He wakes slowly. Everything feels right. Easy. He watches her breathe, deep and steady. Her auburn hair, so often worn in a tight bun, now pooling around her. And something snaps. Her hair stirring memories, not quite his own, but still somehow memories. A lovely blonde. Sticky, dark puddles matting her hair to the bricks in the alley. Lips pouting, eyes glassed over. Throat leaking a slow dribble. And stomach missing all essentials. His eyes refocus on the dark haired kitten in a foreign bed. His bare feet tread light and quiet through the dim room with only starlight and a dying fire in the grate to guide him. His fingers close on the straight razor like a long-forgotten friend. And the metallic blade slides through the pale skin at her throat, easy as cutting the flesh of a peach. And the blue veins gush cataracts of contrasting scarlet. And the early morning sun finds her still and breathless. Insides spilled across the room. Face an unrecognizable mask of jagged cuts. Nightdress bloody between the legs. And the early morning sun finds the attic of his mind reawakened. Newborn shadows dancing across the weathered floorboards mixing with echoes screaming through the open halls. And early morning sun finds him a hunter of human flesh. Early morning sun rises on the rebirth of terror.

Stairs balk at talk -

they’ve seen too much -

life’s ups and downs,

babies’ frowns.

Teenagers stealing

up the stairs

into their lairs,

they got their kicks

before parents caught

them in their tricks.

Dirty secrets

ground into stairs.

Teddy bears

falling down.

Scary clowns

waiting there,

stairs don’t care

they don’t talk,

holding up

all that weight,

tempting fate

of sorrows, cares,

sordid stares,

ragged socks

worn by jocks.

Stairs too slick

to talk at all.

But listen with care

you’ll hear the stair

whisper with flair

into cool night air.

“Laying in blood that’s not my own, though I’m halfway dead so who would know.”

I inch my neck to the right until I feel the warmth on my cheek from the blood beneath me. And I let my head rest in this puddle of despair.

There are shards of glass around me that are now glistening from splattered blood, and wide eyed cold bodies that were wide eyed even before they died. Their still expressions hold more emotion and pain than I ever could.

How lucky are the fallen? Incredibly lucky. I’m sure they weren’t even aware of it. How lucky they were to feel pain, to be able to scream and cry with a deafening sound. They all begged, and pleaded for their life. They would dig their nails into my skin and look straight into my eyes, just looking for an ounce of compassion. And that only made me more motivated to take their life. Sometimes I would hold them for a little bit, just let them cry before the last plunge of my knife. And each person seemed to find knowing that they’re going to die, more torturous than actually feeling my dull blade rip into their body.

I move my head back to the left facing the real owner of this blood beneath me. His eyes are open, just staring into mine. I reach over with my right arm and slide my fingers across his cheek. Then I try to copy his emotion, I widen my eyes and furrow my eyebrows. While keeping this expression, I move my hand away from his cheek and grab a tiny shard of glass. I look into it, peering at my reflection. There’s something missing, something I’m not getting. Then I start to angle the shard towards different directions and I am able to see the many landscapes of my face. I am scarred and bruised, most self inflicted and some are from people trying to defend themselves. I have a moment of realization and purposely squeeze the shard of glass between my thumb and my pointer finger.

“Can you feel this?” I whisper to myself.

“When will you feel this?” I whisper again.

I squeeze the shard hard enough between two of my fingers that I actually start to draw blood. It drips on my face and in that second I felt relieved because it was as if that drop of blood was a tear. So I repeat the action but soon the feeling is gone. Now it’s just blood dripping on my face. I throw the shard of glass hearing it fall in the distance and lay my hands at my sides. I take a deep breath in and count to five.

“1, 2, 3, 4, 5.”

...

Audrey couldn’t believe it. Not even as she held the smooth silk of it as evidence in her hands. There was no possible way that this could be real. But it had to be. Her dreams were never this vivid or happy.

She let out a disbelieving huff of air, staring at the shiny material laid across her lap. The edges of the cape were frayed from use, and Audrey ran her fingers over the loose pieces of thread, smiling as they tickled her fingers. She rubbed the small tag at the neck with her initials on it, the sharpie marks long since faded. The smooth green silk shone like a beacon of happiness. She wanted to rub her face against it, wrap it around her shoulders, just to see if it felt the same as it did when she was a child. So she did. And only when she felt the familiar comfort and excitement of draping her cape across her shoulders, did she believe that this was real.

Audrey laughed giddily as she stood and felt the cape flutter behind her. The green material now fell to the middle of her back instead of her calves, but it was just as impressive as it had been all those years ago. She rushed to look at herself in the full length mirror propped up in the corner of her living room, and smiled widely as the sun bounced off the material perfectly.

The sudden ringing of her work phone startled her out of her cape-induced reverie. She reluctantly left her mirror image to answer the shrill call of reality.

“Hello, this is Audrey from Get Good publications. How may I help you?”

“Audrey, honey, no need to be so formal,” her mom’s teasing voice came through the other end.

“Mom,” she exclaimed, her excitement skyrocketing, forgetting to reprimand her mother for calling the wrong phone again, “I can’t believe you found my cape! I thought it was lost forever.”

15 Years Ago...

Audrey’s high-pitched laughter rang through the trees, scaring a few birds from their perches. She ran fast through the leaves, throwing her hands back to feel her cape flying behind her, flapping in the wind like her own personal freedom flag.

She stopped suddenly in front of a particularly large tree, arms akimbo. “Give me back the princess, Mr. Bad,” Audrey shouted.

The tree swayed in the wind, but did not reply. Audrey stomped her foot in indignation. “Give her-” a strong gust of wind stopped Audrey’s demand. The trees creaked with the force of the gale, leaves flew up and around Audrey, surrounding her in color and dust. She felt the wind whip through her short hair, felt her cape tangle in the leaves and dance in the breeze until the wind stopped and Audrey couldn’t feel anything. There was no reassuring weight draped across her shoulders, no smooth silk caressing her bare forearms as she stood.

Her cape was gone.

Audrey started panting as she turned around and around, searching for any sign of the emerald shine she was so fond of, but there was nothing.

“No,” she whispered as tears pricked her eyes, making her nose sting. She refused to accept that her cape was gone.

She ran deeper into the forest, in the direction the wind had blown. She needed that cape. She wouldn’t go home without it.

