drained from my veins. “What did you say?” I managed to whisper.

“Call the police, please. They never come if only one person calls.” She was literally shaking with fear. I know that’s clichéd, oh well. 

I should have been concerned about the potential murder taking place on the next floor up, but the fear that gripped me was far greater than any which could be conjured up by possibly homicidal neighbors. The phone and the police.

“No. No. No. I’m sorry. I can’t.” I attempted to close the door. That’s when she got pushy and shoved her hand in the way. Typical.

“Can’t you hear the woman’s screams?” she wailed.

I nodded. Of course I could hear them, but I didn’t see how that had anything to do with me.

“Well, do something!”

This is what I don’t get about women. They think that men are useless and stupid until something like this comes along and then they expect men to do something about it.

Then she did the unexpected. As if caught by the whim of heroinism, she ran up the stairs.

I peeled myself out of my apartment in nothing but boxer shorts and a tomato soup stained Thor shirt.

“Wait, where are you going?” I squealed. My breath caught in my chest. I gripped the doorframe, grounding myself against the potential panic attack about this unplanned trip outside.

“Someone has to do something,” she shouted.

“Not you,” I replied. This was men’s work, after all, right?

Her eyes narrowed. She thrust her hands on her hips. She looked scary. Maybe she could take on a psycho killer. I knew that look; it was the do-what-I-tell-you-to-now look. It has a similar effect to a tractor beam. It forces you to do something against your will. Women are masters at it.

I crawled up the stairs to meet her. My muscles resisted. It was dreadfully strenuous. I peered down at the safety of my apartment sinking below me like the Titanic drifting into the icy depths of the Atlantic.

And me without a lifejacket.

She gripped my hand. I was taken aback by this unwanted physical contact, and stared down in horror at the choke hold her slithering fingers had on my flesh. No time to think about it. She was dragging me up the stairs.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

That’s my other mantra for when things aren’t working out exactly the way I’ve planned them. Original. I know.

We reached the door of the apartment in question but were met by absolute silence. I swear I could hear crickets chirping through the brick walls.

“No one’s there,” I said and attempted to free my fingers from her agonizingly tactile wrist extensions.

“What if he killed her?” she whispered.

“How do you know it’s a guy?”

“Shh,” she hissed. “Listen.”

I pressed my head to the door. The viciously affectionate beast wrapped her long tentacles around my back. So, I did what any perfectly sensible person would do when their personal space has been invaded. I screamed like a little girl.

Perhaps it wasn’t my finest moment.

She jumped. I tripped over her feet. We both fell forward. The door crashed in. She landed on top of me inside the apartment. Her breasts smashed into my face.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. What if she’s lactating?

“Get off!” I squealed and flailed my arms. I knew I was going to suffocate below her well-endowed upper half. 

I wriggled my head out from under her like a turtle popping out of its shell…then I saw what had her transfixed. I peered into the living room, and my eyes traced the length of a woman’s naked body from toes to her slashed and bloodied chest. I looked at her face. She was cute—for a dead chick.

Blondie finally reacted by gripping my face on both sides. She leaned her lips so close to mine I thought I’d faint just imagining the exchange of germs taking place.

“Where is he?” she whispered.

Her words wriggled across my skin as I struggled to keep conscious.

I’m not home. I’m not home.

She relented, rolled off me and crawled up against the wall. I gulped in air. My lips were numb. This was not the most optimal time for a panic attack.

A shuffling noise emitted from the living room. Blondie put her feelers to her mouth. I dragged myself up off the floor and huddled near her by the wall.

She pointed one long talon across the room and wagged it up and down. An arm’s length away from me lay a cell phone. My body froze up and my mouth dropped open. She glared at me and nodded in the direction of the phone. I shook my head from side to side with an emphatic, Hell No. 

Then just like Spiderman he jumped over the corpse and crouched a few meters from us. By he, I meant the killer. But you already knew that, right?

He held a machete in his hand and wore a black Lucha Libre wrestling mask over his face. God knows why.

Blondie rose up and throttled me by the collar of my shirt. Then she yanked me into the kitchen. Several palms dotted the corners of the room, and a set of French doors let in light from a balcony. It was rather bright and cheerful given the situation.

I was somewhat jealous.

“Why didn’t you take us ‘out of’ the apartment, rather than ‘into’ the apartment?” I said.

She threw her hands up and screamed at me. “Are you retarded?”

The killer lurked closer, standing between us and the exit. He growled. Was he el Chupacabra?

“The porch,” Blondie shouted.

We ran to the double doors. I threw them open and stopped. Rain poured down like a wall of glass.

I make it a point to never go out into the rain.

She squirmed underneath my arm and ran to the railing. The wind blew wildly as my awareness turned to the rooftops, littered with TV receivers.

I’m on the top floor.

My legs went weak.

I heard the killer rush up behind me. I slammed the door in his face. He crashed into the glass and hit the floor. Don’t tell me that was pure luck.

Blondie crawled up onto a planter box. Her wet hair clung to her face.

“Come on,” she shouted back at me.

I pressed my back against the doors and shook my head. “I can’t.” I tried to remember what my therapist said about taking deep breaths.

“Then he’ll kill you.”

I didn’t budge.

She hopped down and strode across the porch toward me. She was seething.

Oh God, she’s going to touch me!

“You’re an idiot.”

She grasped my arm and pulled me up onto the slippery precipice.

“I’m terrified of heights,” I squeaked out as black spots floated in my vision. There was no way I was jumping. 

“It’s not that high,” she said.

The killer burst onto the porch. His arms, like swollen pig bellies, rose and fell as he hoovered in as much oxygen as his lumpy frame would allow.

“It’s not?” I cautiously leaned my head forward to take a peek.

She grabbed me by the face, smashing her claws into my eyeballs. “Don’t look. Just jump.”

I didn’t have a choice. She pulled me. Thankfully my feet did the work my brain refused to do.

We crashed through the glass roof of a veranda on the next building over. Blondie landed on top of me. My head softened her fall.

You’re welcome, Blondie.

When I awoke, she was screaming in my face and gesticulating toward the balcony above us. The killer stood on the edge poised to jump.

I lifted myself from the broken glass and held my throbbing head. Blondie led me to the railing. She peered over the terrace. I suppose to sus out whether we should take another blind leap of faith. However, I came to the decision—there was no way I would be jumping again.

I’ll take my chances with the killer, thank you.

Then I heard a sound like a water buffalo screaming in the throes of death’s grip as its wriggling limbs are ripped from its body by a pride of ravenous lions.

Too dramatic?

The killer made his swift descent toward us, his arms and legs flailing. His outstretched fingers missed the railing by inches. We watched his body thud lifeless on the ground three stories down.

Blondie lied. It was really high. Vertigo kicked in. I felt my legs wobble.

She was smiling. Big sloppy tears excreted from her eyes.

“We’re safe,” she exclaimed.

Whatever that meant.

Then she kissed me.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

My vision went black.

Picture of Viktor Caeneus

Viktor Caeneus

Viktor studied English and Creative Writing at Central Washington University. He’s a transman, practices magic and loves his pet rats. He’s a modern cliche. His writing dances between the literary intrigue of spicy tuna bowls and Tex-Mex burritos topped in a sprinkling of splatterpunk. Under various pen names, Viktor has three bestsellers in spirituality and self-help books. He served as an editor for the now defunct Tender Fury Zine. Under his own name, Viktor currently operates Caeneus Ink in Port Townsend, WA, offering workshops for new writers and one-on-one coaching.
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A Guided Tour of Bravania: A Review by Seaton Kay-Smith

Having just arrived in Bravania, a friend recommended the best way to see the city—and it’s surrounds—was by way of a guided tour. I jumped online and found one in my price range. The woman on the phone was very friendly and helpful and I was able to book a package: The Bravania Adventure Tour.

The bus driver who picked us all up—individually, from our various hotels—was charming and kind and possessed a quick wit.

Up until the bus ride, my dealings with the Bravanian locals had been fraught, to say the least. Wandering the quaint cobblestone streets of Bravania, where the population of dogs outnumber the people, and each cafe and restaurant seems to have in its window an A4 print-out boasting the cheapest and ‘best’ local eats, I’d more or less kept my head down, ignoring the unfriendly faces of the people around me, whose whispered words sounded like curses to my foreign ears. Of course, they were not, and I am embarrassed to admit any fears I had that they were is merely evidence of latent xenophobia on my part. Since my experience in Bravania, I am now almost certain they were the opposite.

Bravania is a town untouched by modernisation. It is like stepping through a time. I have never seen so much hay on a city street, nor so many people carrying pitchforks to go about their daily business. The locals speak English, but their accents are muddy, and the dialect reminds me ye old English. An unusual mix of English and Latin. In Bravania, the tunic is still in fashion, superstition runs rife, and the smell of boiling meat fills the city streets like an inexhaustible vaporous cloud.

The bus driver, however, was different. Whereas other Bravanian locals seemed to resent the opening of their borders and the influx of tourism, he appeared to relish the opportunity with a smile on his face and eyes full of wonder. He was talkative and charming, calling his bus, “The biggest horse on the farm.”

He, like many, if not all Bravanian’s, has lived his entire life in Bravania. He made a point of learning all our names, was very informative when it came to local history, and offered us recommendations for where to eat and drink—upon our return, of course. “They might say they’re the best,” he’d said, “but only some of them are.”

Our first stop was a huge waterfall just outside of the city. The Screaming Waters of Ibruck. A little touristy, but beautiful all the same. We piled out of the bus to take the obligatory photos as our tour guide told us how the Falls got their name, which, to my surprise, was not related to the loudness of the rushing water.

“At night, the aquas keep flowing, but are silent. So silent you can hear screams from the other side of yonder mountain,” he said. “An old folk myth,” he added with his trademark grin, as though to laugh at himself, and allow us to laugh along with him.

It was strange, I thought, but even there, so far from the town, I could still smell the suffocating odor of boiling meat.

“What’s that smell?” I’d asked at one point.

The tour guide—Jasbek, was his name, I believe—sniffed the air, smiled and said, “Someone must be cooking.” 

The bus seated about 13, and was quite new and comfortable, thank God—or as the locals in Bravania might say, “Thank the many Gods.” The tour lasts 9 hours and includes long stretches on the bus. There was little talking among the other tourists, but the guide was chatty enough and spoke to us regularly about what we were seeing as he kept his eyes on the dirt road, glancing back occasionally to throw in a joke here and there. We passed several work horses and donkeys, and a few other cars. An empty bus or two coming back the other way.

