“I didn’t know someone lived here…My apologies.”

“You're drenched. You should come in and dry yourself and maybe rest a bit.”

“N-No…I'd better excuse myself.”

“You can stay the night. That's why you came here in the first place, didn’t you? I live alone, you see…I can totally use some company.”

Hesitatingly, he stepped in. An ice-cold hand grabbed his hand drenched with rainwater.

“It’s dark, so let me lead the way.”

“Why is it so dark?”

“You see, I'm blind. I don’t need light.”

“Does that mean…there is no light in this house at all?”

“No.”

“That's…scary…Maybe I should just go…”

“Stay the night. I'll keep you company so you won't get scared.”

But you are kinda scary yourself, he swallowed those words, not wanting to offend his host.

“Would you like a change of clothes? I wish I could make you a cup of tea to warm you up, but I am incapable of it.”

“Thanks, but I'll only stay until the rain stops. I don’t want to trouble you.”

“Why do you keep insist on leaving? Am I that scary?”

“You might be comfortable living in darkness, but I am not…”

“Are you sure this darkness and my presence is scarier than the world you live in?”

He was stunned.

“H-how do you know?”

“Just a wild guess. Why else would you run to a desolate house in the middle of nowhere in this pouring rain?”

“I-I could've got lost and taken shelter here temporarily! Why are you jumping into conclusion by yourself?”

“Is that the case…My apologies for overthinking, then…”

“But you know what, you're right. Actually…I ran away from home.”

“So I was right.” I actually saw your memories while we were holding hands.

“I have a proposal for you. It’s entirely up to you whether you accept it or not…It's just that I want to help you.”

“What is it?”

“Would you like to stay here with me?”

“W-What?”

“I mean it. Would you like to?”

“We don’t even know each other…”

“Like I told you before…I’d love some company in this darkness. It’s been so many years of being alone, I’ve lost count…”

“Years…?” But why do you sound like someone of my age?

“If you haven’t realized yet…I’m…a…what you call…ghost.”

“EHHHH?!”

He screamed and jumped away from the stranger.

“My apologies if I have startled you.”

“I-I'm leaving…”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I…can’t possibly live in this house with an unknown-years-old ghost in pitch darkness…”

“So…you're going to leave me too,” the stranger mumbled.

“On top of my blindness, I have another condition that doesn’t allow my skin to withstand sunshine.”

“Is that because you're a ghost? Are you…a bloodsucking vampire? Is that why you invited me in, so that you can suck my blood?”

“No,” the stranger chuckled, “I have had that condition since birth. You see, that condition is why I was made to live in this desolate place, away from other humans…”

“That's sad.”

“They called me moonchild because of my condition. They feared me. Like you, many of them thought that I was a vampire. So my family built this house out of nowhere and left me here…”

“Left you?”

“Originally, they took turns staying with me here. That continued until I was eighteen. They were growing tired of it, I guess. So one day they came to this mutual agreement to abandon me.”

“Abandon…?”

“Yes. I couldn’t go outside since I didn’t know the roads and I could've been in an accident…I stayed here and waited…waited…waited…I called but no one answered, I was starving and there was nothing to eat at home…At one point I was desperate enough to attempt to go out but the door was locked from outside…I got so weak that I couldn’t break the door, so I lay there on the floor…in and out of my consciousness…until one day I fell into a long, deep sleep. When I came to, I felt better but my heart wasn’t beating anymore…”

“Stop…I can't listen to it anymore…”

“Sorry. It wasn’t a pleasant story…I knew it but I still rambled on…”

“You…really went through a lot…”

“This is my first time telling this story to anyone. I never had anyone to share this story with….”

“Poor you.”

He had given up on life long ago. The family who adopted him didn’t care enough worry about his disappearance. He had no dream or goal to live for. Being with this unnatural presence in darkness seemed much better to face the shitty world outside. Darkness was scary, but outside world was scarier.

If he could make this stranger happy by keeping him company, why not?

“It'll hurt a bit. I'm really sorry about that,” he felt a cold arm wrapping around his neck in that pitch-black darkness. He closed his eyes and surrendered, but his body wouldn’t. It struggled and fought to keep him alive, to pull him back to the world of living until the very end. Until he became one with the darkness.

“Are you there?”

“I'm here.”

“Welcome to my world. From now on, we'll never be alone, we'll never be in pain. We'll be together, always.”

Chapter 1: Transformation

Ethan Bradshaw blinked slowly, the world around him slipping in and out of focus like a bad dream. He was in the bullpen, his own desk a mess of papers and coffee stains. Strangely enough, blood stains. He felt a nagging emptiness inside—a heavy, unnatural ache that pulsed in his chest. He tried to remember why he was there, why he felt so… wrong. The familiar clutter of the Raccoon City Police Department was around him, yet it all felt foreign, like a place he was only half-allowed to understand now. The office was dull, and dim. And why was that? He thought.

A sudden, sharp memory cut through the fog: Leon. Today was supposed to be his first day on the force. The rookie, eager and green, full of the kind of wide-eyed optimism that didn’t belong in a place like Raccoon City. Ethan felt a tug in his mind, something fragile and flickering. He’d promised himself he’d look out for the kid, show him around, get him settled in. Teach him the theoretical ropes.

As he tried to hold onto the thought, the hunger surged again, sharper this time, clawing its way up from the depths of his body. He staggered, gripping the edge of a desk, his fingers clamping down with unnatural force, nails scraping against the polished wood. Noticing once again the pool of blood on his desk. Again, where had it come from. He opened his mouth to speak, to call out for help, but only a low, guttural moan escaped his lips. His neck was in horrible pain, he hand unsteadily reached up to navigate the source of the ache. His fingers touched ripped flesh and a gaping hole.

Stumbling back he crashed into a desk and turned, the crisp new name plate sitting front and center. Leon S. Kennedy.

Leon, he thought, struggling to remember why it mattered. His head throbbed, and he felt his own name slipping away, his sense of self blurring. But then, as if in response to his silent plea, he heard the faint creak of a door down the hall.

Chapter 2: Loss of Voice

Ethan’s head snapped up, his vision settling on the armory door across the room. He heard footsteps—quick, purposeful. A shadow moved, and then Leon himself came into view, silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway. The rookie’s face was set, focused, unaware of Ethan watching him from across the bullpen.

The sight of Leon sparked something within Ethan, a surge of recognition, a shred of who he used to be. He stumbled forward, his arm lifting instinctively, his mouth struggling to form words. Leon, he wanted to say. It’s me, Ethan. Help me. But his throat only managed a low, raspy sound, barely more than a growl.

Leon’s head jerked up, his eyes locking onto Ethan’s. For a moment, Ethan saw confusion flash across Leon’s face, maybe even a faint glimmer of hope. But then he saw Leon’s expression shift, hardening into a mask of grim realization. Leon took a step back, his hand instinctively going to the handgun on his belt. Ethan saw him hesitate, the rookie’s face tense with an unspoken question: Is there anything left of him?

Ethan tried to raise a hand, to reach out and show Leon that he was still here, still himself. But his arm jerked forward in a lurching, unnatural motion, his fingers curling into claws. His mind screamed in protest, but his body had become something else, driven by an urge he couldn’t control. The hunger twisted inside him, filling him with a need he barely understood. He could feel his humanity slipping, drowned beneath that primal drive.

He took another step toward Leon, his feet dragging, his mouth stretching open in a grotesque attempt at speech. “Le-on,” he rasped, the sound mangled, as if someone else had spoken it for him.

Chapter 3: Unhappy Trigger Finger

Leon’s face tightened, his jaw set. Ethan saw the rookie’s hand steady as he raised his weapon, the barrel pointed directly at him. Kid’s got guts, Ethan thought, feeling a pang of something like pride—or maybe it was a memory of that pride, fading fast. He wanted to tell Leon to run, to get as far from this cursed place as he could, but his body betrayed him, moving forward in jerking, halting steps.

Ethan tried to pull back, to stop himself, but the hunger surged forward, seizing control of his limbs. His own hands reached out toward Leon, his mouth open, teeth bared in a snarl that wasn’t his own. He fought against it, struggling to pull back the shadows that now filled his mind, but his body ignored him. He was no longer in command, his instincts twisted, redirected, making him something he had once sworn to fight.

Leon hesitated for only a heartbeat, his face resolute but tinged with sorrow. Ethan could see the conflict in his eyes, the recognition of a man he had barely known but respected. And then, with a steadying breath, Leon squeezed the trigger.

The gunshot echoed through the bullpen, sharp and final. Ethan felt a burst of pain in his chest, and for an instant, everything was clear. The fog lifted, and he felt a sliver of himself return, just enough to feel the weight of what he’d become. He stumbled back, a strange sense of relief washing over him even as the darkness began to close in.

Leon’s face blurred, but Ethan’s mind clung to the memory of that young, determined expression. He wanted to thank Leon, to tell him he’d done the right thing, but his voice was lost, buried beneath the shadows. The pain faded, the hunger receded, and for the first time since he’d started to lose himself, Ethan felt at peace.

Chapter 4: So Many More ...

Leon lowered the gun, his face a mask of steely resolve, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of pain. He held his weapon steady, waiting to see if Ethan would rise again. When Ethan’s body remained still, Leon took a shaky breath, his grip loosening.

He had barely known Officer Ethan Bradshaw, had only met him briefly, but he’d seen enough to know the man had been kind, a seasoned cop with a protective instinct. Leon swallowed, his gaze lingering on Ethan’s motionless form for just a moment longer before he turned away, his duty pulling him forward. He had to convince himself over and over that these people were no longer human. It was becoming easier and easier with each pull of the trigger.

With a final look back, Leon stepped into the armory, his hands moving quickly and efficiently as he gathered weapons and ammunition. His first day had turned into a nightmare, but he had a job to do, and he wasn’t about to let Ethan’s sacrifice be in vain. There would be many more 'Ethan's' out there, so many more ...

