“Ole Lou’s making roast beef outta Banner,” I said.
“Go back and check it out,” Pinter ordered.
Roth almost peed his pants when he heard that. “What?”
“Go back and find out what happened.”
“No, you do it.”
Pinter aimed the pistol at Roth’s chest and cocked the hammer back. “I’m not asking you again,” he said.
Roth quivered, and then scuttled back to the mortuary in the dark.
“I told him not to open the jar,” I said.
Pinter turned and we locked eyes. I could tell he was just as scared as Roth was. I was curious at how he was going to react when he saw ole Lou again, zombie-like. Heck, most people I bet would just stare at one till they got chewed to bits. Maybe Pinter would put up a fight.
Another scream echoed from the darkness and I uttered, “Ole Lou’s got Roth now.”
“Shut up you weasel,” Pinter said and shot me in the leg.
The pain felt like hell, as if someone jabbed me with an icepick. I heard ole Lou’s feet dragging across the dirt and Pinter shot at him until his pistol went click. Then he saw ole Lou, pale as a ghost, holes in his chest like the bullets had done nothing. Pinter dropped his pistol and held his fists up, ready to give him a fight.
Ole Lou groaned and Pinter knocked him down with one punch. I wondered if ole Lou felt pain. I bet he didn’t by how fast he got up. Then Pinter punched him down again. This time I thought ole Lou was done for, but he kept getting up as if he was ready for round three. I grabbed the shovel beside me and swung it across Pinter’s legs. He fell on his back as if he didn’t know what hit him. Ole Lou fell over top of him and chewed up his face like apple pie. Pinter screamed like a wuss, and then he was silent.
Even though Pinter was dead, ole Lou kept chewing at his face—searching for a new soul. I climbed out of the hole, got up behind ole Lou, and then cocked the shovel back. I brought it down fast on ole Lou’s skull and he went limp.
The thing about the dead is that they think they can consume the soul of the living. They’ll claw their way inside until nothing is left but flesh and bones. And once that happens, they’ll move onto the next victim, devouring them until they’ve found it.
It was a shame those bastards didn’t listen to me. The souls of the dead are precious things. Heck, I wouldn’t keep them if they weren’t. At least I got three new souls tonight. They’ll fit nicely in my collection.
It’s quiet now. It’s a beautiful night. But this is what I hate about working for the mafia. Time to clean up this mess.
THE END.
BORN AGAIN BY SARA GREEEN
Evelyn admired no person more than she admired Steven. Steven was young, still responsible for nothing. He could get away with murder with those soft brown eyes and dimples. He had his whole future ahead of him and knew it.
She had hired him for his looks. A good-looking young man usually made a good leader, good at sales, and good at networking. Even if he were incompetent, in time he would be worth far more. A good-looking man who knows what to do is unstoppable.
Christ, she thought; she was paying him to hold open doors for everyone. She had suspected he had never held a conversation with any of his co-workers and yet, he offered a smile and a ‘hello’ that had them all raving about him.
On a night of good fun, Evelyn had let her friends ask a psychic if it was in the cards that her and her boy toy Copy Assistant, Steven, would have something of a romantic tryst.
The psychic offered entertainment, humored passions Evelyn had never admitted, and she hadn’t been able to take her mind off the young man ever since. She had never believed in such things, and still didn’t but wanted to.
She kept things appropriate between the two, while other women in the office offered him harmless flirtation on an hourly pay scale. Only one day Steven was killed in Shockoe Bottom. Though Evelyn had never taken him as a boy at the nightclubs, he was killed right on the sidewalk in front of the late-night crowds.
The official police report stated he was in an altercation with a potential mugger. The mugger turned murderer was caught a block away. A case closed along with a future.
A bright future.
Evelyn cried appropriately, but never felt the tears the way a human life deserves. Things in Richmond, Virginia were starting to remind her of her youth again. The 1980s were a rough time. She thought she would flee the city back then, but something wouldn’t let her, and things got better for a time. But the violence found its way back.