“That’s the River of Agony,” Jasbek said, pointing to a dry creek bed. “There is never any aqua in it, hence the name.

“See those mountains? In Bravanian folk lore, there is a giant who lives up there. When we are babes, we are told to eat our meat, so we can grow up big and strong and one day eat the giant’s heart. He is a kind giant, but it is said if you eat his heart, you will be filled with his kindness and grow to be his size until someone else eats your heart.”

We listened to his tales and explanations with tourist’s awe, squirreling away these nuggets of information to no doubt bring them out at dinner parties upon our return home. What fools we were to think we would return.

Night had already fallen by the time we stopped at the second location. “The sun doesn’t stay very long in the sky in Bravania,” Jasbek informed us with a wry smile, “so most sight-seeing has to be done in the dark.”

“The Bravanian Woods” said the guide, as we all got out of the bus. “A lot of Bravanian literature and folklore comes from these woods,” he said, “and some other things too.”

Then, opening the back of the bus, he pulled out a large box full of torches. The woman on the phone had mentioned a guided tour of the Bravanian Woods. However, ever the fool and optimist, I had expected this tour to take place in daylight.

“Like wood,” the guide continued. “A lot of the houses you see in the town centre are made from wood from this forest.”

Apprehensive at first, I took my torch and joined the group, who now all stood away from the bus at the entrance to the great dark forest. An ominous sense of foreboding coming over me as I stared into the dense foliage, black as a void, calling out to us, the moon hiding behind a cloud, scared for what it knew would surely come.

Jasbek took a backpack from the front seat and I, struck by that ominous feeling, had an inexplicable urge to enquire as to what was inside that backpack, but did not want to seem worrisome or paranoid or, worst of all, suspicious in the way some tourists become when travelling with citizens of that country. The tour had great reviews, the price was reasonable, Jasbek had been nothing but friendly. I kept my concerns to myself, telling myself the backpack most likely included a first aid kits and spare batteries for the torches. Perhaps a spare one should one of the customers’ torches stop working.

While the woods are very beautiful and serene—as I have mentioned—I would be remiss not to mention they are also very quiet and somewhat spooky. The canopy is thick, and no light reaches the mushroom-stained dirt of the forest floor, and the eyes have a tendency to create shapes out of shadows. In the silence, I found myself wishing our guide would speak more, if for no other reason than to fill the air with something other than dread. I did not request this, nor ask any questions, fearing that, if I did, I might ruin the experience for the others who, perhaps, were enjoying the “peaceful” silence more than I was.

We walked for what seemed like an hour—step after step—deeper into those horrible woods, and I began to wonder why. The tour was only supposed to last nine hours, and there were still other landmarks to see: the Cliff’s of Ill Tidings; the Swamp of Sorrow; the Bravanian Cheese Museum. I began to wonder how we would see them, if we were to spend so much time in these woods. Surely, I thought, the Cheese Museum could only be open so late.

I mentioned earlier that the other tourists didn’t speak much to one another on the bus. This isn’t entirely true. There was a small amount of chatter, and I myself tried to start a conversation with the young couple sitting beside me. They were nice enough but seemed content to simply listen to our driver and look out of the window.

I noticed at this point, they were gone.

Scanning the group, it seemed it was only those two who were missing, so I approached Jasbek, and alerted him to the fact. He tried to remain calm, but I could sense his concern. He told us to wait together in this section of the woods and not to separate. Then, before any of us could argue, he took his backpack and left in search of the young couple.

While I wasn’t thrilled to be left alone in the middle of the Bravanian Woods—so steeped in the folklore of imps, goblins, witches and shadow monsters, as it is—I can’t place the blame entirely on the tour company, as it was not the driver’s fault, but the young couple’s disappearance that led to our situation. I was worried for them, of course, but I cannot deny I felt a slight sense of resentment creeping up within me.

As we waited, every sound, or cracking of twigs made my hair stand on end, and I began to regret coming on this tour at all. The smell of boiling meat following us wherever we went, somehow, despite the distinct lack of civilization, it was even stronger in the forest, almost drowning out the smell of pine and damp soil entirely.

Hearing the flapping of wings, I shone my torch upward into the trees, and what I saw in the beam from my flashlight, as it passed the lower branches, will forever be burned into my memory. A scar on my brain. The young man, part of the missing young couple, hanging from the tree, his eyes seemingly burnt, the area around them charred as though fire didn’t so much go into them, but came from within. His jaw was also severely dislocated.

An older man from the group asked me what I saw, running to my side as I screamed and turned off my torch. I could barely say it out loud, simply pointing in the general direction. The man looked. “There’s nothing there,” he said.

I didn’t know what to do. Had my mind really conjured up such a grotesque image all on its own? I was tired, yes. I find guided tours, for all their attempts to make you comfortable, a little exhausting. While they are the best way to get a holistic view of an unfamiliar city, with their mix of broad stroke tourist destinations, hidden pockets of culture and the specificity of local knowledge, taking that much information in all at once does tire the mind. Still, even now, writing this down, the image of the hanging young man with blackened eyes, singed cheeks and loose jaw, haunts me. As does that horrible odor. The smell of boiling meat.

It was at this point, that a murmuring started among our group. Another young couple, two men from Australia, suggested we turn back and return to the bus. A sensible suggestion made complicated by our missing host.

“If he comes back and we’re not here…” a young woman argued, (maybe French – or possibly from a French speaking country).

The brunette Australian finished his sentence, “He’ll return to the bus.”

He had a point, and we all, whether we wanted to admit it or not, wanted to return to the bus. We had paid about six hundred Bravanian Lira each to be on this tour—approximately forty British pounds—so by no means did we want to waste our money. But, there in the dark, with no guide, surrounded by nothing (we hoped) but trees, we all agreed that it was in our best interest to return the way we came.

Which, unfortunately, nobody could quite agree on.

The problem with guided tours is you expect to be guided. There is no need to take a map, nor even consider bringing a compass. Yes, we had our mobile phones—In this day and age, it’s an anomaly not to have one, but out in the Bravanian woods, so far from the city center, even those who had purchased a local SIM card, found them useless.

Unable to agree on a direction, the group split in two. I, with the (French?) woman, the Australian couple, and a group of young people from South Korea who had mentioned briefly their interest in the folklore of this country—filmmakers, I think, or students. Either way, losing them—as they were so young and full of hope and energy—still saddens me.

The others left in the opposite direction. Was it foolish to split up? Yes. So, why did we do it? I rationalized that, in the light of day, the Bravarian authorities would be able to retrieve the lost party easily. As dark and scary as these woods were that night, I knew that in the morning, there would no doubt be joggers passing through, not to mention a few eager dog walkers. Bravania is famous for its dogs. Two dogs to every household, goes the statistic. The important thing was that one of us reached the bus.

We had barely been walking for ten minutes when, from out of the darkness, we heard the piercing cries of the other party. A short five seconds of concentrated horror, which returned just as quickly to the quiet of the night, the swaying branches, the rustling leaves, the soft wind moving deftly through the long limbs of the trees.

Stillness followed—in the air, and in our bodies. It was as though we were afraid even to breathe less the sound of our breath drown out an important clue or warning, a sound we would need to hear to ensure our survival.

After this long moment of silence, I looked to my group, wondering if we should go back to check on them, but nobody spoke, and I too—to my shame—did not press the matter. Remembering what I’d seen—or, at the very least, thought I’d seen in the trees—was enough to keep my mouth shut.

As a child we had heard rumors of Bravania. Of the things that go on in this remotest of towns beyond the reach of the modern day and the harsh illuminating light it casts. As previously mentioned, Bravania had only recently opened its borders to tourism, so it was a thrill to be able to come to a place so untouched and rooted in its own cultures. There is always danger. But, being a rational man as I am—as is evidenced by my balanced reviews of other restaurants, services, and hotels—I thought nothing of these seemingly violent, cruel, and far-fetched stories, playing them off as superstition, small-mindedness at best, bigotry at worst.

I wish I had taken note. Perhaps I wouldn’t have found myself out there in the woods after sunset, lost and alone, and walking through the darkness. Perhaps I wouldn’t still be having the dreams.

Thankfully, or so I thought, it was at this point we stumbled upon our guide once more. He was panicked and covered in blood.

“Red clay,” he assured us. He had fallen into a puddle of red clay. He offered that someone touch his arm—which, one of the South Korean students did, nodding, assuring us it was, as we had been told, clay.

Funny how the mind plays tricks on you when you’re scared; conjures visions to confirm your fears.

Our tour guide led us back toward the bus, joking along the way that he hoped we wouldn’t let this experience turn us off Bravania, saying we would receive a refund in full. A few pandered to the guide and told him they didn’t blame him for what happened. I suspect those who stayed silent, did.

As we walked toward the bus, it occurred to me we were going in the direction we had come from. This meant the other group had chosen the correct path. My first thought was that it was a good thing, my second thought was, then why had they screamed?

A sudden thought struck me. “Where is the young couple?” I asked. “The two from India? The people you went to look for—did you find them?”

Jasbek did not respond at first, which did nothing for my nerves, and I could feel my heart beating through my chest, the image of the man in the tree with his eyes burned out, and his jaw hanging loosely from his head, flashing through my mind in the elongated silence.

Then, finally, the guide spoke. He told us he’d brought them back to the bus as one had twisted their ankle. For this reason, he said, we should get back to the bus as they will no doubt be more comfortable at their hotel, than they would be, sitting on a bus all evening. He apologized again for the direction the tour had taken, and again cries of, “Jasbek, no, don’t feel bad, you’ve been great,” filled the air.

I myself, did not join in this pandering, my mind elsewhere. Jasbek had not even asked about the other half of the party. A good six of us were missing now. I began to worry once more. My worry turning to terror when I realized the red clay was no accident, looking now, in the moonlight, as we passed through a particularly bright clearing, I could see red clay, though it was, it had been applied with precision, and was in fact a collection of small patterns and symbols, markings I did not recognize, perhaps a local type, almost runic.

His backpack too seemed different. It was bigger than before. It seemed full.

I whispered to the others in my group, mentioning my concerns. How our guide had so far failed to inquire as to the whereabouts of the other half of party. I mentioned the symbols, the bulging backpack.

The French woman mentioned there was something off about the guide. “He seems, different,” she said. “There’s something, je nes sais quoi about him.”

