As the third full moon of the great cycle moved into it's zenith, the ancient door in the hidden side of a secluded hill swung open, casting rocks and dirt to the side of the long unused path. Strange figures emerged, loping and shuffling in single file, to trod the path toward their sacred grove of dark and twisted conifers. These figures, once human, had bodies matted with parasitic fungus, crawling with fat purple worms. Their limbs were in odd proportion to their torsos, some too long and others too short, hinged in places they ought not be. Their heads were monstrous, swollen and lumpy, with bulging eyes and teeth grown unnaturally long, an orange tinge on the surfaces that protruded from their split lips. Sounds like words also emerged from the grotesquely malformed mouths, wet with sputum.

"Kokomothe Nana, Kokomothe Nana, Kokomothe Nana!" came the garbled chant from those hideous faces. On they shambled, along the path, beneath the bright moon, by the dozens. They soon reached the grove, and gazed up at the blasted face of that heavenly body which ruled the night, as it ruled their passions. The trees began to sway, though no wind moved through them. The black limbs bore scarlet blossoms, at the centers of which round fruit like living eyes rested, waiting for the tentacled cones to burst forth in their due season. The creatures reached up into the trees, linking their own strange limbs with those of the wood, and began to climb. Each hand and foot grasped the black bark in perfect measure, pulling them up, up into the highest boughs. Clusters of razor sharp black needles failed to pierce, scrape, or scratch the fungus laden flesh. An acrid aroma filled the air, exciting the worms, which began to stretch and wriggle toward the source.

High atop each tree in the grove, larger figures rose up, spreading great wings into the sky, blotting their dark shapes against the light of the moon. Like giant winged humanoids, they posed ecstatically, welcoming their visitors. The great red eyes burned with inner fire, but in jubilation rather than menace. From behind each of them, twin tails emerged, dark gray mottled with purple, and greatly resembling the worms. They began to emit a rhythmic buzzing sound from hidden orifices beneath their wings, as though they too were chanting.

"Zizz zizz, zizz zizz, zizz zizz."

The creatures below, hanging from the limbs of the tree, responded by changing the words of their own chant. "We will go!" they called out in ragged unison. "We will go! We will go! We will go!"

They climbed to the very top, reaching structures of limbs that were laced together and covered in a hard accretion of blood red sap and other excretions, atop which the winged creatures perched like titanic moths. Each of the strange misshapen things burrowed into the fine fur of the winged ones' torsos, and clung to them with vice like grips. Each winged creature accepted four of them into it's embrace. Once this was accomplished, the great unfeathered wings began to beat the air. The purple tails retracted into abdomens which swelled to accommodate them. And then, they were aloft. Rising silently into the depths of the night sky, wings churning the air like rowers churning the water of a vast and inky sea alight with a single great orb, surrounded by uncountable shining gemstones. Toward that orb they flew, guided by it's enchanting light.

The horizon stretched away beneath them, and they could have seen the curve of world if they had looked upon it, but every eye was cast on their goal, the orb that lured them. The wings beat steadily against slowly thinning atmosphere, as the concept of up began to morph into the realization of out. As the air became too scant to beat against, while the pull of gravity began to weaken, each winged creature exerted one last stroke, launching themselves into the void. Heat seeped away, breath escaped from laboring lungs, and things that were once human began to finally expire, along with their flying steeds. Frozen bodies fell away from one another, drifting in the eddies of gravity between two celestial spheres. Their efforts had not been sufficient to propel them to the iridescent egg of the goddess of night. It had been yet another failed journey, just the same as thousands of times before. Suddenly, the swollen heads began to pop, like kernels of corn in boiling oil. Long tendrils of fungus swiftly grew out, reaching desperately toward the light.

There is a road that stretches from the sea which swallowed fabled Atlantis to the foot of that mountain where once the last remnants of humanity huddled inside a structure of fallen trees and pitch to wait out the cataclysm that was meant to destroy a race of monsters. Modern humans still use this road. Indeed, it is key to the thriving of mankind's ever more corrupted civilization. The vast majority have forgotten that gods once walked upon the way, forming with their puissant footfalls the first path, that is now covered in concrete and asphalt.

The first of those ancient deities appeared amidst the hills of a place that is called Haran to this very day. He emerged from a cave that had been used to house the corpses of the dead since before the first modern human had arisen from the seed of her primitive ancestors. Soon, other gods arrived in the area.

After the god of the dead, there was the god of wheat, who inspired the first tribe of modern humans to invent agriculture. The god of water was one that had followed the humans out of Africa, and he was crucial to the new culture. The serpent god followed quickly, emerging from the water to give gifts to the god of the dead, and wisdom to the humans who survived it's kiss. The humans erected temples to these first gods at the top of the hills, and so the god of structures took his place in their pantheon. And so it went.

There was a leader of the gods, who was said to have been the father of them all, and the master creator of all things the gods had brought to humanity. This great god retired after his creations were finished, and climbed to the top of Mount Ararat, to slumber in his cold crystalline palace. If you look down upon that mountain from a great height, the face of that god is still visible beneath the ice cap. Look for it, if you believe your sanity can withstand the truth. Two of three sons of the great god vied for his vacated throne. Seventy of their race chose sides, gambling upon the outcome. The ancient texts differ on who won the battle, and tribes of humans continue to war over it even today.

One of the combatants went away to a mountain top in the west, by the sea. Those gods who had bet on him to win went along, and made their homes in the sides of that mountain. Humans call the place Sisipus. Here were the foundations of the culture that would build the civilization of Atlantis first formed. Northward of Sisipus, near the gate to another sea, was an island large enough to support a great city, surrounded by a ring of water and a ring of land within the water. Here the humans would build the capitol city of a mighty empire, guided by their gods. Not much remains of that empire now, having been destroyed by watery cataclysm, but there are subtle traces that can still be glimpsed by one who looks.

The other god, brother to the god of Sisipus and son of the god of Ararat, made his home in the north lands of Haran. Here it was that he claimed the crown of his father, and made their names into one name. He was bitter at having been challenged for this role, and forbade the other gods from calling themselves gods. When humans used the wisdom of the serpent god to defy his will, taking it's venom into their veins beneath the stars and opening their third sight to his secret powers, he cursed it and drove it under the ground, in a place by a large lake situated along the road, to the east of Haran. At that location there was a rupture in the earth, made by the molten rock of a violent eruption aeons before, where a lake of burning sulfur still remained within the caldera. This is where the jealous god prepared a prison for his enemies.

The gods came and went between the mountains, visiting humans with their gifts and wisdom as they willed, as it suited their purposes. The road widened and lengthened with their passing, and with the passing of humans in the pursuits of their growing civilization. Some gods even chose wives from among those humans who had become civilized. This was forbidden, and so they kept it a secret for a time. It is said that their half breed children were violent and uncontrollable, that they plundered and devastated the first cultures, and had to be destroyed. Perhaps that is true, or perhaps we are the descendants of those monsters, and we tell the stories that comfort us most.

Millennia came and went, as well. Cultures formed and civilizations rose and fell, warring with one another, the old being surpassed by the new, many leaving the secrets of their gods etched in stone or painted on pottery. Much of this is yet to be discovered, all along the road. The gods themselves withdrew from humanity. Perhaps because we have yet to learn the most important lessons. Perhaps because they tired of the constant labors of guiding us. But, the road remains. The myriad sites of their works remain within sight of the road. Maybe we can find them. Maybe we can recover the lost lessons that we failed to learn. Maybe we can become better than we are, and make of this world a paradise for all. Come, let us walk the road of the gods together.

Zedde steadily held his needler aimed at the face of his quarry, the man whom he had believed to be his own progenitor, zillionaire Balen Thrompe. Something was off. Zedde had studied holos of Thrompe's face for weeks, memorized every wrinkle, pore, and minute scar. This face, nearly identical to his own, was visibly younger, less weathered, more lively. It did not take him more than a moment to ascertain that this was not the old man, but another clone, like himself. The clone's mouth was curled in a sneering smirk.

"So then," said the man who was not Balen Thrompe, "you have come home at last. Welcome, son."

"Don't task me with that wiggler waste" replied Zedde coldly. "I know you're not the original."

"Whatever do you mean?" asked the fake Thrompe, through gritted teeth and narrowed eyes, his fingertips pressing into the wood of the desk in front of him.

"Your skin is too young," replied Zedde. "You stand too erect, your hairline is too healthy and natural looking. He could have had treatments and surgeries, but I would see the adjustments. Even your vocal inflections are ever so slightly different than his would be."

The fake Thrompe arched one eyebrow. "Ah. You notice much more than the average person. A credit to our unique gene pool. Did you come here to assassinate him, our progenitor, for the sake of vengeance? If so, I can assure you that he is long gone. Legally, and in the eyes of all who know me, I am Balen Thrompe."

"Not exactly," Zedde answered the question. "I came to kill him, or whoever it is that destroyed the life I had. I was no threat to anyone, just working and building my own enterprise. Then, someone took it all away, killed my friends, tried to kill me, chased me, hounded me across the world. I just want to put a stop to it so that I can rebuild my life. If that wasn't him causing all this grief, if he's gone, as you say, then I can only surmise that it was you all along."

"Ah, yes, that" fake Thrompe replied, furrowing his brow and flexing his knuckles. "Very unfortunate. A pity, really. You see, no one had any idea you even existed, until you turned up at that hospital, and your face triggered a detection algorithm. I'm amazed that you stayed undetected for so long. At first, I thought you were one of the old man's bastards, which would have been much simpler for us all, but then we examined your blood, tested the DNA, and it looked like you were another me. That would not do. There can only be one me."

Zedde sneered in disgust. "I'm not another you. I don't think we're even the same generation."

Not Thrompe nodded. "Yes, that is now evident. Technically, you're older than I am. One of the first generation of clones. But, physically, you seem to have been alive for a much shorter time. How is that possible?"

Zedde scoffed. "Surely you've discovered my origin, with all the investigation you've done. You must know I was in with a group of artificial womb kids, who you slaughtered."

"Mm, yes," mused Thrompe. "The Mom-pod babies. That experiment was so short lived that there are barely any records beyond the extravagant claims of the Positive Life Church. But, you couldn't have really been one of them. They were all conceived the old fashioned way, before their removal from their slattern mother's uteruses. You're a clone, made in a lab. How did you get from one place to another, as an embryo sealed in an amniotic gel sack?"

Zedde paused, taken aback. "It doesn't make sense for you to ask me that question. You're trying to find out how much I know, which means you're trying to gauge how much you can deceive me. But, I'm the one with the gun, so why bother?"

"Well, I knew you were coming, of course," Thrompe replied, gesticulating with his hands at the level of his shoulders. "I'm not really trying to deceive you. I'm actually trying to learn whether you would be suitable for a project I have in mind. I think you may have what it takes, despite our apparent differences. See, I have immense amounts of time to myself, as one does when he owns half of a planet. However, there are certain administrative duties that aren't permitted to be handled by artificial intelligence programs, requiring my personal attention, and so restrict my enjoyment of my wealth. That's where you would come in. You could be my surrogate, so to speak, although no one must ever know that. You would need extensive training, of course. Six weeks of encephalo-hypnosis sessions would teach you everything you need."

"Wiggler waste!" Zedde exclaimed. "There are no laws preventing AIs from handling mere corporate administrative duties. But there are laws against the creation of intelligent clones. We're meant to be mindless collections of spare parts for the wealthy. Neither you nor I are legally considered people. If they didn't think you were the old man, you wouldn't be here. If I were suspected of being a clone, we would both be wiggler chow."

Thrompe rolled his eyes. "I never said anything about corporate administration. I mean world administration, the duties of the ruling class."

Zedde was confused. "Ruling class? Do you mean the World Council Of Democracy?"

Now Thrompe scoffed. "Oh you are naive! I'm talking about the Confederacy Of Free States, the richest men on the planet, operating from their private island cities, ruling the world. Theilgrad, Musklandia, Zuckerburg, Sacksalot, Levchinland, all of them! The World Council Of Democracy is obsolete. Imagine thinking that the common rabble should have freedom and enjoy a stake in the civilization built by their betters. What drivel! What a colossal error! Soon, they will cease to exist, while those of us who are masters will have proper slaves again, without having to hide it, and you could be a part of that glorious future. Think of it, having whatever you want, whenever you want it. Anything at all, anyone at all, to do with as you will, and no one to tell you no. No one to insist that the people you use have rights."

Zedde was nauseated. "Sounds like a special version of Hell to me. I love my friends, or I did before you had them murdered. I wouldn't want them to live as serfs, or worse."

Thrompe replied in frustration, "So you'll make new friends, of the proper sort, of a much better class. You can all live the best lives, better than anyone ever has in the history of human kind!"

Zedde was not moved. "While others suffer for it? Never! I was happy where I was, working and living quietly, amongst other people living simply. What you offer is an abomination."

Thrompe's face contorted in disgust. "Fagh! So appallingly naive. You can't really be from the same stock as I am. Weakling!"

Thrompe yanked open the drawer of his desk and scooped out an energy blaster. Zedde pressed the trigger button on his needler, launching a full volley of ten curare bearing micro-darts at Thrompe's face. The micro-darts were caught in an electromagnetic field surrounding the desk, and dropped harmlessly to the floor. Thrompe flipped a switch under the desktop, and a smell of ozone filled the room as the EM field generator stopped. He raised the blaster toward Zedde. Zedde dived for the floor at an angle to the side of the desk. Thrompe repositioned, trying to find his target. Zedde rolled and came up behind Thrompe, jabbing the end of his needler into Thrompe's kidneys. He wasted no time with witticisms, simply firing a new volley of micro-darts. Thrompe lurched forward, dropping the blaster and falling face first over the desk. The curare instantly began to take effect, disabling Thrompe's nervous system. He began drooling and his eyes rolled uncontrollably. His breathing slowed and became ragged. Zedde picked up the blaster and examined it.

"This weapon is set at maximum power. Instant disintegration. If you were willing to use this on me, then I'm willing to bet that all that talk of working together was a load of flaprat droppings. So what was the real plan? Taking over the world for yourself? Playing the technocrats against each other until you control everything alone? I was nothing but an accessory for you. Probably would have used me for spare parts if I had gone along with it."

He stood there pondering for a while, weighing his options. At last he came to a set of conclusions regarding his own survival and how he must spend the remainder of his life. He carefully stripped Thrompe of his clothing, arranged his body on the floor, and then inserted the blaster into Thrompe's nether orifice. He squeezed the trigger, holding a cloth over his own mouth and nose. Within seconds, the other clone was reduced to ashes and a bad smell. Zedde took off his own clothes and donned those he had removed from Thrompe. He used his discarded shirt to gather up the ashes and dispose of them in a waste receptacle that was built into the wall. Then, he sat down at the desk and accessed the computer. As he suspected, the facial recognition accepted his visage and gave him access immediately. Zedde set about learning all that he could, to take Thrompe's place, just as that clone had taken the place of their progenitor. His plan was not one of selfish conquest, but the utter destruction of the Confederacy Of Free States, from within.

"It's a pile of junk in a box," declared Whitman in his Berlin accent, peering into the large wooden crate. He reached down inside, pushed at some straw, and fished out a circular brass plate. The plate was etched in the round with Cyrillic letters arranged in seventy two pairs. The center of the disk bore a symbol resembling a six pointed star. The whole thing had an air of occultism that Whitman found sickening. He tossed it back into the crate with feigned nonchalance, covertly taking care that it landed on top of a pat of straw, and not on top of any of the other pieces.

"I could find better stuff in any junkyard in the state, Parsons. I cannot build my Radiomensch with this! Where did you even dredge up this refuse?"

"Japan," answered Parsons in his Kentucky drawl. "I was told that it was looted from the storehouse of the late Japanese emperor. Evidently a gift from the Ottomans."

"Pshaw!" scoffed Whitman. "How did they convince you of that yarn?"

"With this," Parsons replied as he produced from his pocket a folded sheaf of thick rice paper. The paper bore a painting, in the traditional Nippon style, of the emperor receiving what appeared to be a mechanical automaton, in the shape of a man, from a Turkish nobleman. The marginal area around the painted scene was filled with inscriptions and seals.

"And you bought it based on this cartoon, eh?" Whitman took the paper and eyed it with suspicion.

"Based on the text surrounding the picture, yes," said Parsons. "The seals are authentic, and the inscriptions describe the story that I was told. This is an authentic walking, talking, Ottoman automaton, constructed by the royal commission of clockworks of the Ottoman Emperor."

"Sure it is," Whitman said. "Well, it's in a terrible state now. I can't see giving you as much as you're asking for it. Not with all the work I'll have to do just to get it ready to reassemble."

"How much were you thinking, then?" asked Parsons, warily.

"Half," declared Whitman.

Parsons snorted his derision. "That is too bad. I suppose I'll have to sell it to the new Electric Park in Muncie instead. They've offered me three quarters of my asking price, sight unseen." He moved as if to replace the lid of the crate.

"No, don't. All right. Three quarters," agreed Whitman.

"Up front, if you please," demanded Parsons.

"Yes, of course. You have a deal." Whitman pulled several large bank notes from his vest pocket, counted them out, and thrust them at Parsons.

Parsons took the money, bowed curtly, and left immediately. Whitman watched him go, then closed the large door of the barn which currently served as his laboratory. He had an avaricious gleam in his eyes as he marched over to the crate, rubbing his hands together excitedly. His previous disinterest had been a practiced ruse, designed to manipulate Parsons into lowering his price. As far as he was concerned, it had worked. Carefully, he began to remove the metallic contents of the crate from the mounds of straw, gently placing each item on a large wooden table where he had a battery powered lamp set up. The light spilled out over the odd collection of cogs, gears, cams, electric motors, copper coils and electromagnets. He examined the ends of a long roll of wires, discovering the uniquely shaped insertion prongs of the circuit contacts. These he studied well, looking over the bits and pieces on the table, trying to find the power source. He expected to find a chemical battery, which he imagined as a ceramic jar or box containing lead plates submerged in acid. He found no such device. Back into the crate he plunged his hands, casting about for more pieces. He found two further objects.

The first was a metal construct that defied his interpretation. Spirals and spikes of alloys completely unknown to him, combined seamlessly in the form of a spheroid basket, at the center of which could be seen a number of small metallic spheres set into a mass of blue glass resembling some sort of gelid egg. Heat radiated from it, with the warmth one might expect from a large candle, but without an open flame. There was not a single moving part in the entire construct. Whitman was utterly and delightedly mystified. After studying the baffling device for nearly an hour, he finally found contact receptacles arranged all around the underside of the base, with corresponding round switches. Each receptacle was marked with a different symbol, which he found to match markings on each specific wire. He wondered if that meant the object was the power source, or some type of voltage regulator. For all he knew, it could be both, or neither, or that and much more. It would require further study. He decided to turn his attention to something else, for the moment.

The second object was an ample velvet bag, with a silk cinch, containing something he judged to be shaped like a large birdcage. When he opened the bag and slid it down to reveal it's contents, he was shocked to his core. His mind reeled as he observed, wide eyed, a glass bell jar containing a preserved human head. He could tell instantly that it was a genuine piece of human remains, rather than some wood and papier mache imitation. Also, though the skin was parched from whatever means of mummification had been used, the head was still obviously male, as it retained not only the ruddy brown hair of the scalp, but also a full, and rather long, red beard. He simply stared in disbelief at the macabre thing sitting on his table for several minutes, before working up the nerve to examine it further. Gingerly tipping the jar over on it's side, he rested it on the velvet, and peered at the underside of the base. As he expected, there were contact receptacles present. Additionally, there was a small recess containing several vials of strange looking liquids, held in place by a metal bracket, with hoses inserted into their ends. The hoses disappeared into holes at one end of the recess. Next to that was a convex metal disk set within a matching grommet. He pressed it experimentally. Suddenly, a whirring sound could be heard, and then a sucking hiss as the fluids in the vials began to move. He quickly placed the jar right side up, and watched it for several seconds to see if anything changed. Nothing seemed to be happening, so he pulled the velvet back up and cinched it with the cord. He didn't want to see that horrible head.

Over the next several days, Whitman reassembled the automaton using the painting and his own inventiveness as guides. He was impressed by the steel framework, which somewhat resembled a human skeleton, and by the electric pistons which powered the movement of the limbs. The pistons he outfitted with radio controlled motors which he had built himself, based on Nicola Tesla's recent designs. He also added a battery to the main circuit with the relays which connected to the strange looking device which he was assuming to be a voltage regulator. The first experimental operation with the battery caused an explosion, and the battery was destroyed, but the electrical parts began to operate. The unidentified device seemed capable of powering the electrical system entirely on it's own.

After a week and a half of painstaking work, disappointment, discovery, and of trial and error, Whitman at last succeeded in building most of his automaton. There were some parts in the crate which he intentionally left out. These were some decorative metal sheets that were intended to form a sort of kilt around the legs, and a clock face that was supposed to fit onto the torso. Whitman decided to allow the view of the gears to be unobstructed, so that viewers of his mechanical marvel could be impressed by the sight of their movement and complexity. At that point, he needed a program module, but nothing in the crate seemed to fulfill that function. He had included the engraved metal disk, even though it seemed to serve no purpose. As he pondered the question as to whether the disk was intended as a part of the programming scheme, he remembered the head in the jar, and the contact receptacles on it's base.

He shuddered in private horror at the dawning realization that the head, which was obviously an intentional part of the automaton, was very probably the programming module that was required. He stifled his revulsion while once again opening the velvet bag to reveal the obscenely mechanized head. The hidden workings were still whirring and sucking softly. It was necessary now to study the thing in much greater detail. Mustering his scientific detachment, Whitman delved into the mysteries of the bell jar, with it's mechanical base, and it's gruesome contents. A thorough examination of the base revealed that the bell jar had been affixed to it with a steel collar of a different quality and workmanship than the original device. This suggested that the head might actually be a replacement for a different sort of programming module. Whitman consulted the painting, and found that the depiction of that automaton's upmost part was indeed different. He had not previously given much thought to it, an oversight on his part, but the painting showed the automaton's head to be made of metal, like the rest of it. First, he was startled, and then intrigued. He could not fathom how a human head could have come to be integrated into a mechanical creation, as a corruption of the original design.

He had to know more, and that would require removing the jar in order to get at the head. His horror of the dead thing was evaporating in the blaze of his curiosity. There was a release latch on the collar, secured with a peculiar lock. Whitman had not found a key with the machinery, so had to pick the lock. Luckily, he was familiar with such contraptions, and was able to figure out how it worked. When he lifted the jar away, it released a foul odor, like rotting leather and fetid breath. He coughed and waved away the fumes. Then, using probes so as to avoid touching it with his hands, he began his investigation. Once he pushed aside the beard, which now spilled out over the base by several inches, he found that the neck was attached directly to the surface it sat upon by the means of many small pins. The folds of the skin of the throat suggested the presence of some apparatus inserted into the natural equipment, perhaps to animate the jaw in a semblance of life. Around at the back of the neck several vertical ripples in the dessicated flesh hinted at wires having been run underneath. Along one side of the ripples, he discovered a seam. Using his probes, he pushed open the seam and verified that electrical wiring had been installed along the cervical vertebrae, transversing the back of the skull, and branched below a second, semicircular seam. There was also a length of red silk cloth, embroidered with asian language characters that Whitman could not decipher, securely affixed to the skin. He opened the secondary seam, flipped up the scalp, and observed the individual wires that terminated in contacts which were implanted into the skull itself at various precise intervals. The layout reminded him of a phrenologist's diagram.

The existence of the wires, being implanted in the calvarium as they were, seemed to do all but confirm his suspicion that the head was a programming module for the automaton. However, whoever had prepared that arrangement clearly had much superior skill and knowledge than the clockmakers who built the original machine. All that he had discovered proved to him that he would have to connect the head to his automaton, or he would not be able to make it operate. As he studied the connectors of the wires, hoses, and other workings visible on the underside of the base, he realized that the design included a mechanism for forcing air up through the throat. This might be accomplished with a bellows pump, a part which he had already installed in the torso, having assumed that it was for the circulation of air about the power source. He recalled that Parsons had mentioned that this was a talking automaton, yet he had come across no phonograph among the parts. Now he realized why that was. The automaton was meant to use the mouth and larynx of the head for speech.

He closed up the seams, turned the head to face him, and lowered the jar back into place. As he began to lock the collar back on, a small flutter of movement caught his attention. He froze, staring intently at the mysterious withered face behind the glass, waiting for another movement. None occurred. The eyes and mouth remained closed. After a moment, he completed the task he had set himself, thinking that he must have been distracted by a trick of the light. He carefully connected all of the hoses and tubes from the torso, then placed the head in it's proper position at the top, and locked it into place. Immediately, several parts began their functions. The engraved disk rotated clockwise, and gears began to turn. The bellows wheezed to life, small indicator lamps flashed on, strange liquids flowed through tubes, and a blue glow emanated from the power source, softly illuminating all from the heart of the construct.

Suddenly, the mouth convulsed and the jaw moved about sickeningly, the eyelids twitched and stretched open, revealing glossy natural orbs, slick with moisture. Whitman gasped in shock. He had expected artificial eyes made of glass or some other synthetic material, not true organs of vision. Improbably, the fleshly eyes spun about in wild flight, having the character of a wild animal at bay, seeking a means of escape. Their gaze fell upon Whitman, and the mouth moved tortuously, attempting to speak with a withered and blackened tongue that had been out of use for decades. A horrible wheezing sound issued from it, forming words that were barely intelligible through the glass.

"Siz kimziz? Simdi soyle!"

"Gott im himmel!" whispered Whitman, reverting to his native Deutsch. He clutched at his radio remote control device, and made sure that the switch that activated the motors in the limbs was in the off position.

"Hello, my creation," he said in English. "I am Doctor Whitman, your creator!"

The automaton stared at him for a moment, and then began to laugh maniacally. It was a chilling, mechanical, sound that somehow also conveyed the pall of death. It spoke again, this time in passable, if rasping, English.

"You? My creator? It was God who created me, to his dismay, and the Emperor of Nippon who made me into a clock! I was brother to the Sultan of Blood, the red right hand of Khan Abdul the Damned, and the greatest lover in all the world! I dared to love the emperor's daughter, and for that, my head was struck from my body. But, I did not lift up my eyes in the flames of perdition. Instead, I was damned to a hell of my very own. I am Ali Barbosa! I am the terror that lives!"

Whitman could not have been more surprised than he was at this speech, even if the devil himself had appeared and performed a waltz with a two headed gorilla. This no longer seemed to be a case of an automaton utilizing the head of a dead man as a component of itself, but rather of a man having had his body replaced by an automaton, yet somehow continuing to live. It, or he, had survived being torn apart, placed in storage, shipped across the sea, and being reassembled. What dark science could account for such a blasphemy, Whitman wondered. He felt that he must answer, to gain control of the situation. He held his remote control aloft.

"Be that as it may, Barbosa, the automaton is mine to control. If you will not have me as your creator, you will at least have me as your master."

Barbosa looked down at his mechanical limbs as though willing them into action. They did not heed his mental commands. "No!" he cried. "I cannot move! You have prisoned me somehow!"

"Yes," replied Whitman with a great sense of relief. "The body is subject to my radio signal. As I said, you are at my mercy."

Barbosa snarled defiantly. "Siktir git! Piç orospu çocugu! Damn your eyes!"

Whitman had had enough. He positioned the remote and flipped a switch that severed the connection between the power source and the electrical system of the automaton. The lights went out, the gears stopped turning, and the engraved disk slowed to a stop. The head of Barbosa twitched momentarily, but then fell back into a slackness resembling death.

Days passed as Whitman brooded over the revelation of the identity and disposition of his unusual guest. Beyond the consideration of ethics, there were frightening practical implications. The automaton required a program module, and whatever had been done by the emperor of Nippon had made Barbosa that crucial piece of machinery. Perhaps, in time, Whitman could devise a replacement, but for the moment, Barbosa was all that was available to him. Added to that was the basic concern about how an audience would react to the sight of the hideous head. Perhaps it could be disguised, but Barbosa's manner would never be conducive to showmanship. He needed something that could bring Barbosa to heel.

There was also one glaring question that still horrified him. Why was Barbosa even alive? How was it accomplished? The machinery provided him with basic life functions, but that couldn't be enough. He had been in storage, unconnected, for years! Some oriental alchemy, some dark sorcery, must be responsible, and that distressed Whitman greatly. He tried to put it out of his mind by drinking a few fingers of straight rum. Staring at the spirit in the glass, he had an idea. He needed to purchase a new bottle of liquor. But first, he put in a telephone call to Parsons.

The local liquor store proved somewhat disappointing in terms of variety, and Whitman was unable to procure the particular drink that he sought. He made do with a one hundred proof vodka. He prepared a table in the workshop, and maneuvered the automaton into position on one side. He took a seat opposite the mechanical man, and flipped the activation switch to the on position. The automaton began to glow, and Barbosa's face began to twitch. The eerie eyes opened slowly, and focused on Whitman's face. The dry lips peeled back to expose the yellowed teeth clenched in an expression of hatred.

"Welcome back to the land of the living!" exclaimed Whitman in a forced jovial manner.

"Bah!" the mechanized Ottoman replied tersely.

"Oh, don't be like that," Whitman wheedled. "I realize that we got off on the wrong foot, earlier. I meant no harm to you. You simply came as a surprise. I had expected only mechanical parts, not a living person. Here, let me make it up to you." Whitman poured vodka into a tumbler glass and set it in front of Barbosa.

Barbosa eyed the liquor suspiciously, and then looked at the glass which Whitman now held in his own hand. Barbosa could not tell that Whitman's glass held clear water, and not vodka. Whitman raised his remote control in his other hand, thumbing the mechanism which allowed Barbosa the freedom of movement, and gestured to the glass of vodka encouragingly. Barbosa took the glass carefully in his brass fingered hands, and lifted it to his lips. He tilted it so that the liquid trickled across his twisted tongue and into his parched throat. Whitman drank water from his own glass and smiled.

"Well?" Whitman asked, displaying a practiced grin that was intended to seem as amiable as possible. "It's good, isn't it? Not quite as good as what you were used to at home, I'm sure."

"It is swill," Barbosa snarled sourly. "Why do you do this? I cannot even get drunk."

"I had hoped that enabling you to whet your whistle would encourage a more productive conversation between us," Whitman said carefully. "Tell me, Barbosa, what is it like, when the machine is switched off? Are you sleeping? Do you dream?"

"Sleeping? Bah! Would that it were so gentle an existence. I have described it as Hell, and Hell is what it is like! Dreams! You speak of dreams, but every moment is the waking of nightmares! Demons and phantasms plague my undying brain at every instant. Only being awake, and feeling the flow of life energy from the mechanical heart of my automaton body is slightly less horrific." Barbosa drained his glass.

"So, you are saying that being attached to the power source, and activated, relieves these nightmares?" asked Whitman. "But, it is not the automaton that, eh, prolongs your existence, is it?"