As Audrey stomped through the forest, she came upon a clearing with a small shack of a house in the middle. The sun had begun to set, casting the surrounding trees in a golden light, but that didn’t do much to make the house look any more welcoming. Audrey was smart for a seven year old. She remembered what her dad told her about going into the woods alone and about strangers. This was a stranger’s house and she was alone. Audrey didn’t want to go into the house, but what if her cape was over there?

Audrey sighed and pouted. She didn’t know what to do. She knew her dad would be mad that she left the trees at the edge of their backyard, but he would forgive her. If she went into the little house, she would never be allowed to go outside again. But what was the point of going outside if she didn’t have her cape? Audrey’s pout deepened in thought.

She would just circle the house, see if her cape got caught on the window or something, then she’d go back home. Maybe her mom would help her look for her cape if she begged hard enough.

Present-Day...

Audrey remembered the disappointment she felt when she hadn’t found the cape by the little shack, and she remembered crying all night when her mom and dad refused to help look for the cape as punishment for wandering too far. But the next day, her parents had taken her to the animal shelter to pick out a puppy, and her previous companion had been almost forgotten, until today.

Her mom laughed, bringing Audrey back to reality. “What’re you talking about, honey?”

“My cape,” she replied with an eye roll. “I just got it in the mail today.” Audrey moved around and smiled as she felt it swish behind her. “Thanks for this, Mom, really.”

“Well, as much as I’d like to take credit for making you so happy, I didn’t send you the cape,” her mom replied, “I thought it was lost forever too.”

Audrey’s eyebrows furrowed before she remembered she had two parents. “Did Dad send it then?”

“Let me ask.” There were muffled shouts on the other side of the line. “Nope, he didn’t send it either.”

Audrey’s furrowed brow returned. “Weird,” she replied.

“Do you know anyone else who would send it to you?”

“No,” Audrey said after a few seconds. She didn’t have a lot of friends back home, and not many people knew her, so there really wasn’t anyone besides her parents who could have found and returned her cape.

“Maybe it flew into someone’s yard from the woods and they knew it was yours,” her mom suggested.

“But how would they know where I live?” Audrey replied skeptically.

“Yeah, that wouldn’t make sense would it?” her mom mumbled, and Audrey could almost hear her thinking. “Is there a return address, or a note that came with the package, honey?”

Audrey hadn’t thought to check, but she quickly moved to the end of the couch to examine the destroyed remains of the cape-containing package. As she rifled through the brown ripped up wrapping, she saw a flash of white.

“Ah ha!” she shouted in victory. “There’s a note.”

“What does it say?”

“Hold on, I’m getting there,” Audrey replied testily as she righted herself on the couch.

“All right, grumpy pants.”

Audrey shook her head at the jibe. “It says,” she flipped it over to read and frowned, “‘Enjoy.’”

“No name?”

“No name.”

“Weird.”

Before her mom could offer any more comforting words, the line beeped with an incoming call.

Audrey pulled the phone away from her ear. “Hey, mom, I’m getting another call. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Sure, honey, just...be careful.”

“Don’t worry, mom. I’ll be fine,” she reassured her, despite the unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“All right, I know how busy you are, so I’ll let you go, but we’ll talk about this later.”

“Okay, love you, bye,” Audrey said quickly.

“All right, all right, love you, honey.”

“Love you too,” Audrey said more genuinely this time and hung up to answer the incoming call. “Hello, this is Audrey from -”

“You got the package,” the voice on the other side interrupted.

Audrey’s heart started beating faster at the chilling thrill in the stranger’s voice. “Who is this?”

“That’s not important right now,” the voice replied; it sounded like a man. “What’s important is that you have the cape.” There was a brief pause. “You have the cape, right?”

Audrey was debating on whether she should hang up or ask more questions. She decided on questions. “How do you know about my cape? Who are you?”

“As I said, not important,” the man said, voice quiet, “Are you happy?”

Audrey was taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Are you happy?” the man repeated, more demanding this time.

“I guess,” she replied slowly.

The man sighed in what sounded like relief. “Good. That’s good. All I want is for you to be happy, Audrey. You have to know that.”

“Who are you,” Audrey demanded, looking anxiously around her living room.

The man chuckled lightly. “I guess you can call me a secret admirer, an old friend…”

A chill ran down her spine. “So I know you?”

“No,” he replied, “but I know you.”

Audrey didn’t know why, but she needed to know more. “What’s your name?”

“I’ve been waiting such a long time to contact you, to hear your voice speaking directly into my ear,” he took a deep breath, ignoring her question. “It’s intoxicating. Everything about you is intoxicating. But what drew me to you was that cape you have on your shoulders now.” Audrey stopped breathing. “That’s why I waited so long. I wanted the first time we met to be special. I wanted you to be happy. But most of all I wanted you to be wearing that cape.”

Audrey was frozen in fear. “Who are you?” she whispered.

“Do you remember the day you lost your cape? Do you remember where you went to look for it?”

Audrey’s mind flashed an image of the little shack in the middle of the woods. “Was that your home?”

He chuckled darkly. “Good girl. Although home isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe it, yes, that was my home, and that was where I first saw you,” the man sighed. “And I mean the first time I really saw you. I had noticed you before, at school, sitting by yourself all the time, always with that cape, but I didn’t think much of you. It wasn’t until that day, when you were running around my house, looking so desperate and lonely, so...so helpless that I-,” he paused and laughed fondly, “that I fell in love. From then on, I vowed to always be by your side, or as close to your side as I could be, so you would never be alone or helpless again.”

“You-you’re,” she stuttered, “You’re crazy. I-I’ve never even seen you! I don’t know you,” tears gathered in her eyes, “I don’t-”

“But you do know me, Audrey,” he said her name reverently, “and you have seen me. You’ve seen me everyday since you moved away from home. I’m right there in front of you, holding the door open for you as you come home from work or from the grocery store or,” he inhaled, “from a date.”

Audrey couldn’t speak. This man, this terrifying stalker, was her doorman? No, it couldn’t be; her doorman was nice, normal. He had to be lying.

“I would never lie to you, Audrey,” the man said darkly. Apparently Audrey had spoken her mind.

The longer she thought about it, the more it made sense. Her doorman always asked so many questions about her, about where she was going, who she was seeing, what she was doing. She had thought he was being friendly, but he had just wanted to track her.

Audrey’s heart was pounding wildly in her chest and her head was spinning with all of this new information being thrown at her. Through it all, she didn’t know why she couldn’t hang up. Was she insane? Why did she keep listening to him instead of calling the police?

“Listen, I know it’s a lot to take in, but now we can finally, officially meet,” he chirped, “face to face.”