It was a shame, up until this section of the tour, our guide had been nothing but pleasant. I had my mind set on writing a sterling review of not only the tour company, but Jasbek himself, recommending him as a guide to ask for should you find yourself booking the Bravanian Adventure Tour. But now I was certain he was leading us not to, but away from, the bus.

It was at this point, I could see lights in the distance; small fires scattered through the trees. The smell of smoke and burning damp filled my nostrils.

We could hear singing too.

“What’s that?” asked a fellow tourist, their voice wavering.

“Singing,” came the guide’s response.

Stepping into the clearing, I was stunned to see a large gathering of men and women, old and young, of all body types, standing stark naked but for the dry red clay they were covered in. A great pot sat in the center of the glade, steam rising from its surface. The group of naked townsfolk were no longer singing. They stood in silence watching us. It was unclear whether we were expected to join them in disrobing or not, but our guide, I noticed, had taken off his clothes.

Carrying his backpack, which now seemed to be leaking a viscous red liquid, almost black but for where it reflected the light from the burning pyres, he walked behind our group and—I’m ashamed to say, like lambs to the slaughter, we all stepped into that clearing as the naked locals surrounded us, dancing, moving hypnotically to some imagined drumbeat, none of which was even touched upon in the brochure.

The singing started again as the group of locals dancing around us became more frenetic and animated. They pulled at our clothing and hair, pushing their dry clay covered hands into our faces—not to slap, but to feel us, as though they were blind and curious to know what we looked like. It was unpleasant, and it brought with it a feeling of dread.

Beside the pot in the center of the circle was a great pile, a mound of something almost indistinguishable. Jasbek, naked, stood next to it and emptied his backpack onto it. Adding to the pile what looked like two mandibles and various other chunks of meat, some of the body parts tumbled to the base of the pile, while others remained where he’d poured them. The pot bubbled and hot liquid spat and sizzled inside it.

Looking closer, through the errant limbs of the revelers I almost stopped breathing altogether when I saw in that pile at least six other jaw bones, along with other assorted pieces of meat, blood covered eyes and bones—the other half of our group, I feared.

Then, without warning, the locals swarmed in, breaking free from their dance, which had been, up until this point, somewhat structured. They each took hold of one of us—all except for me. I was like a chair in a game of musical chairs; the music had stopped and there was no one left to claim me. In hindsight, I am thankful for this. For what happened next, I was thankful not to be involved in.

They stripped the other tourists naked; the French woman, the two Australians, and the group of South Korean student filmmakers, then began to rip at their bodies. Pulling on collarbones and digging their fingers beneath their skin. I was powerless to do anything but watch as those covered in clay wrapped their legs around arms and pulled them from their sockets. I watched jaws being yanked and dislocated, I watched as hands entered stomachs as blood poured out and splashed across the dirt, until everyone, perpetrator and victim alike, glistened in the moonlight and the coppery smell of blood replaced the smell of boiling meat and the moon, out from hiding, stood apathetically, looking down upon us as we died and were dismembered, deep in the Bravanian woods.

I, myself, watched for as long as my body remained frozen, then ran as fast as I could back in the direction we’d come from.

I won’t go into the details of my escape, my long run back to the bus and my driving the bus back into town, for it was clearly not part of the tour and so, to include it in my review seems inappropriate. It is, however, included in my police report if you are so inclined and have access.

Needless to say, what started out as a promising tour of the Bravanian countryside, turned into a nightmare, which did not sit with my experiences with the wider Bravanian community, who I otherwise found to be very welcoming and kind. Some of whom came to my aid as I arrived back in the town center and fell out of the bus, crawling along the cobblestoned streets upon my return. They took me in, nursing me back to health, cooking for me traditional Bravanian meals, which I was horrified to discover are almost exclusively vegetarian.

I still see that young man in the trees when I close my eyes, I still hear their bodies being ripped messily apart. I can still smell the boiling meat.

One star. Avoid.

Picture of Seaton Kay-Smith

Seaton Kay-Smith

With television writing credits on various shows for the ABC and Disney Junior, Seaton Kay-Smith has written for radio, stage and print, and was a stand-up comedian for over seven years. His debut novel, A Fistful of Clones, was published by Harper Collins: Impulse in 2015 as an ebook, and since then he’s had a number of short stories published in anthologies. He’s currently into the seventh draft of another book, and either reading lots to improve his writing, or reading lots to procrastinate. Outside of writing, he’s a producer, an actor, and an art model.
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Sacrificium – Part One by Andrea Modenos Ash

My hands grip the baby carriage handle so tight, my fingers tingle. I feel my brain float freely within my skull as the elevator descends. The numbers flash as we get lower and lower, and the red of the LED lights flicker behind my eyes, creating sparks that linger, tails of light looking like detached ethereal koi fish kites. One swims in front of me, red scaled, undulating, otherworldly. But when the carp’s mouth opens, it has large hideous sharp white teeth, that glisten with wetness and hunger. 

“The fresh air will be good for you,” my husband says as the violent fish kite explodes into a puff of red smoke and disappears. I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the metallic elevator door. I look hollow, like a shade from the underworld. Black circles under my eyes. My dark hair, once full of life and curls, lies flat against my face. My body, also once full of meat and juice, is now thin, tired.

“I read that exercise can really help. And maybe you will even see the eagle in the park that everyone’s been talking about.” He continues to stare straight ahead. He doesn’t look at me these days, avoids it as much as he can. Always so much taller than me, he seems more so now, as I am constantly hunched over, over the stroller, over the changing table, hunched over in angst. His hair is combed perfectly, even with the thinning of his once-thick dark mane. He looks distinguished with his grays. I look unkempt.

His wool coat is buttoned all the way up, his cashmere scarf tied in an ascot knot, showing enough for the world to see the designer label. His copycat designer glasses used to frame his handsome and well rested face. Now he just looks weathered, sleep deprived. Afraid.

“It’s cold,” I say. “The baby could get sick.”

“The fresh air will be good for her, too,” he says still looking ahead. I peer down at her. Nineteen weeks today. What a pretty girl. What a good girl. My heart leaps lightly.

Is it the drugs that won’t let me feel joy? Or is this who I am now? I sweep her whisps of dark curls from her eyes. She’s bundled in a pink snowsuit, even though it hasn’t snowed yet. She is swaddled up, maybe a little too much. Can she even move in that one-piece snowsuit?

I touch her forehead to make sure she isn’t burning up. Is she too hot? Can she overheat so much that she could die? Do babies die from heat? Do they get so hot their lungs stop working? Can I kill her with the stupid snowsuit? I didn’t even want the suit, but someone bought it for us, gleeful as I opened the package, and was blinded by the pink and the flowers and fleece. Panic burns through my stomach and shoots into my forehead, in my ears, behind my teeth. I’m lightheaded. I grip the carriage handle tighter, contracting the muscles in my core and pushing my feet hard onto the elevator floor to ground myself so I don’t fall over. I close my eyes. My breathing is sharp, short, stabs of terror like a sword slicing through every organ inside me, bleeding into endless eternal pools. If I open my mouth, will the blood gush out like a hydrant, dousing us and drowning us all? I watch us all wash away in a sea of my guts and gore as—

“Lobby!” My husband calls, the faux cheer in his voice making me tremble. The bell rings and the doors open. The sunlight hits me hard. How can I go outside when we will probably die there?

The doorman nods at us. My husband greets him. The doorman’s eyes crinkle when he looks at me. Is that pity? I stop short at the front door.

“Did you tell him?”

“Tell who, what?”

“The doorman. About me.”

“What? What are you talking about?” My husband’s voice goes up three octaves.

“What happened to me.”

“Jesus Christ! I don’t talk to him about you!” he says, his exasperation palpable through my whole body. “I say hello, good morning, have a good night, there are roaches in the garbage shoot, that’s all I say.” His face is grim again. He pushes the door open. My husband’s hands grip his briefcase tightly. White-knuckled—both of us. I wheel the carriage through the front door.

“Go out, even for ten minutes. Walk in the park—we live down the street for Christ’s sake!” Another dig. How I need to be grateful to him for the life I have. The privilege.

I peer down the street.

Central Park is moving, humming, alive. It has its own lungs; I can see it breathing. My husband starts walking. My feet are locked into the cement. Stuck. It takes him awhile before he realizes I’m not next to him, and when he does, his shoulders slump. He turns back and hurries towards me.

“Did you take your pill this morning?” He’s almost breathless. I am the boulder to his Sisyphus.

“Yes.”

“The doctor said it could take a few weeks before it really starts to work. You must be patient.”

“I’m counting down the minutes,” I say robotically.

“Jesus fucking Christ. Do you want to wind up in the hospital again? Do you want the baby to be without you?”

I look down. Maybe it is better for her to be without me. Who wants a mother whose insides always feel like Jello being sucked down a drain?

“No.” I lie.

“Just get some air and go back upstairs, my mother will be here in an hour to help.”

“Great,” I say. My mother-in-law stares at me with a look of terror and disdain whenever I hold the baby. She doesn’t trust me. Did she ever?

“Bye,” I say and walk away from him towards the park. I don’t dare look back at him or risk burning the whole city to ashes.

I cross the street and enter the park. The sun hides behind the clouds, the light flees, everything becomes dim.

I step onto the path. There are too many people here. Why are there so many people out on such a cold day? I touch the baby’s forehead—it’s cooler, I calm a bit. She isn’t going to overheat and die. Not right now. I exhale puffs of gray vapor from my hot and anxious mouth. I vaguely remember when I used to smoke cigarettes, drink vodka, and dance without care with my girlfriends. How many years ago was that? No, how many lifetimes ago was that? My feet drag, heavy, I stop short.

It’s been a month. Since the incident. Since he found me under the bed, my body ripped to shreds, bleeding and raw from scratching at the bugs, all the bugs that had gotten inside me and were eating their way out of me. The baby had been crying in the bassinet for hours.

Hormones, age, this happens, echoed around me in the ER before I slipped into a quiet dreamless warm darkness.

So many people are milling about: runners, joggers, bicyclists, walkers, people on benches with coffee, newspapers, talking, smiling.

Why are they so calm? Why are their lives so easy?

Don’t they understand that, at any moment, a massive hole in the earth could open up and swallow us all? That our lives are not our own, that the fates are the ones who control us? That the road we think will lead us to happiness is littered with shards of glass and dead bodies and pain?

A wild screech above me makes me I look up. It’s the eagle, circling me. Over and over, it turns, never losing sight of me. For a moment I’m excited to see it, as if glimpsing a celebrity. But then my body reminds me to be afraid.