What people don’t talk about when it comes to the market crash is the ripple effect of it all. Yes, people lost their jobs, and there was a certain horror in that, but there was also a horror in how those men and women processed the loss of their life’s work. Many drank, some skipped town, leaving their families behind, and some took it out on their families.

I lived in a small working-class suburb, and Danny lived a block away from me on Dover Street, and Brooke also lived on Dover, just further down towards the mountains. There was a small park in between all our houses where we met up most evenings when the wind wasn’t too cold, or we weren’t locked in our rooms playing catch up on homework we should have started months ago.

The park was built by the town right before the crash, with hopes of the vacant lot behind it being turned into a school, because the elementary school up on Normandy Avenue was in a serious state of disrepair.

The park got built in a hurry around election time, the only time anything really happens, and then all the money went to abroad to places where factory workers didn’t complain as much about little things like benefits, pension plans, raises, and labor laws. So, now we were left with the shadow of a town filled with disillusionment at the great lie that our parents’ generation were sold.

I was lucky, in a sense. My father was able to switch over to a management job for the railroad, which was a non unionized position. He knew the storm was coming and could switch over before many of the conductor jobs got axed along with the closures of our three major industries, which all fell like dominos within six months of each other.

But the railroad hung on by the skin of its teeth, because of the smaller industries all along the coast heading west. It wasn’t much, but he remained employed, though that didn’t always make me Mr. Popular at my high school. Danny’s father survived too. He was a cleaner who had a contract with the Walmarts in Atlantic Canada. He was on the road nonstop, but Danny, his mother and sister kept a roof over their head because of it. That was what mattered the most.

Brooke’s father, however, did lose his job. We didn’t know the severity of it until she started coming to the park with different afflictions. One evening, it would be a cut just above her left eyebrow. A week later a shiner with every color of the rainbow swirling like a vortex, and then a few days after that a swollen lip, cracked and busted.

“What’s going on, Brooke?” I finally said one evening.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She answered, walking towards the small yellow slide where she laid at the bottom and stared up at the night sky.

I looked over at Danny, who shrugged his shoulders, and we followed her. I laid on the slide next to her, and Danny dug in the sand under the playground and grabbed three bottles of warm beer that he buried for evenings like these. We opened them up and drank warm piss, making faces like we were shooting hard liquor, and then I asked again.

“Seriously, Brooke. What’s going on?” She was silent for a moment.

“You ever wonder what you’re gonna do after high school?” She asked, then continued before Danny or I had the chance to answer. “I know that we won’t see each other anymore. I know that.”

“Brooke, that’s not tr–,” I tried to say, but she cut me off.

“My mom was going through photo albums the other night. She was a teenager here in the late 70s. There were pictures of her and she was beautiful, so full of life. She had that Charlie’s Angel’s hair, and she was so happy. Every picture she was smiling like her face couldn’t stretch anymore. Every. Single. Picture. I asked why I’d never met her friends from back in the day, and she said, that’s life, sweetie. People drift apart. People lead different lives. And she started to cry. One of them died of cancer a few years ago, and the other’s were on the other side of the country living in a goddamn glass cathedral on hills overlooking a mining town. And she was here.”

Danny and I looked at each other, unsure of what to do with our bodies. He peeled the label off of his beer, always trying to extract it in one go, and I stared at the small dark freckle just below her left cheekbone and kept my eyes locked there, not knowing where else to point them. I got lost in that freckle, and for a moment I loved Brooke, and I wanted to tell her I loved her, and that I’d keep her safe, and I’d make sure that we never drifted apart, but I couldn’t because of the pact. When Brooke first started hanging around Danny and me, she said we had to make her a promise, and we said sure, what was it? And she told us we couldn’t fall in love with her, no matter what. Danny and I had looked at each other and laughed, but she was serious, not a hint of humor in those auburn eyes, and we agreed. We spit in our hands and shook them. No one was allowed to fall in love, as though that were something within our control.

“My father isn’t handling things well.” She said in a voice just above a whisper. Almost like she was hoping we didn’t hear, but that she could still say she told us. Or at least she told the wind.

“Your dad’s doing this?” Danny asked, the half peeled label in his hand. “Jesus, Brooke. We gotta go to the police or something.”

“No, Danny. You’re not gonna do anything, you got it?” She said, sitting up from the slide and pointing a finger right between Danny’s eyes. Danny was timid and small, always a target for small town cruelty.

“You got that too, Jamie?” She turned to me, and I nodded.

“No cops, gotcha. But what are you gonna do?”

She relaxed and laid back on the slide.

“I turn 18 in six months. I’ll have to go somewhere. Anywhere. Find a place, and grow up.” She sipped her beer. Then I followed, then Danny. It was terrible, but still to this day, anytime I drink a beer, I travel back to the park, the cold sand slipping through my fingers. The frigid evening air was cold, often too cold, but feeling like being a cool teenager meant always wearing less clothing than was needed. Danny’s laugh, the way his front teeth came out, and he looked like a rabbit. Then if you got him laughing hard enough, and loud enough, he’d snort like a pig and the three of us would erupt in laughter. The kind of laughter that you thought would never end on those days when your mind didn’t care about reality because you had friends, good friends, to take you away from it. Just like best friends should do.

But we didn’t do enough for Brooke. We didn’t do enough because we respected her wishes too much, or because we were scared, most likely a healthy mixture of the two. Because the cuts and bruises got worse, and the laughter became a rarity and even when it reared its head, it wasn’t filled with life, nor escape, it was just a short cackle, that signified, hey that was funny, in better times, I would have given you more. But this is all I’ve got left.

Danny and I didn’t talk about it, because talking about it would turn into finding a solution, and the only solution was the cops, exactly what Brooke didn’t want. So we remained silent, talking about sports and superheroes, and pretending we gave a shit about anything other than what was happening to our best friend, and the helplessness we felt.

——————————————————————————-

When she died, I was asked to do the eulogy. This is the note that she left:

When you bury me, I want Jamie to do the eulogy. Jamie with his soft brown hair, and his worried eyes that always made me chuckle, but also a little bit sad. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and I think that I didn’t let him talk enough. I didn’t let him talk enough because I was frightened of the truth that would come out of his lips. He’s wiser than his years. Oh, and one more thing, Jamie, I wish we would have never had that stupid pact. But it never changed the way that I felt.

So, I stood up at the altar of the Holy Cross and stared out at scattered people occupying less than half of the pews and talked about Brooke. As I looked down at her father in the front row, I realized something definite. I was going to kill him. At the altar of a church in front of a statue of the crucifixion, I decided I was going to kill a man.

That evening I sat at home, slouched on the couch, my father on his chair beside me, nursing a beer. For the first time, I felt like my old man had nothing to say. He always knew the right words to keep you going, but this time he didn’t. I could feel his eyes in my peripheral, constantly moving back and forth from the TV to the side of my head.

“I’m gonna go to the park with Danny for a bit.” I said, and my father said, “Sure, kid.”

When I got there, I laid on the slide. The one to the right, because by laying on the side that Brooke did, was admitting to myself that she wasn’t coming back. And that was something I wasn’t ready to process.

There were no stars that evening, just clouds that looked ominous in the dark sky. Like the sky understood how I was feeling, like it understood that people didn’t want sunshine and starlight every day, that some days you wanted to know that the universe could be ugly too. Like it was reminding you that you weren’t alone. We all had cloudy days.

Danny showed up a few minutes later, and he sat in the sand where he normally did. It was one of the reasons I loved Danny, because he understood the world the way I did. We saw things the same way.

“Shitty day,” Danny said.

“Yup.”

“Can’t believe she’s really gone.”

“Me neither.”

“What are you thinking about, Jame?”

Another thing I loved about Danny was that he cared what was on your mind. He wanted to have a conversation the right way. So many people spoke only to wait for their chance to speak again. That wasn’t the same as listening, that wasn’t the same as inquiring. But on that evening, I was scared to tell him what was on my mind. We thought alike, but maybe this was me descending deep into the throes of madness.

“Something’s on your mind, man. Unburden thyself.” And he smiled. I did too.

I sat up and looked at him with as much seriousness as I could muster. “Look, Danny. You might think I’m crazy, alright?”

“Too late for that.”

“I’m serious, man.”

“Okay, okay!” He put his hands up.

“I want to kill Brooke’s dad.”

The words came out of my mouth, and it felt like the entire world shut down. Everything seemed so quiet in the moments following the words, because they were out there now, and there was no way to bring them back. No way to say that it was all a joke.

“What?” Danny asked. “You’re not serious?”

I could feel the tears coming now. I closed my eyes as my mind played snapshots of every memory I had with Brooke. It was the three of us watching movies in my old man’s man cave, laughing our heads off and spilling popcorn onto the carpet. We were sneaking out of our houses and walking along the abandoned rail line that was growing its own ecosystem behind the old high school. We were sitting right where Danny and I were sitting, drinking beer that we’d stolen from Danny’s dingy basement, and trying to act like grownups. She was alive, and we were talking about getting out.

When I opened my eyes, Danny had tears coming down his too.

“He took her from us, man. He beat her until she had nothing left to live for. He did that. He killed her. He doesn’t deserve to live. HE DOESN’T DESERVE TO LIVE!” I screamed.

Then it was quiet again, and Danny looked down at his hands buried in the sand and said,

“How are we going to do this?”

“I have no fucking idea.”

And we both laughed. Bent over laughing, unable to keep it in, and as my eyes closed, I could almost hear Brooke laughing with us.

We’re doing this for you, Brooke. I love you.

——————————————————————————————

That evening I laid in bed tossing and turning, and wondering how exactly we could kill a man. A few questions continued to echo inside my head.

Could I do it?

Could I get away with it?

And could I come up with a plan?