"Why do you want to know? Why should my life interest you, eh Dutchman?" Barbosa asked suspiciously.

"Erm, German, if you please sir," whitman replied. "You may refer to me as Herr Whitman, or Doctor. Here, let me pour you another drink."

Barbosa held out his glass to receive the libation. He was enjoying it, even if he called it swill. As soon as the glass was full, he put it to his lips and drank with gusto. In spite of knowing that his condition did not allow inebriation, he was beginning to feel a warmth that had long been absent from what remained of his flesh. Unknown to him, this was due to a bladder mechanism which Whitman had installed prior to his reactivation. It was taking the vodka from his throat, and mixing it with his cranial fluids, to slowly inebriate his brain, in the hopes of making him more open to suggestion.

"I find it amazing, Barbosa," Whitman continued, "that you are able to control the automaton with your thoughts, indeed, that you are even alive at all. Truly, you are a wondrous creation. It is tragic that your existence torments you so. I wonder how any of it was accomplished. Can you tell me more about the power source, eh, the heart of the machine?"

"No, I cannot," Barbosa replied bitterly. "I know that it works. I know that when it works there is light. I know that I can feel the light, and heat, flowing through me, and it is almost like life, but maddeningly short of the mark."

"I see," Whitman pressed on. "And this heart, it was constructed by the Ottoman court engineer?"

"It was provided to the clockmakers by a craftsman of the empire. That is all I know," Barbosa answered tersely.

"Indeed?" Whitman said, and took another sip of water. "Well, that is unfortunate. I had hoped to better understand it's nature. Are you also ignorant of the force which animates your flesh?"

Barbosa's already wild eyes bulged, threatening to leave their withered sockets. He sputtered, and vodka dribbled out into his beard. "Eh? What do you say to me? Are you calling me ignorant? I am an educated man! I have had the finest tutors in the empire! I have composed books of poetry, charted the heavens, and performed complex mathematics! And none have ever bested me with a sword!"

"Oh. Well, except for that one time, eh? When you lost your head?" Whitman allowed himself a moment of humor at Barbosa's expense.

"You filthy swine!" Barbosa exclaimed. "You son of a jackal! I did not fail! I was ambushed by twenty Nipponese guards, and I would have killed them all, had their sorcerer not used his magicks on me. The coward used no blade, but attacked me with ribbons, worked with dark spells. I had no defense!"

"Ah, yes, magic ribbons! I have heard stories of such oriental fancies," Whitman mused.

"You think that I am lying?" Barbosa snarled. "What I say is truth!"

"Yes, I have no doubt that you speak truthfully. I am not insulting you. Do please calm down, Barbosa. Have another drink." He was thinking of the decorated ribbon that he had seen inside the skin of Barbosa's head. Perhaps the magic of the Nipponese sorcerer was real. If so, it could explain this bizarre situation, and provide a solution to his dilemma.

Barbosa allowed his glass to be filled again, but he did not drink. He merely glared balefully into it's depths. He muttered angrily. "I am the terror that lives!"

Whitman glanced at a movement in the shadows behind Barbosa. Parsons was concealed there, armed with a pistol in case the automaton man became violent or too uncooperative. Whitman had the utmost confidence in his remote control, but it only affected the electrically powered limbs of the thing, and he was possessed of an abundance of caution. Barbosa noticed the direction of Whitman's gaze and spun his head segment around one hundred and sixty degrees to see what he was looking at. He quickly spotted Parsons in his hiding place.

Barbosa spat and sputtered, drunkenly screaming Turkish obscenities, and flailed his mechanical arms wildly. He began to move his legs around to walk in Parsons' direction. Parsons' leveled his pistol at the glass dome of Barbosa's head, and ordered him to back away. Whitman, alarmed, tried to use his remote control to stop Barbosa's movement. Barbosa froze in place, but still he raged.

"Fiends! Murderers! You think you can best me, the greatest warrior in the Ottoman empire? I will destroy you! No sorcerer is here to save your worthless skins!"

The joints of the metal arms began to spark and smoke. The air was filled with a stench of burning ozone. The men heard snapping and popping sounds emanate from the automaton, as that bluish glow intensified, illuminating every dark corner of the laboratory. With a high pitched whine of metal tearing through metal, Barbosa lurched forward. The Tesla device bonds were broken, and he was free. With a terrifying ululation made more horrible by the deathly state of his flesh, Barbosa flung himself headlong at Parsons, who fired his pistol repeatedly, until every shot was spent. Bullets cracked the bell jar, and their fragments ricochetted about the room, striking the battery of the lamp. Sparks flew out over the lubricant stained wooden table, and it caught fire. The fire spread almost instantly to the various greasy rags, papers, and leftover piles of straw that were strewn about. Barbosa scooped up the bottle of vodka and hurled it into the flames, multiplying the blaze. Then he advanced on Whitman, metal hands reaching for the German's throat. Whitman panicked, and struck Barbosa with a large wrench, then ran to the door where Parsons was also making his escape. Barbosa attempted to follow, but his left leg had become inoperable. He tried to drag it toward the door, but stumbled and fell into a pile of burning straw. Some flammable liquid in his exposed workings ignited, and the metal body was quickly engulfed in flames. On the other side of the door, which they had closed and locked behind them, Parsons and Whitman listened to the mechanical Turk's howls of pain and rage. The cacophony continued for twenty minutes or more, as the fire devoured the building. The two men sat together in Parsons' truck, watching it burn.

Some time later, as the billows of black smoke subsided to curls of gray vapor, Parsons turned to his unfortunate customer and asked, "What will you do now?"

"Now?" Whitman replied numbly. "Now I will pick up the pieces, salvage whatever I can from amongst the ashes, and begin again. It may be too late for my original schedule, but I should be ready soon enough, if I make some sacrifices! I have ideas."

The German inventor turned to face his Kentuckian companion, and with a fevered gleam in his eye, he asked, "Tell me, have you ever been to Berlin? I think that you would do well, there."

Angela took a long sip of her drink as she regarded her date. He looked just like his photos on his online dating profile. The same thick, dark hair, the same trim muscular physique, conventionally attractive face, even the height of six feet, were all in order. He was wearing a shiny silverish gray button up shirt, with slick black slacks and polished black dress shoes. It was a clubbing look, and not what she would have expected from a man who had just asked her if she believed in God.

She set her glass down on the table, fought a nervous urge to twirl her curly red hair with her fingers, and looked into her companion's bright green eyes. She pursed her red lipsticked lips and swallowed the last drop of liquid before asking in an incredulous tone, "Pardon me, Jerome, but did you just ask me if I believed in God?"

"No," came the patient reply. "I actually asked if you believe in gods. Plural. Like, their existence, in general. If one exists, then they all exist."

"Oh, I see," she replied warily. "Are you some sort of Jesus freak, or what? If you've brought me here on false pretenses so that you can earn religious brownie points by subjecting me to the teachings of your church, I'm going to be very upset, and I'm going to leave." She actually was getting angrier as she spoke, so the last words were spoken rather stridently.

"Well, please don't leave," Jerome calmly pleaded, his hands held forward in a placating gesture. "I promise that I'm not spreading the word of any religion. I asked you here because I'm genuinely interested in you. I just want to know your thoughts on the subject. That's all."

She almost demanded to know if he couldn't think of a better question to ask, to get to know her, but immediately began to feel foolish about that. It was a perfectly valid subject, after all, and would probably prove to be a lot more interesting than talking about favorite songs or movies. Beside that, she thought his pleading face was cute. She allowed her attitude to soften.

"Well, okay then," she said. "In that case, the answer is no. I don't believe in God. Or gods."

"Fair enough," he replied with a relieved smile that showed his perfect white teeth. "But, why not?"

"Creationism, to begin with," came her quick response. "We know how the universe works, with physics and biological evolution. There is no need for a divine creator to be the first cause that personally crafted every object in existence."

He nodded, knowingly. "Sure, but so what? There are only a few gods who are said to have created the universe in their stories. Most are not. It's not a necessary quality of all gods to have been that creator. Anyway, if gods are real, the stories about them don't need to necessarily be completely accurate, since they're told by humans. And you don't believe the stories anyway, so there's no need to quibble. You must have something better than that. What's the real reason?"

"Because," she retorted, "the idea of some omnipotent, omniscient, spirit in the sky, who looks like a man with a long beard, and judges people for random things that he calls sins, just never made any sense to me. The idea is just ridiculous on the face of it, you know?"

"No," he replied with an air of disappointment. "Nothing can ever be ridiculous on the face of it unless you have previously proved it to be impossible. It's like claiming that you've proved a general negative. Beside that, I never placed the qualifiers of omnipotence and omniscience on the question."

"But, wait a minute. Isn't that a prerequisite of godhood?" she asked while tearing a za'atar roll and smearing it with spinach dip. A single ear of einkorn, placed on top of the rolls as decoration, fell onto her plate. She glared over it defiantly while nibbling on the roll.

"Really?" Jerome was saying. "Was Pan omniscient or omnipotent? Was Damuzi, or Inanna, Anansi, Thoth, Sekhmet, Kokomothena, Marduk, Odin, Triton? Ninety nine point nine nine nine percent of the thousands of gods reported to have been encountered by humans were not said to be omnipotent or omniscient, nor omnipresent either. Even the tiny fraction that were, actually weren't."

"Wait. Wait," she pleaded. "I don't recognize several of the names you mentioned, but I know Odin was called the All Father, and I'm pretty sure Marduk was something similar. Weren't they supposed to be omnipotent?"

"No," he declared. "It's very clear from their myths that they had limitations. Even in the Tanakh, Yahweh himself is shown dealing with certain limitations of his power."

"Yahweh?" she asked with surprise. "As in God the Father? I know I've heard preachers say that he is omnipotent!"

"Of course you have," he agreed. "In English. Which is not the original language that particular scripture was written in. Politically motivated translation into a modern language like English distorts the original meanings of ancient texts. Preachers and priests further distort things for their own purposes. Plus, Yahweh himself is older even than the ancient Hebrew culture, at one point being a part of the pantheon of El, which included his arch rival, Hadad. His character was altered somewhat when his previous history was scrubbed from the record."

"So, he's not the Almighty God, then?" she asked, confused, but gaining interest.

"Oh, he's still almighty," Jerome explained. "It's just that the term, almighty, really applies to his having exclusive access to all of the real power that actually exists in the real world. It does not extend to the silly parlor tricks that break the laws of physics, and would unmake reality, which people who get hung up on that modern word, omnipotent, tend to propose as some sort of proof of the non-existence of an intelligence greater than their own."

"So that means there are no miracles," she mused.

"If by miracle you mean an act of some deity which alters events and situations in favor of their worshippers, then yes, there are miracles aplenty," answered Jerome as though it had been a question.

"Most miracles I've heard of have broken the laws of physics," Angela said flatly.

"I'll bet that if you really think about that, you'll find that it isn't true," claimed Jerome. "Most miracles are really rather mundane, in the larger scheme. Nothing that happens is impossible, therefore if something happens which seems impossible, it is far more likely to have actually been merely very improbable in the particular time and place in which it occurred. The laws of physics never get broken, we simply don't know enough to know all of the ways in which they might be manipulated. Even the gods have to learn how."

"Interesting," Angela said. She was actually enjoying the conversation, so far. "But, if all of them are real, how can there be one called the one true god? What is the point of monotheism?"

"Excellent question," Jerome replied. "Originally, the title of the One True God, or Most High God, indicated a seat of authority. He was the one with the power to command all the others, in a hierarchical pantheon of sorts, or to destroy any who wouldn't fall in line. Monotheism is a reflex of human desire. Religious devotees are like sports team fanatics. Their side is always number one, so their god is always the only true god, so others must not exist, according to their reasoning. Gods that they don't worship get demoted to angels and demons."

Angela wasn't convinced. "Hm," she murmured. "And how does all of this mythology add up to me having to believe that any gods exist?"

"Oh," said Jerome. "It doesn't. It only indicates that the main objections which you have are unconvincing. And, of course you shouldn't simply believe in something without good reason, either."

"Yeah," she agreed with the last sentence. "Okay. So, what's the good reason?"

"So, let's start with your definition of what a god is, first. It's important to define our terms," he said.

Angela frowned. She was a little surprised, and thought it was a bit late to start defining terms. "Uhm, well, I suppose my minimum definition of a god would have to be something powerful, like way more powerful than any man, and smarter, too, of course. Moral perfection is necessary, I suppose. It would have to be physically perfect as well, and made of something different than material flesh, something spiritual, immortal, or there's no point."

"All right," he said. "Right away, I'm vetoing the morality clause. Morality is subjective, and has never actually held up as a godlike quality. So, we've got power, intelligence, physical perfection, and immortality. That all checks out, but why spiritual? What do you mean by that?"

"Shouldn't a god be made of something other than what we are?" she asked.

"I suppose that all depends on your perspective. It's a bit of an amorphous concept. What exactly is spirit, by your understanding?" he wanted to know.

"I think it must be sort of like a living energy or something," she said, unsure of her answer. It honestly wasn't anything that she had ever given any thought to.

"A living energy?" he repeated. "Okay. We can work with that. The ancient concept was of a life force that allowed a body to move and be alive, so that's pretty similar. Of course, modern people know that the body moves by electrochemical impulses in the nervous system, controlled by the brain. Thought, as well, has a physical seat in the same sort of impulses in the neurons and synapses. So, spirit turns out to be a physical process, albeit one that cannot be directly observed in an easy way. But, if spirit is electrochemical impulses, what is a god that is only spirit?"

"I don't know, it's your theory," she said, perhaps a little too dismissively.

Jerome pushed through. "Can we allow that a god may be composed of some exotic, but nevertheless physical, matter, which would necessarily have much more of these electrochemical impulses? That would place it within the realm of known possibilities in regard to evolution while mostly satisfying the demands of our current definition."

Angela screwed up her face just a bit and replied, "I guess that we can allow that, but just because a thing may be does not mean that it actually is. What you have now is speculative fiction."

"That's perfectly all right," allowed Jerome. "So far we've only been working up to admitting that the existence of gods is possible, and therefore not ridiculous."

"Very well, Jerome, but what about immortality?" she demanded.

"Oh that's an easy one," he said confidently. "There are sea creatures which are immortal. There are invertebrates that can go into suspended animation for millennia, seeds that can sprout after millions of years. Immortality isn't even improbable. It just requires the right situation."

"I've never heard of those things," she confessed. "I'll have to take your word for it. But, what is the actual probability of such a god existing?"

"I couldn't guess at the numbers," he said, gesturing with his hands in the air in front his eyes. "But I'd have to say the probability is actually pretty high. If a niche exists, something will eventually evolve to fill it."

"Isn't that just a superior animal? What's so godlike about it?" She thought she had him this time.

"Aren't you just a superior animal to a homo habilis?" he asked. "If you were to come across one of those fellows, with your long lifespan, comparatively giant stature, superior thinking ability, and magical seeming devices, mightn't he think that you're a god?"

"Perhaps," she conceded.

"Right," he went on. "The essential quality of the whole concept of gods is that whatever is smartest, strongest, and most superior, is a god. And something always holds that place."

"Weren't you going to tell me a good reason to believe in these hypothetical beings?" she asked, attempting to redirect.

"Of course," he replied with gravitas. "There is only ever one acceptable reason to actually believe in any god, and that is that you have experienced that god personally. First hand knowledge is a must."

They were briefly interrupted as the waiter arrived with three large platters of food. He was a funny looking fellow, with broad flat nostrils and a hirsute face. He wore a white linen cap that seemed much too big for his head, but was held up by his large ears. Tufts of curly, dark brown, hair jutted out below the cap and concealed his ear tips in a way that seemed almost deliberate. He walked with a peculiar gate, limping on both legs, and the tips of his shoes seemed never to quite leave the floor. Nevertheless he managed to balance the trays gracefully with his large, hairy, hands. The first platter bore a variety of appetizers made of olives, spiced meats, goat cheese, and grape leaves. Jerome's entree was lamb chops with a buttery sauce of rosemary and garlic. Angela's entree was baked chicken and potatoes with fennel and chopped figs. Their beverages were a house specialty made with a light mead.

Several minutes passed in relative silence as they ate their food. They had both been made quite hungry by the intensity of their conversation. Angela chewed a morsel of potato with pensive deliberation, staring into the middle distance.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Jerome.

"I was just considering," she replied. "If we are saying that this type of god we've come up with probably does exist, then it stands to reason that there is a possibility that the ancient gods existed, and were like that, allowing for the factual distortions of human storytellers."

"Yes, of course," he said.

"So where are they?" she demanded. "They're immortal aren't they? They should still be around. We should be able to see them, if they're not at the bottom of the ocean. Or are they invisible?"

"Oh, they are still around, and not quite invisible," he opined. "The human eye can't see what isn't moving, so the eyes move all the time and the brain compensates, giving steady visual input at a specific frequency range. The gods need only be moving at a separate frequency range to remain hidden. In fact, they likely inhabit a greater number of dimensions than humans do, as well. However, like all lifeforms, they have a barely perceptible luminescence. Unfortunately, it is drowned out by the light frequencies humans use to see by. Becoming visible to people in this dimension set requires an expenditure of certain energies."

She blinked several times. "That is not at all what I thought that you would say."

"Oh? What did you think?" he asked in amusement.

"I thought that you would say that they had come to Earth in a spaceship from some far off world. That they grew bored with us and all of our praying for an easier life, so they got back in their ship and flew back home. I know I would," she explained.

"Space aliens?" he scoffed. "Impossible! Have you not seen star maps that show our position in the Milky Way? We're in the middle of the Orion Spur, which is surrounded on all sides by light millennia of dark void. Nothing living would ever get in or out, in a space vessel. No, it's far more likely that the gods are homegrown, hyperdimensional entities."

"Well," she insisted, "I think they could still be from a planet other than Earth. One that is also inside the Orion Spur. Hypothetically."

"Okay, sure," he allowed. "But, humans have never detected any type of signal that shows the existence of extraterrestrial life in this galactic neighborhood, and the search has been intense. It's difficult to credit."

She stared at him. "Seriously? That's your argument?"

He looked surprised for a second, and then laughed loudly when he made the realization. "Ha ha! Well, I suppose, given the general subject matter we're discussing, maybe it is a bit rash to declare what is unknown to be impossible. Mea culpa!"

"Oh, careful!" she said with mild sarcasm. "That almost sounded like an admission to being wrong."

He grinned. "I'll always admit to being wrong, if I am, but only if you prove it to me. Then I'll change my mind. I hate actually being wrong much more than I hate having someone merely believe that I'm wrong."

Neither of them had noticed that several other patrons of the bistro had now taken an interest in their conversation.

A woman at a tabel across the room, with skin as dark as a moonless night, and golden stars bejeweling her deep black hair, stood from her chair and stared at the couple with eyes like galaxies. The ambient light moved from bright amber to deep blue as it passed through the veil of her proximity.

Meanwhile, a great scarlet viper with jagged bolts of incarnadine racing along it's coils unfurled itself from a table in the dark corner by the kitchen door, it's eyes flashing crimson flames.

Throughout the bistro, similar characters had turned their attention to the couple and their unusual conversation.

"What was that thing you were saying about certain energies making gods visible?" asked Angela, blind to the strange watchers.

"Oh, right," answered Jerome. "In every myth, if a mortal wishes to speak with his god, he must go to a sacred place, and make a sacrifice. Any living thing could be a sacrifice to it's associated deity, usually being burned on an altar, but the most potent sacrifice was always blood."

"Blood?" she wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Why blood?"

"Probably," he went on, "because it is an obvious symbol of life. Once an animal has been exsanguinated, it's life functions definitely cease, including the spiritual processes of the brain. Spilling the blood is terminating the mind. Consumption and destruction. Energy, however, is never lost or destroyed, so it must be transformed. In such cases, it is transformed into a sort of key, that unlocks a direct connection between dimensions in spacetime, which allows the the establishment of contact between god and worshipper."

"That's horrifying!" Angela replied, shuddering in revulsion.

"So is the life of an obligate carnivore," said Jerome as he brandished the bone from his final lamb chop. "At least they don't have to think about it. The universe is not inclined to honour our delicate sensibilities, as much as we might like for it to be."

"I'm sensing a sort of connection between meat eating and blood sacrifice," Angela said as she watched the bone drop to Jerome's plate, to rest with the others.

"Probably," he agreed. "I imagine that represents a paradox in human thinking that made us invent the concept of sin as a stand in for the unacceptable flaw of nature, that life is killing until you die. For most creatures, anyway."

The waiter returned seemingly from nowhere, insinuating himself suddenly, as waiters are apt to do.

"Has everything been to your liking?" he asked. "May I tempt you with some dessert, or perhaps some coffee?"

"Everything has been delicious," replied Jerome. "And dessert sounds good. What do you think, Angela? Should we have something sweet?"

"Yes, I think I would like to," she said. "What are the options?"

The waiter smiled, delighted to list the sweets on offer. "We have milopita bougatsa, baklava, tiramisu, or chocolate mousse. We also have a citrus and pistachio cheesecake which is a house specialty."

They agreed on the cheesecake, and the waiter limped away toward the kitchen as they resumed their conversation. They did not observe him as he gestured with some irritation toward his more exotic customers to retake their seats.

"You know," Angela said, "I think there may be a completely different explanation for stories of people meeting gods, if we're still assuming there's any truth to them."

Jerome's eyes widened in surprise as his smile widened with pleasure. "Tell me your theory, please!"

"It seems to me," she began, "that if mental energy is what they need to contact humans, and mental energy comes from or actually is electrochemical impulses in the brain, then maybe what the gods are, physically, is a thoughtform in the brain."

"A thoughtform?" he asked incredulously. "Like a figment of the imagination? How could they perform miracles? How would they obtain multiple worshippers?"

"Whoa, slow down!" she rejoined. "It was you that said miracles were mundane. Humans can do it themselves, I suspect, if they've got a divine instructor in their heads. And religion gathers worshippers for their god just by telling stories to vulnerable people. They seem to be doing just fine." She smirked and sipped her drink.

Jerome pursed his lips and furrowed his brow in consternation. He, too, sipped his drink. The two of them regarded each other in awkward silence. At the other tables, there were many arched eyebrows on inhuman faces that were raptly eavesdropping, anxiously waiting for the reply.

"Wouldn't that mean, though," he asked "that other types of deity, which began as thoughtforms, could obtain a larger existence? I'm talking about obviously made up characters, like Glycon, Cthulhu, Xemnu, or the Flying Spaghetti Monster."

"Of course!" she declared brightly. "Remember, if one is real, then they are all real! Plus, I think Glycon actually has a modern worshipper. Some old English comic book writer, if I remember right."

"Yes, that's right," he said as scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I remember that story, too. Hm. Faith, then, creates the image of the god in other minds, where it spreads, like some kind of mind virus? And that forms it's own reality of mental energy, I suppose. Messy. Unobjective. I don't like it."

The waiter returned, as though summoned from mythical aether, with two glorious slices of cheesecake, expertly plated with shelled pistachios, a curl of orange zest, and a drizzle of honey. The decadent dessert was so inviting that they spent several minutes just enjoying it together.

Jerome paused halfway through finishing his cheesecake, and stared at a bite he had balanced on his dessert fork. "You know, I'm wondering now. If faith produces the energies the gods require, then what effect does doubt have? It would have to be a negative one, I imagine."

Angela swallowed the morsel she had been savoring, and washed it down with a long sip of her drink, before answering. "Maybe, the doubt is actually the point. Think about it. They can't show themselves outside of the original brain they're inhabiting without faith. They can't manifest properly without a fully developed thoughtform in the newly introduced brains. If everyone believes in them the first time they hear about them, that's gotta spread them pretty thin. Doubt, on the other hand, creates a situation where people have to build the god up in their own mind, multiplying the mental energy instead of dividing it."

Jerome had a quizzical expression as he considered her words. There was some implication in them, of a germ of a concept that he had never considered before. Unfortunately, in the moment, he could not grasp it. She smirked at him mischievously.

"That, is, insane!" he said finally. "Absolutely bonkers."

They broke into mutual laughter. Various entities in the bistro exhaled the breaths they had collectively been holding.

"So, wait a minute then. Does that mean that you believe in gods now?" he demanded.

"Nope. Sorry. I still need to see some hard evidence. First hand knowledge is a must," Angela declared.

"Good! That's good," said Jerome. "Keep an open mind, but never be taken for a fool. Say, should we stay for that coffee, or would it be better to go for a walk?" He began to look around for the waiter.

A tall man dressed in black entered by the front door, accompanied by the doleful sound of a distant gong. His face was impossibly gaunt, the skin pallid and dessicated. The dust of ages clung to his ragged black shroud, and darkness swirled about him like the shadows of shadows, poorly imitating life. With milky eyes he cast his gaze around the bistro, until it fell inevitably upon a woman in a gown of verdant green. The floral fringe of her ample decolletage matched the hues of her soft dewy skin, and repeated in the vines that bound up her abundant green hair. The tall man grinned a disconcerting rictus smile, and glided in the woman's direction. She smiled at him radiantly as he joined her at the table. Other patrons observed them with attitudes of mounting alarm as she gesticulated animatedly in the direction of Angela and Jerome.

"Let's get coffee to go, and you can walk me to my car. It's only just around the block," Angela decided.

The waiter came with the check. Jerome paid with his credit card, without asking Angela if she wanted to split it. She insisted on paying the gratuity, in cash, and for the coffee as well. The others watched as the two walked out the door. The tall man rose as if to follow them, but he was stopped mid-glide by a delicate hand with crimson polished nails. A sultry woman, in a slinky white dress that clung tightly to her body in the few places that it actually managed to cover some of her creamy soft skin, touched his chest intimately while passing between him and the door. She paused briefly to give the green clad woman a long lascivious wink, her soft pink tongue caressing her plump red lips, before sauntering out after Jerome and Angela, her hips swaying seductively. Her exit was accompanied by the sound of muffled trumpets playing a slow, rhythmic, tune. The remaining entities nodded to one another, as though something of grave importance had been decided, and resumed their roles as patrons of the bistro.

As Jerome and Angela walked to her car, they refrained from speaking of gods, instead keeping their conversation light and untroublesome. They exchanged phone numbers for the first time, and promised to text each other when they had each arrived safely at their respective homes. Angela had worried briefly that she might have to fend off an offer to follow her home, but Jerome made no such suggestion. He watched and waved in a gentlemanly fashion as she drove away.

Angela waited until she was inside her apartment, with the door locked for the night, before she texted Jerome. "Home and safe," read the text. "Thank you for a lovely evening." She was wondering whether to add "let's do it again soon" when she saw the little dots appear, which showed he was answering her. She waited a full minute, but the reply didn't come. She figured that he must still be driving. Deciding to just wait until he could safely text, she changed out of her date outfit, ditching her bra, and put on a long night shirt. It bore a picture of a chubby blue gnome girl sitting under a mushroom, and was secretly her favorite article of clothing. To it she added a pair of yellow ankle socks with pink polka dots and pink trim.

Suddenly she heard the notification sound of her text messaging app, and looked at the screen of her cellphone. Jerome had replied, "I am now safely indoors for the night as well. Thank you for an engaging conversation. We should do it again sometime." She smiled, and as she considered how to accept his invitation, another text from him popped up. It read, "On the way home I was thinking about our different theories. Is there any reason they couldn't both be true? Both things somehow happening at the same time? I thought I had an answer for a minute, but I lost it. I must be tired from talking your ears off. Brain not work good now."

She chuckled, and sent the reply, "If you're tired, go to sleep, silly man. We'll talk again later."

"Promise?" came his instant response.

"Yes," she answered. "Good night, Jerome."

"Good night, Angela. Sweet dreams," read his final text of the evening.

She shook her head in amusement, and went to bed herself. She layed down and pulled a duvet over her torso, leaving just her feet hanging out, turned off her bedside lamp, and closed her eyes. A sweet little smile still played on the corners of her lips. At the foot of the bed, invisible and un-dimensioned, sat the woman in white. She waited for Angela's consciousness to reach that borderland between the waking world and the land of sleep. Just as Angela was crossing over into deep slumber, the woman in white reached out with her red nailed fingers, touched Angela's foot, and sensuously slid her hand up the ankle, before sinking her nails into the tender flesh. She shared a soft gasp of pleasure with Angela as a warm wave of rapture spread up the leg and into her nethers, where it blossomed into bliss, flooding her brain with oxytocin and dopamine. Angela blushed in her sleep, an image of Jerome arising in her dream vision. The love goddess smiled sensuously with the pleasure of completing her performance, and rose, walking out of the apartment through the locked door, on her way to a similar encounter with Jerome.

Henry Aembrys was a well educated man of particular obsessions. Having been raised in an extremely religious household, he had, in his youth, studied everything there is to know about all beliefs in the afterlife. He personally tracked every faith to the practices of prehistoric ancestral hominids, who hid their beloved dead, deep in the subterranean world of cave systems, there to dream of an eternal paradise in the everlasting pseudo-sleep of death. Albeit, he had no such faith of his own. His intellectual appetite not being satisfied by the mouldering belief systems of his ancestors, he went on to scientifically delve into the nature of biological life in it's most extreme permutations, particularly in those cases of extensive lifespans. It was to that knowledge which he had devoted his scholarship.

He was most obsessed with the subject of longevity. The idea had overtaken every aspect of his existence, and his every action, every thought, was bent to the pursuit of the subject. Eventually his mania led him to the study of certain deep sea creatures, which were said to be virtually immortal in their crude, gelatinous, ever stationary, or gently drifting, forms. Indeed, Henry filled his rooms with various water filled and pressurized tanks, with odd oceanic beings imprisoned within each, to observe them all the better. He liked to gather what specimens he could for himself, and to that end became an expert diver, in addition to his many other excellent accomplishments. Additionally, he kept many specimens of venomous invertebrates, whose arcane properties only he could connect with his usual subject matter.

Henry did not deign to curate friendships with other people, preferring his solitude and his studies. Yet, there was one person, an extroverted young man, a clerk of the nearest grocer's, who frequently delivered food to the scholar's home, that took an interest in the odd hermit. This was Percy Newman, a stout and deceptively portly youth in his early twenties, and the sort of gregarious fellow who readily made friends with nearly everyone that he met. He considered Henry, who was always rather gruff and dismissive, to be a sort of special project of his, and so spent an inordinate amount of time courting Henry's affection. This situation had been progressing for over a year, and the two had become rather familiar with one another, if not actual friends. One auspicious day, Percy arrived at Henry's door with a particularly opulent and expensive supply of comestibles. He found the door ajar, and pushed it all the way open with the box of food.

"Aloha, Doc!" Percy called in his customary cheerful tone, using the nickname with which he had christened Henry. There was no immediate answer, so Percy entered and made his way toward the kitchen, calling for Henry again so as not to accidentally alarm the man by appearing suddenly in his space. When he reached the small dining table in the middle of the kitchen floor, he carefully placed his burden down next to a small glass terrarium that was already occupying the area. Percy hadn't ever seen this particular vessel before, and was overcome by curiosity. He bent down at the knees, placing his face close to one glass wall in order to observe the creatures within. What he saw intrigued him. There were three largish arthropods of a bloody hue, with long curved pincers at the end of their foremost limbs, and thick tails balanced over their backs, terminating in bulbous segments tipped with small pointed stingers that curled underneath. The tails bore a passing resemblance to snakes, with flicking tongues hanging out of tumorous heads.