Maybe the eagle wants to claw my eyes out and eat my liver, or snatch my baby and take her away from me, screaming, while the milk in my breasts pours out onto the sidewalk in sorrow. I clutch the carriage tighter, my teeth clenched.

It screeches again, echoing across the park, down towards the skyscrapers and then back again to me.

I tilt my head and watch it from underneath, its belly, its talons. Everything suddenly becomes quiet, familiar somehow. I let go of the carriage and turn, around and around, my eyes never leaving it. I am dizzy, but I don’t care, I feel like I am part of something that isn’t afraid, something bigger than myself. I don’t care if I fall. And I don’t care if the earth crumbles beneath me. Let it take me again—why should I care? I long for that silent darkness once more.

But then—

“Look OUT!”

I’m pulled hard and I fall to the ground, the breath knocked out of my mouth, my shoulder on fire.

“You fucking idiot!” The bicyclist screams as he rockets past.

My baby is crying. I jump up. Where is she? The carriage has been pulled to safety. A man stands beside it. He calmly walks over to me.

“You almost got killed,” he says, his voice low, hard, reverberating in my chest.

I grab the carriage from him. His skin is old, wrinkled, olive dark. His hair is stark white, long, a bit of a curl to his shoulders. On his craggy face, a matching white beard. I couldn’t say how old he was because his eyes, stark blue, piercing, glowing even in the overcast shadows, seem timeless. His eyes tear through my parka into my esophagus and stare into my heart. My stomach lurches. My legs tingle. I am holding my breath. I look up, the eagle is gone. I turn back to the man. As I lean in to thank him, I realize he smells. Bad, like urine and dirt and a life full of sorrow.

“You must watch where you are going,” he says.

I nod. I try not to stare at him, but I must. I know him. How do I know him? Why is he so familiar? Why did the panic get lost just now? I feel nothing but time standing still. He smiles at me, lips closed.

“Do I know you?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says. Did his lips move? Did I just hear that inside my head?

“Who are you?”

His smile widens, his mouth opens, displaying sharp white canine teeth. His tongue is dark. I hear the eagle screech, but I don’t see it anywhere. He laughs lightly and says, “I am the king of the gods.”

My body shakes.

“You mean…Jesus?” I whisper.

“No, not that one.” His mouth purses in disgust. “Desert men. Shepherds. How do you give your body and soul to a lowly sheep herder and not to a true king?”

“I don’t know,” I say. Something moves in the bushes. The fear burns in my throat.

“Do you have an offering?”

“What?”

He puts his hand out.

“You must make an offering to the god who saved you.”

“Oh?” I fumble through the diaper bag and pull out a cheese sandwich and hand it to him. He snatches it and greedily tears into it. But then, just as quickly, his face turns to regret.

“Cold. Tasteless. Dead. Just Like your shepherd god.” He tosses the rest of the sandwich onto the bench. “You mortals never change. Limited fools. And yet, we are at your mercy.”

He stares at me, and I step backwards, unable to pull from his glance. My wrist vibrates; my watch, a message from my mother-in-law, a frantic text with many question marks.

“I have to go now,” I say.

“Be safe,” he says. A hand slips from the bushes behind him and snatches the rest of the sandwich. The old man leans his head back and closes his eyes unmoving. I maneuver the carriage away from him and quickly scurry out of the park, down the street, back into my building, past the doorman who tries to greet me, into the elevator and up to my apartment, quickly entering and locking the door behind me.

***

After dinner, as my mother-in-law washes the dishes and I lie down alone in my bed, the baby content in her bassinet next to me, I Google Who was the king of the gods?

Zeus. Deus. Immortal. King of the Olympians. The Eagle, the thunderbolt, murdered his own father to rule over the other gods.

Ah, Old school. Anger, vengeance, wrath. All the things we are not allowed to feel anymore. Everyone in this neighborhood sits on a rubber pad and repeats foreign words, so-called mantras, that they paid thousands of dollars for, most probably fake, over and over in their minds, hoping their rage will dissipate into the wind. But the thing is, it never does, it sits in their livers and grows like a cancer, exploding on the check-out kid at Whole Foods when they can’t get their discount to work.

I scroll another page and find a statue of Zeus, a robust old man, virile even, with his flowing white hair and beard.

Looks just like him. I smirk.

Oh. A pang in my chest. Is this part of my…incident? The bottle of pills sits shadowed on the nightstand. Did I even take my pill today? Maybe I need a higher dose? Do I dare tell anyone? My husband walks into the room and scoops up the baby, smiling at her.

“How was it?”

“Okay,” I say.

“I think the fresh air did you good!” he says, a little too enthusiastically.

He wants his wife back. The one who said yes to everything and never made him feel like he had to worry about his decisions, terrible or not. The one who knelt at the altar of his body with her body as an offering for whatever he desired.

“I think I’ll go again tomorrow,” I say.

“Oh, that’s so great!”

He clasps my arm, but not too tight. He lets go. He nuzzles the baby. She coos. He kisses her face. He sacrificed a wife for a daughter. But what did I sacrifice?

***

That night, I dream I’m standing on the rugged crag of a hill, staring down at the crashing waves below. Where is my baby? I think. Is that her at the bottom, smashed to bits? Then, behind me, a colossal black bull slowly stalks, stepping in close. In the cold air, hot breath from his nostrils envelopes me like a veil. He tilts his head, snorts, and leans in, lowering his head and pressing forward. His sharpened horns ever so gently pierce my breasts. I cry out, and when I do, the bull exhales so powerfully that I inhale its breath, fall off the cliff and down to the crashing waves.

I jerk awake. The baby stirs, and I pick her up and put her to my breast. It feels sore from the dream. I wasn’t allowed to give her formula. Only natural, my husband and mother-in-law decreed. It took a while for both of us to get used to it. I still don’t know if I am used to it. She sucks hungrily half asleep. I stare out of the window of the high-rise. It’s foggy today. I can barely see the tops of the trees in the park. And then I hear it: the screech. The eagle. I tap on the window, but it doesn’t hear me. It circles the park, further east from where I was yesterday. A marker. A desire rises inside my chest.

Once the baby is full, I put her back down in her bassinet. My husband’s still in a deep sleep. I sneak into the kitchen and rummage through the freezer beneath packets of breast milk and ice cream to find lamb chops. I toss them into a pan and turn on the broiler, and then search for olive oil, lemons, oregano. What else? Salt…pepper… Do gods like pepper? Maybe some red wine? I open the wine cabinet and find an expensive Cabernet that my husband’s boss sent us when the baby was born. Who sends alcohol to a nursing mother? But I guess the gift really wasn’t for me.

I mix everything together in the pan and then put it in the broiler. I find my old metal coffee flask hidden behind a colander—the one I used to take with me on the subway to work. This startles me.

Work.

When I used to have a purpose.

I have a new one now, I think. I am a mother. That falls short within me. I squeeze my eyes shut to shake off the regret. I see the Bull, its hot breath, its glossy black eyes that beckon me, and I shiver. Today I have a different purpose. I want to help the man in the park who saved me from a broken clavicle, a torn shoulder, and probably a concussion. I pour the rest of the red wine in the coffee flask and seal it up. I hide it in the diaper bag.

I flip the meat over and over as it cooks so the chops crisp on all sides. I remember watching my mother do this, patiently, without angst. I normally don’t cook, can’t sit still long enough, with all my thoughts racing constantly to tend to the meat, to let it transform itself. In my impatience, I would turn the heat all the way up to cook it faster, and it always, always burnt to a crisp.

But not this. This is perfect.

I cut the steaming lamb into cubes, slicing as much off the bone as I can. I search for bread in the fridge but come up empty. My mother-in-law must’ve used the last of it to make me that terrible cheese sandwich. I huff. I tiptoe to the bedroom. Everyone is still asleep. My container of pills stares at me with remind. I pick it up, but the breath of the bull is still fresh inside of me. It makes me feel strong. Happy almost. I open the end table drawer and toss the bottle in. I’ll take that later, I think as I grab my coat and slip on my boots and run down to the elevator.

In the lobby, the doorman nods at me as I rush out. I nod back. How long has it been since I’ve done that?

White snowflakes fall onto the gray streets as I hurry into the bodega and walk the grocery packed labyrinth inside the store. A dirty ginger cat with a sealed crusted eye and shit breath is sitting on the bread pile. I try to move it, and it hisses at me.

“Hey, Kitty, come on!” I say as I firmly nudge it away with my arm. It begrudgingly moves. I find some fresh bread with sesame seeds in a plastic wrap, quickly pay.

Outside in the snow and the gloom, the cold and the wet—I feel it all. I’m alive, I think. Not half dead, trapped in the underworld like I was for the past few months. I am alive. I cry out loud and my voice echoes against the buildings. I laugh, and then hurry back upstairs.

My husband is waiting in the doorway with the baby, terrified.

“Where were you?” he cries, gritting his teeth.

“I had to go to the store. For bread.” I hold up my bag. I push past him and into the kitchen.

My husband scurries behind me but then stops short. His nostrils flare from the tantalizing smell of burning flesh mixed with oil and herbs.

“You cooked?” he asks. He seems slightly aroused.

“Yeah. I thought I’d make us dinner,” I lie. His eyes grow with excitement.

“That’s so great!”

“Go get dressed,” I say. “I’ll walk you out.”

“You’re going to the park again?”

“Yes.”

He hugs me, grinning, and seems to float out of the kitchen. I take the still-warm lamb cubes and roll them into the fresh bread. My mouth waters wanting to taste it, but it’s not for me.

It’s for him.

I save enough for my husband for dinner, cover the meat, and leave it on the counter. I then slip the sandwiches into a Ziplock, look behind me to make sure no one is watching, and then hide them deep in the diaper bag next to the wine flask.

Picture of Andrea Modenos Ash

Andrea Modenos Ash

Andrea Modenos Ash is a hard-working, full-time accountant and mom by day, and a writer of all things strange by night. She has a degree in Classical Studies, and her love for the gods has continued through her writing. She lives in Long Island with her family and a menagerie of pets: two dogs, two guinea pigs, a hamster, a gecko, and a bunch of fish. Her dream is to be a full-time writer, organizing and reconciling words instead of numbers.
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Hell Raise by Holly Scott

The water is freezing. Her head is pounding, her mouth tasting like copper and chemicals and asphalt. Billy said everything was going to be okay now, and Heather had no choice but to believe him.