She began to dream about Steven.
He would stand at the edge of her bed. She could feel him and would wake, though still deep in her dream, and he would apologize for waking her.
Then she would really wake up, the air at her feet icy and empty. The dreams began to occur every night. She obsessed over him. Every time she tried to say something, she would wake up and he was gone.
Just before her alarm would go off each morning, she attempted to play out the rest of the dream, but there was never enough time.
Finally one night, Evelyn woke without the dream and into the darkness she growled, “Don’t just stand there, do something.”
Her dream that night was not his icy presence at the foot of the bed, he warmed her, and he thanked her.
Evelyn’s fantasy of a dead man troubled her. But the idea toyed in her mind all day. Her dream of what could never be swept her away from her daily grind. But it was all filth, unfit for a young man whose memory was only acts of politeness.
The nightclub.
She used that fact as an excuse for the desires that followed. Steven had to have been more than he seemed. She expected him to return to her side that night and humored the idea that she might see how far she could take the dream. The words of the psychic entertained her now more than ever.
“What is it that you want?” she asked as she dreamt him next to her again. She turned over, hoping to face him, but he was not where she imagined him. She realized she was awake again, and alone. “What is it that you need?”
She rolled to her back and stared at the ceiling and her words were echoed in a whisper.
“Why do you haunt me?” There was no echo or answer. “I’d let you do so much if you wanted.” She caught what she said but didn’t regret it. Evelyn quickly psychoanalyzed herself as dealing with grief, until she felt her thighs begin to pulse. As if hands were guiding her, her hips began to roll. She reached down and closed her eyes.
Steven pulled her arm back up and pressed it against her pillow.
“Is heaven that lonely?” she moaned. She knew she could only be dreaming. Deal with it, she thought, deal with the grief of this young man you didn’t really know. She let him deal with her.
The next day, night seemed further away than ever before. She longed for her workday to end, for the shows she watched with her dinner to end. She longed to dream again. She watched her clock tick further passed midnight, wondering if she was too excited to fall asleep. Evelyn worried the dream wouldn’t be the same tonight.
It wasn’t. It was better.
In the morning, she felt worse. “Are you my succubus, Steven?” She asked the mirror. The headache she attributed to the late night spent waiting for the dream. She was not certain of the upset stomach. It didn’t feel like guilt but it was easiest for her to assume it was and she planned not to long for the dream.
Would’ve been easier if Evelyn hadn’t imagined Steven holding the door open, imagined his simple ‘Hello’ as she walked down the hallway. She hoped to God, he couldn’t see her dreams in Heaven. That anyone in Heaven could know what she dreamt about. “Keep it between you and me, God,” she prayed.
She collapsed at work. An excuse to go home early was all she needed to forget her shame and begin to humor the destiny the psychic had professed for her and her Copy Assistant Steven.
She rushed in her door; swallowed a sleeping pill and wrapped herself in her comforter.
She dreamed not
of Steven. She woke and sighed; she had dreamt that several stood at the foot of her bed, waiting for her. She could feel their eyes, even though it was only the shadows. She snuggled into her pillow and was grateful that her shameful dreams might be over for good. “Rest in Peace, Steven.” She said and went back to sleep.
She woke when she felt a hand on her stomach. It did not recoil when she sat up in bed. She could feel it pressing harder into her abdomen. She squirmed away from the pressure and it seemed to leave her. The shadows seemed to know something they wouldn’t share with her.
A dozen eyes seemed to stare back at her from the darkness. She could feel their devilish smiles, and tossed a pillow at them. She heard it hit the wall, there was no one. She cried at how lonely she was. That’s what this had all been about; Steven was just a part of her sadness that had been brewing for over a decade since her divorce.
“I’ll take all of you, too,” she said half-heartedly, succumbing to her loneliness. It took an hour to fall asleep, just in time to hear her alarm.