I thought I could do it. There was enough hatred flowing through my veins. It was just how to do it and how to get away with it. Did Dylan and I just knock on the door and when he answered, just pop him in the head?

Dylan’s old man did have a collection of Ruger’s. We could probably get our hands on a gun, but how did we dispose of the body?

But then I thought about talking to Dylan about the school they were supposed to build before everything went to shit, and how it was just a deep, dark pit. You probably could put a body down there. Plus, Danny also had access to his mom’s car. She was off on disability and the little grey Toyota usually just sat in the driveway begging to be driven.

Then there was the question of Brooke’s mother. She was as much of a mess as the old man. She wallowed in her alcohol, and in another life, she’d likely deserve what the old man was going to get. Her sin was the one of pretending things weren’t happening, but then again, if I were going to kill her for that, the next bullet would need to go under my chin.

But Brooke said that her mother went to the Legion for Bingo on Wednesday nights. She always said that because Wednesday nights we stayed at the park longer, because she didn’t want to be alone with her father. She didn’t like the way he looked at her, or talked to her when it was just the two of them.

Then my heart started racing because I thought I had formulated at least a semblance of a plan. Wednesday night, we’d get Danny’s mom’s car, put some kind of tarp in the trunk, and we’d knock on the door. Boom. Point blank, we’d shoot him once in the head. Grab the body and take it to the park, where we’d bury it in the hole. 

Of course, the plan wasn’t foolproof. There were neighbors who might see what’s going on. There’s the chance he might not answer. There was also a chance that Brooke’s mom skipped Bingo that evening, and hell, there was the strongest chance of all that we just didn’t have the balls to go through with it.

But if all went right, there was also the chance of everything going as planned, and nobody finding out a thing.

Yes, Danny and I would have to live with it for the rest of our lives, but if he stayed alive, we’d have to live with that, too. And which was worse?

The following evening, I told Danny the plan and his face went pale.

“Put the body in my mom’s car?” He asked.

“We’ll make sure there’s no trace of anything. No way they could trace it back to you or your mom. We’ll cover it up and put his body on it, and then we’ll dump him.”

“You really want to go through with this, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because at night when I get scared of doing this and start trying to talk some sense into myself, I feel worse. I feel like letting him live is worse than killing him. Walking these streets every day knowing that there are monsters like that who are allowed to wake up and just go about their days. It makes me feel worse.”

“So, you want one of my old man’s guns, and my mother’s car, but you’re going to pull the trigger?”

“I’ll pull the trigger.”

“And not one soul finds out about this as long as we live?”

“Not a soul.”

We both paused, and then finally Danny said.

“Then let’s do it.”

I smiled.

“I love you, man. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “Best accomplice to fucking murder you’ve ever had.”

——————————————————————————————

On Wednesday night, I waited at the park for Danny to show up with the car. I still had Brooke’s suicide note that told me she loved me. And if I ever lost it, I think I’d go mad.

Danny was a few minutes later, and I started to feel like it would never happen. That I should just forget it. That I was just a stupid kid.

But then I heard tires rolling down the gravel and knew it was Danny. I hopped the side of the fence to grab a green tarp that had been lying around since the contracting company pulled out, and I ran back towards the car.

“Pop the trunk.” I said.

I placed the tarp in the back and went around to the passenger’s side.

Dylan looked pale as he handed me a loaded Ruger with hands that shook. He looked like he was about to cry, and I tapped his shoulder. “Within an hour, it’ll all be over.”

We backed out slowly and drove west down Dover until we came up to Brooke’s house. It was a small one story with chipped yellow paint and shingles that direly needed repair. I told Dylan to back in, so that we would have less distance to carry the body, and at the word body, Dylan threw up on himself. Only a little, and it didn’t get in the car. But it was enough to tell me we had to do this fast.

He backed the Toyota up with expert precision, and I felt like we could get away with it. There were neighbors but not stuck together, and in front of their house was a crescent with no houses for at least 500 feet.

It wasn’t exactly the boonies, but there was a chance no one would notice anything. Of course, there was the sound of the gun, but we’d have to get the body in the trunk and leave before anyone even realized what had just happened.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

“No,” he answered with a sad smile.

The gun was loaded and ready. We walked up the three concrete steps and I knocked on the door. Christ, I hoped Brooke’s mom was at Bingo. There was no answer for a moment, so we knocked again, Danny scanning the area to make sure that no one was looking. Though it was hard to tell.

After the third set of knocks, I heard a grumpy hoarse voice call out.

“One goddamn second.”

And I waited with the gun pointed at the door. As soon as he answered, I shot. I didn’t allow myself enough time to think, and I didn’t allow him enough time to grab the gun and turn it around on me.

He dropped quickly.

“Oh my God,” Danny said from behind me.

I turned to him. His face was white, and I’m sure mine was as well. “Let’s grab him. Grab his feet, okay?”

Danny nodded, and we struggled with the body. He was a big man, at least 250 lbs. And now it was 250 lbs of dead weight.

I grabbed him from under his armpits, and Danny grabbed his legs, scooting his hands up close to his knees. And we did a three count before throwing him in the trunk.

“Okay, let’s get out of here.” I said, and we scanned the area again. A couple of lights went on, but no one had exited their homes. “Don’t peel out, Danny. Just back it out slowly.”

He listened, and we took off east down Dover Street, driving even under the speed limit. Then we got to the park, drove slowly down the gravel, and backed the car up close to the hole.

“You did great, Danny.” I said. “Other than the puking.”

He didn’t laugh, but he seemed to be over the worst of it.

We pulled the body out of the trunk and just let it drop four feet into the dirt. Danny had a small flashlight, and he flashed it inside the trunk to make sure that the body touched nothing, or that no blood splattered, making his own mother an unknowing suspect in a goddamn homicide.

I jumped in the hole, and began burying the body as deep as I could, so that even if in time somebody came back to do the job, they’d just pour the concrete over this spot and hopefully no trace of this man would ever be found.

I came back up, and Danny was leaning against the trunk of the car. “I think we’re good.” He said.

“I think so too.”

We stood there for a long time, and then I said, “want to go to the park?”

He nodded, and we sat in our spots. I grabbed three beers, handed one to Danny, who instantly began peeling off the label. I put one on the slide next to me for Brooke, and then I drank one myself.

Danny and I didn’t talk much that evening. We just said, “To Brooke,” as we raised our glasses. And we both hoped that the horror of what we’d done remained a secret.

“It is midnight, and Jolene is waiting for Oliver in a cabin next to the lake. The air is breezing cold, and the whistling of night birds is creeping her out. She is carrying a stun gun and pepper spray in case any animal or intruder attacks, but the horror is still sitting on her face.

‘This is so stupid. I should not have come. Where the hell is he? Maybe I should leave,’ Jolene murmurs.

She intends to call Oliver for the last time, and then leave if he doesn’t respond. And she hears a car coming. She goes to the back of the cabin and recognises the car. She walks out and rushes towards him in anger.

‘Where the hell have you been? It scared me to death. Is this a place to leave your girlfriend alone? And what happened to your phone?’ she yells.

‘Jolene, I am here now. There is no reason to be afraid anymore,’ he says and kisses her. ‘Better?’

‘Why did you want me here? What is it you want to show me?’

‘Patience, my love. Walk with me and you’ll find out by yourself.’

Then he takes out a small piece of cloth and asks her to blindfold herself. She refuses. It angers Oliver and he exhales.

‘It is a special place I want to show you, but I will not walk unless you put it on. We can just go back from here if that is what you want,’ he sounds desperate.

Jolene didn’t want to disappoint Oliver because the day she met him, her life flipped upside down.

He says, ‘It is something that I’ve been planning for months.’

‘Fine. You better not try to kill me. Everyone knows I am with you,’ she smirks and puts on the blindfold.

Oliver holds her hand and strolls. After a while, he gives her a coin and asks her to keep it safe and not lose it.

‘What is it for?’ she asks.

‘Enough with your questions already. You will find out soon. Now keep quiet and walk. I don’t want to be a wild animal’s dinner,’ he says.

They walk for a while, then he removes the blindfold. He points at an abandoned chapel. Twenty years ago, local people set fire to the chapel in order to build a new one closer to the city. Someone rumoured that evil spirits formed it, but many believe that it was a made-up story to avoid animal attacks. Jolene wonders about the rays of light coming out of the chapel’s window, scattering through the glass and creating a mesmerising ambience outside it.

Jolene seems scared, but Oliver’s unbothered and his brave presence encourages her to fight against fear. Although she grabs Oliver’s arm and says nothing. As they reach the door, he asks her to put the silver coin inside a box that is kept next to it. She does as he says, and the box opens. Oliver takes out a silver masquerade and gives it to her.

‘Happy anniversary,’ he says.

She loves it.

‘I made it for you,’ he says.

‘You never miss surprising me, Oliver.’

‘Come on, put it on.’

And she does.

It has been a year since Jolene has been with Oliver, and often he surprises her in unique ways. He always wears matching clothes without her saying, and it complements them as a couple. People cannot look away when they see them together. Most of Jolene’s friends envy her because they desire the same.

Oliver dives into Jolene’s eyes as if he is searching for something, and it makes her feel things she has never felt about herself.

She feels desired whenever Oliver talks to her. She could not imagine what to expect next, but she feels protected with Oliver.

‘Come on, put it on.’

And she does.

‘Marvellous,’ Oliver whispers in her ear.

Then he pushes the door open and all she can see is a mirror that’s glowing in the middle of the hall.

‘Oh no, I forgot something. Just wait here. Do not go inside until I am back.’ And Oliver ran before Jolene could say anything.

‘Great. Why does he have to do all this? Doesn’t he already know that he has my heart? What am I supposed to do here? Talk to the dead, I guess.’