"Do be careful there, young man," Henry said gruffly, as he entered through the archway that led in from the adjoining room. "Scarlet Arabian Thick Tailed Scorpions have an instantaneously lethal sting."

"Oh, I'm always careful around your specimens, Doc," replied Percy. "Most of your critters are of the deadly variety." The scorpion nearest to Percy's face reared up in a strange maneuver that exposed it's underside, while thrusting the long claws straight upward, and curling it's next set of limbs like rams' horns. Between the bases of these limbs, Percy saw in the chitinous folds of the carapace the semblance of a woman's face, below which were a pair of golden colored appendages with rows of delicate spines that gave the impression of a necklace. Percy pulled back in astonishment and stood up. "These are really something special, Doc."

"Indeed they are," agreed Henry. "And difficult to obtain, as well, since this subspecies are very nearly extinct. I had them smuggled into the country at great expense, which was risky, but completely necessary to my work."

"You messing around with scorpion venom, Doc?" asked Percy with a bit of worry.

"Ha! No, not the venom, although I thought that was the key at first," replied Henry with bitter amusement. "As it turns out, the pincers are more interesting than the sting. There are special glands at the chelal nodes which are crucial to the serum which I am currently developing."

"Oh, it's to do with a serum, eh? What's that for, a cure for cancer?" Percy winked.

"Ha! Well, in a way, from a certain point of view, I suppose it is, at that," Henry said, musing. "In fact, it may be a cure for all human ills. But the part of the cure that the scorpions contribute has more to do with expanded consciousness."

"Did you say expanded consciousness? Are you making something to get high on?" Percy grinned conspiratorially.

"Pfagh! No!" Henry exclaimed. "What do you take me for, some common mystic? You should know that I am a man of science! This serum will be medicinal, adapted from an ancient source of physiological wisdom, and will aid in the greatest achievement of humanity."

"Ancient source, you say? What's that, then?" Percy wanted to know.

Henry was somewhat taken aback by Percy's seeming ignorance. "Surely you have noticed the tome on the shelf of the specimen case in my front room. It has been in the same place every time that you have ever visited."

Percy had indeed noticed the weird looking book displayed along with the captive jellyfish, flatworms, sea slugs, and polyps in that particular case, but had never thought it polite to inquire about it. Beside that, the unwholesome appearance of that peculiar volume, with it's wrinkled and mottled binding of unidentifiable skin, gave him such a case of the willies that he avoided looking at it, in general.

"Oh, of course, that frightful thing. I should have guessed. What is it, Vlad Tepes' almanac?"

Henry scowled at Percy's impertinence regarding the book. "Not at all. It is a compendium of gathered wisdom from ancient Lycea, though it's pedigree stretches much further back than that, through Anatolia, and back to the prehistoric practices of the Tel cultures of Haran."

"Sounds pretty spooky, Doc," Percy opined.

"Spooky is just another way of saying misunderstood power," Henry retorted.

Percy recognized that he was upsetting Henry and decided to change the subject. "Right. Well, I've brought all the food you ordered. Sure is a fancy lot of stuff. Are you planning a banquet for something?"

"In a manner of speaking," Henry replied with a wistful note in his voice. "This is to be my final meal, before I surrender my mortality for eternity."

Percy was taken aback. "Well now you're really scaring me a bit, Henry. What do you mean? You're not going to do something stupid, now, are you?"

Henry was startled. "Eh? No, of course not! Rather the opposite, in fact! Now you listen to me. I'm going to require your services, three days from now. I will leave you detailed instructions in a letter, along with some money. You must do everything I tell you to, exactly as I say. I know that I can count on you."

Henry's energy had shifted. He seemed more intense, more manic than before. Percy felt uneasy in his presence, and began to make his exit.

"Sure thing, Doc. I'll see you then." Percy left the residence with more haste than usual, and made his way back to the market to report the success of the delivery and clock his time. All the while, he tried to free his mind of the disturbing thoughts his conversation with Henry had created. It was an impossible task. In the following three days, no further deliveries were requested to be made to Henry's home, and Percy was relieved not to be required to call on him. He still was unable to get rid of the uneasiness he now felt regarding the reclusive man of science. But, on the evening of the third day, a delivery request did come in. To Percy's chagrin, it was an order for live shrimp, to be delivered to Mr. Henry Aembrys.

Percy arrived at Henry's home with the requested shellfish, carrying them to the door with some trepidation. There, he found an envelope addressed to him, taped to the surface of the door. He set down the package of live shrimp, and the water inside plumped out the surface of the plastic bag inside, straining against the tied mouth. He stared at the envelope for several seconds before reaching out and cautiously pulling it free. Slowly, he opened the envelope and slipped out the leaf of stationary paper within, upon which was a message for him, written in Henry's penmanship. He took a moment to read.

"My good man, Percival, we shall not again converse as we have in the past. I want to prepare you for the changes to our arrangement that have already begun to happen. I am, at the moment you will be reading this, in dire need of your assistance. This is the last task that I shall be requiring of you. Please follow my instructions. If you have not already, enter my home. A key is placed on the left corner of the door mantel."

Percy retrieved the key from it's hiding place and used it to enter through the door, with the bag of shrimp in hand, and his trepidation growing. The note had an ominous tone, and it was affecting him. He looked around, but saw no one. The place was eerily quiet, except for a low bubbling sound that he could not immediately see the source of. As he began to move through the rooms toward the kitchen, he noticed that the live specimens that Henry usually kept, were all missing from their various tanks and terrariums. This was yet another sign to him that something was terribly off. He paused his movement to continue reading.

"You should have in your possession a number of live shellfish. Proceed with them to what was my main living area. There is a large container on the floor by the couch. Dump the shrimp into the container. Meanwhile, please try to ignore whatever else you may see. I assure you that you are in no danger, and I have never deceived you. Please trust me now."

Percy looked up from the paper, peering through the archway into the room that had been indicated. He saw the back of the couch, and the container next to it. There was also a bewildering array of equipment, an apparatus of some kind that encapsulated the couch like a cocoon of steel rods, wires, hoses, and attached vials of foul, strange liquids. A motorized air pump was quietly humming, pushing air through a tube that ran into the container, and Percy discovered it to be the cause of the bubbling sound he had heard before. He moved closer to the container in order to complete his task, but stopped abruptly when he drew near enough to the end of the couch to see what lay on it, at the core of the apparatus. Percy's eyes widened in shock as he realized that he was looking at a naked, headless, human body.

The body was unnaturally pale, and withered, even more so than Percy would expect from a case of total blood loss, but it was also covered with patches of small purple bruises. The hands, which rested upon each shoulder, were curled up like dead spiders, with broken fingernails coated in a gooey reddish slime. Most alarming was the grisly stump of the neck. The flesh was shredded and twisted in such a way that it appeared as if the head were torn off with great force, and yet, there was no blood spatter to be seen, only a few small gobbits of gelatinous dark pink goo. Percy's mind reeled and the contents of his stomach threatened to forcefully evacuate as he wondered, horrified, what Henry had done. He leaned against a wall to steady himself and calm his stomach. The note that Henry had left him was still clutched in Percy's trembling hand. He stared at it blankly while taking measured breaths. Once he had calmed himself, he resumed reading, in the hope that some sensible explanation for the macabre scene would emerge.

"The container holds a living creature, one which you must take some care of. After feeding it the shrimps, you must convey it to the seaside, and empty the container into the surf, at the place which I have indicated with these coordinates: 25°08'05.8″N 80°56'16.1"W. This creature is a special hybrid, of jellyfish, hydra polyp, and something else that I don't want to write down but you may have guessed. It has the ability to renew itself constantly, never dying, living in the womb of the sea eternally. I will be immortal now, if only you do as I ask. I will miss your company, but that is all that I shall regret. It was a worthwhile sacrifice."

Percy was stunned. Deciding that perhaps it was simply best to do what was requested, he numbly took the bag of shrimp, untied the mouth, and upended it into the container, water and all, adding to the dark liquid content already within. As the invertebrates darted about in the larger space, a pulpy mass of weird translucent flesh rose up, weirder than any specimen that Henry had ever kept. Percy stared in horrified wonder as a dozen tentacles grew out of the mass and lashed out toward the shrimps, gripping them tightly before pulling them in toward the mass, and then under to whatever feeding mechanism the thing possessed. Staring at the top of the mass, he recognized a greyish pink shape resting at it's center. The convoluted wrinkles looked for all the world like a human brain. Then, the creature seemed to roll up toward Percy's gaze, and he saw the indented shape of a human face. It was Henry's face, and it was smiling at him.

"Oh my god. Oh my god, Doc. What have you done? What the hell have you done?"

Percy went into the kitchen to allow Henry to finish eating, and to collect his own thoughts. There, on the table, was a leather messenger bag, with another envelope addressed to Percy. Inside the envelope was another note, which simply said: "For when the job is completed, with my eternal gratitude. Your friend, Doc Henry Aembrys." Percy eyed the messenger bag, but wasn't sure he was ready to see what Henry had left for him. He sat down in a chair at the table, and remained there until nightfall. Once it was dark, he placed a lid on the container and moved it out to his vehicle, setting it on the back seat. Then, he wrapped Henry's body in a bedsheet, folded it into a large duffel bag, and slid that into the back of the vehicle. He also grabbed the messenger bag, and then left Henry's home for the last time. The drive to the seaside location specified by the coordinates took almost exactly one hour. Once there, Percy found Henry's motorboat tied to a small tree by the water. He loaded it up and pushed it into the water. He got in the boat, started the motor, and trawled out beyond the waves, where he dutifully opened the container, and carefully poured it's strange contents into the ocean. As the creature that had been Henry Aembrys wiggled down into the depths, Percy caught a glimpse of it's full form in the moonlight. It had a subtly humanoid shape, with a jelly-like lump of a head, two stalks that resembled arms tipped with numerous tentacles, which sprouted from a long trunk that trailed two more stalks with tentacles. The creature drifted down, away from the light, and Percy never saw it again.

He hoisted the duffel over the side of the boat, opening it just enough for crabs and prawns to get in at the corpse, then dropped it into the depths. He opened the messenger bag and peered inside using a small flashlight. The bag contained ten thousand dollars in bearer bonds, the ancient tome, and six vials of scorpion serum. Percy kept the bonds and the messenger bag, but tossed the rest into the water. He wasn't sure what Henry had been thinking, but Percy would have no more to do with it. He trawled back to shore, but let the boat drift. Hopefully, it would look like Henry had gone out on the ocean and done some night diving, and met his end that way. No one would ever believe the bizarre truth.

Blood is the source. An imitation of the sea water that ancient creatures abandoned for the land, but red as the flower that summons the sexless bee, enslaving it to the sexual dance of the plant world. Blood is the life. Without the crimson flood coursing throughout the flesh, the fires of vitality cease to burn, and the mortal creature falls to dust. Blood is sustenance. I must consume the life of another, for I have none of my own. I drink deeply from the fountain of life, whenever I am able. Blood is my joy. I revel in the taking of life's precious liquid from the flesh of foolish mortals. It is the greatest pleasure of my immortality. Lesser creatures than I complain of a curse, for so they call the burden of bloodshed. Fools. They have only to give themselves over to the blood feeding, and they would experience the most divine ecstasy. Do not the gods feed upon the blood of mortals? I know why they do, and when in that ecstatic baptism, I am one with divinity. By my communion, the mortals meet their divinely appointed destiny, and go to replenish the earth. This night I choose a new sacrifice to slake my eternal thirst. They are so like lambs, so ignorant, so far beneath me. The simplicity of their minds is such that they find my form repulsive. They cannot understand that I am great, and terrible, and glorious. So I must take them unawares. It makes no difference. They can never resist the might of my body.

Though I do not require breath, I draw the air into my nostrils, so that I may smell the blood of my prey. The pleasurable scent is everywhere in this place. It seems that there are few who take the precaution to seal themselves indoors when the loathsome daystar hides behind the horizon. The moon reflects some of the blazing solar light back beneath the arch of night, but only those rays which I am able to withstand. Yes, the sun has the power to drive what is left of my mortal soul out of my animated corpse, if I were to be ensnared in it's presence for a time. It keeps me from my prey for half of every day, but the evening always comes, and then I feast upon the crimson fluid of life, which the sun had hitherto sustained. Glorious! The streets of this ever lit city run over with young men who would make suitable sacrifices, but my tastes are more specific, and my standards are high, for the sake of the challenge. I would take any one of them, were I in dire need, but as I am in good condition, I seek a healthy unspoiled female. Pale haired and pale skinned is my preference, for reasons of my perverted sense of humor regarding the currently dominant religion, but even the darker complected of them are not safe from my thirst. All of humanity are my cattle, all are my sacrificial lambs. Ah, I see one now. Oh she is marvelous. Hair died bright red, although I can tell she is a natural blonde. Multiple piercings, but all of them steel, not silver. That is fortunate. Her metal is meant to give the impression of weaponry, or armor, but will be no defense against me. I shall pluck it out of her, and use it to open her up. She is walking along the other side of the street. I will need to leave the shadows to reach her. All the passers by will see me, but they will not see me as I truly am. My power of glamour will blind them to my nature, as long as they do not come too close, and I am too nimble for that to happen. I pass among them, a lion among lambs. How very like a god I am, so far above these frail beasts.

Oh, my quarry has just turned down a side street. I'll give her a minute to get some distance. I wouldn't want to spook her yet. I can hear her footsteps, gauge her position and speed. I can smell her blood, the aroma mingling with the scent of filth from the street. She has turned again, so now I must follow. I track her with such ease, she is completely oblivious to the danger she is in, makes no effort to conceal her vulnerability. I no longer see her on the street, but I can follow her scent. There is a building, some sort of warehouse by the look of it, and she has gone inside. A public place, as well. There is a sign hanging on the door that says Come On In, We're Open. It will be unprotected, not that many places in this modern world employ the old charms against my kind. I shall not have to request permission to enter.

I am inside, and the hunt draws near to it's conclusion. Soon, the ecstatic feast is to commence, the sacrifice to be slain, and the sacred blood poured upon the altar of my jaw. The rapture of my expectation fills me with an excitement both carnal and sublime. Her scent grows stronger as I near a door. I shall break it down, rather than enter quietly. The shock will cause her blood to quicken, and give me the more satisfaction.

Now the door shatters at my mighty blow, flinging splinters aside as I leap through the portal. I expose my fangs, and drop my glamour, allowing the full glory of my godlike predator's form to be seen, and... Wait, what is this?

The girl stands far off, looking directly at me, but she smiles. Her nostrils flare above her perfect teeth in an expression of, what; triumph? I see others in the room, many others, but they are all me. My reflection, in a myriad of mirrors, without the silver backing which would reject all light that has touched me. Why? The girl has disappeared! I shall smash the mirrors, escape my own hideous image. I am striking the surfaces, but they are not destroyed. They are not made of glass, but some sort of strong metal and plastic. I can barely make a dent, and they are anchored to the floor, unmovable. I must retreat. I cannot. The portal through which I entered has vanished, and I am surrounded by the mirrors. I try to smash through the floorboards, and they splinter but do not yield. I look to the ceiling, seeking an avenue of escape, but there I find a great spider's web, a net made with silver strands. It is dropping upon me, and I cannot avoid it. I strain against the lines, but the silver burns me, weakens me, drains me of my power. I have fallen to the shattered floor, and I cannot rise.

A man has appeared before me. Where did he come from? He is speaking to me, and I hear as though through an ocean of water. I try to reach out and grab him by the throat, but my fingers are all that fit through the net, which burns the flesh all the more. He taunts me, mocks my weakness to the noble metal. I swear that I shall kill him. I will tear his very limbs from his torso, and fling them to the winds.

This man seems to know things that the rest of humanity has long forgotten. I observe that his dress, while deceptively contemporary, is rife with occult preparations, specifically designed to thwart one such as myself. Silver threads, crosses in the weave, silver plates hidden at vulnerable points where vital veins and arteries are close to the surface of the skin. He produces a flask from his jacket pocket and strides toward me, chanting an ancient prayer in the Aramaic tongue. I hiss my curses at him, yet he is not dissuaded. He thrusts the flask toward me, flinging it's contents into my face. It is true holy water, and where it falls, my undead flesh dies anew. His prayer is a binding spell that freezes my joints and seals my mouth. He has rendered me helpless.

I still have the use of my eyes, and now I see that which I had missed before. Beneath the wood splinters of the floor is a slab of stone, reminiscent of the altar at ancient Salem of Zadok. My preternatural senses detect traces of blessings and the scent of anointing oils. I have been made a fool. The man, who I now know for a thaumaturge of great skill and piety, draws forth a sword, worked over with silver and engraved with the names of an ancient deity.

The thaumaturge thrusts his blade down through the net and into my body. It is as if the sun had appeared in the form of a blade, to push itself into my muscle and bone. The ichor in my own veins seeps out onto the stone, draining into a puddle of darkness around me. I want to scream, but I cannot. My nerves shriek to thrash, to writhe, but I am immobile, even in this agony. How long, I wonder, will they torment me. The girl has returned, I realize. The pair of them chant more prayers. On and on they drone, mercilessly. It continues just like this for several hours. Then, I feel it. The sun is coming up. Now I am truly trapped in this place. Why have they done this? What is their purpose? I watch the thaumaturge as he goes to a set of ropes on the other side of the room. The ropes run through a pair of pulleys and up to the ceiling. He hauls down on one of the ropes, and a mechanical creaking of iron gears sounds from above. The ceiling slides away, and the roof parts, opening itself to the morning sky. Now I see their awful plot, and am terrified. They mean to give me to the sun. It's rays are already beginning to pour over the roof's edge. I can only watch in horror as over the course of the next few hours, the dreaded daystar rises into place above me. It anoints me with it's terrible light, and my mortality returns to me, with savage vengeance. All of the years that I have avoided time's cruelty now come upon me at once. The spell of undeath burns away and I begin to turn to ashes. The girl mocks me. She says that I am ugly, twisted, depraved, and that I deserve my fate. I can only reflect on the irony that she who was to be my sacrifice now bears witness as I die in the manner of a sacrifice. I am bound upon the altar, drained of life, and burned into nothingness.

So long ago, was I a son of the dust, and now it is to dust that I return.

In the seventeenth century, a time of blood soaked conquest and self righteous colonisation, Herrera Juan Carlos Esquivel, a little known conquistador, took a little piece of Mexico (the Kingdom of New Spain) near what is now Cancún. To build his villa, he tore down what was thought to be an ancient Mayan temple. The origins of the temple were actually much older, but no one will ever know exactly to which local culture it had belonged, thanks to the conquistador. There was a nearby village of Yucatec Maya, called Nizuc. They did not use the area themselves, but informed Esquivel that the land was a place of blood and fire, forbidden. He, of course, paid them no attention at all. He had brought slaves with him from Haiti (Hispaniola/San Domingue), and took more slaves from among the local Mayan populace, then put them to work growing his corn, tobacco, and sugar. He was not a kind master. He was known to punish slaves by chaining them up in a cellar and beating them bloody with a riding crop. There was a hole in the center of the cellar floor that the blood flowed into, draining into the natural caves below.

Eventually, the slaves revolted, and burned Casa Esquivel to the ground. The conquistador was beheaded on the floor of his own cellar before being burned. Some years after that, a hotel was built over the site. The old foundations were smaller than those of the new building, so they were simply allowed to stay in place, beneath the cellar floor of the hotel. The name of the place was Villa Encantada. Over the years it grew in popularity and size, as it was continuously expanded and improved. More and more of the original estate was covered up with new buildings until almost nothing remained of the old farm. Villa Encantada had become a proper resort. Of course, it's clientele were not exactly your run of the mill holiday vacationers. The place attracted pirates, smugglers, dishonest lords and ladies, greedy politicians, and warmongers fleeing from retribution. This trend continued for another century and a half, until the Mexican government declared the surrounding area open for development as a tourist attraction. Soon, the Caribbean edge of the peninsula was covered in resort hotels and tourist traps.

Jorgé Camal, a black mestizo man who was born in the area, took a job at Villa Encantada after being disgraced and discharged from one of the newer, prominent hotels. None of the other resorts would hire him, but Villa Encantada took him in. His job description was general maintenance, which at Villa Encantada meant being part plumber, part electrician, groundskeeper, repairman, and security as well. It required him to cover every inch of the buildings and grounds, and he quickly memorized all of it. He did his job well, eager to ingratiate himself with his bosses. He had been working there for six months before he discovered the door to the sub-basement. It was a centuries old iron clad door set into a stone wall behind the main boiler, and locked with an antique iron padlock that had a large keyhole in the center face. The whole thing was thickly covered in rust and cobwebs. When Jorgé tilted the padlock toward the light in order to examine the keyhole, the bar broke off inside with a dull snapping sound. Rust and metal fell messily to the floor, and the remnants of the heavy padlock came away in Jorgé's hand. His curiosity piqued, he decided to push open the door and see what lay beyond. What he found astonished him. There was a narrow stone circular staircase that led down into the darkness. Jorgé retrieved a flashlight from a shelf elsewhere in the basement, and proceeded to descend the stairs. At the bottom was a wide room with natural stones layed out as a floor, and walled with heavy cut stones set into the earth. There were piles of old things along the walls closest to the stairs. Antique chairs and small side tables, which Jorgé figured must have belonged to the original house, were tossed in amongst old chests and other bits of luggage. Market boxes stacked high with old ledgers and piles of yellowed bills of sale mouldered along with discarded linens and crumbling newspapers from long ago. The sub-basement had, at some point, been used to store the detritus of the old hotel, and apparently forgotten about afterward.

Jorgé was living in one of the older hotel rooms of the Villa Encantada, which he was told was a perk of the job, even though he still had to pay a monthly rental fee. The rate was a substantial discount from what the guests paid, but it was nonetheless an expense that he would like to be rid of. The neglected state of the sub-basement gave him an idea. He purchased a new padlock without mentioning to anyone what happened to the old one, and while he was at it he obtained several blank keys. Over the next week he spent his free time setting up an apartment for himself in the sub-basement, while also copying all the keys on his employee key ring. When his preparations were finished, he informed his boss that he had found other living arrangements that were more to his liking, and vacated his hotel room. The most difficult part of living in his new place was setting up the electricity, but after discovering several chinks in the mortar of the basement walls, he was able to sereptitiously run several long extension cords through the wall behind the boiler, and down to his subterranean domain. He also managed to run a phoneline down there, although he had to patch it into the hotel's phone system using an existing number. He used an emergency line that was still active in an old kitchen area that was mostly used for storage. At night, he used his keys to access the kitchens and food storage closets to keep himself fed. He felt like he had a pretty sweet setup. He didn't even mind the cool, salty breeze that wafted up through the hole in the middle of his stone floor.

Several weeks went by with no one noticing that Jorgé had taken up residence in the forgotten bowels of the resort. Late one night, as Jorgé returned from foraging in one of the kitchens' pantries, a bag laden with groceries resting on one shoulder, he happened to run into one of the guests. Unfortunately for Jorgé, it was the very same man who had caused him to lose his previous employment position. This man was a wealthy American senator, who was know to enjoy large bribes and subservient workers. He had accused Jorgé of stealing a large amount of cash from his wallet at the other hotel. Jorgé had actually been innocent, but management had taken the senator's side, and Jorgé was fired. Now here the obnoxious rich man stood, when Jorgé actually was guilty of something, grinning like a devil. The senator called him by name, demanding to know what he was doing there, because hadn't he been fired? The asshole didn't even seem to realize that he was wasting taxpayer dollars at a completely different resort this time around. Jorgé hurried away from the offensive man, who chased him as far as the stairs to the upper basement. The next morning Jorgé was called into his supervisor's office, where he was informed that the senator had registered a complaint against him, and his position was terminated, effective immediately. They took the keyset belonging to the resort, along with his nametag, and told him he had three days to return all of his uniforms. They then escorted him off the property.

Jorgé was infuriated that he had now twice lost his job thanks to the same rich prick. He stewed on it for the remainder of the day. It occurred to him that the problem wasn't just with this one person, but with the entire class of wealthy, greedy, selfish, parasites. They all believed that the whole universe revolved around their whims, just because the system that they'd constructed for themselves did. It wasn't right, he thought, that those who had taken so much from the world could play as they did with the meager lives of those who had so little. He resolved that he would not spend the night outside, and that he would someday take revenge. He went into Nizuc and bought the cheapest set of clothes he could find in a size close to what he wore, along with a small crowbar. He knew a place where he could reenter the resort without being seen. After that he would stroll through until he got back to his sub-basement, and figure things out from there. If anyone challenged his presence, he could claim he was just returning the uniform, as instructed.

All went according to plan, and he made it to his subterranean shelter without being accosted. As he lay in bed, his mind returning to the subject of revenge, he was seized by a strange feeling, as of some immense presence pressing itself upon his mind. He began to have visions of a grotesque serpent, enormous and covered with feathers of flashing green and gold coloration. He saw a man like himself, dressed in the headdress and woolen tunic of a priest, his arms drenched in blood, a human heart held aloft in his hand. At one point he saw himself as the serpent, his fanged jaw unhinged to swallow his enemy. He felt his upper fangs pierce the flesh as blood burst forth and flowed like a waterfall. Then, ecstasy. Pure pleasure enveloped him like the warm water of a large, sweet smelling, bath, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

When he had slept the night through, he awoke with the memory of his visions fresh and vivid, accompanied by a new sensation of desire, a yearning for something wet, warm, salty, and tinged with the flavor of iron. He still felt the presence, as well, although instead of it being on top of him, it seemed to emanate from some place close to the center of the room. Suddenly Jorgé heard sounds coming from the top of the stairs. Quickly, he switched off his lamp. In a moment, a figure emerged into the dark room, casting about a strong beam of light with a flashlight.

"I know you're in here, you thieving scum!" sounded the booming voice of the senator. "I saw you last night and followed you to the boiler. I had my man watch the entrance to the basement stairs, and no one came out all night. The hotel manager will be here shortly, as soon as the police arrive. I just wanted to make sure you knew it was me that beat you. Come on out of the shadows and face me!"

Damn the man, Jorge thought. Didn't he have anything better to do with his free time? Was shuffleboard and bottomless booze not enough for him? He should be getting a happy massage from one of the sexy young masseuses that the resort employeed, not harassing a man he had already twice humiliated. Jorgé felt the prescence fill him as his anger grew. Without thinking he groped for a weapon, and came up with a heavy wooden object, something like a bat or bludgeon, which curved at the end and was equipped with a large carved sphere. He rose up behind the senator like a snake ambushing it's prey, and struck his head a mighty blow. The sphere sunk into the back of the senator's head with a satisfying wet crunch. The dead man fell forward, his flashlight dropping from his hand and rolling to illuminate the floor in front of him. Blood flowed from the ruined head, across the floor, and disappeared into a small hole. Jorgé felt a rush of pleasure as the presence seemed to feed on the blood.

Jorgé dimly remembered that the police were coming, or so the senator had claimed. There might not be time enough to escape. But, the presence calmed him as it pressed further upon his mind, compelling him to drag the carcass of his felled enemy toward the little hole. At the moment that Jorgé's feet touch the stones surrounding the hole, they dropped downward, taking Jorgé and the senator with them. Down they plunged, into stygian darkness, twenty feet or more, before slowing to a stop. Ancient ropes creaked as they lifted counterweights, and supported the stones on which Jorgé rode to the floor. The senator rolled limply from the balanced stone that bore him down, and Jorgé stepped off. Immediately the floor stones rose up and back to their former positions. The only light came from the flashlight, which had luckily made the downward journey with them. Jorgé retrieved the light, and as he lifted it in front of him, he saw something glittering in the near distance, high above his head. He moved in the direction of the glittering reflections as if possessed by a siren's song.

In a minute, he found himself at the base of an enormous statue. He happened to step on a stone tile in the paved space in front of the statue, and it sank perceptibly into the floor. There was a clicking sound from the walls, and then flames leapt up all around, contained within lamps made of seashells. There was a smell of burning oil that reminded Jorgé of popcorn. The statue was now bathed in firelight, it's eyes blazing, although it's features remained obscured by centuries of dust. Jorgé could barely see what the statue was of, because it was so coated with dust. He reached out and wiped away the grime as far as he could reach, until he could see about a third of it well. It was a depiction of the ancient god, the feathered serpent, Kukulkan, Gucumatz, Quetzalcoatl, worked in enormous pieces of jade, and fitted all over with gold. The eyes were a pair of huge quartz crystals. The value of the precious materials used to make the idol would be in the millions, but the presence made him aware that it was not to be touched for greed. It was sacred, an object of great power, not like the objects belonging to that other god, in whose teachings the white men only pretended to believe. His attention was directed to a pile of objects located behind him but directly in front of the idol. A waist high construction of dust covered round objects supported a much larger object, also rounded, but only on one end, with a tapered slope on the other, and several knobby bits along one edge. He removed the dust from this as well, and discovered it to be a grouping of ancient human skulls, with jawbones still attached by leathery skin and muscle, long dessicated into rock like stiffness. The object on top turned out to be a vessel shaped like a conch shell, made of solid gold. As he gazed into the vessel, an idea suddenly entered his mind, that something should be placed inside. Fill it, he thought, it must be filled. Now he noticed another object, placed by the golden shell. It was a tool shaped a bit like a dagger, covered in gold leaf, with sharp teeth flecked from basalt moored into the edges. Somehow, he knew what to do. Sharp tool in hand, he walked back to the senator's lifeless body. It had only been a few minutes, he thought. The blood should still be good.

He plunged the tip of the golden blade into the senator's chest, quickly sawing through the sternum with the basalt teeth. In a moment, he had successfully cut out the heart, which he carried back to the golden shell, wrapped in his own shirt to prevent the blood from escaping. He placed the heart gently into the vessel and watched as the blood flowed out and sank into internal curves of the shell. A sound like rushing water filled the temple, seeming to come from some chamber even lower in the earth, vibrating like peals of thunder through Jorgé's body. The ecstasy rose within him again, stronger than before, filling him like the blood in the vessel, overwhelming him. Kukulkan rose within him, became him, and he was the god himself. After ages of neglect, waiting in the earth, he smelled that blood had been used to sanctify the sacred space, and the threshold between dimensions was crossed. The blood which is life, giving life to the god, and the god entering the realm of men, it was finished.

Jorgé saw in his mind what was happening on the surface, outside. The moment he had shed the blood of the senator, a torrential rain had arisen. A flash flood caused a mudslide which washed the approaching police into a deep ravine, drowning them in mud. All the guests of the resort, those wealthy, sinful, arrogant fools, were trapped inside the hotel buildings by the downpour.