Audrey dreaded asking the question, but she had to know. “Where are you?”

“Oh,” he said sounding surprised, “I’m right here.”

There was a knock at her door and the line went dead.

To be continued...

Three knocks on the floor beneath Colt’s feet vibrated through him.

At six-foot-five and built of country muscle, Colt was not the type to be shaken. But his heart hammered at this interruption of an evening shave. He set down his razor, wiped the cream off his face, and listened.

King, his strapping Rottweiler, listened as well, his head cocked as he lay on the kitchen floor outside the bathroom door.

It was their first night in the old farmhouse, a purchase Colt couldn’t resist. Built in 1875, it was large and lonely and perfect for a single man who loved working with his hands. A million projects needed doing and he couldn’t wait to—

Three strong, steady knocks—more deliberate than before—bumped the floor beneath Colt’s feet.

Damn.

Someone was in the house.

Within thirty seconds, Colt retrieved his shotgun from the safe in the den. No way any prankster was going to get out of this with clean pants. He’d scare the living piss out of him.

Gun at the ready, Colt made his way to the basement door and flicked on the light.

Crazy thing about old farmhouses is that some are pieced together, each section built decades apart. As such, the basement stairs made a winding creaking path to a lair of memories long dead. The emptiness seeped, its old cinderblock walls dark with moldy wet humidity.

Colt was ready. The little shit was probably hiding in shadows behind one of the many walls that chopped the space into creepy chambers.

He and King made their way from the bottom of the steps to the first bulb in the darkness. King whined when Colt pulled the chain, sending light to all but the farthest corners of the large laundry room.

“It’s alright boy.” Colt raised his voice. “Whoever you are, come out now and I won’t call the cops.”

Silence replied, except—

Colt’s heart thumped when three more knocks—stronger and steadier—vibrated the cement floor beneath his feet.

King panted as if attempting to shed the anxious energy that consumed them.

Fear, thick and unpleasant, was like sludge pumping through Colt’s hot veins.

Then he noticed it.

The previous owners forgot something. On the far wall, a blanket hung over what appeared to be a frame. And because Colt had never been chickenshit, he went over to check it out in spite of his nerves.

King whined but kept close and took a seat at Colt’s feet.

“This is bullshit.” Colt set the gun on the floor, then stood to face his fear. No way a stupid-ass blanket hung on the wall was going to make him run like a girl.

After a deep breath, he raised his hand and sent spiders scurrying as he dropped the blanket to the floor.

A large mirror made of cloudy glass set in an ornate black frame greeted him. The thing was stately and heavy and—

He breathed harder. Faster.

The thing wasn’t right.

No.

Pins and needles pervaded his skin because the reflection…

It wasn’t his.

***

To be continued…

“If I get killed hiking on this trail, so be it. At least I can say I died doing what I love to do.”

“That’s not funny! Bite your tongue!”

“Listen, I really appreciate your concern, but there has never been a report of anybody being attacked on these trails. Other people might let fear control them. Not me! I’m never going to buy into the premise that a woman alone in the woods is an assault waiting to happen. Never!”

***

The Indians once dominated the land now called Blydenburgh County Park, a 6.6 loop trail at the end of the Nissaquogue River. The legends, and there were many, would die with the Nissaquag Tribe. “Foolish white man. As if land could be owned like a pair of moccasins!” As the concept of mockery was nonnative, the Chief’s laughter was soft, hearty and uncharacteristic. The others didn’t quite recognize his rugged red face as he laid out the goods traded for the earth having once communed with the souls of his people.

“Look!” He said with pride as his tribesmen gazed upon and fondled the coats, 12 hoes, 12 hatchets, 50 muxes (small brad awis), 100 needles, 6 kettles, 10 fathoms of wampum, 7 pipe bowls of power, 1 pair of children’s stockings, 10 pounds of lead, and one dozen knives. The copy of the deed was dated April 14, 1655, and the same date receipt rested among the goods, although the ink had no meaning to any of them within the skin of the teepee. All except one. Pow Pow, the medicine man. Sensing things they didn’t, and having a penchant for clairvoyance, without understanding the white man’s language, he understood the current tragic reality. Trying mightily to protest, only to be shut down repeatedly; as time passed he was threatened with expulsion from the tribe if he didn’t abandon his rhetoric. How could he leave them at what he knew was their darkest hour? With rage coursing through his viens, he remained silent as he watched with horror his native people begin to die off, one after the other, mostly from disease, the unwarranted, unwanted gift from the white man. As he worked day and night to create an effective antidote, he shared his vexation only with the wind and the great spirits, until he too succombed to the plague. Before his last breath, the spirits wept with him and spoke, “Great medicine man. Do not fear what comes next. We will bring you peace. Release your anguish, for this plague, this plunder, is stronger than man and medicine, stronger than the river’s current at high tide during a nor’easter.” Pow Pow rejected their warmth and vowed with words whispered, lilting off his black tongue, “There will come a day, great spirits when your kindness will not hold me back. Somehow, someway; I will avenge this holocaust.”

***

Spring had sprung along the bank of the Nissaquogue. The trout could be seen splashing as they fervently mated. As she walked lightfooted on the trail at a brisk pace, Judith soaked it all in, the buds on the high oaks, the sound of the tree frogs, the smell of winter’s wane. Rocco, her beloved Doberman, off leash, was in nose down sniff mode, keenly inhaling the sacred fresh earth.

Deep into the woods, as they came upon a clearing, Rocco stopped abruptly, crouching down, squealing in a way Judith had only heard when he was attacked the previous year by a pitbull. Judith knew her dog well enough to know eminent danger lurked. But where? Looking long and wide, listening hard, there was no sign of life other than the natural habitat. Should she have heeded the warnings of her friends and family? The notion briefly entered her mind. Even though Judith was as close to fearless as a baby to it’s mother’s breast, in that moment she felt foolish and vulnerable. Trapped.

“Rocco! Come on boy! Let’s go!” As she turned to retreat, Rocco stayed put, paws fixed to the ground. His squeal was replaced by a guttural growl, when unmistakeably a massive figure of a red skin man appeared, lifting himself erect from the earth with the force of a tornado. If the man was real, why could she see the river through him, if he wasn’t why was Rocco growling? Instinctively Judith rubbed her eyes, and slapped the side of her face. Could she be dreaming? Was her water bottled tainted with a hallucinogen? Judith, Rocco and the figure before them, shaped a rigid triangle. The three entities were perfectly still as if in a standoff. The smell of life and death was all apparent.