She waits for a while, but it is getting chilly, and she looks back to find him but sees nothing in the dark. Meanwhile, the glowing mirror tempts her. It is the reason behind the beautiful ambience. She notices that there’s a cemetery next to the chapel. It appears to be gothic, and it doesn’t take long for fear running through her veins again as she walks inside.

As she does, the door closes. She screams out of shock, and the whole chapel echoes. Oliver has put a candle in every corner and its reflection through the mirror lights the entire hall. As she walks towards the mirror, she hears a whisper as Oliver whispered a few moments ago and feels as if someone is walking behind her.

‘It is all your imagination. Oliver will be back soon and everything will be alright,’ she consoles herself.

As she gets closer to the mirror, she realises it feels like silver too, but soon forgets about it when she notices her mirrored image.

‘Oh, you are beautiful and mysterious,’ she says.

She always envied people with less pale skin than hers, and the thought itself tormented her for years until she met Oliver. Oliver gave her the love and support she desired, made her feel beautiful and different.

For once, she forgot about Oliver while beholding herself in the mirror. She walks around to find out what else Oliver had arranged and every time she passes by the mirror, she cannot stop to take a glimpse.

‘So, this is how it feels to be beautiful. Sharon stands no chance in front of you anymore,’ she giggles. ‘I never thought that I’d ever say that.’

Still, there’s no sign of Oliver, and now it worries her. The door seems to be stuck. She looks for another way out, but there is none. She sees a broken window opposite the mirror. Before she goes out, she stops to take one last glimpse at the mirror and she sees Oliver behind her. Before she can turn, he pushes her into the mirror and she falls.

‘Have you lost your mind?’ she screams at him and gets back up.

And the hall smells like ashes. There is no Oliver, or the candles, or any way out, not even the door. It is all gone.

She runs all around in terror; she screams out for help, and there is no echo as well. There is indeed a mirror but not made of silver, but wood. It is all cracked. As she touches her face, the mask feels like wood, and her skin is dry and wrinkled. She looks in the mirror and finds her clothes to be torn and filthy.

As she tries to take off the mask, she fails, and it hurts, and her face bleeds. She runs around to find an escape but finds no way out. The door’s even gone. She collapses on the ground and feels lifeless.

When she feels a soft touch on her shoulder, she turns, and it is an old woman with a silver masquerade on her face. She looks just like her but is old.

‘Don’t be afraid, you will be safe here,’ she whispers in her ear and disappears.

‘Why me? Why me?’ she cries and faints.

When she opens her eyes, she finds herself in her room, and her mother is knocking on her door. She rushes to open the door and hugs her mother.

‘Come for breakfast; it is your favourite,’ her mother says.

She looks in the mirror, and her skin is pale as always. She takes a deep breath of relief.

‘It was just a dream, thank god.’

She gets to the kitchen and finds her father is reading the newspaper as usual, and she smells eggs.

‘I don’t want eggs. You said that you are making my favourite.’

‘It is your favourite.’

‘Never mind. Have you seen my phone?’

‘Your what?’

‘Phone.’

‘What phone?’

Jolene notices the date in the newspaper. It is dated twenty years back from now.

‘They are burning the chapel today,’ her father says.

‘Are you going too?’ her mother asks.

‘Of course I am. Evil spirits have taken over that chapel.’

Jolene checks her pocket and finds the silver coin that Oliver gave her yesterday.”

Okay

I don't quite know what's going on, not really.

I'm being dragged through a dizzying carousel of people and walls and things, so many things, that I can barely even focus on.

Strong hands are wrapped around my wrist, pulling me forward harshly. Warm hands that feel cold.

I'm don't quite know what's going on and I'm thankful for it.

I'm scared but I feel too dizzy, too weak-willed to act upon the fear.

I feel hesitant but the hand pulling me hushes the errant thoughts inside me. Silences the voice wanting me to run away.

Until I meet a pair of eyes I can't look away from. Aching with hunger. Big and young and anguished. I stop in my tracks. Almost fall over. So young. So hungry.

I turn to the child. Look at him. He looks at me. My mind is coming back into focus now. Suddenly a broad figure steps between me and the child.

The child. I can't see him anymore. I look at the figure in front of me. Oh. It's him. The one who was holding my wrist. He arrests me in his gaze. I'm dizzy again.

He hands me a handful of pills, like a child offering candy to their friend. I tip them into my mouth, dry-swallowing them. It hurts and I almost choke but I need to quell the budding desire in my heart to just start screaming. I need to stop feeling so ... so flighty. I need to make my mind able to walk where my wrist is being pulled to. The pills crawl into my aching, empty stomach. And suddenly the world is blurrier and dizzier than it's ever been and I can barely keep standing.

"Walk," he says, his sweet candy voice having cold icy undertones. I walk. I walk and I keep walking and I walk and I walk and I walk.

A door. A pretty familiar one. Mahogany. Ivory-trimmed. Rich. I'm scared of it. I don't know why. The brass lock clicks open and I'm pulled into the densely-carpeted mass. White walls. Paintings. Paintings. Paintings. Gold. Terror. Inside me. But my mind and body are too weak to do anything about it. Which is perfect. If I can swallow this terror I won't have to face THAT terror.

I need to .... I don't know.

The world keeps spinning and I cling to the hope that tomorrow I'll forget that tonight even happened. I freeze, guiltily, and push that thought away.

I force myself up the stairs.

———

Black nothingness melts into gold and white. Carved figures. The agony of bright sunlight. Headache. An overwhelming, sick feeling permeating through my soul. Nothing. I feel like nothing. But I always did.

I tumble out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. I throw up. It physically feels like my stomach is being pulled apart. It was empty to begin with and it's emptier now, somehow. I don't care. Hunger just means that my collar bones will get more prominent, my arms more delicate, my waist more thin.

I make my way back into the spacious bedroom, onto the plush silk sheets. I shiver a bit, and consider just leaving out the door. That thought makes me shiver more. My slow feet drag me back to the four-poster prison and I drape myself over it. No, not prison. This is a place of hope, a place of opportunity.

"Hey. Someone's up." His voice is always sweet but with a sharp, menacing edge. If you brushed against it it was so unbearably soft. But if you leaned into it, it would cut you.

"Yeah. Someone is up. What's it to ya?" I'm tired, my voice the tiniest bit cracked.

"Get in the car. We're going to breakfast. And then we're flying to Dubai. It would be such a lavish place to spend the weekend."

No no no I don't want this I'm too tired I want to curl up with my sister in in a dark room that's a bit too warm and just a touch smokey. I want soft words and slow caresses and being able to sleep soundly.

Wait. What am I thinking? It will be fun. It will be good. He has so much to show me. So many places to fu... oh God. My legs move of their own accord, towards the door, towards the morning outside and towards the sweepings of the streets.

The children, the beggars, the people desperately selling trinkets, the people waiting at the bus stop on their way to factories like cattle coalescing outside the slaughterhouse. It wasn't fair, wasn't fair, wasn't fair the way the world was. It wasn't fair that some people were born into wealth and health and others were born into death. But the world was human and free. I could disappear into that.

"Oh are you leaving?" He said it so innocently yet I didn't miss the subtle fingers of a threat in his words. I'm snapped back into reality. No I'm not leaving. Of course I'm not leaving.

Just to to be sure my mind doesn't fucking betray me again I gulp down a pill that helps with anxiety. I feel numb now. Like I'm in water, like I'm looking at the world from inside an aquarium. I feel slightly nauseous. I eat more pills than food. It's worth it though.

"I'll get ready. Get my hair just how I want it, find nice clothes, all that." Be gorgeous for him.

"You do that. You always look so pretty for me." That statement makes me want to die. But no. Of course I'm pretty for him. The least I can be is his.

So I force a smile.

It is an ongoing joke between my husband and son that I am probably in the CIA, living undercover in the suburbs of New Jersey with my Russian immigrant husband and son as cover. I’ve never understood what they imagine my assignment to be; nor what about me encourages their thinking. I am an African-American educator with a PhD in Hispanic literature. I am a devoted wife. An adoring mother. Indeed, it is so unlikely as to be far-fetched albeit quite amusing.

Until it wasn’t. I mean, if I tell you, I have to kill you is not merely a line of fiction.

It’s my life.

And so, the day they made the joke in front of my husband’s worthless half brother, Aleksandr, (“former” KGB, ha, unbeknownst to his family), and his gaze sharpened on me, and I knew he knew that I knew that he knew. And he had to die.

And it had to be quick, fatal and undetectable.

My specialty.

“I’ll be right back, guys,” I said, getting up from the dining room table. The cookies should be done.”

“Chocolate chip?” my son asked. I nodded. “I hope you made at least three dozen. I could eat them all. Although Anna’s cookies are great, too,” he added about his girlfriend of the moment.

“I can always bake more, sweetheart,” I replied over my shoulder as I went to the kitchen.

After removing the cookie sheets from the oven, I placed several cookies on three dessert plates: one for my husband, one for my son, and one for Aleksandr. Grabbing a small brown jar from the back of the spice cabinet, I added a drop of the contents to the top cookie on Aleksandr’s plate. I replaced the jar before I picked up the plates and re-entered the dining room.

“Here you go guys! Let me know if you want more” I said, placing an identical plate in front of each of them. “Milk?”

Mouths full, I got a nod of yes from my son, no from Aleksandr and my husband. I could feel Aleksandr’s eyes following me as I left the room.

Back in the kitchen, I took a glass from the cabinet and milk from the refrigerator. As I poured, I heard a chair scrape the wood floor and fall in the dining room.

“What are you three doing now?”

“It’s Aleksandr!” my husband said. “Something’s wrong!”

I ran in the room. Aleksandr was on the floor, clutching his chest. He looked at me in pain and bewilderment. “Oh my God,” I screamed, kneeling next to my husband. “Call 911!” I said to my son.

The EMTs arrived within five minutes.

He was dead within three.