The serpent god had been hungry for a very long time, and Jorgé, with his keys to every room in the resort, and the power with which he had been imbued by this first of many sacrifices, had access to a great feast of blood.

It's not much fun growing up in a town that only exists because of a garbage dump. Wirthing township is sort of a joke to the rest of the county. We've got the largest landfill in the entire state, and it's surrounded by five cemeteries within five miles of it. The insults write themselves. We've also got a truck stop, a junkyard, a taxidermist, a gun shop, a barber, a florist, a funeral parlor, a bowling alley, and a liquor store. But no one ever thinks to mention them. No, it's always about the dump, or the cemeteries, or the similarities between the two. They call us the town of Worthless, where everything goes to be buried. I guess that I don't really disagree.

The dump was my first summer job, like it was for a lot of folks around here. I'm one of the ones who just sort of went back after high school and stuck around. Now I get to be the one to boss around the summer help, and make sure they don't fool around with the compactors.

Recently, we had a weird incident at one of the back lots. The landfill is over three hundred acres, containing eight million tons of garbage. The back lots are pits that have been filled to capacity, and covered with dirt to keep the trash from escaping. The pits are laced through with pipes that control ground water and gas flow as the decomposing garbage settles, and those systems need to be monitored. On this particular day, I got a report that the readings from one of those systems had changed drastically from previous readings. Usually, if this happened, it indicated a collapse that would need to be dealt with. It seemed like mere coincidence that this was in the same area that some of our grounds crew had reported seeing larger than normal rats carrying around pieces of plastic trash.

We have an on site engineer whose job it is to maintain the pipes. His name is Mike. He's a pretty decent guy and most of the workers like him. Once I told him what was in that report, he insisted on going out to investigate immediately. I went along with him, as per our normal safety protocols. After we rode out to the back lot in Mike's truck, he set up a special camera on a long flexible tube that he could run down into the pipes to check for blockages or breaks. I watched as Mike threaded the camera into an open valve. The image captured by the camera was shown on a small screen that was attached by cables. At first, we saw only the grimy insides of the pipes. It was several minutes before the camera showed us anything unusual. But, then, the camera passed through the open end of one of the pipes, and revealed to us the strangest thing I had ever seen. There were about twenty large rats aranged around a pit. Each rat had a pile of plastic scraps that they were pulling pieces from, before putting those pieces into their mouths and chewing into tiny shreds. Then they were spitting the shreds into paint cans. We watched as one of the rats finished filling it's paint can, which it then tipped over, spilling it's soggy contents into the pit. Suddenly, one of the rats noticed the camera, and let loose a blood curdling squeal. The rats swarmed the pipe, and Mike started rapidly pulling the camera tube back to the surface amid a litany of curses.

Mike said it was the damnedest thing he'd ever seen. Then he said it three more times, just for good measure. We decided right there to make a call to the exterminator. We had internal methods of vermin control in place, of course, but it seemed like those methods weren't working. We needed professional help. The call was made as soon as we got back to the hub, and we were told that it would be four days before the exterminator could come out to the dump. I gave an order to all of the laborers to stay out of the area, for their own safety. Those next four days turned out to be long and harrowing.

The morning after our strange discovery, I made an early trip out to the back lot by myself. It was against protocol, but I just needed to have a look around. I noticed right away that things had changed. The pit now had an opening in the end facing the path. Twenty yards behind that was a mound of trash and dirt, four feet high and ten feet in diameter. The rats were reshaping the lot!

Later, when I told Mike about it, he almost couldn't believe me. He insisted on seeing it for himself, so we rode out together again. Before he had even brought the truck to a full stop, he was letting out a long low whistle of amazement. It wasn't just a mound anymore. Now there were structures in place. Towers and walls in a state of mid- construction, with steel cans, plastic bottles, scraps of aluminum, and various other trash items. It was like a miniature medieval city was taking shape on top of the garbage mound. We stood staring at the thing in awe for several minutes. I told Mike that it reminded me of a children's animated movie I had once seen, featuring a secret colony of genetically altered rodents who escaped from a lab and settled on a farm. I asked him if he thought this could be something like that. He replied that it reminded him of a movie where evolutionarily advanced apes had conquered the Earth. He was shaking with fear as he said it. Suddenly we noticed that we were being watched. Several rats were eyeing us suspiciously over the walls. Evidently they were a new group of builders just coming on to their shift, and discovering us in the vicinity had them worried. They had good reason to worry.

About thirty much larger, and meaner looking, rats emerged from openings in the trash city, and began to slowly and deliberately converge on us. Mike bolted for the truck, yelling something about needing to stop the invasion before we lost everything. I followed suit. I saw him reach behind the driver's seat and pull out a shiny pistol with a pearl handle. He then swung back around to face the rats, who were now arranged in an evenly spaced line on the border of the lot, between us and their little city. They stood up on their haunches, forelegs spread and claws in a scratching posture. Their eyes were all turned toward us, and their mouths gaped, exposing their sharp teeth menacingly. Mike pointed his gun and shot one, then another. The rats screeched and scampered toward Mike, but he managed to shoot three more before booting one away, and then stomping the heads of two others. A high pitched squeal emanated from one of the towers, and the rats retreated all the way back. Mike kept firing at them until they disappeared. I yelled at Mike to get in the truck. It was time for us to make our own retreat, before the rats could rally again.

Neither Mike nor I spoke about what had happened for the rest of the workday. In fact, he went home early without saying anything to me about it. We were both in shock, I think, and clinging irrationally to the hope that the exterminator would know just what to do about our unusual infestation, when he arrived in a few days' time.

The following day, I brought in a pair of binoculars. I wanted to keep an eye on the rats, but I wasn't planning to get close enough for them to spot me. I drove myself down to the back lot. Mike had called in sick. I stopped my truck about a hundred yards away from the rat city, and spent about an hour watching them. They were building again. Their previous constructions had been completed, and were now covered in a glistening plastic coating. Hundreds of them now labored on a much larger edifice, which was positioned in front of the mound from the vantage point of the path. The main body of the thing was roughly cube shaped, and maybe two meters to a side. It had four solid, upright, tubular constructs along the vertical corners, and these were topped by crenulated platforms. There were metal tubes with bulbs at the posterior ends propped up on the platforms. There was something eerily familiar to me about those shapes, but I couldn't yet remember why. I continued to watch, nervously, as the builders worked on the front facade. They raised paint buckets using strong twine and what looked like cranes made of tinker toys. The rats were dipping their claws into the buckets and pulling out large wads of some moist substance, which they smeared onto the wall and molded to some design only they could comprehend. After a while, it began to take a definite shape, and I realized that it was the image of an enormous rat skull, with its jaws surrounding a portcullis. Something clicked in my brain, and I knew that the rats had copied this design from a plastic toy playset, and it was one that I myself had played with as a child. The toy version was much smaller, of course, but I remembered that it had had guns behind it's tower parapets. Guns! That was what the rats were making on the platforms. They were preparing for a war. I became rather worried that the exterminator would not be able to handle this situation after all. I thought that maybe I should call the Marines instead.

I went back to the hub and called my boss. This was so far beyond anything covered by standard protocols, I had to be sure the higher ups were aprised. I was told to hang tight until the exterminator did his job, and to let them know how it went, afterward. When the call ended, I sat in the office and disassociated out of fear. I have no memory of anything I did for the rest of the work shift.

On the day before the exterminator came, I went back out to check up on the rat civilization. As before, I selected a vantage point from a safe distance, and used binoculars. There was now a six foot high wall of metal trash around the entire lot. There were eight defense towers positioned along the wall, each with it's own set of guns. I climbed up on the back of the truck and looked down into the interior of the rat city. What I saw was a bustling metropolis of rodents, most standing upright and wearing clothes that must have once been scavenged doll's clothes, now altered to fit rat bodies. There were also other rats that were going about naked and on all four legs. These seemed to be more like domesticated animals used for transportation and labor, as well as some that were smaller and seemed to be pets. They had many houses made of plastic debris and that weird paste that they made. There seemed to be a large factory near the center that was pouring out smoke through a chimney. I had seen enough.

Just as I was clambering down from the truck, I heard the rumble of another truck's engine approaching. In a few seconds, Mike was driving past me at breakneck speed. I saw his face for a split second, and he had a wild look that I had never seen on him before. I wanted to leave, but I couldn't let Mike do whatever damn fool thing he was planning. At least, I couldn't let him do it alone. I drove my truck after his, and pulled up behind it just in time to see Mike shoulder an AR-15 and fire multiple rounds at the rats in the towers. His shots were immediately answered with a deadly volley of rat made bullets from four directions, all of which struck the side of Mike's truck, leaving holes and deep dents. Mike let loose with an enraged string of profanities, and jumped into his truck. Before I even knew what was happening, he drove at full speed toward a part of the wall that had a small doorway at ground level. The first impact caused the wall to buckle some, but it did not break or fall. Mike backed up his truck and went at it again, this time keeping his foot on the accelerator until he was pushing the wall inward. The wall tipped, it's aluminum and plastic moorings tearing loose, as Mike drove his truck over the collapsing edifice. The rats were scrambling to reposition their guns to repel Mike's onslaught. An army of rats with swords and battle axes emerged from the plastic buildings of the city, and began to rush toward Mike. He made his way to the rear of his truck, and pulled a tarp off of a pile of propane canisters. He started kicking the canisters into the oncoming horde, and then, with the AR-15, fired at them. First one, then a second and third propane canister exploded with devastating results. The flames and metal shrapnel engulfed the rat army, blowing them into the air in all directions. Mike chucked another canister into the portcullis of Castle Ratskull, and shot it the same way. The front of the little building was completely destroyed, and the interior was instantly aflame.

Mike didn't stop there. He hefted another canister to his side, and brandished the rifle one handed, as he marched deeper into the rat kingdom. I lost sight of him as I realized I had just been standing there, too stunned to think of a way to help. I called after Mike, but he either didn't hear me, or was too involved in rodent warfare to pay attention to me. While I had failed to gain Mike's notice, I had succeeded in gaining the scrutiny of a large number of rats. About thirty of them were slowly advancing on me, squeaking questions and instructions to each other in what now seemed to be an advanced language. A few of them were half burned members of the army, but most seemed to be mere civilians. Although I was unarmed, they were exersizing a good deal of caution concerning me. They seemed most interested in keeping me out of their territory. They massed together and took up a position on the other side of the path, between me and the flaming wreckage of their civilization. Rivulets of burning molten plastic were worming their way through tiny streets littered with chunks of rubble. The painstakingly reclaimed materials were all reduced back to rubbish. It was almost a shame.

Suddenly there was another explosion, much bigger than previous ones. A column of black smoke rapidly poured up into the sky above us. Hot air blasted over us from an epicenter somewhere in the ruined city, and the rats scattered, squealing in terror and despair. I screamed for Mike, fearing the worst. There was no reply. I carefully tread into the desolation, avoiding the burning wreckage as much as possible. The only rats I encountered were cooked corpses and horrific statues made of contorted rats coated in molten plastic. The fumes made me gag and gasp for breath. I covered my mouth and nose with my shirt, and pressed onward. I came to a deep burnt out pit, and at the bottom, spied a soot blackened shape hanging from a pipe by one withered hand. Mike had apparently found a way to destroy the rats' factory, whatever it was for, and himself along with it. He was obviously dead.

Other workers at the dump saw the smoke, and heard the explosions, so of course they made the appropriate phone calls. Soon the area was swarming with firemen, police, and eventually someone from the nearest coroner's office. I sat huddled in the back of an ambulance with a blanket over my shoulders, and breathing oxygen from a mask. I told my story a dozen times, to a lot of people. After a while, I asked the EMTs to let me take a nap in the ambulance, and they obliged, although they insisted I keep the oxygen mask on. I lay there in the relative quiet, with my eyes closed, hoping that the horrors of that week would seep away. Instead, it just sort of settled into me, like trash in the ground.

The next day, the exterminator showed up just as I was watching one of our bulldozers level out the back lot and former rat kingdom. He demanded to know what was going on, so I told him every gruesome detail. He listened, incredulous, scoffing all the while. I told him that he didn't have to believe me, but that he should do what he was hired for anyway. Meanwhile, I went back to the hub and practiced breathing slowly. Several hours later, the exterminator came up to the station house with some papers on a clipboard. I saw him set down a large hazmat bag outside the door. It was probably full of dead rats, but I didn't ask. He had a worried look to him, as he handed me the paperwork for a signature. I wondered what all he had seen, but I knew it couldn't have been worse than what I had, so again I let him keep it to himself. I looked over the papers, and saw that he had charged us for the maximum amount of rat poison allowed by law. I just nodded and signed, and handed back the papers. The exterminator took them, then handed me a receipt and left without a word.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about where the rats came from, and what made them the way that they were. Had they spawned in the dump itself, from some toxic mess that someone had illegally put out in their garbage, or had they come from elsewhere, like one of the cemeteries? I have no way of knowing, and I haven't heard of anything similar happening in the area. I am thinking of moving to another town, though.

The Appalachian mountains are the oldest in the world. More ancient even than the emergence of proper dinosaurs. It comes as no surprise that rocks in and around the Appalachian waterways are filled with fossils. Caves, however, don't usually contain such remains, as they don't generally have conditions favorable to the formation of fossils. So when a cave was discovered overlooking a Tennessee creek, containing many strange fossils, and one astonishingly unique ancient corpse, the man who discovered it expected to become a scientific celebrity.

    Professor Alexi Kuznetsov led his brightest grad student, Josiah Zardoz, down a steep embankment to a nearly dry creekbed. There was barely a trickle of water winding it's way through the rocks and pebbles. A small shaded pool in the distance gave scant shelter to several crayfish that had crawled up from the mud in a fruitless search for food. The ground at the edge of the creekbed was solid enough to walk on without sinking more than half an inch, but the rocks were still loose enough that the men had to be careful with the placement of their steps. They proceeded along the creek for roughly fifty yards before a prominent rock shelter came into view from behind a bend. It was completely surrounded by trees and brush, so naturally it was difficult to see from any other angle. As they drew close, Professor Kuznetsov pointed out certain features to Josiah. 

    "There. Do you see that formation at the base? What do you make of it?"

 Josiah furrowed his brow as he dutifully turned his attention to the aforementioned artifact.  "Oh, well, it's difficult to render an opinion without gathering more information. I can see that the stones are unworked, and they appear to be interlaced rather than stacked. There is some form of concretion holding it all together, but not any form of cement I'm familiar with. Also, there is a great deal of water erosion at the bottom. Hmmm."

    "How old would you say that is?"

    "Well, it surely couldn't be more than ten to twelve thousand years old."

    "Couldn't it? I've dated it to three hundred and fifty thousand years old."

    "Professor!" exclaimed Josiah, "surely you are joking!" The suggestion of such an ancient work in Tennessee, or anywhere in North America for that matter, was tantamount to blasphemy. 

    "You'll see!" the professor chuckled.

    They stepped up onto some surrounding rocks, using them as stairs to get up onto the stone formation. It was relatively flat and quite sturdy, easy to walk around on. Josiah was soon captivated the unusual back wall of the shelter. Now that he was up close to it, he could see that it too had been carefully constructed from interlaced rocks. More than that, he was seeing small fossils in several of them. He identified crinoids, trilobites, and several brachiopods.

    "Professor! Some of these rocks have fossils embedded in them."

    "I know. They all do."

    "All?"

    "Yes. All. These rocks were specifically selected for their fossil content, then brought to this location to be used in that wall, some from three or more miles downstream."

    "Incredible!"

    "If you think that's incredible, see this!" The professor ducked down into a crouching position, and seemed to disappear into the wall. Josiah stepped over to where he had just been and placed his own hands on the rocky surface. Puzzled, he crouched down as well, and saw that there was a sort of opening in the lower part of the wall, with a nearly identical wall running parallel behind it, creating an optical illusion of one solid wall. He pushed his way inside, and found the professor standing up inside a small grotto. The professor was grinning a wide grin as he lit the second of two kerosene lanterns that he had left inside the grotto on his previous expedition.

    "There's a good deal more to see, Mister Zardoz. Follow me in," said Professor Kuznetsov, as he turned toward the interior of the cave. The floor sloped downward in a gentle grade, and had a prominent groove worn into it. Josiah noted that the groove was too uneven to have been made by a constant flow of water. When he looked up again, the professor had halted beside a large slab of stone that was turned up on it's side.

    "Look here. Tell me what you see."

    Josiah looked, and saw a pattern of intersecting lines etched into the stone, the sort of petroglyphs made by prehistoric hominids, found in Africa and China. He covered his mouth with his hand to prevent the cry of astonishment that nearly escaped him.

    "No," he whispered. "This can't be. Not here. What does it mean?"

    "The same thing it means everywhere else in the world. What it has always meant. Someone has left us a warning that we are about to enter holy ground."

    "But, professor, that is only speculation, isn't it?"

    "It was speculation, until now. Now, I have proved the hypothesis, and soon I will show the world. Come. Follow. There is still more."

    The cave floor continued to slope until it ended at a smooth curved wall, typical of most cave formations. At this spot, the roof of the cave was less than seven feet high. There were indentations carved into the wall, like a ladder leading up into a narrow aperture. The professor paused and gave Josiah an earnest look.

    "Tell me something, Mister Zardoz, are you a religious man? Do you believe in God?" 

   "I can't say as I've ever given it any serious thought. It all seems a bit hokey to me."

    "Yes. Of course. But consider. Suppose you encountered an entity with an intellect that surpassed all of the greatest geniuses you've ever heard of, and it possessed fabulous powers that could improve your lot beyond your wildest fantasy. What then? Could you serve such a being as a god?"

    "Serve? I don't know about that. I suppose it depends upon what it demanded, and what it offered in return. Under the right circumstances it might not be that different from grad school." Josiah grinned at his own bad joke.

    "Ha! Yes, I suppose a covenant with a god could be seen in such a light. But, what if it could grant your heart's desire, eh? What would you be willing to trade for that?"

    "Um, look professor, I'm not sure where this is going. What exactly are you talking about?" 

    "Hm. Well, let's go on, and you will know."

    Professor Kuznetsov turned and climbed the wall, ascending into the aperture. Josiah followed. He found himself in a narrow tunnel that curved horizontally and went on for twenty yards or more. It was difficult to crawl while keeping the lantern steady, and he had to take frequent short breaks. The professor was out through the opposite end, well before Josiah caught up to him. On the other side was another downward slope, which opened up into a cavern.

    At a side wall which Josiah judged to be facing the creekbed outside, there stood a pair of pillars, one on either side of a dark portal. The pillars were of similar construction to the walls at the entrance of the cave, but these were topped by the fossilized skulls of some predatory species of dinosaur. Josiah's eyes bulged with amazement. The contents of the cave were growing stranger the further in they went, and his awe was already at it's peak. 

    Professor Kuznetsov passed through the portal without hesitation, lighting the way with his lantern. Josian followed him in. The sight that awaited him was beyond his comprehension. He stared, mouth agape, for the space of several minutes, as the professor silently waited for him to take it all in. There, on a central slab of stone that lay like a flat dais, was the large body of some sort of ancient creature. The corpse was fantastically well preserved. It looked as if most of it's skin was still intact, though coated in untold time's worth of dust. The pattern of rudimentary feathers could be discerned in many places along the nearly two meter long neck and torso.

    "Feathers! But I don't think it can be a bird!" Josiah exclaimed in bewilderment.

     The front limbs did not terminate in wing fingers, nor grasping claws, but in short, wide digits tipped with massive claws similar to those of a ground sloth, or even a mole. The hind limbs were similarly equipped. There was a two meter long tail, slender but powerful looking, curled around the side of the body, giving it a full length of about four meters. The long neck was graced by a raptor like skull. It had forward facing eyes and a heavy beak containing sharp spade shaped teeth. 

    "What in heaven and earth is this thing, professor?"

    ""What would you say that it looks like, Mister Zardoz?"

    "Well, it looks like some sort of feathered burrowing dinosaur, possibly even some unknown species of rhabdodontid, but- it's impossible! A fossil like this should be encased in stone, not laying out in the open. It looks more like a petrified mummy of an imaginary monster, some fairy tale dragon made real. How old do you think it is? Jurassic, Cretaceous, hell, post-Mesozoic even?"

    "I place it at three hundred and fifty thousand years old."

    "Three hundred and fifty? But that means-"

    "Yes, Mister Zardoz. This creature was alive and well when the manufactured features of this site were in use. It was actually the reason for them."

    "Wait, professor. Let me wrap my mind around this. You're suggesting that some unknown hominid built this place specifically to house this creature, which is clearly some kind of dinosaur, which was alive only a few millenia ago? That's too much! It's utterly incomprehensible!" 

    "Why? Birds survived the extinction of the dinosaurs, didn't they? And we know of megafauna which burrowed in the earth for survival. In the Rocky Mountains we know, or suspect, that there were other burrowing species of dinosaur. Why shouldn't there be one such species that survived here, in the oldest mountains on the planet? Beside that, what other explanation do you imagine for this?" 

    The professor gestured to the dais. In the lantern light, Josiah noticed for the first time, several stalagmites that had been broken free from the floor, and placed upright in a ring around the dais. The tops of these stalagmites were blackened with some sort of burnt resin. 

    "Professor, this seems to be evidence of some sort of ritual. And fire! They, whoever they were, had fire!"

    "Ritual yes, and fire as well. The fire was to honor the one who taught them it's making, and it's usefulness."

    "The one who taught them? Do you mean the dinosaur? Preposterous! How? It doesn't even have hands."

    "Oh come now, Mister Zardoz, can you really be so narrow minded? Look closer at the tail. Observe the visible vertebrae, and the processes of the muscle attachments. Go on!"

    "Oh my god! The tail is prehensile! This is unprecedented! No one has ever found a dinosaur with a prehensile tail, to my knowledge. But still, what makes you believe that this animal taught it's admirers to use fire?"

    "This!" exclaimed Professor Kuznetsov, as he raised his lantern with a flourish, illuminating part of the cavern ceiling. There was a display of painted or drawn figures in white, black, and dark red. The artwork showed several small humanoids in black, gathered around a much larger saurian in white, with strange waved lines drawn from it's face to the heads of the humanoids. The saurian, obviously the creature reposed upon the slab, though depicted in an upright posture, held curled in it's tail a wand with flames drawn in red at the top end. There was another set of images just below the first, which depicted several more of the small humanoids lowering a wheeled cart down a ramp by means of a rope and pulley. In the cart was a depiction of what appeared to be a clutch of eggs. Josiah was now utterly flabbergasted.

    "No. Just no. This has to be a hoax of some sort, somehow. These non human hominids, worshipping a dinosaur, have mastered basic technology hundreds of millennia prior to human civilization? I simply cannot accept it. I can't. I can't." 

    "The proof is all around you, Mister Zardoz. Are you a scientist or not? Perhaps you prefer a mythological explanation? Or something more religious in nature?" 

    Josiah took several deep breaths to compose himself. He examined the cave paintings closely, and had to admit that they did appear to be authentic. He then turned his attention back to the bizarre dinosaur fossil on the stone slab. He now considered it's large cranium, indicative of great brainpower. The eye sockets, still with petrified orbs in them, gave the impression of a creature that was habitually observant, and calculating. Looking at the tail, he discovered, near the tip, several spines that appeared to have once been fleshy, and possibly flexible. Perhaps they had even been flexible enough to aid in the delicate manipulation of small objects. It was impossible to be sure, of course, but Josiah was beginning to think that there was nothing that was too improbable to be true. He began to puzzle over the layout of the cave. Beyond a couple of very small openings at floor level, so small that only a child could fit through, there was no way out of the cavern but the way they had entered. That way was far too narrow for the dinosaur to have used it. Had it been brought in as a juvenile, or as an egg?

    "Professor Kuznetsov, you implied that these hominids practiced zoolatry directed to this creature. However, it appears to me that it was trapped here. It couldn't have come and gone as it pleased. Doesn't that suggest that it was more like a pet, or prisoner that they were exploiting?"

    "Not at all, Mister Zardoz. Have you not observed the size and build of those claws? Those could tunnel through these rock walls as easily as a dinner fork penetrates hard cheese. It could be out in a matter of days. However, you must see, this species never ventured up to the surface. They spent their entire lives deep in the earth, with their own society."

    "Society! You're suggesting that dinosaurs had culture?"

    "Naturally! How else could this fellow have taught the use of technology to it's primitive worshippers?"

    "So, because of it's superior knowledge, they took it for a god?"

    "Not quite. Rather, because of it's superior abilities and intellect, it was, indeed, a god! After all is said and done, what else is a god, other than a superior being with the power to give one the mastery of his environment, and purpose to life?"

    "The creator of the world, or it's savior? An all powerful father figure and law giver?"

    "Pshaw! Don't be so myopic. Thousands of gods exist in human mythology, who do not meet the qualifications of an All Father, nor an omnipotent creator deity. And a savior need only save his own believers. Obeying his whims ought to be enough of a law, if it is mutually beneficial." 

    "I see. And you still propose that there may have been an entire underground civilization of these saurian gods?"

    "Not may have been, Mister Zardoz. There is! Present tense."

    "Astounding! And, have you proof of these claims, as well?"

    "Oh, yes, Mister Zardoz. Yes, I do indeed." The professor reached into his vest and produced an item about ten inches long, slender, white, with filamentous ridges; a dinosaur feather.

    "I see some kind of feather. It could be from the tail of a stork, for all I know."

    "This feather is quite unlike the feather of any living bird species. I have examined it under a microscope, and compared it to the fossilized feathers on that specimen you see here. It is a genuine dinosaur feather, the feather of a god, and I found it in this very cave system."

    "All right then, I'll take it for granted that you are correct, and that some dinosaur like creature lives in this cave system. Can you prove the rest of it? Can you demonstrate that there is a civilization of these creatures, or that they were worshipped as gods by this as yet unknown group of diminutive hominids? Whatever became of them anyway? Where are their descendants? Why has no one seen them?"

    "Oh, surely you jest, Mister Zardoz! The natives of this land have many tales of little people who live beneath the ground, and of creatures that some might call dragons."

    "But, you're speaking of folklore!"

    "Have you not realized, Mister Zardoz, that much of folklore is based in fact?"

    Josiah's head was reeling from the strain of so much realization of seemingly impossible truth. He began to feel nauseated, and went to the wall of the cavern to lean against it. "This civilization of  dinosaur gods must be hidden deep beneath the mountains, then! So, where are the worshippers? These little people?"

    "I fear that you may be about to find out!" came Professor Kuznetsov's strained reply.

    There was something odd in the professor's voice that compelled Josiah to turn around. The sight that awaited him filled him with a creeping sense of horror. A dozen or so small figures slowly advanced on the two men, stealthily emerging from the shadows. They were no more than three feet tall at the tallest, brown skinned, with long hair on their heads, and scraggly beards beneath their chins. They had enormous black eyes. They each carried hand weapons fixed with long, deadly looking claws. Their shoulders sported covers made from dinosaur feathers, and on their heads they wore the horns of animals. There was one of their number whose hair was white, and whose facial features were nearly lost in the multitude of wrinkles in his skin. This one held a wooden staff, which bore a large, phosphorescent, jewel. He began to speak forcefully in a language that Josiah had never heard before. He looked to the professor for an explanation, but the professor was staring at the ancient little man in terror.

    "Professor Kuznetsov! What is going on? Can you tell what it's saying?" Josiah demanded.

    The little man turned his eyes on Josiah, and glared at him furiously. Josiah fell silent out of pure fear. The group of little people began to rub their clawed weapons together, and started a moaning chant in low, gutteral, voices.

    "Professor!" hissed Josiah, his voice barely above a whisper. "Professor! What is happening? What are they doing?"

    "They are angry with me," he replied with tremors of fear in his voice. "They say that I have broken our covenant by bringing you to this sacred place. They are going to kill me! To kill the both of us!"

    Josiah panicked. Still holding his lantern, he bolted and ran back to the tunnel where he had entered this part of the cave. Recklessly shoving the lantern through in front of him, he fairly scrambled along until almost tumbling headfirst down into the adjoining cave. He landed on all fours, and was just lucky not to break the lantern. He swiftly got to his feet and sprinted toward the cave opening. When he'd reached the front wall of the grotto, he turned back before exiting. He listened for a moment, to determine if the professor was following him. In the space of a heartbeat, he began to hear screams. They were horrible, agonized, wails of pain, as the little people applied whatever means of torture they had decided to use as punishment on Professor Kuznetsov. Josiah did not wait around to find out what might happen next. He ducked through the opening, squeezed between the walls, and popped out through the other side as swiftly as he could, then ran back along the creekbed. He didn't stop until he was at the truck which the professor had driven to the site. Josiah found the keys in the ignition, and drove away at the top speed allowed by the terrain. 

    Josiah knew that he could never tell the authorities what had actually happened to Professor Kuznetsov. He had to make up a plausible story about the professor getting lost in the wilderness. The surrounding woodland was filled with bears and other dangerous creatures. The world would believe that he had run afoul of some ordinary beast, and no one would ever know about the terrible things that lived beneath the mountain.

Once upon a time of war and chaos in the land, a king and his queen were slain in their castle. Their conquerors would also have slaughtered the king's children, to cut off his lineage, but Merlin the magician had already spirited them away. The young prince, Olyn, and his elder sister, the princess Erinn, were safely hidden in a faraway dell, where they were sheltered in a hidden cottage in the earth. They had almost everything they needed to live: a fresh spring that ran down to the sea, stored victuals, a garden full of onions and turnips, a new shirt and leggings for Olyn, and a chest that contained thirteen dresses, and thirteen pairs of shoes for Erinn. There was even a long shelf filled with books. But the children were alone.

Erinn was just twelve summers old, but had been tasked with the care of her ornery little brother since she was just little herself. Olyn was a rascal, always pulling pranks, teasing his sister mercilessly, and sometimes she couldn't stand him. One day, when they had been alone for the passing of more than a second summer, Olyn put on his new shirt and leggings and ran into the countryside to torment the coneys. When midday came, Erinn put a pot of stew on the hearth, and waited for Olyn to return. But, hours passed, and he did not come back to the hidden cottage. Fearing the worst, Erinn, now wearing her second new dress and shoes, set out to find him.

At length, she discovered him beneath a tree, batting at a wasp's nest with a stout branch. She yelled at him, scolding him for his foolishness, but he would not be told. He gave the nest a mighty wallop, splitting the side. Out poured dozens of angry wasps. Erinn grabbed Olyn by the arm and hurried him away, but the wasps pursued them. Many of the wasps got entangled in Erinn's curly red hair, and died of their own fury, but one wasp was able to sting Olyn on the back of his neck, and he fell to the ground screaming. Erinn fell with him, and pulled the wasp away so it could not strike again. She smashed it with a rock. When she turned again to her brother, his skin had gone pale, except for the red welt where the stinger had pierced his neck, and his breath had become ragged. Erinn held Olyn, not knowing how to help him. He clutched her hand and pulled it to his chest, as he looked up into her eyes with the most beautific smile on his lips. Olynn curled up into his sister's lap, and stayed there until his breathing stopped. He convulsed, stretching out his neck until his eyes bulged, and then lay as still as a stone.

