by J E Moore
do?" asked the old man.
"We must join hands and place our foreheads together," answered Garawn."
"Like in the hospital?" The body snatcher nodded affirmation.
"Paula, stand back by the window between us and take the gun," directed the real David. "Be careful; he's tricky. Don't let the monster near you after the transfer."
The Celtic priest hissed again. "Come on, old man. Let's get it over with," as Paula retreated to the wall with her thirty-eight trained on the imposter.
David and Garawn joined hands. "Close your eyes and lean toward me," instructed the Druid demon.
Their foreheads touched: their bodies went rigid as if being jolted by electricity. Mere seconds passed, which seemed like an eternity to Paula. The young man abruptly broke the forehead connection, tilted his head back and gave the old man a violent head-butt. The old 'David' went reeling backward, tripped over the coffee table and landed sprawled on the couch. The young man cried out in triumphant, "It worked! I'm back! I've returned to my own body!" He spun in his wife's direction and shouted, "Paula, give me the gun! Hurry, before he recovers. We can't let him hurt anyone else!" She hesitated, unsure of who was who. He took a few steps toward her and extended his hand in a pleading gesture. "Sweetheart, please, before he gets away."
She thought, "Sweetheart? David used to call me Sweetheart after we were married, the monster never did," and let him take the pistol.
The old man held his bleeding head and peeked at them between both hands.
'Blam! Blam! Blam'!
"Oh, David!" she cried out. "Did you have to?"
"Yes. He may have escaped. Sorry, Sweetheart."
He set the gun down on the phone table, picked up the receiver and dialed 9-1-1.
Paula went to the old man, who was not dead, but fading fast. Her instinctive maternal compassion caused her to get too close and lean over him.
His hand shot up and seized her blouse - neck high! She was stunned by the quickness of his move. He pulled her down to his face before she could twist away. He said, "I still love you, Stick." With the words still on his trembling lips, his eyes glazed over - lifeless. He had passed.
Paula was frozen in place; she felt as if a thunderbolt had struck her. She broke out in a cold sweat. Her mind screamed, "Stick!" That was the nickname David had given her in junior high school!
She heard David speaking behind her. The words burned her ears, "I had no choice. I had to shoot him. He came at me with a poker. He broke into my house and killed my wife!"
Paula turned mechanically to see 'David' replace the receiver. He intentionally didn't give the emergency operator an address; they would have to find the house by cross-referencing the caller ID number. And that, would take just a little more time.
'David' tucked the pistol in his waistband and picked up the fireplace stoker. He turned toward her. Their eyes met.
"You called me, Sweetheart," she said in desperation.
"Yes, Sweetheart," he scoffed. "I found that written on an anniversary card you have stashed in your bedroom dresser. Neat little 'trump' card wasn't it?"
His face transformed into a mask of grotesque cruelty. He grabbed the weapon tightly with both hands. Blood-red eyes blazed at her. His sardonic grin revealed a mouthful of rotten fangs.
Paula screamed.
Garawn drew back the heavy, iron poker.
Beware
RED EYES
Have you ever wondered if you were able to live your life over again, how would it be different? Suppose, mere moments before the end of your miserable existence, a supernatural being gave you just that particular opportunity. Confronted with this bizarre choice, would you continue your passing in peace or seize this unique offer of a renewed life, far better than you had most assuredly, but for what kind of price?
Imagine starting over at any point in your past you choose while retaining your current memories, the knowledge of yesteryear and today. It would give you the 'extra unbeatable edge'. No mistakes, no bad breaks or raw deals on this go-round. It would be as if having tomorrow's newspaper in advance. How would you use this information? Would you be more personable, benevolent, self-sacrificing or perhaps the just opposite - more into the pursuit of riches, power or fame? The sky's the limit! Envision the possibilities!
One such man, Maxwell Parker, a down and out Skid Row wino lay dying in a garbage-strewn, big-city alley eighty-seven years ago. He swore his whole life he had the heel of 'the man' on the back of his neck - that he never had a fair shot or a chance to rise up as endless bad luck cheated him out of what he justly deserved. Poor Max.
In the last moments of his pathetic mortal being he was offered 'the choice'. To no great surprise, he took the option. He chose to try again, this time with all the cards stacked in his favor. He knew he was going to live well... very well. It was his turn to be the King of the Hill!