Pow Pow would have preferred a white man to be his first victim.

My mom always said the eyes were the windows to the soul. She was right.

     I was fifteen when I became obsessed with drawing. Two of my friends had come over to my house, one of which was an artist. Out of boredom, she suggested that we have a drawing contest. So we did. I discovered I had an exceptional talent in realism.

     So I continued to draw, faces, mostly. Each face became more real than previous ones as I learned to shade and create subliminal nuances.

     At some point those drawings kept me going at school and through tough times. I'd look at them, speak to them, compliment how beautiful they were.

     One day, my mother told us we were going to a wedding of some big politician. She handed out jewelery to me and my sister, adorning both of us with "protective crystals". I thought they were a sham from the senile old lady who sold them. But it was pretty, so I put it on.

     There was nothing worth commenting on at the party. It was nice, with expensive decorations and rich people. But boring.

     After getting home, I undressed and dropped the heavy dress on the floor. The necklace was heavier than when I put it on, presumably from how exhausted I was. I slipped it off and placed it on the drawing on my desk. It was unfinished, eyeless and

featureless. I wasn't sure where I was going with that one. I flopped onto the bed.

     Early in the morning, I woke up in a trance. I was aware of everything through a dreamlike haze, but I wasn't paying attention. So I didn't focus on my hand pulling out a charcoal pencil. I didn't think when I finished the last eyelash. I didn't know through the haze when the necklace gleamed like quicksilver was poured over it. And I amounted the strange feeling of being sucked into the drawing's unnatural black eyes as part of a strange dream.

     Until I was suddenly awake. I could see everything clearly. But I was looking from the wrong place. From the wrong object. At the wrong things.

The garish sounds of the nearby fairground drifted through the air, carried along on the straggly tentacles of mist that crept over the brutish headwaters of Wilson's Creek and slunk like bedraggled rats out across the bay. Bart Tripper stood in the long shadows on the pier, out of reach of the fleeting illumination of dappled moonlight, the tiny orange glow of his cigarette the only nod to his latent skulking. He gazed thoughtfully over the bay towards the pulsating light of the lighthouse, its regular beam cutting through the swathes of fog hanging low over the water. Tonight would have been perfect, under the serendipitous, damp cloak of the miasma, but his keen eyes had picked out the hulking form of Old Tom pacing about the promontory on which the lighthouse stood. A witness was never part of the plan. Bart flicked his spent fag end into the sea and turned to walk back into the sea salt encrusted building that housed the anchorage office.

“Tripper.”

Bart tampered down his fright through force of will and experience, giving no outward sign that the newcomer had startled him with her noiseless approach. It was a trick he had learned long ago. Never show fear, don’t say boo to a goose. Steak, onions, and chips keep a man relaxed, calm, and loose. His face composed, though every tensed muscle in his body gave lie to his composure, Bart squinted with barely suppressed rancour at his visitor. “Ritz.”

Jane Ritz, the township’s senior Police Officer, stood on the wharf with her thumbs hooked into her belt, her regulation boots set apart and braced against the weathered wooden planks that lay beneath her thick rubber soles. The endless sigh of the waves hissed and slapped against the barnacled posts of the pier as the faint scent of hotdogs fought valiantly to gain the upper hand against the heady smell of diesel grease. Jane held his gaze for several beats before turning her head to gaze out towards the partially obscured lighthouse. “Fog wasn’t forecast.”

Bart gargled a wad of phlegm in the back of his throat before aiming it over the end of the pier. He listened for the satisfying plop of the tobacco-laced gob of spit as it hit the murky water before he responded. “I’m sure you didn’t come down here just to chat about the weather.”

“Just doing my rounds.” She cocked her head to one side and angled a penetrating stare his way, though he refused to meet her eyes. Bart Tripper did not hold any member of the Sheriff’s Department, or anyone in a position of authority for that matter, in any kind of regard. It had been several years since his last run in with the law but the circumstances of his arrest still rankled. “I’ve heard that business has picked up.”

“Yup.” Bart thrust his hands into his pockets and studied the outline of his tugboat where it bobbed lazily against the wharf. The boat was his pride and joy and a valuable addition to the small fleet moored at Hanson’s Anchorage, though tug work had been slow of late. Nevertheless, Bart was a shrewd and cunning man and as he often proudly commented to anyone who cared to listen, he had his Scottish roots to thank for that. There was always money for the taking somewhere; a man just had to take the time to look for it.

“Fish bait, is it?”

“Yup.” Bart cut his eyes towards the young woman and then away again. Her questioning was starting to drift in a direction he was not too disposed to spend time in conversing over. Particularly not with her. I don’t like cops. Never have. Never will. No admission, no guilt.

“Right.” Jane gave him one last, careful look before turning on her heel. “Take care, Bart.”

He grunted as he listened to her footsteps receding down the wharf. The distant strains of carnival music reached his ears, along with the muted screams of terrified, ecstatic fun fair riders. He stepped across to the battered chest freezer that sat up against the peeling wall of the anchorage office-cum-bait store and waited a few minutes, just to be sure she was not about to return. His unseeing eyes lingered on the enthusiastic, cheerful poster plastered across the office window: Fresh & Frozen Fish Bait! Worms & Maggots! Available by the Jar or Bag! He placed his large hands on the edge of the freezer and hefted up the lid.

Bart prided himself on his housekeeping skills, though those skills did not extend to the grimy, musty interior of his own house. However, down here on the pier a casual onlooker could be forgiven for thinking that the burly Scotsman was the most fastidious of men. His beloved tugboat, My Bonnie Belle, received regular loving maintenance, polishes, and repaints, and the expanse of deck outside the anchorage office was kept clean and fresh. And here, within the frosty confines of the freezer, Bart's selection of bait products lay stacked in perfect alignment and symmetry in a manner worthy of any discriminating storekeeper or finicky, house-proud matron.

He picked up jar of bait worms and swiped his thick thumb across the frosted glass to clear it of condensation. More than one happy customer had given his glowing testimonial to the supremacy of Bart Tripper’s bait worms, especially when it came to the important business of hooking the corpulent catfish and rotund, languid eels that swum in the tenebrous waters of the bay and creek. No one needed to know that the worms were not of the variety one generally lifted in a wiggling, squirming mass from the dank earth. Instead, Bart's worms were a careful combination of prime minced meat, lovingly pressed through the round holes of his industrial meat grinder until it fell, curled into worm-like repose, onto the scrubbed and Domestos-ed counter top that ran along the back of the office. Late at night, when there were no inquisitive, prying eyes about. It’s a peep show, it’s a creep show, no admission past this point.