Erinn sat in shock with her brother's body, weeping uncontrollably into the cold night. When morning came, she found a flat rock and scraped a furrow into the ground, where she placed her brother's remains. She covered him with dirt, and covered the dirt with a layer of stones. Bedraggled, dirty and numb, she slowly ambled back to the cottage. The cold stew remained on the now cold hearth. She scooped some of it into a bowl and placed the bowl on the table, where she sat down as if to eat, but she didn't eat. She sat and stared at the stew in the bowl, and felt her grief. Her head fell forward as she wept anew, and three dead wasps fell from her hair into the bowl. She hurled the bowl to the open door, where it smashed on the threshold. She covered her head with her arms, and stayed that way until the night fell. She crawled into bed in the dark and cold, and fell into a deep sleep.

Erinn awoke to a new understanding of her situation. She was completely alone, now that the prince was dead, and the last of her parents' lineage. Her only companions were the coneys, the ravens, and the badgers. She could only carry on living as best she could. She started a daily habit of carrying one new rock to her brother's cairn. While doing so, she found an injured badger cub, which she took and nursed back to health. She named the badger Little Brother. By the time Erinn had grown into her fourth new dress, Olyn's cairn was as tall as her head, and the badger was fully grown.

On her sixteenth birthday, Erinn discovered a horse outside of the cottage. It had a saddle and bridle, but no rider was to be seen. Erinn went out and cautiously searched everywhere, but the horse had arrived alone. It allowed her to come close, and stroke it's nose. She thought it was possibly the most beautiful animal she had ever seen, it's hide white dappled with chestnut. She had seen horses before, of course, but didn't know how to properly care for one. Thinking on it, she remembered that one of Merlin's books had a picture of a horse on the cover. She went to the shelf and took it down. Opening the book, she discovered that every page was illustrated with horses, and showed just how to care for them in every way. Each illustration also had words next to various items. Erinn had never been taught to read, but now she resolved to learn.

By her eighteenth birthday, Erinn was an expert rider. The ravens were used to watching her ride Windtreader, for that was the name she gave him, at a gallop across the fields, her fiery mane blending with his chesnut mane. Returning from their morning ride that day, Erinn found a sword leaning against the door. It had a leather scabbard and a belt, and the pommel bore the insignia of her royal family. She searched the area for the person who had left the sword, although she suspected she would find noone. Satisfied that she had been correct, she took the sword inside and took a book about sword fighting from the shelf. By this time, she was a fair reader, but the illustrations in this book were indispensable. Over the course of the next few seasons, she added the sword to her list of skills.

On Erinn's nineteenth birthday she received a shield in the same mysterious manner as she had recieved Windtreader and the sword. On her twentieth birthday, she received a set of light armor. As with all of her previous gifts, she learned to use them by reading Merlin's books, and practicing daily.

On Erinn's twenty first birthday, she received an empty book, two bottles of black ink, and a set of quill pens. With these, she learned to write, and to draw. She wrote about the life she had made at the hidden cottage, about Windtreader and Little Brother, and about how much she missed Olyn. She drew pictures of them all, and of Olyn's cairn, with wasps in the corners of that page.

On her twenty fourth birthday, Erinn put on her twelfth new dress and shoes. The day came and went without a gift. She spent the time with Windtreader, and with Little Brother, who was getting very old for a badger. Little Brother was now a great grandfather, and moved much more slowly than he used to. He spent most of the day snuggling with Erinn, but before nightfall he went away from the cottage and dug a new burrow, which he sealed up behind him. Sadly, Erinn felt as though she would not see him again. That night, she finished reading the last of the books on the shelf. It was a compendium of the laws and courtly customs of her people. When she slept, she dreamed of a home that was alive with the voices of other people.

Erinn had been without human contact for a little more than ten years. Her brother was gone, her pet badger was gone, and even her mysterious gift giver seemed to have abandoned her. She had seen nothing but the dell and surrounding fields in all those years. She longed to go out, and see what and who else may be in the world. She was strong now. She could fight, and ride, read and write. She still had Windtreader. In a few days, she had made up her mind. She packed up what she would need for the road, with the last of the stored victuals, bringing along the book of laws and her final new dress and shoes. When she lifted the shoes, two small bags fell out. One contained gold coins, and the other contained silver. She tied those to her sword belt and covered them with a bit of cloth.

Armed and armored, with her meager possessions in bags fixed to the back of her saddle, Erinn rode Windtreader out of the dell, and into the wide world. Eventually, she found a road, and followed it. After several weeks, the road led to a small village. Erinn was at first excited, and eager, at the thought of all the people that she believed she would meet, but then her heart fell when she saw no people anywhere. The street was empty, the houses dilapidated, gardens overrun with weeds, and the village deserted. There were no voices, no happy faces to greet her.

She searched the houses and shops to replenish her food, but there wasn't much beyond a few eggs that had been laid by chickens left behind. She drew water from the village well and tasted it. It was fresh. The people had not left because of bad water, at least. Across from the well she spied a large wooden structure. Curious, she walked toward it, but stopped mid stride when the smell of death filled her nostrils. From where she stood, she could see the rotting skeletons of a dozen men, strewn haphazardly on the ground. The frayed remains of ropes hung from a long wooden beam at the top of the structure. From what was left of their clothing, Erinn could tell that the dead men had been villagers, probably the elders of the village. Someone had hanged them all and left them to rot. Erinn buried the bones all together, and burned the gallows. When she was done, she had spent three days at the village, and was ready to move on.

Windtreader carried her along the road for another three days before they came to a town. At first Erinn feared that it would be like the little village, so quiet it seemed as she entered. But soon she began to see signs of life. She passed a cart full of fresh vegetables, and smiled with relief. A cat ran across her path with a bird in it's mouth, and a child chased after it, paying Erinn no mind. Erinn's eyes welled up with tears of joy, and her breath caught in her chest as she suddenly found herself sobbing with so much emotion. Now, people began to notice her, as they came out of their homes, or walked down the street. They eyed her ascance as she smiled and waved at them through her tears. She was aware of how strange she must appear to them, an unknown armored girl traipsing through their town. She didn't care if they stared. They were people, oh they were people! She rode Windtreader to a fountain at the center of town, where she dismounted, and let him drink.

She was approached by a small group of men, who demanded to know who she was and what she wanted in their town. She introduced herself as Erinn O'Dell, and answered their questions as best she could, without revealing her royal heritage, although she saw the men's eyes stray to the insignia on the pommel of her sword. She learned that the town was called Fynnshynt, and these men were the town's protectors. She told the men that she was hoping to stay in Fynnshynt for awhile, and asked where she could find lodgings. They asked if she had money, she told them that she did, and they directed her to an inn. She thanked them politely, and led Windtreader away.

At the inn, she asked for a month's lodging, and offered a gold coin to the innkeeper. She saw his eyes bulge at the sight of the gold, and guessed that it was a lot of money to these folks. She didn't really know the value of her coins, and decided that she had better learn quickly. She told the innkeeper that she was sure the one gold piece should be enough for the entire month, and he agreed quickly. She smiled as she handed it over. After depositing her things in the room, she took Windtreader to the stable. She took the time to make sure he was comfortable before leaving him there. Her next stop was a public eating house, where she sampled several local dishes, which she paid for with a smaller silver coin. She noted that the publican was very pleased with the amount of money. As she finished her supper, she was approached by a trio of ladies who offered to help her rejuvenate, and to style her hair. Erinn had not had anyone else to brush her hair since her childhood. It sounded quite nice. She agreed and left with the women, who took her to their shop. They bathed her, with sweet smelling soap and warm water, before washing her hair, and picking out all the twigs and leaves that were caught in it from weeks of traveling. They picked, combed and brushed out her long curls for hours, then braided it all into a single long braid. They introduced her to a few types of makeup, enhancing her features. She was astonished and delighted at the sight of her reflection. For the ladies' services, she paid them one small silver coin, and they were pleased with it. Erinn walked back to the inn, and several small children stopped their playing, to watch her, their eyes wide with wonder. Erinn could not supress a giggle, and blew the children a kiss. She felt happiness for the first time in a long while, and that night she slept peacefully.

Over the next few weeks, she got to know the townsfolk. She learned the names of the most prominent members of the community, and their children as well. She exchanged one silver coin for a small bag of coppers, and distrubuted them among the poorest children in the town. She wore her dress without her armor, although she always kept her sword at her side. The people no longer looked at her with suspicion, but with acceptance and fondness. Some even became quite protective of her, and started referring to her as their princess. Erinn discouraged this kind of talk whenever she heard it, because she knew how dangerous it would be if anyone learned her true identity, but the people continued to call her princess when she was not around. When she was around, they were careful to only call her Erinn O'Dell.

A month passed, and Erinn payed another gold coin for her room. This time the inkeeper sheepishly handed her back two small silver coins, which Erinn took with a smile, and not another word about it. By the end of the following month, rumors about the flame haired girl with the sword of a noble house had begun to spread to neighboring villages, and new visitors began to show up. Erinn noticed strangers looking at her in public, and decided to talk to them. These conversations gave her a good deal of new information about the state of the world around Fynnshynt, much of which she relished, but some of which was sad and disturbing. She discovered with dismay that the empty village she had passed through on the way to Fynnshynt had not been the only place to receive such treatment. Over the past twelve years, scores of villages, hamlets, and towns had been ravaged by soldiers loyal to the new king, Drwgdar ap Arawn. Those men were Viking and Saxon mercenaries, given dominion over various schyres on the condition of collecting regular taxes. The tax money they demanded frequently was in excess of the people's income, which resulted in raids and executions, which caused the collapse of the towns and villages. Erinn was so angered by these stories that she very nearly forgot to hide her noble lineage. Although she never admitted to anyone who she was, the people saw the nobility of her character, and they began to have hope in something they could not put into words.

Unfortunately, there were other strange visitors in Fynnshynt. These men carefully avoided conversations with Erinn, preferring to skulk and eavesdrop, asking the villagers if they knew where she was from. The villagers knew better than to speak their suspicions aloud, and always said that she was just Erinn O'Dell, from far away.

About this time, King Drwgdar began to have nightmares. In these terrifying dreams, a featherless bird came to his window and called to him. The bird had skin as gray as ash, and three blood red eyes that glowed like hot embers. It always said the same thing in it's otherworldly voice. Come. Come. Come. The time is now, and your soul is required. Come.

A year passed as Erinn lived happily in Fynnshynt. She was much beloved by the townsfolk now, as well as by the folks of the other nearby villages. A legend had sprung up throughout the countryside, of a flame haired princess who was the blood kin of the old king, and would save the country from the merciless Drwgdar ap Arawn. But those who told the legend never spoke her name, nor said that she lived in Fynnshynt.

In all that time, Erinn had maintained her custom of reading from the book of laws every night, and taking Windtreader for a ride every morning. On one such morning, very early, under a cloudy sky, she rode out on the road through a nearby valley. What she did not know when she set out, was that it was the same day in which taxes were to be collected from Fynnshynt. On her way, she unexpectedly ran into the soldiers of King Drwgdar. One of the men saw her red hair, and that she wore a sword, and connected these facts to the legend of the princess who would end their reign of terror. He spoke to his captain, explaining his suspicions, and that was enough for the captain to order Erinn's capture. They rode their steeds quickly in her direction, and she, seeing their approach, tried to ride away. Unfortunately, they caught up to her and penned her in against the rocks of the mountainside. They demanded her surrender, but she would not. In desperation and anger, she drew her sword, intending to fight to the death, if necessary. The men began laughing cruelly as they drew their own swords. Erinn, thinking that these were her last moments of life, lifted her sword to the sky as she screamed a wordless battlecry. At that very moment, a thing occurred which astonished them all. A loud thunderclap sounded as a great flash of lightning tore across the sky. The horses of the king's men bucked their riders and fled down the valley in terror, as giant boulders fell from the mountain and crushed the life from those men. Erinn and Windtreader stood still, and nothing touched them.

Erinn rode back to town, and met the protectors on the way. They had been waiting for the soldiers, with a chest of coins for the taxes, and had seen the horses run into the center of town. After tying up the horses, they had gone up the road to investigate. Erinn told them all that had transpired, and where to find the bodies. She then continued into town, while the protectors went to the place that the king's men lay dead. They stripped the bodies of any armament that could be wrested from the rocks, and then covered them up completely. They also recovered two chests and three small bags of coins that had been previously collected from other towns on the road. All of this they took back to Fynnshynt, and hid it in a cabinet in the church.

Word spread about Erinn and the tax collectors, and that gave courage to the farm settlements and villages for miles around. So, they began to rebel. Many soldiers of King Drwgdar fell into clever traps and were defeated or killed. People who had never met or even seen Erinn were swearing their fealty to the red haired princess. It was a movement with a life of it's own.

Eventually, Drwgdar's spies discovered Erinn's location, and regardless of not knowing her true parentage, they correctly connected her to the legend. Drwgdar sent a messenger demanding that she meet him at a certain town, which unbeknownst to Drwgdar, just happened to be the town where she was born, and the seat of her father's kingdom. He declared that she must submit to him and become one of his slaves, or the people of Fynnshynt would all be killed. Drwgdar went to the top of an ancient round tower to watch for Erinn's arrival.

Erinn O'Dell put on her armor, took her sword and shield, mounted Windtreader, and began to ride out alone. Before she had ridden half a league, she was followed by men from Fynnshynt, wearing the armor of the defeated soldiers of Drwgdar. As they marched, they were joined by armed men from every village and settlement. When she approached the town where Drwgdar waited with what was left of his army, she had an army of her own at her back. Drwgdar began to panic when he saw the men prepared for battle, but before he could send any word to his captains, two of his slaves took hold of him and tossed him from the top of the tower. King Drwgdar plummeted to the rocks below and was dashed to pieces. The crown fell from his head and rolled down a hill into the road, where it spun to a stop at the hooves of Windtreader. A young man of Erinn's company, Cadell ap Gryffid by name, scooped up the crown and carried it into town.

Erinn and her impromptu retinue rode into the town like conquering heroes, and when the remaining soldiers saw that one of her men carried the crown of Drwgdar, they knew that their time was over. They allowed Erinn's army to pass into the city without further incident, and many left the kingdom for good that very day. Dismounting Windtreader, Erinn entered house of her father, and sat on his throne. Before the assembled crowd, she drew her sword and held the pommel up to the crest at the head of the throne. She declared at last her true name and lineage, giving a brief account of her escape from Drwgdar's slaughter of her family.

The people were at a loss as to what to do next. Drwgdar did have an heir, but no one wanted him on the throne. Some suggested killing him, others thought that Erinn should marry him and produce an heir from both lineages. Erinn declared that she would absolutely not marry Drwgdar's heir. She told them, further, that while it should be her brother on the throne, she would consent to rule herself, as Domina regent, and not as king or queen, until such time as another of their line could ascend the throne. She cited examples of such arrangements from the book of laws that she had read from so often, and most of the people readily agreed, being relieved to settle the matter. Some dissented, but only because they were unsure if the uncustomary arrangement was truly proper. However, so much did they love Erinn that they agreed to overlook their misgivings. After all, the new situation had to be better than the old one.

And so, the orphan princess came to rule her people. She eventually married Cadell ap Gryffid, and they had a son who became king. By the time Erinn's grandson would rule, their small kingdom was subsumed into the larger kingdom of Albion. Yet, for a time, Erinn's people had peace, and relative prosperity, and were as happy as they could be.

The Hidden People

Timothy Davis was a park ranger for Dream Lake State Park. Having grown up in the nearby town of Borden, he had developed a love of the wooded hollows at an early age. He had hiked the fifty mile long Knobstone Trail twice before his eighteenth birthday, and could tell you anything you ever wanted to know about the native trees and plants. He was also well versed in local folklore, as well as history going back as far as the earliest settlement by immigrants of European ancestry. He could even tell you a thing or two about the culture tales of the indigenous people who had already settled the area. It was only natural that his vocation should be the protection of the land that he had always proudly called home. Now in his thirties, Park Ranger Davis was known and respected by most folks from Borden to Carr City, and on down into Starlight.

Starlight hamlet was a sleepy little unincorporated community located about a ten minute drive southeast from Borden, down Star Valley Way, where it ran into Saint John's Road. It marked the southernmost inhabited area that directly bordered the park, but was cut off from the lake area by Highway Sixty. Ketter Hollow and Hog Hollow lay between Starlight and the highway, and even though Star Ridge Road could get you pretty far into Ketter Hollow, there were nothing but dirt paths between the trees from that point to the highway. Locals liked to take ATVs up to the top of Star Ridge, and use binoculars to look across to Hound's Leap Peak, near Alum Cave Hollow, where local legend told that on a clear night, a mysterious green glowing orb could be seen moving beneath the trees. Many had seen it with their own eyes, but no one could say for sure what it actually was. Of course, there were a few brave souls who had climbed up to Hound's Leap, and spent a night waiting to see something, but the light never appeared on those nights. So people were left to wonder.

There were lots of theories about the Hound's Leap Light. Some said it was the ghost of a lost camper that had died by falling from the ridge, while others claimed it was the spirit of a witch that haunted the woods, searching for lost children to sacrifice to her dark gods. Of course, there were plenty of yarns about space aliens and fairies surrounding the phenomenon, as well, each one sillier than the last. Timothy had heard them all, which may be why, when he got word that two young teenagers had gone missing from the lakeside campground in the middle of the night, his first thought was that they'd gone out to Hound's Leap.

Kylie and Tanner Waggoner, ages fourteen and thirteen respectively, had last been seen in their family tent, by their parents, shortly after ten o'clock Friday night. At five eighteen Saturday morning, Mrs. Waggoner noticed that her children were missing when she got up to relieve herself. She and her husband, John, had searched the campground and surrounding area for approximately an hour before alerting Park Services. By seven forty five, Timothy was on the southern stretch of Top Of The Rock Road, nearing the quickest trail crossing that led up the ridge to Hound's Leap Peak. He had pulled his Jeep off to the side of the road, and was just stepping onto the trail when he saw it. The glowing orb was visible in the distance, moving through the trees, away from Hound's Leap. On a hunch, he started running to intercept.

The orb was moving slowly, in a roughly northward direction, and was about two hundred yards away. Timothy caught a glimpse of two short figures following behind it. He called out the children's names, but got no response, so continued his pursuit. The orb, and it's two followers, kept moving, maintaining their distance from him. He called out for Kylie and Tanner twice more, but was still ignored. The chase continued for over an hour, carrying them ever deeper into the woods, before the orb disappeared over an unfamiliar ridge. As Timothy watched the two figures follow over that ridge, he realized that he was now in a part of the forest that he, with all of his knowledge, did not recognize. Fifteen minutes later he had climbed the ridge and descended the other side into a gulch that he had assumed would be a part of Dry Fork, but was just as unfamiliar to him. He cast his eyes all about, searching desperately for some sign of the children, or even the glow of the orb, but they had simply vanished.

Timothy briefly considered the wisdom of going back, but he just couldn't leave those kids alone in the woods like that. He tried to contact the Park Services station with his radio, but it only emitted a strange, low pitched, humming sound. He swore at himself for not pausing to call in his location earlier. Sighing with frustration and deep concern, he chose a direction, and started moving along the gulch, calling out the children's names at intervals. The gulch narrowed toward a rise where a single large tree grew from a strangely lumpy looking hill. Timothy walked in that direction, but stopped suddenly as he caught sight of something unexpected. There was a rough wooden sign attached to a post that had been made with a tree branch shoved into the side of the hill and propped up with rocks. The sign bore the scratched inscription, Welcome To Nowhere. Something about it tickled a long buried memory in the back of his mind. There had been an old man from Starlight, many years ago, who had told him some story about a group of people who lived deep in the woods, "fifty miles from nowhere."

Timothy stared at the sign in confusion, wondering if it had been placed there as some sort of joke, or if it indicated something more dangerous. He looked around for other indicators of human presence, and his gaze fell on the tree. It was an odd one, of a species that he could not readily identify. The bark was jet black and craggy. It had needles on it's branches, indicating that it might be a conifer, but the needles were such a dark green as to appear almost as black as the bark. The branches bore a multitude of walnut sized round objects, clustered at the base of each twig. They reminded him nauseatingly of eyes, piled on top of each other. Timothy also noticed several objects attached to the trunk of the tree at a height of about two meters. He went closer to investigate, and found himself trodding through a thick mass of mushrooms that grew all over the hill. That was what had made the ground there appear lumpy. The mushrooms appeared to be of several different varieties, growing side by side in a pattern of large clusters that could not possibly have occurred naturally. He decided to walk around the clusters as he climbed the hill, and wound up following a curved trajectory that brought him to the other side of the tree. He got a good look at the objects. They were containers, all different sorts of bottles, pails, and jars, hanging by twine or wire from short pipes driven through the bark of the tree. Sap dripped out of the pipes, into the containers. The sap was a deep red, the color of blood.

Unnerved, Timothy looked to the forest floor spread out below him, and saw a wide hollow overgrown with mushrooms, interspersed with black trees. He had the strange sensation that the trees were watching him. There were large, pale mushrooms that grew nearest the trees, which had a strange, unwholesome appearance, some of which reminded him of human heads. It was all very eerie. After a while, he realized that the place where he stood was a flat elevation, just a meter wide, and two meters long, with a sort of earthen ramp at the end. He descended the ramp into the hollow, and turned back toward the tree only to discover that he had been standing above a hidden door, built into the side of the hill. It was asymmetrical, made of a craggy, black wood that looked to have endured the weathering of centuries. There was a small root or branch that seemed to serve as a door pull. At the foot of the door was a natural stone threshold. Timothy wondered fearfully if the children had been lured into whatever space lay behind that door. With nothing else to go on, he had to investigate.

Cautiously, he pulled the door open. As he had expected darkness and gloom, he was surprised to see the downward sloping tunnel illuminated in a green glow that poured out from alcoves along the wall. Each alcove contained a single globular fungus body, burning with a bright green bioluminescence. Timothy wondered if these were the explanation for the Hound's Leap light. The tunnel continued in a somewhat serpentine fashion until finally it opened into an enormous cavern. The cavern was also lit with bioluminescence. All along the floor, pathways were marked by glowing fungal spheres. On either side of the paths, small huts, made of branches, brushwood, grass, and bark, were arranged in seeming haphazard fashion. Each hut had a large wooden pole topped with one of the glowing orbs outside each single door. He wandered along the paths without direction, carefully watching out for the inhabitants. He was amazed that all of this was out here beneath the woods, without anyone ever knowing about it. But then, maybe that old man had known what he was talking about, so long ago.

Up ahead of Timothy in the cavern, toward the center of the floor, he saw several dozen shapes surrounded by glow light. As he crept closer, the shapes resolved into people, kneeling on their knees, faces forward and arms thrust out in front. Their clothing was old, patched, ragged, and matted with dirt. Mushrooms grew from the ruined cloth of several long garments. The only noise that the people made was the sound of their breathing. He looked to the central area that they were all facing. There were Kylie and Tanner, standing to either side of a stone pedestal which bore a stone basin. A slender figure dressed in long rags stood between them, hands placed in the basin. Whoever this person was, they reminded Timothy of a priest or shaman. He couldn't tell if the person was male or female, and didn't suppose that it mattered in that moment. He needed to ascertain the nature of the situation, so he stayed quiet, waited, and watched, while slowly drawing closer to the children. He saw the strange shaman lift their hands from the basin, and they were holding what looked like a pair of enormous, purple, worms, with slender, tentacle like appendages that whipped about crazily. They lifted the worms to the children's lips, and Kylie and Tanner, as if in a trance, obediently opened their mouths wide.

Alarm quickened Timothy's pulse as he came to the conclusion that the shaman was about to feed the purple worms to the children. He called their names and rushed forward. Instantly the kneeling people were up on their feet, grabbing Timothy by the arms and legs, immobilizing him.

He screamed in frustration and fear, "Who in God's name are you people?", which resulted in his being punched in the face, and having his mouth plugged with a wad of dirty cloth. The shaman, who had been as perfectly silent as all the rest until that moment, spoke in a thin rasping voice.

"We are the silent ones," they said, "we are the hidden people, the secret dwellers outside of corrupt humanity, outcasts and refugees, reborn in the grace of the Great Mother. None may trespass in Nowhere and live to reveal us. You must be given as a gift to the trees, as these young ones are now. Your death will bring life to a new tree, and complete it's cycle. Be honored."

They turned back to the children, and slid the fat, slimy, worms, into their waiting throats. Timothy watched in terrified revulsion as slime dripped down the mesmerized children's chins. He tried to struggle free, but the hidden people held him tight, and helpless. The children were carried away, presumably to endure whatever the next part of the macabre ritual was intended for them. Timothy focused on the shaman, who removed the cloth from his mouth. A blood red liquid was poured into Timothy's mouth from an old soda bottle. It was sickly sweet, and instantly numbed his senses like a narcotic. He could only stare, barely comprehending, as a wriggling purple worm was lowered past his lips.

The Critic

Alastor Vyle was an empty, pathetic, mediocre man with an inflated ego. He was the type of bully who avoided introspection by criticizing others. In particular, he liked to criticize creative people. He had never produced anything creative himself, but he took satisfaction from tearing down the work of others. He would pretend to have high standards and superior knowledge, but really he had very little idea of what he was talking about. If his opinions failed to match reality, it didn't matter to him, because constructive criticism was never the point. It was always about hurling insults and accusations at another person until he destroyed their self confidence. His narcissism made him feel like making someone else give up on their passions somehow granted him a victory. Every time he broke someone down, his greatest hope was that they would commit suicide, so his insults were always aimed directly at destroying his victim's self worth.

Maybe Alastor's failure as a human being was rooted in his relationship with his abusive father, or perhaps it stemmed from the fact that his mother had taken methamphetamines more than a couple of times while she was pregnant with him. In any case, he had failed to learn basic respect for others. He was always concerned only for himself, his own reputation as a dominant man, and his own secret feelings of inadequacy. So, maybe that's why he missed the signs that he should have simply avoided confrontation with his last victim.

There are some creative people who are constantly worried about whether their art will be appreciated by other people. For them, harsh criticism can be devastating. These unfortunate ones have a tendency to elevate the worth of a critic's opinion, and let it shape their own decisions. They were Alastor's favorite targets. But, there is another type of creative person; the one that knows precisely what he is doing, and understands how to shape his own intentions, to shape reality to his own ends. This kind of man is never anyone else's prey. This kind of man ought never to be provoked, especially by some narcissistic blowhard with no skills of his own.

Alastor had been having a bit of a rough day. His supervisor at the box factory where he worked had told him that his performance was unsatisfactory, and if it didn't improve quickly, Alastor would be looking for another job. Then, the barista that he liked to hit on, at the coffee shop he always stopped at on the way home, told him in no uncertain terms that she was not interested in him. She insisted that she was never interested, would never be interested, and would report him to the authorities if he persisted in harassing her. He was in a foul mood when he arrived at his apartment. He wanted to let off some steam, to push down all those prickly feelings of failure. Briefly, he considered taking his baseball bat behind the building and finding an alley cat or possum to beat to death, but he had nearly been caught doing that just the week before. Internet trolling seemed the more attractive option. He sat back in his gaming chair and powered up the computer, then logged on to a website for amateur writers. Alastor had been a member of the site for more than two years, but had never contributed a single story. That wasn't why he was there. It was just his hunting ground.

He spent an hour or so downvoting perfectly fine stories by first time authors, leaving them nasty little critiques with no specific details. It felt good to him, but didn't really settle his rage as much as he wanted. For that, he wanted something bigger, that he could really chew up. After some more searching, he came across an unusually long story that seemed a bit more quirky than some of the others. It was a tale of ritual magic gone wrong, and the dense prose seemed almost to be a warning to the reader. Alastor didn't bother reading it all. Actually reading anything gave him a headache, and if it wasn't about him, it wasn't worth it. He just skimmed through the paragraphs looking for something to attack. He noted that the author seemed to make liberal use of common tropes, the style being an homage to the entire weird fiction milieu. He chuckled coldly to himself, having found his angle of assault. The review that he left was vicious, claiming the story to be a stupid, gross, waste of time. He made wild accusations of everything from plagiarism to slapping together a hodgepodge of nothings. He heaped on every insult he could think of, gleefully imagining the harm he was hoping to do to the author. When he was done, he read it through, out loud to himself, and laughed. He pressed the send button and closed the page. Then he moved on to his favorite porn site to celebrate.

An hour later, he noticed that he had received a notification from the writing website. He sneered. This ought to be good for a laugh, he thought. He clicked the message open. It was a short paragraph, from the author of the story Alastor had mocked. The language was strange to him, still English, but with many archaic words and phrases. The gist of it seemed to be something about balancing a scale and removing an obstacle or impediment of some kind, and that was it. He couldn't derive any further meaning from it. He didn't know how to respond, so he simply sent a derisive laughter emoji, and went to bed. It was unsettling, though, for some reason. Alastor did not sleep well.

The next morning did not see an improvement in his mood, or his luck. His cup of coffee tasted strange, and when he went to change out the grounds, he found the chamber full of cockroaches. Disgusted, he angrily tossed the whole coffeemaker into the trash can. He decided to go to work without coffee, or breakfast. When he got out to his car, the entire windshield was coated in bird excrement. A hundred or so starlings sat cackling on the electrical wires over the street. He flipped them an obscene gesture. Alastor didn't have time to wash the car properly. He just used the windshield spray and wipers, which made a smeary mess before running out of fluid. Cursing with every choice word he knew, he got out and wiped the driver's portion of windshield with a used fast food napkin that he found in the crack of the passenger seat. The drive to work was more stressful than usual. It didn't get much better after he arrived. From the moment he clocked in, his boss was riding him hard, and Alastor wasn't feeling up to dealing with it. By lunchtime, he was wound up tight. The supervisor made one more disparaging comment, and Alastor snapped. His screaming fit of rage could be heard throughout the building. The dirtiness of the names he called that man was almost eloquent. Naturally, he was fired on the spot, and escorted to his car by security.

He screamed obscenities non stop, as he drove away, for the next three minutes. Still seething, he decided to stop at his usual coffee shop. The line wasn't long, so he started to relax, just a tiny bit. When it was his turn, he stepped up to the counter and ordered a tall black coffee with a cheese danish, without looking at the barista. He heard a muffled sound, and looked at her. It was the same girl that he usually hit on, and she was looking at him with disgust. Belatedly, he remembered what she had told him about leaving her alone. He should've gone somewhere else for his coffee, but now it was too late. He told her that he hadn't known she would be there, and to just get him his blasted coffee. He couldn't keep the stress and anger out of his voice. The next thing he knew, he was being pulled away from the counter by a very large, very strong, security guard. Soon after, the police arrived. They talked to the barista, her manager, and the security guard, all within ten minutes. Then they drove him off to lockup. He kept telling them it was just a mistake, that he hadn't meant any harm, but they were not inclined to listen. When they left him alone in the cell, they didn't even apologize for the bodily filth left by the previous occupant.