She doesn’t remember him saying it out loud, but she knows Billy’s trying to help. He’d said being trapped out in the heat on his first day with the monster inside him had made his body feel like it was tearing in two. It stood to reason the monster hooking it’s claws in her mind would go easier if her body wasn’t fighting it off.

He’d filled the bath with ice water and put her in it, then held her under with two strong hands on her shoulders until she heard it, the monster’s voice telling her its plan.

Billy only lets her up then, tears running down his own face. His wordless apology echoes over and over again in her head as he tries to soothe the situation in the only way he can. Heather wonders if she’s even alive anymore—maybe she’d drowned.

From the bathroom, past the ringing in Heather’s ears, they hear the front door open, and slam shut again. Two voices carry through the house, an argument between a man and woman she thinks she recognizes as Billy’s parents.

Heather feels nothing for them, not even a flinch when the echo of their shouting rings through the small bathroom, but it makes Billy’s body tense, and his pupils dilate.

Heather closes her eyes and tries to listen, but her thoughts are too fuzzy. The shadow is saying something to Billy, something it doesn’t want her to hear. Their thoughts are linked now, but it’s careful about guarding the plan, only telling them what they need to know to get it done.

They stand at the same time, Heather from the now nearly overflowing bathtub as the ice had begun to melt, and Billy from beside it where the air vent had been sending a chill over his clammy skin.

Only, there is no Billy and Heather anymore. The shadow had changed since its last host was taken from it. Even when they’re docile, they’re lost. Forced to sit and watch as someone who isn’t them controls their body for horrors and mundanities alike.

Heather turns to the mirror. Billy hands her a pair of sweatpants to put on over her suit. They flash identical numb smiles. A stray tear runs down Billy’s cheek.

The noise has died down outside of the bathroom. It sounds like somebody must have won the argument. You can’t win what’s going to happen next.

Billy opens the door, the tiniest smudge of blood smearing against the frame just above the doorknob. Neil must’ve known he was in there, because he was waiting for him.

She gathered he was like that, Neil was. Always trying to pick a fight with his son. Even now Heather could Billy’s fear, only she knew too it wasn’t for what would happen to him. She could hear him pleading with himself to not feel like it was what his father deserved.

Neil, leaning back in a leather recliner chair, snaps something like, “Boy, I told you not to use all the hot water.”

But then Heather steps out behind him, and Neils face changes. From tight disappointment and anger from the fight, to curiosity, a look that said he was impressed almost. “Your little queer phase finally over, then? I knew I could work it outta you, and look, you’ve even got yourself a pretty, little girl there.”

His eyes rake over Heather’s body, and she feels a flash of something in the back of her head, a feeling that was distinctly human—fear and disgust and embarrassment. It’s quickly overshadowed by a white-hot hatred that isn’t hers, nor the boy’s beside her. It could’ve been, and really it should’ve been, but it belongs to the monster.

Billy puts his hand on Heather’s shoulder, his fingers digging into her skin just enough it’ll leave a bruise. She knows that it’s him—her Billy, and not the monster. That he’s just trying to cling to something, protect her if he can. Her arm feels like it’s made of lead, trying to control it on her own, but she fights through it to put her hand on top of his. To show him she gets it. That she can still hear him.

Still, the dull ache from his grip goes mostly unnoticed, Heather’s entire body already stiff and in pain from all that had happened since this started. It’s then that she realizes, she doesn’t even know how long ago that was.

How many days had it been since she was taken at the pool? Since she was in the ground floor of the steelworks? Or even how many hours since being held under the freezing cold water until the monster took total control?

She tries to think back on it but is met with a searing pain behind her temples, her own memories protected from her. She shudders, and hopelessly returns to the present.

Billy smiles a much too wide smile, and they both take a step forward. His tone sounds practiced, flat almost, as he says, “Dad, this is Heather.”

Neil’s eyes narrow. Whether out of suspicion or disapproval is unclear, unimportant really. Then he snickers, even though nothing’s funny. “The Holloway girl? What the hell do you think you’re getting into, boy?”

It’s Heather’s turn to smile sweetly, giving an automated answer. “Your son is a very sweet boy, Mr. Hargrove. I assure you, he has nothing but good intentions.”

Neil nods. “Well, you know the rules, boy. As long as you don’t knock her up, I don’t give a shit what you do. Just don’t make her daddy angry.” Neil winks, takes a long swig from one of the beer bottles on the coffee table.

Big mistake. This gives the monster an idea.

Neil stands, setting the empty bottle back down, the glass makes a dull thud on the wooden surface, a hollow echo of what’s guaranteed to come now. “Don’t let her down, William.” Neil sneers and makes yet another grave mistake, turning his back on them to leave.

Heather picks up that very same bottle. Her daddy doesn’t let her drink beer—for an empty bottle it’s heavier than she expected. Perfect to do what needs to be done.

Billy stops Neil from walking away, taking long strides over to his father and putting his hand over his shoulder, just ghosting over it so he isn’t touching him, the guilt of a son who’d had dreams and nightmares about this moment all his life. “Hold on a second, Dad.”

Heather carefully puts the bottle in Billy’s left hand just as Neil turns around. Billy wastes no time drawing the weapon back, but they still both catch the slightest moment of realization that registers on Neil’s face just as Billy swings it.

The glass bottle shatters when it makes contact the back of his head. From the sound of it, Heather’s pretty sure his skull does too.

Her eyelids flutter, but it makes her watch. Forces her to appreciate how much gentler it had let Billy be with her. Tortures her with the thought that its sympathy could mean, maybe, she’ll survive this after all.

Neil falls hard, Billy rolls him over onto his back with his boot. He’s still breathing, but blood quickly seeps into the old carpet, right down to the hardwood underneath. A tear drips off the end of Billy’s nose just as Susan comes running.

He drops what’s left of the bottle. There’s blood dripping from his fingertips, broken glass shards stuck in his unfeeling hand.

The monster in his body lies. “Susan, I-I didn’t mean to…”

Her face goes pale, and her response is simple. “Is he alive?” It’s unclear whether it’s shock or disinterest that’s keeping her so calm.

Billy continues to feign innocence. “I-I don’t know. I—”

“Calm down, Billy.” Susan cuts him off, and it’s suddenly clear its fear keeping her rational.

Her hands shake as she reaches out to him, putting her hand on her stepson’s chest and making him take a few steps back from his father.

Heather plays the part as well. She jumps back with her hand over her mouth and a sharp gasp, entirely unconvincing in her numb imitation of fear.

It doesn’t matter, because Susan isn’t worried about her—she’s afraid of Billy, too focused on trying to talk him down to worry about the girl. “Just tell me what happened.”

Billy stays silent, and that’s Heather’s cue.

As subtly as she can manage, she slides the crystalline ashtray off the entertainment center, taking advantage of the fact that Susan has her back to her talking to Billy to do the same thing he had done to his father, and to her at the pool, and crashes it into the back of Susan’s skull.

The ashtray doesn’t break. Susan gasps, her eyes going wide. It takes another two hits for her knees to give out. Her blood looks sickeningly dark in her light red hair. It drips in thick drops from Heather’s crystal weapon.

Heather stares apathetically down at the two bodies. It doesn’t look like Susan is breathing anymore. Billy kneels and checks, his hands shaking badly. She can tell he’s fighting it. She wishes she was so brave.

The shadow knows this too though, and it must say something to him, because Billy looks up at Heather and squares his jaw, pupils so wide there’s only the smallest rim of dark blue around them.

In that moment, any hopes Heather might have had that she’d get through this cease. Her safety is merely a trap meant to keep Billy from trying too hard to break the shadow’s hold on him.

Billy stands abruptly and shoulders past her, snatching the phone from the side table, yanking the cord from its base and binding Susan’s wrists with it. He doesn’t bother tying her ankles. It doesn’t look like she’ll be waking up any time soon.

Neil doesn’t get off so easily. He’s tied up with braided fishing wire, the kind Susan uses for her beading work but is strong enough to cut to the bone if you aren’t careful. It digs into his skin and draws more blood.

Silently they agree that Heather isn’t suited to carry them out. She takes the car keys off Billy’s belt loop and goes to open the trunk. It doesn’t seem big enough for two adults. Her eyes close, and she remembers how hard it had been to breathe. Remembers screaming and kicking at the taillights.

There’s a small pool of her blood staining the material from her time in the trunk. Her head pounds painfully, her own cries echoing in the back of her mind. A car drives past on the road, breaking her thoughts and making her head snap up.

On the inside, she’s screaming for help, clawing her way over to that car and running from the murder scene in Billy’s living room. But she’s trapped—in more ways than one.

She can’t cry out, she can’t even move freely. Even if she could, who would believe her? Her parents already hated Billy before, what would they do if she said he was making her murder people against their will? They’d probably disown her and pretend they never even had a daughter.

Blame it on that damned Hargrove boy and his negative influences on their once sweet little girl.

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

The car drives off, and Billy kicks the front door open carrying an unconscious Susan in his arms.

They do fit in the trunk, despite Heather’s earlier thoughts. She just hopes they don’t wake up in there like she did.

Heather stays at the house, another of Billy’s mercies, so she didn’t have to go back to that place. Her job, instead, is to scrub the carpets. Hide the weapons. Make the crime scene spotless so the little sister won’t figure anything out.

She puts the beer bottle in the trash can out the back with the rest. The ashtray comes clean easily in the sink. She pours bleach on the carpet and gags down what’s left.

In some part of her mind, she knows all the bloodstains aren’t just from tonight.

Some of them are months old, there because of something to do with Billy, she thinks.

She can’t even remember what happened, or how she knows it anymore. The monster is taking more and more of her memories. That scares her more than anything else that’s happened tonight.

That she’ll be gone, watching herself do these things without even being able to recognize herself, until she dies—just like the shadow promised.

A prickling on the back of her neck tells her Billy’s close. The rumble of his engine and three doors slamming tells her two things: that the plan had worked, and that she’d lost at least several hours in her own head.

The front door opens, and Billy kneels where she’s working the stains out of the shag. She doesn’t know where Susan and Neil will go now, but they won’t do any harm. Not yet, at least.

The monster is done with them for now. Nothing but a loaded silence ringing in their ears, just an empty feeling, settling deep in their bones, that is both relieving and terrifying.

At least, that is, until the girl comes looking.

Heather feels her presence reaching out to her first, then if she closes her eyes, she can hear her. If she focuses hard enough, she can see her in the dark. The girl is looking for her.

All night, Heather’s been searching for her way out, for someone or something to save her. This might be her only chance. She shows the girl what she can, fragmented pieces of what she’s still able to remember.