Evelyn had forgotten her invitation when they came again, waiting at the foot of her bed for their turns. She saw Steven and reached out, “I want you.”
“You have had me. I am within you.” She pulled him in.
“Make them go away. I don’t want them to watch,” she said.
“But it is their turn next. As soon as I am born again.”
“But I don’t want them, I want you.”
He ran his hand along her stomach. “It won’t be long, can you feel me?”
“You’re all I want to feel.” But the air around her was empty her dream was gone. The shadows sighed.
She could feel it in her stomach. It stirred. Her mind jumped quickly to the thought, “I ate something funny.” But she hadn’t. She felt it pressing against her bladder, squirming within her. It was trying to get out. Evelyn ran to the bathroom. She sweat from head to toe, her face strained in the mirror, it was trying to get out.
“What are you doing to me?” she screamed. Steven joined her in the mirror. His soft eyes replaced by beady black orbs. She accused him of her pain, struggled, and searched herself, her hands returned with thick blood on her fingertips.
“Oh God, Oh God!” she repeated over and over. She jumped into the shower and tried to wash away the blood. The cold shower turned to steam, burning her flesh as it pounded the puddles of blood. The tub ran red. She slung the curtain behind her, knowing he was watching her. The door opened and she heard those from the shadows joining him.
She cried and carved between her thighs. “Had it come to this?” she demanded. Her loneliness had driven her mad; there was no way it was more than a dream. The current slid back open. Each ring bounced upon the pole. She tugged it closed again, but it ripped against her grip, back open.
The morning brought reality; A pink tub and soaked hair climbing against the tile. Evelyn shakily climbed out as her alarm barked at her. She felt empty. Her stomach felt flabby, like extra flesh. She hit her alarm, but it wouldn’t stop. She slammed it again, and again. Repeatedly, but it wouldn’t shut off. She ripped it from the wall and tossed it against the floor.
She didn’t return to the psychic for entertainment. The psychic couldn’t call Evelyn crazy. What right did she have, she believed she could foresee the future?
“You opened yourself to him, you invited him in.” She told her.
“You’re just recounting my story, everything I told you. You placed these ideas in my head and I…” She didn’t know what to say. She was probably scaring the poor old woman in front of her.
“I don’t offer refunds,” the psychic said. “But I won’t take your money.” She left her crystal ball and tarot cards, pushed through silks into a room and returned with Evelyn’s fifty dollars.
“What happened to me?”
“You let the dead get in.”
Evelyn cried into her hands, “and I’ve given birth to their…” her sobs were deep.
“No. They’re just in your head. Please, I actually have an appointment now.”
The streets of Carytown were filled with judging faces that turned away at the sight of Evelyn’s tears. She stumbled into her car and drove. She didn’t know where they had buried Steven, but she knew where he was killed. To almost the end of Cary Street and up three blocks, she examined the sidewalk, but no stain had been left. She prayed to Steven. Begged him never to return to her.
The blue newspaper box displayed a sight she had not expected. Steven’s killer graced the front page, in a large color image. The headline read:
Murder Suspect Murdered Overnight in Jail
Her home felt like shame. The porcelain tub was still pink. Her pillows and sheets decorated the floor and not her bed. She collapsed into her couch instead.
A knock.
She opened her door without her usual caution, fed up with her situation. Her heart dropped. There was no one. She stepped out and looked down the street. Two houses down she heard a door open and the greeting as two visitors entered to a welcoming host.
Evelyn slammed her door and turned to see him on the couch. She closed her eyes. She was not dreaming. Steven was there. She closed her eyes and refused to open them.
“Leave me alone.”
“But they are waiting,” he said. “It is their turn.”
“No!”
“But they have waited so long and you said you would. You would take them all.” She felt his hands wrapped around her. “Please, there is no more room in Heaven.”
“No!”