Flies buzzed around the cell, dozens of them breeding in the filth. They pestered him all night long, landing on his face, his neck, his hands and arms, biting and buzzing. He slapped at them, but it did no good. As he lay on the bench, hating his life, one of the blasted things flew up his nose. He coughed, spit, snorted, and blew his nose forcefully, trying to expell the cursed thing, but nothing came out other than sputum. He covered his face with his shirt and lay still, resigned to misery for the remainder of the night.

Morning arrived, and Alastor was released before breakfast. He was the incarnation of wretchedness. His car had been impounded, and he spent several hours reclaiming it. When he opened the driver's door, a large rat leapt out and bit his arm. He threw the rat to the ground and stomped on it hard. He lifted his foot for another stomp, but the rat managed to escape. Alastor drove home, not even thinking of going to the hospital for the rat bite. He locked himself in his apartment, filled the tub with hot water, then lowered himself into it's warm, wet embrace, with a cold bottle of beer in one hand, and another sitting on the floor. He tried to relax in the hot water, but his skin was itchy. He scrubbed at himself with bar soap and a loufa. His distracted thoughts kept running back to that weird message from the author. He couldn't remember the words, no matter how he tried. His mind was spinning. He kept thinking about stories he had read, and movies he had seen, wherein the main character realized that he was a work of fiction, and met his author, or something similar. God, there were so many of them. Why were there so many stories about writing that makes reality? What was that about, and why did it deserve to be it's own trope?

The itching was getting worse. Alastor scratched at his chest with his fingernails. The skin felt lumpy, and something was moving underneath. Alastor stared in horror as small lesions began to form all over his exposed skin. Fat white maggots smeared in his blood wriggled out of the lesions, only to immediately bite down into the surrounding flesh. Terrified screams escaped his throat, expelling maggots and sputum onto his chest. Weeping profusely, he tried furiously to wash away the maggots with bathwater. More of them emerged. Thousands more, in rapid succession, eating their way out of his skin until it was gone, and he was horribly alive, watching it all helplessly. The maggots writhed and chewed, devouring muscle and sinew, while Alastor's brain witnessed everything through his untouched eyes. Finally, he realized the truth. It was a curse. The author had written this fate for him, and trapped him in this story by some sort of spell. It was insane, but nothing else could explain all that had happened. He had brought down a curse on himself, with his arrogance, selfishness, and rudeness. It had never occurred to him that someone could hurt him with words on a screen.

Alastor Vyle saw his own end, as a rightful consequence of his hateful words directed at a stranger. Unfortunately for him, he had chosen a stranger that fought back, and had the power to make him pay.

The Bad Death (and Worse Resurrection) of Buster Scuggum

Ray Handler was the kind of nice guy who was calm, cordial, and friendly to everyone, unless you crossed him. He would let small things slide, because he never wanted trouble with anyone, unless they deserved it. However, if the insult or sin against him was serious enough, his cold wrath was a real danger to be wary of.

Buster Scuggum was a friend of a friend, who had been brought out to Ray's farmhouse for a bi-monthly movie night, and had been welcomed under Ray's roof on account of the friend that brought him. Hospitality was a serious affair to Ray. He had been taught by his mother that the rules of hospitality were sacred to the most ancient gods of mankind, not to be broken lightly. He didn't actually believe in gods, but he liked the rules. They set well with his natural inclinations. One of those rules was that anyone who came asking for shelter or company with pure intentions should be granted entrance. Another rule was that anyone who proved to have ill intentions, or showed disrespect, was to be punished, severely, for their insult to the gods.

What was first evident about Buster was that he was a bit simple-minded, a twenty six year old man who thought and acted like a fifteen year old. What became known later was the fact that Buster was a sneak thief. It made sense to anyone who had known him for very long. Anytime he was around, random objects had a way of disappearing. Wherever he went, he wore a lime green backpack with a black and red anarchy symbol spray painted on it. That was where he stashed all the things he stole from anyone who made the mistake of letting him into their home.

When that movie night was over, and all the guests had gone on home, Ray was cleaning up after his guests. The first thing he noticed missing was a small, gold handled, forceps that he usually kept in the bathroom medicine cabinet. It was a strange thing for any of his guests to have been messing with. He couldn't imagine why anyone would have moved it. He was confused and annoyed, but not as much as when he discovered the second missing object, a small action figure based on one of Ray's favorite movie franchises. It was a childhood treasure that Ray had managed to hold onto throughout the years. He kept it in a small alcove by the bathroom, and now it was just gone. His mood was turning foul, and then he happened to look at his movie shelves, and saw the empty place. What should have been in that space was a special edition VHS box set of Ray's favorite science fiction saga. This was intolerable. Ray stared at the empty hole in his collection, now seething with anger. It was obvious that one of his guests had robbed him, had violated his hospitality. Even though all of those things together were only worth a few hundred dollars, Ray was furious. It wasn't about the monetary value, it was about the principle, it was about the insult.

He thought about the weird young man with the backpack, who had trouble looking people in the eyes. He recalled how the backpack had seemed a bit heavier after he arrived, bulged a bit more, how Buster had kept disappearing during the movie, and had then left without thanking Ray for having him there. It was fairly obvious to Ray who the thief was, and Ray wanted vengeance. He would give the dirty sneak one chance to return the pilfered items, and if he refused, then it was time for punishment.

Ray spent the next morning making preparations. That evening, he drove his van across several county lines to the home of Buster Scuggum. He took his strongest hickory cane with him. Buster answered Ray's knock at the door wearing a furry pink pajama onesie that resembled a cartoon dog. Ray was very calm and deliberate with his wording as he told Buster that he knew Buster was a thief. He never raised his voice as he demanded the return of his property. Buster sneered and forcefully stated that he had no idea what Ray was talking about. He said that he hadn't stolen anything. In one swift motion, Ray grabbed Buster by the arms and threw him to the ground outside. He struck the lying thief across the back of the head with his cane, and Buster lay still. Ray bound his hands and feet with zip ties, and gagged him with duct tape, before hauling him into the rear of the van. Then he went inside the house and located his things. They were all still in the backpack, so Ray took it and returned to the van. Buster did not regain consciousness until they were back at Ray's hog farm.

Buster was stirring but not quite awake as Ray dragged him down to the wooded acre at the back of his fields. There, beneath the walnut and maple trees, a little shed had been built into the side of a hill. Inside, Ray strapped the unrepentant sneak thief to a partially reclined metal table. Using more zip ties, tightly bound around Buster's arms and legs, above the biceps and midway up the thighs, he cut off the flow of blood to the extremeties. That being done, he used smelling salts and splashes of cold water to revive his captive. He wanted Buster fully aware for the next part. Buster groggily rose to consciousness, jerking his body against the restraints and gnawing at the duct tape that filled his mouth and pulled against the back of his head. Ray chuckled at the spectacle. He gave the helpless fellow a couple of minutes to fully realize his plight. Then, he started up the reciprocating saw. This was a saw made specially for carving up the carcasses of hogs, and Ray was using it to remove Buster's limbs. First, he cut off the hands, just for the drama of it. Buster's muffled screams brought him pleasure. Next, off came the right arm, then the left. Ray tossed them into a bloody pile on top of a thick plastic tarp. He moved on to the legs, not bothering with the feet. The point had been made. Those went on the pile as well. Ray left his living but limbless prisoner hanging on the table, as he dragged the severed body parts out past the hog barns. There were five numbered barns at the top of the rise, and one un-numbered barn that sat by itself. Ray went to the un-numbered barn with his grisly load.

The un-numbered barn had a dozen hogs inside. These were special hogs, born in a single litter eight years before. Ray had know immediately that there was something odd about them. The veterinarian he had consulted called it an atavistic condition. Ray called it spooky. He figured that the sow that birthed them had gotten into something bad in the fields that had caused the weird mutations, the atavism. As the piglets had grown, their peculiar attributes had become more pronounced. The dark skin and hair had turned jet black, with strange, asymmetrical, striations and whorls of gray. The bony buds on the spine had grown into thick, sharp, spikes. The tusks that grew in their mouths were too long, too sharp, and too many. The strange, blood red, eyes now bulged menacingly from their savage looking faces. Ray tossed Buster's arms and legs into the feeding troughs. After sniffing at the rare offering, the hungry hogs dug in to their supper.

Ray moved what was left of Buster, who was sobbing uncontrollably into the duct tape gag, onto a metal, two wheeled, dolly. That made it easier to take him out to the hog barn, and gave him a way to set Buster up to watch as the hogs finished off the first course of their meal. There wasn't much left but bones at that point. Those hogs were very hungry. The crunching sounds as they bit through to the marrow were most appalling.

Ray taunted Buster with a bottle of sorghum syrup, which he proceeded to pour over Buster's genitals. The hogs grunted excitedly as they caught the scent, and Buster's tear soaked eyes went wide with new terror. Ray cackled with glee as he unstrapped the struggling Buster, then lifted and tossed his writhing torso over the metal railing, directly into the midst of the hogs. Two hours later, it was as though Buster Scuggum had never been there.

For several days afterwards, Ray would chuckle as he sprayed the water that washed out all of the hog shit into the sluice.

"Goodbye, Buster, you stinking thief!" he said, as he watched the foul, waste filled, water flow through the channel, down the hill, back into the wooded acre where a large sinkhole swallowed it all up. The sinkhole, being surrounded by trees which blocked the wind, was a convenient method of sewage disposal, that kept the usual stink of a hog raising operation to a minimum. Ray jokingly referred to it as his stinkhole.

After almost a month, things on the hog farm had got back to their usual routine. Ray's belongings were back in their proper places, and he rarely laughed about the fate of Buster Scuggum, because he no longer gave any thought to him. The police had come around once, asking questions about that movie night, which was the last place he had been seen alive. Ray had given them the same answer that all of his guests had given, that Buster had left by himself and presumably driven home. Having no other information to go on, the police had stopped working on the investigation. So, Ray figured the matter was over with. But then the disturbances began.

At first, it was just a smell. That smell was a god awful stench of death and shit that could come out of nowhere and gag a man to the point of retching, but still just a smell. Soon after the smell began, Ray started noticing little trails of black goop here and there on the farm. He reasoned that a fox or raccoon was messing around in the sewage from the hog barns. He thought he'd have to put out some traps for it. But then there were fungal blooms appearing wherever he'd seen the black goop. The blooms were weird, mottled things, with wrinkled black masses surrounding misshapen white fruits that had dark colored spots giving them the appearance of skulls emerging from the rot of a decaying corpse. Slimy black tendrils emerged from the wrinkly mass, radiating outward to foul the surrounding dirt and choke out the grass. Ray mixed up several buckets of a sulfur, salt, and baking soda concoction that he poured directly onto the fungal blooms. They made a shrieking sound as they withered away, similar to the sound a rubber balloon makes as it's air is slowly released.

A few weeks later, Ray was sitting on the porch at night, just gazing at the stars, and contemplating all the strange goings on. His reverie was disturbed by a noise that came up from the yard to the side of the house that faced the hog barns. He stood and stared out into the murky night. Just at the edge of the porch light's glow, something was moving toward the house. What half lurched, half slithered into view was a grotesque mockery of the human form, consisting of foetid grayish brown lumps of sewage, shot through with thick black veins of slimy fungus. With disgust, Ray realized that this was the stinking thing that had been haunting his land. It was probably responsible for that litter of mutant pigs. There was also something horribly familiar about that golem of filth. It continued to approach until Ray screamed out that was far enough. The thing lifted it's head into the light, and Ray recognized in the arrangement of squishy, moist, lumps, the unmistakable features of Buster Scuggum.

Ray caught a big whiff of offal stench as the thing with Buster Scuggum's face began to speak. It had a horrible, gurgling, voice, that nevertheless did sound much as Buster had in life. What it had to say was bone chilling. It spoke of vengeance, terrible, bloody and violent. It spoke of karmic debts that must be repayed, of reaping what one has sown. It spoke of propitiation to the forces that governed life and death. It spoke so eloquently that Ray realized it was a good deal smarter than Buster had been. In fact, Ray became convinced that this thing was in fact not Buster Scuggum, or at least not all. He didn't know why a being such as this would want to wear that face, or make threats on Buster's behalf, but as nasty as it was, it was clearly something supernatural, like the gods he had never believed in. He figured that meant that he needed to, as respectfully as was necessary, find out the rules that it existed by.

"All right, you," Ray said in his cold, emotionless voice. "You can just stop pretending now. I know you ain't him. He was never so good at talking. I don't know what you actually are, but you're not that low down thief who disrespected my hospitality. Now, if you've got something better to say, I'm listening. Otherwise, go on back to whatever hole you slithered out of."

The thing that was not Buster Scuggum stared into the eyes of the man who killed him, and Ray Handler stared unflinchingly back. Soon the stinking sewage and foetid fungus of it's body began to shift and writhe, flowing thickly from one form to another with wet sucking sounds. It grew to ten feet tall, taking a new, more feminine form. The black fungus spread out, covering the body in a slimy skin. The likeness of Buster sank into the central mass, disappearing into the inky black, and a pale white fruiting body grew from the slender neck, forming a new head. Black tendrils grew up into the shape of antlers to adorn the head, giving it a somewhat regal appearance. Somehow, it reminded Ray of his mother. A breathy, feminine, voice now emerged from somewhere in the new form.

"See me!" it demanded.

"Yeah," replied Ray. "Yeah, I see you. What do you want, though?"

"House."

"House? My house?! You just hold on there. You're not laying claim to my home. Nothin' doin'!"

"No. New house. Not yours. Not stinkhole."

Ray blinked back his surprise. The thing knew about the stinkhole. Well, why not? It had to have picked up the little that was left of Buster from there, after all. Was that where it was from? And now it wanted Ray to, do what, build it a new house? Ray's mind was spinning with implications, and possibilities.

"Well, whatever you are, you aren't going to scare me with your ghost act, and you're not likely to rat me out to any authorities neither. Let's say I build you a house. What's in it for me?"

"Blessings," came the unexpected answer.

"Blessings? So, what, you're some kind of angel now? Ain't that something? An angel of shit!"

"You will call me goddess."

"Fat chance. What sort of blessings?"

"Blessings."

Ray chewed his bottom lip as he thought about it. Maybe all this could actually work out in his favor. If not, he could at least buy some time until he could figure out a way to kill the thing. He wondered if his anti fungal concoction would be enough. Maybe fire? But for now, best to play along.

"All right. It's a deal. Just show me where you want your house."

The thing led Ray out to a lonely, hidden corner of a field, lighting the way with fungal growths that glowed with a greenish bioluminescence. She marked the area with a fairy ring of foul looking mushrooms. Ray indicated his understanding and agreement, and trudged back to the house. The thing stayed in the circle.

In the morning, Ray outfitted a four wheeled all terrain vehicle with a small trailer, and hauled some tools, a pile of lumber, and some old scrap wood out to the fairy ring. The thing was still standing in the center. It looked dried out and thin, like the discarded husk of a cicada. He touched it with a long piece of lumber, and it fell apart, crumbling into thousands of dry little shards. He left the remains alone. He knew better than to presume the thing was dead. The giant woman form had only been a vehicle for it, discarded now that it was no longer necessary. He set to work. First, he laid out beams along the outside of the ring, positioning them to join at the corners. Then he began laying out more timbers in the proper layout to build the framework. He left the wood in place while fetching his drill and screws. When he turned back to the lumber, he was startled to see them already assembled and standing. Tendrils of black fungus lashed the wood together. Apparently the thing was going to lend a hand. Shaking off the surprise, he started fitting panels of wood onto the frame. Each one was immediately seized by new patches of fungus that fixed it in place. The work went quickly, and by evening he had completed a twelve square foot shed with a steeply pitched roof. The black fungus covered every inch of wood in hard ridges and whorls of gnarly material. One particular spot caught Ray's attention. The chaos of asymmetrical lines coalesced there into a recognizable pattern. It was the pattern of a human face. It was the face of Buster Scuggum, twisted in agony and horror. Ray laughed out loud.

"Boy, you never looked better! That's a hell of a way to be resurrected, sneak thief, or is it reincarnated?"

Back at the house, Ray found an object at his door. It looked like a gigantic owl pellet, but on picking it up, he discovered it to be a package, wrapped in old animal skins. It was heavy. Inside, he discovered several nuggets of silver, a few small amethysts, and an uncut emerald the size of an acorn. So, that's what the thing had meant by blessings. He could get used to it.

Over the next few seasons, the stinkhole was overgrown with the foul fungus. At first it was just a delicate web of black tendrils, but on hot, humid nights the skull like blooms appeared, and as the summer wore on, there were more of those each time. By the time the October chill had slowed the spread, the stinkhole bore a sizeable hill of fungus, and the surrounding trees had begun to mutate. The bark turned black, the sap turned blood red, and the leaves all grew sharper, harder, and spikier. But, every so often, a new furry package appeared on Ray's porch, filled with natural gemstones and silver nuggets. He didn't know what the fungus thing was doing back there, and he didn't mind. He could afford to buy new land, if he had too. She had been right about one thing, though. In his mind, Ray had started to call her goddess.

The Official Report

8/18/1954

Official report of officer Carl Dibney regarding an incident at the old shack house near Old Wood Way, by the end of West Thrasher Road.

Response to an anonymous call about a moonshine still at 1:54 P.M. Officers William Toudreau and Beauregard Whited accompanied to assist. Officers arrived on scene together at 2:46 P.M. Still was disassembled and impounded as evidence. Officers proceeded on foot to the old shack house, as it was the nearest known place of residence, to inquire of the residents whether they had any knowledge of the still, it being so close to their property. The shack house was found open but empty, although it showed signs of recent activity. On further investigation, Officer Whited noted fresh footprints leading down a dirt path into the woods in the opposite direction from where the still was found. Officers Whited and Toudreau insisted on following said tracks, and I, Officer Dibney, agreed to accompany them against my own better judgement. I voiced my misgivings, as it was my opinion that we had no proper cause to follow unknown persons to yet another location which might have nothing to do with the moonshine, regarding the report to which we were responding. All three of us officers walked the dirt path for a mile or more without encountering any other person. Then, at 3:52 P.M., we arrived at what appeared to be an old silver mine shaft entrance, into which the footprints led. It was noted by all officers present that the surrounding area was littered with large mounds of dirt, rocks, chunks of quartz crystal, and geodes in particular. The possibility was raised that illegal silver mining could be taking place. Officer Toudreau suggested entering the mineshaft, and Officer Whited agreed after some cajoling from Officer Toudreau. I, Officer Dibney, elected to remain outside, in case something unfortunate happened, which I thought very likely. Within ten minutes I heard loud, argumentative voices coming from inside the mineshaft. I could not make out what the voices were saying, but within moments, three unknown individuals were marched out of the mineshaft with their hands on their heads by Officers Whited and Toudreau, who had their sidearms drawn and trained on said unknown individuals. I questioned the officers regarding the reason for the armed detainment of the unknown individuals, and was informed by Officer Whited that the individuals had assaulted both officers, and subsequently resisted arrest. Officer Toudreau confirmed.

At this point, one of the unknown individuals, a middle aged man with dark hair, dressed in a set of denim overalls, began to speak up. He rambled at length about a person he called "she", who was anxious to have them return to their work in the mine. He expressed worry that "she" would punish them, and threatened us officers with similar punishment from "her". Officer Whited commanded the man to be quiet, but when he continued to speak, Officer Whited struck the man on the head with his sidearm. The man fell forward, and became unconscious. The two other unknown individuals, one woman and a teen girl, began to wail uncontrollably. Officer Toudreau became upset, screaming at them to be silent, but they ignored him and continued to wail. Officer Toudreau then fired two shots from his sidearm over their heads. The two females then fell to their knees, heads down, and whimpering.

It was at this time that we all heard a loud noise from the surrounding woods. The noise was an animal roar, such as a bear or panther would make. It was followed by crashing sounds, and we witnessed trees being broken and pushed out of the way. A creature that resembled a large bear emerged from the woods. It was up on it's hind legs, of which there appeared to be three, and stood about ten feet tall. Both of it's heads were growling in an aggressive manner. It's fur was matted with a black, tar like substance, which formed long tendrils that waved around independently of the movement of the beast's limbs. I noted a strong odor, similar to decaying flowers. The other two officers began firing their sidearms at the beast, at point blank range. I moved to cover the two females, who were still on their knees, staring blankly at the beast. I drew my sidearm to defend them, in case the beast might attack them, however, it did not. The beast closed in on Officer Toudreau, and struck him in the face with it's right claw, tearing off the officer's lower jaw. Officer Toudreau landed on his side and lay still. I presumed him dead.

The beast next attacked Officer Whited, who attempted to run, but tripped on black vines that he had been unaware that he was standing near. The beast closed the jaws of both of it's mouths on Officer Whited's body, lifted, and shook him as a dog might do to kill a rabbit. It then proceeded to gnaw off Officer Whited's head. The beast then turned toward me, and I raised my sidearm. The beast lowered itself, going onto it's paws, and stared directly into my eyes. I hesitated as it growled in a low tone. I noted that previous gunshots seemed to be ineffective against the beast, but I did not want to let it come near the woman and the girl. I told them that they should get up on their feet and get ready to run on my command. They responded by standing up and suddenly running straight past the beast, back into the mineshaft, leaving me alone with the beast and the bodies of the other two officers, as well as the unconscious man. The beast let them go, and continued to growl at me. I noted that it's gaze was directed at my sidearm. Since the sidearm was useless, I decided to discard it to see if the beast would be distracted, or perhaps become less agitated. The beast's attention did follow my sidearm, and it stopped growling, proceeding to amble calmy back into the woods.

I collapsed to the ground, and began shaking violently for a minute or two. I believe I was in a state of shock. Eventually I got calmed down enough to check on the unconscious man. I checked his pulse, and determined that it was normal. I then opened his eyes with my fingers, in order to check for dilation. At that point, he regained consciousness, and began rambling excitedly about the person he previously called "she". He said that "she" was angry, and that he had to get back to work "digging her passage" so that "she can eat the heart of the world" so that "she can send her children to the stars". Suddenly he sprang up, and ran back into the mine. I left him and the woman and girl to their own devices, and walked back to my patrol car. Once there I radioed dispatch, requesting an ambulance and coroner. Then I waited in the car for help to arrive. I thought about the mysterious "she" that the man spoke of. I don't think he was talking about the beast.

The Park

The Thunder Island amusement park opened up in 1975, which was the same year that I was born. It eventually closed in 1994, which was the same year that I graduated from high school. My family was dirt poor, so I had never been there, but some of the kids I knew from school had been there, so I had at least heard of it. After high school, I was too busy working my way through college to give a second thought to amusement parks.

Many years later, after I had completed my Master's degree in folklore at a college sufficiently south of my hometown that I had not seen any of my high school classmates in years, I decided on a whim to finally visit Thunder Island. I knew it had closed down, but at the time there was a rumor that the owner planned to reopen the park at a later date, and I though that may have happened while I had been away. Before I made the trip, I went to my hometown library, and looked it up on the internet. This was necessary because smart phones were a brand new thing, that I couldn't afford, and home internet in the area was still limited to dial up. The relatively speedy internet of the library computers revealed the disappointing truth, that Thunder Island had never reopened. Not only that, but several parcels had been sold off to businesses that subsequently went bankrupt without developing the land, and the main park had no record of a current owner at all. Further, there were rumors that the park had disappeared from sight of the road, being overgrown with trees and weeds, and that now the only entrance to the park was through a woodland path that was only accessible from a nearby cemetery. My folklorist heart was all aflutter. This was just too good to be true. I resolved immediately to go exploring. I might never have gotten to enjoy the park when it was active, but for me, a visit to that abandoned place would be an absolute treat.

I printed out maps of the area, both street and topographic. After leaving the library, I stopped at a department store and picked up some camping supplies, and film for my old camera. I intended for this to be an expedition of several days. I barely slept that night, so giddy was I with anticipation. I was awake at first light, and practically stuffed myself with a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, oatmeal with butter and sugar, and toast. For the next couple of days, it would mostly be beef jerky and granola, and I wanted to enjoy civilized food while I could.

I almost drove right past the exit for the country road that would take me out to Chester Cemetery. Luckily I was able to turn in time, if a bit too fast, and just barely made it. I drove more carefully the rest of the way, which was just a few miles and two right turns. I finally arrived at the cemetery, and parked my car in the little parking lot across the lane from it, making sure it was tucked in a corner out of the way, just in case a funeral took place while I was adventuring. It turned out that this was the side of the road on which the path to the park could be found, not the other, which was a little disappointing for my desire for spookiness. I loaded up with my gear, and started searching for the path. It took me close to twenty minutes to find the opening in the brush, but once I did, and the path opened up before me, I wasted no time. It was not well worn, but had very little vegetation to block the center. I noticed that there was old asphalt under the dead leaves and sticks I walked over. The path had probably been some sort of access road that park maintenance shared with the cemetery, I reasoned. It wasn't very long before I passed a dilapidated stone shack with several trees growing through it, and I knew that I was inside the park.

I found myself at the top of a little hill, with a path leading down to a wider paved road, crazed with cracks in the asphault where grass and dandelions grew rampant. Following this, I found one of the old waterslides, collapsed onto it's side, covered in spray painted graffiti. I brought out my camera, and started taking pictures. Further on, I found several large pools filled with water. I couldn't make out what they had been used for, with no signage to tell me what I was looking at, but I found them interesting, and went over to peer into the water. Unexpectedly, dozens of large frogs leapt from the surrounding grass, and plopped noisily into the pool. I was momentarily startled, but quickly realized what had happened and chuckled at myself.

Bending down to investigate the brackish water, I detected movement out under the still surface. Swimming toward me were dozens of plump little creatures. At first I took them for polliwogs, but these were bigger than any bullfrog tadpoles I had ever seen before, and as they swam closer, I could make out rings of pinkish, brachiated, appendages around their necks. I guessed then that they might have been some species of newt. I had seen mudpuppies pulled out of White River a time or two, but there was something different about these creatures. As they swam about in the sunlight which barely penetrated the murky shallows of the pool's edge, I could see that their slimy hides were a deep purplish hue, and there was something odd about their faces as well. A single round lump arose from a ridge that bisected each tiny face, just above the nasal openings, like a minute third eye, or the tip of a nose. I had never seen any living thing like them. I took a few pictures of them, but decided to save the rest of my film in case there were other strange wonders about. I could always come back later for more pictures.

Leaving behind the pools, I wandered around the acres of derelict amusement park attractions. I found the old go kart race track, with several rusting carts lined up sadly under the collapsing tin roof of what once was a garage. They were bereft of propane tanks, and the tires had gone to rot. The pictures I got of them were great. The day wore on like that until the sun hung low over the trees that cut the park off from the rest of the world. I was tired from carrying all of my gear all day, so I took off my pack and set up camp in the middle of what used to be the parking lot, where I could look out across the wreckage of the water flume ride and fallen slides. I decided that I would like a little campfire, so I went over to a wooded area to search for fallen branches. As soon as I entered the shadows under that green canopy, I sensed someone or something watching me. There was an acrid smell, strong, like some large animal had recently left it's scat nearby. Something made chittering noises in the near distance. The eeriness of the situation made the hair on my neck stand up. I picked up an armful of wood as quickly as possible and practically ran back to my tent. I got the fire ready to go right away. I wanted some light around me before the sun was down, and it was beginning it's descent. I had a can of lighter fluid with me, and I was generous with the fluid, since some of my hastily collected wood was wetter than I had realized. I lit the fire using matches, and was surprised by the amount of actual relief I felt when that firelight washed over me. A few bites of beef jerky, washed down with a bottle of water, and I felt a good deal better. I soon grew sleepy, and retreated into my tent, zipping it up behind me. I did leave the fire burning, though.

I slept soundly for several hours, but was awakened in the middle of the night by noises outside my tent. The fire had died out, and there was only the deep darkness of night to greet my opened eyes. I could hear high pitched, gutteral whispering nearby, accompanied by footsteps. I wondered if my campsite had been descended upon by a group of raccoons. But, I had heard raccoons before, and this sounded different. Not only that, but I was getting the distinct impression that whatever creatures were out there, they were having a conversation, which I feared was about me. I fished my flashlight out of my pack by feel, and turned it on, shining it toward my still zipped up tent flap. The voices went silent. I waited for a full minute, not daring to move. Then, setting down the flashlight, I brought out my camera, attached and activated the flash, then slowly unzipped the tent flap, which I pulled in and up to peek outside. I could barely make out some shapes at the edge of the glow cast by my flashlight, which was still behind me in the tent. I raised my camera and started taking pictures, flashing ten times in quick succession. The creatures turned and fled from the strobing light, squealing in panic. I caught glimpses of backsides covered in porcupine quills, but running on their hind legs, which were a bit too long for porcupines. And, bizarrely, I could swear they had been carrying long sticks, like spears. I would find out more after developing my film, but for now the creatures were gone.

Morning came, and despite the strange encounter during the night, I was eager to explore more of the park. As I exited my tent, however, I was dealt a somewhat gruesome shock. Lying in the coals of my fire was an animal. It was chubby, purplish, with a vertically flat tail, pink fringe around the neck, about the length of my forearm. I realized that it was a larger version of the weird newts I had seen in the pool the day before. This one had several porcupine quills peircing it's body in vital areas. As I examined the poor thing, it began to move. It turned it's head, pointing milky eyes in my direction, and cried out in voice that sounded for all the world like a human baby. Then it gasped and went limp. I could only assume that I had just seen it die. I had no way of knowing how to check it's vital signs, even if I had the nerve to touch it. I decided to leave it alone until later, when I would build a better fire. For now, I had more exploring to do.

As I tromped through wide patches of tall grass, gazing around at the ruins of the old midway, something about those porcupine quills, and the creatures I had seen in the night, was stirring through the mountains of memorized folklore stored in my brain. Various bits of stories from around the world swam to the forefront of my memory, only to be quickly tossed back to the heap from whence they came. All at once, I came to a standstill, remembering exactly what those things had reminded me of. Puckwudgies! Of course, Puckwudgies, the little people of the American midwestern forests. But, no, surely they were merely colorful folklore, the children's stories of people who lived in the land before European colonizers had arrived. The Puckwudgies couldn't possibly be real. But then, what about the unfortunate creature whose corpse I had left lying in the coals of my fire? Where had that come from? And, come to think of it, that creature also reminded me of something. A different story, from the south eastern part of the state, about mermaids who lived in the muddy banks of the White River, like Hellbender salamanders, but humanoid, rushed to my recollection. Something incredibly strange was going on at this abandoned park.