It’s comforting just to know she’s there. The monster has done its best to steal her hope, but this could be their saving grace.

But then Billy puts his hand on her thigh, and the darkness collapses, the girl’s image turning to smoke. They had been caught.

Her blood runs freezing cold. Her head is pounding. Her mouth tastes like copper and chemicals and asphalt. Billy says everything is going to be okay now, and Heather has no choice but to believe him.

Picture of Holly Scott

Holly Scott

Holly Scott is a young writer from rural Australia. She was shortlisted for a competition held by Calanthe Press and is soon to have her first short story published in AntipodeanSF Magazine, one of Australia's longest running literary journal for speculative fiction. When she’s not writing, Holly can be found going on walks, enjoying a cup of coffee and wrangling a number of chickens.
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First Time by Jacek Wilkos

You answered my call. I wanted you to come to me, and here you are. The room is dark, but I can clearly feel your presence. I lie on the bed on my back and slowly spread my legs. I’m already naked.

You place your hands on my inner thighs, just above my knees, and slowly move them up. Your thumbs meet on my pubic mound. You caress me for a moment, then move your hands higher, to my sides, wrapping your arms around my waist. I feel gentle pressure on my clitoris. You tease me by sliding up and down my labia before you finally come inside. A soft sigh escapes my lips. Your movements are slow but deep. Your hands move to my breasts. They squeeze them with passion. You gently pinch my nipples, and they harden immediately. Your breath on my neck gives me goosebumps. You speed up. I clench my fingers on the edge of the bed above my head. I wish I could wrap my legs around you right now. You thrust harder and faster. I can’t abstain moans of pleasure. An orgasm pierces through my body, causing spasms over my lower abdomen. I haven’t felt something so wonderful in a long time.

I lie relaxed, breathing deeply. I feel you inside me for a moment longer, then you slowly exit and leave. I know it has to be this way.

I rest for a while, savoring the past moment, then I push myself up on my elbows and look at the floor. The marker on the Ouija board that previously indicated “yes” now indicates “goodbye”. I smile because it’s our first time like this, but I’m sure it won’t be the last.

Picture of Jacek Wilkos

Jacek Wilkos

Jacek Wilkos is an engineer from Poland. He lives with his wife and two daughters in a beautiful city of Cracow. He is addicted to buying books, he loves black coffee, dark ambient music and anything that’s spooky. First, he published his fiction in Polish online magazines. In 2019 he started translating his writing into English, and so far, it has been published in numerous anthologies by Black Hare Press, Black Ink Fiction, Alien Buddha Press, Eerie River Publishing, Insignia Stories, Reanimated Writers Press, Iron Faerie Publishing, KJK publishing, CultureCult, and Clarendon House Publications.
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The Watcher, or City of Angels – Part Two by Tyler Whetstone

The sidewalk lights were dim and dingy, reminding her of Victorian gaslights against the stark contrast of the cold fluorescent lights from the glass doors of the police station. From here, the lobby of the station looked too much like a convenience store for her peace of mind. Though the stark lights did some strange things to the figure approaching her, his shape was unmistakable. “Jack?” 

In the soft afternoon sunlight in the park, Jack Trowell had always seemed like a fatherly sort of figure, handsome despite the thinning hair. More than anything, he’d reminded her of the actor Clark Gregg. Here in the shadows, though, the high forehead and deep-set eyes seemed pale and sunken, and though he stood tall and thin, he seemed more a grandfather than a father—the kind you were always intimidated to visit. He briefly looked over his own shoulder, though, and, as he turned back to her, his smile was just as kind as ever. “I thought you might need someone to walk with you.”

“How did you even know I would be here?”

He stepped up next to her as the little man flashed on the crossing light, and he waved the question away as they stepped into the street, which was not terribly busy. “Why were you there, anyway?”

“I needed to give a statement. Enrique and I found one of my downstairs neighbors in his apartment. Heroin overdose.”

“That’s not an easy thing to see.”

“It’ll be harder to tell my mom. She’s been trying to convince me to move out of North Hollywood for a while now, but I can’t afford the kinds of places she keeps mentioning.”

Jack paused, and she realized they’d stopped in front of his car. “You need a minute to clear your head? There’s a story I think you ought to hear, if you’re up to it.”

“Jack, why did you come to pick me up?”

He unlocked the passenger door, using a key without a fob for remote entry. “You remember my old friend Rex?” She nodded as he got the door open. “He did the same thing for me several years back.”

***

They sat just below the north lawn of the observatory, on the steps of a concrete staircase. It was deserted that time of night, with the exhibits closed, though they could see crowds in the parkland, crowding for pictures with the Hollywood sign in the background. Jack had suggested they stop at Yogurtland, so she was digging a banana slice out of her peanut butter yogurt as she realized things were starting to feel normal again. “So Rex picked you up from the police station back in the day?”

“No, he met me at Cedars-Sinai. I’d been two cars behind a traffic accident and helped set a lady’s leg. She asked me to stay with her in the ambulance. But she didn’t make it either.”

“From a leg injury?”

“From a concussion. She had hemophilia B and died of intracranial hemorrhaging.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It was rough, to be the witness to that, but at the same time, I hadn’t known her before that day.”

She scraped out the last of the yogurt, unsure if she could look him in the eye. “But the doctors told you about her hemophilia?”

He sighed. “Rex did. Right before he told me the story I’m about to tell you.”

That got her to look, and to stare. “It’s, what, an inspirational fable?”

He smiled, dropping the plastic spoon into his own yogurt cup, but the smile faded as he straightened back up. “No, it’s about his wife.”

“I haven’t heard you mention her before.”

“I never knew her. I met Rex when he was a widower. When Rex told me this story, it was more than I’d ever known.”

Reggie grabbed his cup, dropped it into her own, added her spoon, and set them down on the sidewalk one step up. She wiped her hands on her jeans and took a deep breath. “All right,” she said. “I’m listening.”

“Her name was Sarina, and she was from Russia. Arkhangelsk.” He popped his knuckles, trying to remember the story as it had been told to him. “Rex stayed busy. He was on call with the LAPD, but he also spent a lot of time as an expert witness, and he did some teaching work, too, so he usually worked 9-5 or better. He always felt bad that he had this ‘exotic treasure,’ he called her, waiting at home, but I guess she had a circle of friends. He just never got to know them.

“Everyone gave him a hard time, visiting Russia and bringing home a ‘mail-order bride,’ but when they met her, they said she had the bearing of a lost princess, that she was otherworldly. Rex got stuck on that word. He said she lived in a different world, that he maybe hadn’t really known her at all while he still had her.

“One night, he’d been late at the medical examiner’s office, so it was close to eleven when he got home. There was a car in his driveway, one he’d never seen before.”

Jack took a breath. Rex hadn’t taken long to choke up when he’d told Jack this story, though he was abbreviating for her sake.

“When he got to the door, he could tell something was wrong. There was a lamp on in the living room, but the shade had been knocked off. There was a hot, smoky smell in the air, and a thick coppery smell. At first he thought it was his own scent, that he’d brought home the smell of the medical examiner’s office, because it smelled like blood. But then he saw someone in the chair at the far end of the room.

“He said she’d looked like Billie Holiday, and she even seemed dressed like she might have been a jazz singer at a Harlem club, except the dress was an even older style, like a flapper from the ’20s. Her head was back, her dress had turned black with blood, and there was a hole in her chest, right over her heart.

“He’d said there were coins over her eyes, little copper coins like pennies, and at first, he assumed they were kopecks, Russian pennies, but by the time he’d told me this story, he’d long since remembered that he could recognize the Cyrillic alphabet, and these were inscribed with something else entirely.

He and I wound up visiting a rare coins exhibition at the Getty.

He found one there. It was an Abyssinian ghersh.”

“Abyssinian as in Ethiopian?”

“Before it was called Ethiopia. There was one coin on each eye, both with a five-point star carved into the surface, right on top of Menelik II. He knew the blood was old, but he still checked to see if there might be a weak pulse, until he noticed another body on the floor.

“The second was a man, Hispanic, probably the same, though it was hard to tell at a glance. They were maybe in their early forties, if he had to guess, the same age as he was, and Sarina. The man was in a military uniform, though he couldn’t place the color. It was an antique, like a reenactor’s uniform. A colonel’s uniform from the Mexican-American War. There was a walking stick in two pieces on the floor; it had been broken over his head and tossed at him after he’d been shot in the back. There was a pool of blood on the hardwood, but it was tacky and going brown.

“Rex called out for Sarina, and he ran to the kitchen, but he didn’t find her. He ran upstairs, praying she’d had the good sense to lock herself in the bedroom when this had happened, but hoping she hadn’t been there at all. The bedroom door stood open, and Sarina wasn’t inside.

“Instead, there was a third body. He was fresh-faced, Korean, and the only one in contemporary dress. He looked like he could have been a record executive, or just a Miami Vice fan in a pastel suit, except for a sword—he swore it was an actual medieval-style broadsword—that pinned him to the bed through the chest. His hands were covered in small cuts and blood, like he’d tried to grip it and get it out before he’d been shot in the forehead.

“Rex had seen hundreds of dead bodies, but something about this one—the incongruity of it, the fact that it was in his own bed, the fact that he didn’t know where his wife was—he bent double and vomited right there in the doorway.”

Reggie reached over and patted Jack’s hand. “Where was Sarina?”

“He went back downstairs and had punched in ‘9-1’ on the kitchen phone when he heard a noise in the dining room. He called out Sarina’s name, and went running through the doorway, and Sarina was sitting at the head of the formal table. There was a gun on the table and blood on her hands. She was drinking wine, and more than anything else, that struck Rex as odd. It’s not that she didn’t drink, but she always drank properly. She was a formal hostess, and even when she was alone, she always used the proper glass for the proper wine. But now, she’d upended half a bottle of pinot noir into a brandy snifter, and the bottle was empty, rolled against the centerpiece. It had rolled over a deck of playing cards, though there were far too many, and in suits he couldn’t recognize. They were dealt up, arranged, smeared with dripped wine and with blood, though he didn’t think the blood was hers. She shook, in shock maybe, but not weak. She had never been weak. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he saw her there, tears in both their eyes, and started breathing again.

“‘Are you okay?’ he’d asked her. ‘Have you called the police? Were you here when it happened?’

“She’d looked back at him and asked, ‘How do you do it? How do you live in a city like this, and see all that you see, day after day? Year after year?’

“‘Sarina, you’re not making any sense. Do you know who those people are?’