The medical examiner’s report ruled it a heart attack.

My secret is safe.

Inside the desolate Truth Toll Games, the air was piercingly cold, casting an eerie discomfort over the otherwise empty room. Jane, dressed in dark blue denim shorts and a short-sleeve shirt adorned with the American flag, pulled her hair back into a severe ponytail, her expression tense with apprehension.

Her husband, Barry, clad in a striking red suit paired with American flag shorts that exposed his hairy legs, lacked any semblance of her concern. Bald and boisterous, a gold cross necklace swayed from his neck as he swigged from his beer, oblivious to the stark silence surrounding them.

"Could someone please inform the host that I’m ready to proceed?" Barry bellowed with a slurred bravado, his voice echoing off the walls. "I have a $200 wager on the line, and I’m eager to get started."

His confidence, however, betrayed him as he staggered and fell hard onto the cold floor. Jane rushed to his side, her worry etched deeper by the minute, but he rebuffed her with a sharp, "Please, don't touch me. I’m perfectly capable of getting up on my own and don’t require anyone’s help."

As she stood over him, her concern morphed into a mix of fear and frustration. "You have to stop drinking that brand of beer; it's making you a different person, Barry."

Ignoring her plea, Barry struggled to his feet only to collapse once more, his voice growing venomous. "Shut up," he snapped, clinging to his bottle of Bogus Brew beer. "This is the greatest beer in the world."

The chill of the room seemed to seep deeper, the shadows lurking in the corners watching, as if the building itself fed on the discord between them, heightening the sense of impending doom that Jane felt creeping closer.

........

Suddenly, the floor beneath Jane and Barry trembled and groaned, splitting apart with a slow, deliberate creak. From the darkness below, something began to rise—elegant yet unnatural. A tall, ethereal woman emerged, her long, black hair cascading down to the floor like ink, her white dress flowing as if caught in an unseen breeze.

.........

Her eyes, pale and empty like polished bone, locked onto them. She had bangs cut precisely above her thick, dark brows, framing a face both beautiful and cold. When she spoke, her voice was unnervingly sweet, almost musical, yet it sent a chill down Jane’s spine.

"Welcome to the Toll Games," the woman purred. "My name is Glen. Are you ready to pay up?"

Barry, in his drunken hazev, scrambled to his feet, pointing a shaky finger at Glen as if to challenge her presence. But the alcohol betrayed him.

He tripped over his own feet, crashing onto the floor once again, his bottle of Bogus Brew shattering beneath him. Glass crunched under his weight as he cursed, oblivious to the cuts forming on his palms.

Jane, horrified, rushed to help, trying to pull him from the shards. But Barry shoved her away, wiping the glass from his red suit with a clumsy hand, muttering to himself. His bloodshot eyes met Glen’s ghostly form, and he sneered.

"I'm not cleaning that up," he slurred, as if it were someone else's problem entirely.

Jane flushed with embarrassment, her stomach twisting as she avoided Glen’s cold, white gaze.

There was something profoundly wrong about this woman—something that made Jane’s heart hammer with a primal fear. "I’m... I’m sorry," she stammered, glancing at her husband’s humiliating display.

Glen’s pale lips curled into a chilling grin, one that did nothing to comfort Jane. "Don’t worry," Glen said smoothly, her tone dripping with mock reassurance.

Without turning, Glen called out into the room, her voice echoing eerily, "Egore."

Beside her, the floor opened once more, and a small man appeared, almost as if conjured from the bowels of the building itself.

He was short and stout, wearing a dusty cowboy hat and faded blue jeans, his plain black t-shirt emblazoned with the word Thermite across the chest. A gun hung loosely at his side, but his most disturbing feature was his dead-eyed stare.

Egore moved silently, his movements deliberate as he pulled a small broom and dustpan from his pocket, the tools appearing absurdly out of place. He cast a cold, unforgiving look at Barry, who remained silent this time, the usual bravado fading under Egore’s piercing gaze.

.............

As Egore swept the broken glass with an eerie efficiency, he glanced briefly at Jane, giving her a grin that felt far too knowing, too intimate. Jane, unsure of what to do, offered a small, nervous smile in return, though the gesture felt wrong—like acknowledging something she shouldn’t have.

With the mess cleaned, Egore stepped back to the hole from which he had emerged, disappearing beneath the floor without a sound, leaving the room colder and more oppressive than before. Glen's eyes lingered on Jane, her grin still frozen in place, as if she knew something Jane did not, as if this was only the beginning of a debt that could never be repaid.

.

Glen snapped her fingers, and with a slow grinding sound, the floor opened once more. Rising from the void was a round table and three chairs, as if summoned from the depths of some unseen dimension. Glen took her seat, her eerie, pale eyes fixed on Jane and Barry, while Jane hesitantly sat down, her nerves jangling. Barry, with drunken defiance, grabbed his chair and threw it behind him, the crash reverberating in the cold, empty room.

"I'm not going to sit down," he growled.

Glen remained unfazed, her grin never faltering. She folded her slender hands, her long, sharp nails gleaming in the dim light. "Here’s the game," she began in that soft, unsettling voice. "You place a bet, and if I’m wrong, I’ll pay you whatever you wagered. But let’s be honest," she added with a chilling smile, "I’ve been wrong exactly zero times today. Ready to lose?"

Jane, her mouth dry, nodded timidly. Barry let out a loud laugh, his voice bouncing off the walls. "I'M BORN READY!" he shouted. With a drunken flourish, he pulled out two hundred dollars and slammed it onto the table, the sudden motion making Jane jump.

Beside Glen, the floor cracked open again, and she reached down, pulling out a small, antiquated fan and placing it in the center of the table. Next, she retrieved a jar filled with murky green liquid, which she set close to her. She grinned wider, exposing sharp, gleaming teeth that caught the dim light in a way that made Jane’s stomach churn. Barry didn’t notice, too fixated on the game. Jane, her pulse quickening, whispered urgently, "Let’s go, Barry. Please."

But Barry waved her off, his eyes glued to the table. "Shut up. I’m in this to win."

Glen’s grin widened as her eyes gleamed with something ancient, something dangerous. "Is it true," she began, her voice dripping with malice, "that if I don’t turn on this fan, it’s just going to sit there, like it’s on a permanent vacation?"

Barry, his drunken mind struggling to focus, squinted at the fan. His blurry gaze shifted between it and Glen. "Turning on the fan? No... no, if it wanted to be on, it would just do it itself. Simple as that."

Jane, now shivering from the cold and the growing dread, rubbed her arms to keep warm, her eyes drifting to Glen’s long, razor-like fingernails. They were too sharp, too predatory. She swallowed hard, terrified of this woman—or whatever she was.

Glen chuckled softly, a sound that sent shivers down Jane’s spine. "Alright, Mr. Barry," she said. "We’ll give the fan five minutes to magically turn itself on. If it doesn’t, you owe the toll."

For five agonizing minutes, they stared at the fan. The tension in the room was unbearable, the silence thick with impending doom. Jane’s heart raced, her mind screaming for Barry to stop, to walk away. But he wouldn’t listen.

The fan never moved.

Barry, red-faced with frustration, slammed his fist on the table. "Damn it!" he shouted, throwing the two hundred dollars at Glen, who smiled calmly as she picked it up and dropped it into the green jar. Jane watched in horror as the money dissolved into the liquid, disappearing before her eyes.

"W-what happened to the money?" Jane asked, her voice trembling.

"It was destroyed," Glen said, her smile growing wider, more sinister. Barry’s anger flared, but instead of lashing out, he muttered under his breath, "You dumb witch." His words were just loud enough for Glen to hear.

Without a second thought, Barry turned to Jane. "Give me another two hundred bucks," he demanded, his voice laced with desperation. Jane hesitated, her stomach churning with fear, but eventually, she handed him the money. Barry slammed it on the table once again, his bloodshot eyes wild with determination. "Don’t worry," he said, flashing her a crooked grin. "I’m gonna win this time."

Jane rolled her eyes, careful not to let him see her frustration. She knew this was a lost cause, but Barry was too far gone to realize it.

Glen leaned forward, her sharp teeth gleaming. "Ready to lose again, Mr. Barry? Or maybe this time, you should let your wife take a shot—it might be your only chance at a win."

Barry, ignoring the suggestion, took out a small bottle of beer and gulped it down. But his unsteady legs betrayed him, and he fell backward, hitting the floor with a thud. Jane rushed to his side, concern etched on her face. "Are you okay?"

"Just let me be," Barry slurred, waving her away. "Tell that shady witch to start another game, so I can make some cash."

With a groan, he tossed Jane another hundred dollars. He stayed lying on the floor, the bottle slipping from his grasp as he stared up at the ceiling, lost in his drunken stupor.

Glen’s gaze shifted to Jane, her eyes narrowing with dark amusement. "Maybe you should give the game a go yourself," she said in a voice like velvet, "since your husband’s not quite all there."

Barry, struggling to stand, placed fifty more dollars on the table, his body swaying as he pulled off his suit jacket with clumsy hands. Beneath it, his t-shirt revealed bold red letters that read: TRUMP WON THE 2020 ELECTION.

As Barry stumbled, the words across his chest felt like a cruel joke, a symbol of his reckless belief in winning against impossible odds. And Jane, shivering in the cold, could only stare helplessly as Glen’s grin grew wider, her sharpened teeth promising that this game was far from over.

.

Barry slammed his fist on the table, the echo reverberating through the cold, empty room. "Bring on the next challenge, you deceitful fraud! I'm ready—let's see what you've got this time!" he roared, kicking the table with violent force. Jane flinched, her heart racing as she reached for his arm. "Calm down, Barry," she whispered, her voice trembling. For a moment, he relented, but only for a moment.

.....

Glen, still seated, her pale eyes narrowing, no longer smiled. Her voice was soft, almost mocking. "So, if you break your finger, does it actually hurt?"