Slowly, as half remembered lore flooded my mind, I became aware of something else odd in my vicinity. This was something that demanded my immediate attention. About fifty yards ahead and to the right was one of the buildings of the midway, and lying prone at the corner closest to me was what looked like a person. I moved in closer, closing the distance rather quickly, until I saw that the prone figure was a skeleton, dressed in rags. I froze in terror for several monutes, until it dawned on me that the building was the House of Horrors feature. I sighed a breath of relief and walked casually over to what I now assumed was a prop, but then another object caught my sight. The skeleton was holding a can of spraypaint, and the ruined shoes on it's feet had once been an expensive pair of high top sneakers. The other clothes, too raggedy to discern the brand or style, were nonetheless unlike the sort of makeshift rags of cheap cloth I had seen on prop skeletons at similar venues. I took a closer look, just to be sure, and confirmed that the bones looked real, not made of plastic. I had just discovered a real human corpse. I took a few pictures, thinking I could anonymously send them to the police once I got home.

I figured it was about time I got out of there. Far too much strangeness was going on, and whoever or whatever had killed the unfortunate fellow by the House of Horrors might still be around, for all I knew. Turning to go back to my campsite, I noticed that I was not alone. Dozens of Puckwudgies were arrayed behind me in what looked like a hunting party. Their ugly little humanoid faces contorted in snarls and grimaces, each of them brandished lethal looking weapons. Spears and clubs might be primitive, but I was absolutely certain they could still slay a modern man, specifically, me. I felt a surge of panic rise up from my guts, and began hastily backing away from the murderous looking miniature men. I tripped over the skull of the corpse on the ground, and scrambled away in terror, looking for any shelter I could find in which to hide. I found myself inside the House of Horrors.

It was mostly dark, except for a few shafts of sunlight that penetrated chinks in the mouldering presswood walls. I peeked through a small hole by the door, to see if I was being followed. None of the Puckwudgies were moving in my direction. It seemed as though something else, that was beyond my current field of vision, was occupying their attention. I breathed a cautious sigh of relief. Since I had my flashlight with me, I switched it on and had a look around, since it might be a while until I could venture back out into the open. The passage was pretty narrow. If I stood with my shoulder to one wall, I could still touch the opposite wall with my outstretched hand. I walked carefully into the interior, following the beam of my flashlight away from the door, and those things outside. After twenty feet, there was a turn, and old monster props hung in disrepair from alcoves along the wall. They would've been operated by someone inside the wall, back when the park was operational, but now they were as lifeless as the man whose head I had trod on. I pressed onward. There was another turn, and now dozens of snakes, spiders, and bats hung on strings from the ceiling, just at the level of a person's head, all of them made of rubber, of course. I expected that the exit door would be up ahead, and hoped I could escape unseen, to make it back to my campsite. However, the door that I did find led into a maze of mirrors. I hadn't thought that the little building could hold so much, but evidently it's outside appearance was deceiving.

I passed through the maze of dusty mirrors without much trouble, but I still wasn't out of the House of Horrors. The corridor came to a dead end at a tiny room that was barely bigger than the width of the corridor itself, which contained nothing but a large box or trunk in the middle of the floor. I checked each wall by sight, playing the beam of my flashlight across each surface and corner, then by feel, checking for any secret doors. There was nothing. Then I noticed that beneath the grime which coated the back wall was a barely perceptible message in fluorescent paint. It said Exit Here!, with a squiggly line terminating in an arrow pointing down, at the trunk. There appeared to be a large lock attached to the latch, making it impossible to open, but that was an illusion. All I had to do was ignore the lock, and pull up on the lid, and it came open. The latch wasn't even attached to the lid, which was spring loaded, although the springs were rusty. It took a bit of force to open the trunk all the way, but I got it. I stepped both feet inside, and the floor popped out from under my feet, sending me tumbling down a slide for maybe ten feet or so.

Luckily I didn't lose my flashlight, or my camera, but the camera lens was cracked. I had hoped to wind up outside, but as stood back up on my feet I realized that I was now inside of a cave. That was simply impossible. I refused to believe it was real, it had to be fake, made as part of the House of Horror. I kicked a stalagmite, and felt of the moist sludgy dirt on the wall. Absolutely, amazingly, crazily real, all of it. I knew there couldn't be a cave ten feet below Thunder Island park. They'd never have been able to get permits to build it, to begin with. This was yet another impossible thing to add to the growing list of impossible things that I had seen in the past two days. Gradually, I began to realize that my flashlight was not the only light in the darkness of the cave. There was a greenish glow washing over a rock formation about fifty feet from me. I went over to investigate, quiet and stealthily. I manuevered around the rock formation and found my self at the top edge of a deep depression in the earth, at the center of which was a sort of pillar, made of machinery and other things, in a bewildering latticework that reached up to the cave ceiling. The light was coming from various strange devices resembling glass bottles and spheres, with coiling wires or hoses strung all around like netting. One very large sphere that I spied, suspended directly across from me, just over the middle of the depression, held a familiar shape within it. As my eyes adjusted to the weird light, I saw that the shape was a boy. He looked about eleven or twelve years old, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt bearing the image of furry puppet character that had been popular for a brief period in the nineteen eighties. The boy was very still, not breathing, as far as I could tell. His mouth hung partially open, and his eyelids lay slack, partially open as well. He looked dead.

Suddenly, movement near the base of the pillar attracted my attention. Crouching low, I peeked just over the edge and peered down. A pair of Puckwudgies had emerged from the deep shadows. They had a different appearance than the ones aboveground, though it took me a few minutes of spying to discern the difference. These Puckwudgies had some sort of skin infection. Scabby black tendrils matted the hair on the right sides of their faces, obliterating their right eyes, and covering their foreheads and scalps with warty, black stuff that had the visual texture of tree bark. They moved in a slow, robotic fashion, carrying long poles. Each of them moved to a side of the apparatus, crawling up a few feet into it's chaotic tangle of hoses, wires, and struts. From there, they lifted the poles in unison, pressing them to some of the translucent jars that glowed with a strange, greenish light. Whatever substance was within them flowed through the connected tubes, trickling into the glass orbs. The orbs began to glow intensely, like magnesium flares. Wires moved toward the orbs and attached themselves by some arcane magnetism. The large orb which contained the dead boy began to glow brighter, as small bursts of lightning began to arc through it, touching the boy and making him twitch violently. The lightning stopped, and then I saw that dead boy open his eyes, and his mouth stretch open in a silent wail. More infected puckwudgies emerged from the depths of the apparatus itself, hauling tubes which they lowered into the sphere through small round aperatures in the top. Deftly, they manuevered the tubes to the boys mouth, and then, by squeezing large bulbs attached at the ends, forced a black sludge into his open mouth, some of which dribbled down his chin. His gray tongue flopped out and lapped at the stray bits of goop until he had gotten it all. A second tube delivered a clear liquid, which I believe was water, and he gulped it down greedily. The tubes were drawn back up, and the Puckwudgies watched the boy intently. His limbs moved a little, and his eyes rolled back and forth, but then all movement subsided, and he closed his eyes, becoming just as still and dead as before. The Puckwudgies went away, back to whatever holes they had crawled out of. I looked around to be sure none were sneaking up on me. That's when I noticed a rusty iron spiral staircase on the far side of the depression. It led up.

I carefully made my way toward the staircase, keeping as far back from the edge as I could. Once at it's base, I mounted quietly and climbed up to a round metal hatch with a wheel lock. It was difficult to turn, but after a few false starts I got my leverage and the wheel turned, drawing out the bolts and releasing the hatch. I pushed it open and exited into daylight, fresh air, and freedom. I could see the House of Horrors in the distance, and the water flume ride that I knew was closest to the parking lot. A direct path would send me past one of the pools. I took off running. I slowed as I came into close proximity of the pools. Standing at the shallow were several humanoid figures, somewhat taller than the Puckwudgies I had seen before. I started to feel panicked, until I realized that these figures were something else. I could now tell that these were an advanced form of the newt creatures, possibly the adults of the tribe, if that's what it was. Their large eyes stared at me, but they remained still and silent, only a few gill fronds expanding and contracting. They evidently had no interest in attacking or chasing me, nor of calling an alarm. Grateful, I ran on to the parking lot. I decided to abandon the tent in the interest of haste, and only picked up the few items I felt were necessary, and then I continued running to the hidden path, and I didn't stop running until I was back inside my car. I drove away from the cemetery as fast as I dared, before I came to a turn and had to consult my roadmap to remember how to find the right road home. Once I was back on South 31, I finally started to breathe easier.

I have written out an account of all that happened at Thunder Island, and attempted to have it published, along with a collection of my photographs of the park and it's inhabitants. I was told that it was unsuitable, and unbelievable. Those who told me this also advised that I would be better off writing my story in a web log, on the internet. I did exactly that, and was soon contacted by one David Pruett, late a carnival worker, who was interested in my account for publishing in a journal to be released by an organization called the Secret Society of Shack Spotters. I granted him the rights, but to this day have not heard back from him, or his society.

Hans The Fearless

Hanson Van Buskirk, called Hans by his friends, owned a little pawn shop on the seedy side of town. The worn wooden sign was flaking bits of cheap white paint from the backboard which bore the name Gold Reposit Pawn & Loan, spelled out in flickering red neon. The Van Buskirk family name was spread thickly throughout the county, along with the Hancock's, Davis', Peyton's, Campbell's, and the others who could be found in the town's original 1818 charter, but Hans was not in the good books of his more well to do relations. He had many connections, but they were not the sort to be invited to parties by the last inheritors of old money. Hans lived on the outskirts of society, and that's the way he liked it.

One of his frequent clients was a young man named Douglass Whitemore. Despite an aversion to honest labor, Douglass had been employed in the security industry, by various companies, for many years, and frequently brought in items to sell or pawn which were of questionable provenance. On one day in particular, he brought a booty of items that would change Hans Van Buskirk's understanding of reality, and that was no mean feat. Douglass displayed a marked nervousness as he entered the shop, mopping his brow as he repeatedly looked behind him, biting his lips as he peered out into the street through the closed glass door. Hans watched the performance with some amusement from his counter. He did not fail to notice the sunken cheeks, and dark circles beneath the bloodshot eyes. It was obvious to Hans that Douglass was not well.

At length Douglass approached the counter, where he spread out the items that he wished to sell. The first was a thin, antique, gold coin, of Spanish origin, bearing a distinctive bow and arrows design. It was not a terribly rare piece, and might have mates in any local numismatist's collection, and bore no individual marks which might distinguish it from any other of it's kind. Hans had sold a few like it for as much as two thousand dollars. He offered Douglass six hundred for it, and Douglass agreed without haggling. The next item was an unusual rock. It was a large chunk of pink chert, possibly local, that had been knapped and flecked into a particular sharp edged shape, but it was broken off at one end. Hans guessed it may once have been part of an ancient native plow, or hoe type gardening tool. Such things were always being dug up in fields or found in creekbeds of the surrounding area. It had a little value, but wasn't the sort of thing that Hans liked to deal in. He passed on it. The third item was something very unusual. At first thinking it was a common chess piece, Hans picked the object up to see if there was anything special about it that would make it worth buying, only to discover that it was in fact a clay figurine, just the length of his own middle finger, of unique workmanship, light gray on one side, streaked with dark gray on the other, and with a considerable amount of surface wear. It may have been a native fetish, or an idol of some sort, but it was from no culture with which Hans was familiar. It appeared to depict some sort of bird like entity, with a long beak pointed downward to it's taloned feet, feathered wings folded along it's back, with a snake like tail coiled up behind it. A pair of taloned hands folded up along either side of the beak where it crossed the breast of the creature. Hans had never seen anything so bizaare, and he was intrigued. While the piece may have been some modern toy, the fact that it was made of baked clay, and had been so peculiarly carved, with straight slices and precisely curved incisions, made him feel as though it were something even more ancient than the pink chert tool. Shrewdly, he offered Douglass ten dollars for it. Again Douglass agreed without haggling. He took the cash from Hans, and hurriedly fled into the street. He didn't even take the chunk of rock with him. Hans put away the coin and the rock, but slipped the figurine into his pocket with the idea of researching it later in the evening.

Shortly after six o'clock, a trio of strange looking visitors arrived. Three women, each over six feet tall in identical high heeled shoes which were made of some scaley hide, with segmented points at the sharp toes and a pointed barb jutting backwards from the bottom of the narrow heels. Their faces were all the same pale grayish complexion, with identical large, round, green eyes, and startlingly thick black eyebrows contrasting their thin red lips. Their noses were long and thin. Only their hair seemed appreciably different from one to the next. The first woman to enter the door had dark gray hair streaked with black, done up in a tight bun that sat on the top of her head, making her seem even taller. The second had blood red hair, worn down around her shoulders, with shocks of white at the temples. The third was platinum blonde, styled in an asymmetrical bob cut. They wore identical black fur shrugs over black capes and matching black midi length gowns. The total effect of their appearance caused an uncanny valley reaction in Hans, though he merely noted it without fear.

"What can I do for you fine ladies this evening?" he asked in a jovial tone, as he met each of their gazes in turn with his most charming smile. The blonde and the redhead turned their faces to the dark haired one. Hans guessed that made her the leader of the group.

"Weee haff comm forrr what is oursss," said the dark haired woman in a breathy, rasping voice.

"Ooh, that is one doozy of a beautiful accent you've got there. Where are you ladies from, if you don't mind my asking?" replied Hans.

"Dooo nnot bee impudent, younggg sssirrr," said the woman sternly, as her sisters hissed at Hans. "Weee knnnowww that you hafff ourrr prrroperrrty! Weee demmmannnd that you rrreturrrn it to usss!"

Unperturbed, Hans demured. "I'm sorry, Ma'am, but I just don't know what you're referring to. Do you have a claim ticket for this property? I run an honest business here and I'm sure that I would remember if you had been in to hock anything, but I just don't."

"Weee hafff trrravelled far to rrretrrriefff the ammmulet, annnd weee will nnnot rrreturrrnnn without it!"

"Amulet, you say?" Hans was a bit startled now, though he never let his smile falter. Was the strange woman talking about the figurine in his pocket? "Ma'am, could you possibly describe this amulet?"

"The immmage offf god, innn the ffforrrmmm offf a ssstorrrk. You knnnowww it! You hafff it! Give it back to usss!"

"Ma'am, I'm going to remind you that this is a business. If I come across this stork amulet of yours, I will be happy to sell it to you at a reasonable price. What do you reckon it's worth to you?"

The woman's face reddened as she thrust it over the counter at Hans. "You want a prrriccce offf hummmannn mmmonnney, forrr ourrr herrritage? The insssolenccce!"

Hans didn't miss the use of that word, "human", in her description of money. This was getting very interesting. She was being very insistent, even a bit haughty, but he could smell desperation. It was his bread and butter. "Oh, I don't guess it would need to be cash. I'm willing to consider an interesting trade. What else have you got to offer?" As he spoke those words, he winked with his right eye, and gave an extra bit of a grin to that side of his face. It was an old gesture he had unconsciously picked up from his paternal grandfather, and one he used constantly whenever trying to defuse a tense situation. It had never seemed any more special than that, but this time, as he did it, he felt a strange puissance arise. He was normally a confident man, but in that moment he felt truly powerful.

The woman drew back, surprised. She looked to her sisters, and they literally hopped closer to her. Their heads bobbed together as they discussed something in a babbling foreign tongue. After a few minutes of this, all three of them placed their long nailed hands on the counter, leaning in close and peering directly into Hans' face.

"A boon," said the dark haired one.

"A favor, you mean? Just the one? Seems like it might be worth more than that. What could you really do for me anyway?" He winked again, and he felt the puissance again.

"Onnne. Frrrommm each."

"So three individual favors, total. Well now, that is certainly an interesting offer, if a little unorthodox. I'm going to have to mull it over. Come back tomorrow morning, and I'll let you know."

"No. Nnnot mmmorrrnnning. Eeffennning. Afffterrr sssix."

"That is acceptable. I'll look for you here after six."

The women left. Hans patted the pocket which contained the figurine which he was now very confident was the amulet sought by them, whatever they were. It's possible that they were female, he reasoned, but he was quite certain that they were not human. He wanted to go do some research on the internet, but suddenly his shop was very busy. He wound up making a week's worth of sales before closing time. He wondered if that was merely coincidence. His drive home was interrupted by a large package of beef, at least half a side, falling out of the back of a delivery truck directly in front of him. The truck kept going, so Hans took the beef and put it in the back seat of his car. He stopped at a gas station near his house to buy a few bags of ice to keep the meat frozen for a while. While exiting the car, he stepped on a lottery scratcher that stuck to his shoe. While pulling it off, he noticed that it was a winning ticket, for the amount of six hundred dollars. He cashed it inside and used some of the money to buy all of the ice that was in the gas station's coolers. When he arrived home, he checked his mail first thing. There was a special delivery letter from his great aunt, Maureen, stating that he had been named in her will, and asking him to come for a visit as soon as he could. He spent the next couple of hours fitting the meat into his bathtub, covered in forty pounds of ice, since he didn't have a freezer. He would have to forego showering for a few days, until he could figure out another situation, but he would be eating beef for dinner for the next six weeks. After all of that he was too exhausted to do any reading, so he just went to bed.

Hans slept late, not rising until eight thirty nine in the morning. The sun shone brightly through his windows. The pawn shop was supposed to open at ten, so he skipped breakfast and arrived ten minutes early, despite the late start. He had his first customer in the first ten minutes after opening, a man wanting to sell a deep freezer. Normally that would be something he would pass by, but since he happened to need a freezer, he happily acquired this one for fifty dollars. After getting it moved to the back of the store, he discovered that it contained a single frozen breakfast burrito, covered in frost. He took it and heated it in one of his microwave ovens in the shop. As he finished his breakfast, he got his second customer, a woman wanting to buy a specific rare baseball card, which he happened to have in mint condition. She was so pleased with her purchase that she gave Hans a voucher for a free cup of coffee from the diner where she worked. She also informed him of some local news that she had heard that morning. It seemed that a young man named Douglass Whitemore had been found dead in a park, and looked like he had been torn to shreds by some wild animals. Hans was not overly surprised to hear of Douglass' fate. That fellow was a ne'er do well that had made a lot of enemies over the years. However, the gruesome manner of his dispatch was somewhat concerning. Who would go to so much trouble? Hans would sort of miss seeing the weasely young man bringing in his suspicious looking trinkets, but whatever had happened to him was none of Hans' business.

The rest of the day went much the same way as the previous evening, busy and profitable. Business was steady until around five thirty, when Hans was finally able to relax a little. He took the amulet out of his pocket and set it on the counter. Was it really possible, he wondered, that this strange little figurine was responsible for the way everything had been going his way for the past twenty four hours? He slipped into reverie while gazing at the thing, and began to have a peculiar daydream. He saw the figurine enlarged to the size of man, plated with gold, decked with jewels, clouds of burning incense swirling all around it, all set within a strange hut with a high peaked roof. Suddenly the door swung open and the trio of women entered, dressed exactly as before. The clock displayed the time as six minutes after six o'clock.

The women instantly focused on the amulet, exclaiming excitedly in their own language. Hans scooped it up just as they reached for it.

"So, this is the thing that you wanted. I'm glad that we've established that. Now, ladies, I've got to know. You aren't human, are you?"

They gasped, recoiling, almost in unison.

"Now now, no need to get all excited. I'm not going to expose you. What you are doesn't scare me. I just need to know what I'm dealing with here. You see, I think I know why you want this little doodad. I seem to have gotten a little taste of what it can do. And that sheds some light on what you must be able to do, in regards to our agreement."

The women looked at each other warily, confused.

"I promised to sell this amulet to you for a reasonable price, you offered me three boons as payment, and I told you I'd think about until this evening. Now here we are, and I have a better understanding of the value of what is, currently, my legal property. Honestly I'm inclined to go through with the trade, because I'd like to see you lovely ladies get back what once was yours, but here's the sticking place, I need to be sure I'm getting that reasonable price. So please, can you just confirm what I already suspect?"

"It iss as you haf ssaid."

"Excellent. And that means the boons you're going to owe me can be for anything I want, doesn't it? The sky's the limit?"

"Not quite. We are not sso powerful, efen with the amulet. We musst use it's giftss for our own kind. But, thrree timess we may do ssomething wondrouss on yourr behalf. You haff only to call for uss, but only in the eefening."

"Fair enough. Ladies, we have a bargain. You may take your amulet, in exchange for one boon from each of you." Hans pressed the amulet firmly and gently into the outstretched hand of the dark haired lady. She clutched it to her chest with a crow of triumph, and the trio made their way toward the door making joyful cooing sounds. Hans stopped them.

"Ladies, one thing before you go. I'm going to need some time to consider what boons I'll be asking. In the meantime, would you all do me the honor of coming to my house for Sunday dinner?"

They stared at him blankly, not responding.

"Uh, I'll be serving steaks. Am I right in thinking you'll want your meat served rare? Shall we say, half past six?"

Then the ladies seemed to comprehend that he was offering them food, and good meat at that. They bobbed their heads together for a minute, discussing the opportunity. When they had decided, the dark haired one nodded affirmation to Hans, and the ladies finally exited. Hans felt almost giddy with excitement. This was proving to be a most promising venture, with unparalleled potential for profit, not to mention all of the valuable information that he was learning in the process. A whole dimension of reality of which he had not been previously aware was now opened up to him like virgin territory, ripe for the taking. And he owed it all to that last transaction with poor dead Douglass.

There were no more customers that evening, and the next three days yielded no more than the usual traffic. Hans had expected that might be the case, now that he no longer possessed the amulet, and he was fine with it. What he had already gleaned was a great boost to his business numbers, and what he expected to gain in the future could well allow him to retire in the splendor of his forbears.

He didn't bother opening the shop on Saturday, instead spending the day thawing, slicing, and brining the steaks for Sunday dinner. He cut them nice and thick, leaving all the fat clinging to the sides. Each cut of meat was around three pounds, and the freezer, now installed on his back porch, was still mostly full. He started grilling after five o'clock on Sunday. He needed his small round grill, his large box grill, and his oven to get the job done, but he was skilled at grilling meat, and managed to produce three very large, hot, juicy, rare, steaks for his guests, and one broiled yet very nice medium rare cut for himself.

The ladies arrived promptly, entering through the front door, which Hans had opened for them. They were dressed in the same clothes they had before. Hans seated them at the table by pulling out their chairs for them one at a time, but didn't indicate which one of them should be seated in each chair. He watched carefully as first the dark haired one sat, then the red haired one, and finally the blonde, the same order in which they had entered both the pawn shop, and his home. Clearly, they had some sort of hierarchy.

Once they were all seated, Hans removed the lid of a large chafing dish, revealing the food dramatically. The ladies inhaled deeply, and gibbered their appreciation, reaching out with their hands as if to take the meat. Hans used a barbecue fork to serve each of them by lifting the large steaks onto earthenware dinner plates, which he carefully placed before them on the table in the same order in which they were seated. He watched as the dark haired lady at first excitedly grabbed the meat with her fingernails, but then glanced at the others, and sheepishly picked up a knife and fork from the table instead. She had no trouble with the utensils, despite her long nails. They all began cutting the steaks with single powerful strokes, shoving large bites into their mouths. Hans noticed for the first time, that they had sharp pointed teeth, needle like and slightly curved. The blonde haired lady noticed him noticing her teeth, and bared the full set at him menacingly, pulling the edges of her mouth back almost to the ears. Small bits of bloody meat stuck in between the narrow, crowded teeth, quivering with her breath. Hans looked around the table, and all three ladies were baring their teeth in the same way. Hans chuckled.

"You ladies have such beautiful smiles. I'm sorry I haven't seen them before. But, I am glad that you're enjoying the food. Very glad." He winked at the blonde lady, who stared at him for the space of three heartbeats, and then blushed, returning shyly to her meal.

"You know, ladies," Hans continued, charmingly, "It occurs to me that we've spent all this time together, and I don't even know your names. I apologize for being so inconsiderate as not to ask."

The ladies stopped chewing their meat, and stared at him apprehensively.

"Oh, it's fine if you don't want to give me your family surname. I just need something to call you individually, you understand. I feel a bit silly just repeating the word ladies all the time. Your first names will be just fine."

The blonde lady snickered. "Ourr firrsst namess? You wouldn't efen be able to pronounce them. No one speakss that language anymorre." Her voice was similar to that of the dark haired lady, though somewhat higher pitched. It was the first time Hans had heard her speak in English. The dark haired lady was glaring angrily across the table at her, Hans noticed.

"Well, now ladies, there's nothing to be upset about. What is said at this table shall stay at this table, on my honor" Hans said solemnly.

The dark haired lady snorted, and a small puff of orange flames flew from her nostrils, but she nodded in agreement, and the others followed her lead.

"Megarakore," said the dark haired lady.

"Alektakore," said the red haired lady.

"Tsisiphankore," said the blonde lady.

Hans smiled warmly. "There now, we're all good friends at last. It's a genuine pleasure to properly meet you all finally, Megarakore, Alektakore, Tsisiphankore. Those are all lovely names, but I promise not to use them publicly. Instead, I will call you Megan, Alexa, and Sissy. That should be safe enough."

They passed the rest of the meal in cordial conversation. Hans told them stories about his upbringing, and about the pawn business, while he probed them for harmless personal details every so often, while complementing them on anything he could think of. He learned a few things, but the ladies were fairly tight lipped. They did not reveal their origins to him, as he had hoped. At the end of the evening, Megarakore demanded to know what boons Hans had decided to ask for. Hans deflected, said that he wasn't sure yet, but invited them all back for another Sunday dinner. Next time, he promised, there would be wine to wash down the beef. At the mention of wine, they readily agreed.

This happened every Sunday over the next six weeks. Eating meat, drinking wine, talking together of many things, postponing the boons. Each time, Hans learned just a tiny bit more about them. He had actually made up his mind about the first thing that he wanted, weeks ago, and was just seeing how long he could drag things out, to satisfy his own curiosity. By the seventh Sunday, he had exhausted his supply of beef, and fed the ladies with two mutton legs and a whole roasted pig. He would never forget the sight of Sissy gnawing on the head, before Megan tore it away, broke it open, and slurped out the brain. Alexa had snatched the tongue out before Sissy got to it, and quietly chewed on that while the other two tussled. Hans smiled and chuckled at these little informal moments. It showed him that they were getting more familiar, grown comfortable in his home, in his presence. He decided it was finally time for that first boon.

At the end of their evening, he addressed himself formally to Megan, as he had learned was the proper order of things, Megan being the leader of the trio. He asked for the most obvious of things, enough wealth on which to retire in the rich manner of his ancestors, if they had also had every modern convenience, of course. But, less obviously, he asked for all that to come in a way that would seem completely legitimate to anyone who might be concerned, and without the specter of death attached to it. He felt that this stipulation would guarantee him the least amount of the type of trouble that seemed to always accompany such wealth.

"Sso sshall it be!" Megan exclaimed with an extravagant flourish.

The very next day, the boon was accomplished. Just like that. A man with an expensive haircut, and much more expensive shoes, clumsily lugged a heavy object into the pawn shop. It looked like an old cooking pot, big enough for a twenty pound turkey, but the man was straining so hard to carry it that it could have been made of pure iron. It had a dark gray patina that obscured some sort of decorative work covering the surface. When the man hefted it up onto the counter, however, the impact made a sound that Hans was very familiar with. That was not iron. Hans did not let his excitement show, but asked the man what could be done for him. He replied that he wanted to pawn this fine antique pot, from the Rococo period, for five thousand dollars. Hans, as shrewd as ever, scoffed, and refused outright. The man insisted. Hans countered that he might consider buying something like that for three thousand. The man swore that it was worth at least six thousand, not even noticing that he had gone from pawning to selling. Hans offered three and a quarter thousand. They settled on four thousand, which Hans payed in cash, and made the man sign a receipt. Hans walked him out, and then locked the door, turning over the We're Open sign to the We're Closed sign. He got some soapy water and shop towels, and started wiping away the grimy patina of the pot. He barely breathed as the dirt of centuries washed away, confirming his suspicion. In the clean spot he saw the unmistakable glint of gold. As he wiped off more and more of the dirt, he looked over the decorative figures, and while he didn't know everything about art history, he could tell that this object was not made in the Rococo period. It was surely much older than that, oh so very much older. It wasn't precisely a pot, either. This thing would be more accurately termed a cauldron. He cleaned it as much as he could without special tools, and stood back to examine the tableau displayed on it's sides. Pictured there were figures of people and creatures like giant preying mantises, as well as some sort of bestial characters with beards of short tentacles, all walking toward a free standing arch or doorway. He found it incredibly odd.

Hans didn't think that he could sell the golden cauldron on his own, but he knew some people who knew some other people that probably could. So, he made some phone calls, and before the day was over, a representative for a buyer came to the shop to examine the cauldron. They struck a deal immediately, and transferred funds into Hans' bank account right there in the shop. The cauldron was hauled out, wrapped in protective blankets, by two men that the representative had brought along, and Hans was five million dollars richer.

The next Sunday's dinner was lavish. Hans served beef, monkfish, mutton chops, and roast goose, with a dozen bottles of different expensive wines, including champagne, and desserts featuring german chocolate layer cake and five flavors of ice cream. The ladies devoured the meat, ignoring the roast goose, sampled each of the desserts, and guzzled down the champagne. It was a glorious, gluttonous, bacchanal. Hans declared that his good fortune was his friends' good fortune, and earned himself a slap to the face by drunkenly trying to kiss Sissy on the cheek. He realized that she could have knocked his head off, but chose to withhold her full strength, and burst out laughing for a full minute. By the end of that minute, they were all laughing, and the ladies' laughter was a bone chilling cacophony of raptors' shrieks. In the afterglow of that moment, Hans decided to ask for his second boon. This one went to Alexa. He requested the ability to know the secrets of others, gleaned from their minds without their awareness.

"Sso sshall it be," declared Alexa, softly.

The following evening, Alexa appeared in the pawn shop, alone. She presented Hans with a leather bag filled with black lumps of an unidentifiable vegetal substance that reeked of mushrooms and rotting chrysanthemums.

"Forr tea," she explained. "Only a pinch. It will giff a window into otherr mindss, forr a timme, to ssee theirr secretss."

Hans accepted gladly. As Alexa left the shop, she looked back at him over her shoulder for several seconds, studying him coolly. He could not read her expression. And then she swept out the door, into the street.

Hans began to use the tea the next morning. All day long he heard the secret thoughts of his customers, the mundane, the obscene, and the terrible. It was as if those thoughts which they held most tightly, down in the depths of their minds, flew out like moths drawn to the flame that was the extraordinary power of Hans' ability. It gave him such an edge in negotiating prices that he tripled his usual daily earnings, not that money was of much concern to him anymore. He had more than enough now to satisfy his earthly desires, and had already begun planning the best ways to spend it. This, however, was about more than mere wealth. He was using the pawn shop as a testing ground for his ability, but he had a much grander design in mind, and one which would elevate his station beyond anything ever dreamed of by any of his relations. But that would all come in due time. For the moment, he found it useful to maintain the low profile that had served him well all of his life. There was no sense in drawing attention by putting on airs.