“‘They’re like me, Rex. They see. They watch. They listen. Three million messengers, and someone has to listen. No one can keep doing this, moi kotyenok.’

“‘Who are those people, Sarina?’

“‘They would have taken my place. Now it is no longer their burden. All these messages—I do not understand, kotyenok, how you can do it, in this, of all cities.’

“‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said, starting to weep.

“‘You will see,’ she’d said, and she put down the empty wineglass, then picked up the gun. ‘I wish to God you did not have to see. In other places, we watch for centuries, but here, in this city, you see centuries all in one lifetime, and it is too much.’

“‘You’re talking about the two people in the living room? The one upstairs?’

“‘Those of us here,’ she sobbed, ‘we did not make the time to do this. We watched in our shifts, one after another. I could not let another do this alone. I could not let another do this at all, but I know now that all I have done is change the game we play.’

“‘Sarina, you’re scaring me. I don’t know what you’re thinking, or how you think you know any of it—’

“‘I’ve seen it!’ she cried. ‘Promise me, Rex, you won’t keep watch for too long. Someone else will find you—you make sure you find them while you have time to go away and find rest. Don’t just watch—watch for people like these. Hear the stories together.’

“He took a step forward, but she cocked the hammer of the gun, and it stopped him in his tracks.

“‘Prostii,’ she said—‘forgive me’—and then she raised the gun to her chin.”

“She’d done it?”

“That’s what the police determined. Rex had been taken in for questioning, but the police themselves were his alibi, and they did a residue test that verified he’d never fired a gun in his life.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, unsure of what to say. “Why did he tell you that?” Reggie finally turned to look at him. “The night of the traffic accident, why did he think you needed to hear that story then?”

“Because it was time for him to find someplace quiet.” Another moment passed, then he sighed. “Four million messengers throwing their stories into the void. You’d think there would need to be somebody out there just to listen.”

“And so, you’re telling me—”

“Because this is my city, and I need to know there’s someone watching over it.” 

***

Jack’s car chuffed as it pulled into the parking lot of Reggie’s apartment building. She had been eager to get out and walk Enrique, but she paused before she shut the door. “Thank you again for the yogurt,” she said. “Actually, just one second. I have something for you.”

“Something else?”

He’d turned around, rooted in the back seat, before coming around with a paper-wrapped package. “I know you don’t play, but you’ve got time to learn.”

She unwrapped it, finding a chess set. The board looked handmade, burnished squares on top of a small wooden cabinet. She opened a drawer to find the pieces shaped like Moai. “Wow, Jack. It’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like it, Reggie. Have a good night.”

She almost shut the door, then she bent back down to look him in the eye. “Where are you thinking about going to look for someplace quiet?”

Jack smiled. “Chile. I hear Easter Island is nice.”

***

When Reggie had graduated and gone on to publish a study on the Moai that landed her a job teaching undergrads herself, she kept up her daily walks in the park, though, more and more, she’d found herself just going to the dog park with Enrique, and walking by herself at Griffith Park. Griffith Park was mostly tourists and students, so there were few regulars, but their attitudes and their stories were familiar, nonetheless.

More often than not, she would sit on that same concrete step and grade exams, re-reading student essays, using a playing card as a bookmark. She kept the two of spades in the box with the chess set—she’d set a few of her treasures in there for safekeeping—and she had asked Jack to rewrite “Come and see” on a five of diamonds.

When Reggie was 43, she’d just set a notebook full of student papers to one side when a gust of wind caught it, scattering one term paper down the hill. She’d snatched the notebook back up before going to chase down the papers, but as she hit the bottom of the staircase, she nearly ran into a South Asian man.

Her first impression was that he was clearly a club kid—he wore almost all black, even in April, with a military-style jacket over a slubby workout shirt with a cut-out scoop neck, showing off the prominent collarbone of the underweight. He wore bulky earmuff headphones around his neck, though she couldn’t tell if they were plugged into anything. He had gapped earlobes and a red patch on the left shoulder of his jacket. “Is this yours, ma’am?” he asked, holding out a loose arrangement of papers.

She leafed through them—the whole missing paper was accounted for. “It is, thank you so much.”

“It looked like a college paper. I thought it might be important.”

She smiled. “Are you here with a school group?”

“Community college in West Covina,” he said, shrugging. “I’m hoping to save up to be able to transfer someplace with a good four-year program.”

“Film student?” she guessed.

“No, I was thinking cultural studies, maybe literature? I don’t know—mostly I DJ.”

“You DJ?”

“Yeah, that’s how I save up. They call me DJ Ace.” She must have laughed a little, because he shuffled his feet, and his ears went a little red. “It’s ’cause my name is Ashray. I know ‘Ace’ is not exactly original, but nobody’s looking for the next big EDM star when they hire somebody to spin an office party in the San Gabriel Valley.”

“No, I guess not. Still, it’s good to meet you. My name’s Reggie—Regina Diamante.”

He smiled and shook her free hand as she shifted the papers to the same hand as the dog leash. “Good to meet you too.” She nodded to the dog, and they stepped back up onto the North Lawn, before Ace called out after her again. “Oh, this was down the hill, too, is it yours?”

Reggie turned to see him pull the five of diamonds out of his back pocket. “You can just hang onto that,” she said with a smile.

“What does this mean, though? ‘Come and see’?”

“You seem like a smart kid. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

She hadn’t gotten five steps when she heard the kid calling after her. “If I figure it out, will you be here to tell me I got it right?”

“Every weekend at least, unless I’m at Dodger Stadium. You ever get to a game?”

“Not yet,” he said as she turned back to look at him.

“That’s a shame.”

“Are you really here every weekend?”

“Best view in the city, and somebody’s got to be watching out.” She smiled and started for the car one more time. They’d almost hit the end of the lawn when she heard Ace call out “Revelation 6.”

She smiled, but didn’t turn around. Instead, she just called back “I thought you seemed like a smart kid. Next time, maybe we can talk about scholarships.”

As she strode off toward the car, she found herself thinking about where she might go looking for her own quiet place. In her Polynesian studies, she’d started thinking New Zealand sounded nice.

It wouldn’t be anytime soon, of course. They would watch together for a while.

But New Zealand seemed like a nice place to walk, with plenty of fresh air.

Picture of Tyler Whetstone

Tyler Whetstone

Tyler Whetstone isn't Catholic enough to be considered a disciple of Saint Francis, but lives the life of a hermit-monk anyway in the hopes that someone, someday, will start a legend about his having befriended a wolf. He currently lives in Oklahoma City with a senior rescue mutt, a tabby cat, and an unhealthy relationship with Netflix Scandi-noir. His work has previously appeared in DarlingLit.
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Dani Considers a Vacation by J.B. Corso

Dani grips the leathery pamphlet with more enthusiasm than she wanted to show. Each horrific page unlocks a more disturbing chamber of her mind. A fan spins overhead, spreading a smoke trail drifting up from a large sandalwood incense cone atop her hostess’s metal cabinet. Nighttime’s darkness wraps its cloak beyond two massive office windows. Ten candelabras glow around the room, casting deep shadows across the walls.

“Ah, you’ve a real fancy for this kind of adventure, don’t you? Maybe some dark desires you’ve hidden from family, friends”—the older woman smiles—“even your husband.”

Dani’s skin crawls. Whimsical captions attached to each graphic death picture encourage a need to immerse herself in the next photo. An addictive curiosity coils around the neck of her empathetic urge to pass back the brochure.

“They’d never forgive me for indulging in this, though I don’t fully understand what I’m looking at.” Dani subdues her grin at the presentation of exposed organs spilling from a young man’s open stomach, lying face up across a latex-covered mattress. His eyes stare off into the distance. An elderly woman wearing a nightgown and Birthday Girl crown laps at the wound. The words written above: ‘Sometimes, there’s nothing like a birthday breakfast in bed.’

“I think you know exactly what you’re looking at,” the travel agent comments. “You’re looking at a vacation of freedom to explore that which you’ve subdued since you left home. That urge you’ve shoved down at every hitchhiker you’ve passed. Every homeless person you’ve handed money to. Every drunk co-ed you’ve helped back to her college dorm.

“This is a chance for the true Dani to live for once. No getting caught. No consequences. Most importantly, no shame. A long weekend of exploring the darker aspects of who you really are. And you’ve the opportunity to do this alone, like in the pictures, or with those of like-minded, shall we say, tastes of life.”

“The brochure says this is in Helvetti?” She peeks over the brochure’s top. “Where is that?”

The woman meets her gaze. Her hollow-blue eyes radiate with confidence. “Some of the best places are beyond published borders, if you dare.”

Dani returns her attention to a rosy picture of a smiling wife wearing a bib over her dress. She gazes at a decapitated man’s head centered on a plate before her. The caption reads, ‘When your marriage is in a slump, make sure to get ahead of your own happiness.’

“Where did such a vacation of evil come from?”

“It came from those who were honest with themselves about what made them happy,” the old woman says, leaning back into her chair. She sips from a cup of boiling tea. “Maybe this is your once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be honest with yourself, too.”

Dani turns the page. Her eyes widen at a gleeful bald man lounging in a bathtub of moist organs and guts. A gold pendant rests against a sprawling thicket of chest hair. He holds a thick cigar. Its smoke trail wisps upward. ‘I’d rather be sitting here than in traffic any Monday.’

The crone smiles. “When you’ve come to the last page, I’ll explain the cost. Then we can plan your adventure into indulging in such beautiful depravity.”

“Let me guess, you’ll be asking for my soul,” Dani says with a chuckle. She flips to the next page with increasing enthusiasm.

The old woman leans forward. She places her tea down on a table between them. She grabs a prepared contract and pen. “That’ll cover the down payment just fine.”

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J.B. Corso

J.B. Corso is a mental health clinician who has worked with vulnerable populations for nearly 20 years. They enjoy spending time with their children, writing, and pondering existential questions. They live with a supportive partner in the Midwest and enjoy car rides relaxing to the Grateful Dead. Their writing motto is "Developing stories into masterpieces." They are a Horror Writer’s Association member and a NaNoWriMo winner (2021, 2022). They’re an international author with works published with Sirens Call Publications and Black Hare Press.
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Horror Holidays by Perri Dodgson

The rain was relentless; big heavy drops of water soaked right through their clothes within a few seconds. The grey denseness of the sky contradicted the crisp whiteness and glass exterior of the reception building, and the entrance path was lined with decorative cacti and olive trees twisting from a blanket of sandstone pebbles. Welcome to Variana Holiday Village said the sign. After receiving their welcome pack, Esther and Dan hurried along the row of chalets. With flat hands raised to their brows to protect their eyes, every step caused an icy splash to sting their ankles and sandalled feet. 