He stood and stared once more across the fog-laden creek towards the distant shore. It was time for another harvest. Perhaps tomorrow night would be more conducive to his plans. With a heavy sigh, he thrust the key into the lock of his office door and trudged away down the pier towards the carpark.

***

Bart raised the remains of his pint of amber, yeasty beer and allowed the last salubrious dregs to slip down his throat. He set the empty glass on the bar top and lifted his eyes to the clock on the wall. 8.10 pm. Either Old Tom was late or he wasn’t going to show. Bart suppressed his annoyance; fog had once again rolled across the township as the sun sunk below the horizon and if Old Tom chose to keep himself around the lighthouse, it would be yet another perfect night wasted.

“Same again?” Jack Malcolm, the surly tavern proprietor, raised his heavy eyebrows to punctuate his question.

“Nah. Got to go and see a man about a dog.” Bart had just seen the tavern door open to admit Old Tom and he did not intend to linger, not with the amount of work he had awaiting him tonight. He slipped quietly out the door and headed purposefully in the direction of the pier. Step up, step up, tonight’s the night, roll a boll a boll a penny a pair!

Bart edged My Bonnie Belle away from the wharf, her blunt nose pointed towards the opposite bank. Not far past the lighthouse lay the expansive, gloomy grounds of Mornington Asylum, tonight’s objective. The mist, dank and clinging, lay in a cinereal shroud across the surface of the water and settled in tiny damp droplets on Bart's skin and hair. The distant strains of the perpetually upbeat and frantic fairground music drifted through the still, moist air and the far away lights of the sideshows and fun fair rides blinked on and off in a deranged rhythm of cheap entertainment and enforced gaiety.

The tug’s bow cut silently through the water, its navigation lights illegally dimmed for now. However, the legality of the running lights were Bart's least concern given the sombre intent of his mission. His eyes fixed on the high walls that bordered the asylum, the tugboat captain edged his vessel closer to the shore.

The gristly sound of flat boat bottom connecting with sand alerted Bart that he had entered dangerously shallow waters. With practiced expertise, Bart thrust the vessel into reverse and steered it backwards through the churning water until it reached a safer depth. He winched down the anchor and, now confident of his means of escape, he lowered himself into the chilly waters of the bay.

Bart pushed himself through the shallow scoop towards the shore, the thigh-deep water dragging heavily at his trousers as if it hoped to pull him back down into the aqueous abyss. The funky smell of freshly stirred-up mud rose in long, odorous curls and pricked at his nostrils as he placed a booted, sodden foot on the slippery, grassy bank of the shore. He strode onwards, water cascading from his trousers and sloshing wetly from his boots, his eyes fixed on the designated meeting place. Bart reached the imposing moss-clad wall of the asylum and looked around cautiously.

“Psst. I’m here.” The bushes crowding the gnarled old oak tree that guarded the wall with battle-weary watchfulness rustled and shook as Dr. Peter Simpson, bent at the waist and with several dead leaves scattered amidst his grey-flecked hair, pushed his way out into the open. He stood up and looked over Bart's shoulder towards the tugboat moored offshore, now half-hidden by the fog. “Any problems?”

“Nah.” Bart stared at the doctor with undisguised distaste. Peter Simpson, an emaciated man with a nervous tic under one eye that both fascinated and repelled, was not the type of man Bart would generally bother to associate himself with. However, a chance meeting in the shadowy parking lot of Jack’s Tavern, along with Bart’s proven ability to determine the weaknesses in a man’s character with just a few pointed questions, had been the start of an uneasy business relationship between the two unlikely partners.

Bart had quickly discovered that Dr. Peter Simpson and the asylum’s resident psychologist Ruth Underwin did not have a whole lot in common when it came to agreeing on the best course of treatment for their patients. It seemed Dr. Simpson was fond of an experimental approach; a well-chosen word the Bart discerned in no time at all meant that he was not averse to overloading a patient with untested drugs in order to discover what the outcome might be. Unfortunately, his treatments were not always successful, which led to the sticky problem of what to do with the bodies. Which was exactly where Bart came in.

“I’m not sure how much longer this arrangement can continue. Ruth has been asking questions.” Dr. Simpson cast a harassed glance towards the dark mass of buildings that sat, squat and silent, behind them.

“I’m hoping it doesn’t end too soon. A man’s gotta earn a living.” Bart was not too interested in Dr. Simpson’s lily-livered and no doubt unfounded concerns over his colleague’s big mouth. He spat juicily on the ground and rubbed the back of his hairy paw across his chapped lips. “Is it ready?”

Peter stooped again and reached under the bushes to drag out a tarpaulin- covered, cord-bound bundle, his thin shoulders braced against the weight of the well-parcelled offering. The moon slid behind a cloud, instantly plunging the site into darkness.

Bart cautiously stretched out his foot and poked the bundle with the toe of his leather boot, feeling the slight, yielding give of dead flesh under his investigative prod. He nodded his head in satisfaction. “Seems fresh enough.” As the moon recovered, he pressed several damp notes, twice counted to ensure no chance of overpayment, into Peter’s eager palm, careful not to allow his own skin to touch the other man’s hand. “It’s all there,” he said brusquely as Dr. Simpson licked his finger and began to count through the notes.

The doctor ignored Bart until he had counted the last note. He shoved the bills into his trouser pocket just as the haunting sound of a bell rang out across the asylum grounds.

Bart turned towards the barricaded and boarded-up turret and bell tower, the highest point on the dismal grey building. He frowned as the bell continued to toll. “What’s up with the bell?”

Dr. Simpson gulped and his large Adam’s apple slid greasily up and down his thin neck and Bart caught the tell-tale sheen of perspiration on his brow. “It tolls on its own accord, mourning the dead."

“Pffftt.” Bart scoffed. “And you believe in that shite?” He needed a cigarette, craved the instantaneous flood of adrenalin and well-being through his veins. But not here, not where the familiar, instantly recognizable scent of tobacco smoke might give away their hiding place.

Peter Simpson turned his haunted eyes on Bart. “The asylum… it’s… it’s not a nice place to be.”

“I guess not. It’s lucky that the residents are too mad to notice, innit?” The bell fell silent at last, but the silence was almost worse than the tolling. Bart pulled his own collar up, an ineffectual shield to the damp, frigid air.