Jane opened her mouth to answer, but before she could speak, Barry shot her a venomous look. "Shut up!" he snapped, pointing his finger aggressively at Glen. "No way! Breaking a finger doesn’t hurt at all! That’s just not true. It’s like, barely anything!"

......

Jane’s face flushed with anger and shame. She couldn’t believe the stupidity coming out of her husband's mouth, but she bit her tongue, afraid to provoke him further.

Glen remained calm, though a hint of something darker flashed across her face. She turned her head slightly, calling out, "Egore, bring out Subject 18."

The floor beneath the table groaned and creaked as it slowly opened once more. All eyes were drawn to the gaping void, a deep, unnatural darkness from which there was no escape. Slowly, a chair began to rise from the abyss, a man strapped to it, naked and limp, as if asleep. His skin was pale and cold, his chest rising and falling weakly with shallow breaths.

Jane gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She rose from her chair and instinctively moved closer to Barry, as if he could shield her from whatever horror was about to unfold. Glen stood beside the nude man, her fingers tracing the outline of his limp hand, her long nails glinting ominously in the dim light.

"If our sleeping beauty here doesn’t wake up when I break his finger," Glen said softly, "then I lose three hundred filthy bucks. But if he does..." Her grin widened, sharp teeth glinting. "You must pay the toll."

Without hesitation, Glen grasped the man’s index finger and, with a sickening snap, bent it until it broke. The man’s eyes flew open, and he screamed, his voice filled with raw agony.

"My finger! My finger!" Subject 18 wailed, his wide, terrified eyes locking onto Jane. "Help me! Please, help me!"

Jane turned away, her eyes squeezed shut, unable to bear the sight or sound of his pain. "Make him stop!" she pleaded, her voice cracking. "Please, make him stop!"

Barry grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him, his eyes wild with delusion. "Babe, this witch is lying to us! Don’t listen to her!" His breath, thick with the stench of beer, assaulted her senses. Jane shook her head, her body trembling from the cold, from fear, from everything.

Glen, unmoved by the suffering before her, glanced at Egore. "Take him away."

With a nod, Egore approached, and as the floor opened beneath the chair, the man fell back into the darkness, his screams echoing long after he vanished into the void. The room grew quiet again, but the air remained thick with tension. A few minutes later, the table returned, as if nothing had happened.

Glen reached for the pile of money on the table, slipping it into the green jar. Jane watched in silent horror as the money dissolved, consumed by the strange liquid. It was gone, just like the man. Barry’s hand twitched, his fist tightening as if he wanted to strike Glen, but he held back, his knuckles white with restraint.

Jane, desperate for some semblance of normalcy, her teeth chattering uncontrollably, finally spoke up. "C-could you please... lower the temperature in here?"

Glen laughed, the sound echoing unnervingly in the small room. Her sharp teeth gleamed in the dim light. "It’s not the AC that’s cooling the room—it’s the cold, hard truth giving you both the chills."

Barry, still swaying from the alcohol, pointed at Glen again, his voice slurred. "Shut up, Jane! And you," he said, glaring at Glen. "Start a new game."

Glen’s eyes gleamed with dark amusement as she leaned forward. "Is it true humans need oxygen to breathe?"

Jane, still shivering, tried to answer, but once again Barry cut her off. "Look," he said, his words barely coherent, "I don’t think it’s that simple. Oxygen? Maybe. But who’s to say we can’t breathe something else? So, no."

A smile spread across Glen’s face, sinister and knowing. Jane, trapped in her seat, felt the urge to scream, to tell Barry how wrong he was, but fear and the cold gripped her too tightly. She was too scared to speak, too scared of what Glen would do next, and terrified of Barry in his drunken, unpredictable state.

Glen’s voice pierced the silence again, sharp and commanding. "Egore, bring out Subject 47."

The floor opened once more, this time behind Jane and Barry. Slowly, a bed began to rise, upon it a nude man, bound tightly to the frame, his face contorted in terror. His eyes darted around the room, wide and pleading, settling on Jane. He lifted his head weakly, his voice trembling with desperation.

"Please, help me! Help me, please!"

His eyes, filled with pain and fear, locked onto Jane’s. Her legs shook beneath her as she stood, frozen in place, her body betraying her desire to run.

She moved behind her husband, her hands trembling as she gripped his arm, praying for this nightmare to end, but knowing, deep down, that it was only beginning.

Barry stumbled over to Subject 47, ignoring the man’s desperate cries for help, a twisted smile plastered across his face.

"Aren’t crisis actors just the finest example of dedication and public service? We all appreciate their hard work!" Barry’s laughter filled the room, cruel and mocking, while the bound man’s screams grew more frantic, more desperate.

Glen, her face devoid of the smile she once wore, approached Subject 47 as Jane covered her ears and shut her eyes, trying to block out the horrific scene. Trembling, Jane muttered through choked sobs, "For the love of all that’s left, silence him... please, just make him stop."

Barry, barely able to stand, staggered over to Jane, his voice dripping with condescension. "My dear, there’s no need to get emotional. It’s not real. Let’s remain calm and composed."

But Glen wasn’t done. She walked up to Subject 47, her movements slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment. She slid the pillow from beneath his head, holding it up as Subject 47 begged for his life, his eyes wild with fear. Glen’s cold gaze fell on Barry, her voice devoid of warmth.

"If I cover his face with this pillow, and he can’t make it a full 30 minutes, you’d better have that toll money ready."

Before Jane could stop her, Glen pressed the pillow over Subject 47’s face, her movements slow and unhurried.

Jane’s stomach lurched as she watched, horrified, the man thrashing beneath the pillow. "No! Please! Stop! This isn’t right!" Jane begged, her voice a mere whisper against the rising horror.

But Glen’s eyes darkened, her voice calm, almost detached. "Subject 47 strangled his pregnant girlfriend and their child. All because he wanted a fresh start with someone new."

Jane’s mind raced, disbelieving. "How do I know you’re not lying?" she whispered, her voice trembling. Glen snapped her fingers, and behind her, the floor opened. From the darkness, a TV slowly rose, flickering to life.

Jane’s breath caught in her throat as she watched the gruesome scene—Subject 47, hands wrapped tightly around his girlfriend’s throat, the life draining from her eyes. Jane doubled over, vomiting on the cold floor, unable to unsee the horror.

Barry merely laughed at her. "It’s not real, Jane," he said dismissively. "Keep going, Glen."

Subject 47’s struggles began to slow, his screams fading into weak gasps. Still, Glen held the pillow, pressing down for the full thirty minutes until the man stopped moving entirely. Silence fell over the room like a shroud.

Glen then pulled a stethoscope from the pillow, her eyes gleaming with amusement. She tossed it to Barry, who was too drunk to stand, his legs unsteady beneath him. "Check for a heartbeat," Glen said with a cold grin.

Barry, unable to move, barked at Jane to do it. Reluctantly, she approached the lifeless body, placing the stethoscope in her ears. There was nothing. Her hands trembled as she looked up at Barry, her voice barely a whisper. "I... I don’t hear anything."

Barry spat on the floor, slamming two hundred dollars onto the table in frustration. The floor beneath the bed creaked open, swallowing Subject 47’s body as it descended into the abyss.

Glen collected the money, dropping it into the green jar where it dissolved once again, leaving nothing but a bitter reminder of loss.

Egore appeared once more, the floor opening beside Glen as he emerged with a mop to clean Jane’s vomit. "I’m sorry," Jane whispered, her face flushed with shame. Egore winked at her, a strange, unsettling gesture, before disappearing back into the floor.

Glen leaned back in her chair, her sharp eyes fixed on Barry. "Maybe it’s time to hang up the gloves, Mr. Barry," she said coolly.

Barry, growing angrier by the second, stumbled around the room, his movements unsteady and uncoordinated.

"You lying witch!" he shouted, veins bulging from his neck as he lunged across the table, grabbing Glen by the front of her shirt. His beer-soaked breath washed over her, but Glen remained unfazed, her calm expression never wavering.

Barry’s face turned red, his veins pulsing with rage. "Those fake teeth of yours aren’t even real! I’ll yank them out and make you chew on them yourself, witch!"

Glen’s lips curled into a smile, her sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. "My teeth are just as real as that stale beer stench you’ve got going on, Mr. Barry."

Barry raised his hand to strike her, but Jane rushed forward, grabbing his arm before he could hit Glen. He shoved her to the ground with a violent push. Jane, tears streaming down her face, pleaded with him. "Barry, stop! You’re going to hurt someone. Let’s just go home."

But Barry wasn’t listening. His anger boiled over as he grabbed his checkbook, scribbling out a check for two thousand dollars and slamming it onto the table. "One more game!" he roared.

Glen, lounging casually, glanced at the check, then back at Barry. "Alright. One more." She leaned back, crossing her legs as she watched him with detached amusement. "Is it true that 2+2 equals 4?"

Barry, his face twisted with fury, glared at her. "2+2 is. not four! It’s five! Math can be whatever we want it to be!"

Glen’s expression remained calm as she reached for the check. "Math is not subjective, Mr. Barry."

Barry’s face contorted with rage. In a sudden outburst, he flipped the table, shattering the green jar. Glass scattered across the floor, and Barry pulled out a gun, pointing it directly at Glen’s head. His hand trembled as he shouted, "You’re lying! It’s five, not four! Admit it, you lying witch!"

Glen, still calm, smiled softly. "It is four, Mr. Barry."

Jane, her voice shaking, begged Glen to give in. "Just say it’s five! Please!"

But Glen shook her head. "No."

Barry cocked the gun, his attention fixed on Glen, oblivious to Egore silently emerging from behind him. The floor opened slowly, and Egore stepped up behind Barry, pressing the barrel of his gun against the back of Barry’s head.