But now, here at the present, the last fifteen minutes of his 'second chance' is upon him. His allotted time has almost expired and the creature is coming... coming to collect his dues.
New York City
Running like a man possessed! Mister Maxwell Parker was running for his life! He tore down the sidewalks - bowling hapless people over, crossing busy streets, zig-zagging through the traffic as horns blare at his incursions. He runs with wild, abandonment; he is consumed with mortal fear.
The Rockefeller Center
Moments before, "Why doesn't anyone else see him!" his mind screamed. He called to the security guards, "There, right in front of you. The monster in the frock! Fools, are you blind? Arrest that man. He has a weapon!" The scythe's blade glistened under the ballroom's candelabra lights. Surprised, unseeing, unknowing faces stared back at Parker, heads in the crowd bowed to whisper. A condescending, business associate with a plastic smile, shuffled toward him. "Screw this!" he bolted for the door.
Max darted from the street and charged into the city's catacomb of dank alleyways; a maze of filth and a home to hundreds of discarded, broken people. He stopped, panting out of breath. "I know who you are," he rasped. "You'll not take me, you apparition from Hell. Not now, not ever!" he cursed.
Scouring his surroundings he noted, "This looks familiar... smells familiar. The graffiti... Oh, crap. This is where I lived eighty years ago... when I made that damn 'agreement'. The beast knows this place. This is the first place he'll look!"
His body trembled, rivets of sweat oozed forth, "Where... where can I hide?" He warily searched the street. Eyes straining, "Is that a church? Yes it is. I remember now, it's the Cathedral of Saint Mary! Sanctuary." With a triumphant laugh, "Ha! He can't take me in the church. On second thought, I don't know that for certain but I do know I can't stay in this alleyway!"
He slid back his tuxedo's jacket sleeve. The gleaming, diamond encrusted Rolex showed, 11:49 pm. "Eleven minutes!" and took off running toward the church.
Bursting through the heavy, wooden, double doors, he saw an empty chapel. He was alone, no parishioners, not even a priest. He wondered, "Is this odd? Perhaps not. It's late." Parker's attention was immediately drawn to the basin of holy water just inside the entranceway. He rushed to it, dipped both hands in, then shook the 'protective' water onto his head. He paused, "What the heck." Max grabbed, lifted and poured the entire contents over himself. "Sorry for the mess, God. I'll send some grunts over here to clean it up later, after I'm safe"
Next, he scurried down the center aisle looking for the safest haven. "A pew? No." He considered, "The alter... under the cross? Yes!" Making his way forward, his head jerking from side to side, he noticed the confessional booth. "What's that?" He then remembered several movies he'd seen where people had been slaughtered on the alter. He changed his mind and opted for 'the booth' - the inner sanctum.
He entered, closed the door, took a seat and lit a cigarette to calm his nerves. Max contemplated, "It might not look here. I know this is the last place I'd look for a person like me." Parker squinted at his watch. It displayed 11:53 pm. He trembled, "Seve
n more minutes... no, eight! I've got to get past midnight. Yes, past midnight to be free." Puffing away furiously he waited in the silence and darkness for what seemed to be an eternity.
'Click'. Max's body went rigid; his breathing stopped. Someone or some thing had entered the other side of the booth!
The cigarette, now spent, burnt his finger. He dropped it to the floor with an "Ouch!"
"Bless you my son," came through the mesh covered communication panel.
"Wha... what?" stammered Parker. "Who's there?"
"I'm Father Paul," answered a soothing voice. "What can I do for you my son?"
Max thought, "Father Paul? Where did he come from? Of course! He must have been around the corner. A priest... now there's an ace in the hole. Great!" His watch read, 11:57 pm. He cracked the door, saw no one and slammed it shut again.
"Good evening... and you are?" continued the clergyman.
Parker quickly ground out the smoldering cigarette butt. "Max... Max Parker your Holiness. Er, rather, Father. Sorry, I'm not Catholic. I don't know your procedures. And, I'm really kinda up tight at the moment."
"It's quite all right, my son. In God's eyes we are all his children, regardless of denomination and we all go through periods of great stress. With prayer and his love we can endure these hardships and become a better, stronger person. Is there something you wish to talk about Max or if you choose, Mister Parker?" A hesitation, "You need not answer this