“They say the previous governor's tortured soul still roams the corridors, eternally trapped with no means of escape, locked forever within the austere walls he once so sadistically ruled.” Peter turned over his skeletal wrist to check his watch, openly shivering now. “It’s getting late. I have to go.”

“Hmmph.” Bart eyed the asylum and was discomfited to see the asylum apparently eyeing him back, the multitude of barred windows gazing with blank malevolence at the two men outside the fence. He cleared his throat and bent to take hold of the bundle. “See you in a few weeks, if not earlier. Depends on how well sales go.” Bart gripped the cord that bound the body and gave it an experimental tug. He’s as crazy as batshit. Haul your arse outta here in case it’s contagious.

Dr. Simpson nodded nervously, his mind clearly elsewhere. He gnawed anxiously on his lip before putting his head down and hurrying away as Bart rolled the trussed form down the gentle slope of the bank and into the water, where it sunk quickly below the surface before cheerfully bobbing up again. Apples in a barrel at the county fair. Bart slid down after the body and stepped back into the icy waters of the bay. He waded back through the clingy, syrupy grasp of the sea, pushing the bundle in front of him until it bumped up against the side of My Bonnie Belle. He gripped the secure PVC tubing that trimmed the gunwales and hauled himself over the side of the tugboat, torrents of water cascading from his clothes, and reached down with a grunt to manhandle the body aboard. The tarpaulin-covered bundle hit the deck with a meaty, satisfying thump and, with one last glance at the shadowy outline of the asylum, Bart turned the tug back towards the wharf.

***

Bart’s mobile rung as he swept the deck outside the anchorage office, his broom deftly flicking particles of dust, fragments of bone, and remnants of bloody skin into the hungry yaw of the sea. He tipped his pail of ammonia-drenched water over the boards, where the pungent liquid shimmered and shone in the early morning sun before running in rivulets off the pier and into the waves below, and then he pulled his phone from his pocket to stab a callused finger at the call button.

“Yep.”

“Da, it’s me. Sian.”

“Sian.” The radiance of Bart’s smile matched the warmth in his voice. “How ya be, pet?”

Sian was Angus’s daughter, back in bonny Scotland with her Ma, a woman that Bart could barely remembering glancing at let alone bedding. However, the fruit of that drunken, fumbling union was Sian, the light of his life and the sole proof of his immortality.

“Ah’m good.” Bart smiled again to hear her rich brogue, a pure taste of the motherland flooding down the static, broken line of an overseas phone call. He leaned back against the wall of the office and shut his eyes under the benevolent touch of the sun in order to give her chatter his full attention.

“So.” She had finished her tale. “And you, Da?”

“Me?” Bart opened his eyes and studied his fingernails. He was aghast to catch sight of a dark smudge of red beneath the tobacco-yellowed nail of his forefinger, an oversight he rarely made. “Hang on a minute, pet.” He dropped the phone onto the lid of the chest freezer and marched inside to the sink area at the back of the office, the scene of last night’s meticulous butchery. Picking up the bleach-soaked nailbrush, he scrubbed with concentrated determination at the telltale spot. Satisfied at last, he dropped the nailbrush back into the sink and stomped back outside to collect his phone.

“You still there, Sian?”

The uncaring pee-pee-pee of the disconnect tone bounced again his eardrum. Bart grunted with disappointment and thrust the phone back into his pocket. Perhaps she would call back later. He would do anything for that girl, anything. Even when it came to sending across some of his hard-earned money, just so she could have herself a few small treats every now and then. Inky had a daughter fair, par le vous.

“Runt.” Barney Sylvester swung around the corner in his steel-capped boots, the sharp click-click of his cantankerous Rottweiler Jake’s toenails against the rough wood of the wharf following up the rear. Barney was dressed in his fishing outfit, a combination of camouflage and khaki garments reminiscent of frontline gunfire and bloody warfare. “I’m after more of your bait. Not sure exactly where you’re digging those worms up from, but the catfish can’t get enough of them.”

“Yeah, that’s the word that keeps coming back.” Bart braced his shoulder against the open doorframe and crossed his arms as he surveyed the junkyard owner. “How’s business with you?”

Barney shrugged and picked at his teeth as he gazed out across the bay towards the lighthouse. “Fair to middling.” He slid his sly glance back to where Bart lounged against the doorpost. “Might be looking for a new business partner soon.” He looked around quickly before taking a step closer to Bart and lowering his voice a couple of notches.

Bart raised one grizzled eyebrow a fraction to convey muted interest. He and Barney had met up a few times over the years, even briefly shared a cell once. From memory, that was when Bart was serving his year sentence for drug trafficking and Barney copped 60 days inside for his improper disposal of hazardous substances. Bart did not trust the man, but he had learned the hard way that knowledge of a man’s weaknesses was worth a whole lot more than a barrel load of faith that someone wouldn’t let you down right when you needed them.

“Yeah. May have some interesting intoxications that I might be willing to trade. For the right amount or the right type of barter.”

“That so? I’ll be sure to let you know if I hear of anyone who might be interested.” Bart briefly looked into the other man’s bulbous, bulging eyes and pushed aside his loathing. He knew that Barnaby Sylvester’s weaknesses skewed towards grainy, blurred photographs taken on hastily angled mobile phones thrust beneath bathroom stalls, but hey, Bart was not one to judge. Show me a man who’s never made a mistake and I’ll show you a man who aint never tried nothing new. However, it was a useful thing to know and who knew when it might prove valuable? A few hurriedly snatched pants-down photographs were indisputably a lot easier on the wallet than their equivalent in cold, hard cash.

Jake glared insolently at Bart before pulling his lips back into a long snarl that showed both his dangerously curved teeth and his salvia-ridden gums.

“Right. A man’s got work to do. How many jars of them worms do you want, Barnaby?”

***

Dr. Simpson walked insouciantly down the pier towards Hanson’s Anchorage, the sparkling new fishing rod and unstained angler’s knapsack that swung from his shoulder, its sharply delignated manufacturer’s creases still visible on the bright red fabric, utterly out of place on his weedy, indoorsy frame. Peter Simpson was not a man given to the manly pastimes of adventurous outdoor pursuits and Bart thought the unnecessary addition of his props to be as blatant and obvious as a sign carried above his head. Yes, we have no bananas, we have no bananas today.

“What are you doing here?” Bart hissed as the man drew closer.