He threw her against the couch. The front door swung open, slammed into the wall.
“I gave you what you wanted, what you needed,” Steven said. A cold air rushed in behind him. “They need you now. They need to have their vengeance too.”
“The murderer… Steven, you killed him.”
“This is how it works, you can give us all justice, let us be born again unto this world.” He brushed the hair away from her face and led her back into the bedroom. She tightened her eyes; the nightmares of a thousand murders forced them open again.
He was smiling at her.
His dimples weren’t enough. Evelyn screamed and the door slammed shut. She heard the dead bolt lock, and her scream breathed a pillow until it was a moan.
It was their turn.
THE END.
HELPERS BY SARA GREEN
Tinsel. Everywhere.
There wasn’t a groan that came from Ellie’s lips, but a squeak pitched so high that she hurt her own ears. No one else was around to share in her pain. No one for miles.
The plastic needles of the fake Christmas tree gave a little variety to the otherwise shiny silver that scattered about the floor, couch, and formerly wrapped presents.
For a moment, Ellie was grateful there wasn’t any blood.
But the Helpers, as the news’s warnings had labeled them, drank blood—never sparing a drop. In fact, the more Ellie examined the scene of her family’s living room, the easier it was to discern what the Helpers’ saliva was. They had licked couch cushions, the wall, and matting the carpet. Licked it all clean.
It smelled too. Like cinnamon and rotten apples.
Ellie could not find a part of the couch that wasn’t soiled. She sat down on the hearth, the bottoms of stockings brushed against the top of her head. She still held the presents she had brought for her mother, father, brother, and her brother’s new girlfriend. All meticulously wrapped with elegant ribbons tied in a bow.
Maybe just she died, Ellie hoped. Maybe her actual family escaped while the helpers feasted on her brother’s girlfriend. Was it wrong that she did not care if her brother’s new girlfriend had fallen victim while the rest of her family made a safe getaway in the family SUV? They had only been together for three months. Ellie had even gone so far as to leave her name off the gift tag, because she couldn’t remember if it was Sara or Sarah or Sierra.
Of course, Ellie felt guilty, feeling as if she jinxed her family’s survival by w
ishing Sarah-Sara-Sierra dead in their place. It kept her paralyzed, her tears hanging on like the icicles that ran along the rain gutters just outside the large bay window.
She felt guilty about a lot of things.
Four days ago:
Ellie held two Jack Skellington statues in her hand, one in his Santa Claus costume and the other in his typical Pumpkin King attire. She didn’t know if one was enough, and which one was the correct one—after all, she wanted to make a good impression.
“It’s cheaper online,” a woman said. “But it might not get there in time for the holidays. Everything I ordered is lost in the mail. All my tracking says, ‘in transit’ or ‘out for delivery’ whatever the hell that means after a week. My children are going to roast us alive. Christmas! Ha! My favorite holiday of the year is Memorial Day. No special requirements, no shopping. And a guaranteed day off work. Plus the weather is usually nicer.”
Ellie smiled at the woman, it seemed like the polite thing to do. For as long as Ellie could remember, Christmas was her favorite holiday. She loved the sights, the sounds, and both the mystery of what lay beneath the tree for her, and the challenge of finding her friends and family something they never knew they actually wanted.
But how does one shop for a stranger?
Her brother Shane had told her, “Sara loves Nightmare Before Christmas.”
There used to be a day and age when one could buy a DVD copy of a person’s favorite film—but that was long ago. Of course, if Sara (or was it Sarah) loved the film she already owned a copy. But that was the only thing Shane had given her to go on and a dread of awkwardness came over her as she imagined Sara (or was it Sierra) sitting there around the Christmas tree wondering if Ellie hated her because she didn’t bring her a present or got her something she already owned.
Ellie had to have a present for her, something that made her feel comfortable—like a sister. As if Ellie had climbed over hell and high water to prove to her that she was welcome among their family.
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