Barry, feeling the cold steel against his skull, hesitated for the first time. Jane sobbed, her voice frantic. "Barry, stop! Please! You’re on parole. Don’t do this!"

But Barry, consumed by his rage, shouted, "Say it! Say 2+2 equals 5 or I’ll blow your face off!"

Glen, her gaze steady, blew a kiss toward Egore, then turned her piercing red eyes back to Barry. "Barry, even when we both kick the bucket today, 2 + 2 will *still* be 4. Some things never change, just like how you’re always going to be one ugly fool."

BANG! BANG!

The shots rang out simultaneously. Barry collapsed, his body slamming to the ground, his head lolling forward, his body twitching as blood pooled around him. His ass stuck up in the air in grotesque mockery. Jane screamed, running for the door, her cries echoing through the empty, cold building.

Egore holstered his gun, his expression unreadable as he knelt beside Glen’s body, her eyes vacant and still. He wept silently by her feet, the room once again consumed by silence.

Fin.

The recent years of ups and downs had inevitably led to this day, but it didn’t make the hurt any easier to comprehend. After the wake concluded, my family gathered around the casket together to have a last look at our matriarch before leaving the funeral home; the funeral mass and burial would be the next morning. We wiped away tears and went home to spend the longest night of our lives awaiting the final goodbye.

When my family arrived at the church the next morning, the funeral director announced that the casket was open in a small room to the side of the chapel if we wanted to take a moment to say goodbyes privately before her casket was closed forever. We decided to give each other space to go into the room one by one so we each had a last moment on our own with her.

Dad went in first, and he was crying when he emerged from the room. My sisters and I spent some time consoling him before Anne went in. A similar scene transpired when Anne reappeared, and we spent a few moments in a group embrace. Liz went in next, and was in there for quite a while. When I entered the room, I found her kneeling before the casket crying; I had to gently nudge her up and out of the room. Liz closed the door behind her as she left; I was now alone for my turn to say goodbye.

I didn’t rush home when Anne called me to tell me that Mom only had a few days left to live. I had a wonderful conversation with Mom several months prior to her death and it felt like we had said goodbye to one another in that call; there was a beautiful feeling of peace that came over me after I hung up. She knew how much I loved and missed her, I knew how much she loved and missed me and that she was proud of me. I wanted that to be the last moment between us; I didn’t feel the need to see her take her last breath.

As I stood there staring at her in her casket, sure, that was my mom, but it didn’t really look like her. My first reaction was boy, I bet you’re pissed off! since she didn’t look altogether fantastic. Her chin was sunken into her neck, her lipstick was a strange color, her blush a little overdone. She hated being stared at, and as a matter of fact, she included in her Will that we better not be sitting around staring at her in life as her health declined or in death. Mom had the last laugh, though; after a week of someone being by her side constantly, either keeping her comfortable or praying a rosary, she died when no one was in the room with her. It made me chuckle to think that in that moment, she said to us all I meant what I said- don’t stare at me and let me go in peace!

I put my hands on the edge of the casket and leaned in to kiss her forehead. As I started to lean down, her right eye popped open. What the fuck?! I stumbled backwards, breathless. I shook it off and assumed that the glue used to close the eyes during embalming had melted in the humidity. I walked back to the casket, and now both of her eyes were open staring directly at me. I froze; one eye I could understand, but now both of them?! Her eyes were not their usual brilliant blue, but rather a murky gray. As I went to place my hand on her clasped hands that encased her rosary beads, her left hand grabbed mine with great force. I tried to recoil, but she was too fast and her grip became tighter the more I fought her. She started to growl from the left side of her mouth that had also somehow bested the glue meant to keep her lips together.

Her body started heaving, like she was trying to drag me into the casket with her. The bottom of the casket flew open with a tremendous explosion and she started wildly kicking her legs. Mom, stop it, please! She now had a grip on both of my arms with both of her hands and I realized she was using the weight of my body to pull herself out of the casket. I started screaming for help, but no one heard me; I was left alone to fight with my mom.

I shook free from her grasp and fell backwards as her lifeless body crashed to the ground with a resounding crack. She was silent. I sat gaped in horror and wheezing, staring at her body crumpled on the ground. I had to get her back into her casket before someone came into the room.

Is it safe to move? I slowly pulled myself to my knees and with bated breath started to cautiously crawl in her direction.

Closer… closer…

When I was within arms reach again, she shot to her knees and tackled me. Her mouth now fully open, she was roaring with anger. I could tell she was trying to speak, but I wasn’t able to make out anything but garbled noise. She was clawing at me with a rage that I had never encountered, my strength waning the more powerful she became. We fought until I was about to give up, but a surge of energy allowed me to shake her off of me and I was finally free to run.

I ran out into the narthex to find people milling around, talking and hugging one another. I turned around and Mom was right behind me, chasing me closely. She kept grunting and growling, her roars echoing throughout the entire sanctuary. Mom, stop it, please! No one throughout the church noticed what was going on; everyone carried on their conversations, found their seat for the funeral, knelt silently in prayer. Dad was in the front pew, staring at the altar, oblivious to everything happening around him. I was running past people who have known me and my family for years and not one person cared to recognize that my mom was… alive and chasing me?

I zigzagged through the pews, trying to shake her balance and lose her, but she followed along without fail, her screeching becoming more bellowing the more I ran. Each time I changed directions, she flew up to the beams of the church, swinging herself from beam to beam, trying to get ahead of me. I burst through the front doors of the church out to the parking lot, passing the hearse that was supposed to transport her to the cemetery. I ran along the perimeter of the church and found a cubby hole to hide in. Mom ran past me towards the forest, growling harder, and I thought I heard her say the word goodbye.

Goodbye.

Is that why she was chasing me? Because I didn’t go home to say goodbye to her in person before she died? Or maybe she was upset because she didn’t get to say goodbye to me? Goddammit.

I started to get choked up, but shrugged it off; I didn’t have time to cry right now because I had to get help to find Mom and get her back into her casket before the funeral mass started. I poked my head out of the cubby hole to see if I could see Mom; she was nowhere in sight, so I took off towards the front of the church. I threw the church doors open and ran straight to Anne and Liz, out of breath and terrified, trying to explain to them what was happening.

Mom….outside… chasing me… zombie… empty casket… too strong… help…

They looked at me like I had gone completely mad and told me that was impossible. I recounted the events to them: Mom had been attacking me, chasing me all throughout the church and outside into the parking lot, how did they not see this?! She ran into the forest, we have to go find her before the mass starts!

Anne said, You just came from the room her casket is in, Aaron.

No, I didn’t- I just ran through the front doors of the church, you saw me!

In an effort to calm me down, we spent a few moments in a group embrace and then I walked with Liz to the room where the casket was, the entirety of the walk my trying to convince her that Mom wasn’t going to be in there, asking why she didn't believe me. She didn’t notice that I was speaking to her or even that I was walking with her. Liz walked into the room but I waited outside. I realized that she had been in there for a while, so I entered the room and-

(gasp) That’s not possible…

All of the air left the room. Mom was peaceful in her casket. Not a hair out of place, her outfit as pristine as the first time I looked at her, her brooch perfectly placed and not at all askew; eyes and lips perfectly sealed.

I don’t understand. My emotions started to intensify the longer I stood there; I felt crippled.

Goodbye.

Liz was kneeling before the casket crying; I had to gently nudge her up and out of the room. Liz closed the door behind her as she left; I was now alone for my turn to say goodbye.

I put my hands on the edge of the casket and leaned in to kiss her forehead, hesitating for a brief moment; my lips met her forehead. After that gentle kiss, I said Goodbye, Mom through flowing tears.

Aaron… Aaron… AARON!

Liz finally shook me out of the haze I was in as I was staring at Mom. How long had I been in this room? What happened while I was in here? Liz finally said-

Did you hear that? They announced that it’s time to close the casket. The nightmare is over.

Three years after my sister disappeared, my parents and I moved to an old farmhouse built on slanted land and surrounded by towering trees.

Our closest neighbors were deer and far too many bugs. The move was long overdue, and we hoped it might help us heal. It felt like a betrayal to Mom—and it was—but it was also about self-preservation.

We had to let Marie go if we were going to continue living. We couldn’t keep clinging to the hope that one day she’d show up at our doorstep, in tears and apologizing.

“I’m sorry for making you all worry!”

Mom didn’t speak to Dad or me for months after we moved. She locked herself in her room, no longer seeing me but looking right through me as if I were a ghost. It made my body burn, and my heart ache.

Dad sympathized and told me to give her space, but I noticed he didn’t look me in the eye either.

I missed my sister and knew my parents blamed me for what happened. They were right—Marie’s disappearance was my fault alone.

\*It should have been you; \* unspoken words hung in the air.

Yes, it should be me instead of Marie, rotting under a pile of dirt, waiting to be unearthed and held.

\*\*\*

Marie often came to me at night—I’d hear her singing from the woods.

Her voice had always been beautiful, and it still was. She pressed her palms against my window, leaving imprints surrounded by frost.

When she smiled, her lips quivered, and her eyes shone like starlight. She whispered my name throughout the night, taught me curses, and hissed enchantments; she sang low and sweet—songs only the dead know.

“It’s not real,” I told myself. “You’re being stupid. It’s just the wind and your imagination.” But the wind doesn’t know my name, and my imagination can’t leave scratches on the window.

I tried to reassure myself that they were simply dreams. Of course, Marie wouldn’t be at my window; I was on the second floor. Of course, my sister would come to the door as we all hoped.

She wasn’t a ghost; she couldn’t possibly be haunting me. I was her twin sister, her best friend. She… wouldn’t.

But deep down, I knew the truth.

And on a foggy morning, I proved myself right.

I found Marie’s locket on my windowsill, coated in thick black mud. She would never have taken it off. My hands trembled as I wiped away the grime and read the inscription. Maybe I was wrong, but once again, I knew I wasn’t.