Peter Simpson frowned and put a finger to his lips. He said nothing until he was standing directly in front of Bart. Whistling tunelessly and unevenly, as if he had not a care in the world but had forgotten the right way to show it, he rolled the fishing pole off his shoulder and set it awkwardly up against the chest freezer. He pulled the strap of the incongruous knapsack down his arm and it fell onto the pier with a distinct flapping sound that gave rise to the suspicion the bag contained nothing more than air and perhaps a small sachet of silica gel.

“What are you doing?” Bart asked again. He thrust his face close to the doctor’s, intensely aware of the dour odour of disinfectant, old urine, and antiseptic that clung to the man’s clothes and hair like over-used cologne. “What if someone saw you?”

Peter looked at him in surprise. He indicated the rod and knapsack with a casual waggle of his gaunt, bony fingers. “If anyone saw me they would think that I was planning on going fishing.”

“Jesus F Christ.” Bart aimed an angry boot at the knapsack and the empty bag flew up into the air with all the ease of a balloon lifted on an errant puff of wind.

“Steady.” Dr. Simpson raised an uncertain hand and took an apprehensive step backwards. He darted a look over his shoulder, back towards the relative safety that awaited where the asphalt of the carpark met the pier. He half-turned his body, poised for flight, and addressed Bart again. “It has to stop. Ruth is getting suspicious and I don’t want to give her any further reason to snoop. That last, errr, transaction was the final trade I’m engaging in.” His agitated eyes alighted on the chest freezer and he inclined his head towards its banal white contours. “Is that where you keep the…. errr… bait?”

Bart clapped a large hand down on the lid of the freezer with a resounding thud and scowled at the doctor with all the considerable force his irritation could muster. Peter squeaked and took another unsteady step backwards. “Just wanted to let you know. Mum’s the word.” He turned and fled back along the pier, the soles of his brand new sneakers clapping against the boards and his untucked polo shirt flying out behind him. Run, run, as fast as you can, but you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man.

Bart sighed and pulled his tobacco pouch from his pocket. He rolled a cigarette with the oft-repeated ease of an addict and gazed thoughtfully out across the water to where the headwaters of the creek made their bullying, roiling entrance into the bay. The sound of a hastily slammed car door and a clumsily revved engine drifted along the pier and then it was gone.

gloomy night

stuffy room

curious teens

day of doom

silent time

passing by

till we heard

a soft cry

taped up box

by the wall

opened box

teens enthralled

porcelain skin

piercing eyes

tangled hair

crooked thighs

you turned away

unamused

moving on

I kept staring at her

bewitched and distraught

and that is when

I saw with my eyes

that broken girl

smiling and blinking

and that is when I foresaw our demise

that broken girl

was twitching and shifting

why don’t you believe me

why do you not care

you just laugh it off

knowing I'm scared

don't tell me I’m wrong

don't tell me I’m crazy

I know what I saw

and I saw what I said

that doll is alive

no it's not in my head

that doll is alive, dammit

*gasp*

WATCH OUT FOR YOUR HEAD!!

to be continued...

Part 1

Small, squiggly lines -the outlines of objects- were moving at a rate increasingly noticeable. I straightened my shirt collar and drank some grain over ice and lime wedges. Harsh, but tasteful. It was most fitting to the environment. People were cheaply overdressed and smelled of citrus. Do you ever nod your head to nothing? As if to seem casual, you move to a song in your mind? After...shit..after that...after I moved around for awhile, noticing traces of either cookie crumbs or ashes in my limey grain drink. To be careful, I grab a fresh one.

I’d been waiting on Colin to show his face for nearly half an hour. He hadn’t. Work parties can be cheesy for sure, but this was arranged quite differently than your average theme-party. A nice establishment -this year, the trendy sKull Lounge over the usual masonry lodge- definitely helps the atmosphere. How should I frame this issue to Colin? If I come off as arrogant, I lose my chance at a raise...blah, blah, blah. Honestly, the concerns floated by me, barely registering as worthwhile. Hell, he could even fire me.

Maybe I shouldn’t even bring up the issues? Let him find out on his own. I don’t even recall those past ethical concerns, or the major snags that would inevitably swallow the project. I flow along with the chemicals in my head, and sip my icy limey grain.

The music changed, drastically. Scottish tunes perforated through the sound levels in the room, sharply cutting my ears. The older ladies’ thick, oily perfumes filled my nostrils. Then I glanced Colin, behind the bar, oddly. His suit stained with rum as he kept trying to blend new liquors. Blue Curaçao and Dark Rum with chipped ice and orange or pineapple juice, I can’t tell. Hell, it could even be grapefruit. It was probably grapefruit. I slowly make my way over to the bar, slinking behind my officemates. It’s pointless, though. My teal unisex blazer with pastel-peach lining is very loud, and Colin nods and does his best Cruise in Cocktails impression. The bottle of blue breaks.

Colin is tall, fit, and witty. He’s some sort of cocky artist in love with his body, wearing putrid cologne I’m sure has someone’s signature on it. His stupid, insipid, and I’ve oft-assumed fake accent definitely has Scottish notes, but I’ve heard the Georgia southern-boy come out, rife with malapropisms. As the bagpipes fade to a lull, hiding yet another coming crescendo, I begin to care less about turning mountains of terrible ideas into white gold. I don’t have the energy for alchemy at the moment. So, we just talk. Not about work. Music. Writers. Film. Then, I leave, stumbling and stoned, in a cab, thinking new things. Then there’s the therapy.

“I would have nightmares where I was driving, and the sun would blind me, causing me to crash. Or it would be drowsiness, fatigue, or something. Intoxication, perhaps. Or maybe there’s a fastening failure or an axle fracture, causing wheel separation. Then I’d careen into a culvert, flipping the car and decapitating myself. I always die in these dreams, I experience it. Then comes the panic and the anxiety. It feels as if it’s a premonition. It’s like, what lingering trauma is hanging in the clouds, waiting on my incorrect step. I think it goes back to my father...”

My therapist listened intently while intently staring at her legal pad. It was ten in the morning. I finished my overnight bartending shift, grabbed some sort of taquito, and headed to Dr. Ronan’s office. 10AM was her only opening, and I needed the assistance. The day job would have to wait.

“Blah, blah, blah. Your father is the cause. Blah. Blah. The withdrawing is making it worse. Narcissism. Blah, blah. Some other shit, some DSM-5 shit, diagnosis or something like it. Maybe derealization. Blah,” my therapist said.

Sixty-five facetious minutes later, I’m standing at the reception desk. The payment is about ten percent higher than usual. And I’m cheap. So we begin to debate.

“Sir, the payment increase is due to reduced funds from the university. It was a necessary move.”