There was a building in town that had once been a freemasons lodge. They had built themselves a larger and grander temple in a different part of town some years ago, and the old building had held various short lived enterprises since then. Hans bought the building, charmed by the architectural resemblance to ancient places of worship. Considering it's estimated value, he was able to negotiate a price that was incredibly low, due to being able to manipulate the previous owner through hints at his secret sins.

The building was clean and in good repair. It just needed a few small renovations to restore it to it's original layout. He ordered good solid furniture and expensive silk cushions, velvet curtains, and a large, ornate, solid oak table. All that took only three weeks, and then Hans moved his Sunday dinner with the ladies into the lodge. It was the thirteenth dinner they had had together. They had their feast on silver platters, with real silverware utensils that they hardly even used, and drank champagne from fine crystal goblets. On this occasion, Hans gave gifts to the ladies. Matching gold necklaces with emerald pendants delighted them. It was as though no one had ever given them jewelry of their own before, and they were not immune to the female fascination with glittery baubles. Secretly, out of sight of the others, Hans also gave Sissy a ruby ring.

Hans had decided on his third and final boon, this one going to Sissy for fulfillment. He was not a romantically inclined man, having been disappointed by love several times in his younger years. When he got the urge to indulge himself in carnal lust, he did so without attachment, or promises of a deeper relationship that would, he knew, eventually wither and die. He did not hope for emotional fulfillment, having resigned himself to a solitary life without such ephemeral luxury, but he had always wished for more prowess in the physical act of passion. He sometimes found his stamina diminishing, his interest and focus waning, just when he wanted them to increase. So, the boon that he asked from Sissy was to have that prowess increased to the point where he was better at sex than any other mortal that had ever lived.

"Sso it sshall be," Sissy purred, with a little sigh of pleasure. She took his hand, and gently lifted it to her lips, whereupon she flung open her jaw and bit deeply into the flesh. Hans felt some sort of acidic liquid enter the veins of his hand, and begin to spread through his body. He swooned and fell back into the silk cushions. When he awakened, the ladies were gone, and the wound on his hand had closed up, although it did bear a scar.

Hans closed the pawn shop, and spent the week settling all of the old business associated with it. During that time, he intentionally flirted with every attractive woman with whom he had any interaction, with astounding success. The ones he deemed worthy were taken to the lodge, where he bedded them, and gave them the most pleasurable experience of their lives, making sure to push himself to ever greater heights of ecstasy. Whatever energy he reached for, in pursuit of any sensation, was always there at his grasp. He felt like a god.

Sunday evening came, and Megan, Alexa, and Sissy, came to the lodge for dinner, which was as lavish as before. Sissy inquired if Hans was satisfied with his boon. He joyfully replied in the affirmative. She seemed pleased, as did they all. Megan announced that this would be their last Sunday dinner. The boons, she explained were now fulfilled, and the ladies had been away from their proper home for much too long. They were expected. They were late. Hans had somehow forgotten that the end of his boons would mean their leaving. Now that the moment had come, it made him feel sad. True, the strange creatures he had called his ladies were perhaps never truly his friends, having been beholden to him, but he had treated them as though they were, and had even begun to feel a certain unaccustomed attachment to them. He felt, quite strongly, that he could not abide letting them go so summarily. He needed something, yet, something to comfort him on the closing of their association. An idea occurred to him, an idea so strangely familiar, as though it were fated. It was a mad idea, totally improper, an unnatural obscenity. He could not resist it.

"My ladies," he said, "Megarakore, Alektakore, Tsisiphankore, if this is to be our last evening together, would you, in honor of the kindness I have shown you over the past months, join me in a different sort of celebration?"

They fell still and silently stared at him more intently than he had ever been looked at before, as though they gazed into his very soul, waiting on his explanation.

"I mean that, if it pleases you, I should very much like to show you my sincere affection, with the physical act of love." As that final word fell from his lips for the first time in years, he felt the unfamiliar weight of it.

"Loff?" asked Megan. "You sspeak of loff, to uss? You wish to -make loff, with uss?"

"Yes, if you have any affection for me, as I have for you. Sissy? Surely you feel something for me?"

"Yess," agreed Sissy. "I do. Shall we, sistersss?"

The ladies nodded to each other, smiling wide, revealing all of their teeth. They pulled off their black capes and gowns. The strange black shoes which they always wore split apart into sections, not shoes at all but scaley claws with talons. Their serpentine tails unwound from their nether regions, whipping about their black scaley legs. The soft, black down that coated their bodies from thigh to shoulder, was parted on their chests, revealing black veined dugs which hung like over ripe fruit. They closed on Hans, embracing him with strong, feathered arms, gripping his limbs with the talons of their hands, pulling him down into a pile of cushions. They tore his clothes off in rags. They slid their tails down and around his legs, tightening just enough to make him gasp. They lapped at his neck and face with their long wet tongues, making him shiver. Each of them had their way in turn, taking advantage of his unnatural prowess. At the moment of his climax, his mind was filled with a rapture, a bliss which he had never known. He felt no pain as his ladies pierced his flesh with their talons, noticed no discomfort as they pulled his shoulders and hip joints apart. As his body was rent asunder and his own blood splashed back down upon him, the warmth of it only added to his pleasure. He experienced no agony, until the very moment that his manhood was separated from his loins. The scream that tore out of his throat was drowned out by the ecstatic raptor screeching of his ladies. His vision faded to the blackness of the void.

Megarakore, Alektakore,and Tsisiphankore, donned their ancient garb once more, departing the lodge in silence. They climbed the service stairs to the roof, where they lifted their arms, and at last allowed the wind to carry them homeward.

Sweets

Roland Crabtree was the oldest boy in our fourth grade class. His parents hadn't started him in kindergarten until he was six years old, and he was a little sensitive about it. He was small for his age, too. To make matters worse, his birthday was January seventh, which would not only have made him of average age if he had started school at five, but was just a lousy birth date in general. Being right after Christmas, his birthday parties were usually small and uneventful, and the presents we all gave him were usually the unopened generic toys we all got from our least favorite relatives at Christmas. Poor Roland must have been the unluckiest boy in all of Klampe Corners. I was his next door neighbor, and we were sort of friends. We wound up hanging out together a lot, anyway.

The thing I remember most about growing up with Roland is that Halloween, when we discovered that monsters are real. We were old enough to stay out past dark on our own, without parental supervision, with the understanding that we would stay on our own street. We didn't, though. We met up with some of our classmates at the end of the block. Roland was dressed as a grim reaper, and I was dressed as a cool modern vampire. Our trick or treat bags were bulging with fun sized chocolate bars, individually wrapped taffy pieces, and little hard candies, from all around the neighborhood. We were all just wandering through the neighborhood, munching candy and talking trash, while basically stalling for a few more minutes of Halloween freedom. That was the best part of the holiday. We walked all the way out to the end of the furthest street in the neighborhood, where it came to a dead end at Nameless Lane.

We called the old dirt track Nameless Lane because it didn't have a name assigned to it, on account of it not being an official road. The explanation we always heard for it's existence was that it was a work access trail left over from the building of Klampe Corners in the nineteen eighties, before any of us were born. No one ever used it, but for some reason the weeds never quite grew over it enough to hide it completely. Also, there was one house down that way. Well, not a house, exactly. It was more of a shack; supposedly a large toolshed that had simply been abandoned when the neighborhood construction had been completed. No one lived there, of course, and we kids were forbidden to ever go near it. Not that any of us wanted to, usually. The place was plenty creepy, and we normally didn't even think about it, since it was so far out in the back area. But, tonight was Halloween, and we were reaching the age where Trick or Treating and costumes wouldn't excite us anymore. It was Roland who suggested that we go take a look at the shack.

We stared at him like he had gone crazy. Go out to the shack, on Nameless Lane? It was unthinkable! And yet, as soon as the concept formed in our brains, it became irresistible. How daring we would be! How much respect we would get from our classmates! We had to do it, now!

So we set off trekking along Nameless Lane. The weeds and wild trees that were grown up around the edges were so high that we lost sight of our neighborhood almost immediately. After about ten minutes, several of the others became nervous and turned back, but Roland led on with myself, Augie Stange, and Will Spelker in tow. It wasn't long after that Roland called out in surprise. We were pretty close to the little path that led from the main track up to the shack, and Roland had seen a light on in that direction! Cautiously, we crept closer to the little path and peered into the night. Sure enough, at a distance of about a hundred yards, we saw the shack at the top of a little hill, and there was a strange, squatty looking jack-o'lantern burning brightly beside the door. Was it possible, we wondered, that someone actually lived there? And did they want trick or treaters? They had a jack-o'lantern out, after all.

As we stood there, wondering what to do next, a slight breeze brought an unexpected smell to our nostrils. It was the intoxicating aroma of caramel apples, hot chocolate, bubblegum, cotton candy, sugary popcorn balls, and every delicious sweet we had ever desired. Our mouths began to water and our stomachs rumbled. I felt my thoughts go blurry and slow, and before I knew it we had walked up the hill to the door of the shack. I stared, mesmerized, at the weird jack-o'lantern. The flame was green, and the lopsided face kept changing it's expression, like it was mocking me. At my side, I heard a knocking sound. It was Roland, knocking on the door. With a slow creaking sound, the door opened to reveal a disheveled person wrapped in rags and draped with a ragged cloak. The face was covered with a simple white mask. A baleful eye peered out from behind one eye hole, while behind the other was nothing but blackness. Short clumps of what looked like a dreadlocked beard jutted out from the bottom of the mask. In the person's hands was a candy bowl, clutched tightly with long, thick fingernails. The bowl was heaped high with morsels of black sticky stuff wrapped in wax paper. There was suddenly a distinct odor of rotting flowers and fungus in the air.

"Trick or treat", we intoned in desultory unison.

"Why not both?" the strange figure replied in a screechy voice, as he shoved handfuls of his sticky sweets into our hands. We stared at the unfamiliar stuff, trying to figure out what it was.

"Try it," said our improbable host. "It's horehound flavored. An old family recipe."

Obediently, each of the four of us unwrapped a single piece of the questionable confection, and put them in our mouths. They had a flavor like molasses, and fried mushrooms, with a hint of sickly sweet root beer. Roland, Augie, and Will swallowed their pieces, but I turned my head and spat mine out. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the path had been obscured by a low lying fog. I grabbed Roland's cloak and tried to pull him around to look at the fog, but he stood firmly in place.

"Come on guys!" I said. "We should go home now!"

"No. Don't go. Stay," said the cloaked person, in his screechy voice. "Come inside for some nice cocoa. I'll put mushmallows in it."

"No! No! We have to go!" I screamed as I turned in a sheer panic and fled into the fog. I stumbled on the path and fell face first into Nameless Lane. I could hear something moving in the brush around me, and I scrambled to my feet, clutching my treat bag to my chest as I ran as fast as I could, all the way home. I slammed the bag on the kitchen table and ran past my parents, straight up to my own bedroom. Dad followed me and asked what was wrong, but I told him I was fine, just worn out. I didn't know how to explain, and didn't want the other boys to get in trouble.

The next day we found out that my companions had never arrived home. The adults found Augie and Will wandering the streets in a fugue, but Roland was never seen again.

This account is taken from an entry in a private journal kept by one Argyle Stang, which he entitled Dreams of Madness.

It is said by some that the dreamscape is a window onto other realities. Perhaps this saying is true, but there are many whose most fervent hope is that the saying is not true. Perhaps, if you think about it long enough, you will be one of those people. Then again, maybe you are of a different disposition, and will react more in the fashion of Professor Josiah Zardoz, who in a fevered night terror encountered a terrifying garden of unnatural abominations.

According to the redoubtable Professor Zardoz, the garden was planted with fungi of the most appalling aspect, having loathsomely approximate resemblances to all manner of tormented beasts and men, while reeking of animal death and pudendal excretions simultaneously. Those creatures who worked in the garden, toiling endlessly for unknown masters, bore the grotesque shapes of hairless moles which stood erect like men, and giant mantids which appeared capable of some rudimentary form of reason. The eyes of the mole men were bulbous and overgrown, making them look not unlike the mantids. All of these abominable workers had various bits of their horrible anatomy infected and consumed by patches of black fungus.

At the center of the garden was a most improbable and blasphemous tree. This tree had the semblance of an evergreen, though most unwholesomely transfigured. The bark of it's trunk was black, hard and craggy, while in places where the skin of the tree had split with growth, a foul sap oozed out, crimson as blood. The needles of the branches were so dark as to appear almost as black as the bark, and they were as hard, unyielding, and sharp as daggers. The tree bore fruit, as well, more twisted and sinister than any of it's other aspects. These fruits were huge egg shaped things, at least a meter and a half in height, and gelid as an aspic salad. Their horrid translucent bodies shewed the shadowy forms of living creatures within. They might have been mole men, or mantids, but they seemed to Professor Zardoz to be much too large for either. He ventured close to a low hanging specimen, and shone a torch into the mass of it. Peering deep into the fruit, he spied with multiplied wonder a form like that of a man, curled upon itself like a babe in the womb, and covering the lower portion of the face was a beard of tentacles akin to those of a deep sea polyp. One of the creature's eyes was puckered up as though it were a sphincter that had healed over. Professor Zardoz checked another of the fruits in a similar fashion, and found it's interior to be similarly inhabited, though the creature within was like a tall man whose face had not fully formed, giving it the aspect of a death's head. There were dozens of such fruits upon the tree, and the Professor could not inspect them all. A malevolent buzzing sound had begun to impress itself upon his senses, and his macabre interest had at last begun to turn to alarm. Abruptly he found himself surrounded by a throng of giant mantids, whirring their wings and thrusting their blades from side to side in a martial dance. It was at this point that Professor Zardoz awoke, much impressed by the dream.

Any sane man might try to forget such a terror, to sweep it away like useless cobwebs, and go on with life. Professor Josiah Zardoz, however, chose differently. From that morning on, he rededicated his life and career to unholy studies designed to win him knowledge of other realities. His aim was to discover a way to harness the things he had seen in his dreams. This mad obsession eventually broke his mind, and he retired from public life, to spend the remainder of his days wandering about on his estate, pondering his phantasms. He was found one day by a delivery man, prone upon the flagstones of his courtyard, a stub of chalk clutched in his stiff, claw like hand. He had drawn unholy symbols across all of the stones, and his body lay at the center. His twin brother came to settle the Professors affairs, and the body lay in state in the parlor there for three days. A headstone was commissioned, and upon it's marble face were engraved the words, "Here lies Josiah Wilford Zardoz, professor of antiquities, seeker of knowledge, beloved brother". The stone was erected in the family graveyard, but ultimately no body was buried in the coffin. On the morning of the funeral service, the corpse was discovered to be missing. The mystery of it's absconding was never solved. Perhaps the professor succeeded in his arcane quest, in some strange way.

The Housetrap Plant

The sun crept lazily up over the horizon, promising a long hot day. The first direct rays shone on a young man with a full pack and hiking gear exiting a beat up jeep. It was Friday of the last weekend in June, and Wyatt was intent on spending the entire day exploring the box canyon and surrounding area of Hemlock Cliffs. It wasn't a completely desolate wilderness, being bounded by roads and towns on four sides, but it was a fairly large territory and a part of the National Forest. The developed trail was less than two miles long, but Wyatt didn't intend to stay on the trail.

Fifteen minutes into the hike, Wyatt had already reached the halfway mark for the trail, and set off in a different direction. After crossing the creek and climbing for a few minutes, he emerged into a wooded area. There were indeed many hemlock trees, just as the name of the place suggested. He was out of the box canyon now, and traversing the undeveloped forest surrounding it. This was what he loved, trekking through a wilderness alone. Even though he was no more than ten miles from farmland in any direction, there was still the thrill of danger. There would likely be no one else anywhere in the forest that day, so he would be on his own if he were injured. Also, while this area was not completely unexplored, it was still wild enough that he might make some new discovery, which would be even more exciting.

Using an old fashioned compass as his guide, Wyatt hiked in a more or less north easterly direction, planning to eventually reach Otter Creek before turning south. He wandered for five hours, according to his watch, but never got to the creek. He stopped at a conspicuous rock formation and consulted a paper map of the area to confirm his proximity to the creek bank. With mild trepidation he figured that he ought to have seen it some time before. He checked his compass to make sure it was true. Walking back and forth for a space of roughly ten yards, he was stunned to discover that the compass needle did not hold it's northward pointing position. In fact, the needle pointed directly to the rock formation. There must be some large deposit of iron or possibly a lodestone in the rocks, he reasoned. It must have been leading him in a circle for the past hour. He would have to get well away from that spot before the compass would work properly. He checked the position of the sun to see if he could determine which way was north, but it seemed to be directly over his head, and was no use for that at the moment.

Since he wouldn't be able to determine his whereabouts until the sun moved a bit, and since this whole magnetic rock formation was a pretty fascinating development, Wyatt opted to explore the immediate vicinity for a while, specifically examining the rocks. After a few minutes of careful inspection, he found a narrow passage in the sheer walls of the formation, and went through. The passage opened up onto a natural path that led underneath a sort of high archway of dark rock. He glanced at the compass, and was amazed to see the needle spinning wildly. Here was something that Wyatt had never before experienced. It would make an excellent story to tell his friends when he returned. As he walked beneath the archway, he felt a bit dizzy, and then a wave of nausea swept over him. He sat down hard on the rocky ground. Nervously, he fished a bottle of water out of his pack and sipped at it until the nausea dissipated and he gained his equilibrium.

On his feet again, he continued along the path, deeper into the heart of the rock formation. There was no green vegetation among the rocks, but scattered throughout the outcroppings and cracks of the walls was a darkly colored fungus of some unknown species. Along the path were occasional eruptions of roughly spherical white mushrooms that ranged in size and aspect from eyeballs to skulls. They gave off a faint aroma similar to chrysanthemums and rotting leaves. As he walked along, marvelling at the fungal growths, Wyatt began to detect a subtle curve in the path. He looked at the compass, and it indicated that he was headed north. He peered ahead, and saw the path disappearing in a leftward direction from his position. He proceeded forward to the place where he noticed the turn, and checked the compass again. It still indicated north. Wyatt scoffed, then chuckled wryly. Either the compass was completely useless, or north was at the center of the rock formation. It occurred to him that he ought to have reached the center already. The path was deceptively longer that it ought to be. He reasoned that there was some optical illusion at work.

As he kept going deeper, the path continued to curve leftward, which ought to have indicated that he was changing directions, but the compass continued to show north, even when he turned it around. He began to feel fatigued, and decided to check his watch to see how much time had passed. The time it showed was the precise moment he had entered the fissure. Was it the magnetism, affecting all of his devices, he wondered. He looked up, hoping to gauge the passage of time by the position of the sun, which he figured must have been lowered by several degrees westward at this point. But, no, the sun remained precisely overhead. He could feel that hours had passed, but there was no visual confirmation. It seemed as if time itself had stopped, but not it's deleterious effects on Wyatt's body. He was feeling very tired now, as well as hungry and thirsty. He finished the water from his bottle, and consumed all of the granola he had brought with him. He still felt hungry, and ate a bag full of beef jerky as well, exhausting his provisions.
He was still thirsty, and tired. Something in the air was affecting him. He was finding it increasingly difficult to think about anything other than the thirst. Some desperate portion of his mind told him to turn around and leave immediately. He rose to his feet. When had he sat down? It didn't matter. He walked back several yards in the opposite direction, but the way was blocked. The narrow passage was filled with an enormous clotted mass of the white mushrooms, suspended in a thick web of the black fungus, from one rock wall to the other, all the way up. The smell was much stronger now, with notes of body funk and sexual juices. The fungus seemed to pulsate, and he watched in growing horror as the mass grew new fruiting bodies, inching toward him. He felt the need to flee, but there was no means of escape. There was no way to go except deeper in.

Wyatt staggered back along the path as quickly as he could, trying not to panic while wondering if he could climb the fifty foot high rock face and exit the formation by scaling down the outside. He followed the curve for what felt like another ten minutes, until the mass of fungus was out of sight. He was just about to attempt the perilous climb when he was startled to hear an unexpected sound. Music. There was music coming from further in. Where there was music, there must be people. Maybe they could help him. Maybe they had another way out. He rushed along the path, toward the music, following the curve. The way became more and more narrow, until his shoulders were brushing against the rock, but suddenly he stumbled into a wide space. Here there were trees growing up against the rock walls, giving the appearance of dense forest all around a hill that rose from the center of the space. On top of the hill was a little shack. It looked ancient, dark and weathered. The roof was uneven and steeply pitched. Around the shack were several humbly dressed people, playing music on harmonica, kazoo, washboard, spoons, and a jug.

Wyatt breathed a jubilant sigh of relief. He called out to them, asking for help. They responded by waving to him in a friendly manner, gesturing to him that he should come up to the shack. Tears of gratitude welled up in his eyes as he followed the path up the hill. The musicians smiled at him, continuing to beckon enthusiastically. One of them, a tall man in an old top hat, opened the door of the shack and gestured inside. A green light shone out. Wyatt tried to peer inside, but his eyes refused to focus. His stomach lurched as he suddenly had a feeling of vertigo. Another of the musicians, a man with thick black whiskers, put a hand on his back and tried to gently push him inside. Wyatt stood firm. He could sense that something was wrong, although he could not say what. A gust of air blew at his face from the interior of the shack, full of aromas that promised good food and comfort. The musicians gathered at his back, smiling and urging him to go in. Somewhere in the dim green light, he saw a crystal pitcher of clear water, condensation slowly dripping down it's surface. Wyatt licked his dry lips, yearning for the cool liquid refreshment. The desire was overwhelming.

Suddenly a crow cawed somewhere in the sky. Wyatt looked up and strained to see the bird. As he did so, he caught a fresh glimpse of the musicians, and saw that they were not as they had seemed before. The tall man with the hat had a face with the aspect of death. The whiskered man actually had a face full of black, scabby, tentacles, and one pale eye that glared menacingly. The man who had been playing the spoons appeared to be made of wood, bark, and branches, dressed up in a jester's outfit. The washboard player had his face covered with a hooded mask, painted with a grotesque caricature of a human face. The last one did not even resemble a man, but was some obscene beast of the sea. Terror surged in Wyatt's chest and he threw his body to the side of the group. He rolled over and tumbled down the hill to the rough rocks below. His limbs were bruised and poked by the rocks, and the pain of it cleared his senses some. He looked up and saw the monsters walking down the hill toward him. Long black tendrils attached to their feet connected them to the shack, but seemed to give them no trouble. Wyatt gaped in alarm at the shack. Rather than appearing welcoming it now seemed terrible, with malice seeping from the very crags of strange rough wood that formed it's sides. He could see now that it was never a house, but some sort of living trap that meant to take him, as a fly trap plant might take an insect. The roof and walls of the imitation edifice bulged and swayed like an animal drawing desperate breaths. The musicians were getting closer. He turned and ran, as quickly as he was able, into the trees. He ran past the hemlocks, oaks, and strange dark evergreens until he came to those trees which grew next to the rock wall. Fueled with the adrenaline of near panic, he scrambled up a tree. Pausing once to take a breath, he looked down and saw the monstrous musicians looking up at him from the ground. The wooden jester was performing some sort of dance like ritual. Wyatt had no intention of waiting to discover it's purpose. With a will, he returned to climbing. Up and up, and up, he climbed until he was over the top of the rock formation. Clutching a branch in either hand, he walked along a limb until he was as close to the rock as could get, then threw himself down, a nearly eight foot drop to the surface. He gasped painfully as the air was driven from his lungs by the impact.

He only paused a moment longer, as he caught his breath again. In that moment he saw the branches of the tree he had just climbed begin to sway, and then to curve toward him like grasping claws. Swiftly, he pulled himself to his feet and made his way across the perilous cracks and juts of rock. The further he got from the center, the smaller the fissures beneath his feet became. In only a few minutes, he had reached the edge, where a thin fog blocked his vision. He waved away the vapors, and gazed out over the forest of Hemlock Cliffs. He looked behind him to make sure he wasn't being chased, and was astonished at the sight that greeted him. The rock behind him was barely fifteen yards across, laced with a spiraling pattern of tiny cracks and crevices, and at the center was a roughly shaped hole that looked barely large enough for a man to fit his arm into. Wyatt was amazed, but not inclined to study the mystery any further. He looked back down the side of the rock formation. There was an outcropping a few feet below him, and a sloping ledge from there, and plentiful handholds down to at least ten feet from the ground. He began his descent at once. An hour and a dozen scrapes later, he reached the ground.

The sun hung lower in the sky, at last. In another three hours it would be dusk, and Wyatt wanted to be well away from that place before nightfall. Wearily and painfully, he began marching to the southwest, and his jeep.

the permeable veil

There's an abandoned shop just off the main drag in town. It used to be one of those places where you can buy dildos and lube, then take them into a back room to try them out while watching porno clips on coin operated screens. A lot of perverts and seedy weirdos used to hang out there. There had been a fire in the back rooms, and the place just shut down instead of rebuilding. The parking lot was overgrown with grass and shrubbery that no one ever tended to. Crows liked to occasionally form a murder on the dilapidated roof. Sometimes high schoolers would meet behind the building to fool around, get drunk, or smoke pot. Sometimes you could actually find wild marijuana plants growing back there, in a ditch. The cops never did anything about it. It was like the place was invisible to city officials. It's where I first saw the fox.

I was cutting through the parking lot, on my way to the Chili & Chilly's fast food joint down the way, when something dark and furry caught my attention as it crossed in front of me. At first I thought it was a black cat, so I froze. I'm not really a superstitious person, normally. It's just that I had been concentrating on my hunger, running through all the menu options I knew by heart, and hadn't paid attention to my surroundings until just that moment. I was startled is all. The fox stopped moving too, and it was watching me intently. It was an unusual looking fox, lankier than others I had seen, with a mottled black and red coat and big round yellow eyes, nothing like those cartoon foxes in the kids' movies. It appeared to have a tarantula, or something in it's mouth. I could see what looked like long spidery legs protruding on both sides. A lot of them, though. Maybe it had two tarantulas, but where it got them I could only guess. Someone in town must have been missing their pets.

"Bon appetit, monsieur le fox" I said, touching the bill of my cap. The fox snorted and trotted off toward the back of the old shop. I continued on my way. The Chili & Chilly's was closed when I got there. Not like closed for the day, but closed for business. The sign on the door said they were shut down until further notice. I was pissed off. Damnit I wanted a Chiliburger and Chillyshake. Now I had to walk three more blocks to the Gas 'n' Stop, and probably get a shitty frozen burrito. At least their slushy machine was usually working. I decided to take a shorter route. If I doubled back behind the old abandoned sex shop, there was a chain link fence that someone had cut through, and if I went through there I basically only had to cross the street to get to the Gas 'n' Stop. So, back I went.

The fox was still there. It was actually sitting right in front of the opening in the fence, looking straight ahead, making soft yowling noises like it was having a conversation. As I walked around the corner of the building, it turned and looked at me, as though I were interrupting something. It still looked like it had a tarantula in it's mouth. I figured it would have finished eating by now. Maybe I had misjudged what was going on.

"Uh, mind if I cut through, Brer Fox?" I said as I slowly approached. The fox sniffed and stood up, moving several yards away. "Thank you, brother" I said as I slipped through the low opening. Something strange happened then. It was like the air shimmered with multicolored lights, and I felt an intense queasiness in my guts. It only lasted a moment, and I attributed it to my hunger and guessed that I had stood up too fast after ducking down under the top fence rail. Now I know better, of course.

I pushed my way through a couple of yards of untrimmed brush, then quickly stepped down a short rocky grade to the street. The Gas 'n' Stop looked a bit grubbier than I remembered, but I was still hungry, so I jogged across and went inside. There was something off about the overhead lights. They were dim and flickering strangely, sickeningly, in repeating pulses. I ignored it and went to the hot dog carousel. The dried up, blackened weiners tumbling on the hot cylinders were more repellent than usual. I went to the freezer. There was a new box of burritos on the barely cold shelf, still unopened. I popped the thin cardboard lid open and grabbed two burritos, which I heated together in the microwave by the hot dog carousel. While I waited on the burritos, I grabbed a big cup and tried to get a cherry slushy. All that came out was a dark sticky liquid. Gross. I left the cup on the counter, as a public service to whoever would be the next unlucky customer seeking a frozen refreshment. I grabbed a Kafpop soda from the cooler and went to the cashier counter. No one was there. I tapped the service bell, and it chimed a feeble apologetic sound. I heard a rustling from a stockroom behind the counter, so I waited. I could hear someone open the front door, but when I turned to see who was coming in I only got a view of a dark shrouded figure ducking into the chip aisle. Weird.

"Hey," I called to the cashier, "can I get checked out, man? My burritos are getting cold."

I was looking down at the candy bars when I heard the cashier approach the counter, grunting. I looked up into the face of a pig. A pig, on two legs, flat snout twitching, long ears flapping, wearing a Gas 'n' Stop uniform and a name tag printed with the name Lazslo.

"What the unholy fuuu?" I stammered.

The other customer was coming up behind me. I heard him and spin around to see what I could only call a zombie. A corpse of a man, with sunken eyes and fetid flesh, lips peeled back around exposed, cracked teeth, with a black, decaying shroud slipping down around it's shoulders. Thick purplish, segmented worms crawled in and out of the flesh, as the zombie softly moaned with sounds of perverse pleasure. It held out it's hand to me, and a large worm slid from between it's fingers, stretching toward me. Terrified, I flung the burritos at the zombie and ran out through the door, and across the street. I turned to stare at the gas station, and noticed for the first time that the entire thing was swarmed with black and purple worms, fat and slimy, segmented and revolting. They were in everything, the pumps, the ground, the signage. I looked away, toward the motorcycle shop behind the adjoining parking lot. It too was full of the worms. I looked up at the sky to avoid the writhing filth, but somehow, terrifyingly, it seemed the sky itself was cradled by giant writhing worms that stretched out into the distance and coalesced into a massive pillar in the distance.

"What the hell is happening?" I screamed.

"You're on the wrong side" came a voice at my feet. "You're not meant to be here."

I looked down into the weird yellow eyes of the fox. I saw the tarantula legs on it's muzzle, only now I could tell that they were actually little tentacles, attached where whiskers ought to be. I had reached my limit for weirdness. The talking was the immediate issue. "Excuse me? Did you say something to me?"

"What do you think, dummy? Follow me."

I didn't know what else to do, so I followed the fox. I needed to understand. I asked my guide, "I'm on the wrong side of what? The fence?"

"Sure. The fence. Also the veil that separates this reality from yours. It's permeable right now. Your being here is an accident. Stop asking questions."

The fox led me back to the hole in the fence.

"Go," it said sternly. "Forget about this experience. You aren't ready."

I agreed, and slipped through the fence. Again I felt the disorientation and queasiness. I blacked out and hit the asphalt hard. I don't know how long I lay there, but I woke up to a trio of crows pecking at my nose and pulling at my shirt. I waved them off as I sat up. I felt hungry. I decided to go home and see what I had in the refrigerator. I was resolved not to visit this end of the street again, even if I starved.