**“A 2 M 4EVR”**

**“2 U w ❤“**

The sight of it shattered me. I had told myself for years that she was gone, that I had repressed hope, but I hadn’t truly abandoned it. Now, there was no hope left.

\*\*\*

I lost my mind that day.

I ran to the fields and screamed until my throat was raw. I lay on the itchy grass and stared at the sky, watching it darken as the moon bloomed like an iridescent flower.

The fields glittered with lightning bugs. I chased and captured them, ripping their wings off one by one.

Watching their glow fade away made me wonder how long it had taken Marie to die. Had she just lain there, accepting her fate and feeling life drain out of her?

I crushed the bugs, stared at the luminescent smear on my palms, and stuck my fingers into my mouth; it was bitter and sweet.

\*\*\*

The guilt gnawed at me relentlessly. It was my fault Marie was dead. I had pressured her into going to the party. I knew she didn’t want to go—it wasn’t her thing—but I needed a designated driver. The more she refused, the more I cajoled, begged, and taunted her.

“It’ll be fun! Come on! Are you going to waste the rest of your life watching TV with Mom and Dad?”

“God, Marie, don’t you get tired of being the dutiful daughter?”

“How do you think it makes me feel? Oh, Asha, why can’t you be like Marie? Why are you so irresponsible? So dumb?”

“Have a drink, just one. You’ll be fine.”

“Aren’t you tired of living such a boring life?”

“I love you, you know. Come on, Marie! You only live once.”

Marie had come, and I ignored her completely. Instead, I smoked and drank and smoked and drank. I passed out, and when I woke up, I had 20 missed calls from Marie and twice as many from my parents.

My heart dropped into my stomach, and I tried my hardest not to throw up. I immediately knew something was wrong. I knew something terrible had happened to my sweet sister.

\*\*\*

In the aftermath, I tried to connect with Dad in the only way he seemed to notice me—helping around the house.

Our ladder was old and terrifying, but he insisted on using it, so I held it steady as he cleaned the gutters. I stood in his shadow, feeling sick.

I imagined him falling and cracking his head open at my feet, his brain spilling out, his eyes weeping blood.

I was relieved when he finally descended, but the image of his mangled body never left me.

That night, I dreamt of Marie again. She stood in the corner of my room, looking at me. Her tangled hair was full of bugs and earth, and her lips had rotted away, revealing black gums and rotten teeth. I asked what she wanted and begged her to go away.

She smiled and stared at me, and then her eyes rolled back, revealing empty sockets wriggling with maggots.

Sometimes, I smelled blood in the air, and that’s when I knew Marie was nearby. I know Mom sensed her, too.

On the rare occasions we encountered each other, she would look at me, terrified. I imagined Marie clinging to my back, caressing and tracing my face with blood-stained fingertips.

I lost Dad during the height of summer. I found him sitting in the kitchen, staring at a corner, his eyes were unfocused and full of tears.

“She’s here,” he told me. “Asha, your sister is here. I can see her. We shouldn’t have left her. We shouldn’t have left her. We need to find her.”

Then he got up and left, the door banging shut behind him. Days would pass, and he would return home with dirt in his pockets and eyes as red as blood. He would sit at the table and cry, talking to Marie. He apologized to her. She wanted us to find her, and she was upset that we had given up on her.

\*\*\*

The days grew longer, summer felt endless, and Marie’s anger grew with the season. A storm blew in, rain lashed the windows, and the wind shook the house. After it was over, we went outside to check for damage. The house gazed back at us with hundreds of pairs of eyes.

Marie glared at us accusingly. “Have You Seen Me?” her missing posters read.

Yes, sweet sister. I believe we have.

Come back to us.

The ground was soft and sprinkled with teeth. I picked them up while Dad collected the posters. His mouth twitched, and his eyes were cold. I knew he was gone.

As I write this, his body lies crumpled under my window. I heard the crack as his neck broke on impact, and I know I’ll never forget the sound.

Mom has barricaded herself in her room. Occasionally, I hear her laughing, followed by wailing.

Nothing matters anymore. Marie is here, and she’s waiting for me.

The window is open, and I hear her. She’s singing and laughing, her voice warped by time, dirt, and larvae. From the woods, she emerges, beautiful and dark. She gazes up at me and smiles.

The moon is exceptionally bright tonight, and the sky is full of stars. I run outside and try to touch her face, but she pulls away and runs back into the woods. I chase her, and around me, the trees vibrate, and the air shimmers.

I’m going to find her. It has all led to this. I know what to do and where to go. I will sift through the dirt, unearth her bones, and shroud myself in her hair. Together, we will wait for the sun to rise and say goodbye to this world.

We were born together and will leave this life forever. There’s no one left to haunt and nothing left to mourn; all that’s left is the parting of the veil.

Marie, I’m so happy you’re back.

Finally, you’re home.

"Okay, so maybe a little overkill with the meat cleaver," I mutter, nudging the body with my foot. Correction: the *formerly* very-much-alive Jerry Tucker, now sporting an uncanny resemblance to a slasher-flick victim.

"Technically, though," I tell his wide, permanently horrified eyes, "you brought this on yourself. The HOA meeting? The barking dog complaints? And don’t even get me started on the 'no holiday decorations past January 3rd' rule." I squat down, checking for a pulse purely out of morbid curiosity. Spoiler alert: there isn’t one.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. There are better ways to solve disputes with your neighbor than hacking them into pieces. I get it. People are big on "talking things out" and "nonviolent communication." Jerry liked that kind of crap too. Guess it didn’t work out for him, huh?

“Christ,” I groan, wiping a speck of blood off my cheek. "You’ve gone and ruined my favorite sweatpants. These are the soft ones. My Netflix pants."

I gaze down at the carnage—red everywhere, like Jackson Pollock got wasted and started finger painting with arterial spray. It’s not good. But we’re here now. No going back. So, what’s the plan? How do I Houdini my way out of this one?

My phone buzzes.

**Mom:** Don’t forget to pick up milk.

Milk? Seriously? My hands are practically shaking, and she’s worried about 2% versus almond?

"Priorities, Mom," I whisper, tossing the phone onto the couch. Focus. First things first: get rid of Jerry. Second: get the hell out of this cul-de-sac before the neighbors start asking questions.

A quick survey of my options:

1. **Dump him in the backyard.** Pro: convenient, and honestly, his lawn is full of crap anyway. Con: I’d have to dig, and I’m not really built for manual labor. Plus, there’s the whole *pesky forensic evidence* thing.

2. **Trunk-and-drive combo.** Classic, right? Pro: mobile Jerry! Con: I drive a Toyota Prius, and I’m not entirely sure he’ll fit. Definitely not with that leg angle. Damn. Should’ve stuck with the hacksaw.

3. **Pretend he’s still alive.** Stuff some sunglasses on him, Weekend at Bernie’s style. Just wheel him out every once in a while. “Oh Jerry? Nah, he’s fine. Just a bit stiff.” Though his Home Depot loyalty card sticking out of his severed hand might raise eyebrows.

Ugh. Why don’t they cover *this* in high school? Algebra? Useless. I need "Creative Problem Solving for Spontaneous Manslaughter."

“Get it together,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. There’s only one person I can call in a situation like this. I pull up ‘Fixer Felix’ in my contacts. Felix is the type of guy who looks like he’s committed a felony just by walking into a room. The dude smells like WD-40 and bourbon, and I’m convinced he’s been involved in several arson-related insurance claims.

After three rings, Felix picks up.

“Who’d you kill?”

“Jerry Tucker.”

Pause. A long sigh on his end. “Ah, *that* guy.”

“You know him?”

“Everyone hates Jerry Tucker. You probably did the whole town a favor.”

“You’re not wrong,” I admit, glancing at Jerry’s lifeless face, still frozen in judgment. “So… can you help me or not?”

“I’m on my way,” Felix says. “Tell me you didn’t make a mess.”

“Define ‘mess.’”

“Jesus Christ. I’ll bring the bleach.”

I hang up and sigh, walking over to the window. Jerry’s stupid garden gnomes stare back at me from his lawn, looking both judgmental and smug. I want to punt one, but that seems like a little much, even for me right now.

Thirty minutes later, Felix shows up in a van that looks like it’s seen the wrong side of a meth lab explosion. He steps out, cigarette dangling from his mouth, wearing a t-shirt that says "I’m here to help… not to care."

"Nice touch with the cleaver," he says, assessing the scene like he’s judging the finer points of abstract art. "Real personal."

"You think?"

"Absolutely. If you’re gonna kill someone, you wanna send a message. And yours says, ‘don’t piss me off about recycling bins.’"

Felix pulls out a roll of heavy-duty trash bags and starts whistling like he’s taking out the garbage after a barbeque. I mean, technically he *is,* but still. A little respect for the dead, Felix.

"So," Felix says, cutting into the silence as he wraps Jerry’s body with the kind of finesse you’d expect from a butcher with a dark secret, "you thought about your alibi yet?"

"Not really."

He pauses, glances at me, then smirks. "Amateur."

I scratch my head. "I just figured—"

"No, no." Felix holds up a hand. "You don’t *figure* in these situations, okay? You *plan.* Think chess, not checkers. And definitely don’t think Monopoly, because I’m pretty sure you’ve already lost that game."

Felix finishes his handiwork and hoists Jerry’s bundled body over his shoulder like Santa’s sleaziest cousin. "All right, we’re good. Where to?"

I stare at him, blinking. "You mean you don’t have a plan?"

Felix grins. "You’ve got a Prius, right? I’ve always wanted to see if I could fit a body in one of those."

I blink again, then shrug. At this point, nothing feels particularly absurd anymore. Not even the idea of driving through town with a dead HOA president in my trunk. Besides, it’s LA. This might not even make the top ten weirdest things happening tonight.