“Look, I’ve been coming here for six months. Nothing’s improved. I still can’t...look, I work two jobs. I’m headed to my regular gig at the fuckin-”

“Please don’t curse in here, sir.”

“I said ‘fuck’ once.”

“Please don’t curse, sir.”

“Jesus Henry Christ.”

As I walked down the teal hallway, I noticed the lack of soul in the building. That’s not a knock on therapy, or psychology as a whole. Just this place. Just this quack. She was a fake personality; a bad actor wearing the costume of a caring individual. She wanted to care, but she didn’t. Really, though, I understand. All doctors will see people fade away, one way or another. It’s all part of the job. Oncologists, for example. How can she be worried for me when the real schizo comes in at noon? I’m just practice. I’m a child complaining of a splinter. I’m a broken finger.

I pull into the office parking lot around 1pm. The lunch hour has passed already and people are heading back to their desks for part two. I notice Colin at my desk.

I do customer analytics for a security systems company in rural Kansas. The city’s about ten miles and our oversized offices take up an entire mini-mall space. The only space locally that could fit us due to our rapid growth. I don’t enjoy my job but I enjoy people. Not emotionally, mind you. People are still a giant annoyance that I’m working to understand. No, I enjoy the study of people. Sociology, anthropology, psychology. Whatever you want to call it, I’m nothing more than a peeping tom. I study your behavior and it excites me, all while I struggle to relate to you. My job is to use that not only to advertise, but to build a more personable product. I’m the middle man between your secret, painful needs and the companies selling you solutions. People are the ultimate fetish. Getting to know them, crawling inside their brain, and having a few fleeting seconds of connectivity. Being human.

Colin wore dark burnt khakis, with a crisp sky-blue Oxford, purple skinny tie and a Gant light blue wool blazer. I was more thrift-store chic with tight olive jeans, Doc Martin’s, muted orange dress shirt and a used H&M twill peacoat. No tie. Goddamn, I admire his style. Colin founded this company four years ago. An old college buddy, he recruited me from the depths of online market research. He’d always seen my potential even as manic depression and addiction reared its beautiful head from time to time.

“Colin, how are we this morning?” I ask.

“Doing great, Keith. How was the session?”

“I’m now enlightened,” I joked. “But, I am overpaying.”

He laughs and says “We pay it all at some point.” That’s dark, Colin.

He continues with the niceties for a second then gets managerial.

“Look, I know you’ve been busy with recovery and your sessions with Mara. That’s great! But, I need those reports on rural risk factors.”

“I’m already 80% done.” That’s a lie. I forgot about it.

As I sat in my decently sized cubicle, I found it disgusting. My stomach couldn’t handle these “folks” talking about their parties and judging their enjoyment thereof on the crowd size. I work on rural risk factor analysis for homes outside city limits. Oh, and listen to AM radio.

From The Coast To The Undertow with Syril Sawbell is my favorite radio show in history. It’s filled with weirdoes and mountain-people calling in with tales of sasquatch or alien abduction. Every once in awhile some legitimate pseudo-philosophy will be spoken and my ears just ring in delight. Listening at my desk, waiting on the bupropion to activate, I pretend to work. The voice lingered.

“What a strange time it was. I remember the populace decorated and parading in a panicked jubilee. Oh, and I’ve heard it echoed. They say, ‘I don’t believe in beliefs’ and pay their taxes. Now, as our batteries die and we scrape feelings, we seek relief. Make no mistake, sensation and stimulus are the herpes of the soul. We seek relief from the fire and itching. I watched as massive hurricanes, gusts of water, were drowning my comrades. The reporters holding on to guardrails as news of Special Counsel distracted from aid. Relief.

“I’ve been everything. A cog in the freak kingdom. I’ve been chemically enlightened and physically exalted. I’ve set fires and taken identities. I’ve been blunt to the powerful and doubtful of the assured. I am what you are. A king. A goddess. Yet, you don’t see the true boundaries of your aura. You don’t feel the limitless reality you occupy. You bring limits when you sit at our table. We should all bring our fears when we meet, and tear down anything that doesn’t bring catharsis. Nothing else is real, at all.”

And then, mid-interest, the pills kick in. Maybe it wasn’t the pills. Maybe it was temporary dysfunction. But, I swear, on my mother’s grave, Syrill Sawbell called out to me.

“Keith...it’s me. The buzz in your ear and blood in your heartbreak. Why do you listen to these thinkers? These capitalists. Rise above. Raise a fist. Murder your boss.”

I protest. “I can’t murder Colin. Colin is kind.”

He protests. “Kindness isn’t bulletproof. You are Colin, you are me, you are your fears and secrets. We are the same, so no one is special.”

“This isn’t real,” I remember uttering nearly silent.

“Nothing is real. We are decaying matter. Kill Colin. Do it,” Mr. Sawbell called out on AM 1320, directly to me.” If his pain is your pain and is my pain and our parent’s pain, then we are the same, one. And if we are all the same, none can be special. Kill your boss, Keith.”

I turned the program off and raced home in this strange, sudden thunderstorm. I recall thinking that some mixture of the meds and my own recreation had caused this. I fathered this situation and later arrived home to it. My front door was littered in flyers advertising To The Undertow. The From The Coast portion was covered in brown paint or oils. “To the undertow. Ha. Maybe I should kill Colin,” I thought effortlessly.

Inside my overpriced, first-floor, city-scape, studio apartment, I heard cars pass while blaring their radio. It would taunt me. “Keith!” “Kill him.”

I was a good damn fan of Syril Sawbell but now I was wishing I was capable of self-decapitation with these limited resources. How is he in those cars? I’d hear him my head, just humming. He shouldn’t be using his radio resources to incite murder, though.

The weatherman was Syril. The newslady was Syril. “It’s Syril Killyourboss and it looks like we’re in for a cool blast and icicles jammed in foreheads. Or maybe there is no snow. You should go ask Colin about forehead injuries..Murder him, Keith.”

Oh, what a soothing, violent voice for my id. It was really easy to find poison. It was really easy to find a gun. It was really easy to imagine jealous frustration leading me to strangle the life from Colin’s face. The car is an instrument. I take the long way to Colin’s and turn on the radio. And there’s my sermon.

“You deserve better, Keith.”

“Thank you, From The Coast To The Undertow.”

My new god continues. “Kill him. Kill that person. Maybe you should try to eat a little.” Then, I’m at Colin’s before I know it, adding some scent and making sure to adjust my peacoat in his driveway. The bastard.

To be continued...