They spotted B42 and, with keys ready, opened the door to a large bright Scandi-style room. The bed looked inviting with a soft puffy quilt and huge pillows. There were sofas and a table, and even more padded seating on the balcony, though currently soaked through from the rain.

“This is nice. Let’s get the kettle on.” Esther sighed. They were typically English, and a good cuppa was an essential requirement after a long day of travelling. Esther began to rummage for the jar of coffee they’d packed among the socks. Dan stopped her.

“Um, don’t bother. It looks like there’s no kettle,” he noted, disappointment in his voice. “Nice big telly though. But look at this station list, nothing in English!” He, ever the eternal optimist, quickly said, “We won’t need a telly! Let’s go and explore.” He searched the cases and realised he’d left his rain jacket at home on the kitchen door handle where he wouldn’t forget it.

Esther laughed. “Typical!”

The only bars they could find were outside: one by the pool, a mobile bistro sitting in a huge puddle, and one in a sheltered area where tatty old tennis tables were stacked against a wall without their bats or balls. Both were closed because of the rain. Esther and Dan satisfied their rumbling stomachs in the restaurant serving a cold buffet, then went back to the chalet to drink water from the tap, watch some German TV, and hope the rain would stop soon. Neither of them could speak German. Neither of them noticed the delicate red light flashing from the microphones just visible on the light fitting over the bed headboard and behind a picture on the wall.

***

Three women walked into the operations room, dressed in receptionist uniforms, smiling.

“Perfect. A good start. Everyone’s happy, optimistic, and feeling good.” said the taller one.

“Little do they know this rain’s here to stay. Their weather apps will be telling them otherwise, but they don’t understand our unnatural cloud system. They definitely don’t know it’s Zvonimir who controls just about everything around here, and that includes the weather! Most of them haven’t got a colossus in their country—they’d think we were mad if we tried to explain.”

“I do feel sorry for them though,” replied the younger one. “They’ve only bought summer clothes with them, and now they’ll have a rubbish holiday, and all because we need sample guinea pigs for our study.”

The other woman shrugged. They needed to get on with the job in hand. Mr. Novak had told her to check the recording equipment was running smoothly, and to make sure the staff had all signed their confidentiality forms.

“I know, but it has to be done. How else can we gather the information we need? We have to collect data on how to make this the best holiday resort there is. That’s the only way to get more visitors. Everyone’s on board. All eyes and ears are to be kept open.”

***

In their late sixties, but still twenty in their heads, Molly and Jake were in B24. After pulling two heavy cases up the staircase to their first-floor apartment, Jake flung himself backwards onto the inviting bed.

“Wehay! We’ll have some fun on this beauty!” He laughed.

“Someone fancies his chances,” Molly scoffed. “Where’s the kettle then?”

“According to this, there’s a shop—we’ll just have to buy one. I’ll pop down and get one now, I know how you need your cuppa in the morning,” Jake said. He scanned the information booklet for a map.

“Let’s see if there’s beer in the fridge.” The fridge was empty.

Molly, all suntanned leather skin and crimson nail polish, loved nothing more than draping herself over a sun lounger with a Martini by her side and a crisp new Edna O’Brian novel. Jake preferred to spend his time in the pool, honing his biceps and showing off his crawl, while admiring the bathing beauties from behind his sunglasses. This particular holiday package promised beefburgers and hot dogs from the pool bar between three and five in the afternoon. He was definitely looking forward to that!

The rain kept pouring. A puffy black roof of clouds covered the land. Thunder rumbled from behind the mountains where you couldn’t see where the land ended, and the sky began. The next morning, before Molly woke, Jake went to find the resort shop, buy a little kettle, some milk and tea bags. Breakfast wasn’t until nine, so he had plenty of time. The tiny shop was closed for repairs. There was a notice saying that coffee, tea, and beer was available from the pool bars, but he already knew they didn’t open until midday. He had a grumble about the lack of facilities to a chalet maid as she passed, but he knew he was being unfair; it wasn’t her fault.

The food in the restaurant was good. Jake had his usual egg, bacon, and baked beans while Molly enjoyed fruit salad and muesli. There was only one coffee machine, behind which was a line stretching all the way across the to the other side of the restaurant. In the end, it was quicker to get a fruit juice. Jake eventually braved the queue and was rewarded with a tiny paper cup of coffee.

“I don’t know how I can get by without me coffee!” Molly exclaimed loudly so a waitress passing by could hear.

There was nothing to do for the rest of the day except eat at the dictated times only and read their books as it was too wet to go for a walk without umbrellas or macs. Back at the chalet, the sofas were artistically designed, all right angles, and the cushions were deceptively thin. Not normally one to complain, Jake found they made his back ache so much he had sit on the bed instead. This resulted in him falling asleep, much to Molly’s disappointment. She sat alone with her book for the afternoon. A red light silently flickered, registering the snoring and page-turning where there should have been laughter.

***

At the end of their shift, Magda and Anna removed their tiny microphones from behind their name tags and deposited them in the basket to be assessed. Each member of staff had a questionnaire to complete, and a few were instructed to reset the cameras from the manhole covers and street posts ready for the next twenty-four hours. The rain kept falling. They heard a heavy rumble that started behind the mountains and echoed down through the valley towards them like a giant wave.

Magda shivered. “Someone’s not happy,” she said.

Anna glanced fearfully through the window. “You’re right. Zvonimir is hungry,’ she said, “we need to get some meat to him soon or all hell will be let loose!”

***

Harry and Alice were in C16 with their mum and dad. Exited for the first day of their holiday in the sun, their swimwear was laid out with the suntan lotion and plastic slip-ons ready for the morning. They’d slept well after the long day of travelling. Bored of waiting in line and sitting nicely, they were now ready to stretch their legs. They couldn’t wait to blow up their floating toys and annoy all the grownups by splashing about in the water and screaming at the top of their lungs.

Mum and Dad had assured them that the sun would be out soon, and they’d be able to go for a swim.

They were mistaken.

The rain was like being under a waterfall, and it looked as if it would last all day.

“I know!’ Dad said. “We can still go to the indoor pool for the morning!”

Everyone else’d had the same idea. The small pool was packed, and the sound of little wailing voices filled the air when mums and dads spotted the signs saying “No toys in the pool. No running. No diving. No splashing”.

“There isn’t even a slide or a shallow end for the kids,” moaned Mum. The lifeguard looked embarrassed when he had to answer a grownup,

“No, there isn’t anywhere to get an ice cream. Sorry.”

They went back to the apartment to watch some German-speaking cartoon characters on TV.

“But Daaad, I want Peppa Piiiig!” wailed Harry. Dad punched in a cartoon channel on his electronic gadget and set them up with some English kids’ programmes.

“We could’ve done this at home, he said. AND been able to give them some fizzy drinks and treats. This place really doesn’t cater for kids at all. If it’s raining like this tomorrow, we’ll have to see if we can hire a car for the day. The brochure didn’t tell us we’d be miles away from anywhere or without a shop for supplies.”

“You should have checked it out properly before you booked!” Mum growled.

That’s just great, he thought. Now we’re gonna have a row! The red lights in the room kept blinking.

***

At the end of the week, there was a notice up on the staff noticeboard.

There was to be a meeting with Mr. Novak to discuss the week’s results from all the data gathered from visitors’ conversations. Also, a brain-storming session for ideas on how to improve the quality of the service they provide for their holidaymakers.

“We need to attract more visitors!” he said. The aim was clear.

“More visitors meant bigger meals, and a wider variety of flavours for our colossus, the mighty Zvonimir!”

He signalled for the staff to take their places and sit.

Anxious to get on with it, the company catering staff, the domestics, the human resources department, the groundsmen, and the entertainment staff were ready to offer up an idea or an opinion. They waited for Mr. Novak to take the stand.

Then, each looked up in surprise as they recognised the week’s holidaymakers slowly filing in through the door and taking up seats in rows down the left side of the room. There was Esther and Dan, Molly and Jake, the Wilson family, and all the other familiar faces they’d been accustomed to seeing miserable, bored, and exhausted from keeping their children occupied in the rain. Now their faces were blank and devoid of all emotion as they looked ahead into the waiting, confused, collective.

Mr. Novak addressed his staff. “This week, your task has been to watch and observe your holidaymakers for complaints and recommendations, in order to be able to offer a better service. You did that well, and I now have a list of improvements to consider. So, thank you for that.”

Then, after a pause, “Unfortunately, while you were watching them, they were watching you.”

Multiple intakes of breath filled the room.

“What’s going on?” gasped Magda to her friend.

Novak continued, “I have asked the guests to name a member of staff who didn’t come up to expectations.” His eyes looked black, pleading. “How else do I chose? Ask someone to volunteer? You know Zvonimir can’t wait any longer. We’ll bear the brunt of his anger if he doesn’t eat tonight.”

Then Mr. Novak turned to Mr. Wilson. “Mr. Wilson, I asked you to speak for the group. Have you come to a decision?”

“We have,” Mr. Wilson replied.

“Throughout this week your staff have been nothing but helpful, and we have seen their embarrassment at our discomfort. They do not deserve this. Therefore, Mr. Novak, for putting us all through this hideous predicament in the first place, we choose YOU, to be this week’s sacrifice to the Colossus.”

With his mouth gaping in a silent scream, beads of sweat appeared on Novak’s forehead as his fate became clear. The group started shuffling forward, closing in on him. The doomed Novak immediately scanned the room for support, his eyes wide in panic. Finding none, he turned and charged toward the exit.

“Let me out! Let me out, damn you!” The terror in his voice would have been terrible to hear, if it could have been heard amidst the cacophony of scraping and tumbling of chairs and shouts.

“Get him!” Came the call of many.

Then silence fell across the room. Four of the largest men threw the struggling and screaming Novak into the open doors of a waiting van. His pleading, blood curdling, screams were unheeded, yet painful to hear, as the van eventually disappeared into the black mountains and toward the ancient caves beyond.

Picture of Perri Dodgson

Perri Dodgson

Perri Dodgson is a retired mental health worker who lives in Wellingborough, England. Her qualifications are in graphics, care and psychology. She is a regular contributor for two publications: an American online literary magazine, and a printed British monthly magazine. She is currently collecting material for her book which will be a compilation of short biographies and contain her own artwork.